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By   Walter    Besant. 


-'-?,£&--., 


^feg!rritiSia 


A  LOVELY  SKIN, 

soft  and  delicate  face  and  hands  obtained 
by  using 

ROWLANDS' 

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An  Emollient  Milk  which  removes 
Freckles,  Tan,  Sunburn,  Redness  and 
Roughness  of  the  Skin,  soothes  Chaps, 
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and  produces  a  beautiful  and  delicate, 
complexion.  Bottles,  4s.  6d. ;  half-bottles, 
is.  3d. 

ROWLANDS' 

ODONTO, 

A  non-gritty  Tooth  Powder,  whitens 
the  Teeth  and  prevents  Decay. 

ROWLANDS' 

EUKONIA, 

A  pure  Face  Powder,  free  from  me- 
tallic poisons ;  in  three  tints— white, 
rose  and  cream,  2s.  6d.  per  box. 


Sold  by  Chemists  and 

A.  ROWLAND  &  SONS, 

20,  Hatton  Garden,  London. 


ELLIN'S  FOOD 

For  Infants  and  Invalids, 

Not  Farinaceous. 

The  Food  of  the  Present  and  Future; 

Apply  for  Free  Sample  to  the  Inventor 
and  Manufacturer, 
G.  MELLIN,  Marlboro' Works,  Peckham.London.S.E. 

This  sweetly  scented  Emollient  Milk  is  supe- 
rior to  every  other  preparation  for  rendering 

THE  SKIN 
SOFT,  SMOOTH  &  WHITE. 

It  entirely  removes  and  prevents  all 

Roughness,  Redness,  Sunburn,  Chaps. 

And  all  other  blemishes  of  the  Skin  caused  by 

SUMMER'S  HEAT  OR  WINTER'S  COLD. 

It  keeps  the  Skin  Cool  and  Refreshed  on 
the  Hottest  Day  in  Summer,  and  Soft  and 
Smooth  in  the  Coldest  Winter. 

Bottles,  la.,  Is.  9d.,  2s.  6d.  of  all  Chemists 
and  Perfumers.  Free  for  3d.  extra  by  the 
Sole  Makers, 

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\Ouida   ;VV.J 


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BEECHAM'S  PILLS 


Are  universally  admitted  to  be 
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BEEGHAM'S  PILLS 


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the  Nervous  and  Debilitated  is, 
Beecham's  Pills  have  the  Largest 
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DtcGHAi'S  PILLS 


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Full  Directions  given  with  each  Hox. 

Prepared  by  THOMAS  BEECHAM,  St.  Helens,  Lancashire,  and  sold  by  all  Drug-gists  and  Paitntl 
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ASRINALL'S 

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COLOURS— EXQUISITE. 
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METAL  &  EARTHENWARE. 


TINS,  Is.  6d.  and  3s.  each, 

POST  FREE. 


A  SPLENDID 

CHOCOLATE, 
ARAB     BROWN, 

OR 

MAROON    ENAMEL 

FOR 

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FITTINGS, 

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WILL    WEAR  THREE  TIMES   AS 

LONG  AS  ORDINARY  PAINT. 

16s.  per  Gallon, 

FREE    BY    RAIL. 


For  Baths  to  resist  Boiling  Water,  Tins,  Is.  9d.  and  3s.  6d.  post  free. 

Aspinall's  Enamel  is  supplied  to  all  the  Best 
Families  in  the  Kingdom. 

COLOUR  CARDS  POST  FREE. 

ASPINALL'S    ENAMEL    WORKS 

MICKHAM,    LONDON.  ' 


CHEAP  EDITIONS  OF  POPULAR  NOVELS 


Illustrated  Covers, 

By  EDMOND  ABOUT.— The  Fellah. 

By  HAMILTON  aYdE. 
Carr  of  Carrlyon.  |  Confidences. 

By  Mrs.  ALEXANDER. 
Maid,  Wife,  or  Widow  7  |  Valerie's  Fate. 

By  GRANT  ALLEN. 
Strange  Stories.        I    Philistia.      |    Babylon. 

ANONYMOUS. 

Paul  Ferroll.  |  Why  Paul  Ferroll  Killed  his  Wife. 

By  SHELSLEY  BEAUCHAMP. 

Grantley  Grange. 

By  BESANT  and  RICE. 


.V.eady-MoneyMortiboy 
VfitUHarp  and  Crown. 
1'iiis  Son  of  Vulcan. 
My  Little  Girl. 
C.v;e  of  Mr.  Lucraft. 
Golden  Butterfly. 


By  Celia's  Arbour, 
Monks  of  Thelema. 
'TwasinTrafalgar'aBay 
The  Seamy  Side. 
Ten  Years'  Tenant 
Chaplain  of  the  Fleet. 


By  WALTER    BESANT. 
All  Sorts  and    Condi- 1  All  in  a  Garden  Fair. 

tions  of  Men.  Dorothy  Forster. 

The  Captains'  Room.     !  Uncle  Jack 

By  FREDERICK  BOYLE. 
Camp  Notes    I  Savage  Life.  |  No  Man's  Land. 

By  BRET  HARTE. 
An  Heiress  of  Ked  Dog.  I  Gabriel  Conroy, 
Luck  of  Roaring  Camp.    Flip. 
Californian  Stories.        |  Maruja. 

By  ROBERT  BUCHANAN. 
Shadow  oi  tho  Sword.    I  The  Martyrdom 


Madeline. 
J  Love  Me  for  Ever. 
Foxglove  Manor. 
I  Master  of  the  Mine 


of 
A  Child  of  Nature. 
God  and  the  Man. 
Annan  Water.  |  Matt. 
The  New  Abelard. 

By  Mrs.  BURNETT— Surly  Tim. 
By  HALL  CAINE. 
The  Shadow  of  a  Crime. 
By  Mrs.  LOVETT  CAMERON. 
Deceivers  Ever.  I  Juliet's  Guardian. 

By  MACLAREN  COBBAN. 
The  Cure  of  Souls. 
By  C.  ALLSTON  COLLINS. 
The  Bar  Sinister. 
By  MORTIMER  &  FRANCES  COLLINS. 
Sweet  Anne  Page.  I  Transmigration. 

Midnight  to  Midnight.    A  Fight  with  Fortune. 
Sweet  and  Twenty.  The  "Village  Comedy. 

Frances.  |  You  Play  me  False. 

Blacksmith  and  Scholar. 
By  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


Antonina.     |  Basil. 
Hide  and  Seek. 
The  Dead  Secret. 
Queen  of  Hearts. 
My  Miscellanies. 
The  Woman  in  White. 
The  Moonstone. 
Man  and  Wife. 
Poor  Miss  Finch. 
Miss  or  Mrs.? 


The  New  Magdalen. 
The  Frozen  Deep. 
The  Law  and  the  Lady, 
The  Two  Destinies. 
The  Haunted  Hotel. 
The  Fallen  Leaves. 
Jezebel's  Daughter. 
The  Black  Robe. 
Heart  and  Science. 
"  I  Say  No." 
By  DUTTON  COOK. 
Leo.  |  Paul  Foster's  Daughter. 

By  C.  EGBERT  CRADDOCK. 

The  Prophet  of  the  Great  Smoky  Mountains. 

By  WILLIAM  CYPLES.— Hearts  of  Gold. 

By  ALPHONSE  DAUDET. 

The  Evangelist:  or,  Port  Salvation. 

By  JAMES  DE  MILLE. 

A  Castle  in  Spain. 

By  J.  LEITH   DERWENT. 

Our  Lady  of  Tears.    |  Circe's  Lovers. 

By  CHARLES  DICKENS. 
Sketches  by  Boz.  |  Oliver  'Twist. 

Iho  Pickwick  Papers.   |  Nicholas  Hickloby, 


Two  Shillings  each. 

By  Mrs.  ANNIE    EDWARDES 
A  Point  of  Honour.        |   Archie  Lovell. 

By  M.  BETHAM-EDWARDS. 
Felicia.  I  Kitty. 

By  EDWARD  EGGLESTON.— Rosy. 

By  PERCY    FITZGERALD. 
Bells,  Donna.  I  75,  Brooke  Street. 

Polly.  Never  Forgotten. 

Second  Mrs.  Tillotson.  ]  The  Lady  of  Brantome 

By  ALBANY  DE  FONBLANQUE. 

Filthy  Lucre. 

By  R.  E.  FRANCILLON. 

Olympia.  I  One  by  One. 

Qu.ien  Cophetua.  I  A  Real  Queen. 

Prefaced  by  Sir  H.  BARTLE  FRERE. 

Pandurang  Hari. 

By  HAIN  FRISWELL.— One  of  Two. 

By  EDW.  GARRETT.— The  Capel  Girls. 

By  CHARLES  GIBBON. 


A  Heart's  Problem. 
The  Braes  of  Yarrow. 
The  Golden  Shaft. 
Of  High  Degree. 
Fancy  Free. 
Bv  Mead  and  Stream. 
Loving  a  Dream. 
A  Hard  Knot. 


Robin  Gray. 
Vvr  Tjack  of  Gold. 
What  will  World  Say  ? 
In  Honour  Bound. 
In  Love  and  War. 
For  the  King. 
Queen  of  the  Meadow. 
In  Pastures  Green. 

The  Flower  of  the  Forest. 

By  WILLIAM  GILBERT. 

Dr.  Austin's  Guests.     I  James  Duke. 

The  Wizard  of  the  Mountain. 

By  JAMES  GREENWOOD. 

Dick  Temple. 

By  JOHN  HABBERTON.-Brueton'sEayou 

By  ANDREW  HALLIDAY. 

Every-Day  Papers. 

By  Lady  DUFFUS  HARDY. 

Paul  Wynter's  Sacrifice. 
By      THOMAS      HARDY. 

Under  the  Greenwood  Tree. 
By  J.  BERWICK  HARWOOS. 

The  Tenth  Earl. 

By  JULIAN   HAWTHORNE. 

Garth.  I  Dust.        I  Fortune's  Fool. 

Ellice  Quentia.  Beatrix  Randolph. 

Sebastian  Stroma.        I  Prince  Saronis  Wife. 

By  Sir  ARTHUR  HELPS. 

Ivan  de  Biron. 

By  Mrs.  CASHEL  HOEY. 

The  Lover's  Creed. 

By  TOM  HOOD— A  Golden  Heart. 

By  Mrs.  GEORGE  HOOPER. 

The  House  of  Raby. 

By  TIGHE  HOPKINS. 

'Twixt  Love  and  Duty. 

By  Mrs.  ALFRED  HUNT. 

Thornioroft's  Model.     I  The  Leaden  Casket. 

Self -Condemned. 

By  JEAN  INGELOW.— Fated  to  be  Free. 

By  HARRIETT  JAY. 

The  Dark  Colleen.        I  Queen  of  Connaught. 

By    MARK     KERSHAW. 

Colonial  Facts  and  Fictions. 

By  R.  ASHE  KING. 

A  Drawn  Game.   |  '  The  Wearing  of  the  Green.1, 

By  HENRY  KINGSL  E  Y—  Oakshott  Castle. 

By  E.    LYNN    LINTON. 


Patricia  Eemball. 
Learn  Dundas. 
The  World  Well  Lost. 
Under  which  Lord? 


With  a  Silken  Thread. 
Rebel  of  the  Family. 
"My  Love  I  '* 
lone. 


By  HENRY  W.  LUCY.— Gideon  Fleyce. 

London:  CHATTO  &  WINDUS,  Piccadilly,  W.    [i 


CHEAP  EDITIONS  OF  POPULAR  NOVELS. 

Illustrated  Covers,  Two  Shillings  each. 


By  justin  McCarthy 


Dear  Lady  Disdain, 
Waterdale  Neighbours. 
My  Enemy's  Daughter. 
A  Fair  Saxon. 
Miss  Misanthrope 


Linley  Rochford. 
Donna  Quixote. 
The  Comet  of  a  Season. 
Maid  of  Athens. 
Camiola. 


By  Mrs.  MACDONELL.— Quaker  Cousins. 

By  KATHARINE  S.  MACQUOID. 
The  Evil  Eye.  |  Lost  Kose. 

By  W.  H.  MALLOCK.— The  New  Republic. 

By  FLORENCE  MARRYAT. 
Open  I  Sesame  I  I  Fighting  the  Air. 

Harvest  of  Wild  Oats.  |  Written  in  Fire, 
A  Little  Stepson. 
By  J.  MASTERMAN. 
Half-a-dozen  Daughters. 
By  BRANDER  MATTHEWS. 
A  Secret  of  the  Sea. 
By  JEAN  MIDDLEMASS. 
Touch  and  Go.  I  Mr.  Dorillion. 

By  D.  CHRISTIE  MURRAY. 


A  Life's  Atonement. 
A  Model  Father. 
Joseph's  Coat. 
Coals  of  Fire. 
First  Person  Singular. 


By  the  Gate  of  the  Sea. 
Val  Strange.  |  Hearts. 
The  Way  of  the  World. 
Bit  of  Human  Nature. 
Cynic  Fortune. 


By  ALICE  O'HANLON  —  The  Unforeseen. 

By  Mrs.  OLIPHANT  —  Whiteladies. 

By  Mrs.  R.  O'REILLY.— Phoebe's  Fortunes. 

By  OUIDA. 


Held  In  Bondage. 
Strathmore. 
Chandos.     |  Idalla. 
Under  Two  Flags. 
Cecil  Castlemaine. 
Tricotrin.    |     Puck. 
Folle  Farine. 
A  Dog  of  Flanders. 
Two  Wooden  Bhoes. 


Pascarel.   |  Slgna. 
In  a  Winter  City. 
Ariadne.    .Moths. 
Friendship  I  Pipistrello. 
A  Village  Commune. 
Bimbi.    j  In  Maremma. 
Wanda.  |       Frescoes. 
Princess  Napraxine. 
Othmar. 


By  Mrs.  J.  H.  RIDDELL. 


By  M.  AGNES  PAUL.-Gentle  and  Simple. 
By  JAMES  PAYN. 


Lost  Sir  Massingberd. 
A  Perfect  Treasure. 
Bentinck's  Tutor. 
Murphy's  Master. 
A  County  Family. 
At  Her  Mercy. 
A  Woman's  Vengeance. 
Cecil's  Tryst. 
Clyffards  of  ClySe. 
Family  Scapegrace. 
Foster  Brothers. 
Found  Dead.  |  Halves. 
Best  of  Husbandl. 
Walter's  Word. 
Fallen  Fortunes. 
What  He  Cost  Her. 
Humorous  Stories. 
Gwendoline's  Harvest. 

The  Talk  of  the  Town. 

By  EDGAR  A.  POE. 

The  Mystery  of  Marie  Roget. 

By  E.  C.  PRICE. 

Valentlna.  i  The  Foreigners. 

Mrs.  Lancaster's  Rival.  |  Gerald. 

By  CHARLES  READE. 


Like  Father,  Like  Son. 

A  Marine  Residence. 

Married  Beneath  Him. 

Mirk  Abbey. 

Not  Wooed,  but  Won. 

£200  Reward. 

Less  Black  than  We're 

Painted. 
By  Proxy. 
Under  One  Roof. 
High  Spirits. 
Carlyon's  Year. 
A  Confidential  Agent. 
Some  Private  Views. 
From  Exile. 
A  Grape  from  a  Thorn. 
For  Cash  Only.  |   Kit. 
The  Canon'e  Ward. 


Never  tooLate  to  Mend 
Hard  Cash. 
Peg  Womngton. 
Christie  Johnstone.  1 
Griffith  Gaunt. 
Put  Y  rself  in  His  Place. 
Double  Marriage. 
Love  Little ,  Love  Long. 
Foul  Flay. 
Cloister  and  theHearth 


Course  of  True  Love. 
Autoblog.  of  a  Thief. 
A  Terrible  Temptation 
The  Wandering  Heir. 
A  Simpleton. 
A  Woman-Hater. 
Slngleheart  &  Double- 
face. 
Good  Stories. 
The  Jilt.     |   Readiana. 


Her  Mother's  Darling. 
Uninhabited  House. 
The  Mystery  in  Palace 
Gardens. 


Weird  Stories. 
Fairy  Water. 
The  Prince  of  Wales's 
Garden  Party. 


By  F.  W.  ROBINSON. 
Women  are  Strange.    |  The  Hands  of  Justice. 
By  JAMES  RUNCIMAN. 
Skippers  and  Shellbacks. 
Grace  Balmaign's  Sweetheart. 
Schools  and  Scholars. 
By  W.  CLARK  RUSSELL. 
Round  the  Galley  Fire.  |  On  the  Fo'k'sle  Head. 
In  the  Middle  Watch. 
By  BAYLE  ST.  JOHN. 
A  Levantine  Family. 
By  G.  A.  SALA. 
Gaslight  and  Daylight. 
By  JOHN  SAUNDERS. 
Bound  to  the  Wheel.    I  The  Lion  in  the  Path. 
One  Against  the  World.  |  The  Two  Dreamers. 
Guy  Waterman 
By  KATHARINE  SAUNDERS. 
Joan  Merryweather.      I  Sebastian. 
The  High  Mills.  |  Heart  Salvage. 

Margaret  and  Elizabeth. 
By  GEORGE  R.  SIMS. 
Rogues  and  Vagabonds.  |  The  Ring  o'  Bells. 
Mary  Jane's  Memoirs. 
By  ARTHUR  SKETCHLEY. 
A  Match  in  the  Dark. 
By  T.  W.  SPEIGHT. 
The  Mysteries  of  Heron  Dyke. 
By  R.  A.  STERNDALE 
The  Afghan  Knife. 
By  R.  LOUIS  STEVENSON. 
New  Arabian  Nights     |  Prince  Otto. 
By  BERTHA  THOMAS. 
Cressida.    I  Proud  Maisle.  |  The  Violin-Player. 
By  W.  MOY  THOMAS. 
A  Fight  for  Life. 
By  WALTER  THORNBURY. 
Tales  for  the  Marines. 
By  T.  ADOLPHUS  TROLLOPE. 
Diamond  Cut  Diamond. 
By  ANTHONY  TROLLOPE. 
Way  We  Live  Now.  The  Land  Leaguers. 

American  Senator.  Mr.    Scarborough's 

Frau  Frohmann.  Family. 

Marlon  Fay-  John  Caldigate. 

Kept  in  the  Dark.  The  Golden  Lion. 

By  FRANCES  ELEANOR  TROLLOPE. 
Anne  Furness.  I  Mabel's  Progress. 

Like  Ships  upon  the  Sea. 
By  J.  T.  TROWBRIDGE. 
Farnell  s  Folly. 
By  IVAN  TURGENIEFF,  &c. 
Stories  from  Foreign  Novelists. 
By  MARK  TWAIN. 
Tom  Sawyer  I  APleasure  Trip  on  the 

A  Tramp  Abroad.  |     Continent  of  Europe. 

Stolen  White  Elephant  |  Huckleberry  Finn. 
Life  on  the  Mississippi. 
By  C.  C.  FRASER-TYTLER. 
Mistress  Judith. 
By  SARAH  TYTLER. 
What  She  Came  Through.  I  The  Bride's  Pass. 
Beauty  and  the  BeaBt.         St.  Mungo  s  City. 
Noblesse  Oblige.  |  Lady  Bell. 

By  J.  S.  WINTER. 
Cavalry  Life.         |  Regimental  Legends. 
By  Lady  WOOD.— Sabina. 
By  EDMUND  YATtS. 
Castaway.  I  The  Forlorn  Hope.  |  Land  at  Last. 


2]    London :  CHATTO  &  WINDUS,  Piccadilly,  W- 


UNCLE     JACK 


ETC 


UNCLE    JACK 


ETC. 


By  WALTER  BESANT 

AUTHOR   OF    'ALL   SORTS   AND    CONDITIONS   OF    MEN,'    'THE   CAPTAIN'S   ROOM,' 
'ALL    IN    A   GARDEN    FAIR,'    'DOROTHY   FORSTER,     ETC. 


A    NEW  EDITION 


Honilon 
CHATTO    AND    WINDUS,     PICCADILLY 


CONTENTS. 

FAGE 

Uncle  Jack     -------  1 

Julia     --------  57 

Sir  Jocelyn's  Cap.    (By  Walter  Besant  and  "Walter 

Herries  Pollock.    See  footnote.)      -           -           -  95 

A  Glorious  Fortune            -           -           -           -           -  130 

In  Luck  at  Last        ..-.--  220 


UNCLE   JACK. 


THE   MOST   UNHAPPY  GIRLS   IN   THE   WORLD. 

"  I  SUPPOSE,  my  dear,"  said  Cicely,  sometimes  called  Cis,  which  you 
must  not  pronounce  Kiss  —  as  the  schoolgirls,  poor  things,  are 
taught  to  pronounce  their  Latin — but  like  this  :  Siss — Siss  — Siss — 
soft  and  pretty.  "  I  suppose,  my  dear,  that,  although  we  are  truly 
the  most  unhappy  girls  in  all  the  world,  that  is  no  reason  why  we 
should  make  ourselves  miserable  ?" 

"Why,  no,"  replied  Christina,  with  a  little  hesitation,  "we  are 

certainly  most  horribly  unhappy  girls,  but  yet it  seems  as  if 

that  is  all  the  more  reason  why  we  should  get  what  consolation 
we  can.'' 

"  Of  course  it  is,"  said  Cicely.  "  And  yet  Harry  was  wondering, 
this  morning,  how  I  could  possibly  have  the  heart  to  play  lawn 
tennis,  our  affi  irs  being  in  so  desperate  a  condition.  Why,  it  is  the 
only  thing  to  prevent  brooding  over  our  misfortunes  and  going 
melancholy  mad.  As  for  himself,  he  went  to  play  off  his  tie  with 
so  glum  a  face,  that  my  heart  bled  for  the  poor  boy.  He  said  he 
knew  he  should  lose  it,  through  thinking  about  me." 

At  that  moment  the  poor  boy  was  sitting  behind  a  cool  claret-cup, 
in  a  tent,  rejoicing  in  the  laurels  of  the  victor.  Yet  he,  too,  was  a 
most  unhappy  young  man,  as  you  shall  see  immediately. 

"  As  for  Fred,"  replied  Christina,  "  the  dear  boy's  letters  every 
day  are  so  woe-begone  that  I  have  no  heart  for  anything.  He  says 
that  he  can  think  about  nothing  at  all  but  the  dreadful  turn  of 
things,  and  that  his  gloomy  chambers  are  ten  times  as  gloomy  as 
ever.     Poor  dear  !" 

No  doubt,  chambers  in  Brick  Court  are  gloomy,  and  in  July  they 
smell  like  stale  bakehouses.  That  cannot  be  avoided,  and,  there- 
fore, the  young  man  was  perfectly  justified  in  getting  away  from 
them.  In  fact,  at  this  moment  he  was  lying  in  the  stern  of  a  pair- 
oar,  taking  his  turn  to  steer,  and  the  boat  was  very  near  the  Bells 
of  Ouseley,  where  they  proposed  to  halt  for  the  night  and  to  take 


2  UNCLE  JACK. 

copious  refreshment.  But  he  was  a  very  unhappy  young  man, 
because  he  was  in  love  with  a  very  dainty  damsel,  and  he  was 
crossed  in  love. 

"  Chris,"  said  Cicely,  with  a  deep,  deep  sigh,  "I  saw  in  a  book  of 
verses,  the  other  day,  a  song  about  love  being  a  pleasing  pain  and  a 
teasing  smart,  and  that  Chloe— that  is,  you  and  I,  my  dear — we  are 
two  very  nice  Chloes,  I  am  sure — now  wishes  away  and  then  wishes 
back  the  honeyed  dart.  There  was  a  picture  in  the  book  as  well, 
showing  a  young  man  in  a  little  wig,  tied  up  behind  with  a  black 
ribbon,  and  with  white  silk  stockings,  red  shoes,  and  diamond 
buckles.  He  was  lying  on  a  bank,  saying  pretty  things  to  a  shep- 
herdess in  green.  How  nice  Harry  would  look  in  a  Avig  saying 
sweet  things  !  Fred,  of  course,  will  wear  one  in  a  year  or  two,  but 
only  in  Court,  poor  fellow  !  Yes,  my  dear,  love  is  a  pleasing  pain, 
you  know.  Yet  one  would  not  like  to  be  without  the  men — espe- 
cially when  other  girls  feel  exactly  the  same  way.     But  still,  you 

know — they  really  are " 

"  They  are,  Cis.  They  really  are.  And  it  quite  destroys  the 
pleasure  of  playing  one's  best  and  looking  one's  best,  doesn't  it  ? — ■ 
to  feel  that  the  poor  boys  are  taking  no  pleasure  in  their  lives,  but 
are  always  moping  and  miserable." 

"  Don't  you  find  that  ices  do  you  good,  Chris  ?" 
"  Strawberry  ices.    I  don't  think  Neapolitans  are  so  good  in  time 
of  trouble." 

They  are  two  very  pretty  girls,  and  I  am  quite  sure  that  they 
would,  under  any  temptation,  turn  out.  to  be  as  virtuous  as  they  are 
pretty,  and,  therefore,  in  the  end,  as  happy  as  they  are  pretty.  At 
present  the  only  temptation  in  their  way  was  an  unreasonable 
woman,  about  whom  you  will  hear  without  much  delay.  This 
obstruction  to  their  happiness  caused  them  sometimes  to  stamp 
their  little  feet,  clench  their  little  hands,  contract  their  brows, 
shake,  nod,  wag,  and  agitate  their  pretty  heads,  heave  their  bosoms, 
use  strong,  very  strong,  words,  and,  in  church,  feel  that  in  the 
matter  of  forgiving  one's  enemies  certain  reservations  must  gener- 
ally be  allowed,  for  purposes  of  justice,  without  thinking  of  human 
weakness.  Mrs.  Branson,  Miss  Antoinette  Baker,  Mr.  Valentine 
Yandeleur,  and  the  Secretary,  were,  at  present,  these  exceptions. 
At  this  moment  the  girls  were  on  their  way  home  from  lawn  tennis- 
It  was  an  evening  in  early  July  ;  the  time  was  nine,  and  there  was 
a  warm  delicious  twilight,  with  most  grateful  perfumes  of  roses, 
mignonette,  heliotrope,  and  all  kinds  of  summer  flowers.  They 
were  dressed  alike,  yet  with  a  difference.  Likeness  with  points  of 
difference  betokens  friendship.  For  both  wore  lawn-tennis  cos- 
tumes, and  they  had  been  playing,  and  carried  in  their  hands  the 
implements  or  tools.  One  of  them — Chris  this  was — wore  a  white 
flannel  frock  (ought  one  to  call  it  a  skirt?)  with  white  spun-silk 
jersey,  a  white  hat,  with  a  very  white  feather  ;  a  bunch  of  yellow 
roses  on  her  shoulder,  and  tan  gloves.     Cis,  for  her  part,  wore  a 


THE  MOST  UNHAPPY  GIRLS  IN  THE  WORLD.       3 

dress  of  grey  nun's  cloth,  with  a  grey  felt  hat,  and  red  feather,  a 
bunch  of  red  roses  at  her  throat,  and  grey  gloves—  looking,  however, 
very  little  like  a  nun,  but  much  more  like  a  young  lady  content  to 
take  her  lot  among  the  common  changes  and  chances  of  this  mortal 
life.  And  as  for  their  faces,  both  were  pretty  ;  and  for  their 
figures,  both  were  shapely  ;  and  for  colour,  one  had  dark  brown 
hair — which  was  Chris — and  one  light — which  was  Cis.  And  for 
their  eyes,  one — which  was  Chris — had  brown  eyes,  full  of  light  and 
truth  ;  and  the  other — which  was  Cis — had  grey  eyes,  bright  and 
quick  ;  and  the  features  of  Christina  Branson  were  larger  than 
those  of  Cicely  Thornton,  but  both  had  regular  features,  and— well, 
perhaps  one  of  them  had  too  full  a  mouth,  and  another  too  pro- 
nounced a  chin  ;  and  are  we  not  all  mortals,  and,  therefore,  imper- 
fect ?  And  was  not  each  of  them  faultless  in  the  eyes  of  her  lover  ? 
And  who  am  I,  that  I  should  pick  out  little  specks  and  faults  in  the 
beauty  of  a  very  pretty  girl  ? 

"  Our  fate  is  too  cruel,"  said  Chris,  with  another  deep  sigh. 
"  Fred  says  we  must  wait,  if  my  stepmother  continues  obstinate, 
until  he  can  make  an  income.  That  means  till  he  is  five-and-forty, 
and  I  am  about  the  same  age.  Oh  !  Gracious  !  And  he  a  Venerable 
judge  by  that  time,  no  doubt." 

"  But  mine  is  worse,"  said  Cicely.  "Because  Harry  will  never 
be  able  to  marry  at  all.  That  poor  boy  will  certainly  not  succeed 
in  making  an  income  even  for  himself,  unless  he  turns  professional 
bowler  ;  when  I  suppose  I  might  set  up  a  ginger-beer  stall  to  help 
pay  the  rent.     Does  the — the  Obstruction  continue  inflexible  ?" 

"My  dear,  she  grows  daily  more  inflexible.  Antoinette  and  Mr. 
Vandeleur  between  them  have  charmed  away  her  old  kindly  heart : 
nothing  remains." 

"  Do  they  show  no  signs  of  going  away  ?" 

"  None  whatever.  They  make  the  house  the  headquarters  of  the 
Cause.  It  is  no  longer  a  house  ;  it  is  an  Office.  Antoinette  has 
introduced  women's  dress  of  the  future  into  daily  use,  and  my 
poor  unfortunate  stepmother  is  going  to  adopt — at  her  age,  dear  ! 
Oh ! — the  divided  skirt  and  a  jacket.  As  for  Mr.  Vandeleur,  he 
finds,  he  says,  the  Syrian  costume  less  unlike  Woman's  Dress  of  the 
Future  than  any  other,  and  so  he  has  got  one,  and  goes  about  in  it, 
and  calls  it  the  Man's  Costume  of  the  Future." 

"  The  Wretch  !"  Nothing  more  hearty  could  be  imagined  than 
this  ejaculation. 

"  Yesterday,  my  stepmother  told  me  she  wanted  to  have  a  little 
talk — what  she  called  a  serious  talk.  I  was  reminded  of  my  poor 
father's  express  wish,  that  I  should  continue  in  obedience.  That  is 
an  old  story,  and  I  can  retaliate,  if  I  like,  by  saying  that  my  father 
never  thought  that  his  widow  would  take  up  such  a  horrible  line. 
Then  she  said  that  she  had  her  plans  both  for  Harry  and  myself. 
That,  as  regards  me,  the  Cause  requires  my  services  and  my  money  ; 
that  it  will  be  necessary,  absolutely  necessary,  for  me  to  marry  some 

1—2 


4  UNCLE  JACK. 

one  attached  to  the  Cause— Mr.  Vandeleur,  in  fact,  if  he  is  good 
enough  to  offer.     And,  finally,  that  her  mind  was  made  up,  and 
there  was  nothing  more  to  be  said." 
"And  you  T 

"  I  lost  my  temper,  and  told  her  that  if  that  was  the  case,  my 
mind  was  made  up  too  ;  but  she  need  not  expect  any  of  the  money 
to  help  the  Cause,  for  I  would  continue  single  all  my  life,  rather 
than  let  her  have  it. ' 

"  Poor  Fred !"  said  Cicely.  "  But  it  was  spirited,  my  dear. 
Heigho  !  Don't  you  think,  Chris,  it  would  be  extremely  nice  if  a 
rich  uncle  would  turn  up,  as  they  do  in  story-books  ?  Oh  !  with 
what  joy  would  we  welcome  home  an  uncle  from  India  with 
thousands  of  lakhs  of  rupees  !'' 

"  My  dear,  you  can't  have  thousands  of  lakhs,  because  a  lakh  is  a 

hundred  thousand  rupees,  which  is " 

"  At  the  present  rate  of  exchange,  my  father  says,  ruefully, 
because  most  of  his  money  is  out  there,  the  rupee  is  only  eighteen- 
pence.  But  my  meaning  is  clear,  and  I  feel — yes,  I  really  do — a 
boundless  power  of  loving  such  an  uncle  ;  the  more  rupees  he  had, 
the  more  I  should  love  him.  Do  you  think  Harry  would  be 
jealous  ?  Oh  !  the  dear  man  !  I  would  jump  into  his  arms.  How 
very,  very  good  it  is  of  parents  to  scrape  and  screw  for  their  chil- 
dren !  How  beautifully  those  who  do  not  illustrate  the  necessity 
for  the  Fifth  Commandment,  which  becomes,  Chris,  very  difficult 

of  application  when  such  a  Will  has  been  made  as " 

"But— Cis — really — the  Fifth  Commandment  never  even  men- 
tions a  stepmother." 

"  Dear  me  !"  Cicely  replied.  "  That  is  so  true.  To  think  that  I 
should  have  forgotten  it !  And  what  a  blessing,  what  a  heavenly 
blessing,  it  must  be  for  you  to  remember  that !" 

They  were  walking  along  a  road  which  lay  between  fields, 
orchards,  gardens,  and  pretty  villas  ;  and  was  outside  a  little 
country  town.  It  was  so  near  the  town  that  there  were  a  good 
many  people  walking  along  the  road  ;  it  was  so  much  in  the  country 
that  a  few  of  them  wore  smock-frocks,  and  there  was  an  agreeable 
sense  of  hay  in  the  air,  and  sometimes  there  passed  along  the  road 
one  or  more  of  those  happy  persons  who  love  the  smell  of  hay  so 
much  that  they  weep  and  sneeze  continually  all  the  summer,  and 
the  tears  of  joy  run  without  ceasing  down  their  cheeks  ;  it  was  so 
much  in  the  country  that  you  would  see  farmhouses  standing  off 
the  road,  and  so  near  the  town  that  every  few  yards  or  so  you  came 
upon  a  pretty  villa  among  its  own  gardens  and  trees.  The  evening 
was  quiet,  and  when  there  were  no  carts  on  the  road  you  could  hear 
the  distant  tinkle  of  a  shcop-bell,  or  the  cry  of  a  bird,  and  if  any- 
thing was  wanting  to  complete  the  rural  feeling,  there  were 
moments  when,  unless  the  senses  were  greatly  deceived,  pi<rs  and 
a  pigsty  seemed  readily  accessible  to  their  admirers. 

The  most  characteristic  distinction  about  English  country  towns 


THE  MOST  UNHAPPY  GIRLS  IN  THE  WORLD.      5 

is  the  invariable  collection  of  residences — Villas,  Lodges,  Cottages, 
and  what  not— which  stand  outside  them  all,  with  their  pretty  and 
well-ordered  gardens.  They  are  the  houses  of  the  people  who  have 
made  money,  or  have  inherited  it,  or  have  worked  out  their  time  for 
their  pensions  and  retiring  allowances. 

Everybody  knows  these  towns,  of  which  there  are  hundreds  in 
this  fair  realm,  and  it  is  in  one  of  them  that  the  surprising  events 
of  this  story  took  place.  If  there  were  time,  I  would  show  you  all 
the  Society  of  the  place  ;  first,  the  people  who  know  the  county 
people  ;  then  the  people  who  do  not,  but  yet  are  highly  respectable 
people— Indians  and  Service  people  ;  then  the  professional  people, 
active  and  retired,  also  tolerably  respectable,  but  a  long  way  below 
the  county  circles  ;  mixed  up  with  all  the  unmarried  ladies  of  all 
ages  ;  then  the  retired  tradesmen  ;  add  to  these  the  young  men  who 
go  away  and  come  back  once  or  twice  in  the  year,  that  is  to  say, 
very  nearly  all  the  young  men  worth  considering,  for  a  country 
town  can  hardly  be  said  to  offer  a  career  ;  there  is,  however,  a 
scanty  remnant  who,  by  reason  of  being  gifted  with  money,  or 
stupidity,  or  unconquerable  laziness,  or  a  sweet  and  placid  content- 
ment, or  that  great  unfathomable  British  Thirstiness  which  entirely 
prevents  any  other  business,  do  remain  in  their  native  place  and 
"  hang  around."  These,  however,  are  few,  and  they  are  not  gene- 
rally happy,  and  very  often  fall  into  the  mischief  still  for  idle 
hands  to  do.  There  are  a  few  other  young  men  :  those  who  are 
articled  to  the  law  ;  those  who  have  begun  practice  on  their  own 
account  as  curates  and  doctors  ;  as  for  talk  and  excitement,  why, 
every  little  town  in  England,  if  you  come  to  consider,  is  a  little 
world  in  itself,  grows  in  its  own  plantation  a  never-ceasing  crop  of 
news,  gossip,  scandal,  stories,  whispers,  reports,  and  secrets,  quite 
enough  for  home  consumption,  and.  is,  therefore,  sufficient  unto 
itself,  and  though  some  of  the  men,  conceding  somewhat  to  the 
times,  take  in  a  London  morning  paper,  there  is  quite  enough 
interest  for  everybody  (without  any  help  from  foreign  telegrams) 
in  watching  the  rise,  prosperity,  and  decline  of  families,  the  come- 
dies and  tragedies  of  the  common  daily  life,  and  the  things  which 
make  the  little  world  of  a  country  town  and  its  suburbs  at  once 
noble  and  mean,  glorious  and  sordid,  gentle  and  simple,  sad,  glad, 
sorry,  mirthful,  stupid,  and  wise. 

The  young  ladies  of  these  towns,  for  their  part,  have  not  yet 
begun  to  go  away,  though  no  doubt  the  time  will  soon  arrive  when 
they,  too,  will  ask  each  other  why  they  should  be  any  longer  mewed 
up  like  canaries  in  a  cage,  not  trusted  to  go  about  by  themselves, 
kept  in  compulsory  idleness,  and  forbidden  to  leave  the  place  where 
they  were  born,  even  although  there  are  no  young  men  at  all  to 
fall  in  love  with  them.  "  Why,"  they  will  ask,  "  should  we  go  on 
wasting  the  freshness  of  our  May  ?"  Then  they  will  form  a  Grand 
National  Nuptial  Association,  which  shall  undertake  to  provide  a 
continual  supply  of  lovely  damsels  (from  the  congested  districts) 


6  UNCLE  JACK. 

for  those  places,  wherever  they  may  be,  in  which  there  are  pining 
(and  eligible)  shepherds,  so  that  from  whatever  quarter  of  the 
habitable  globe  a  sigh  shall  be  wafted  by  telephone  from  a  languish- 
ing nymph,  tired  of  her  calm,  monotonous,  native  duckpond,  there 
shall  be  flashed  across  the  stormy  ocean  in  return  a  telegraphic  in- 
vitation to  come  out  and  receive  the  blessing  of  love,  even  though 
there  be  attached  the  condition  of  taking  a  part  in  the  struggle  and 
a  share  of  the  burden,  so  that  the  play  of  Adam  and  Eve,  the  couple 
who  would  have  been  no  less  solitary  had  there  been  a  thousand 
other  Adams  and  Eves,  shall  be  enacted  again  and  again  all  over  the 
world,  the  one  man  and  the  one  maid,  each  for  each,  with  a  great 
deal  of  make-believe  sympathy  (among  the  better  sort)  for  other 
couples.  This  will  be  a  truly  admirable  Society,  at  once  charitable, 
political  and  social-economical,  benevolent,  prudent,  peace-making, 
harmonious,  and  religious.  And  moreover,  it  will  meet  with  the 
most  magnificent  patronage,  with,  I  make  no  doubt,  the  Royal 
Family,  the  two  Archbishops,  and  the  Ladies'  Land  League  to 
support  it. 

The  "  needs  "  of  this  town — I  designedly  use  the  parochial  and 
pulpit  word,  because  the  business  is  of  such  importance,  and  brooks 
of  no  delay— were  very  great,  even  crying.  Bath,  I  am  told,  is 
extraordinarily  congested,  and  at  Hastings  the  ci*y  is  said  to  be 
most  mournful  for  a  tender-hearted  man  to  hear  ;  but  at  this  town 
it  was  estimated,  by  a  distinguished  member  of  the  Statistical 
Society,  that  there  was  a  proportion  of  thirty-three  and  one-third 
girls  to  one  man.  As  they  only  counted  young  ladies,  and  not 
"  young  persons  "—that  is,  shop-girls,  work-girls,  servant-girls,  and 
so  forth,  who  have  no  business  to  have  either  hearts,  ambitions,  or 
passions — I  do  not  quite  know  how  they  arrived  at  the  fraction. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  there  were  certainly  not  more  than  thirty  young 
ladies,  all  reckoned,  and  only  one  young  man.  Even  the  two  curates 
were  both  married.  The  one  eligible  young  man  left  in  the  place 
was  Harry  Branson,  and  ho  was  already  in  love  with,  and  engaged 
to,  Cicely  Thornton,  who,  with  Chris,  Christie,  or  Christina  Branson, 
helped  to  make  up  the  thirty  young  ladies  of  the  place.  It  must  be 
owned  that  the  thirty  did  all  they  could  to  create  a  social  life,  just 
as  if  there  had  been  thirty  young  men  as  well.  They  were  exi- 
(jeanlrs;  they  would  have  nothing  short  of  universal  surrender  of 
everything  to  themselves.  For  their  sake*  lawns  were  enlarged  and 
cut  up  into  tennis  courts  ;  for  them  existed  the  choral  society  ;  for 
them  the  flowers  blossomed,  the  strawberries  ripened,  the  peaches 
grew,  the  sun  shone  ;  for  them  bands  and  musicians  were  hired 
parties  were  given,  afternoon  teas  were  held  ;  concerts,  entertain- 
ments, and  musical  services  were  performed.  It  was  on  their  account 
(liecause  they  never  gave  any  money  to  anything)  that  lecturers 
deputations,  eharity  sermon  preachers,  and  "  organizers  "  kept  away 
from  the  place,  -together  with  organ-grinders,  German  bands.  Punch 
and  Judy  (the  fun  of  which  no  youug  lady  has  ever  been'able  to 


THE  MOST  UNHAPPY  GIRLS  IN  THE  WORLD.       7 

appreciate),  circus-pitchers,  and  so  forth,  who  -were  never  tempted 
by  a  single  copper  to  venture  near  this  suburb.     On  the  other  hand, 
gipsies  came  often,  and  crossed  many  a  pretty  palm  ;  and  if  sooth- 
sayers, seers,  spiritualists,  prophets,  and  astrologers  do  not  go  there, 
it  is  because  they  have  not  yet  found  out  the  burning  curiosity  of 
the  British  demoiselle  to  know  her  future.     By  the  united  efforts  of 
the  thirty  girls,  too,  professors  of  foreign  languages,  music,  singing, 
painting,  drawing,  and  other  arts,  were  enabled  to  make  a  humble, 
but  sufficient,  living  in  the  town.     For  their  amusement  and  recrea- 
tion Messrs.  Mudie  and  Smith  sent  down  whole  waggon-loads  of 
books,  every  one  in  three  volumes,  and  every  one  published  at  so 
costly  a  price  that  it  must  certainly  be  a  miracle  of  literature,  and 
every  one  especially  written  for  these  young  ladies  by  novelists  who 
ask  (and  very  often  get)  no  other  payment  for  their  work  than  the 
smiles  of  bright  eyes  and  the  approval  of  pretty  faces.  _  They  have 
also,  however,  another  and  a  deeper  design.     It  is  this.     By  por- 
traying a  fuller  and  more  joyous  life  than  is  attainable  by  modern 
English  girls,  they  encourage  the  spirit  of  discontent  which,  when 
duly  fostered,  trained,  and  led,  works  marvels  ;  insomuch  that  many 
of  the  girls  in  country  towns  have  begun  to  ask  whether  the  ocean 
of  life  is,  after  all,  only  rather  a  pretty  duckpond  sheltered  by  trees, 
and  whether  there  is  really  nothing  else  but  a  church  on  Sunday,  a 
little  music,  a  little  society,  a  little  anxiety  about  dress,  a  little 
make-believe  at  study,  and  a  little  reading  of  novels^    It  is  not 
much,  is  it  ?     And  it  must  make  those  who  enjoy  this  life  ask  each 
other  sometimes,  how  about  the  curse  of  labour,  and  if  there  is  no 
other  experience  in  the  soul's  pilgrimage,  such  as  those  described  in 
the  dear,  delightful,  wicked  story-books,   attainable   by  her  who 
greatly  dares. 

All  these  things,  with  ample  sufficiency,  and  even  daintiness,  of 
diet,  and  for  the  most  part  liberality  in  dress  allowance,  were  given 
to  these  girls,  and  yet — yet — they  were  not  happy.  Twenty- eight 
of  them  murmured  because  they  had  no  lovers.  The  remaining  two 
— strange  inconsistency  !— because  they  had.  Merely  to  have  a  lover 
satisfies  one  for  the  moment  only.  If  the  actual  lover  of  the  present 
ceases  to  be  the  prospective  husband  of  the  future,  what  sort  of  a 
lover  is  he  then  ?  What  good  is  he  ?  As  well— even  better — have 
none  at  all.  Such  was  the  hard  and  lamentable  case  both  of  Cicely 
Thornton  and  Christina  Branson. 

As  the  two  girls  walked  along  the  twilight  road  under  the  fragrant 
blossoms  and  the  pendent  caterpillars  of  the  limes,  they  observed, 
standing  at  a  corner  where  two  ways  meet,  a  gentleman  who  was 
looking  up  the  road  and  down  the  road,  as  if  in  uncertainty.  He 
was  a  man  of  good  height,  a  handsome  man,  with  a  great  brown 
beard,  which  was  all  they  observed  in  the  twilight.  When  the  girls 
passed  he  raised  his  hat,  and  asked  courteously  if  they  could  direct 
him  to  Mr.  Branson's  house. 


S  UNCLE  JACK. 

"  It  is  thirty  years,"  he  explained,  "  since  I  was  here  last,  and 
there  have  been  so  many  changes  in  the  road  that  I  seem  to  have 
forgotten  my  way  to  the  old  plr,C3." 

"  I  live  there,"  said  Chris.  "  But — Mr.  Branson  ?  You  do  not 
know,  then — it  is  five  years  since  my  father  died." 

"  Your  father  died  ?  Your  father  ?  Sam  dead  ?  Sam  married  ? 
And  you — can  you  be  his  daughter  ?  Sam  with  a  grown-up  daughter 
—  Sam  dead  ?"  He  repeated  these  words,  gazing  at  the  girl,  as  if  in 
thirty  years  such  things  as  marriage,  death,  birth,  and  growing-up 
were  out  of  the  common  experience. 

"  I  am  Mr.  Branson's  daughter  certainly,"  said  Chris  quietly. 

"  Why,  I  am  his  brother— your  uncle,  young  lady." 

"  Oh,  good  gracious  !"  cried  Cicely.  "  It  is— it  is  the  UNCLE  !" 
The  girls  caught  each  other's  hands  and  gasped.  This  really  was  a 
most  extraordinary  coincidence. 

"  And  what  is  your  name  ?"  asked  the  stranger. 

"  Christina.     You  are  my  uncle  ?" 

"  Christina,"  he  repeated  ;  "you  are  named  after  your  grandmother. 
Yes.  I  am  most  certainly  your  uncle.  And  this  young  lady — is 
she  also  my  niece  ?" 

"She  will  be,  I  hope,  when  she  marries  my  brother — my  only 
brother  Harry." 

"  Your  only  brother,  Harry — I  see.  There  are,  then,  two  of  you. 
"Will  you  shake  hands  with  me,  Niece  Christina  ?  I  am  your  Uncle 
John,  formerly  known  in  these  parts  as  Jack  Branson.  But  I  sup- 
pose no  one  remembers  me  now."  He  said  this  dubiously,  as  if 
expecting  to  be  well  remembered. 

"  But — oh !  it  can't  be — you  have  been  dead  a  long  time," 
cried  Chris,  hesitating.  "  Oh !  a  long  time.  I  remember  now. 
Papa  spoke  of  you  sometimes  when  we  were  little.  After  his 
death  we  have  never  thought  of  you  at  all,  except  as  a  dead 
man." 

"  Perhaps  he  is  a  ghost,"  said  Cicely  heartlessly.  "  Pinch  him, 
my  dear." 

"  No — no — not  a  ghost,  at  any  rate,"  and  the  stranger  laughed  ; 
he  had  a  full  voice,  pleasant  to  hear.  "  Not  a  ghost.  If  you  thought 
me  dead,  it  was  because  I  wrote  to  no  one.  Shake  hands,  Niece 
Christina." 

She  gave  him  her  hand. 

"It  is  thirty  years,  Chrislir.a,"  ho  said,  holding  her  hand  tightly, 
"  since  I  have  shaken  hands  -\\  ith  kith  or  kin." 

"  My  poor  Uncle  John !  Call  me  Chris,"  she  said.  "  Everybody 
does." 

"  Call  me  Uncle  Jack,  Chris.  I  don't  know  the  name  of  John," 
he  replied. 

"  Come  homo  with  me,"  she  said. 

They  walked  along  in  silence,  stealing  glances  at  each  other,  while 
Cicely  murmured  low,  "  Oh  !  it  is  wonderful  ;  oh,  who  ever  heard 


THE  MOST  UNHAPPY  GIRLS  IN  THE  WORLD.       9 

of  such  a  thing  ?  Oh,  what  a  good  uncle  to  come  home  at  such  a 
juncture  !" 

"  There  is  the  old  house,"  cried  Uncle  Jack  suddenly.  He  stopped 
at  the  garden  gate  and  looked  at  the  place.  "  You  have  altered  it 
very  little,"  he  said.  *'  It  is  the  same  place  as  of  old.  Only  the 
trees  have  grown  bigger  ;  and  my  father  is  gone  and — I  suppose 
— everyone  who  can  remember  me.  I  might  have  looked  for  it. 
Somehow,  when  one  is  away  for  thirty  years,  one  thinks  that  at 
home  everything  remains  the  same." 

"  Oh,"  cried  Cicely,  "  do  you,  pray,  call  a  niece,  and  such  a  niece 
as  Chris,  nobody  ?  Tell  me  " — this  irrepressible  young  person  laid 
eager  hands  upon  his  arm — "  tell  me — we  were  just  longing  for  an 
uncle — a  Nabob — to  drop  from  the  clouds  ;  have  you  got  sacks  full 
of  rupees  ?  Is  there  a  Begum  ?  And  are  you  a  right-minded, 
strong,  courageous,  and  sympathetic  uncle  ?" 

"  Why,  my  child  ?" 

"  Because — oh !  because  you  are  so  awfully  wanted  ;  because  we 
shall  ask  you  for  most  of  the  courage  you  have  got ;  because  there 
is  such  a  lot  of  work  before  you  ;  because  there  are  dreadful  Ob- 
structions in  the  way.  Chris  will  tell  you  all — yes— all  the  dreadful, 
horrid,  shameful  story.  If  you  do  not  feel  for  us,  you  had  better 
go  away  again  at  once  to  Nabobland  ;  for  we  are  the  most  ill-used, 
unhappy  girls  in  all  the  world."  She  spoke  quickly,  and  her  voice 
trembled  a  little.  "  Oh  !  Chris,  Chris !  I  knew  this  morning  that 
something  was  going  to  happen  ;  but,  of  course,  I  couldn't  tell  what. 
First  I  met  one  jackdaw  ;  then  two  ;  and  then  three.  Three  jack- 
daws always  mean  an  unexpected  uncle  from  India  and  Australia. 
Take  him  in,  Chris  dear  ;  oh,  I  think  he  looks  the  very  uncle  we 
wanted  ;  make  much  of  him  ;  and  oh !  don't — don't,  pray — let 
Obstructions  warp  his  manly  mind  !" 


IL 

THE   APPLE   OF  DISCORD. 

I  AM  quite  certain  that  before  the  introduction  of  the  Apple  of 
Discord — "of  course,"  said  the  Major,  "it  was  thrown  by  a  woman" 
— there  was  no  place  in  the  world  more  harmonious,  more  perfectly 
agreed  upon  all  subjects,  than  this  suburb  of  a  country  town.  The 
harmony  was  like  that  of  the  spheres :  it  could  be  distinctly  felt  ; 
it  was  in  the  air  :  it  could  even  be  heard,  like  the  faint  whispers  of 
an  iEolian  harp,  by  those  who  had  youth,  sharp  ears,  and  imagina- 
tion. It  imparted  music  to  the  rustling  of  the  leaves,  so  that  you 
got  plenty  of  it,  because  the  place  was  nothing  in  the  world  but  a 
bower  or  coppice  of  trees,  chiefly  fruit  trees,  such  as  cherry,  plum, 
apple,  and  pear  (one  always  says  apple  and  pear,  like  Army  and 
Navy,  Church  and  State,  man  and  wife,   bread   and   butter — the 


io  UNCLE  JACK. 

order  of  which  can  never  be  reversed),  mulberry,  medlar,  Siberian 
crab,  peach,  apricot,  and  nectarine,  with  many  others  which  it  would 
take  too  long  to  narrate,  because  the  residents  were  agreed  together 
in  this  as  in  all  other  matters,  that  plenty  of  fruit  was  a  desirable 
thing  ;    therefore,  they  barely  tolerated  such   trees   as  were  only 
useful  for  shade  and  beauty,  as  the  oak,  the  elm,  the  ash,  and  the 
sycamore  ;  yet  they  permitted  the  limes  to  grow  in  all  the  roads 
for  shade  in  the  summer,  and  the  furnishing  of  the  little  birds  with 
caterpillars  ;    also   they  permitted  Virginia  creeper,  honeysuckle, 
passion-flowers,  jessamine,  clematis,  and  Wisteria,  in  those  places 
where  they  could  not  raise  wall-fruit.     Further,  they  rejoiced  in 
roses,  and  vied  with  each  other,  yet  ever  mindful  of  the  Tenth 
Commandment,  in  the  production  of  beautiful  and  rare  varieties. 
Nothing  more  tends  to  promote  good  feeling  of  one  to  another  than 
the  love  of  gardening,  and  when  these  honest  people  sallied  forth  in 
a  morning  (I  mean  in  the  good  old  harmonious  days),  the  men  in 
straw  hats  and  jackets,  and  the  ladies  with  garden  hats,  gloves, 
scissors,  and  watering-pots  with  long  spouts,  they  looked  over  garden 
walls,  peered  between  railings,  poked  sympathetic  heads  into  open 
doors,  and  felt  for  each  other  so  strong  and  perfect  a  friendship, 
that  all  the  people  living  in  houses  next  door  fell  in  love  with  their 
neighbours — girls  and  boys  with  boys  and  girls,  and  aged  spinster 
with  retired  colonel — quite  regardless  of  the  fact  that  in  the  cruel 
outer  world  scandalous  things  are  often  said,  gossip  handed  round, 
young  men  too  often  rivals,  young  ladies  whispered  to  be  jealous 
of  each  others'  charms.     Consider  what  a  world  would  that  be  in 
which  every  damsel  is  constantly  engaged,  not,  if  you  please,  in 
prinking  and  pranking  before  a  mirror,  but  in  lauding,  magnifying, 
and   glorifying   the   beauty,    sweetness,  constancy,   Avisdom,   good 
housewifery,  sensible  headery,  needle  and  threadery,  taste,  refine- 
ment, and  other  Christian  virtues  of  her  contemporaries  !     It  is  too 
much  for  the  imagination.     As  with  the  vastness  of  the  heavens,  the 
impudence  of  our  enemies,  and  the  stupidity  of  those  who  think 
otherwise  (I  have  long  been  surprised  that  the  word  "  otherwise  " 
has  not  long  since  become  a  synonym  for  "stupid"),  the   thing 
passeth  all  understanding.     Yes  ;  in  this  happy  village,  colony,  or 
settlement,  you  might  study  the  actual  existence  of  a  community 
actuated  by  the  spirit  of  pure  charity  and  benevolence  one  to  the 
other.     It  was  to  be  expected,  therefore,  that  the  ringing  of  the 
church  bells  would  be  so  melodious  as  to  soften  the  heart  of  a  tramp, 
that  the  ripple  of  the  trout  stream  would  be  like  unto  the  distant 
laughter  of  girls  ;  that  the  singing  of  the  birds  would  be  sweeter, 
and  the  humming  of  the  bees  more  soothing,  than  anywhere  else, 
and  the  evening  air  would  be  laden  with  the  dropping  of  gentle 
music  from  every  house,  the  voices  of  those  who  sung  madrigals, 
glees,  and  roundelays.     Nay,  some  went  further,  and  insisted  that 
nowhere  else  could  the  night  policeman's  ears  be  touched  with  so 
delicate,  restful,  and  peaceful  a  snoring  from  behind  white  blinds 


THE  APPLE  OF  DISCORD.  n 

as  in  this  village,  the  name  of  which  some  enthusiastic  brothers 
proposed  to  call  "  Brotherly-Love-Continue,"  after  seventeenth- 
century  fashion,  and  in  place  of  the  name  rendered  historically 
famous  ever  since  the  great  Queen  Elizabeth  once  lay  for  a  night 
in  the  town,  and  ordered,  in  memory  of  a  visit,  that  whenever  an- 
other monarch  should  pass  that  way  he  should  hammer  a  nail  in  the 
Town  Hall  door.  In  religion,  this  happy  village  was  Moderately 
High  :  that  is  to  say,  they  loved  a  musical  service  which  was  also 
short,  but  they  could  not  approve  of  a  clergyman's  assuming  au 
thority,  because  a  village  of  Brotherly-Love-Oontinue  must  be,  as 
regards  authority,  communistic.  In  politics  they  joined  heartily 
in  hating  all  Radicals,  because  a  Brotherly-Love  village  must  con- 
sist entirely  of  tho;;e  natural  enemies  of:  Radicalism — the  people 
who  have  no  work  to  do,  and  are  content  to  live  upon  other  people's 
work.  As  to  their  views  of  rank,  and  so  forth,  they  aspired  not  so 
much  to  intimacy  with  the  Great  as  to  a  circle  where  all  should 
occupy  the  same  level,  which  must  be  high,  if  you  please,  and 
bracing,  but  not  dizzy.  Retired  generals,  colonels,  Indian  people, 
and  such,  they  welcomed.  The  arrival  of  a  man  with  a  title — even 
if  only  a  knight — would  have  made  them  for  a  time  a  little  uneasy 
until  they  got  used  to  him ;  and  they  held  retail  trade  in  the  con- 
tempt which  it  undoubtedly  deserves  at  the  hands  of  those  who  are 
not  engaged'  in  it.  In  a  word,  they  were  a  little  circle  of  friends 
who  occupied  the  little  aristocratic  suburb  of  an  English  town, 
lived  with  and  for  each  other,  shared  the  same  simple  tastes,  were 
neither  poor  nor  rich,  clever  nor  stupid,  assthetic  nor  vulgar,  aimed 
at  no  distinction,  and  were  quite  satisfied  that  in  this  world  all  is 
for  the  best,  except  that  the  services  of  half-pay  officers  are  inade- 
quately rewarded.  Those  who  have  got  a  sufficient  income  without 
work,  duties,  or  responsibilities,  and  are  English  by  birth,  and 
"  enjoy"  no  diseases  to  speak  of,  would  be  foolish  indeed  to  think 
otherwise.  It  is  for  the  lean  and  the  hungry  to  find  fault,  for  the 
hard  workers  to  cry  out,  and  for  those  whom  the  shoe  pinches  to 
try  if  things  cannot  be  made  easier. 

In  this  colony  of  contented  and  virtuous  Christians  there  were 
two  families  with  whom  we  are  especially  concerned — though  I  am 
far  from  asserting  that  they  were  the  most  virtuous  or  the  most 
remarkable  ;  and  I  beg  that  I  may  not  be  charged  with  favouritism 
in  selecting  these  two  out  of  the  twenty  or  thirty  in  the  place.  I 
would  willingly  write  the  story  of  all  the  rest,  if  they  have  any  to 
tell.  They  were  the  Houses  of  Branson  and  Thornton.  They 
lived  in  villas,  side  by  side  ;  they  were  united  by  the  closest  bonds 
of  friendship,  and  already  (before  the  Apple  fell  in  their  midst) 
looking  forward  to  closer  ties  still.  For,  by  a  happy  accident,  Cicely 
Thornton  and  Chris  Branson  were  of  the  same  age,  which  is  not  an 
uncommon  circumstance — there  are  many  people,  I  am  assured,  of 
the  same  age  as  myself,  though  not,  alas !  so  many  as  there  used  to 
be  ;  they  were  both  young — it  hath  happened  to  most  of  us  to  be 


12  UNCLE  JACK. 

young,  and  to  have  youthful  friends  ;  they  were,  further,  both 
eminently  desirable  from  the  point  of  view  taken  by  young  men, 
being  as  lovely  as  a  summer  day  in  June,  and  as  sweet-tempered  as 
perfectly  happy  damsels  ought  to  be.  Bad  temper  generally  has 
some  foundation  or  reason  for  it :  there  should  be  no  smoke  without 
fire.  Not  only  were  there  two  young  ladies,  but  also  two  young 
men,  their  brothers.  If  the  girls  were  now  nineteen,  the  brothers 
were  two-and-  twenty,  the  ideal  age  for  a  lover,  the  time  when  all 
things,  and  therefore  young  women,  are  still  seen  under  the  illusions 
which  it  is  so  great  a  pity  to  lose,  that  some  few  among  us  keep 
them  still ;  when  a  young  man  has  still  the  comeliness  of  youth  as 
well  as  of  manhood  ;  when  all  has  yet  to  be  done,  and  the  world 
seems,  to  young  Alexander  and  hot-headed  Picrochole,  worth  the 
conquering,  and  the  delights  of  life  are  boundless  and  unexplored. 
If  one  would  wish  to  be  always  young,  one  should  choose  the  age  of 
twenty-two  ;  if  to  be  in  the  full  strength  of  manhood,  then  one 
would  be  always  thirty-five  ;  unless  one  is  a  statesman,  when  seventy- 
five  seems  preferable  for  a  permanency. 

These  young  men  were  now  two-and-twenty.  They  had  been  at 
school  together,  and  together  they  went  to  Cambridge,  where  Harry 
Branson  went  in  for  athletics,  and  Fred  Thornton  for  reading. 
Harry  won  the  mile  race  for  his  University,  and  covered  himself 
all  over  with  glory,  so  that  Cicely  clasped  Christina  by  the  hand, 
and  felt  as  if  Heaven  had  indeed  destined  her  (through  her  lover) 
to  greatness.  He  was,  also,  admirable  at  football,  cricket,  racquets, 
tennis,  especially  the  modern  branch  of  the  game,  played  with  girls 
upon  the  grass,  billiards — and,  in  fact,  at  all  games  requiring  dexterity 
of  hand  and  quickness  of  eye.  To  say,  further,  that  he  could  dance 
admirably,  that  he  was  a  good-looking  lad,  with  a  pleasing  smile  and 
charming  manners,  is  also  necessary  in  order  to  disarm  prejudice  ; 
for  it  must  be  confessed  that  he  did  nothing,  and  wanted  to  do 
nothing,  and  preferred  to  do  nothing. 

The  other  young  man,  who  took  to  reading,  read  to  such  good 
purpose  that  he  went  out  in  the  first  class  of  the  Classical  Tripos, 
and  was  immediately  elected  a  Fellow  of  his  College,  whereupon 
Christina  fell  into  Cicely's  arms  and  wept  tears  of  joy  and  triumph, 
for  every  woman  likes  her  lover  to  distinguish  himself,  and  though 
a  high  place  in  the  Tripos  is  a  small  thing  compared  with  a  High 
Jump  or  a  Long  Race,  yet  it  is  always  something.  Fred  betook 
himself  to  Lincoln's  Inn,  and  I  have  very  little  doubt,  because  he 
expects  it  himself,  that  he  will  quickly  become  Lord  Chancellor.  In 
a  better-managed  society  all  these  high  offices  will  be  filled  by  the  very 
young  men,  who  will  enjoy  the  dignity  with  greater  manifestations 
of  pleasure,  spend  the  income  more  nobly,  and  wear  the  robes  much 
more  gracefully.  As  they  grow  older  they  will  be  gradually  reduced 
in  rank.  Thus,  Archbishop  at  twenty-five  ;  plain  Bishop  at  twenty- 
eight  ;  Suffragan,  or  even  Colonial,  Bishop  at  thirty  ;  Archdeacon 
or  Dean  at  six-and-thirty  ;  Country  Vicar  or  Head  Master  at  forty, 


THE  APPLE  OF  DISCORD.  13 

and  at  sixty  Curate  or  Assistant-Master.  In  this  way  the  affairs  of 
Church  and  State  will  get  carried  on  with  admirable  spirit  and 
courage,  and  we  shall  enjoy  very  remarkable  changes.  Fred  Thorn- 
ton would  make  an  excellent  Lord  Chancellor  at  two  or  three  and 
twenty,  though  perhaps  at  seventy  he  will  be  no  wiser,  and  much 
worse  tempered. 

It  was  asked,  I  think  by  Epictetus,  whether  a  man  who  makes  a 
foolish  will  is  thereby  proved  to  be  a  Fool  Absolute  or  only  a  Fool 
Partial.  Some  men  have  been  great  lawyers,  great  bishops,  great  states- 
men, even  respectable  novelists,  and  yet  have  thus  betrayed  in  the  end 
the  Fooi-ishness  which  really  belonged  to  them,  so  that  it  is  a  ques- 
tion whether  such  an  one  is  to  be  written  down  Fool  first  and  Great 
Man  second,  or  Great  Man  first  and  Fool  second.  Certainly  Mr. 
Samuel  Branson,  deceased,  should  have  been  written  a  Fool  Abso- 
lute, because  no  one  but  a  Fool  Absolute  could  have  left  his  property 
in  so  ridiculous  a  manner.  It  was  a  good  property,  consisting  of  an 
estate  with  houses,  shares  and  moneys  in  stocks,  as  a  gentleman's 
property  ought  to  be.  He  devised  it,  therefore,  to  his  children, 
subject  first  to  a  charge  upon  the  estate  during  the  lifetime  of  bis 
widow,  their  stepmother,  for  her  maintenance,  and,  next,  to  these 
conditions  :  his  son  was  to  be  allowed  four  hundred  pounds  a  year 
only  until  he  married,  when,  if  he  married  with  his  stepmother's 
consent,  he  would  succeed  to  his  inheritance,  and  if  against  this 
consent,  the  property  should  all  go  to  his  daughter  provided  she  had 
not  married  against  her  stepmother's  consent  ;  and  as  regards  his 
daughter  aforesaid,  she  was  to  have  two  hundred  pounds  a  year 
until  she  married,  when  she  would  succeed  to  her  portion  of  fifteen 
thousand  pounds,  provided  that  she  married  with  her  stepmother's 
consent,  and  if  against  that  consent,  her  share  was  to  go  to  her 
brother,  with  the  same  provision.  And  if  both  married  without 
the  consent  of  their  stepmother,  the  whole  was  to  go  to  her.  This 
delightful  will  the  testator  justified  by  explaining  that  young  people 
ought  to  marry  early  ;  that  it  is  a  very  dangerous  and  difficult 
matter  for  young  people  to  choose  wisely ;  and  that  he  placed  the 
greatest  reliance  on  the  judgment  and  prudence  of  his  wife.  No- 
body, to  be  sure,  ever  called  Mr.  Samuel  Branson  a  wise  man. 

So  far,  it  was  a  most  delightful  story  which  Chris  told  her  uncle 
next  morning  walking  beneath  the  limes. 

"  And  oh,  uncle,"  she  said,  "nobody  could  have  had  a  kinder  or  a 
more  delightful  stepmother  than  we  had  at  first.  As  for  thwarting 
us,  or  making  any  objection,  she  encouraged  us.  She  loved  Cis  as 
much  as  me  ;  she  let  Fred  come  to  the  house  as  often  as  he  pleased 
— which  was  every  day,  poor  boy  !  And  as  for  the  Major,  she  con- 
sulted him  upon  everything." 

This  was  all  true.  There  did  not  exist  a  kinder  heart  than  that 
of  the  second  Mrs.  Branson.  Unfortunately  there  did  not  exist  a 
more  tenacious  person,  when  once  she  had  formed  an  opinion,  or  a 
woman  of  less  judgment,  and  therefore  less  able  to  form  one  worth 


i4  UNCLE  JACK. 

having.  "When  such  a  woman  makes  a  bonfire  of  her  old  idols,  and 
goes  after  strange  gods  and  goddesses,  it  is  unpleasant  for  her  friends 
unless  they  go  with  her. 

"  It  all  began  with  a  lecture,"  Christina  wept.  "  A  lecture  ;  and 
only  three  months  ago.     Three  months — and  what  a  change  !" 

She  went  on  to  show  how  this  happened,  and  how  so  harmless  a 
thing  as  a  lecture,  delivered  by  a  young  lady,  produced  the  most 
baleful  results.  A  Lecture  !  The  most  potent  instrument,  as  we 
have  always  been  taught  to  believe,  in  civilization.  Have  we  not 
advanced  to  our  present  pitch  of  universal  wisdom  chiefly  by  means 
of  lectures  ?  Knowledge  is  power  ;  and  the  way  to  get  knowledge 
and  to  be  therefore  powerful  is  to  attend  lectures.  Who  would  not 
be  powerful  ?  So  that  when  Miss  Antoinette  Baker  came  from 
London  to  lecture  on  the  Present  Position,  the  Capabilities,  Past 
and  Future,  and  the  Rights  of  Woman,  everybody  felt  that  here 
was  an  opportunity  such  as  seldom  offers  of  acquiring  knowledge 
in  quite  a  new  line.  The  Capabilities  of  Woman  !  Her  Future  ! 
Heavens,  what  might  be  revealed  ! 

During  the  excitement  which  prevailed  immediately  before  the 
lecture  the  Major  showed  the  cloven  hoof  which  proclaimed  him  to 
be  a  Snake  in  the  grass.  The  confusion  of  metaphors  is  not  mine, 
but  Mrs.  Branson's.  It  is  beyond  my  own  poor  powers.  "Women," 
he  said,  "will  go  on  occupying  the  position  which  they  always  have 
occupied,  and  always  will.  There's  the  combatant  and  the  non- 
combatant  branch.  And  you  don't  give  a  command  to  a  man  in 
the  Commissariat." 

The  lecturer  was  invited  by  Mrs.  Branson,  who  was  the  acknow- 
ledged leader  of  local  Society,  to  dine  with  her  before  the  lecture, 
and  to  be  present  at  an  "At  Home  "  after  it.  She  was  none  other 
than  Miss  Antoinette  Baker,  who  is  already  well  known  in  her  own 
circle,  and  will  soon  bo  much  more  widely  known.  The  Great 
Feminine  Conspiracy,  which  has  many  ramifications,  and  shows  itself 
now  in  an  outcry  for  woman's  suffrage,  now  in  a  clamour  about 
woman's  dress,  now  for  women  doctors,  and  now  for  women  in- 
spectors, has  never  made  a  recruit  more  likely  to  be  useful  to  them 
than  Antoinette  Baker.  She  has  passed  the  examinations  of  the 
University  of  London  in  Honours  both  in  Arts  and  in  Science  ;  she 
has  for  years  spoken  in  a  Debating  Society,  where  she  has  acquired 
the  art  of  disputing  without  losing  her  temper,  or  her  head,  or  her 
tongue.  She  has  written  to  the  thoughtful  magazines  papers  of  the 
kind  which  are  now  so  greatly  in  demand,  and  which  go  straight  to 
the  root  of  things ;  such  as  whether  the  Family  should  be  the  Unit, 
whether  Property  should  bo  recognised  any  longer,  whether  Social 
Science  is  to  allow  any  longer  the  payment  of  Interest  on  Money, 
Rent,  Profit  on  Goods  sold,  and  so  forth.  She  is  also  engaged  upon 
a  work  which  it  is  believed  will  revolutionize  everything,  called 
"  The  History  and  Arraignment  of  Man."  The  Cause  was  languish- 
ing for  Antoinette  Baker.    It  wanted  youth,  beauty,  feminine  grace 


THE  APPLE  OF  DISCORD.  15 

and  cleverness,  besides  audacity.  It  wanted  a  speaker  who  could 
put  things  pleasantly  and  wittily.  It  has  been  found  that  man,  who 
always  too  much  regards  the  exterior,  has  too  often  turned  away 
with  coldness  from  apostles  middle-aged,  hard-featured,  harsh  in 
voice  and  manner,  strident,  with  no  grace  of  womanhood,  no  soft- 
ness of  style  or  manner,  no  pleasantness  of  style,  who  represented 
the  claims  of  Woman  before  the  appearance  of  Antoinette.  She 
not  only  brought  beauty  and  eloquence,  but  she  brought  also  ideas. 
I  know  not  where  she  got  them  from,  but  they  seemed  original 
ideas.  She  laid  down  a  programme  which  astonished  her  hearers  and 
made  them  gasp.  I  believe  that  nobody  before  Antoinette  ever 
claimed  more  than  a  bare  equality  for  the  intellect  of  woman  ;  she, 
however,  went  beyond  ;  she  claimed  superiority.  She  did  this,  not 
in  a  secret  and  underhand  manner,  but  openly,  unreservedly,  freely. 
She  showed  her  hand. 

The  people  who  went  to  hear  this  particular  lecture  were 
astonished  when,  at  the  hour  named,  there  stepped  on  the  platform 
a  slight,  delicate-looking  girl  of  twenty-two  or  so,  with  sharp,  clear- 
cut  features,  bright  grey  eyes,  and  a  mass  of  short  curls.  She  was 
dressed  in  plain  white,  and  wore  a  pince-nez.  In  her  hand  she 
carried  a  manuscript,  but  she  soon  grew  tired  of  reading  it,  and, 
folding  it  up,  used  it  to  assist  gesture,  while  with  clear,  full  voice, 
maintained  without  effort,  she  poured  out  her  periods,  at  the 
hearing  of  which  the  women  looked  down,  and  the  men  stared  be- 
fore them  with  burning  cheeks  and  in  a  blind  rage. 

"  What,"  she  asked,  "  what  is  man's  boasted  power  compared 
with  ours  ?  He  is  the  wheel  which  is  driven.  We  should  be  the 
piston  which  drives.  What  is  his  insight  compared  with  ours  ? 
What  his  sense  of  justice,  his  sympathy,  his  hatred  of  cruelty,  his 
disinterestedness  compared  with  our  own  ?  How  small  a  thing  is 
his  feeble  desire  to  do  right  compared  with  our  stern  resolution 
that  he  shall  do  right  ?" 

More— and  much  more — she  said,  so  that  the  ears  of  those  who 
heard  tingled,  and  some  girls  were  ashamed  for  her,  and  some  went 
home  angry  that  they — of  the  chosen  sex — had  been  kept  out  of 
their  rights  so  long. 

After  the  lecture  there  was  a  reception  at  Mrs.  Branson's,  and 
more  was  said.  The  men  remarked,  with  astonishment  and  exas- 
peration, that  their  observations  were  received  by  Miss  Antoinette 
Baker  with  that  sort  of  impatient  politeness  and  condescending 
pretence  of  respect  generally  extended  by  men  of  learning  and 
authority  to  the  observations  made  by  girls.  This  upside-down 
treatment  gave  them  a  severe  shock.  Thus,  when  the  Major  re- 
marked, with  confidence,  that  woman  had  hitherto  shown  little  power 
of  forming  judgment,  she  inclined  her  head  and  waited  until  he  had 
quite  finished  what  he  had  to  say,  looking  straight  in  his  face  with  a 
superior,  tolerant  air  and  a  smile,  which  made  him  very  angry. 

"I  know  :  it  is  one  of  the  commonplaces,"  she  said  loftily,  "ad- 


1 6  UNCLE  JACK. 

vanced  by  those  who  have  not  studied  the  question.  Let  me  advise 
you,  Major  Thornton,  to  be  guided  by  those  who  have.  The  judg- 
ment of  man,  indeed  !"  she  laughed  scornfully.  "  It  is  surprising 
that  men  should  not  be  ashamed  to  speak  of  their  judgment.  They 
have  ruled  for  thousands  of  years.  They  have  settled  nothing. — 
not  one  question.  They  are  still  ignorant  as  to  what  is  the  best 
form  of  government,  what  is  the  true  religion,  what  are  the  true 
laws  of  social  ceremony,  what  is  the  right  kind  of  education  ;  they 
have  not  yet  learned  such  simple  things  as  the  abolition  of  disease, 
war,  poverty  and  vice  ;  they  have  not  even  agreed  in  matters  of 
taste." 

"  Would  you  kindly  teach  us,"  said  the  Major,  "  the  simple  arts 
of  abolishing  poverty,  war,  and  vice  ?" 

"  Oh  !  Pardon  me.  Man's  judgment  aud  reason  are  so  strong 
that  they  will,  I  dare  say,  find  out  for  themselves.  When  they  are 
candid  enough  to  confess  that  they  cannot,  let  them  come  to  me — I 
mean  to  Us.  Believe  me,  my  dear  sir,  there  will  never  be  a  final 
decision  on  this  or  any  other  point  until  woman's  voice  is  heard 
throughout  the  land — yes — woman's  voice — low — musical — sweet — 
telling  once  and  for  all  what  have  been  the  mistakes  of  the  past, 
and  what  must  be  the  action  of  the  future.  With  decision,  not 
with  hesitation ;  with  the  authority  of  certainty,  not  the  feeble- 
ness of  experiment." 

"Good  Lord  !"  said  the  Major. 

Miss  Antoinette  Baker  stayed  a  week.  During  that  time  she 
made  a  convert  and  established  a  Branch. 

Mrs.  Branson  felt  from  the  very  beginning  that  she  had  heard  a 
new  Gospel  :  she  discovered  capabilities  in  herself  which  she  had 
never  before  suspected  ;  she  bui-ned  with  new  wrath  at  previously 
unsuspected  wrongs  ;  she  longed  to  master  the  subject,  and  dreamed 
of  mounting  a  platform  like  her  young  Apostle,  and  withering  Man 
with  her  eloquence. 

The  Major,  during  Miss  Antoinette  Baker's  stay,  came  a  great 
deal  in  order  to  discuss  a  question  in  which  he  was  resolved  not  to 
yield  one  inch.  He  made  statements  and  laid  down  positions.  It 
is  an  attractive  and  yet  a  delicate  subject ;  he  went  away  every  day 
in  a  rage,  all  the  more  because  he  saw  that,  though  Christina  re- 
mained unmoved,  and  regarded  the  Apostle  with  unconcealed 
aversion,  her  stepmother  was  more  and  more  carried  away  by  the 
new  doctrines.  Finally,  when  Antoinette  went  back  to  London, 
Mrs.  Branson  went  with  her,  and  stayed  a  mouth. 

Before  she  returned  she  had  taken  the  irrevocable  step— she  had 
mounted  a  platform  and  made  a  speech.  It  was  a  short  one,  pre- 
pared with  anxious  care  and  learned  by  heart  ;  it  was  spoken  to  a 
Resolution  on  Women's  Suffrage,  but  it  contained  the  whole  creed 
of  the  new  Party,  and  was,  therefore,  commented  upon  in  all  the 
papers.  If  there  is  any  one  thing  which  women  of  the  New  School 
more  desire  and  yearn  after,  it  is  to  see  their  names  and  opinions 


THE  APPLE  OF  DISCORD.  17 

the  subject  of  comment  in  the  papers.  If  there  is  one  thing  in 
the  world  which  women  of  the  Old  School  regard  with  shrinking 
and  horror,  it  is  this  publicity.  This  is  the  chief  difference  be- 
tween the  New  and  the  Old  School.  Christina  read,  and  wept  tears 
of  shame  ;  Harry  read,  and  straightway  exhausted  the  interjections 
of  the  language.     Horrible  ! 

Mrs.  Branson  came  home.  No  one  asked  her  where  she  had  been, 
or  what  she  had  done.  As  regards  her  speech  there  was  profound 
silence. 

Then  the  Major  made  a  very  great  mistake.  He  called  with  the 
intention  of  arguing.  Everybody  knows  the  kind  of  argument 
which  the  Major  would  adopt,  and  its  futility.  Everybody  knows 
the  kind  of  thing  he  would  presently  say,  and  the  wrath  which 
would  speedily  arise  on  both  sides.  Mrs.  Branson  was  already  pro- 
foundly hurt  and  disappointed  by  the  unsympathetic  behaviour  of 
her  stepchildren  ;  she  might  have  hoped  to  conquer  that ;  but  to  be 
remonstrated  with  by  the  Major,  who,  she  had  just  been  taught, 
belonged  to  the  most  malignant  type  of  bigoted  Conservative — that 
was  too  much. 

»  00©© 

When  he  went  home  after  the  Row  Royal,  with  the  uneasy  feel- 
ing that  somehow  he  had  not  got  the  best  of  it,  either  in  argument, 
dignity,  or  temper,  the  Major  found  Christina,  Cicely,  and  Harry 
sitting  dolefully  in  chairs  apart,  as  at  the  angles  of  an  equilateral 
triangle.  They  were  seized  with  a  shameful  dismay.  As  yet  they 
had  no  thought  of  what  might  result  from  this  speech  for  them- 
selves. Enoi?gk  for  them  that  their  father's  widow  should  have 
stood  upon  a  platform  and  lattered  sentiments  of  so  revolutionary  a 
kind  ! 

"  Harry,"  said  the  Major,  "  this  is  a  very  terrible  thing  for  you. 
Chris,  my  dear,  I  pity  you  with  all  my  heart.  I've  just  come  from 
your  stepmother.  I  thought  it  my  duty,  as  so  old  a  friend,  to  say  a 
word.  All  I  have  to  say  now  is — there !"  He  spread  his  hands 
and  shook  his  head. 

" It  is  a  most  beastly  thing,"  said  Harry,  "for  one's  female  rela- 
tions to  turn  Prophets.  Somehow  it  m;ikes  a  man  feel  a  Fool. 
After  all,  however,  she  is  not  my  mother.  She  is  no  blood  relation, 
you  know,  Major,  is  she  ?     Stepmothers  can  do  what  they  like." 

"  No,  my  boy.  She  is  certainly  only  your  stepmother.  But  I 
am  very  much  afraid,  after  the  few  words  we  have  just  had  together, 
that  there  may  be  trouble  of  another  kind  before  you." 

"  What  trouble  ?"  asked  Chris.     "  Is  not  this  enough  ?" 

"The  trouble  is,"  said  the  Major,  "that  she  has  ordered  me  out 
of  the  house,  never  to  enter  it  again.  That  I  don't  mind  so  much, 
though  it's  a  pity  when  a  lady  one  has  always  respected  and  admired 
goes  wrong  in  this  horrible  way.  What  I  fear  is  that,  in  her  present 
temper,  she  may  visit  the  sins  of  the  father  on  the  children,  and 
tui'n  ycu  out  of  the  house  as  well,  Cis — you  and  Fred." 

2 


1 8  UNCLE  JACK.. 

They  gazed  at  each  other  in  mute  bewilderment.  Could  she- 
could  she  do  this  thing  ?  But  this  was — just — exactly  what  she  did. 
And  now  you  know  most  of  the  unhappy  story  of  these  poor  girls. 
That  is  to  say,  you  know  all  that  Christina  told  her  uncle  the 
evening  he  arrived. 

III. 

AT   HOME   AGAIN. 

"  Come  in,"  said  Christina.     "  Let  me  show  you  the  way." 

"  I  know  it,"  said  her  uncle. 

He  stopped  in  the  hall  and  looked  around.  By  the  light  of  the 
lamp,  Chris  observed  that  their  newly  recovered  uncle  was  a  man 
who  once  had  been  handsome,  and  had  still  what  is  called  a  dis- 
tinguished look.  He  had  straight  and  regular  features,  with  very 
bright  eyes.  When  he  took  off  his  hat  (which  he  proceeded  to  hang 
up  as  if  he  was  going  back  to  his  old  peg  after  an  absence  of  a  day 
or  two)  Christina  observed  that  his  hair,  which  was  still  thick  and 
abundant,  was  gone  completely  grey.  A  grey  head  and  a  big  brown 
beard  make  up  rather  picturesquely  together.  Christina  saw,  further, 
that  he  had  full  bright  eyes,  which  ought  to  have  been  short-sighted, 
but  were  not.  He  also  possessed,  which  Chris  could  not  see  by 
reason  of  his  thick  moustache,  a  singularly  sweet  and  sensitive 
mouth. 

"  You  are  trying  to  find  out  what  I  am  like  ?"  he  said.  "  An  old 
fogey  of  fifty-two  is  not  much  to  look  at.  Let  me  rather  look  at 
you.  Yes !  You  have  my  father's  mouth  and  my  mother's  eyes. 
You  are  very  pretty,  my  dear."  He  gently  touched  her  hair  as  if 
it  was  something  sacred.  "  You  must  try  and  like  me  a  little,  if 
you  can." 

Then  he  opened  the  door  of  the  library  and  looked  in.  The 
lights  were  lit,  but  the  room  was  empty. 

"The  same  books,"  he  said,  "and  the  same  old  chairs.  Well,  I 
am  glad  that  my  brother  made  no  alteration.  Was  he  in  Holy 
Orders  ?     Did  he  succeed  my  father  in  the  parish  ?" 

"  My  father  in  Orders  ?     Oh,  no  !" 

"  What  did  he  do,  then  ?" 

"He  did  nothing,"  replied  Christina.  "Of  course  he  was  not 
obliged  to  do  anything." 

Uncle  Jack  looked  puzzled,  but  said  nothing. 

Christina  led  the  way  to  the  drawing-room. 

"You  will  find,"  she  said,  "Mrs.  Branson  here  with  her  friendg. 
When  you  have  talked  long  enough  with  her,  you  will  find  me  wait- 
ing for  you  in  the  porch,  or  here.  I  have  a  good  deal  to  tell  you. 
Go  in  and  introduce  yourself.  Unfortunately,  I  can  no  longer 
spend  my  evenings  in  the  drawing-room." 

Her  uncle  opened  the  door  and  stepped  io. 


A  T  HOME  A  GA  IN.  19 

He  found  himself  in  the  large  low  room,  which  he  remembered 
so  well,  only  it  was  now  very  differently  furnished.  And  in  the 
little  tables,  dainty  chairs,  china,  and  cabinets,  there  was  little  to 
remind  him  of  his  mother's  old  drawing-room,  with  its  heavy  round 
table  and  chairs  stiffly  arranged. 

He  stepped  into  the  room  looking  about  him.  "Within,  as  it 
seemed  to  him,  they  were  acting  a  play.  There  was,  sitting  in  an 
easy-chair,  a  middle-aged  lady,  to  whose  usually  placid  features  the 
fervour  of  recent  conversion — though  this  Uncle  Jack  did  not  know 
— had  given  a  novel  and  rather  incongruous  expression  of  enthusiasm. 
This  passion  belongs  rightly  to  the  young.  She  was  reading  a  proof- 
sheet  aloud.  Before  her  stood  with  a  note-book  a  young  lady, 
dressed  in  some  plain-coloured  stuff,  made  into  a  costume  just 
exactly  as  if  she  were  going  to  take  a  header  from  the  hearth-rug 
into  mid-ocean.  I  hope  I  make  my  meaning  clear  ;  the  costume  is 
not  in  itself  unpleasing,  but  seen  in  a  drawing-room  it  makes  one's 
head  to  reel,  and  one's  eyes  to  swim. 

"It's  a  rehearsal!"  said  Uncle  Jack  to  himself.  "It's  mum- 
micking.  And  in  my  mother's  drawing-room.  She's  a  page,  I 
suppose.     Good  Heavens  !" 

At  the  table,  partly  on  it,  there  leaned  a  youth,  though  when 
Uncle  Jack  looked  more  closely  he  perceived  that  the  youth  was 
probably  a  young  lady.  She  was  dressed  in  a  crimson  silk  jacket, 
a  white  silk  waistcoat,  a  plain  male  shirt  front  with  a  diamond  stud 
in  it,  a  cruelty-collar,  and  white  tie  ;  and  below,  terminating  at  the 
knee,  a  garment  which  might  be  called  petticoat  or  divided  skirt,  or 
Turkish  trousers,  or  anything  you  please,  so  long  as  you  get  the  true 
idea  of  what  she  wore.  Below  this  garment  were  white  silk  stock- 
ings, and  red  leather  shoes  with  gold  buckles.  She  wore  double 
glasses,  and  had  light  short  curls,  She  was  certainly  striking,  and 
even  attractive  ;  but  her  mouth  and  chin  were  too  strong,  and  her 
expression  lacked  repose.  Her  features  were  marked  and  yet  deli- 
cate, reminding  one  rather  of  an  American  than  of  any  English  type 
of  beauty.  She,  too,  was  listening  to  the  pamphlet,  but  without  a 
note- book. 

"A  full-dress  rehearsal!"  said  Uncle  Jack  to  himself.  'What 
the  devil  does  it  mean  ?" 

Beside  the  lady  in  the  jacket  and  other  things  aforesaid,  there  sat 
a  young  man — Uncle  Jack  supposed  he  must  be  a  young  man  from 
the  testimony  of  the  upper  lip,  whereon  was  a  beautiful,  small,  silky 
moustache  of  fair  hair,  curled,  twisted,  and  oiled,  a  miracle  of  art. 
He  was  a  young  man  of  five-and- twenty  or  so,  of  fair  pink  and  white 
complexion,  pale  blue  eyes,  and  very  light,  straight  hair,  worn  long, 
parted  down  the  middle,  and  combed  behind  his  ears  ;  he  was  as 
handsome  in  his  way  as  the  lady  in  the  waistcoat  and  collar  was  in 
hers.  Yet  there  was  a  shifty  and  uncertain  look  about  his  eyes ;  and 
the  lines  of  his  figure  wanted,  so  to  speak,  a  firmer  handling.  He 
was  clothed  in  a  curious  costume,  reminding  the  beholder  of  bah 

2—2 


20  UNCLE  JACK. 

masques  and  visits  behind  the  scenes.  It  was  constructed  after  the 
Syrian  fashion,  and  made  chiefly  of  black  velvet,  with  a  little  lace. 
It  closely  resembled  the  costume  of  the  lady  He  sat  in  a  long,  low 
armchair,  with  one  leg  folded  under  the  other,  gracefully  suggesting 
a  dallying  with  Oriental  modes. 

The  elder  lady  went  on  reading  from  her  proofs  : 

"  '  In  short,  the  whole  history  of  Man's  rule  has  been  the  long- 
continued  use  of  the  bludgeon.  By  this  he  seized  on  power  ;  by 
this  he  held  it.  He  made  laws  for  his  own  advantage,  and  enforced 
them  by  the  bludgeon.  He  inculcated  his  religion,  carried  on  his 
courtship,  ruled  his  state,  and  subjected  his  household — by  the 
bludgeon  and  the  heavy  boot.'  " 

"  This  is  forcible,  Antoinette,"  said  the  young  man  with  a  little 
lisp,  turning  to  the  lady  in  the  crimson  silk  jacket.  "  Forcible  as 
well  as  true — ah !  so  true — with  the  bludgeon  and  the  heavy  boot." 

"  I  would  write  up  the  passage  still  more  strongly,"  said  Antoi- 
nette. "  It  is  a  side  of  the  question  which  cannot  be  shown  too 
clearly." 

"  '  Take  from  him  his  bludgeon,  his  power  to  do  mischief  ;  forbid 

him  to  strike,  and  he  becomes  as  harmless  as '  "    Here  the  lady 

happened  to  look  up  from  her  proof  and  saw  the  stranger  standing 
in  the  door.  Behind  him  stood  Christina.  She  stared,  dropped  her 
paper,  sprang  to  her  feet,  and  held  out  her  hands  with  a  cry  of 
welcome  and  surprise. 

"  Jack  Branson!  Is  it  really  and  truly  Jack  come  home  again, 
after  all  these  years  ?"  She  gave  him  both  her  hands,  which  he 
took  and  held,  looking  into  her  face. 

"It  is  none  other.  And  you — surely — surely  you  are  my  old 
friend  Loo  Bazalgette,  though  you  were  but  a  slip  of  a  thing  when 
I  went  away." 

"  Louise  Branson,"  she  said,  with  something  of  a  blush,  because, 
in  truth,  there  were  memories  of  love-passages  between  them,  and 
such  recollections  are  always  awkward.     "I  married  your  brother." 

"  Ah  !  then   you  are   mother  of  that  pretty  girl  who "     He 

looked  round  ;  but  Christina  had  shut  the  door  and  left  him. 

"  Christina  is  my  stepdaughter.  I  was  your  brother's  second  wife," 
she  explained  coldly,  so  that  Jack  perceived  at  once  that  there  was 
something  wrong.     Then  he  shook  hands  with  her  again. 

"  I  hear  from  my  niece,"  he  said,  "  that  my  poor  brother  is  no 
more.  Presently  you  will  tell  me  all.  Is  this — this  young  gentle- 
man"— he  pointed  to  the  mummer  with  the  moustache — "my 
nephew  ?" 

"  I  sincerely  wish  he  was,  Jack.  Your  nephew,  I  am  sorry  to  say, 
takes  a  much  less  serious  view  of  life." 

If,  Jack  thought,  taking  a  serious  view  of  life  means  dressing  up 
like  a  Tom  Fool  at  a  fair,  what  can  a  frivolous  view  mean  '? 

"Let  me  introduce  you  to  my  friends,"  Mrs.  Branson  continued. 
"  Antoinette,  this  is  my  husband's  brother  Jack,  whom  we  have  all 


AT  HOME  AGAIN.  21 

thought  dead.  Jack,  this  is  Miss  Antoinette  Baker,  the  leader  of 
Woman's  Cause  in  this  country.  She  is  one  of  those  rare  and 
colossal  intellects  which  it  is  more  than  a  privilege — an  education 
— to  encounter." 

"  Glad  to  see  you  back  again,  Jack."  She  held  out  her  hand, 
which  he  shook  mechanically,  feeling  as  if  he  must  be  in  a  dream. 

"  In  our  School,"  Mrs.  Branson  went  on,  "  we  always  address  each 
other  by  the  Christian  name,  in  token  of  equality.  This  is  Mr.  Va- 
lentine Vandeleur,  one  of  our  disciples,  and  a  most  valiant  soldier." 

Jack  thought  that  never  had  valour  been  so  carefully  disguised. 

"  You  will  join  us,  Jack,  before  long,"  said  the  hero  ;  and  Jack 
longed  to  have  him  alone  for  a  few  minutes  in  the  open,  just  to 
wring  his  neck  for  his  cheek,  yet  reflected  that  one  just  arrived  after 
thirty  years  must  be  prepared  to  find  a  good  deal  that  was  strange. 

"  This  is  our  Secretary,"  said  Mrs.  Branson,  indicating  the  young 
lady  in  the  bathing-dress,  who  bowed  and  blushed  and  seemed  to  be 
conscious  that  if  things  were  somehow  a  little  otherwise,  she  would 
be  happier.     But  what  she  wanted  did  not  appear. 

"We  will  go  into  the  library,"  said  Antoinette.  "  Come,  Valen- 
tine. Come,  Ella.  We  will  leave  you  to  talk  about  old  times.  I 
suppose,  Jack,"  she  said,  "  that  in  the  countries  you  come  from  very 
little  is  known  as  yet  of  the  Cause  ?" 

"Very  little  indeed,"  said  Jack,  stroking  his  big  beard. 

"  If  you  please  you  shall  become  our  missionary.  He  is  a  fine- 
looking  man,  Louise,"  she  said,  with  a  pleasant  condescension. 
"  He  looks  fairly  intelligent.  I  have  no  doubt  that  with  a  little 
training  he  might  be  useful  to  us." 

"  You  hear,  sir  ?  added  Mr.  Vandeleur.  He  put  his  glass  in 
his  eye  to  say  it,  and  what  with  his  little  lisp,  and  his  conceit,  and 
his  dress,  he  made  Uncle  Jack  still  more  long  to  kick  him.  "  Such 
a  compliment  from  our  leader — the  illustrious  Antoinette — the 
most  colossal  intellect  in  England — is  indeed  worth  having.  Re- 
member that  no  nobler  work  exists  than  to  advance  the  Emancipa- 
tion of  Woman  and  the  Suppression  of  the  Bludgeon.  Hasten, 
sir,  to  make  yourself  worthy  of  such  a  compliment." 

"  Good  Lord !"  said  Uncle  Jack,  recovering  as  they  shut  the 
door. 

"  You  left  me,  Jack,"  said  Mrs.  Branson,  "a  weak  silly  girl '' 

"  You  were  mighty  pretty,  too,  I  remember,"  added  Uncle  Jack. 

"  Oh  !  Pretty — pretty—what  is  that  ?  Beauty  has  no  use,  my 
dear  brother,  except  to  win  young  men  over  to  our  Cause.  It  is  a 
weapon,  and  a  very  important  one,  so  long  as  men  continue  weak  : 
that  is,  so  long  as  they  continue  to  be  men." 

"  Yes,"  said  Uncle  Jack,  "  that  seems  quite  true.  It  is  a  weapon, 
and  a  good  strong  one.  But  what  do  you  want  ?  What  does  it  all 
mean  ?" 

•'  It  means,  my  dear  brother,"  she  replied,  with  flashing  eyes, 
"  that  we  have  at  last  awakened  to  a  sense  of  oar  true  position,  and 


22  UNCLE  JACK. 

are  resolved  to  demand  and  to  enforce  our  rights.  Sit  down,  and 
before  we  say  another  word,  I  must  read  you  my  pamphlet  and 
make  you  a  convert." 

"  Never  mind  the  pamphlet,  my  dear  sister.  Tell  me  about  my 
nephew  and  niece." 

"  I  am  sorry,"  said  Mrs.  Branson,  "  that  I  cannot  welcome  you  to 
a  harmonious  house.  My  stepchildren  have  of  late,  owing  to  the 
influence  of  a  Snake,  showed  a  most  disrespectful  and  disobedient 
spirit." 

Uncle  Jack  said  nothing,  but  remembered  Cicely's  mysterious 
words  about  a  right-minded  uncle. 

"  I  must,  however — I  really  must— read  you  my  pamphlet  before 
we  begin  to  talk,  if  only  to  show  you  my  present  position." 

Then  Mrs.  Branson  read  her  pamphlet.  It  was  a  strange  wel- 
come. Uncle  Jack  sat  listening,  but  hearing  nothing.  After  thirty 
years  the  house  was  the  same  ;  to  him  it  was  full  of  the  ghosts  of 
the  past.  He  had  heard  his  father's  voice  in  the  library;  his  mind  was 
charged  with  the  memories  of  his  youth.  He  would  have  been 
sitting  in  the  dark  garden  talking  with  Louise  of  the  bygone  days  ; 
and  here  she  was  stamping  up  and  down  the  room,  brandishing  her 
papers  in  his  face,  shouting  her  arguments  with  shrill  and  strident 
voice.  What  did  it  mean?  Was  the  old  house  turned  into  a 
lunatic  asylum  ? 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said,  when  the  paper  was  finished. 

"  Have  I  shaken  you  ?"  asked  the  Enthusiast. 

"  Very  much  indeed.  But,  my  dear  Louise,  no  one  is  made  a 
convert  all  at  once,  you  know.  Put  away  your  papers,  and  let  us 
talk.  I  have  got  thirty  years  of  talk.  Let  us  begin  with  thirty 
years  ago." 

"  Thirty  years  ago,  Jack,  you  were  in  great  disgrace." 

"I  was." 

"  You  had  been  rusticated  from  Cambridge  ;  you  were  in  debt ; 
and  you  had  kissed  the  curate's  daughter — after  you  had  had  certain 
love-passages  with — with  more  than  one  other  girl  in  the  place." 

"That  is  quite  true.  I  was  a  disgrace,  I  was  told,  to  the  family. 
So  I  went  away.  Looking  back,  I  don't  think  I  had  done  anything 
very  disgraceful.  As  for  the  rustication,  it  was  only  for  screwing 
up  the  Dean  ;  as  for  the  Cambridge  debts,  they  amounted  to  no 
more  than  a  hundred  or  two  ;  and  as  for  poor  Evelina  and  that 
unlucky  kiss,  which  my  father  saw  from  the  library  window, 
perhaps  too  much  importance  was  attached  to  the  deplorable 
incident." 

o  o  e  e  ©  o 

"Above  all,  Jack,"  said  Mrs.  Branson,  when  the  first  flow  of 
question  and  answer  was  subsiding,  "  now  that  you  have  come 
home,  I  rely  upon  you  to  bring  the  children  to  a  .-ensa  of  duty. 
Pray  understand  me  clearly.  I  am  resolved  never  to  give  my 
consent  to  any  engagement  with  the  children  of  a  man  who  has  so 


AT  HOME  AGAIN.  23 

grossly  insulted  not  me  alone,  but  the  Cause,  and  the  Leader  of  the 
Cause.     Never  mind.     And  you  must  help  me.     Otherwise " 

"  Well,  Louise  ?     Otherwise  ?" 

"  Otherwise — Well,  Jack,  I  have  been  thwarted  and  misunder- 
stood,  where  I  looked  most  for  sympathy  and  co-operation.  I  have 
my  plans  for  the  children.  I  want  your  help  to  bring  them  to 
submission.  If  you  give  me  your  help,  I  shall  rejoice  that  you 
have  returned  ;  if,  on  the  other  hand,  you— but  I  trust  to  your 
sense,  my  dear  Jack.  Only  remember :  this  is  no  idle  fancy.  It 
is,  I  feel,  the  worthy  work  of  my  life.  It  is  what  I  shall,  hence- 
forward, live  for." 

"Well,"  said  the  returned  Prodigal,  "  I  suppose  anybody  can  do 
what  he  pleases  with  his  life.  It  is  a  free  country  But  what  have 
your  plans  got  to  do  with  the  children '?  Are  not  they  to  have  the 
same  freedom  ?" 

"  I  have  my  plans  for  them,"  Mrs.  B-anson  replied,  evading  the 
point  of  the  freedom.  "  I  have  no  objection  to  telling  you  what 
those  plans  are.  I  am  not  consulting  you,  understand  plainly. 
Other  women  consult  men.  I  prefer  that  men  should  consult  me. 
I  am  perfectly  able  to  form  my  own  judgment  without  asking  any 
man's  advice.  But  I  wish  to  let  you  know  what  I  propose  and 
intend  for  them.  I  have  found  a  husband  for  Christina  and  a  Avife 
for  Harry.  If  they  accept  my  offer,  they  will  have  their  fortunes. 
If  they  refuse,  they  will  have  none.  I  have  this  morning  told 
Harry  that  if  Miss  Antoinette  Baker  does  him  the  honour  to  pro- 
pose for  him " 

"  Propose  for  him  ?" 

"  I  perceive,  Jack,  that  you  are  still  wrapped  in  prejudice.  We 
who  start  with  the  equality  of  the  sexes,  are  persuaded  that  mar- 
riages will  never  be  happy  until  women  have  as  much  to  say  in  the 
matter  as  men.  If  woman  proves  her  superiority,  of  course  she 
will  arrange  everything  for  man,  including  his  marriage." 

"  Quite  so.     I  see.     Pray  go  on." 

"  If  Antoinette,  our  illustrious  Leader — the  most  clear  and  the 
most  daring  intellect  of  this  or  any  other  age — should  stoop  to 
choose  poor,  ignorant,  unintellectual  Harry  for  her  husband,  I  say 
that  he  must  and  shall  accept  her  with  gratitude  and  joy.  If  Mr. 
Vandeleur,  a  gentleman  of  the  greatest  wisdom,  eloquence,  and 
docility,  together  with  a  depth  of  feeling  and  a  power  of  insight 
almost  feminine,  should  propose  for  Christina " 

"  Can't  Christina  propose  for  herself  ?" 

"Not  until  she  has  become  one  of  us.     If — I  say " 

"I  understand.  Christina  must  accept  the  oifer.  These  are 
your  projects,  then." 

"  Say,  my  designs.  I  have  at  least  power  over  my  stepchildren  ; 
and  that  power,  Jack  Branson,  I  promise  you  they  shall  feel." 

"  She  has  kept  you  a  long  time,"  said  Christina,  whom  he  found 


24  UNCLE  JACK. 

in  the  porch.  "  I  know  not  what  my  stepmother  may  have  told 
you  ;  but  I  must  tell  you  the  story  myself.  To-morrow  morning 
I  will  bring  my  brother  to  see  you.  I  want  you,  to-night,  before 
you  meet  him,  to  know  the  whole  history." 

There  was  something  so  sympathetic  in  his  way  of  listening, 
something  so  reassuring  in  his  voice  when  he  spoke,  that,  when  the 
girl  finished  her  story,  she  had  already  the  sense  of  having  found  a 
new  friend  and  a  strong  protector. 


IV- 

WILL  YOU   MARRY  ME,   MY   PRETTY   MAN  ? 

Nobody,  I  am  well  awai'e,  talks  to  himself,  except  in  his  sleep. 
He  cannot,  in  fact,  because  his  thoughts  carry  him  here  and  there 
much  more  quickly  than  he  can  put  them  into  words.  If  Uncle 
Jack  could  have  spoken  at  length  the  things  which  he  thought  in 
a  moment  of  time,  his  speech  might  have  been  something  as  follows. 
Words,  at  the  best,  even  in  the  hands  of  a  Browning,  are,  as  we 
know,  clumsy  things  to  express  thought,  though  they  are,  unfortu- 
nately, all  that  we  have  at  present.  One  of  the  next  great  inven- 
tions will,  I  am  persuaded,  substitute  the  use  of  electricity  for  the 
interpretation  of  thoughts,  without  the  necessity  of  using  words  at 
all.  This  will  finally  establish  the  Brotherhood  of  Humanity,  and 
bring  grammarians  to  everlasting  confusion. 

"  What  have  I  got  by  coming  home  ?"  he  might  have  said,  as  he 
sat  over  a  pipe  in  his  hotel  that  night.  "  I  expected,  somehow,  to 
find  Sam.  Well,  Sam  is  dead.  I  am  sorry.  I  did  not  expect  to 
find  Loo  Bazalgette  in  his  place,  and  I  don't  think  it  makes  me 
glad  to  find  her  there.  Now  I  come  to  think  of  it,  Loo  was  always 
as  obstinate  as  a  mule.  As  for  that  sweet  and  pretty  girl,  she  will 
look  to  me  to  help  her.  And  what  the  devil  am  I  to  do  for  her  ? 
It  seems  rather  hard,  when  a  man  has  been  thirty  years  trying, 
without  any  luck  to  speak  of,  to  help  himself,  that  the  first  thing 
when  he  comes  home  he  should  be  called  upon  to  help  somebody 
else.  How  the  deuce  can  I  help  her  ?  Louise  has  gone  as  crazed 
as  a  March  hare.  Yet  she  says  she  can  stop  the  supplies  if  they 
disobey  her.  Well!  They  might  come  back  with  me.  How 
would  that  do  ?  They  might  do  worse  :  but  they  are  both  in  love 
and  engaged  to  be  married,  and  perhaps  the  other  side  mightn't 
like  it.  The  girl,  if  she  wasn't  too  proud,  would  go  very  well  with 
the  Show — much  better  than  the  last  girl  I  had — who  was  a  Duffer. 
Wonder  if  she  can  sing  ?  The  last  girl  couldn't.  If  I  ask  her  to 
come,  I  shall  have  to  own  up  all,  and  I  meant  to  keep  things  dark. 
They  seem  to  think  I've  made  a  fortune.  Well,  if  they  please  to 
think  I  have  struck  He  or  found  nuggets,  they  may.  I  shall  be  so 
short  a  time  with  them  that  it  matters  nothing.     Besides,  it  does 


WILL  YOU  MARRY  ME,  MY  PRETTY  MAN?       25 

a  man  no  harm  to  be  thought  rich,  and  it's  quite  a  new  experience, 
having  a  little  social  consideration. 

"  If  the  supplies  are  cut  off,  and  they  fall  back  upon  me,  there 
would  be  nothing  to  offer  them  except  a  share  in  the  Caravan. 
How  would  Christina  take  such  an  offer  ?  As  for  her  brother,  I 
haven't  seen  him,  but  if  he  is  like  his  sister,  he  would  look  the 
walking  gentleman  to  perfection.  But  there  is  very  little  time  to 
spare." 

He  pulled  out  his  purse  and  counted  the  bank-notes  in  it. 

"  I  don't  believe  I  can  stay  in  the  country  more  than  a  month 
at  the  outside.  Then  I  shall  be  pretty  well  cleaned  out,  except 
for  the  passage-money  back  again.  A  month  !  It  isn't  long  after 
thirty  years.  As  for  that  other  sweet  little  thing,  who  looked  like 
a  shepherdess  in  china,  she  is  in  love  with  Harry,  and  Harry  with 
her,  I  suppose.  Oh  !  it  is  no  use  !  I  couldn't  ask  her  to  join  the 
Caravan.  Hang  it  !  I  couldn't  ask  Christina,  for  the  matter  of 
that.     Something  else  must  be  contrived." 

He  went  on  in  this  foolish  rambling  way  of  thought  till  past 
midnight.  The  faces  of  the  two  girls  haunted  him  and  followed 
him  to  bed,  and  came  back  to  him  in  dreams,  so  that  in  the  morning 
when  he  got  up,  it  was  with  the  consciousness  that,  as  an  uncle  thus 
dropped  from  the  clouds  at  a  most  important  juncture  and  crisis, 
it  was  absolutely  necessary  for  him  to  do  Something.     But  what  ? 

It  was  not  until  past  noon  next  day  that  he  saw  his  nephew  and 
niece.  The  reason  of  this  delay  was  that  they  were  both  other- 
wise engaged,  and  in  this  manner  : 

First,  I  do  not  know  whether  the  arrival  of  the  unexpected 
Uncle  precipitated  matters.  He  wore,  certainly,  a  look,  an  air,  a 
masterful  bearing,  and  a  manner  of  speech,  which  were  entirely 
foreign  to  the  Cause,  if  not  hostile  to  it.  Perhaps,  when  Mrs. 
Branson  spoke  of  the  possibility  of  certain  proposals,  she  was  fully 
alive  to  their  probability,  or  even  their  certainty.  Perhaps  the 
parties  most  interested  thought  that,  this  great  strong  Uncle  of 
unknown  wealth  having  arrived,  it  might  be  as  well  to  get  matters 
settled  out  of  hand  before  he  could  interfere. 

After  breakfast,  Harry,  who  had  been  turned  out  of  his  own  den 
to  make  room  for  the  great  Leader,  because  she  required  a  room 
for  her  own  work,  retired  into  the  garden  for  his  morning  pipe, 
and  in  order  to  compose  his  mind  before  seeing  this  unexpected 
Uncle.  It  was  a  large  garden,  with  a  lawn  for  tennis,  and  on 
either  side  of  it  were  walks,  orchards,  and  shady  hedges.  It  was 
separated  from  the  Major's  garden  on  one  side  by  a  low  paling, 
in  which,  during  the  days  when  Brotherly  Love  Continued,  the 
friends  had  constructed  a  door  for  convenience  of  communication. 

Now,  no  sooner  had  Harry  filled  and  lit  his  pipe  than  he  became 
aware  that  Miss  Antoinette  Baker  was  slowly  descending  the 
stairs  which  led  into  the  garden  from  his  study  (so  called  because 
he  kept  in  it  his  pipes,  racquets,  bats,  silver  cups,  sculls,  and  other 


26  UNCLE  JACK. 

trophies  of  prowess).  She  was  dressed  very  much  as  she  had  been 
in  the  evening,  except  that  the  silk  jacket  was  changed  for  a 
jacket  made  of  a  light  Umritzur  cloth  ;  the  waistcoat  was  white, 
only  with  a  little  gold  edging,  and  she  wore  a  little  red  fez  cap  over 
her  short  curls.  She  looked,  in  fact,  like  a  pretty  Albanian 
shepherdess  at  the  Royal  Italian  Opera.  She  had  just  lit  a 
cigarette.  At  sight  of  her,  Harry  turned  and  fled  with  precipita- 
tion. The  gardea  was  wide  enough,  he  thought,  for  both  ;  he  ran 
quickly  into  the  recesses  of  the  orchard,  whither,  he  thought,  she 
would  not  follow. 

But  she  did  ;  she  deliberately  walked  after  him.  She  came  into 
the  garden  on  purpose  to  have  a  little  talk  with  him,  and  she 
followed  him  into  the  recesses  of  the  orchard  where  he  was — well, 
it  looked  like  hiding — under  the  apple-trees. 

"Harry,"  she  said,  "I  want  to  have  a  little  conversation  with 
\ou.  1  i;;ui  spare  ten  minutes  for  you.  Don't  run  away  again, 
because  it  wastes  my  time.  Besides,  a  young  man  should  try  to 
assume  an  attitude  of  equality  with  a  woman,  even  if  he  does  not 
feel  it." 

His  cheeks  turned  pale  and  his  knees  trembled.  For  he  knew 
very  well  that  he  was  afraid  of  her  :  and  he  also  foresaw  what  she 
was  going  to  talk  about.  His  stepmother  bad  warned  him. 
"All  my  time,"  he  stammered,  "is  at  your  disposal." 
"  That  is  false,"  she  said.  "  Young  men  should  avoid  unne- 
cessary falsities  :  compliments  and  such  foolish  things.  What  I 
have  to  say  will  be  brief,  although  I  desire  you  to  consider  it  care- 
fully." 

"  Pray  go  on.  "Will  you  take  a  trunk  ?"  He  pointed  in  agita- 
tion to  the  stump  of   a  tree.     "  Or  do  you  prefer  standing  ?" 

"  I  will  stand.  The  subject  about  which  I  wish  to  speak  to  you, 
Mr.  Branson,  is,  in  fact,  your  marriage." 

"  Thank  you,"  Harry  replied.  "  Allow  me  to  say  that  I  have  no 
desire  to  confer  with  you  upon  that  subject,  or,  indeed,  upon  any 
other  subject  relating  to  myself." 

"  It  concerns  me  as  well  as  yourself  ;  for  I  propose  to  marry 
you."  She  lightly  blew  away  a  little  cloud  of  tobacco,  and  awaited 
his  reply. 

"  You  propose  to  marry  mo  ?"  He  knew  she  was  goinj;  to  say 
it,  but  the  suddenness  and  directness  of  her  manner  in  saying  it 
confounded  him. 

"  Just  so.  It  is  still  unusual  for  a  woman  to  offer  her  hand,  but, 
to  my  mind,  that  is  only  one  of  the  lingering  prejudices  and  super- 
stitions of  the  past.  Besides,  I  am  not  an  ordinary  woman.  In 
the  not  distant  future,  instead  of  waiting  to  be  wooed,  and  of 
blushing  when  they  receive  an  offer,  and  being  forced  to  hide  their 
real  sentiments,  women  will  look  about  them,  if  they  wish  to  be 
married,  for  a  suitable  husband,  and  make  the  first  advances,  if  the 
man  does  not  anticipate  them." 


WILL  YOU  MARRY  ME,  MY  PRETTY  MAN?       27 

"  Then,"  said  Harry  with  decision,  "  let  me  at  once  say  that  I 
refuse  your  proposal." 

"  I  knew  you  would  begin  by  saying  that.  First,  because  you 
are  horribly  ignorant  and  prejudiced,  and  because  you  are  afraid 
of  me.  You  think  you  dislike  me.  Next,  because  you  fancy  your- 
self in  love— poor  boy  !— with  that  poor  little  creature  Cicely 
Thornton,  who  retains  what  her  ridiculous  pump  of  a  father  calls 
the  modesty  of  her  sex.  You  will,  in  any  case,  have  to  give  her  up, 
because  Mrs.  Branson  will  never  consent — never,  mind — to  your 
marrying  a  daughter  of  that  very  conservative  person.  Consider 
— but  of  course  yon  will — that  if  you  marry  her  you  will  become  a 
pauper ;  if  you  remain  single  you  will  have  four  hundred  a  year. 
But  your  stepmother  informs  me  that  you  have  contracted  certain 
debts — I  know  not  to  what  amount — at  Cambridge,  and  that  these 
debts  will  have  to  be  paid  out  of  that  slender  income.  You  know 
best  how  much  will  be  left.' 

''  Oh  !"  the  young  man  staggered.  This  was,  indeed,  an  unex- 
pected blow,  and  he  groaned  aloud.  What  signified  a  few  hundreds 
to  a  man  with  a  prospective  three  thousand  a  year  ?  But,  oh  !  the 
difference  between  three  thousand  and  four  hundred  a  year  ! 

"  You  observe  " — she  lit  another  cigarette — "  your  position  will 
be  an  extremely  disagreeable  one.  And  there  is  no  way  out  of  it 
for  you  :  no  way  at  all,  except  one — to  marry  me." 

"  Never,"  he  declared. 

"  To  drag  on  your  existence  on  a  pittance  of  a  hundred  a  year  or 
so — for  you  will  not  live  any  longer  at  your  stepmother's  expense  ; 
not  to  be  able  to  marry  ;  to  have  no  work,  because,  you  know,  you 
are  a  most  useless  person  ;  and  to  have  no  hope,  save  in  the  death 
cf  your  stepmother,  who  is  not  yet  fifty,  and  will  probably  live  for 
thirty  years  longer — this,  Mr.  Branson,  seems  a  poor  look-out 
for  you." 

"It  is.    And  yet  I  shall  not  escape  by  that  way." 

"  I  think  you  will.  Not  to-day,  nor  to-morrow.  But,  perhaps, 
the  day  after.  When  your  pretty  Cicely — she  is  not  really  so  pretty 
as  myself,  if  you  count  beauty  worth  anything — gets  tired  of  wait- 
ing and  goes  off  with  another  man  ;  when  you  get  tired  of  being 
able  to  buy  nothing  that  you  want,  and  to  do  nothing  that  costs 
money  ;  then  Harry,  my  dear  boy,  you  will  think  of  me  again  and 
of  my  offer — which  remains  open  to  you  until  I  tell  you  to  the 
contrary." 

He  made  no  reply,  having  a  most  guilty  feeling,  in  fact,  that 
after  all,  the  thing  was  just  possible,  horrible  as  it  seemed. 

"  You  will  like  me  better  the  more  you  think  of  me,"  Antoinette 
went  on,  with  a  kindly  and  superior  smile.  "  Particularly  when 
you  consider  that  I  am  not  very  anxious  about  the  matter.  I  offer 
you  a  contract  on  perfectly  equal  terms — terms  as  equal  as  you 
have  a  right  to  expect,  considering  your  intellectual  inferiority.  I 
6hall  certainly  not  promise  or  engage  to  give  you  any  obedience 


28  UNCLE  JACK. 

whatever,  nor  need  you  obey  me.  I  shall  follow  out  my  own  life 
my  own  way.  I  want  for  that  way  not  so  much  money  as  the 
externals  and  show  of  money.  That  is  to  say,  I  want  a  big  house 
with  big  rooms  to  receive  my  friends.  It  is  the  chief  reason  why  I 
wish  to  get  married,  because  I  am  not  rich  enough  to  have  such  a 
house.  Also,  it  will  be  better  for  the  Emancipation  of  Women  if 
I  get  married.  Otherwise  I  should  not  have  thought  about  mar- 
riage except  with  horror  as  a  necessity  for  some  poor  women  who 
have  not  the  strength  of  mind  or  the  means  to  remain  single.  You 
shall  give  me  these  things,  with  your  name,  if  I  like  to  use  it ;  in 
return,  I  give  you  your  fortune  first,  which  you  will  not  get  in  any 
other  way  :  next,  a  career  if  you  wish ;  we  want  young  men  of 
education,  good  birth,  and  good  manners  for  the  Cause  ;  but  if  you 
will  not  join  us  you  can  go  your  own  way.  I  shall  only  insist 
upon  one  thing — that  you  take  no  active  part  against  us.  And  I 
contract  that  my  marriage,  as  it  will  be  entered  upon  solely  in  our 
joint  interests,  shall  be  terminated,  in  those  interests,  whenever  we 
please." 

"  There,"  said  Harry  weakly,  "  the  Law  unfortunately  inter- 
feres." 

"  The  Law !"  she  replied  contemptuously.  "What  has  the  Law 
to  do  with  me  ?  If  I  please  I  shall  continue  to  live  with  you.  When 
we  are  tired  of  each  other  we  shall  part.  What  will  it  matter  to 
you  ?  The  estates  will  continue  your  own,  whether  I  continue  with 
you  or  whether  I  go  away  by  myself." 

"Have  you  anything  more  to  say?"  asked  Harry,  feeling  very 
feeble. 

"  No.  I  think  nothing  more.  I  might,  perhaps,  say  something 
more  about  myself,  merely  to  remove  any  little  feeling  of  wounded 
vanity  on  your  part.  I  am  not  hideous,  nor  am  I  old  ;  and  I  am  clever. 
A  twelvemonth  with  me  in  the  free  and  emancipated  air  which  I 
breathe  among  my  friends  will  make  a  man  of  you.  It  will  indeed. 
Why,  here  you  are  not  a  man  ;  you  are  only  an  aggravated  school- 
boy, whose  hours  are  all  play  hours.  Come  out  of  this  tepid  bath  ; 
get  rid  of  your  old  superstitions  ;  dare  to  love  a  woman  who  dares 
to  think  that  she  is  a  great  deal  cleverer  than  you  or  than  most 
men  ;  listen  to  the  new  principles  of  Society  from  a  woman  who 
carries  a  latchkey,  lives  alone,  has  cast  off  petticoats,  and  is  neither 
afraid  for  her  personal  reputation,  nor  her  personal  safety.  Remem- 
ber, when  you  please,  I  will  make  such  a  man  of  you  as  now  you 
little  drcimi  of." 

She  left  him  standing  under  an  apple-tree,  bewildered,  humiliated, 
and,  to  say  the  truth,  terrified.  Would  this  girl,  then,  marry  him 
against  his  will  ?  There  was  a  look  of  resolution  in  her  eyes  which 
seemed  to  say  that  she  was  capable  of  anything — even  that.  One 
has  read  of  a  girl  being  haled  to  the  altar  and  forced  into  compliance 
with  the  rites  and  vows  prescribed  for  the  faithful,  but  never — no- 
where in  history  or  fiction  (which  is  much  more  remarkable  than 


WILL  YOU  MARRY  ME,  MY  PRETTY  MAN?       29 

history)  is  there  a  case  of  a  young  man,  a  rich  young  man,  being 
forced  to  marry  against  his  will  a  young  woman.  She  did  not  pre- 
tend to  love  him,  to  respect  him,  to  entertain  any  idea  about  him 
but  the  calm  contempt  with  which  one  greatly  superior  in  intellect 
may  regard  one  much  inferior  ;  it  was  in  a  way  a  good-natured 
contempt ;  he  was,  in  her  eyes,  a  poor  creature  with  certain  possi- 
bilities which  she  would  develop  in  that  bracing  atmosphere  of 
Emancipated  Women  of  which  she  spoke.  A  new  morality,  a 
new  religion  (or  had  they  not  agreed  to  do  without  religion  alto- 
gether?), a  new  departure  in  Society,  new  standards  of  taste, 
new  methods  of  government — all  these  he  was  to  face,  to  learn, 
to  understand.  So  great  a  terror  filled  his  soul  that  he  felt  like  one 
pursued  of  devils,  who  flies  to  the  church,  and  lays  hold  upon  the 
horns  of  the  altar.  To  be  pursued  by  a  resolute  woman,  if  you  come 
to  think  of  it,  very  much  resembles  that  other  pursuit  and  flight, 
because  in  neither  case  can  you  lay  about  with  stick,  sword,  battle- 
axe,  or  hammer,  as  you  can  when  pursued  by  cannibals,  for  instance, 
on  being  wrecked  upon  a  desert  island. 

In  his  terror  and  distress  Harry  did  not  dare  even  to  get  out  of 
the  garden  by  the  usual  mode  ;  he  fled  :  he  opened  the  gate  which 
led  to  the  Major's  domains,  and  rushed  headlong  to  find  Cicely. 

"Cis,"  he  cried,  grasping  her  hand,  "the  detestable  woman  has 
done  it  at  last.  She  has  done — what  my  stepmother  threatened — 
what  I  feared  :  she  has  proposed  to  me." 

"  Harry  !"  Is  there  safety  for  any  girl  if  her  lover  is  actually  to 
receive  offers  of  marriage  from  strange  goddesses  ?  "  Harry,  she  has 
never  dared !" 

"  She  has — she  tells  me  that  she  is  resolved  to  marry  me.  Cis,  I 
feel  as  if  I  were  going  off  my  head." 

"  Come,  Harry,"  said  Cis,  with  determination  in  her  face.  "  This 
shows  us  that  steps  must  be  taken  at  once.  Things  have  come  to  a 
head.  Let  us  go  and  tell  your  Uncle  Jack  everything.  Oh !  he 
looks  splendidly  strong." 

Meantime  another  discourse  was  maintained  between  Christina 
and  Mr.  Vandeleur.  In  those  days  of  rebuke,  when  there  was  no 
longer  even  the  semblance  of  harmony  in  the  house,  Christina  used 
to  sit  ail  the  morning  in  the  drawing-room,  where  she  was  generally 
undisturbed,  the  Champions  of  the  Cause  being  busy  forging  thunder- 
bolts in  the  library. 

On  this  morning,  full  of  her  Uncle's  return,  and  burning  to  tell 
him  the  tale  which  she  was  sure  had  been  already  told  by  her 
stepmother  from  her  own  point  of  view,  she  sat  there  waiting  till  it 
was  a  seemly  time  to  call  upon  a  man  at  his  hotel.  While  she  sat 
meditating  in  sadness  not  unmixed  with  hope,  because  this  Uncle 
looked  so  strong  a  man,  such  a  trusty  pillar  to  lean  upon,  she  saw 
in  the  door  the  dreaded  vision  of  Mr.  Valentine  Vandeleur.  He  wore 
this  morning  the  costume  of  the  ordinary  Englishman  ;  but  in  his 


3o  UNCLE  JACK. 

hand  he  bore  a  lily,  which  he  laid,  without  a  word  of  greeting,  com- 
pliment, or  explanation,  in  Christina's  lap. 
She  threw  it  out  of  the  window. 

"  I  knew  you  would,"  he  said  with  a  profound  sigh  ;  "  it  is  proof 
that  you  understand  as  yet  so  little  about  me  ; — about  my  aspira- 
tions." 

"  On  the  contrary,"  she  replied,  "  I  understand  too  much  about 
you."  She  got  up.  "  You  drive  me  from  the  only  room  in  the  house 
where  I  can  find  peace.  Why  do  you  not  go  and  sit  with  your  illus- 
trious Leader — a  man,  and  to  be  led  by  a  woman ! — and  my  step- 
mother, and  the  Secretary  ?" 

His  face  flushed  and  he  smiled  uneasily.  Then  he  went  on, 
holding  his  hands  up  before  his  shoulders  and  bowing  as  he  spoke, 
and  bringing  out  his  words  daintily. 

"  I  come  here,"  he  went  on,  "  because  I  wish,  so  very  much  wish, 
that  you  should  understand  me  better,  and  because  I  have  a  pro- 
posal to  make  to  you  with  your  stepmother's  full  consent." 

"  No."  Christina  moved  towards  the  door,  but  he  stood  in  her 
way.  "  I  can  guess  what  your  proposal  is  before  you  make  it.  Do 
not  trouble  yourself  to  make  it.  No,  sir — No — No — No.  Never  ! 
Is  that  plain  ?" 

"  It  is  quite  plain.  Yet  I  am  not  dismissed.  Had  you  said  '  Yes,' 
with  your  present  imperfect  knowledge  of  me,  it  would  have  argued 
an  untruthful  nature.  Now  with  a  candid  soul  one  can  do  so  very 
much." 

"  You  will  do  nothing  with  me,  Mr.  Vandeleur." 

"  Oh,  yes.     When  you  have  ceased  to  respect  the  rude  barbaric 

qualities  which  you  have  been  taught  to  associate  with  Man  ;  when 

you  have  learned  to  look  upon  me — me — as  the  typo  of  the  Coming 

Man  :  cultivated,  humble,  aiming  at  the  feminine  graces,  grafted  on 

the  masculine  muscles " 

"  To  me  this  talk,"  said  Christina,  "  is  worse  than  silly.  It  ia 
beneath  contempt." 

"  Perhaps.  You  will,  at  least,  do  me  the  honour  of  listening. 
In  the  New  School  we  have  decided  that  Love — of  the  old-fashioned 
kind — must  be  abolished.  There  must  be  no  passion,  because,  when 
passion  appears,  inequality  comes  too,  and  (owing  entirely  to  their 
education)  women  are  at  present  the  more  prone  to  passion,  and 
therefore  the  more  easily  imposed  upon.  Under  the  old  regime,  as 
was  once  truly  said,  '  il  y  a  toujour*  mi  qui  aime  et  V autre  qui  est 
aime.'  That  is  now  abolished.  Marriage,  however — that  is  to  say, 
the  marriage  of  the  future,  which  will  be  a  partnership  terminable 
at  will — is  desirable  for  many  reasons.  I  want,  let  us  say " — he 
airily  spread  his  hands  abroad —  "  money.  I  have  little  money  of 
my  own.  I  give  in  exchange  for  money — ability,  a  poetic  imagina- 
tion, and  eloquence.  A  woman  who  marries  me  will  be  proud  of  me.'' 
"Indeed,"  said  Christina.  "I  should  not  have  thought  that  any 
woman  could,  under  any  circumstances,  be  proud  of  you." 


WILL  YOU  MARRY  ME,  MY  PRETTY  MANf        31 

"  Yes — when  that  woman  has  risen  to  our  heights,  and  under- 
stands my  position  on  those  heights — which  you,  Christina,  do  not 
understand.  I  offer  that  woman,  besides  my  hand,  perfect  freedom 
of  action,  speech,  and  belief.  Should  we  prove  tired  of  each  other 
w«  separate." 

"  And  the  wife's  money  ?"  asked  Christina.  "  Will  that  separate 
too?" 

"  There  will  be  settlements,"  the  suitor  replied.  "  Of  course, 
there  will  be  settlements." 

"  Pray  go  on,"  she  replied  coldly. 

"  You  know  not,  Christina,  you  cannot,  indeed,  know  the  splendid 
work  for  which  we  would  enlist  your  sympathy  and  expend  your 
fortune.  The  equality  of  the  sexes  !  Our  illustrious  Leader  goes 
farther  ;  but  into  this  we  need  not  enter.  As  a  man,  I  would  plead 
the  equality  of  woman,  but  am  not  prepared  to  admit,  until  she 
proves  it,  her  superiority.  How  noble  a  career  to  spend  one's  life 
in  proclaiming  this  new  and  irresistible  gospel  !" 

"  I  prefer  the  old  gospel  of  the  Perfect  Man,"  said  Christina. 

"Let  us  not  touch  on  religion.  Let  us  not  argue  at  all.  Let 
us  feel.  Let  us  bow  down  before  the  crushing  superiority  of  the 
gigantic  intellect  which  guides  us — the  divine  Antoinette." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Christina.  "I  do  not  find  her  intellect  so 
crushing." 

"  Prejudice,  ah  !  prejudice,"  he  sighed.  "  Christina,  if  you  wish, 
I  will  make  love  to  you  in  the  old  manner.  I  have  done  it  before 
—  I  dare  say  I  could  do  it  again." 

"  Oh  !"  Christina  shuddered.  ''•  You  make  love  !  You  poor  and 
padded  imitation  of  a  woman  !" 

His  face  darkened. 

"  Then  let  me  only  point  out,"  he  went  on,  "  how  melancholy  is 
your  present  position.  An  olTended  stepmother,  whose  consent  will 
be  withheld  until  you  marry  a  man  whose  principles  she  approves  ; 
a  poor  two  hundred  a  year  as  long  as  you  remain  single  ;  nothing  if 
you  marry.  The  consciousness  that  if  you  do  marry  all  your  for- 
tune will  go  to  her.  Reflect.  I  know  that  you  are  engaged  to 
another  man.  That  engagement  is  not  binding  without  your  step- 
mother's consent.  You  will,  therefore,  if  you  desire  to  marry  him, 
have  to  wait  while  he  climbs  his  slow  way  up  the  ladder.  There 
will  come  very  soon  a  time  when  you  will  be  weary  of  waiting. 
You  will  cease  to  live  in  this  house  ;  your  brother  will  not  be  able 
to  help  you.  Your  friends  will  fall  off  ;  your  lover  will  be  tired 
of  waiting.  Perhaps,  then,  if  it  is  not  too  late,  you  will  remember 
that  Valentine  Vandeleur  has  offered  you  his  hand." 

"  Thank  you.  Till  I  do  find  it  necessary  to  remember  that,  let 
no  more  be  said." 

"  I  do  not  pretend  or  promise  to  keep  my  offer  open.  I  am  to  be 
the  Poet  of  the  new  Cause.  As  we  extend  our  influence,  so  will  the 
fame  of  my  poetry  extend.     I  dare  say  I  shall  find  other  girls  with 


32  UNCLE  JACK. 

perhaps  larger  fortunes,  kinder  hearts,  and  a  more  worthy  concep- 
tion of  their  position  as  women."  He  bowed  with  dignity  and  re- 
tired. 

Christina  sank  back  into  her  chair  with  a  feeling  almost  like  that 
which  oppressed  at  the  same  instant  her  brother.  Then  she  sprang 
to  her  feet,  snatched  up  her  hat,  and  swiftly  fled.  There  was  no 
help  anywhere,  except  in  the  newly-found  Uncle. 

He  was  standing  on  the  lawn  in  the  garden  of  the  hotel,  waiting 
for  his  niece,  and  wondering  what  he  could  do  for  her. 

As  Christina  rushed  upon  him  on  the  right,  Cicely,  dragging 
Harry  with  her,  precipitated  herself  upon  him  from  the  left. 

"Oh!  Uncle  Jack,"  Christina  seized  one  hand,  "the  wretch  has 
proposed  to  me  1" 

"  Uncle  Jack,"  Cicely  caught  the  other  hand,  "  the  woman  has 
proposed  to  Harry  !     And  she  threatens " 

"  He  threatens "  said  Christina,  breathless. 

"  That  unless  he  marries  her " 

"  Unless  I  marry  him " 

"  He  shall  go  out  into  the  cold  and  starve " 

"  Cold — and  starve,"  Chris  repeated  plaintively. 

"  What  should  we  do,"  cried  Cicely,  "  without  you  ?  Oh  !  that  a 
long -lost  uncle" — she  clasped  his  arm  with  her  dainty  fingers,  and 
looked  up  so  sweetly  in  his  face  that  he  could  not  choose  but  kiss 
her—  "  I  mean  that  Harry's  long-lost  uncle  should  come  back  in  the 
nick  of  time,  with  rupees  in  lakhs  and  sacks  !" 

"  Humph  !"  said  Uncle  Jack. 

It  was  a  pretty  picture,  this  rugged  veteran  with  an  imploring 
girl  clinging  to  either  arm,  turning  his  face  first  to  one  and  then  the 
other. 

"  Only  tell  me,"  he  said,  planting  his  foot  firmer,  as  one  about  to 
fight,  "  only  tell  me,  my  dears,  what  I  am  to  do." 

Then  he  became  aware  of  Harry's  presence.  That  young  man 
was  flushed,  angry,  and  humiliated.  If  you  come  to  think  of  it,  a 
man  can  suffer  few  humiliations  greater  than  to  receive  a  proposal ; 
and,  in  this  case,  couched  in  terms  of  such  superior  contempt  as 
to  make  it  intolerable  ;  moreover,  he  was  ashamed  of  having  been 
afraid . 

"  Harry,"  said  Uncle  Jack,  "  shake  hands,  my  boy." 

l;  Uncle  Jack,"  said  Harry,  adding  to  the  chorus,  "  we  rely  upon 

you." 

"My  dear  boy,"  Uncle  Jack  replied  with  effusion,  "rely  away. 
Go  on  relying.     But  tell  me  what  to  do." 

While  they  were  talking  there  came  striding  across  the  lawn  a 
white-haired  elderly  gentleman  with  a  red  face,  whom  Jack  at  once 
recognised  as  the  Major. 

"  Mr.  Branson,"  he  began,  shaking  hands  in  the  most  friendly 
manner,  "  Mr.  Branson,  or  rather,  if  you  will  allow  me  to  call  you 
bo,  Jack  Branson,  I  look  upon  your  return  at  this  juncture  as  most 


WHAT  SHALL  WE  DOt  33 

fortunate,  truly  fortunate — at  the  very  moment  when  a  protector 
was  wanted  for  these  young  people,  and  an  adviser  of  more  wit  than 
myself.  Everybody  who  knew  of  your  existence  thought  you  were 
dead  long  ago.  That  is — but  never  mind  ;  I'm  glad,  sir,  to  see  you 
back  again" — he  used  a  qualifying  word  to  the  adjective  ("Barrack 
manners,"  Mrs.  Branson  would  have  said) — "  glad  I  am,  indeed  ; 
though  till  yesterday  I  never  knew  anything  about  you.  You  have 
come  back,  sir,  in  the  very  nick  of  time.  Now  we  have  got  some- 
body to  bell  the  cat — I  mean,  the  Tabby  who  pretends  to  be  a  Tom. 
Hang  me  if  the  world  isn't  turned  upside  down  !  And  I  must  say, 
sir — a  very  different  person  to  your  poor  brother,  who,  towards  the 
end,  hadn't  a  crow  left  in  him — begging  your  pardon,  Chris,  my 
beauty.  Now  you  are  come,  sir,  we'll — we'll — demme — we'll  make 
mincemeat  of  'em !" 

"Major,   we   will,"   said  Uncle  Jack.     "Cheer  up,   my  dears! 
Mincemeat  is  the  word.     Though  hang  me  if  I  know  how  1" 


V. 

WHAT   SHALL   WE    DO  ? 

They  proceeded  to  hold  a  council  of  war. 

w  Now,"  said  the  Major,  summing  up  the  situation,  "we've  got  an 
exasperated  woman  to  deal  with  :  consequently  she  is  obstinate. 
And  she  is  a  new  convert  to  her  pernicious  doctrines  :  consequently 
she  is  red-hot.  As  regards  her  refusal  to  give  consent,  that  I  have 
expected  for  a  long  time  ;  in  fact,  ever  since  she  perceived  that  we 
were  not  going  to  be  converted,  too.  But  that  she  should  impose 
suitors  of  her  own,  and  actually  make  an  impudent  attempt  to  get 
the  whole  of  the  money  for  her  accursed  Cause,  that  I  confess  I  did 
not  expect.  Mr.  Branson,  we  shall  be  very  glad  of  your  advice,  if 
you  have  any  to  offer ;  and  your  help,  if  you  have  any  to  give. 
The  situation  you  know.  As  regards  the  lovers  here,  Harry  can 
play  a  quantity  of  games,  but  he  can't  make  money.  My  boy  hopes 
to  make  his  way,  but  hasn't  begun  yet.  My  fortune  is  not  large, 
and  will  not  be  divided  between  my  children  till  I  die  ;  and  I'm  not 
in  any  hurry  to  do  that.    Now,  sir,  what  do  you  propose  ?" 

"  First  of  all,"  said  Uncle  Jack,  trying  to  get  time,  "  I  should 
like  to  know  if  you  have  yourself  formed  any  ideas." 

"  Ideas,  sir  ?"  The  Major  banged  the  table.  "  I  am  full  of  ideas. 
I  would  bring  an  action  against  her  for— for — anything  you  like  to 
call  it.  I  would  turn  her  out  of  the  house  and  defy  her  ;  I  would 
lock  her  up  in  a  private  lunatic  asylum,  and  tickle  the  soles  of  her 
feet  with  a  feather  till  she  gives  in.  That  was  the  old-fashioned 
method,  and  it  had  its  good  points,  sir." 

"  So  it  had  ;  so  it  had,"  said  Uncle  Jack.  "You  know  the  country 
better  than  I  do  Major  ;  but  I  should  have  thought  that  way  wouldn't 


34  UNCL£  JACK. 

quite  do.  However,  if  everything  else  fails,  we  might  think  of  the 
feather.     Suppose  we  diplomatise  ?" 

"  What  is  that  ?"  asked  Christina ;  "  and  how  do  you  do  it  ?" 

"  It  is  Latin,  my  dear,  for  saying  what  you  do  not  mean,  and 
doing  what  you  have  not  promised.  I  was  thinking,  for  instance, 
perhaps  if  Harry  would  consent  to  make  love  to  the  He-woman, 
and  Chris  would  receive  the  attentions  of  the  She-man " 

"  No,"  said  Christina  firmly. 

"  No,"  said  Harry  resolutely. 

"  Of  course  i  only  mean  in  make-believe.  You  might  pretend, 
Harry " 

"  No,"  said  Harry,  shuddering  ;  "  I  could  not." 

"For  a  few  days  only  while  we  mature  our  plans,  and  to  give  us 
time  to  mask  our  intentions.  I  have  no  doubt,  for  instance,  that  as 
soon  as  they  we;?  lulled  into  security  we  might  devise  a  plan  for 
extorting  consent — L  don't  quite  see  how  at  present ;  or  for  sub- 
stituting other  papers — I  don't  clearly  see  what  for  the  moment; 
or  for  getting  clear  proofs  that  she  is  non  compos — which  I  fear  would 
be  very  difficult." 

Christina  shook  her  head,  and  begged  him  not  to  think  of  that 
method. 

Then  Cicely  sprang  to  her  feet  with  a  cry  of  triumph. 

"I  have  it !"  she  said  breathlessly.  "  Oh  !  an  idea  !  Uncle  Jack, 
did  you— did  you  know  her  when  she  was  young  and — perhaps — 
tolerably  pretty  ?" 

"  Certainly  I  did.  She  was  really  pretty,  not  tolerably  pretty  in 
those  days." 

"  Couldn't  you,  then,  make  love  to  her — only  make-believe  love, 
you  know,  and  pretend  you  are  going  to  marry  her,  and  coax  the 
consent  out  of  her  ?" 

"  Bravo,  Cis  !"  cried  Harry.  "  You  have  hit  it.  That's  the  very 
way." 

"  Nothing,"  said  the  Major,  "  like  a  woman's  wit.  I  didn't  know 
you  were  so  clever,  my  dear.'' 

"  Beautiful !"  said  Chris.     "  Begin  at  once,  dear  uncle." 

They  all  gazed  at  each  other  with  smiling  faces — Cis  trying  to 
look  as  if  her  own  cleverness  did  not  surprise  her  in  the  least.  Why, 
the  thing  was  as  good  as  done.  No  one  could  possibly  resist  Uncle 
Jack  ;  he  was  so  big  and  so  strong,  his  eyes  were  so  soft,  his  beard 
was  so  silky,  and  his  hair  so  grey  ;  after  all,  it  takes  a  woman  really 
to  understand  a  woman.  Everybody  felt,  without  the  necessity  of 
saying  it,  that  Mrs.  Branson,  in  spite  of  her  obstinacy,  her  new  doc- 
trines, and  her  exasperation,  was  known  to  be  but  a  weak  woman  if 
her  vanity  was  roused.  Uncle  Jack's  face  alone  lengthened  and  his 
brow  clouded. 

"Yes,"  said  Cis,  at  once  descending  to  details  ;  "you  will  begin 
at  once.  Go  away  and  take  out  of  your  boxes  all  your  bracelets, 
boomerangs,  bangles,  beads,  and  corrobberys,  kangaroos,  and  wagga- 


WHAT  SHALL  WE  DO?  35 

waggas.  Tell  her  you  have  brought  them  all  home — every  one—  on 
purpose  to  lay  at  her  beautiful  feet — she  thinks  she.  has  got  little 
feet.  And  don't  forget,  please,  that  she  thinks  her  eyes  quite  too 
lovely.     Say  something  about  her  beautiful  eyes." 

"  Stop — stop  !"  said  Uncle  Jack,  his  f  ace'brightening  like  a  meadow 
under  an  April  sun.     "  Stop,  it  can't  be  done." 

"  Why  not  ?"  they  all  asked  in  chorus.  "  Why  can't  it  be 
done  ?" 

"  Because  she's  a  deceased  wife's  sister  ;  that  is  to  say,  a  deceased 
brother's  wife,  which  is,  I  take  it,  much  the  same  thing." 

"  Dear  me  !"  said  the  Major,  "  so  she  is  ;  and  I  am  afraid  it  is  an 
objection.     If  we  could  wait  till  next  year,  very  likely  the  Lords 

will  bring  in  a  Bill But  perhaps  you  might  promise — pretend, 

you  know — to  go  to  Germany." 

"  I  couldn't  think  of  proposing  such  a  thing,"  said  Uncle  Jack, 
with  decision. 

As  no  one  knew  what  were  Uncle  Jack's  religious  convictions — 
he  looked  brave  enough  to  believe  anything — there  was  silence,  and 
Cis  felt  that  she  was  not  so  clever,  after  all,  as  she  had  thought 
herself.     It  is  a  saddening  thing  when  the  truth  comes  home. 

"  Perhaps,  then,"  said  Christina,  "  Uncle  Jack  wouldn't  mind 
making  love  to  Antoinette.  There  is  no  such  objection  in  her 
case." 

"Don't  ask  him,  Chris,"  said  Harry.  "  Don't  !  It  is  too  awful. 
I  wouldn't  ask  my  worst  enemy  to  do  such  a  thing." 

"  What,"  asked  Uncle  Jack,  "  if  the  Major  were  to  be  con- 
verted ?" 

"  It  is  too  late,"  said  the  Major.  "  She  means,  now,  to  have  the 
money  for  the  Cause.  A  month  ago  my  conversion  might  have 
produced  the  happiest  results,  and  we  could  even  all  five  have 
pretended  conversion." 

''  I  have  not  been  told  yet,"  observed  Uncle  Jack,  "  how  much 
money  there  is." 

"  Good  Heavens  !"  said  the  Major.  "  Not  to  know  the  money  in 
your  own  family  ?  Why,  sir,  it  is  three  thousand  a  year  for  this 
young  fellow,  and  sixteen  thousand  for  Chris." 

"  How  did  my  brother  get  it,  then  ?  When  I  was  at  home  we 
had  no  more  money  than  came  to  my  father  from  his  benefice  ;  we 
were  just  poor  church  rats.  When  I  went  to  Australia  it  was  with 
fifty  pounds  in  my  pocket." 

"  It  was  my  grandfather's  first  cousin,  who  died  without  children, 
and  left  his  estate  to  him,"  Harry  exclaimed.  "  I  believe  it  was  a 
few  years  after  you  went  away.     They  advertised  for  you." 

"  I  was  in  the  bush,  I  suppose,"  said  Uncle  Jack.  "  Well,  it  was 
a  great  stroke  for  my  brother.  And  it  is  a  tremendous  pot  of 
money;  much  too  big  to  be  thrown  away,  Harry." 

"I'll  throw  everything  away,  everything — except  Cis,"  said 
Harry  grandly. 


36  UNCLE  JACK. 

"  Oh !"  Cis  looked  things  unutterable,  and  her  eyes  filled  with 
tears,  and  Uncle  Jack's  heart  swelled  out  within  him  for  sympathy. 
He  really  was  a  most  kind-hearted  man. 

"  One  thing,"  he  said,  springing  to  his  feet,  "  one  thing  I  can  do, 
and  will.  I  will  go  to  my  sister-in-law,  and  try  to  move  her  better 
feelings." 

"  She  hasn't  got  any,"  said  the  Major.  "  She  has  lost  them — 
since  her  conversion." 

"  I  will  appeal  to  her  pity,  her  sympathy,  her  common-sense." 

"  You  might  as  well  ring  the  bells  in  an  empty  house,"  said  Harry. 

"  She  was  young  herself  once." 

"  She  has  forgotten  it,"  said  Christina. 

"And  I  suppose  she  has  had  lovers  in  her  time,  without  counting 
her  husband." 

"  I  cannot  believe  it,"  said  Cicely.  "  Old  ladies  who  have'  had 
lovers  are  always  delightful." 

"  At  all  events,  I  will  try." 

He  did  try.  He  might  just  as  well  have  tried  to  pierce  the 
Channel  Tunnel  with  arguments  in  its  own  favour. 

Consider  her  position.  Consider  the  position  of  every  female 
reformer.  It  is  one  of  perpetual  exasperation  and  white  heat. 
She  pays  heavy  penalties  for  glory.  First,  she  not  only  sees  her 
name  in  print  (a  thing  which  she  very  soon  learns  to  delight  in), 
but  also,  which  no  one  ever  grows  to  like,  sees  it  connected  with 
scoffing  and  unkind  remarks.  She  is  actuated  by  the  purest  and 
highest  motives,  and  the  basest  and  lowest  are  imputed  to  her. 
When  she  has  convinced  herself  that  she  is  a  martyr  and  a  con- 
fessor, she  reads  coarse  insinuations  that  her  real  motives  are 
vanity,  desire  for  notoriety,  and  a  determination  to  be  talked  about 
at  all  risks  and  hazards.  These  things  have  their  sting,  even  to 
the  toughest  skin.  Next,  she  is  always  having  her  strongest  and 
most  telling  arguments  treated  as  rubbish,  and  her  rhetoric  as  froth. 
Lastly,  in  poor  Mrs.  Branson's  case,  and  in  too  many  such  cases, 
her  own  people  refused  to  accept  her  mission.  She  went  home 
after  her  speech  with  the  shouts  of  the  audience  ringing  in  her  ears, 
and  was  received  with  down-dropped  eyes  and  looks  of  shame  and 
reproach.  The  speech  separated  her  from  her  step-children.  It 
made  a  breach  which  widened  every  day.  She  tried  to  convert 
them,  but  in  vain.  They  only  laughed  and  scoffed  in  the  heedless 
way  common  to  unthinking  youth. 

"  I  offer  you  a  career,  Harry,"  she  said  :  "  a  noble  and  brilliant 
career.     We  want  young  men  to  strengthen  us.     Be  one  of  them." 

"  Not  I,"  Harry  replied.  "  Besides,  I  am  not  in  search  of  a 
career.'' 

"  Oh  !"  she  replied  with  contempt.  "  You  would  rather,  I 
suppose,  spend  your  life  in  playing  cricket." 

"  I  would,"  he  said  without  hesitation,  "  much  rather.  Especially 
if  Cicely  were  looking  on." 


WHAT  SHALL  WE  DOf  37 

Christina  was  no  better.  She  said,  coldly,  that  she  would  not 
even  discuss  subjects  on  which  Fred  held  opinions  so  strong  ;  and 
that,  for  her  own  part,  she  was  perfectly  well  satisfied  with  the 
position  already  occupied  by  women  of  the  better  kind. 

Most  unfortunate  it  was  that  both  of  them  alluded  to  their  love 
affairs,  because  it  helped  to  make  their  stepmother  regard  the 
engagements  as  the  cause  of  what  she  easily  persuaded  herself  was 
rank  rebellion  and  shameful,  undutif ul  disrespect. 

"  Loo,"  Uncle  Jack  pleaded,  with  his  softest  voice,  "  Loo !  I 
have  just  come  from  a  long  talk  with  the  children.  I  have  learned 
the  whole  story." 

"  They  know  my  determination,"  said  Mrs  Branson. 

"  Yes  ;  they  know  what  you  have  told  them.  But  I  cannot 
think  you  mean  to  abide  by  your  words." 

"  Indeed  I  do,"  she  replied,  with  a  short  laugh.  "  I  desire  you 
to  be  quite  sure  that  I  shall  abide  by  my  words." 

"  Think  of  the  old  days,  Loo,  when  you  were  young  yourself. 
What  would  you  have  said  if  a  lover  had  been  found  for  you  ?" 

"  I  dare  say,  if  he  was  a  reasonably  good  lover,  I  should  have 
accepted  with  a  proper  sense  of  gratitude." 

"  If  I  remember  right,  Loo,  you  would  have  preferred  choosing 
your  own  lover.  But  there  is  another  thing.  The  freedom  you 
claim  for  yourself  you  must  give  others." 

"  The  authority  given  to  me  I  must  exercise,"  she  said  firmly. 

"  My  brother  when  he  gave  you  that  authority  never  contem- 
plated the  present  position  of  things." 

"That,"  said  the  widow,  "is  beside  the  mark.  If  my  husband 
were  living  now  he  would  hold  my  opinions  still,  as  he  always  did." 

Much  more  he  argued  with  her,  but  in  vain.  She  came  back  to 
the  same  thing — her  authority.  And  she  was  resolved  to  use  that 
authority  in  securing  her  stepchildren's  fortune  for  the  Cause. 

Then  Uncle  Jack  lost  his  temper,  and  called  his  sister-in-law 
names,  such  as  unreasonable  woman,  and  cruel  stepmother,  and  her 
friends  he  spoke  of  as  mischievous  Bedlamites,  and  the  children  he 
commiserated  as  victims  of  a  foolish  craze.  Candid  things  of  this 
kind  were  exchanged  on  both  sides  with  considerable  spirit. 
Finally,  Mrs.  Branson  concluded  the  arguments,  and  summed  up 
the  debate. 

"You  may  tell  the  disobedient  and  rebellions  pair,"  she  said, 
"  that  they  must  at  once  submit  or  leave  my  house.  These  are  my 
last  words.  As  for  you,  I  leave  you  to  make  up  to  them,  as  best 
you  can,  for  the  loss  of  their  fortunes." 

"Whatever  I  can  do,  I  will  do,"  said  Jack.  "  Meanwhile,  their 
money  is  not  yours  yet.  Not  yet,  remember.  The  inheritances  of 
children  are  not  to  be  stolen.  Yes — stolen  is  the  only  word — in 
Buch  a  fashion.  You  will  find  that  justice  can  be  done  in  spite  of 
you." 

"  I   cannot  tell,"    said     Antoinette,    when  these   words    were 


38  UNCLE  JACK. 

reported  to  her,  "  what  he  is  to  do.  But  I  think  somehow  that  we 
have  managed  badly.  It  would  have  been  better,  perhaps,  to  have 
approached  the  boy  through  his  vanity,  and  the  girl  through  her 
sense  of  justice.  You  can  always  make  any  man  do  anything  you 
please  if  you  work  on  his  vanity,  and  every  woman  to  believe 
whatever  you  want  if  you  can  only  persuade  her  that  somebody 
or  other  is  being  cruelly  wronged.  It  is  in  this  way  that  all  the 
burning  questions  are  got  up.  In  this  way  I  shall  make  our  own 
a  burning  question.  We  shall  see,  however.  He  is  a  strong  man, 
Loo,  and  he  means  fighting.  But  I  don't  quite  see  how  he  is 
going  to  fight  us." 

"  I  believe,''  said  Uncle  Jack,  returning  to  the  Council,  "  I 
believe  I  have  done  the  best  thing  possible  for  us." 

"  Oh  !  brave  Uncle  Jack  !"  cried  Christina. 

"  She  is  inexorable.  I  used  every  argument  I  could  think  of. 
All  in  vain.  She  is  revengeful :  she  feels  she  has  been  laughed  at. 
So  I  have  declared  open  war  !" 

Open  War ! 

Thus  in  a  single  day  did  this  masterful  Uncle  Jack  appear,  win 
the  confidence  of  these  young  people,  espouse  their  cause,  hurl 
defiance  at  the  foe,  and  become  their  champion. 

"Did ever,"  cried  Cicely  with  enthusiasm,  "did  ever  anyone 
hear  tell  of  such  an  Uncle  Jack  ?" 


VL 

OPEN   WAB. 

The  girls  fell  back,  contemplating  with  awe  and  admiration  this 
uncle,  who  was  going  to  pull  everybody  out  of  the  mess.  How 
splendid  it  is  to  have  strength  and  courage  !  And  how  much, 
thought  the  Major,  by  no  means  a  coward,  does  it  help  a  man  to 
have  the  rupees  at  his  back  !  Already  the  report  had  spread 
abroad,  and  was  implicitly  believed,  that  Jack  Branson,  the  prodi- 
gal son  of  thirty  years'  standing — so  long  a  period  immensely 
increased  his  prodigality,  because  it  was  only  the  elderly  people 
who  remembered  him,  and  they  spoke  of  him  with  a  kind  of 
shudder — had  come  home  again,  laden  with  spoils.  Some  said  that  he 
had  struck  oil  in  Pennsylvania,  and  another  that  he  was  chief 
owner  of  a  silver  mine — a  Bonanza — a  Boom — in  Nevada,  and  some 
that  he  had  great  possessions  in  Australia.  All  were  agreed  that 
he  was  enormously  wealthy,  and  the  ladies  who  collect  for  local 
societies  and  for  schools  and  hospitals,  and  the  benevolent  schemes 
of  the  place,  and  all  those  who  fuss  around,  were  making  up  their 
minds  how  much  they  should  ask  him  for.  In  the  end,  nobody  got 
anything  at  all  out  of  Uncle  Jack,  as  you  shall  see. 
"  Yes,"  he  repeated,  "  war  to  the  knife  !" 


OPEN  WAR.  39 

"  No  surrender !"  cried  Cis  ;  "  Harry,  nail  our  colours  to  tte 
mast !" 

Provided  you  have  full  confidence  in  your  general,  war  to  the 
knife,  until  you  get  knifed  yourself ,  is  a  truly  exhilarating  pastime. 

The  General  proceeded  to  issue  his  orders. 

"  First  of  all,"  he  said,  "  you  are  both  of  you  ordered  to  leave  the 
house  immediately." 

"  Has  she  turned  us  out  ?"  Harry  asked,  and  Christina  turnei 
pale. 

"  She  has  ;  therefore  you  must  both  of  you  go  home  at  once, 
and  proceed  with  as  much  fuss  and  racket  as  you  can  to  bring  your 
traps  out  into  the  street,  and  deposit  them  on  the  pavement. 
Never  mind  about  packing  them  up.  The  Major  and  I  will  mount 
guard.  Cicely  will  put  on  her  hat,  and  tell  the  story  around  the 
town,  how  Mrs.  Branson  has  made  her  two  friends  propose  to  you, 
and  how,  because  you  refuse,  she  has  turned  you  out  of  the  house. 
We  will  begin,  at  least,  with  the  popular  feeling  on  our  side. 
When  you  have  got  together  your  little  all,  Chris,  you  might  sit  on 
the  box  and  weep." 

"We  can  all  weep,"  said  the  Major.  "A  procession  in  tears 
carrying  the  boxes  would  be  effective.  I  will  receive  the  exiled 
orphans." 

"  This  is  something  like  war !"  said  Cicely.  "  Can't  we  duck 
Antoinette  in  the  pond  for  daring " 

"  Vindictiveness,"  said  Uncle  Jack.  "  We  might  put  Mr.  Van- 
deleur  under  the  pump — indeed,  it  would  certainly  do  him  much 
good — but  hardly  Miss  Antoinette  Baker.     This  done " 

"  This  done,"  the  girls  repeated,  because  he  hesitated. 

"  This  done — I  am— I  am  going  up  to  London." 

A  tame  step — merely  going  to  London — compared  with  the 
picturesque  and  decided  one  of  turning  yourself  out  of  your  own 
house. 

"  Yes  ;  I  am  going  to  London.  I  have  got  an  idea.  I  do  not 
know  whether  the  idea  is  worth  anything,  but  I  think  it  may  be.  If 
it  is  not  we  must  find  another,  and  if  necessary  another  still.  And 
if  we  fail  after  all " 

"  But  we  can't  fail,"  said  Cicely.  "  Now  we  have  got  you,  I  feel 
as  if  we  are  perfectly  safe.  I  used  to  believe  in  papa  ;  but,  you  see, 
poor  man,  he  went  and  set  up  Mrs.  Branson's  back  at  the  very  be- 
ginning by  arguing  with  her,  and  getting  angry." 

"  I  did,"  said  the  Major. 

"Besides,"  Cicely  went  on,  "when  a  man  has  been  out  ol  Eng- 
land for  thirty  years,  what  a  prodigious  quantity  of  tilings  he  m  st 
know  !" 

It  is  a  useful  superstition,  and  greatly  helps  English  enterprise  ; 
b:it,  on  the  whole,  I  think  that  the  man  who  stays  at  home  generally 
rolls  up  more  knowledge  than  the  man  who  goes  away. 

The  programme  was  faithfully  carried  out.  Presently,  Mrs.  Bran- 


4o  UNCLE  JACK. 

son,  sitting  with  her  friends  in  the  library,  forging  thunderbolts 
about  the  Emancipation  of  the  Sex,  was  disturbed  by  a  great  tramp- 
ling of  feet  and  the  sound  of  many  voices.  On  going  into  the  hall 
to  inquire  into  the  causes  of  this  phenomenon,  she  observed  her 
stepson  Harry  tugging  great  boxes  down  the  stairs  and  into  the 
street.  On  the  landing  stood  her  stepdaughter  laden  with  dresses. 
In  the  hall  was  Uncle  Jack,  directing.  On  the  steps  stood  the 
Major — the  Snake  in  the  grass  ;  and  the  pavement  was  covered  with 
trunks,  dresses,  books,  boots,  bats,  racquets,  oars,  grins,  and  every 
kind  of  property  peculiar  to  youth  of  both  sexes.  A  small  crowd  of 
people,  young  ladies  chiefly,  were  gathered  on  the  pavement,  their 
faces  expressing  the  deepest  sympathy ;  among  them  was  Cicely, 
daughter  of  the  Snake.  In  the  road  stood  a  small  band  of  boys, 
eager  to  witness  any  show  which  can  be  seen  for  nothing.  These 
horrible  creatures  whistled,  danced,  sang,  shouted,  and  groaned. 
Mrs.  Branson  comprehended  the  whole.  It  was  Rebellion  and  De- 
fiance, headed,  instigated,  encouraged,  and  sustained  by  none  other 
than  Jack  Branson  himself.  He  had  returned,  then,  for  no  other 
purpose  than  to  encourage  the  disobedience  of  the  children  !  She 
remembered,  as  she  retreated,  the  old  masterfulness  of  the  man, 
and  his  courage.  He  would  make  the  children  resist  to  the  end. 
Be  it  so.  But  she  returned  to  the  library  trembling  ;  and  tears  were 
in  her  eyes.  Though  she  loved  notoriety  and  the  publicity  of  plat- 
forms, a  family  fight,  she  thought,  ought  to  be  conducted  a  huis  clos, 
for  very  decency. 

"  Come,  Louise,"  said  Antoinette,  "  you  need  not  be  annoyed. 
The  whole  thing  is  settled.  They  must  submit,  and  come  to 
terms." 

"  But  if  they  do  not  ?" 

"  Then  the  whole  of  this  fortune,  my  dear  Louise,  will  drop  into 
your  hands,  and  we  will  use  it  for  our  own  purposes,  without  the 
incumbrance  of  husbands  or  wives.  If,  however,  as  is  possible, 
you  still  retain  any  kindness  for  your  stepchildren,  I  think  you  may 
be  quite  certain  that  they  will  come  to  no  harm.  Perhaps  the  uncle 
is  rich,  and  will  keep  them  ;  perhaps  they  will  remain  single  for  a 
time — it  will  not  be  for  long  ;  perhaps  they  will  marry  and  forfeit 
their  fortunes.  Let  them  go,  my  dear.  Trouble  yourself  no  more 
about  them." 

"It  is  all  very  well,"  the  poor  obstinate  lady  replied  with  a  sigh. 
"  You  do  not  know  what  those  children  have  been  to  me,  Antoinette. 
And  as  for  Christina,  until  her  recent  disobedience,  not  one  cloud 
ever  came  between  us."     But  she  hardened  her  heart  all  the  more. 

Here  there  were  more  groans. 

"  Oh  !"  she  cried  ;  "  this  is  dreadful." 

"  What  is  dreadful  ?  The  noise  of  a  dozen  street  boys  ?  Come, 
Louise,  show  more  courage." 

But  she  turned  very  pale,  and  held  on  hard  by  the  arms  of  her 
chair,  when  the  chorus  of  groans  swelled  louder  and  louder  as  the 


OPEN  WAR.  41 

orphans,  having  collected  their  things,  gave  them  over  to  the  boys 
to  be  carried  into  the  Major's  house. 

This  public  demonstration  seemed  a  sensational,  and  therefore  a 
dubious  kind  of  thing  to  do  ;  but  Uncle  Jack  protested  that,  to  people 
who  yearn  continually  for  notoriety,  nothing  is  so  terrifying  as  a 
little  notoriety  of  the  wrong  kind,  and  that  to  Mrs.  Branson,  what- 
ever the  effect  might  be  upon  her  friends,  this  manifestation  of 
popular  feeling,  however  elementary,  rude,  and  in  bad  taste,  would 
certainly  produce  a  most  painful,  if  not  a  wholesome  effect.  Painful 
it  certainly  was  ;  but  not  wholesome,  because  she  was  only  the  more 
confirmed  in  her  wrong-doing. 

Uncle  Jack,  the  rebels  being  safely  housed  with  the  Major,  went 
to  London,  carrying  with  him  his  idea,  which  on  the  way  turned  out 
to  be  a  fool  of  an  idea,  and  not  worth  the  trouble  of  taking  to  town 
at  all.  He  might  just  as  well,  therefore,  have  stayed  where  he  was, 
because,  when  he  arrived  at  his  terminus,  he  was  without  the  least 
glimpse  or  notion  of  what  was  to  be  done  next. 

"  Good  Lord !"  he  thought,  "  I  have  made  a  very  pretty  mess. 
What  on  earth  am  I  to  do  now  ?  If,  after  all  this  brag,  I  should 
have  to  tell  those  two  poor  girls  that  I'm  a  humbug  and  a  sham,  and 
that  there  is  nothing  left  but  to  give  in,  I  wish  I  hadn't  come  home 
at  all.  And  yet  it  is  delightful  to  think  of  them  and  their  pretty, 
innocent  confidence.  At  all  events,  they  have  time  to  look  about 
them.  As  for  me,  if  in  three  weeks  or  so  I  can't  find  a  way  to  help, 
I  shall  have  to  go  back  again  feeling  more  like  a  whipped  cur  than 
I  ever  thought  possible.  Oh  !  Christina  and  Cicely,  if  you  only 
knew !" 

When  he  was  gone,  there  came  a  time  of  flatness,  with  doubt, 
anxiety,  and  a  gazing  upon  each  other  in  silence,  their  eyes  saying, 
what  they  were  afraid  to  put  into  words,  "How  if  Uncle  Jack 
should  fail  ?" 

For  a  whole  fortnight  there  were  no  signs  of  him.  The  girls  began 
to  think  that  perhaps  he  was  a  phantom  uncle — a  trick  of  the  brain. 
But  it  is  not  often  that  so  many  people  agree  in  seeing  a  ghost.  Why 
did  he  not  write  or  come  back  ? 

Meantime,  Mrs.  Branson  made  no  sign  of  yielding  ;  every  day 
the  Secretary  went  forth  carrying  a  sack  of  letters  devoted  to  the 
Cause,  and  the  postman  staggered  to  the  door  daily  with  another 
sack.  Miss  Antoinette  Baker,  whether  grown  bolder,  or  wishing  to 
impress  the  multitude,  or  with  the  secret  design  of  catching  Harry 
unawares  and  marrying  him  before  he  had  time  to  run  away,  walked 
every  morning  in  the  front  garden,  a  cigarette  between  her  lips, 
dressed  in  her  most  audacious  and  extraordinary  costume  of  divided 
skirt,  dainty  jacket,  lace  cuffs,  silk  waistcoat,  a  manly  shirt-front, 
and  a  little  crimson  ribbon.  Over  her  short  curls  she  wore  the  little 
Albanian  cap  in  which  she  proposed  to  Harry.  It  was  a  costume 
so  dazzling,  and  the  illustrious  Leader's  face  was  so  regular  in  its 
calm  and  tranquil  beauty,  that  the  folk  were  bewildered. 


42  UNCLE  JACK, 

"  I  hate  her,  Chris,"  said  Cicely.  "  Oh  !  I  hate  her ;  most,  because 
she  really  is  so  pretty.  What  if  Harry  were  really  to  take  a  fancy 
to  her !" 

"  My  dear,  he  couldn't;  even  if  he  were  not  in  love  with  you." 
"  Ah !  Chris,  you  don't  know  ;  men  are  very  different  to  us — 
why.  I  once  heard  of  a  gentleman  kissing  a  dressmaker  !     My  heart 
would  break  if  Harry  was  to  go  after  that  shameless,  impudent — 
Oh  !  not  even  Uncle  Jack  could  set  things  right  then." 

"War  to  the  knife,"  said  the  Major,  "means  secret  strategy.  No 
one  must  know  our  plans  ;  we  shall  have  to  guess  the  plans  of  the 
enemy." 

He  tried  to  look  as  if  he  knew  their  own  plans,  but  would  die 
rather  than  reveal  them. 

He  knew,  however,  nothing.  What  was  still  more  strange,  was 
that  all  this  time  Fred  Thornton,  Christina's  lover,  wrote  only  once 
or  twice,  and  then  dark  mysterious  letters,  enjoining  her  to  have 
faith  and  patience — faith  and  patience. 

At  last,  a  letter  came.  Uncle  Jack  addressed  it  to  Christina,  but 
began  "  My  dear  girls,"  so  that  it  was  meant  for  both.  He  said 
that  he  had  been  more  successful  than  he  could  possibly  have  hoped, 
and  that  he  was  now  able  to  tell  them  that  they  might  cast  away  all 
fear,  and  be  married  as  soon  as  they  pleased.  And  he  bade  them 
instantly  make  their  arrangements  so  as  to  be  married  on  the  follow- 
ing Thursday,  by  which  day  all  his  business  would  be  completed. 
With  this  letter  came  another,  also  for  Christina.  It  was  from  her 
lover,  and  informed  her  that  the  wedding-day  being  fixed  for 
Thursday,  he  proposed  to  go  down  with  Uncle  Jack  on  the 
Wednesday.  There  was  more  in  the  letter  which  concerned  Chris- 
tina alone,  and  she  read  that  part  of  it  twenty  times,  each  time  with 
glowing  cheeks  and  sparkling  eyes. 

"Wedding  next  Thursday?"  The  girls  read  the  letter  again. 
"Wedding  next  Thursday?     Oh!  it  is  impossible  !"  said  Christina. 

"Quite  impossible,"  said  Cicely,  with  sparkling  eyes.  "But — 
since  Uncle  Jack  orders  it." 

"  Wedding  next  Thursday  ?"  cried  the  Major.  "  Impossible  ! 
Wedding  next  Thursday — my  own  children's  wedding  to  be  ordered 
and  fixed — and  I  not  to  be  consulted  ?" 

"Wedding  next  Thursday  !"  said  Cis  firmly.  "  Uncle  Jack  says 
so.     Why,  papa,  hero  is  his  letter." 

"  Next  Thursday  ?"  repeated  the  Major.  "  Upon  my  word,  this 
is  very  peremptory." 

"  Dreadful  !"  said  Cis.  "Arc  we  slaves,  that  we  are  to  be  married 
whenever  this  Uncle  Jack  chooses  to  order  ?  Oh  !  Chris,  my  dear, 
is  there  time  ?  and  who  are  to  be  the  bridesmaids  ?  My  dear,  there 
isn't  a  moment  to  lose.  Papa,"  she  jumped  up,  "  manage  your  own 
department,  but  leave  us  to  ours.    Oh !  how  shall  we  get  everything 


OPEN  WAR.  43 

ready  by  next  Thursday  ?  Only  a  week.  Come  upstairs,  Chris. 
We  must  have  out  all  our  things.  What  an  Uncle  Jack  !  What 
a  terrible  Uncle  Jack  !"  And,  arrived  in  their  own  rooms,  the 
girls  embraced  each  other,  Cis  crying,  "What  a  dear  Uncle  Jack! 
Because,  Christina,  my  dear,  there  will  be  no  safety  for  any  of  us 
— and  especially  for  Harry — till  we  are  married,  and  can  defy  them 
to  do  their  worst.  Nothing  but  marriage  will  make  my  Harry 
safe  from  that  awful  woman."  Tho  Major  said  no  more,  but 
obeyed. 

Then  there  began  throughout  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  town 
a  hurrying  to  and  fro,  and  a  whispering,  and  an  ordering,  and  an 
advising,  and  a  consulting,  and  a  rushing  together  hastily  of  dress- 
makers, and  persons  skilled  in  the  mystery  of  fitting,  devising,  and 
constructing  that  edifice  known  as  a  bridal  costume,  and  an  agitation 
among  the  other  eight-and-twenty  marriageable  maidens,  and  a 
flutter  and  excitement  to  know  who  wore  to  be  the  bridesmaids. 
And  it  presently  became  known,  not  only  that  the  wedding  would 
be  as  beautiful  as  could  be  managed  in  the  brief  space  left,  but  that 
two — or  some  said  four — groomsmen,  all  rich,  handsome,  young, 
and  good-tempered,  were  coming  down  for  it.  The  confectioner 
worked  day  and  night,  taking  no  rest,  he  and  his  apprentices,  in  his 
confectioning.  The  dressmakers  put  on  all  hands,  and  served  out 
green  tea  till  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  wages  were  doubled, 
and  needles  flew  fast  as  the  tongues  of  those  who  worked,  and  the 
florists  sat  up  all  night  to  make  bouquets.  The  girls  and  the 
curates  wreathed  the  church  with  flowers,  and  popular  enthusiasm 
hoisted  Venetian  masts  between  the  Major's  villa  and  the  church 
porch.  Also,  some  one  in  the  dead  of  night  broke  two  panes  of 
glass  in  Mrs.  Branson's  windows.  But  this  act  was  generally  con- 
demned, and  set  down  to  the  bad  taste  of  intemperate  zeal. 

The  rumour  reached  her,  quickly  enough.  That  the  children 
should  have  left  her  was  bad  to  bear,  and  only  to  be  accounted 
for  by  the  malign  influence  of  their  uncle  ;  that  they  should  thus 
openly,  and  without  even  going  through  the  form  of  asking  for  her 
consent,  be  married  in  the  face  of  the  world  was  more  surprising 
still. 

"  I  confess,  Louise,"  said  Antoinette,  "  that  it  is  difficult  to  under- 
stand. There  must  be  something  behind.  Is  your  brother-in-law 
prepared  to  let  four  thousand  a  year  and  more  go  to  you  without  an 
effort  to  save  it?     Is  he  a  Croesus  ?" 

"Heaven  knows  !"  replied  the  stepmother.  "He  may  be  so  rich 
as  not  to  mind  it." 

"  In  that  case,  it  is  a  clear  windfall  for  the  Cause.  But  in  any 
case  it  is  ours  already.  The  law  is  quite  clear.  You  have  given  no 
consent ;  you  have  not  even  been  asked  for  consent ;  if  they  both 
marry  without  your  consent  the  whole  estate  is  your  own.  _  Very 
good.  It  is  already  ours.  Louisa,  I  shall  take  a  house,  I  think,  in 
Eaton  Square.    What  we  want  are  large  rooms,  and  plenty  of  them. 


44  UNCLE  JACK. 

We  shall  then  have  afternoons,  evenings,  concerts,  soirees,  perhaps 
private  theatricals,  all  through  the  season.     We  shall  also " 

"Pardon  me,  Antoinette,"  said  Mrs.  Branson  coldly  ;  "you  will 
allow  me  a  voice  in  my  own  affairs.  I  shall  deal,  if  you  please, 
as  I  choose  with  my  own  fortune." 

"  Oh !"  Antoinette,  generally  so  calm,  was  somewhat  discon- 
certed. "Well,  Mrs.  Branson,  if  you  like  to  go  your  own  way  you 
can,  of  course.  At  the  same  time,  every  Cause  must  have  its 
Leader.  If  you  are  prepared  to  follow  my  leadership,  you  will 
obey  me  as  to  the  disposition  of  this  income  as  well  as  of  all  other 
matters.  If  not,  go  your  own  way,  find  your  own  society — without 
me.  We  can  do  well  enough  without  you  ;  but  you  will  find  it  very 
difficult,  my  dear,  to  do  without  me." 

What  more  would  have  happened  I  know  not,  because  the  con- 
versation was  interrupted  by  no  other  than  Jack  Branson  himself. 
It  was  Wednesday,  and  he  was  back  again. 

Now  Antoinette  had  at  least  one  feminine  trait  remaining.  She 
admired  a  big  strong  man.  Therefore  she  looked  with  eyes  of 
favour  on  this  big  strong  man,  and  she  was  pleased  with  his  soft 
eyes  and  his  gentle  voice.  To-day  she  observed  that  the  look  of 
doubt  and  trouble  which  he  had  worn  when  last  he  came  was  gone. 
He  was  confident,  though  grave. 

"  Louise,"  he  said,  "  after  what  has  passed  you  are  surprised  to 
see  me.  I  come  again  because  I  would  leave  no  stone  unturned 
and  no  chance  untried.  For  the  sake  of  my  poor  brother,  I  would 
make  one  more  appeal  to  you." 

"  Louise,"  said  Antoinette,  who  was  present,  "  if  I  were  you  I 
would  listen  to  Jack."  She  said  this  quite  kindly,  and  with  so  much 
condescension  that  Jack  turned  red  and  would  have  enjoyed  kick- 
ing somebody.  "  He  evidently  feels  sorry  for  the  helpless  position 
in  which  he  has  plunged  this  silly  pair.  Probably  he  already  sees 
that  submission,  though  late,  will  be  wise.  He  is,  I  dare  say," — 
here  she  looked  him  up  and  down  as  one  looks  over  a  horse  or  a 
pig,  and  very  irritating  it  was,  but  Jack  kept  his  temper,—"  He  is, 
probably,  one  of  those  well-meaning  men  who  try  to  set  things 
right,  but  fail  for  want  of  intellect.  He  is  a  fine  man,  physically, 
Louise,"  she  added,  examining  his  proportions  through  her  glasses 
with  critical  coldness.  "  He  is  already  what  the  Man  of  the  Future 
will  become  when  we  have  trained  him— strong,  handsome,  and  of 
a  good  heart,  without  any  pretence  to  Intellect.  As  yet  we  cannot 
expect  of  him  what  we  exact  of  such  as  Valentine— obedience.  Pray 
go  on,  Jack.     I  am  already  very  favourably  disposed  towards  you." 

Uncle  Jack  bowed  gravely.  After  all,  what  did  it  matter  whether 
this  person  thought  well  or  ill  of  his  intellect  ? 

J'  For  the  sake  of  old  times,"  he  said,  "  listen  to  me.  Let  the 
children  marry  their  two  lovers,  whom  you  have  already  accepted." 

"  No  consent  of  mine  has  been  asked  or  given,"  said  Mrs. 
Branson . 


OPEN  WAR.  45 

None  will  be  asked  by  them,"  he  replied.  "  Yet  it  is  important 
to  you  to  give  it.  It  is  of  far  more  importance  than  you  think  or 
know.    I  ask  it  for  them." 

"And  I  refuse.     Is  there  anything  more  to  say?" 

"Indeed,  my  poor  Jack,"  said  Antoinette,  "  if  this  is  all  you  have 
to  say,  you  waste  valuable  time  and  irritate  uselessly  valuable 
brains.  You  had  much  better  go  at  once,  and  not  return  until  you 
are  in  a  more  becoming  and  more  submissive  mood." 

"  Before  I  go,  remember,"  he  said,  "  you  have  driven  your  late 
husband's  daughter  Christina  out  into  the  world  with  nothing. 
You  have  driven  out  Harry  with  nothing.  When  the  day  of 
reckoning  comes,  do  not  complain  if  you  are  treated  as  you  have 
treated  them.  Once  more  I  make  a  last  appeal  to  you.  Forget 
for  a  moment  the  craze  which  has  beset  you.  Think  of  what 
you  were  when  my  brother  gave  this  power  into  your  hands. 
Think  how  he  wished  it  used " 

"  There  were  no  conditions — none  whatever." 

"Yes ;  there  were  the  unwritten  conditions  that  the  power  would 
be  used  for  the  good  of  the  children  in  the  way  which  he  and  you 
then  thought  good.  You  allowed  them  to  become  the  friends  and 
companions  of  a  brother  and  sister  every  way  fitted  for  them  to 
love.  You  knew  that  they  loved  each  other  ;  you  tacitly  gave 
your  consent " 

"  It  was  never  asked,"  cried  Mrs.  Branson. 

"  You  allowed  them  to  feel  that  it  would  be  granted.  And 
now " 

"  Is  that  all  you  have  to  say  ?" 

"  Not  quite.  I  have  to  tell  you  that  I  thought  this  informal 
consent  might  be  pleaded  as  an  actual  consent,  and  I  went  to 
London  in  order  to  consult  a  lawyer  about  it.  I  fear  that  it  cannot." 

"  Oh  !"  said  Mrs.  Branson,  her  face  clearing.  "  And  yet  you 
hasten  on  their  marriage." 

"  Yet  I  hasten  on  the  marriage.  For  the  last  time,  then,  I  ask 
you,  I  implore  you,  in  the  name  of  my  brother,  to  give  your 
consent." 

"  For  the  last  time,  John  Branson — No." 

"  Then,"  he  sighed,  "  I  can  do  no  more.  I  will  come  again 
to-morrow,  after  the  wedding.  You  will  begin  to  repent  your  de- 
cision when  you  have  heard  then  what  I  have  to  say,  and  you  will 
go  on  repenting  it  all  the  days  of  your  life." 

He  left  her. 

"Why  should  I  repent?"  Mrs.  Branson  asked.  "To-morrow? 
To-morrow  the  estate  will  be  mine." 

"  Louise,"  said  Antoinette,  "  that  man  is  not  a  fool.  I  was 
wrong.  He  has  more  than  the  ordinary  brute  intellect  of  a  strong 
man.  He  means  something.  I  wish  I  knew  what  it  was.  Are 
you  quite  sure  about  the  estate  ?  I  am  very  much  afraid  there  is 
a  trap." 


46  UNCLE  ?ACK 


VII. 

THE   EVE   OF  THE   WEDDING. 

The  week  of  preparation  for  the  wedding  was  a  truly  anxious 
time — all  the  more  anxious  because  a  brave  face  had  to  be  assumed. 
It  was  a  time  which  required  much  more  than  the  amount  of 
Faith  with  which  one  carries  on  the  usual  business  of  life  ;  every- 
body concerned  knew  full  well  that  poverty  of  the  worst  kind 
followed  failure.  Only  the  girls  had  fulness  of  faith  :  merely  to 
think  of  the  brave  eyes  of  Uncle  Jack  was  enough  for  them  ;  the 
recollection  of  those  eyes  inspired  them  with  confidence.  They 
had  no  more  doubts,  no  more  fears,  when  he  returned  on  Wednes- 
day afternoon,  bringing  with  him,  besides  his  own  cheerful,  strong 
face,  the  other  bridegroom  and  a  waggon-load  of  best  men,  carry- 
ing gifts  and  precious  things  all  alike  wreathed  in  smiles.  He 
whispered  to  the  girls  to  have  no  fear  ;  he  admonished  Harry  to 
keep  up  his  heart ;  he  bade  the  Major  pluck  up  and  look  cheerful. 

As  for  that  other  bridegroom,  Christina's  swain,  he  bore  himself 
with  as  much  faith  as  if  he  had  been  one  of  the  young  men  attached 
to  the  Sheikh  of  the  Mountains. 

"  I  don't  know  at  all,  Chris,"  he  declared,  "  what  is  going  to 
happen  ;  but  I  am  certain  it  is  all  right.     He  says  so." 

Very  odd  that  even  a  lawyer  should  accept  a  simple  assurance. 
It  proves  what  Solomon  forgot  to  say,  that  of  all  gifts  and  quali- 
ties which  a  man  can  have,  there  is  none  more  delightful  or  more 
useful  than  that  which  makes  men  trust  and  believe  in  a  man. 

As  for  the  Major,  whatever  faith  he  had  once  possessed  was  now 
oozing  fast  out  of  his  boots.  The  day  before  the  wedding  :  every- 
thing arranged,  and  nothing  known  about  the  future.  "I  trust, 
Mr.  Branson,"  he  said  gravely,  "  I  do  trust,  sir,  that  we  are  not 
acting  rashly.  Remember,  it  is  not  even  now  too  late.  The  future 
of  these  children  is  in  your  hands." 

"  Major,"  said  Uncle  Jack,  "  I  assure  you,  upon  my  word  of 
honour,  that  1  shall  satisfy  you  to-morrow  that  you  could  have 
done  nothing  better.     Trust  me  till  to-morrow." 

"  It  is  a  large  order  on  Trust,"  said  the  Major,  "  but  we  are  in  for 
it,  and  cannot,  I  suppose,  get  out  of  it  now." 

After  dinner,  about  nine  o'clock,  Uncle  Jack  made  a  strange 
request.  He  said  that  he  had  something  to  say  to  the  two  "-iris 
alone.  "  Would  the  Major  lcavo  the  drawing-room  to  him  ?  and 
would  the  two  bridegrooms  leave  their  fiancees  and  go  away  ?" 

He  was  obeyed  ;  ho  was  in  command,  therefore  ho  was  obeyed 
in  this  small  thing  as  well  as  in  the  greater  business  of  the  wedding. 

"  My  dears,"  he  said,  clearing  his  voice,  which  was  a  little  husky, 
"  I  have  a  confession  to  make  to  you.  It  hasn't  got  anything  to  do 
with  your  wedding  to-morrow — nothing  at  all.  As  for  that  how- 
ever, I  do  assure  you  most  solemnly  that   Mrs.  Branson  can   do 


THE  EVE  OF  THE  WEDDING.  47 

nothing  to  hurt  you.  Your  fortunes  shall  be  exactly  the  same  as  if 
she  had  no  such  power  as  she  thinks  she  has.  Your  brother,  Cicely 
— your  lover,  Christina — is  satisfied.  He  does  not  know  exactly  all 
that  he  will  know  to-morrow,  but  he  is  satisfied." 

"Indeed,  indeed,  Uncle  Jack,"  they  protested,  "we  have  always 
believed  most  firmly  in  your  ability  and  courage." 

"Thank  you,"  he  said  simply.  "And  for  my  own  part,  I  must 
say  that  I  shall  never  forget,  so  long  as  I  live,  the  pretty  sweet 
creatures  who  welcomed  me  home  to  my  native  town.  Christina, 
my  dear,"  he  took  a  hand  of  each—"  Cicely,  my  child,  I  shall  always 
remember  those  two  faces  looking  in  so  much  wonder  and  amaze- 
ment when  I  told  you  who  I  was.  Cicely,  you  remember  what  yon 
told  me — how  whole  lakhs  of  rupees  would  be  wanted  ?  Mercenary 
maid !"  He  kissed  the  fingers  of  each  in  succession.  "  You  as- 
sumed, when  I  dropped  into  your  midst,  that  I  had  come  back  with 
my  pockets  full,  rich  with  the  spoils  of  thirty  years.  You  did  not 
ask  me  how  I  became  so  rich,  whether  in  Australia,  or  America,  or 
India." 

"  What  did  it  matter  ? '  said  Cicely.  "  Oh !  I  talked  nonsense 
about  rupees.  It  was  you  we  welcomed  back,  and  not  your  rupees, 
although  we  did  not  know  it  then." 

"  I  am  glad,  now,  that  no  one,  not  even  the  Major,  asked  me  about 
my  fortune,  and  how  and  where  it  was  made.  You  all  supposed, 
without  my  telling  you,  that  it  was  made.  My  dears,  if  things  had 
been  different ;  if  you  had  all  been  sailing  with  fair  wind  aft,  I 
should  have  let  you  know  the  truth  at  once." 

"What  truth,  uncle  ?"  asked  Christina.  "  But,  indeed,  we  do  not 
want  to  ask  questions  of  you.     We  do  not  doubt  you  in  the  least." 

"  That  you  believed  me  rich,  helped,  in  the  beginning,  to  give 
you  confidence.  It  pleased  me  that  I  could  be  of  some  use  to  you; 
therefore  I  allowed  you  to  believe  it.  My  dear  children,  I  am  not 
rich  at  all — I  am  almost  a  pauper.  I  have  nothing.  As  for  your 
lakhs  of  rupees,  Cicely,  I  have  been  in  Australia,  not  in  India.  They 
have  golden  sovereigns  there,  not  rupees.  And  of  their  golden 
sovereigns  I  have  saved  none — not  any.  I  am  as  poor  as  when  I 
started,  thirty  years  ago.  Nay,  I  am  poorer  ;  because,  then,  I  had 
youth  on  my  side.  And  that  has  gone.  I  am  poor  indeed,  because 
then  I  had  hope  ;  and  that,  too,  has  gone." 

"  Oh !  poor  Uncle  Jack  1"  Christina  threw  her  arms  round  his 
neck  and  kissed  him  again. 

"  Poor  dear  Uncle  Jack  !"  Cicely  tenderly  laid  her  cheek  upon 
his  great  rough  hand. 

"  I  am  worth  nothing  but  the  clothes  I  stand  in,  and  the  money 
which  is  to  pay  my  passage  back." 

"  Back  ?     Oh!  uncle,  you  are  not  going  back  ?" 

"  Why,  you  don't  suppose  that  I  came  home  to  be  a  burden  on 
you,  and  to  live  upon  my  nephews  and  aieces,  do  you,  ( hildren  ? 
Now,  don't  interrupt,  and  I  will  tell  you.  ill  about  it.     1  here  are 


48  UNCLE  JACK. 

some  chums  in  Australia  who  get  on,  and  some  who  don't.  Bless 
you,  it  is  just  the  same  as  at  home.  Your  brother,  Cicely,  my  dear, 
would  get  on  anywhere.  A  man  like  that  is  born  to  conquer  the 
world.  Yours,  Chris,  nowhere.  Not  but  what  he  is  a  splendid 
fellow,  Cicely,  this  lover  of  yours,  full  of  pluck,  dexterity,  and 
strength  ;  believe  me,  we  are  proud  of  him.  I,  too,  am  one  of  the 
sort  who  don't  get  on.  I  tried — in  fact,  I  tried  everything,  and  I 
have  been  everywhere  ;  there  is  hardly  a  thing  a  man  can  do  to  earn 
an  honest  penny  that  I  have  not  done.  For  twenty  years  and 
more  I  worked  at  such  things  as  a  decent  English  reecianic  scorns, 
happy  to  get  the  work  to  do.  Don't  pity  me,  my  deau  T  here  are 
plenty  like  me  abroad,  gentlemen  born  and  educated,  -who  some- 
how have  made  a  mess  of  life  and  failed.  You  can't  walk  aioug  the 
streets  of  Melbourne  without  meeting  a  dozen  like  me.  We  swi:  m 
— the  men  who  can't  pass  the  exams.,  and  the  men  who  have  got  into 
debt,  and  the  rest  of  it.  We  are  everywhere  ;  you  might  make  a 
dozen  rattling  good  regiments  out  of  the  gentlemen  and  the  younger 
sons  who  are  knocking  about  Australia  and  the  Pacific.  Why,  the 
other  day  they  had  a  dinner  for  public  schoolmen  only,  at  Levuka, 
and  a  couple  of  hundred  sat  down — fancy  a  couple  of  hundred  in 
Fiji  alone — most  of  them  in  their  rags,  poor  beggars  !  For  twenty 
years  and  more  I  wandered  about,  leading  the  vagabond  life  which 
never  ends  in  anything.  When  I  got  work  I  did  it ;  when  I  got  no 
work  I  somehow  did  without  it.  Never  without  tobacco  for  a  pipe, 
and  very  seldom  beyond  the  reach  of  a  dinner.  Can  you  wonder 
that  men  who  roam  about  the  world  like  this  do  not  often  write  to 
their  old  friends  ?" 

"  Poor  Uncle  Jack  !"  said  the  girls. 

"  At  last  I  remembered  the  one  talent  which  I  possessed.  Strange 
that  I  should  have  neglected  it  so  long !" 
"  What  was  that  ?" 

"  You  do  not  know,  I  suppose,  why  I  left  home.  Of  course  you 
do  not.  Your  father  even  never  knew,  I  believe.  I  think,"  he 
went  on  slowly,  "  I  think  there  was  too  much  strictness  in  my 
up-bringing.  It  is  not  so  very  uncommon  a  thing  for  a  lad  to 
owe  a  hundred  or  so  in  his  third  year  at  Cambridge  ;  I  don't  think 
so  much  need  have  been  made  of  that  offence  ;  and  it  is  not  very 
uncommon  for  a  young  man  to  fall  in  love — it  was  the  Curate's 
daughter — and  I  hear  she  has  long  since  married,  and  is  now  the 
wife  of  an  Archdeacon  ;  but  the  crowning  offence  was  that.  I 
once  played  in  the  Richmond  Theatre.  And  my  father  destined 
me  for  the  Church  !  I  acted  in  a  theatre !  All  these  things  to- 
gether drove  him  to  despair.  Ho  gave  me  fifty  pounds,  and  bade 
me  go  seek  my  fortune  out  of  the  country;  if  I  wanted  more  help 
I  was  to  ask  him  for  it,  and  he  would  consider.  l>ut  he  would  not 
have  his  name  disgraced  at  home  by  a  profligate  son— he  called  me 
a  profligate  son  because  I  played  Meicutio  and  kissed  the  Curate's 
daughter !" 


THE  EVE  OF  THE  WEDDING.  49 

"  Poor  Uncle  Jack !"  whispered  the  girls,  with  the  sympathy 
which  came  of  having  been  themselves  kissed. 

"T  had  almost  forgotten  that  I  could  act,  though  I  always  went 
about  singing.  Mind  you,  up-country,  in  a  lonely  hut,  with, 
perhaps,  only  one  or  two  other  men,  a  chum  who  can  sing  keeps 
the  other  fellows  in  heart.  One  day  when  I  was  about  at  my  lowest,  I 
had  an  inspiration.  An  inspiration  must  be  acted  upon  while  it  is 
red-hot.  I  carried  mine  out  at  once.  I  sat  down  with  some  paper 
(which  I  borrowed)  and  a  pencil ;  I  wrote  out  all  the  songs  I  knew  : 
I  went  to  a  man  who  keeps  pianos  and  runs  shows,  and  I  made  a 
proposition  to  him.  He  accepted  it,  and  ever  since  that  time  I  have 
been  going  about  the  country  with  a  Variety  Entertainment.'' 

"  A  Variety  Entertainment  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  my  man  makes  the  engagements,  hires  the  room,  finds 
bills  and  pianos,  and  the  rest  of  it,  and  takes  half  the  profits. 
Sometimes  I  picK;  up  a  stray  actor  or  actress,  and  we  have  a  little 
acting  as  well  as  singing.  Very  popular  I  am  in  some  districts,  I 
assure  you.  At  a  Variety  Entertainment  I  sing,  play,  and  recite. 
And  I  can  make  up  very  well.  Stay,  I  will  show  you  one  of  my 
characters — the  '  Gentleman  Tramp  ' — and  I  will  sing  you  my  patter 
song  about  him." 

He  went  into  the  hall,  and  came  back  in  two  or  three  minutes 
hastily  "  made  up."  His  trousers  were  rolled  up  half-way  to  his 
knee  ;  he  had  no  coat,  but  wore  one  of  the  girl's  shawls  thrown 
picturesquely  over  his  shoulders  ;  he  had  on  a  slouched  felt  hat,  and 
his  shirt-sleeves  were  rolled-up,  showing  brown  arms  tattooed.  In 
his  mouth  was  a  short  black  pipe.  They  recognised  at  once,  with- 
out being  told,  the  Australian  tramp.  He  limped  as  he  walked, 
with  a  slouch  in  his  step,  and  he  looked  before  him,  shading  his 
eyes,  as  if  looking  along  a  hot  and  dusty  road.  Then  he  sat  at  the 
piano,  and  played  a  rattling,  unscientific  accompaniment,  while  he 
sang  in  a  rich,  clear,  and  flexible  voice,  none  the  worse  for  his  fifty 
years  : 

"  The  ship  was  outward  bound,  when  we  drank  a  health  sround 
('Twaa  the  year  fifty-three,  or  thereabout), 
We  were  all  for  Melbourne  Ho  !  where,  like  peas,  the  nuggets  grow, 
And  my  heart,  though  young  and  green,  was  also  stout. 

"  I  was  two-and-twenty  then,  and  like  many  other  men 
Among  that  gallant  company  afloat, 
I  had  played  in  the  eleven,  and  pulled  five  or  six  or  seven 
In  the  'Varsity  or  else  the  College  boat. 

"We  were  rusticated,  plucked,  in  disgrace,  and  debt,  and  chucked,. 
Out  of  patience  were  our  friends — and  unkind. 
But  all  of  us  agreed,  that  a  gentleman  in  need, 
His  fortune  o'er  the  seas  would  surely  find. 

4 


5o  UNCLE  JACK. 

"  So  we  liquored  up  and  laughed,  day  by  day  aboard  that  craft, 
Till  we  parted  at  the  port,  and  went  ashore  ; 
And  since,  of  that  brave  crew,  I  have  come  across  a  few, 
And  we  liquor  and  we  talk,  but  laugh  no  more. 

"  For  if  damper  and  cold  tea  the  choicest  blessings  be, 
We  are  certainly  above  our  merits  blessed  : 
And  a  gentleman  in  need,  as  is  readily  agreed, 
May  very  well  dispense  with  all  the  rest. 

"  But  as  each  man  tells  his  tale,  'tis  monotonous  and  stale, 
As  if  adventure's  game  was  quite  played  out ; 
And  every  honest  chum,  to  the  same  hard  pan  must  come, 
And  no  more  luck  was  travelling  about. 

•  'Tis  how  one  in  far  Fiji,  went  beach-combing  by  the  sea  ; 

One  in  Papua  pioneered  and  died  ; 
One  took  coppers  on  a  car,  or  mixed  nobblers  at  a  bar, 
Or  in  country  stores  forgot  Old  Country  pride. 

"  And  how  one  lucky  swain  thought  he'd  just  go  home  again. 
And  was  welcomed  with  cold  shoulder  by  his  friends  ; 
And  how  one  dug  for  gold,  and,  as  usual,  he  was  sold ; 
And  how  one  peddled  pins  and  odds  and  ends. 

"And  how  in  coral  isles  one  courted  Fortune's  smiles, 
And  how  one  in  a  shanty  kept  a  school ; 
North  and  south,  and  east  and  west,  how  we  tried  our  level  best, 
And  did  no  good  at  all,  as  a  rule. 

"  And  how  some  took  to  drink,  and  some  to  printer's  ink, 
And  shepherded  or  cattle-drove  awhile  : 
But  never  that  I  know — and  so  far  as  stories  go — 
Did  one  amongst  us  all  make  his  pile. 

"  Well  :  'tis  better  here  than  there,  since  rag3  must  be  our  wear  ; 
In  the  bush  we  are  equal — every  man. 
And  we're  all  of  us  agreed,  that  a  gentleman  in  need 
Must  earn  his  daily  damper — as  he  can." 

He  stopped,  and  limped  out  as  be  bad  come  in.  When  he  re- 
turned he  had  resumed  his  ordinary  appearance.  But  the  girls 
were  crying. 

li  Why,"  he  said  cheerfully,  "  you  mustn't  cry  over  a  ne'er-do- 
weel  like  me.  You  see,  I've  obeyed  my  father  ;  I  have  disgraced 
the  family  name  abroad,  not  at  home.  Nobody  has  had  to  blush 
because  the  profligate  who  fell  in  love  at  twenty,  and  played  in  a 
theatre,  has  all  his  life  expiated  those  sins  by  rough  and  common 
work.  If  you  had  seen  these  hands  of  mine  four  years  ago,  they  were 
hard  and  horny  with  rough  work.  Now  they  are  smooth  again— a 
gentleman's  hands,  because,  with  my  Variety  Entertainment,  I  have 
been  leading  a  life  distantly  resembling  a  gentleman  s." 

"  Poor  Uncle  Jack  !"  murmured  the  girls  for  the  tenth  time,  at 
least. 

"  I  began  to  do  pretty  well  with  my  Show — even  to  lay  up  money 


THE  EVE  OF  THE  WEDDING.  51 

— a  little  money  ;  and  one  day  a  yearning  came  over  me,  such  as  I 
had  never  felt  before,  to  go  home  again,  and  see  the  old  place.  I 
could  not  think  that  my  father  would  be  living,  but  I  thought  of 
my  brother  Sam,  and  of  the  girl  whom  I  loved,  and  the  house  you 
know,  and  all.  I  remembered  that  if  I  started  just  then  there 
would  be  the  sweet,  soft  English  summer,  and  all  the  trees  out  and 
the  flowers.  Then  I  counted  my  money.  I  had  just  enough  for 
my  journey  home — second  class — and  back  again  ;  and  a  month  or 
so  at  home  living  moderately.  I  resolved  that  I  would  see  you — 
not  expecting  whom  I  should  see — make  no  pretence  or  brag  about 
success,  ask  for  no  help,  and,  after  a  few  days  here,  go  to  London, 
and  so  back  to  Melbourne.  I  have  spent  a  little  more  money  than 
I  expected,  and  therefore — and — well,  that  is  all,  my  dears.  Your 
rich  Uncle  Jack,  who  had  such  lakhs  of  rupees,  has  got  all  his  money 
in  a  little  purse  in  his  pocket,  He  is  nothing  in  the  world  but  a 
strolling  vagabond,  a  tramp,  a  singer,  a  lecturer,  and  small  actor. 
He  makes  people  laugh.     That  is  all." 

"  Oh  !  Uncle  Jack,"  cried  Cis,  "  he  makes  girls  happy  !"  She 
threw  her  arms  round  his  neck  and  kissed  him,  while  her  tears  fell 
upon  his  face.     "  And,  oh  !  oh  !  oh  !  we  are  so  sorry." 

"  Yes,  I  have  been  able  to  make  you  happy.  It  seems  to 
me  wonderful  that  I  should  have  been  permitted — a  hardened  old 
tramp  and  vagabond  like  me — to  do  something  for  two  sweet 
English  girls.  It  is  truly  wonderful !"  His  voice  dropped  lower, 
and  his  eyes  softened  first,  and  then  grew  humid.  "  On  the  way 
out  I  shall  think  of  it.  Yes  ;  all  the  rest  of  my  life  I  shall  think 
of  it.  Your  voices,  my  dears,  will  be  with  me,  and  your  eyes  will 
follow  me.  After  thirty  years,  it  does  a  man  good  to  get  a  little 
happiness.  Just  as  one  was  beginning  to  grow  a  bit  tired,  and  feel 
jaded,  as  if  there  wasn't  much  more  cheerfulness  left  in  the  world, 
came  the  chance  to  me — the  blessed  chance,  for  which,  I  assure 
you,  my  dears,  I  am  indeed  grateful.  Why,  the  memory  of  you 
two  girls,  and  your  ready  welcome  and  love  to  a  stranger — could  I 
ever  forget  it  ?  Yet,  I  have  only  seen  you  and  talked  with  you 
three  times,  and  to-morrow  will  make  the  fourth,  all  in  a  fortnight ! 
Wonderful  how  soon  a  fortnight  passes  !  Good-night,  my  dears. 
Bemember  sometimes,  in  your  happiness,  that  poor  old  vagabond 
and  tramp,  your  Uncle  Jack." 

VIII. 

THE   WEDDING   PliESENT. 

If  these  interesting  orphans  had  been  married  in  the  sacred  odour 
of  filial  obedience,  and  with  full  paternal  or  stepmaternal  consent, 
the  ceremony  could  not  have  aroused  greater  public  excitement.  It 
is  inadequate  to  s.-ay  that  the  sun  rose  dancing :  that  all  the  larks 
bep-an  to  carol  in  concert  from  an  early  hour  :  that  the  rose-bushes 

4—2 


52  UNCLE  JACK. 

put  on  their  sweetest  rose-buds  :  that  the  leaves  of  the  trees  rustled 
itieir  most  melodious  whispers  :  and  that,  to  those  who  had  ears 
to  hear,  the  goddess  who  loves  orchards,  gardens,  roadside  limes, 
willows,  and  alders  by  the  banks  of  streams,  and  all  such  sweet 
things  as  belong  to  cultivated  nature,  was  singing  all  the  morning 
a  Wedding  Hymn  equal  to  anything  penned  by  Elizabethan  poets. 
As  to  the  church  itself,  it  was  full ;  all  the  eight-and-twenty 
eligible  young  ladies,  six  of  whom  were  bridesmaids,  were  present 
— a  parterre  of  gaily-blooming  flowers.  As  regards  the  late  un- 
happy differences  of  opinion,  they  were  forgotten  ;  quite  clearly, 
the  opinions  of  an  uncle,  newly  arrived  from  abroad,  with  moun- 
tains of  gold  and  silver,  must  be  correct ;  nor  could  anybody  ap- 
prove of  opinions,  however  plausibly  they  might  be  set  forth,  which 
led  to  such  results  as  the  turning  out  of  a  young  lady's  wardrobe 
upon  the  cold  flint  stones.  No  one  knew  how  many  millions  would 
be  given  to  the  brides  and  bridegrooms  by  their  uncle,  but  it  was 
quite  certain — everybody  knew  it — that  Mrs.  Branson,  if  she  in- 
tended to  enforce  her  so-called  rights,  would  have  to  do  so  in  a 
Court  of  Law,  and  that  Mr.  John  Branson  was  willing,  if  neces- 
sary, to  carry  the  case  even  up  to  the  Lords.  The  fact  that  the 
newly-married  couples  were  risking  their  fortunes,  and  defying 
their  stepmother,  no  doubt  added  to  the  interest  with  which  they 
were  regarded.  We  all  remember  how  the  whole  population  used 
to  turn  out  in  order  to  gaze  upon  the  procession  of  men  about 
to  be  hanged.  Perhaps,  also,  everybody  was  desirous  of  seeing 
the  miraculous  uncle — FOncle  Dieu-Donne — so  wonderfully  and 
Providentially  bestowed  on  the  orphans  when  their  need  was 
sorest. 

I  have  always  been  of  opinion  that  the  wedding  ceremonies  in 
this  country  are  shamefully  curtailed,  to  the  great  loss  and  detri- 
ment of  the  bride.  We  ought  to  consider  that  the  bridegroom  has 
many  opportunities  of  making  a  public  appearance,  and  walking 
round,  so  to  speak,  before  the  eyes  of  man.  He  may  go  into 
Parliament  or  into  the  Vestry  ;  he  may  join  the  Salvation  Army, 
or  the  Advanced  Kadical  Debating  Society,  or  the  Peckham  Rye 
House  of  Commons.  But  the  bride  has  but  this  one  short  show  : 
a  poor  quarter  of  an  hour  in  white  satin  and  veil,  and  then  to  go  in 
again,  like  a  bad  singer,  although  she  has  played  her  part  with 
admirable  presence  of  mind,  grace,  and  beauty.  Only  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  !  Why  there  are  some  countries,  described  by  the  learned 
Monsieur  Picart,  where  they  keep  the  wedding  ceremonies  goine 
for  three  days,  during  which  the  bride  continually  sits  before  the 
assembled  multitude,  rejoicing  all  eyes  by  her  surpassing  loveli- 
ness, and  eating  Turkish  Delight,  honey,  chocolate-creams,  treacle, 
and  jam  without  intermission. 

It  was  all  over  ;  where  there  had  been  four  were  now  only  two  ; 
the  vestry  business  was  completed  ;  the  organ  had  pealed  forth  its 
Wedding  March  ;  the  brides  and  bridegrooms  and  best  men  and 


THE  WEDDING  PRESENT.  53 

bridesmaids  had  all  driven  away — the  Major,  who  had  been  ill  at 
ease  during  the  ceremony,  in  a  terrible  state  of  despondency  and 
doubt — how  could  they,  he  asked,  now  that  it  was  too  late — how 
could  they  have  trusted  so  implicitly  this  new-comer,  this  man  of 
whom  they  knew  nothing — this  Uncle  Jack  ? 

All  were  gone,  except  Uncle  Jack  himself,  who  stood  in  the 
church  porch  with  a  stranger,  a  man  who  had  been  present  during 
the  ceremony,  and  had  taken  as  much  interest  in  it  as  a  super  in  a 
tragedy,  or  a  mute  at  a  funeral,  and,  with  a  little  bundle  of  papers, 
waited  in  the  porch  while  the  people  thronged  out. 

"  Now,"  said  Uncle  Jack,  "  we  had  better  do  what  we  have  to  do 
without  further  delay." 

Mrs.  Branson  was  so  much  affected  by  her  brother-in-law's  quiet 
confidence  and  his  promise  to  return  after  the  wedding  with  some- 
thing— to  put  it  mildly — not  too  pleasant  for  her,  and  with 
Antoinette's  forebodings,  that  she  fortified  herself  with  the 
presence  of  her  solicitor.  He  was  a  young  man,  although  a  solici- 
tor, but  he  was  ageing  rapidly,  which  was  in  his  favour  ;  there  is 
always  hope  for  a  young  solicitor  when  he  gets  thin  on  the  temples. 
This  young  gentleman  brought  with  him  a  copy  of  Mr.  Samuel 
Branson's  will  to  assure  himself  and  his  client  of  her  powers  and 
rights.  So  that  when  Jack  Branson  and  his  companion  arrived, 
they  met  a  little  group  of  three,  Antoinette  forming  one. 

"Your  stepchildren,"  said  Uncle  Jack,  "are  married." 

"  Without  your  consent,  madam,"  said  the  lady's  solicitor.  "  By 
their  father's  will,  then,  the  estate  is  your  own." 

"  That,  I  suppose,"  observed  Antoinette  sharply,  glancing  at  Jack, 
"  cannot  be  disputed." 

"  On  the  contrary,"  said  Jack. 

"  Quite  the  contrary,"  Jack's  companion  repeated. 

"  I  thought  so,"  Antoinette  murmured.  "  I  knew  there  was  a 
trap." 

"  Pray,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Branson's  solicitor,  "  if  you  have  any  ob- 
jection to  make,  do  so  through  me." 

"  I  have  instructed  this  gentleman,"  Jack  replied  ;  "  who  is  a 
partner  in  the  firm  of  Longwynd,  Spinnet,  and  Taxum,  of  Lincoln's 
Inn  Fields,  to  follow  the  usual  procedure,  if  any  should  be  required. 
I  have  also  instructed  him  to  make  it  quite  clear  to  you,  for  your 
client,  that  my  conditions  are  final." 

"  Your  conditions  ?"  The  young  solicitor  drew  out  his  copy  of 
the  will.     "  Your  conditions,  sir  ?" 

"  My  conditions  are  that  Mrs.  Branson  leaves  this  house  immedi- 
ately— within  one  hour ;  that  she  takes  out  of  it  nothing  but  her 
dresses,  jewels,  and  personal  effects.  One  moment,  sir.  You  shall, 
I  assure  you,  be  thoroughly  satisfied  immediately.  Such  treatment 
as  she  dealt  to  her  stepdaughter  I  deal  to  her.  She  must  leave  the 
house  within  an  hour ;  she  shall  have  an  annuity  of  two  hundred 
pounds  a  year.    If  she  refuses,  she  shall  have  nothing." 


54  UNCLE  JACK. 

"  He  will  do  it,"  said  Antoinette.     "  He  will  certainly  do  it." 

"  What  is  the  meaning "  Mrs.  Branson  began.     But  her  jaws 

stuck,  as  the  old  books  used  to  say,  and  she  could  not  finish  her 
sentence.     Her  cheeks  were  pale,  and  her  look  scared. 

"  And  what  about  me,  Jack  ?"  asked  Antoinette.  "  Am  I,  with 
my  Secretary,  to  be  thrown  out  of  window  ?" 

"  Pray  use  your  own  convenience,  Miss  Baker.  Under  the  circum- 
stances  " 

"  Yes— I  understand.  Do  you  know,  Jack,  it  has  been  a  very  fine 
thing  for  those  young  people  that  you  turned  up  ?  If  it  had  not 
been  for  you,  I  should  most  certainly  have  married  Harry — I  should 
have  made  him  marry  me,  whether  he  liked  it  or  not ;  but  I  doubt 
whether  I  should  ever  have  made  him  a  man  after  my  own  heart. 
There  isn't  the  making  of  my  kind  of  man  in  him.  Very  likely,  too, 
the  discipline  would  have  killed  him.  Don't  think  that  I  should 
have  beaten  him,  or  deprived  him  of  his  beer,  or  anything  ;  but  he 
would  have  had  to  obey  and  do  as  I  told  him,  and  I  doubt  whether 
he  would  have  been  happy." 

"  What,  in  the  name  of  goodness,  did  you  want  to  marry  him 
for  ?" 

"  You  are  a  big,  strong  man,  Jack,  and,  I  think,  with  a  head  upon 
your  shoulders  ;  and  can't  you  see  that  Harry  is  rich  enough  for  any 
woman  ?  I  am  not  mercenary  at  all  for  myself,  and  I  have  enough 
to  live  upon  ;  but  I  am  zealous  for  the  Cause.  I  do  not  want  a 
husband,  nor  do  I  want  his  money ;  but,  for  the  Cause,  it  would  be 
better  if  I  were  married,  and  if  I  could  live  in  a  big  house.  Now 
you  see.  Good-bye,  Jack.  If  you  were  younger  and  more  amenable 
I  wouM  T>uch  rather  marry  you.     I  would  indeed." 

"  The  other  one — the  She-man,"  said  Jack,  l;  will  be  put  out  of 
doors  or  through  the  window  immediately,  neck  and  crop,  if  he 
ventures  to  come  back." 

"  Valentine,  I  suppose — ye — yes.  He  has  gone  to  London  on  an 
errand  for  me.  He  shall  not  come  back  here.  Indeed,  it  would  be 
useless.  I  don't  think  he  will  be  so  much  help  to  us  as  I  thought  at 
first.  What  wc  most  want  is  a  big,  strong,  healthy,  contented-looking 
man,  who  will  also  show  his  obedience  to  the  Intellect  of  Woman. 
You  would  look  the  part  to  perfection,  Jack.  Look  here  " — she  laid 
her  hand  on  his  arm—"  if  you  like  to  think  of  it,  though  your  hair 
is  gone  grey,  I  am  ready  to  marry  you.  I  am  indeed.  Look  at  me. 
Am  I  pretty  enough  for  you  'i  Your  money  will  be  quite  as  good 
as  Harry's,  and  your  manner  is  finer." 

"Xone  for  me,  thank  you,"  stammered  J;ick  in  great  confusion, 
as  if  he  had  been  asked  if  ho  would  take  something  after  his  walk. 

Mrs.  Branson  all  this  time  sat  staring  at  this  brother-in-law  of 
hers,  who  thus  made  shipwreck  of  all  her  plans  and  herself  as  well. 
.Somehow,  she  knew  that  the  game  was  up.  There  was  nothing  but 
obedience  possible  for  her.  Her  importance  was  gone  ;  her  career 
ruined  ;  and  nhc  felt  with  bitterness  that  it  no  longer  mattered. 


THE  WEDDING  PRESENT.  55 

as  she  would  have  no  money,  whether  she  belonged  to  the  Cause 
or  not. 

Then  Jack  went  away,  leaving  the  partner  in  Messrs.  Longywnd, 
Spinnet,  and  Taxum  behind. 

"  The  meaning,"  said  the  partner,  taking  the  young  solicitor  into 
a  window,  but  Mrs.  Branson  and  Antoinette  caught  a  word  or 
two—"  The  meaning  of  all  this  is  that — hum — hum — that — hum 
—hum " 

"  G-ood  heavens  !"  cried  the  young  solicitor.    "  I  never  knew  this." 

"  Certainly  ;  there  can  be  no  doubt  of  it.  And  further,  unless 
your  client — hum — hum — arrears — hum — hum — hum — nothing  in 
the  world." 

"  God  bless  me !  Pardon  me,  madam,"  he  addressed  his  client, 
"  you  are  quite  sure  that  the  gentleman  who  has  just  gone  out  is 
Mr.  John  Branson  ?" 

"Why,  of  course  he  is,"  said  Mrs.  Branson.  "  There  is  no  doubt 
about  it.  Dozens  of  people  here  have  recognised  him.  He  is  very 
little  altered,  considering." 

"  Then,  in  fact,  it  is  very  distressing,  very ;  but,  my  dear  madam, 
I  regret  to  inform  you  that  everything  you  have  in  the  world  pro- 
bably belongs  to  him,  because,  you  see " 

"I  suspected  it  all  the  time,"  said  Antoinette.  "What  a  pity, 
what  a  thousand  pities,  that  he  did  not  come  home  a  few  weeks 
earlier  !  We  could  have  caught  him  for  the  Cause.  I  would  have 
married  him,  and — oh  !  what  a  mess  you've  made  of  it,  Louise  !  To 
be  sure,  you  did  not  show  the  spirit  of  obedience  I  expected  in  you ; 
you  were  not  worthy  of  this  great  fortune  ;  and  perhaps  things  are 
as  well  as  they  have  turned  out." 

The  breakfast  was  over,  and  the  carriage  waiting  for  the  two 
couples.  The  brides  were  gone,  in  fact,  to  change  their  dresses. 
Meantime,  the  people  gathered  about  the  porch  with  rice  to  throw. 
They  waited  a  most  unreasonable  time.     The  reason  was  this. 

Uncle  Jack  was  not  in  the  porch  with  the  rest.  He  was  in  the 
Major's  study,  and  the  brides  were  with  him. 

"My  dears,"  he  said,  "I  have  not  given  you  my  wedding  present. 
It  is  here."  He  handed  Cicely  a  letter  in  a  blue  envelope.  "  Give 
that  to  your  husband  ;"  and  to  Chris  another.  "  Keep  that  your- 
self, my  dear,  and  open  it  in  the  train.  You  see,  I  went  up  to 
London  looking  for  one  thing,  and  I  found  another.  What  I  found 
was  that  all  my  brother's  estate  was  mine  ;  absolutely  and  without 
room  for  dispute,  mine." 

"  Yours  ?  Oh,  Uncle  Jack  !  yet  you  told  us  last  night  that  you 
had  nothing  at  all !" 

"  I  have  nothing  at  all.  I  am  a  Tramp  and  a  Vagabond  still.  I 
said  that  the  property  was  mine  ;  but  it  is  mine  no  longer.  It  was 
left  to  me  by  my  father,  to  devolve  upon  my  brother  if  I  should 
be  dead.    They  took  it  for  granted  that  I  was  dead,  and  he  enjoyed 


56  UNCLE  JACK. 

the  income  during  his  lifetime.  None  of  you — not  even  your  step- 
mother or  any  of  her  advisers — seem  to  have  known  that  if  I  came 
home  it  would  all  be  mine.     Do  you  understand  now  ?" 

"Yes— but— but " 

"  Now  you  see  why  I  was  late  at  the  breakfast.  I  wanted  first  to 
turn  out  your  stepmother.  This  I  have  done.  Next,  as  regards 
yourselves.  Could  you  think,  Christina  and  Cicely,  that  your  uncle 
would  come  all  the  way  from  Australia  to  be  made  much  of  by  you 
two  girls,  and  then  to  take  away  your  fortunes  ?  A  Gentleman 
Tramp  is  not  necessarily  a  Rogue.  Cicely,  my  dear,  that  paper  in 
your  hand  tells  your  husband  that  the  estates  are  his  own  again. 
They  have  only  gone  through  my  hands  in  order  to  get  rid  of  his 
stepmother  for  him.  Christina,  my  dear,  that  letter  in  your  hand 
assures  you  of  your  fortune,  free  as  when  your  father  thought  it 
was  his  own  to  leave  you.  Children,  good  and  kind,  this  is  my 
wedding  present.  Kiss  me.  Now  go  to  your  husbands,  who  must 
not  be  kept  waiting.  Yes,  yes,  my  dears — perhaps — perhaps—  some 
day.     Give  me  one  more  kiss." 

It  was  astonishing,  everybody  said,  that  the  brides,  who  had  both 
behaved  so  admirably  and  kept  up  so  well,  came  out  of  the  house 
with  eyes  full  of  tears,  and  on  getting  into  the  carriages  began, 
each  in  her  own,  to  cry  and  to  sob.     What  did  they  cry  for  ? 

"When  the  Major  went  to  look  for  Uncle  Jack  he  was  gone.  And 
he  has  never  come  back  since.  Where  he  has  gone  to,  what  he 
is  doing — unless  he  is  carrying  on  his  Variety  Entertainment  in 
Australia— no  one  knows.  But  they  all  live  in  hopes  that  some  day 
he  will  return  to  see  the  girls  again. 


JULIA. 


"There's  the  Family  Treasure,  Julia.  Now  don't  forget  the 
Family  Treasure,  whatever  you  do.  It's  three  pound  four  and 
eight.     And  owing  three  months." 

"  Three  four  eight,"  Julia  repeated,  mechanically  making  a  note 
of  the  amount  with  a  stump  of  a  pencil.  "  He  said  he'd  pay  this 
morning." 

"  See  that  he  does  then.  The  Treasure's  a  slippery  chap.  Lord  ! 
the  world's  full  of  slippery  chaps.  We've  all  got  to  be  slippery, 
whether  we  like  it  or  not,  we  have,  because  we're  poor.  Nobody 
ought  to  be  poor." 

_  The  speaker  was  an  old  man  of  seventy  or  more,  perched  upon  a 
high  stool ;  a  dried-up  old  man,  with  short  and  spiky  white  hair, 
and  a  face  covered  with  lines,  wrinkles,  and  crow's  feet.  His  chin 
was  square,  and  he  spoke  with  the  sharp  impatience  which  belongs 
to  masterful  men.  In  fact,  he  was  a  pugnacious  man,  and  a  stickler 
for  rights  ;  one  of  those  men  who  can  kick.  The  fighting  and 
kicking  man  is  invaluable  when  he  has  been  taught  to  use  his  gifts 
aright.  Too  often,  however,  he  kicks  the  wrong  persons  and  fights 
on  the  wrong  side.  This  man  was  so  pugnacious  that  he  certainly 
ought  to  have  become  a  rich  and  successful  man.  But  he  was 
neither  rich  nor  successful,  because  I  suppose  he  had  never  found 
himself  in  the  right  groove.  The  office  in  which  he  was  at  work 
belonged  to  his  workshop,  and  that  was  in  the  City  Road,  on  the 
north  or  sunny  side  of  that  noble  thoroughfare,  and  very  near 
where  it  bends  southward.  The  office  was  only  a  small  slip  of  a 
place,  eight  feet  broad  and  fifteen  feet  long  ;  there  was  a  small 
fireplace  at  one  end  and  a  safe  at  the  other  ;  there  was  also  in  it  a 
table  with  a  wooden  chair  ;  there  was  a  high  desk  and  a  stool,  and 
beside  the  fireplace  there  was  a  cupboard.  This  was  the  living  or 
keeping  room  of  Mr.  Bradberry,  as  well  as  his  office,  and  above  it 
was  his  bedroom,  because  he  was  not  ashamed  to  live  in  his  place 


58  JULIA. 

of  business,  and  indeed  could  not  afford  to  live  elsewhere.  On 
entering  the  place  for  the  first  time,  one  observed  a  curiously  sour 
smell,  one  of  those  smells  which  seem  to  the  outsider  as  if  the 
longer  one  remains  among  them,  the  more  unpleasant  do  they 
become  ;  a  smell  which  would  very  soon  entirely  rout  a  whole  army 
and  put  them  to  flight ;  a  smell  to  which  no  one  could  ever  become 
accustomed  ;  in  that  respect  a  smell  like  the  smell  of  a  poulterer's 
shop,  or  the  smell  of  new  furniture,  or  that  of  vinegar.  To  those, 
however,  familiar  with  the  industries  of  the  country,  the  smeli 
meant  paste,  and  the  paste  meant  cases,  and  the  cases  meant  books, 
and  the  books  meant  bookbinding.  In  fact,  this  was  the  workshop 
or  studio  of  a  bookbinder,  one  of  the  humblest  followers  of  that 
craft  and  mystery  ;  one  whose  workmen  and  workgirls  were  few, 
and  whose  operations  were  conducted  with  a  view  to  cheapness 
much  more  than  to  artistic  finish.  Mr.  Bradberry,  in  fact,  knew 
nothing  of  the  history  and  splendours  of  his  own  craft,  had  never 
heard  of  the  .great  masters,  even  of  Grolier  de  Servier  ;  knew 
nothing  at  all,  even  by  hearsay,  of  blazons,  mottoes,  and  geometrical 
patterns,  and  was  quite  content  to  bind  everything  that  came  to 
him  in  stout  cloth  at  ninepence,  in  half-leather  at  one  and  six,  and 
in  whole  leather,  with  gilt  extra,  at  three  and  six  :  and  hoped  for 
little  more  good  fortune  than  to  get  enough  work  to  keep  his  people 
employed,  and  to  pay  his  way  with  regularity. 

"  And  that,  Julia,"  he  said,  "  no  man  can  do  who  don't  get  paid 
himself.  Stick  it  into  them,  therefore.  You're  a  deal  too  mild. 
Tell  'em  I'll  County  Court  'em,  every  one." 

"  Have  I  got  all  ?"  Julia  interrupted  him,  without  paying  the 
least  heed  to  this  burst  of  wrath,  which  happened  regularly  on 
Saturday  morning  when  she  went  forth  to  collect  for  her  employer. 

"  Yes,  you've  got 'em  all."  The  old  man  slipped  off  bis  stool, 
and  you  then  perceived  that  he  was  quite  a  little  old  man,  and 
wondered  how  he  could  impress  people,  as  he  did,  with  the  sense  of 
importance.  "  You've  got  'em  all  ;  and  presently  you'll  come  back 
with  about  a  quarter  of  what  you  ought  to  have,  and  a  cartload  of 
excuses.  They  can't  pay,  and  then  they  tell  lies.  Nobody  ought 
to  be  poor.  I'll  go  bankrupt  and  shut  up  the  shop,  I  will.  I'll  go 
to  New  Zealand.  You  shall  go  with  me  if  you  like,  and  your 
grandmother  shall  go  to  the  House.  There,  Julia,  you've  got  'em 
all.     Well  ?     What  are  you  waiting  for  ?" 

The  words  were  harsh,  but  the  manner  was  not.  Julia  nodded, 
and  began  to  put  up  her  pencil  and  her  note-book.  Then  suddenly 
her  face  turned  white,  and  her  head  began  to  swim,  and  things  got 
dark;  and  Julia  would  have  fallen,  but  the  old  man  caught  her  and 
placed  her  in  his  armchair.  It  was  only  a  brief  fainting-fit  and 
over  in  a  momont.  She  recovered,  and  sat  up,  looking  rather  white 
and  dazed. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  the  girl  ?"  the  old  man  cried.  "  Are 
you  better  now,  Julia  ?" 


"Oh  yes,"  she  said,  looking  abont  her.  "  It  was  nothing.  I  am 
well  enough  now.     Perhaps  the  room  was  hot." 

"  Nothing  !"  he  repeated  with  scorn.  "  Hot  room  !  Don't  tell 
lies,  you  girl !  Your  beast  of  a  grandfather  was  drunk  again  last 
night,  and  there's  no  money  this  morning,  and  no  breakfast." 

Julia  cast  down  her  eyes.  The  charge  was  not  to  be  denied. 
Indeed,  this  tendency  of  her  grandparent  to  drink  up  and  devour 
the  family  revenues  was  as  well  known  as  if  he  had  been  Louis 
Quatorze. 

"  And  there  was  no  supper  last  night  when  you  came  home  from 
the  theatre."  He  banged  the  table  with  his  fist.  "  No  supper,  and 
no  breakfast;  and  then  you  waste  my  precious  time  with  your  faint- 
ing-fits." 

Julia  replied  not,  but  sat  guiltily  hanging  her  head. 

"  You  move  out  of  that  chair  if  you  dare,  till  I  come  back!" 

Mr.  Bradberry  seized  his  hat  and  disappeared.  Presently  he 
returned,  followed  by  a  boy  bearing  a  tray,  on  which  was  a  cup  of 
cocoa  steaming  hot,  and  a  roll  of  bread  and  a  pat  of  butter. 

"You  will  eat  this — every  bit  of  it,  you  will,"  said  Mr.  Brad- 
berry,  with  terrifying  fierceness,  "  before  you  go  !  Mind  you,  Julia, 
don't  think  I'm  going  to  pay  for  it.  Not  a  bit.  It  shall  be  taken 
out  of  your  wages.  Every  penny.  And  if  you  don't  take  care, 
I'll  make  you  eat  a  mutton-chop  out  of  your  wages  too,  every 
"c&orning,  when  you  come,  before  you  do  a  stroke,  I  will!  By  the 
Lord,  I  will!     Tell  your  grandmother." 

He  stopped  because  he  choked.  Otherwise  he  would  have  said  a 
good  deal. 

Julia  made  no  reply.  If  you  are  horribly  hungry— faint  with 
hunger,  and  have  had  nothing  to  eat  from  yesterday's  five  o'clock 
cup  of  tea  and  slice  of  bread  and  butter,  you  do  not  want  any 
second  bidding  to  swallow  a  cup  of  cocoa  and  a  roll.  Therefore 
she  obediently  drank  up  all  the  cocoa,  which  might  have  been 
stronger,  but  was  hoi;  and  sweet ;  and  made  short  work  of  the  roll 
and  the  pat  of  butter,  which  was  beautiful,  though  very  likely  it 
was  only  butterine  and  made  out  of  pure  beef  fat.  But  it  went 
very  well  with  the  roll,  and  she  thought  it  was  butter. 

"  If  your  grandfather  and  your  grandmother  was  took,"  Mr. 
Bradberry  went  on,  in  a  kinder  voice,  "or  if  you'd  let  'em  go  into 
the  House  at  once,  I'd  double  your  wages,  Julia,  I  would  indeed. 
You're  worth  more  than  eighteen  shillings  a  week  to  me,  a  great 
deal  more.  What  I  said  about  you  bringing  of  em  up  to  the  mark 
was  nonsense,  Julia.  You  persuade  'em  out  of  their  money  with 
your  pretty  talk  much  better  than  any  clerk-fellow  could.  But  I 
shan't  raise  your  wages,  for  all  that,  d'ye  hear  ?  I  sball  lower  'em. 
Go  and  tell  your  miserable  old  grandfather  that  I  shall  cut  you 
down.  Where's  your  spirit  ?  What  do  you  do  it  for  ?  Why  don't 
you  take  and  keep  your  money  ?  Very  well,  I  shall  cut  you  down 
five  shillings  a  week,  and  you  shall  have  a  cup  of  cocoa  for  breakfast 


60  JULIA. 

and  a  mutton-chop  for  dinner  every  day  out  of  the  balance.    Go 
and  tell  'em  that.     Yah  !" 

Julia  answered  none  of  these  questions.  But  being  greatly 
strengthened  and  refreshed  with  the  cocoa  and  the  roll,  she  got  up 
and  said  "  Thank  you,"  and  went  away  with  her  pocket-book  and 
her  stump  of  pencil. 


II. 

The  girl  was  simply,  but  not  shabbily,  dressed  in  a  black  cloth 
jacket,  and  a  black  stuff  frock  ;  her  hat  was  ornamented  with  a  red 
feather,  and  she  wore  a  pair  of  Swedish  gloves,  once  a  light  drab, 
but  now  gone  brown,  or  even  black,  in  the  fingers.  If  you  were  to 
meet  Julia  in  the  street  you  would  probably  pass  her  by  without 
notice  ;  quite  an  insignificant  girl :  a  girl  of  whom  there  are  hun- 
dreds and  thousands  in  London.  Yet  those  observant  persons  who 
sat  opposite  her  when  she  went  on  her  errands  by  omnibus  or 
Metropolitan  Railway,  became  presently  aware  that  this  was  a  girl 
who  had  points.  For  instance,  she  had  large  and  limpid  eyes  of 
deep  blue,  which  immediately  attracted  the  attention  of  anyone 
who  had  eyes  of  his  own  ;  they  were  the  kind  of  eyes  which  seem 
to  absorb  the  light  and  let  it  stay  there  ;  they  were  "  as  the  eyes  of 
doves  by  the  rivers  of  waters  ;"  or  the  kind  of  eyes  which  seem  to 
be  always  full  of  tenderness,  and  thoughts  too  deep  for  human 
utterance.  Her  hair  was  brown  and  plentiful;  her  nose  was  perhaps 
a  little  too  short,  and  her  mouth  a  little  too  large — but  in  a  work- 
girl  you  do  not  expect  everything,  and  it  really  was  a  face  full  of 
possibilities.  She  was  of  a  fair  height,  but  not  tall,  and  much  too 
thin;  she  was  also  rather  round-shouldered  and  flat-chested.  If 
one  sits  in  a  third-class  carriage  opposite  such  a  girl,  one  presently 
— unless  one  is  reading  the  paper,  or  happens  to  be  a  stock  or  a  stone 
— falls  a-thinking  how  it  would  be  if  one  were  to  take  her  away 
and  place  her  where  she  could  breathe  pure  air,  with  people  who 
would  endeavour  to  put  great  thoughts  into  her  mind,  suffer  her  to 
do  no  work  but  what  she  pleased,  give  her  plenty  of  good  food, 
pretty  dresses,  and  sweet  companionship,  with  sympathy,  confidence, 
and  love.  Then  certainly  would  the  round  shoulders  straighten 
themselves,  the  flat  chest  fill  out  with  womanly  beauty,  the  lines  in 
her  forehead  vanish,  the  cheek  grow  plump  and  rosy,  and  her  face 
become  bright  with  smiles  and  sunshine,  as  was  intended  at  the 
outset.  There  is  a  certain  admirable  school  to  which  all  really 
gracious  ladies  belong  :  this  school  thinks  that  every  person  it  knows 
is  possessed  of  as  pure  and  perfect  a  soul  as  was  originally  planned 
for  them,  and  so  they  are  to  be  treated  and  trusted  accordingly.  Very 
often  they  get  horribly  cheated,  but  that  matters  little.  Now  it 
helps  these  good  people  wonderfully  in  the  estimate  which  they  make 


fUUA.  61 

of  their  friends  if  they  can  discover  for  themselves  the  true  face — 
the  model — behind  the  sorry  failure  which  a  narrow  and  pinching 
life  too  often  makes  of  it.  Nobody  who  has  not  tried  it  can  imagine 
how  interesting  a  person  becomes  when  you  have  once  discovered 
what  a  wonderfully  beautiful  face  ought  to  belong  to  that  person. 
Up  to  a  certain  time  of  life  the  real  face  is  easily  discerned,  and 
without  much  difficulty  recoverable.  Let  us  take  a  great  number 
of  these  failures,  while  they  are  yet  young,  and  bring  them  back  to 
themselves. 

As  for  Julia,  it  was  easy  to  see  what  her  face  should  have  been, 
because  at  nineteen  it  is  almost  impossible  to  have  spoiled  the 
original.  Besides,  Julia  had  as  yet  done  nothing  at  all  to  disfigure 
herself,  except  so  far  as  ignorance,  hard  work,  and  lack  of  any 
pleasure  disfigure  a  girl.  They  do  undoubtedly  make  for  disfigure- 
ment, as  may  be  seen  any  Saturday  afternoon  in  the  London  streets. 
She  did  not,  for  instance,  walk  about  these  streets  three  abreast 
talking  loudly  and  laughing  noisily  and  on  small  provocation,  as 
many  maidens  use  ;  she  "  kept  company,"  good  or  bad,  with  no 
man  ;  she  went  home  every  evening  after  her  work  was  over  with 
regularity,  and  she  sallied  forth  every  morning  before  work  was 
begun  with  punctuality.  She  lived  with  her  gi-andparents,  who  had 
two  rooms  on  a  first  floor  in  Brunswick  Place,  which  leads  out  from 
the  City  Road  to  Charles  Square,  the  favourite  home  and  retreat  of 
Hoxton  solicitors,  who  are  the  cream  of  the  profession  ;  and  to 
Hoxton  Square  ;  and  to  the  theatre  which  is  known  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood as  the  Britannieroxton.  The  old  man  had  been  all  his 
life  employed  at  a  certain  publisher's  in  Paternoster  Bow,  and  he 
was  still  retained  at  a  small  wage,  though  well-nigh  past  his  work, 
to  pack  up  parcels,  which  he  did  with  so  much  zeal  and  enthusiasm, 
and  so  virtuous  and  benevolent  a  countenance,  that  many  people 
believed  he  must  have  a  share  in  the  profits.  The  old  lady  had 
been  for  many  years  a  dresser  at  the  Royal  Grecian,  and  still  had 
the  run  of  the  house,  and  was  enthusiastic  for  the  drama,  especially 
that  part  of  it  which  concerns  the  ladies'  frocks.  Both  the  old 
people,  moreover,  were  lovers  of  those  emotions  which  can  be  pro- 
cured by  strong  drink  and  plenty  of  it.  They  got  it,  as  they  got 
their  rent,  their  clothes,  and  most  of  their  food,  out  of  Julia's 
wages. 

The  girl  was,  not  to  disguise  the  truth,  a  gutter  girl,  a  child  of 
the  streets.  As  for  her  mother,  she  knew  only,  because  her  grand- 
mother derived  satisfaction  from  the  thought,  that  she  was  buried 
with  a  wedding-ring,  and  as  for  her  father,  as  she  was  bidden  not  to 
ask,  it  is  as  well  for  us  not  to  inquire.  Perhaps  he  deserted  his 
wife,  which  frequently  happens  in  certain  circles  ;  perhaps  he  "did 
something,"  which  also  often  happens.  Whatever  his  history,  he 
contributed  nothing  to  the  maintenance  of  the  child,  who  was 
from  the  first  given  to  understand  that  she  was  indebted  to  her 
grandmother    beyond    any   power    of    repayment,    but    that   she 


62  JULIA. 

would  be  obliged  in  after  life  to  give  back  some  of  the  dreadful  ex- 
penditure lavished  upon  her  for  her  early  "keep"  out  of  her  own 
earnings. 

The  Board  School  taught  her  to  read,  spell,  and  cipher  ;  her  play- 
grounds were  about  the  shabby  and  broken  railings  of  Charles 
Square,  in  whose  enclosure  are  real  shrubs  and  real  grass  ;  and  the 
pavements  of  Tabernacle  Walk,  and  Pitfield  Street,  where  are  the 
great  Haberdashers'  schools,  and  even  the  boundless  City  Road  itself  ; 
her  earliest  views  concerning  Heaven,  of  which  she  really  did  acquire 
some  vague  information,  were  of  a  place  quite  far  off,  the  way  to 
which  was  at  present  unknown  to  her,  where  there  would  be  no  old 
grandmother  to  boat  and  nag  at  her,  and  an  endless  supply  of  eel- 
pie,  mutton-pie,  and  cranberry  pie  ;  her  companions  were  naturally 
girls  like  herself  :  and  the  greatest  pleasure  attainable  by  the 
children  was  to  dance  on  the  pavement  to  the  music  of  a  barrel- 
organ — everybody  ought  always  to  give  sixpence  to  an  organ-grinder, 
whenever  one  is  observed  to  be  benevolently  grinding  for  the  penni- 
less little  ones  to  dance.  As  for  religion,  morals,  principles,  rules 
of  life,  conduct — Julia,  like  the  others,  had,  for  the  most  part,  to 
pick  them  up  for  herself.  Considering  that  this  was  Julia's  birth, 
and  this  her  education,  I  can  only  explain  her  love  of  things  quiet, 
decorous,  and  well-ordered  by  supposing  that  she  was  naturally 
driven  to  like  the  exact  opposite  of  the  things  which  pleased  her 
grandmother.  If  this  is  not  considered  sufficient  to  account  for  the 
fact,  one  may  fall  back  on  the  general  truth,  that  some  girls,  whether 
they  be  princesses  or  gutter  children,  are  born  with  a  natural  and 
instinctive  love  for  good  behaviour  and  all  that  belongs  thereto. 
The  Lord,  said  some  divine — probably  Augustine,  who  seems  to 
have  said  almost  all  the  really  human  things — made  women  pure 
and  men  strong.  The  moi..'cs.  in  order  to  find  an  excuse  for  their 
monkeries,  reversed  the  maxim. 

She  was  reckoned  an  extremely  fortunate  girl,  and  drew  wages 
which  made  other  girls  gasp  and  pant  and  hold  their  breath.  Family 
connection  and  private  interest,  as  is  always  the  way,  brought  her 
this  good  fortune.  For  her  grandmother  took  her  at  a  very  tender 
age  to  the  Grecian,  where  she  appeared  on  the  stage  whenever  a 
child,  boy  or  girl,  was  wanted  in  the  melodrama.  At  Christmas  a 
good  many  children  are  taken  on  for  the  pantomime,  and  Julia 
always  made  one.  When  she  grew  taller,  she  was  a  village  maiden, 
or  one  of  the  crowd,  or  part  of  a  procession,  or  she  held  the  princess's 
train,  or  in  fact,  she  was  anybody  required  to  fill  up  the  stage  and 
make  a  group.  As  she  was  the  prettiest  of  all  the  girls,  and  "  made 
up  "  better  than  any  of  them,  she  was  soon  placed  in  the  front,  with 
orders  to  turn  her  big  eyes  upon  the  sympathetic  pit,  and  smile 
sweetly.  She  did  this,  driving  the  shop  boys  to  despair,  and  draw- 
ing all  hearts  to  herself  for  fifteen  shillings  a  week.  Yet  if  Julia 
ever  tried  to  understand  anything  at  all  in  the  world,  which  I  very 
much  doubt,  it  was  to  ask  why  people  came  to  the  theatre — all  the 


JULIA.  63 

tricks  of  which  she  knew  and  despised — unless  it  was  to  see  the 
heroine's  dresses. 

This  was  her  evening's  occupation.  All  the  day  long  she  kept  the 
accounts  of  a  book-binder.  Observe  again  the  value  of  family  con- 
nection. Her  grandfather  it  was  who  saw  in  the  bookbinding  trade 
a  chance  for  the  girl,  and  therefore  got  her  taken  by  Mr.  Bradberry, 
of  the  City  Road,  as  a  folder.  She  might  have  learned  in  time  to 
fold  very  neatly,  and  might  even  have  risen  to  be  a  sewer  of  sheets, 
but,  by  some  lucky  accident,  her  employer  discovered  in  her  a 
previously  hidden  and  very  remarkable  capacity  for  keeping  accounts. 
Julia  possessed  a  clear  head  and  an  accurate  power  of  addition. 
Therefore,  she  ceased  to  sit  in  a  row  and  fold,  and  was  promoted 
from  the  workshop  to  the  office,  and  was  consequently  separated 
from  the  other  girls.  She  drew  from  the  theatrical  treasury  fifteen 
shillings  a  week,  and  Mr.  Bradberry  paid  her  eighteen,  so  that  this 
fortunate  girl  was  actually  earning  thirty-three  shillings  a  week,  on 
which,  with  the  ten  shillings  which  the  old  man  got  for  his  packing, 
her  grandparents  did  remarkably  well,  and  enjoyed  most  of  the 
blessings  of  civilization,  including  gin. 

It  can  hardly  be  said  that  in  those  days  Julia  could  be  called 
happy,  because  happiness  is  an  active  condition  of  brain,  and  cannot 
exist  without  something  to  feed  upon  in  the  shape  of  a  memory  or 
an  expectation.  Certainly,  on  the  other  hand,  she  was  not  miserable, 
because  misery  also  requires  a  memory  or  a  dread.  If,  like  Robinson 
Crusoe,  she  had  to  consider  the  questions  for  or  against,  she  might 
have  set  down,  on  the  one  hand,  that  she  made  a  really  great  income  ; 
on  the  other,  that  her  grandmother  took  it  all :  on  the  one  hand, 
that  she  had  steady  work  ;  on  the  other,  that  she  had  too  much  of 
it :  on  the  one  hand,  that  she  had  no  friends  and  no  amusements  ; 
on  the  other,  that  she  knew  the  "ropes"  of  one  form  of  amusement 
at  least,  and  wanted  no  more  of  it :  on  the  one  hand,  that  she  was 
young  ;  on  the  other,  that  young  people  ought  to  have  some  time 
in  the  day,  if  it  be  only  an  hour  in  the  evening,  for  the  enjoyment 
of  their  youth.  The  human  soul,  say  the  phrase-mongers,  is  capable 
of  infinite  happiness.  Let  us  rather  read  it  that  the  human  soul  is 
capable  of  enjoying  whatever  it  knows  how  to  desire.  Julia  desired 
nothing  because  as  yet  she  knew  nothing.  She  was  too  young  to 
feel  the  curse  of  labour.  She  liked  the  book-keeping  work  because 
her  employer  was  kind  to  her.  She  went  to  the  theatre  without 
asking  herself  whether  she  liked  it  or  not,  because  she  had  always 
gone  there.  And  what  she  thought  about  all  day  I  know  not,  nor 
can  I  understand,  seeing  that  she  consorted  not  with  other  girls,  who 
talk,  and  therefore  I  suppose,  think,  all  day  long  without  stopping  ; 
was  at  work  from  nine  in  the  morning  till  nearly  twelve  at  night ; 
never  read  anything,  and  never  talked  with  anybody  except  Mr. 
Bradberry,  who  came  in  and  out  of  his  office,  and  grumbled  about 
his  debts  and  the  hardness  of  the  times.  But  she  was  used  to  him, 
and  besides,  he  was  kind  to  her  in  his  way, 


64  JULIA. 

On  Sundays  some  girls  go  for  a  walk,  some  go  to  church,  some 
have  lovers  who  come  a-courting.  Julia,  for  her  part,  had  fallen 
into  the  custom  of  spending  the  Sunday  morning  at  the  office,  pre- 
tending to  make  up  arrears  of  books  with  Mr.  Bradberry,  but 
really  in  order  that  he  might  have  a  listener  while  he  discoursed 
upon  the  iniquity  of  poverty.  Julia  listened  solemnly,  but  did  not 
understand  one  word.  Then,  on  Sunday  afternoon,  while  the  old 
people  took  a  nap,  she  arranged  her  wardrobe.  It  is  not  for  nothing 
that  a  girl  has  a  grandmother  who  has  been  a  dresser  at  the  theatre. 
Most  girls  of  Julia's  level  know  no  more  how  to  use  a  needle  than 
a  graving  tool,  which  is  the  reason  why  they  always  go  draggle- 
tailed.  Julia  could  sew.  Therefore,  though  she  might  dress  simply, 
she  never  looked  shabby.  And  Sunday  evening  was  the  pleasantest 
evening  in  the  whole  week,  because  she  sat  in  a  chair  and  did 
nothing,  and  the  old  folks  went  to  their  room  at  nine  o'clock,  and 
she  could  go  to  bed  three  hours  before  her  usual  time,  the  noise  of 
the  feet  in  the  street  and  the  singing  of  disorderly  people  and  the 
roll  of  the  omnibuses  in  the  City  Road  serving  for  her  lullaby. 

If  she  looked  or  hoped  for  any  change  in  her  lot,  it  would  have 
been,  I  think,  for  nothing  more  than  that  her  grandmother  would 
always  keep  her  temper,  and  that  she  herself  could  shake  off  the 
troublesome  cough  which  came  to  her  at  the  beginning  of  winter 
and  stayed  with  her  till  the  middle  of  summer. 

But  she  was  nineteen  years  of  age,  and  there  was  bound  to  come, 
some  time  or  other,  a  change  to  this  monotonous  existence.  There 
are  so  many  things,  you  see,  which  young  people  must  desire  as 
soon  as  they  get  to  know  of  them.  Sooner  or  later,  they  are  bound 
to  learn  some  of  them  ;  and  it  is  proper  and  fitting  for  youth  to  be 
always  desiring ;  and  Nature  abhors  that  condition  of  mind  in 
which  nothing  is  desired.    It  is,  in  fact,  the  moral  vacuum. 


III. 

Thus  passed  the  days,  each  like  unto  each,  save  that  some  were 
colder  and  some  warmer,  and  on  some  days  there  was  grey  cloud, 
and  on  some  there  was  sunshine  on  the  flags  ;  not  one  among  them 
all  leaving  a  mark.  But,  since  where  there  is  life  there  is  move- 
ment, and  nothing  stands  still,  the  girl  was  learning  to  know  that 
the  old  people  drank  a  great  deal  more  than  was  good  for  them,  and 
that  they  were  growing  shaky  in  the  morning,  and  that  they  were 
getting  to  drink  more  every  week,  and  that  all  her  money  ought 
not  to  be  demanded  of  her,  in  strict  justice,  for  the  purposo°of 
buying  gin,  even  though  her  grandmother  had  brought  her  up  : 
perhaps  she  felt,  too,  that  the  bookbinder's  office  was  a  more 
pleasant  place  than  her  own  home,  and  that  her  testy  employer  was 


JULIA.  65 

a  more  agreeable  companion  than  her  grandfather.  But  no  thought, 
as  yet,  or  desire  of  change,  or  expectation  that  her  life  could  be 
anything  but  that  of  Cato's  Perfect  Slave,  who  was  always  asleep 
when  he  was  not  at  work,  and  always  at  work  when  he  was  not 
asleep. 

But  there  came  a  change,  as  there  always  does  to  things  mun- 
dane. The  Roman  slave  got  his  when  he  fell  ill,  and  was  carried 
out,  by  a  grateful  master's  orders,  into  the  open  air  to  die  on  a  rock. 
Julia  got  hers  by  a  method  which  promised  at  first  much  more 
pleasant  things. 

It  was  in  the  last  week  of  May.  A  melodrama  was  going  on  in 
which  she  was  not  required  after  the  end  of  the  fourth  act  and 
fifteenth  tableau,  that,  namely,  in  which  the  marriage  of  the  good 
young  miller  and  the  virtuous  dairy-maid,  just  about  to  be  accom- 
plished, after  unheard-of  difficulties,  is  interrupted  at  the  very 
doors  of  the  church  by  the  arrival  of  the  wicked  young  lord  with 
the  press-gang,  and  the  bridegroom  is  torn  from  the  arms  of  his 
bride  amid  the  shrieks  of  the  village  maidens.  Julia  was  a  village 
maiden,  and  while  she  held  up  her  arms  in  the  conventional  atti- 
tude to  express  terror,  indignation,  and  pity,  she  turned  her  great 
eyes  as  usual  to  the  pit  and  smiled  sweetly  upon  the  rows  of  white 
and  eager  faces.  When  the  curtain  fell,  she  was  free,  and  hurried 
away  to  resume  her  walking  dress. 

It  was  half -past  ten,  the  evening  air  was  cool  and  fresh  after  the 
hot  breath  of  the  gas.  Julia  came  out  of  the  theatre  and  passed 
through  the  gardens  where  a  band  was  playing,  and  the  people 
were  dancing  on  the  platform.  There  is  now  no  place  at  all, 
actually  no  place,  in  the  whole  of  this  great  city  of  four  millions, 
where  the  people  are  allowed  to  dance — think  upon  it ! — but  two 
years  ago  there  was  this  poor  little  City  Road  Ranelagh  still  sur- 
viving, with  its  gallery  and  its  lights  and  its  platform  and  its  band. 
Julia  stopped  and  looked  at  the  scene  as  she  passed  through  :  it  had 
no  attractions  at  all  for  her  :  after  standing  on  the  stage  close  to 
the  big  drum  she  had  no  wish  for  any  more  music  ;  and  as  for 
dancing,  which  she  had  once  endeavoured  to  learn  for  stage  pur- 
poses, it  was  associated  in  her  mind  with  the  horrible  temper  of 
the  dancing-master.  Nor  was  she  attracted  by  the  appearance  of 
the  company,  consisting  chiefly  of  rather  noisy  boys  of  the  smaller 
shop  kind  and  workgirls.  The  boys  mostly  kept  together  and 
laughed  among  each  other,  while  the  girls  also  kept  together  and 
laughed  among  each  other  too,  as  if  to  demonstrate  their  indepen- 
dence. A  good  many  of  the  girls  danced  together  ;  now  and  tiei 
one  of  the  boys  would  step  out  and  beckon  with  his  finger  to  the 
bevy  of  girls,  and  say,  "  'Ere,"  when  one  of  them  would  step  out, 
and  they  danced  with  each  other.  Well  :  they  enjoyed  the  dancing 
after  their  own  way  :  now  they  are  not  allowed  to  dance  at  all  ; 
buu  are  left  to  themselves,  and  are  therefore  making  up  revolu- 
tionary clubs,  and  want  to  nationalize  the  land— as  if  that  will 


66  JULIA. 

make  them  any  the  happier.  When  they  come  to  divide  private 
capital  as  well  as  land,  the  worthy  Middlesex  magistrates,  who  all 
have  capital  though  very  few  have  land,  will  perhaps  wish  that  they 
had  encouraged  a  taste  for  more  innocent  amusements  while  it  was 
yet  time. 

Julia,  however,  did  not  dance  :  and  she  knew  none  of  the  com- 
pany, and  so  slipped  through  them  and  passed  out  into  Shepherdess 
Walk,  and  into  the  City  Road.  Here  she  hesitated  a  moment. 
She  was  tired  and  would  have  liked  to  go  to  bed  ;  but  it  was  Satur- 
day night,  and  the  old  people  were  not  yet,  she  very  well  knew, 
"  ripe  "  for  bed.  So  she  crossed  the  road,  because  the  south  side  is 
quieter,  and  turned  to  the  right,  and  thought,  as  it  was  a  fine  night 
and  a  bright  moon,  that  she  would  walk  for  half  an  hour. 

When  she  came  out  of  the  gardens  a  young  man  followed  her  ; 
when  she  turned  her  face  west  and  walked  towards  Islington,  he 
followed  too,  keeping  a  few  yards  behind  her.  She,  meantime,  was 
too  much  accustomed  to  the  tread  of  multitudinous  feet  to  take 
heed  of  following  steps.  The  soft  air  of  spring  and  the  bright 
moonlight  soothed  her  after  the  theatre,  and  the  roar  of  the  audi- 
ence, and  the  blare  of  the  band.  Why,  she  thought,  do  people 
want  so  much  noise  ?  And  why  should  they  all  shout  and  applaud 
when  the  heroine  is  thrown  into  the  river  by  the  villain,  and 
rescued  all  dripping  by  her  dauntless  lover  ?  The  sillies !  They 
must  know  it  is  all  sham. 

Three  times  that  young  man  who  followed  her  walked  quickly 
after  the  girl,  as  if  with  intent  to  speak  to  her  ;  three  times  his 
courage  failed  him,  because  he  was  a  shy  young  man  ;  at  the  fourth 
attempt  he  grew  desperate,  and  laid  his  hand,  with  City  Road 
politeness,  on  the  girl's  shoulder,  saying,  in  a  hoarse  and  husky 
whisper,  "  May  I  speak  with  you  for  a  moment  ?" 

"  You'd  best  let  me  go,"  she  replied  quickly,  looking  round  to  see 
if  assistance  was  near.  "  You'd  best  let  mo  go.  I  don't  speak  to 
strangers." 

"Only  for  a  moment,"  he  said.  "Only  for  a  moment.  Please 
don't  send  me  away.  I  don't  mean  any  harm.  I  don't  want  to  be 
rude."  She  wavered.  "  I  want  to  tell  you  " — here  he  gasped  and 
choked — "that  I've  been  to  the  Grecian  every  night  for  three 
weeks  and  more,  on  purpose  to  see  you  on  the  stage  ;  and  for  a  f  ort- 
night  I've  followed  you  home  every  night." 

"  What  did  you  want  to  follow  me  home  for  ?"  she  asked,  won- 
dering what  possessed  the  man.  She  had  been  followed  before,  but 
not  every  evening  for  a  fortnight.  And  she  had  been  spoken  to, 
but  not  in  so  polite  a  manner. 

"Because  I  love  you,"  he  replied.  "  Oh  !  I've  seen  lots  of  girls 
on  the  stage,  but  not  one  half  so  beautiful  as  you,  nor  with  such 
lovely  eyes." 

Julia  knew  that  she  had  good  eyes,  and  thought  of  them  with 
gratitude   because  they  procured  her  a  front  place  on  the  stags. 


JULIA.  67 

and  a  certain  consideration  at  the  treasury  on  a  Saturday.  They 
had  their  money  value. 

"  As  for  insulting  you,"  the  young  fellow  went  on,  clenching  his 
fist,  "  I'd  like  to  see  the  man  who'd  dare  to  try  it  on  when  I  was 
about.    Look  here — tell  me  your  name  first." 

"My  name  is  Julia." 

"  Julia — ah !"  he  gasped  again,  as  if  the  name  fitted  with  the 
beauty  of  its  owner.  "  Julia  !  I  ought  to  have  guessed  it.  Will 
you  meet  me  to-morrow  afternoon  '!  "Will  you  go  for  a  walk  with 
me?" 

She  hesitated.  It  was  the  first  time  that  such  an  invitation  had 
been  offered  her. 

"  Am  I  too  late  ?"  he  asked.  "  But  I've  never  seen  any  other 
fellow  with  you.     Do  you  keep  company  with  some  one  else  ?" 

"  No,"  she  replied  ;  "it  isn't  that.  I've  never  kept  company  with 
anyone." 

"  Do  you  think  I'm  not  respectable  ?  Why,  I'm  in  charge  of  the 
the  bookstall  at  Hoxton  Junction,  to  sell  the  books  and  papers. 
They  give  me  thirty  shillings  a  week  already.  You  can  come  and 
see  me  there.  Come  on  Monday.  I  don't  want  to  hide  anything 
from  you  ;  if  you'll  only  keep  company  with  me,  I'll  tell  you  all 
about  myself." 

"  I  can't  come  on  Monday,"  she  replied,  touched  by  this  proof  of 
confidence.  "  I  work  all  day  at  Mr.  Bradberry's,  the  bookbinder, 
keeping  his  books  for  him.     In  the  evening  I  go  to  the  theatre." 

"  Then  will  you  meet  me  to-morrow  V" 

He  took  her  hand.  She  trembled  a  little,  and  looked  at  him  doubt- 
fully. He  was  a  very  good-looking  young  fellow,  with  fair  hair  and 
pink-and- white  complexion,  rather  tall,  and  dressed  with  as  much 
regard  to  fashion  as  the  money  would  allow.  His  eyes  looked  into 
hers  with  an  expression  which  she  knew  not,  but  it  made  her  heart 
leap  up  strangely. 

"  Meet  me  here  at  three,"  he  went  on.  "  I  always  go  to  chapel 
in  the  morning  with  mother,  who  is  particular  and  serious.     We 

will  go — we  will  go "    He  began  to  consider  how,  with  due  regard 

to  the  expense,  he  could  make  an  attractive  programme.  "  We  will 
go  by  the  King's  Cross  tram  to  Hampstead,  and  have  tea  at  North 
End,  and  we'll  walk  down  Fortune  Lane  or  on  the  Heath,  if  you 
like  that  better,  after  tea.  If  it's  a  fine  day  it  will  be  beautiful. 
Do  you  like  Hampstead  ?" 

"  I  have  never  been  there,"  she  said.  "  I  have  never  been  any- 
where. I  have  got  no  friends  at  all  except  grandmother  and  grand- 
father and  Mr.  Bradberry."  Her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  partly 
because  she  now  perceived  for  the  first  time  how  lonely  and  friend- 
less a  girl  she  was,  and  partly  because  it  was  such  a  beautiful  thing 
to  have  anyone  caring  to  know  her. 

"  Haven't  you  got  friends  at  the  theatre  among  the  other  girls  ?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

5—2 


68  JULIA. 

"  You  are  too  beautiful  for  them,"  he  said.  "  Of  course  you 
can't  make  friends  with  them.  Most  of  them  are  a  horrid  ugly  lot. 
And  haven't  you  any  friends  in  the  bookbinding  ?" 

"  No.  I  keep  my  own  hours,  so  I  see  none  of  the  girls.  I  used 
to  know  a  lot  of  girls  when  I  went  to  school,  but  I  don't  know 
where  they  are  now  ;  girls  like  us  get  scattered,  so  I've  nobody." 

"  And  haven't  you  got  father  and  mother  ?" 

"No  ;  they  are  both  dead  ;  and  I  am  told  not  to  ask  any  ques- 
tions about  them  :  and,  oh  !  you  are  respectable,  and — would  your 
mother  like  it  ?" 

She  meant  would  his  mother  like  him,  so  handsome  and  well- 
dressed  a  lad,  to  keep  company  with  a  girl  so  humble  as  herself  ? 
He  thought  she  meant  that  perhaps  his  mother  wouldn't  like  her 
stage  business. 

'*  Mother  wouldn't  mind  the  book-keeping.  Come,  Julia,  let  us 
two  be  friends.  My  name  is  James  Atherston.  Call  me  Jem,  and 
I  will  call  you  Julia.    Will  you  promise  for  to-morrow  ?     G-ive  me 

your  hand  and "     He  not  only  took  her  hand  but  he  kissed  her 

forehead.  "  Oh !  Julia,  if  you  knew  how  I  love  you !  Why,  I 
fell  in  love  with  you  the  first  time  I  saw  you  on  the  stage — the  very 
first  time  !     Oh  !  Julia,  we  shall  be  so  happy  !" 

In  this  way  Julia's  happiness  began  for  her :  coming  upon  her  swiftly 
and  unexpectedly,  as  all  great  and  good  things  come.  When  her  lover 
left  her  at  her  own  door,  she  went  in  feeling  conscious  all  over  that 
she  had  been  kissed,  that  her  hand  had  been  pressed,  that  she  had 
been  called  beautiful,  and  that  a  young  man — a  lovely  young  man, 
handsome  and  well  set  up,  well  dressed,  a  young  man  to  be  proud 
of — had  said  he  loved  her.  Never  before  had  anyone  kissed  her  in 
all  her  life,  nor  had  anyone  caressed  her,  nor  had  anyone  said  a 
word  of  love  or  tenderness  to  her.  Oh  !  girls  of  the  better  sort, 
you  receive  the  love  and  endearments  that  are  lavished  on  you  by 
those  who  love  you  without  much  heed,  regarding  them,  as  in  some 
sort,  your  due.  So  they  are  ;  I  deny  it  not :  but  think  how  it  would 
have  been  for  you  if  you  had  had  none  ! 

Her  grandmother  would  certainly  have  noticed  the  change  in  the 
girl  when  she  came  home,  the  light  in  her  eye,  the  flush  on  her  cheek, 
the  carriage  of  her  head,  the  elasticity  of  her  step — for  this  was  a 
suspicious  grandmother,  and  she  went  daily  in  dread  of  this  very 
thitig,  namely,  a  lover  and  a  wedding,  which  might  lead  to  the  loss 
of  her  Julia  and  the  extinction  of  her  income — but  for  the  circum- 
stance that  she  was  now  in  the  last  stage  but  one  of  intoxication, 
that  is  to  sH.y,  she  was  sitting  bolt  upright  with  a  vacuous  smile 
upon  her  face  :  a  few  moments  more  and  another  drop  of  gin  and 
water,  and  she  would  be  ready  to  be  led  away.  The  old  man  might 
also  have  noticed  his  granddaughter's  unusual  appearance,  but  that 
he  too  was  in  the  last  stage  but  one.  He  held  an  empty  pipe  in 
his  hand,  and,  with  the  tears  of  pity  and  sympathy  running  down 
his  face,  he  was  singing,  "  Father,  dear  father,  come  home  to  your 


JULIA.  69 

child."  So  that  neither  of  them  took  the  least  notice  of  the  girl, 
who,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  regarded  her  guardians  with 
shame,  because — what — oh !  what  would  Jem  think  of  her  if  he 
were  to  see  them  in  this  condition  ?  She  had  often  before  seen 
them  in  the  same  condition,  with  disgust  and  a  helpless  bitterness, 
but  now  she  was  ashamed  of  them.  Jem,  it  was  quite  certain  from 
the  very  beginning,  must  not  be  allowed  to  spend  an  evening  with 
her  grandfather. 

Presently,  however,  Julia  was  left  alone.  She  pulled  down  her 
bed,  which  was  one  of  the  old-fashioned  kind  made  up  to  look  like 
a  cabinet  or  wardrobe  ;  but  she  was  not  sleepy.  She  wrapped  her 
head  in  her  shawl,  and  sat  at  the  open  window  looking  up  at  the 
moonlit  sky  and  thinking  of  what  had  happened.  So  she  remained, 
her  chin  in  her  hand,  long  after  midnight,  till  the  hurrying  feet  out- 
side had  nearly  all  gone  off  to  bed,  and  Brunswick  Place,  never  a 
noisy  street,  was  perfectly  quiet.  Noisy  or  quiet,  it  mattered  not. 
Her  brain  was  full  of  the  young  man  and  his  words.  Foolish 
brain  !  He  called  her  beautiful ;  he  said  he  loved  her.  He  wanted 
to  keep  company  with  her  ;  he  had  been  following  her  for  a  fort- 
night ;  he  called  her  beautiful  ;  he  had  been  to  the  theatre  every 
night  for  three  weeks  ;  he  said  he  loved  her ;  he  had  pressed  her 
hand  ;  he  must  be  good  as  well  as  handsome,  for  he  told  her  at  once 
what  he  was  and  where  he  worked ;  he  said  he  loved  her  :  and  so 
on  over  and  over  again. 

At  last,  with  a  sigh,  she  shut  the  window  and  drew  down  the 
blind,  and  went  to  bed.  Simple  Julia  !  All  this  agitation  because 
a  young  fellow  was  in  love  with  her !  Why,  at  the  West-end 
theatres — but  then  Julia  was  only  at  the  Royal  Grecian. 


IV. 

TriEN  there  began  a  sweet  and  pretty  idyl,  though  the  shepherd 
was  but  a  bookstall  clerk  and  the  nymph  only  a  theatre  poison.  On 
the  one  side,  a  boy,  full  of  imagination,  who  had  read  a  good  many 
of  the  books  ho  sold,  and  who  saw,  behind  those  large  and  lustrous 
eyes,  which  had  so  ravished  his  heart,  a  whole  heaven  of  beautiful 
thoughts.  This  belief  gave  him  an  unbounded  respect  for  his  mis- 
tress. What  does  it  matter — the  rank  and  social  position  of  a  girl 
— if  with  her  eyes  or  her  face  she  can  inspire  her  lover  with  this 
belief  ?  On  the  other  hand,  a  girl  who,  for  her  part,  saw  that  her 
lover  was  well-mannered,  handsome  and  brave  ;  she  had  always 
thought  so  little  of  herself  that  this  strange  thing,  his  love,  made 
her  wonder  and  feel  afraid.  How  should  he  love  so  poor  a  creature 
as  herself  ?  How  should  she  fix  his  love  so  that  he  should  never 
again  want  to  look  upon  the  face  of  another  woman  ? 

Of  course  her  first  instinct  in  this  new  posture  of  affairs  was  to 


70  JULIA. 

make  herself  as  beautiful  as  the  day,  if  that  were  possible.  There- 
fore, at  every  opportunity  she  added  something  to  her  little  fineries; 
and,  because  happiness  always  shows  itself  by  external  signs,  she 
began  to  hold  up  her  head,  to  walk  with  elastic  step  ;  her  cough  left 
her,  her  cheek  filled  out,  her  chest  expanded,  she  became  daily  more 
beautiful — her  eyes  smiled  still  upon  the  enraptured  pit,  but  they 
smiled  also  upon  the  whole  world. 

"  Julia,"  said  her  grandmother,  with  sinking  heart,  because  she 
quickly  found  out  how  the  girl  spent  her  Sundays.  "  Julia,  mind 
— there's  young  men  and  young  men.  Some  of  'em  want  nothing 
but  to  live  upon  your  wages.  Take  care.  I  believe  I  have  heard 
things  about  him— but  never  mind.  Take  care,  my  gell.  Keepin' 
company  is  one  thing.  A  gell  can't  keep  company  too  long.  lie- 
member  that.  Marryin's  another.  A  gell  can't  put  off  marryin' 
too  long.  You  take  care,  and  be  guided  by  your  old  grandmother. 
And,  oh  !  Julia,  don't  let  him  have  none  of  your  money  !" 

Julia  laughed.  Her  Jem  would  not  want  to  take  her  money,  ho 
was  only  too  ready  to  spend  his  own.  But  she  did  a  thing  which 
filled  the  old  lady  with  terror  ;  one  day  she  dared  to  keep  all  her 
money,  and  only  allowed  her  grandmother  so  much  out  of  it  as 
would  pay  the  rent  and  the  food.  Why,  where  was  the  money  for 
drink  to  come  from  in  future  ?  The  old  people  sat  and  looked  at 
each  other,  considering  the  question  in  dismay.  The  old  woman 
went  to  the  theatre  and  asked  for  her  granddaughter's  money  to  be 
paid  weekly  to  herself.  They  laughed  at  her.  She  went  to  Mr. 
Bradberry  with  a  similar  request,  and  oame  away  broken  in  spirit 
and  wounded  in  her  feelings. 

Now,  too,  though  Julia  spent  her  Sunday  mornings  as  before,  with 
Mr.  Bradberry,  she  no  longer  went  through  the  books  with  him. 
She  brought  her  work  and  thread,  and  made  pretty.things  for  her- 
self  while  he  smoked  his  pipe  and  talked  about  the  wickedness  of 
existing  institutions,  especially  of  all  kings,  queens,  princes,  priests, 
and  ministers  of  the  gospel,  who  between  them  keep  people  poor. 
Julia  listened  and  heard  nothing,  her  heart  being  far  away.  Besides, 
as  she  knew  none  of  these  people,  what  did  it  matter  to  her  how 
wicked  they  chose  to  be  ?  Anybody,  she  ignorantly  thought,  may 
be  as  wicked  as  he  pleases.     It  is  mere  matter  of  personal  taste. 

"  You  don't  mind  what  I  say,  Julia,"  he  grumbled.  "  That's  the 
way  with  a  girl.  Give  her  a  lover  and  she's  spoiled.  Can't  think 
about  anything  else." 

Sometimes,  but  not  often,  because  his  mother  did  not  like  him 
to  come  home  late,  Jem  met  her  as  she  came  out  of  the  theatre,  and 
walked  home  with  her  ;  but  the  regular  day  was  Sunday,  when 
she  put  on  her  best  things  and  met  him  at  three  o'clock,  on  the 
south  side  of  the  City  Boad,  just  where  the  bridge  goes  over  the 
canal.  When  she  saw  him  striding  along  the  pavement  to  meet 
her,  a  flower  in  his  button-hole,  so  gallant,  so  full  of  love,  her  heart 
beat  fast  and  her  cheek  flushed,  and  there  was  not  one  single  persoa 


JULIA.  71 

in  all  this  great  city  happier  than  Julia.  Like  the  Shulamite,  her 
beloved  was  to  her  "as  a  roe,  or  a  young  hart  leaping  upon  the 
mountains,  skipping  upon  the  hills,  saying  that  the  winter  was  past 
and  the  flowers  come  back  again  upon  this  joyful  earth,  with  the 
singing  of  the  birds  and  the  putting  forth  of  the  green  figs  upon 
the  fig-tree." 

They  spent  the  afternoon  and  evening  of  the  Sunday  together  ; 
it  was  a  tolerably  fine  summer — as  summers  go — with  few  wet 
Sundays,  and  they  were  always  able  to  go  somewhere.  Like  most 
London  lads,  this  young  fellow  knew  all  the  accessible  holiday 
places  and  the  attractions  of  each:  there  is  a  band  in  Regent's  Park 
on  Sunday  afternoons  ;  there  is  another  with  a  most  beautiful 
pavilion  for  taking  tea  at  Battersea  Park ;  there  are  the  gardens  of 
Kew,  where,  he  thought,  there  ought  to  be  a  Sunday  band,  but  there 
isn't;  there  is  the  river  at  Richmond;  there  are  green  lanes  and 
country  walks  round  Tottenham,  Hornsey,  High  gate,  and  Hanip- 
stead  ;  you  can  easily  reach  the  River  Lea  from  Hoxton  ;  you  may 
even  get  as  far  as  Epping  Forest ;  if  there  be  tightness  as  regards 
money,  there  are  Victoria  and  Finsbury  Parks  always  open. 
London  is  surrounded  everywhere  by  the  most  delightful  places 
for  those  who  take  their  summer  holidays  on  Sunday  afternoons. 
To  Julia  the  summer  passed  in  a  dream;  she  looked  neither  before 
nor  behind;  she  lived  in  the  present ;  all  the  week,  whether  in  the 
smell  of  the  paste,  over  the  account  books,  or  in  the  hot  theatre, 
she  lived  her  Sundays  over  again  and  recalled  the  beautiful  things 
her  lover  had  said  to  her,  and  thought  of  the  things  he  had  given 
her,  and  how  he  looked  while  he  kissed  her  in  the  open  street  at 
meeting,  and  wondered  what  they  should  do  next  Sunday.  She 
learned  all  kinds  of  unsuspected  things  in  these  walks  and  excur- 
sions :  woods,  fields,  wild-flowers,  the  voice  of  the  thrush  and  the 
blackbird.  All  these  wonders  were  as  new  to  her  as  the  thoughts  of 
the  boy  who  read  the  books  and  papers  which  he  sold,  and  gathered 
ideas  which  he  poured  into  the  receptive  ear  of  his  companion;  so 
that  her  mind  was  full  of  new  thoughts  and  freshly-created  images; 
she  had  new  hopes  ;  she  looked  on  everything  differently;  she  was 
no  longer  satisfied ;  she  was  born  again,  and  born  full  of  strange 
yearnings. 

As  for  Jem,  there  was  never  a  moment  when  he  ceased  to  be  the 
most  ardent  lover  ;  he  surrounded  her  with  little  cares,  as  much  as 
if  he  had  been  a  gentleman  and  she  a  young  lady.  He  thought 
nothing  was  too  good  for  her  :  he  was  never  out  of  temper  with 
her,  or  cross;  it  made  him  as  well  as  his  sweetheart  perfectly  happy 
only  to  walk  hand  in  hand  along  the  country  paths  and  by  the  hedges. 
He  did  not  drink  or  smoke;  he  talked  about  books  and  what  he  read, 
the  newspapers  and  what  went  on  in  the  worldv  so  that  Julia  was 
ashamed  of  her  ignorance  and  bought  a  book  with  maps  ;  he  some- 
times brought  a  book  in  his  pocket,  and  read  to  her,  sitting  in  the 
shade.     He  was,  in  fact,  a  youth  of  imagination,  who  might,  with 


72  JULIA. 

education,  have  become  a  poet,  and  he  had  simple  tastes,  so  that  a 
cup  of  tea  and  some  bread  and  butter  in  an  arbour,  with  Julia,  was 
to  him  better  than  an  alderman's  feast  without  her.  As  for  her 
own  tastes,  she  had  none  ;  she  thought  as  he  thought,  liked  what  he 
liked,  learned  his  mind  and  thought  him  as  wise  as  he  was  handsome, 
and  as  prudent  as  he  was  affectionate. 

She  walked  beside  him  mostly  in  silence,  while  the  boy,  who  was 
full  of  generous  and  wild  ideas,  a  Socialist  and  a  Republican,  and 
a  Radical,  and  believed  in  his  fellow-man,  and  loved  every- 
thing that  attracts  ardent  youth,  poured  out  his  heart  to  her, 
and  was  repaid  when  she  lifted  her  beautiful  eyes  and  said  :  "  Oh, 
Jem,  if  everyone  could  talk  like  you!"  Out  of  all  he  said  there 
grew  up  in  her  mind  a  new  and  glorious  faith  ;  that  things  may  be 
ordered  better,  and  that  there  is  a  more  perfect  world  where  all  the 
men  would  be  as  honest  and  as  brave  as  her  Jem,  and  all  the  women 
would  be  as  good  as — as  Jem  thought  her. 

And  every  Sunday  evening,  when  they  parted  at  her  door  in 
Brunswick  Place,  while  he  folded  his  arms  round  her  and  kissed 
her  lips  and  cheek,  she  kissed  him  again,  whispering,  "  Oh,  Jem, 
you  are  kind  to  me !" 

"Hang  me!"  said  Mr.  Bradberry,  "if  I  know  you  any  longer, 
Julia  !  I  suppose  it's  his  doing.  Why,  you  are  twice  the  girl  you 
were !  You've  got  flesh  on  your  bones  at  last ;  and  you  go  singing 
about  your  work,  and  you're  saucy,  you  are.  Who'd  ha'  thought 
to  see  you  saucy  ?  And  I  really  believe  your  cough  has  gone  for 
good;  and  your  grandmother  tells  me  you've  plucked  up  spirit  at 
last,  and  won't  let  her  collar  more  than  half  the  wages.  Came  here 
cryin'  she  did — wanted  me  to  pay  her  all  of  it — says  you're  an  un- 
natural granddaughter.  Never  you  mind,  Julia.  I  told  her  if 
she'd  kept  you  ten  years,  you'd  kept  her  ten  years,  and  if  she 
made  a  fuss  I'd  take  you  away  at  once,  and  where'd  she  be  then  ?" 

It  was  true.  Julia  with  her  new  strength  gained  courage,  and 
actually  dared,  as  has  been  stated,  to  deny  her  grandmother's  right 
to  seize  all  her  money.  She  began,  too,  in  a  moan  and  miserly  spirit, 
to  put  some  of  it  every  week  in  the  post-office  bank.  More  than 
this,  she  threatened  the  old  people,  if  they  kept  on  reproaching  her, 
to  leave  them  altogether. 

This  promise,  together  with  the  prospect  of  Julias  marriage, 
alarmed  them  horribly.  They  sat  together  every  evening,  with 
limited  rations  of  gin,  and  discussed  the  subject  from  all  its  different 
points  of  view.  Could  they  not,  for  instance,  go  with  the  bride  as 
a  sort  of  dot,  so  that  their  right  to  maintenance  by  their  husband 
might  be  acknowledged  ?  Or,  if  this  was  impossible,  could  there  not 
be  granted  a  weekly  allowance,  such  as  she  now  made  them  ?  or, 
better  still,  could  not  the  match  be  somehow  broken  off:  ? 

"  What  he  finds  in  her,"  said  her  grandmother,  "  a  skinny  little 
slip  of  a  thing — I  don't  know.  As  for  her,  you  can't  mention  his 
name  but  she's  up  in  arms." 


JULIA.  n 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  then  ?"  asked  her  husband,  who 
allowed  his  wife  to  do  all  the  scheming,  contriving,  and  thinking, 
and  was  not  ashamed. 

"  I  shall  see,"  she  replied.  "  You  may  be  sure  I'll  do  something, 
whatever  it  is.  She  thinks  she's  going  to  throw  over  her  old  grand- 
mother who  brought  her  up,  does  she  ?  You  make  sure  I'll  do 
something.     An  ungrateful  toad  !" 

"  She  is  !  she  is  !"  murmured  the  old  man,  looking  at  the  empty 
gin  bottle. 

The  old  woman  was  not  so  nice  to  look  at  as  the  old  man,  whose 
creamy  white  hair  and  clean-shaven  face  made  him  a  beautiful  object 
of  contemplation.  Her  own  hair  had  fallen  off  in  patches,  and  her 
cap  could  not  completely  hide  all  the  ravages  of  time.  "Venus  Calva, 
grown  old,  is  not  beautiful  without  the  aid  of  art,  and  the  old  lady 
could  not  afford  to  buy  a  front.  Then  her  eyes  were  cunning,  as 
if  she  was  always  devising  some  new  trick,  and  her  lips  were  gene- 
rally in  motion,  as  if  she  were  rehearsing  that  trick  beforehand.  Why 
she  looked  so  cunning  cannot  be  explained  on  any  reasonable  theory, 
because  her  life,  which  had  been  spent  in  dressing  the  ladies  at  the 
theatre,  was  not  one  of  those  which  are  generally  thought  to  favour 
an  active  exercise  of  cunning. 

She  would  do  something.     But  what  could  she  do  ? 

First,  she  thought  she  might  say  something  to  the  young  man 
which  should  chill  his  passion  ;  but  that  she  knew  might  be  a  very 
difficult  thing  to  do,  and  would  certainly  lead  to  a  rupture  with 
Julia,  and  a  row  from  Mr.  Bradberry,  whom  the  old  woman  feared. 

Next  she  might  say  something  to  Julia  ;  but  she  had  tried 
that  already. 

Thirdly,  she  might  say  something  to  the  young  man's  relatives. 
But  she  did  not  know  who  they  were,  or  where  they  lived. 

She  turned  this  difficulty  over  in  her  mind  for  the  rest  of  the 
week,  but  said  nothing  until  Sunday  morning,  when  she  began  by 
offering  to  help  her  granddaughter  with  some  of  her  work. 

"Bless  you,  my  dearie  !"  she  said,  with  a  burst  of  geniality  quite 
unusual.  "  Bless  you,  when  my  eyes  are  not  bad  I'm  as  good  a 
workwoman  as  ever.  Give  me  the  needle  and  thread,  then  ;  now 
you  go  on  with  your  work,  and  I'll  go  on  with  mine.  Never  mind 
your  grandfather.  Let  him  He  abed  if  he  likes.  Ah  !  if  it's  only 
for  your  own  happiness,  my  dearie,  I  don't  mind.  Ho  !  no,  I  shan't 
mind.  If  he's  what  he  should  be,  and  you  deserve,  I'll  let  you  go, 
with  a  cheerful  heart.     He's  a  clerk  in  a  bookstall,  isn't  he  ?' 

Julia  nodded. 

"  Lor' !  And  your  grandfather  always  in  the  same  line,  too. 
Seems  a  Providence,  don't  it  ?  And  who's  his  relatives,  Julia  ? 
Are  they  in  the  book  trade,  too?"  She  held  up  the  dress  and 
looked  at  it  critically,  as  if  she  was  thinking  of  that,  and  the 
position  of  Jem's  relations  did  not  concern  her  at  all. 

Julia,  thus  taken  unawares,  told  unsuspiciously  all  there  was  to  tell. 


74  JULIA, 

"And  his  mother,"  she  concluded,  "is  particular  and  religious, 
and  a  temperance  woman,  and  'would  not  approve  of  the  theatre — 
I  don't  know  why.  So  when  we're  married,  I  am  to  stay  with  Mr. 
Bradberry,  who  says  he  will  double  my  wages,  and  give  up  the 
Grecian.     And  she's  not  to  be  told  anything  about  the  theatre." 

"  Double  your  wages,  will  he  ?  Ah  !  I  always  said  he  got  you 
dirt-cheap.  And  where  does  the  mother  of  the  young  gentleman 
live  ?" 

"  She's  got  a  stationer's  shop  in  Goswell  Road,"  said  Julia. 
"  She  keeps  a  shop  in  the  Goswell  Eoad,"  repeated  the  grand- 
mother slowly,  "  and  she's  religious,  and  particular,  and  temperance, 
and  doesn't  approve  of  the  theatre  ?     Ho  !" 

When  Julia  went  off:  an  hour  or  two  later  to  meet  her  lover,  the 
old  woman  put  on  her  bonnet  and  shawl,  and  took  the  nearest  way, 
which  is  past  St.  Luke's  Hospital,  along  Old  Street.  The  Goswell 
Road,  which  may  be  considered  as  the  main  artery  of  Cleikenwell, 
runs  from  Aldersgate  Street  to  the  Angel  at  Islington,  a  distance 
of  half  a  mile  or  thereabouts.  Presently  the  old  woman,  slowly 
walking  along  the  street,  and  looking  at  the  names  over  the  shops, 
saw  that  of  "  Atherston."  The  shutters  were  up,  because  it  was 
Sunday,  but  it  was  clearly  a  small  and  mean  shop.  While  she 
stood  there,  looking  at  the  name,  the  door  opened,  and  a  woman 
stood  in  the  doorway.  She  wore  a  widow's  cap,  and  carried  a  Bible 
in  her  hand.  She  was  about  five-and-forty  years  of  age,  and 
her  face  was  pinched  with  care  ;  it  was  not  the  common  carking 
care  of  money,  because  her  shop,  with  the  little  left  by  her  husband, 
was  enough  for  her  ;  hers  was  care  of  another  kind  ;  she  was,  in 
fact,  in  continual  trouble  and  anxiety  about  her  son's  soul.  It  is  a 
kind  of  trouble  which  in  more  Puritanic  days  made  thousands  of 
mothers  lead  lives  of  agony  with  never-ceasing  prayers,  exhorta- 
tions, and  misgivings.  She  belonged  to  a  clear-headed  and  logical 
sect,  which  could  put  the  case  in  unanswerable  fashion — cither  a 
person  is  saved  or  he  is  not.  That  is  intelligible  ;  certainly  those 
who  habitually  break  the  Sabbath,  go  to  theatres,  stay  out  late,  and 
refuse  to  attend  public  worship  oftener  than  once  a  week,  cannot 
possibly  be  saved.     What  hope,  then  , could  she  entertain  of  her  son  ? 

"  You  are  Mrs.  Atherston,  m'm  ?"  The  old  woman  advanced 
boldly  and  accosted  her. 

"  Yes.     What  can  1  do  for  you  ?" 

"  I  was  passing  this  way,  m'm,"  she  said,  crossing  her  hands  with 
the  sweetest  smile,  "and  I  thought  I  would  look  in  to  make  tht, 
acquaintance  of  a  lady  of  whom  I've  heard  so  much,  and  going  to  be 
my  own  near  relation,  as  it  might  be,  m'm." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Mrs.  Atherston.  "  I  think 
there  must  be  some  mistake." 

"Ho!  no.  Hot  no,  m'm,"  her  visitor  replied.  "I'm  Julias 
grandmother." 

"Who  is  Julia?" 


JULIA.  75 

"What!"  the  old  woman  put  on  a  look  of  amazement.  "What} 
you  don't  know  the  name— the  very  name— of  the  young  lady  that 
your  son  is  agoing  to  marry  ?" 

"  My  son — going  to  marry  ?"  The  poor  mother's  face  showed 
her  astonishment.  "  Who  is  he  going  to  marry  ?  I  know  nothing 
of  it.     Come  in  and  tell  me." 

She  led  the  way  into  her  parlour  at  the  back  of  the  shop.  The 
grandmother  sat  down,  untied  her  bonnet-strings,  which  in  certain 
circles  means  friendliness  and  the  intention  of  having  a  good  long 
chat. 

"Will  you,"  asked  Mrs.  Atherston,  her  lips  trembling,  "will  you 
tell  me  what  you  mean  about  my  son  ?" 

"  He  is  going  to  marry  my  granddaughter  Julia.  Lor' !  And  you 
not  to  know  about  it !" 

"  And  who — pray  forgive  me — I  ought  to  know — my  son  has  not 
acted  straight  with  me — I  ought  to  have  been  told — who  are  you  ?" 

"  Ho  !"  said  the  grandmother,  "  we  are  respectable  people,  I 
assure  you  ;  and  though  we  don't  keep  our  own  shop  we  might  have 
done,  as  many  another.  My  husband  has  been  all  his  life  in  Pater- 
noster Row,  and  is  there  still,  though  old  and  not  the  man  he  was. 
As  for  me,  I  was  a  dresser  at  the  Grecian  Theatre  till  I  got  the  rheu- 
matics in  my  fingers  and  couldn't  go  on.  Most  respectable  we 
were  always." 

"  And — and  your  son  ?     You  said  she  was  your  granddaughter." 

"I  never  had  but  one  child,  and  she  was  a  gell.  Julia's  her  child, 
and  my  gell's  dead,  with  her  wedding-ring  on  her  finger.  As  for 
Julia's  father,  I  never  asked,  and  I  never  knew,  and  so  much  the 
better." 

Mrs.  Atherston  received  these  explanations  with  a  sinking  heart. 
She  had,  however,  one  more  question. 

"  What  does  your  granddaughter  do  for  her  living  ?" 

"  She  is  engaged,  m'm,  at  the  Grecian  Theayter,  like  her  grand- 
mother and  her  mother  before  her,"  said  the  ex-dresser,  with  a  quick 
look  out  of  her  cunning  eyes.  "  She  has  been  on  the  boards  pretty 
well  since  she  began  to  walk.  Not  to  speak  and  act,  because  the 
dear  girl  has  got  a  weak  chest  and  a  low  voice,  but  to  stand  in  the 
front  with  a  pretty  dress  on,  and  be  a  crowd,  or  a  procession,  or  a 
chorus  of  village  girls,  and  she  the  prettiest  of  the  lot.  Oh  !  you'll 
be  proud  of  her,  m'm,  when  you  see  her  on  the  boards  ;  you  will 
indeed.  It  was  at  the  theayter  that  your  son  saw  her,  and  fell  in 
love  with  her  from  the  front,  as  many  young  gentlemen  do  ;  not 
knowing  that  it's  the  make-up,  or  they'd  fall  in  love  with  the 
dresser.     Then  he " 

"Thank  you,"  said  Mrs.  Atherston  ;  "you  have  told  me  quite 
enough.     My  son  will  tell  me  the  rest." 

"  You  are  most  welcome,  m'm,"  the  old  woman  replied,  rising. 
'  And  if  you'd  like  to  come  to  the  theayter  to-morrow  evening,  I 
will  pass  you  in  either  to  the  back  or  to  the  front,  whichever  you 


76  JULIA. 

please.     PYaps  you'd  like  to  see  your  Julia  best  from  the  front 
It  'ud  make  your  heart  -warm  to  her  the  quicker,  as  one  may  say." 

"  I  never  go  to  theatres." 

"  Well,  it's  never  too  late  to  begin.  And  now,  m'm,  since  we've 
begun  friendly,  we  will  continue  friendly,  and  many  is  the  visit  I 
will  pay  you.  P'r'aps  some  evening  I  will  bring  my  old  man  and 
his  pipe,  and  we  will  take  a  glass  of  something  hot  together.  Lord  ! 
He's  capital  company." 

"There  is  never  anything  to  drink  in  this  house,  and  tobacco  is 
not  allowed."  Then  the  old  woman  came  away  with  many  protes- 
tations of  friendship.  On  her  way  home  she  nodded  her  head, 
shook  it,  mumbled  her  lips,  winked  her  eyes,  and  grinned,  insomuch 
that  if  there  had  been  any  antiquarian  person  in  the  street,  he 
would  have  instantly  seized  her  for  a  witch,  and  had  her  tossed  into 
the  City  Road  Basin  to  see  if  she  would  sink  or  swim.  But  there 
was  none,  and  so  she  reached  home  safely,  and  sat  down  and  re- 
flected at  her  ease,  and  with  the  greatest  satisfaction  that  she  had 
done  a  beautiful  morning's  work,  and  mischief  enough  to  ruin  two 
lives. 

"  She  thinks  she  is  going  to  leave  her  old  grandmother  and  marry, 
and  me  to  go  into  the  House,  does  she  ?  Does  she  ?"  This  ques- 
tion she  asked  a  great  many  times,  being  in  that  mood — it  has  as 
yet  received  no  name— in  which  the  speaker,  having  committed 
some  act  of  atrocious  folly  or  wickedness,  feels  joyful  at  heart,  and 
rubs  his  hands,  yet  with  a  certain  fearful  looking  forward,  and 
declares  that  he  is  glad  he  did  it,  and  he  would  do  it  again,  and  he 
wishes  he  had  done  it  before,  and  now  everybody  shall  see. 

This  day  seemed  to  Julia  the  happiest  she  had  ever  known. 
After  nineteen  years  of  endurance,  four  months  of  joy.  Well,  a 
great  deal  of  sorrow  is  forgotten  when  a  little  joy  comes.  Nothing 
we  forget  sooner  than  pain  ;  nothing  we  remember  longer  than 
happiness.  Yet,  when  it  has  gone  altogether,  and  can  never  return, 
there  is  no  greater  misery  than  to  remember  the  joys  that  are  past. 
This  has,  I  believe,  been  said  before,  and  even  quoted.  It  is  not 
altogether  true.  One  may  remember  the  joy  of  having  been  young 
without  absolute  misery  ;  one  can  remember  the  dear  old  days  of 
love  and  song,  dancing,  lovers'  quarrels,  the  madness  of  hope,  belief , 
enthusiasm  and  passion,  without  much  more  than  a  tender  regret  : 
but  to  lose  such  joy  as  Julia's,  to  have  it  snatched  suddenly,  vio- 
lently, horribly,  out  of  her  hand,  that,  if  you  phase,  leaves  all  the 
days  which  are  to  follow,  be  they  many  or  few,  dark  and  full 
of  despair. 

It  was  a  day  in  early  October ;  the  sweetest  autumn  day  that  ever 
blessed  this  realm  of  England  ;  the  lovers  went  together  to  Hornsey, 
and  wandered  in  the  fields  lving  north  of  the  unlucky  palace  on 
Muswell  Hill.  They  are  very  quiet  fields  ;  few  people  walk  in  them 
even  on  Sunday  afternoons  ;  the  sun  was  bright  and  the  woods  were 
covered  with  patches  of  red  aud  gold,  the  blackberries  were  ripe  on 


JULIA.  77 

the  hedges — Julia  had  never  tasted  a  blackberry  before— and  the 
long  trailing  branches  already  had  their  leaves  painted  the  most 
glorious  crimson.  Presently  they  sat  down  together  and  talked, 
their  hearts  open,  and  hand  in  hand,  and  ready  to  confess  each  to 
the  other. 

First,  it  was  Julia,  though  it  should  have  been  her  lover,  because 
it  is  the  man's  business  to  lead  off  in  such  matters.  She  began, 
with  the  tears  in  her  eyes,  to  wonder  that  so  short  a  time  should 
have  made  so  great  a  difference  to  her,  and  asked  herself  if  it  was 
possible  to  have  li^ed  so  long  and  learned  so  little.     But  it  was  all 

due  to  her  lover "  And  oh !   Jem,  Mr.  Bradberry  will 

double  my  wages  if  I  will  stay  with  him  ;  and  I  can  give  up  the 
theatre,  and  your  mother  shall  have  no  cause  to  be  ashamed  of  me. 
You  know,  dear,  though  you  fell  in  love  with  me  on  the  stage,  I  don't 
care  for  it.  It  seems  as  if  I  know  it  all  and  how  it  is  done  ;  the 
place  is  full  of  tricks,  and  they  are  stale :  and  besides  oh ! 

.  I  shall  be  glad  to  give  it  up." 

"  If  you  are  glad,  Julia,"  he  replied.  "  I  am  glad  too.  I  have 
not  spoken  to  my  mother  about  it,  but  I  will  this  evening.  1  will 
go  home  earlier,  on  purpose  ;  and  as  soon  as  she  approves,  dear,  we 
will  get  married.     Where  shall  we  live  ?" 

"  If  it  could  be  somewhere  near  fields,"  she  said  ;  "yet  there  is  the 
business  to  look  after.  Jem,  don't  let  us  live  in  Hoxton  or  Clerken- 
well.  Don't  you  feel  choked  when  we  go  home  again  after  such  air 
as  this  ?" 

Thus  they  built  their  simple  castles  in  the  air,  and  would  do  this 
and  that  and  would  prosper  greatly,  have  no  unkappiness,  never 
quarrel,  never  fall  into  any  misfortune,  never  get  old,  never  have 
any  trouble,  and  live  together  for  ever  afterwards.  Then  this  silly 
pair  kissed  each  other  fondly,  and  presently  got  up  and  walked  along 
beside  the  straggling  hedges.  Here  they  found  lovely  branches  of 
the  crimson-leaved  bramble,  with  fallen  leaves  of  beech  and  sprays 
of  bryony  and  clustering  nuts  and  late  wild  flowers,  and  so  returned 
home  in  the  evening  laden. 

They  separated  early,  at  half-past  eight  o'clock,  Jem  preparing  to 
speak  to  his  mother.  When  they  kissed  at  the  corner  of  Brunswick 
Place,  the  air  should  have  been  charged  with  thunder,  ominous 
flashes  of  lightning,  and  heavy  drops  of  rain.  But  there  were  no  omens 
at  all  of  coming  disaster,  nor  any  presentiments.  Julia  knew  not 
what  omens  and  presentiments  might  mean  ;  the  London  girl  is  the 
least  superstitious  of  womankind.  Yet  even  in  London  a  woman 
should  have  her  warnings. 

They  parted  on  this  last  evening  of  their  happiness  with  no  more 
than  the  usual  protestations  of  affection.  Jem  kissed  her  as  she 
stood  on  the  door-step  with  the  lover's  words  of  passion  and  endear- 
ment, and  she  returned  his  kiss,  murmuring  as  usual,  "  Oh  !  Jem,  you 
are  kind  to  me !" 


78  yULIA. 


When  the  old  woman  left  her,  Mrs.  Atherston  continued  to  sit  in 
her  back  parlour,  heedless  of  the  afternoon  prayer-meeting  and 
service  of  song,  to  which  she  had  intended  to  go.  Her  heart  was 
as  cold  as  a  stone,  her  lips  were  set,  her  eyes  fixed,  her  cheeks  pale. 
The  door  of  her  shop  stood  open,  but  she  regarded  it  not  ;  the 
children  peeped  in,  and  seeing  nobody,  cried  "Whoop!"  and  ran 
away  ;  but  she  heard  nothing.  Her  son  was  going  to  marry  a  girl 
of  a  theatre.  Why,  a  mother  in  Israel,  if  her  son  had  fallen  in 
love  with  a  young  Midianitish  person,  would  have  been  less  grieved 
and  outraged  than  was  this  poor  mother  at  hearing  that  her  son  was 
entangled  with  a  theatrical  woman.  If  there  was  one  point  on 
which  she  was  more  sure  and  certain  than  another,  it  was  that  the 
theatre  was  the  House  of  the  Devil.  And  then  her  son  had  deceived 
her  ;  not  one  word  had  he  said  about  the  woman.  For  many  months 
she  had  been  unhappy  about  him.  Sometimes  he  came  home  late 
at  night ;  on  Sundays  he  would  not  stay  with  her,  but  after  dinner 
went  off  by  himself  ;  he  had  broken  away  from  her  control :  he  had 
long  since  refused  to  follow  her  any  longer  in  the  strict,  religious  life 
of  the  chapel  members,  with  their  tea-parties,  prayer-meetings,  Bible- 
classes,  lectures  and  expositions  ;  and  now  she  was  to  learn,  she 
bitterly  said  to  herself,  that  he  had  been  following  in  the  paths  of 
open  sin.  That  was  how  she  put  it,  never  doubting  but  that  Julia 
was  a  Delilah,  who  had  enticed  and  overcome  her  boy.  He  was 
going  to  marry  her ;  she  was  a  girl  who  had  an  unknown  father, 
and  a  grandmother,  also  an  old  servant  of  the  theatre,  who  spoke 
in  affectionate  praise  of  drink.  This  was  what  his  love  of  freedom 
had  come  to  ;  he  was  a  lost  boy  ;  her  prayers  were  in  vain  ;  he  was 
rushing  blindfold  to  the  abyss. 

Presently  she  began  mechanically  to  turn  over  the  leaves  of  her 
Bible.  It  seemed  as  if  her  eyes  fell  only  upon  the  cursing  Psalms, 
the  denunciations  of  the  Prophets,  and  the  fate  of  scoffers — that 
is,  of  course,  those  who  go  to  the  theatre  ;  the  sudden  ruin  of  the 
wicked—  especially  of  theatre  people  ;  she  associated  everything  in 
her  mind  with  the  mad  and  prolligatc  career  which  she  believed  her 
son  was  leading.  When  it  grew  dark  she  lit  her  gas,  and  went  on 
with  her  reading  and  her  thoughts. 

At  nine  o'clock  or  so  Jem  came  home.  He  hung  up  his  hat  and 
swung  into  the  room  with  his  customary  masterfulness.  To-night 
he  was  quite  happy  :  he  was  going  to  tell  his  mother  everything, 
and  he  was  home  early  so  that  they  could  have  a  good  talk.  Ho 
had  neglected  his  mother  a  little,  perhaps  ;  that  would  be  all  made 
up  to  her  now,  by  Julia.     She  waa  going  to  leave  the  theatre: 


JULIA.  79 

nothing  at  all  need  be  said  about  her  connection  with  it :  Julia  was 
a  bookbinder's  accountant — a  most  respectable  employment. 

"Well,  mother,"  he  said  airily.  "  I  am  early  to-night,  because  I 
have  something  very  serious  to  say.  I  ought  to  have  told  you 
before ;  but  never  mind  that.  Mother,  I  am  going  to  make  you 
happy."  He  laid  his  elbows  on  the  table  and  looked  his  mother  in 
the  face  with  eyes  so  confiding  and  a  smile  so  frank  that  her  heart 
yearned  within  her.  But  the  thought  of  the  girl  from  the  theatre 
and  the  old  woman  who  wanted  drink,  hardened  her  heart. 

"  Go  on,  James,"  she  said  severely. 

"Now,  mother,"  be  continued,  "it's  the  Sabbath  night,  I  know, 
and  your  head  is  full  of  the  sermon  and  all.  But  you  and  me 
haven't  hit  it  quite  off  lately,  have  we  ?  As  for  me,  I  never  could 
see  the  harm  of  a  country  walk  on  a  Sunday  afternoon,  when  you're 
locked  up  all  the  week." 

"  Go  on,  James."  She  tried  her  best  to  be  hard  and  unforgiving; 
thanks  to  the  sweet  influence  of  her  sect,  she  succeeded.  "  Go  on, 
James.    You  have  got  something  to  tell  me." 

"  Very  well,  mother  :  I  am  going  to  make  you  happy,  because  I 
am  going  to  give  you  a  daughter-in-law  ;  not  a  common  flighty  sort 
of  a  girl,  you  know,  but  a  steady,  quiet  girl,  who,  I  dare  say,  will 
go  to  chapel  regular  when  you  have  got  her  in  hand." 

A  steady,  quiet  girl !  This  was  a  part  of  the  great  deception.  A 
quiet  girl !  The  widow  pictured  to  herself  a  young  person  with 
roving  eyes,  loud  laugh,  and  hair  cut  short,  so  as  to  lie,  an  inch  and 
a  half  long,  over  the  forehead.  This  was  her  idea  of  the  daughter- 
in-law  whom  her  son  proposed  to  present  to  her. 

"  Go  on,"  she  added  icily. 

"  I  made  her  acquaintance,  mother,  four  months  ago.  I  ought  to 
have  told  you  about  her  then  ;  but  I  didn't  know  how  far  it  would 
go,  nor  if  she  would  be  the  right  kind  of  girl.  Mother" — at  the 
moment  he  forgot  about  the  theatre — "if  you  had  to  pick  and  choose 
out  of  all  London,  you  couldn't  find  a  girl  you'd  like  so  much — you 
couldn't,  really  !  You'll  try  to  like  her,  won't  you,  mother  ?  You 
won't  be  vexing  about  whether  she's  a  Baptist  or  a  Primitive 
Methodist,  or  whether  she's  saved  or  not,  and  had  conviction  of 
sin  and  that,  will  you,  now "?" 

"  Go  on,"  said  his  mother. 

"  Well,  that  is  about  all  I've  got  to  say  about  her.    Next  Sunday, 

mother,  she  shall  come  to — to "  he  could  not  help  the  hesitation, 

because  how  would  Julia  like  it  ? — "  she  shall  come  to  chapel  with 
us." 

"  Is  that  all  ?» 

"  That's  all  about  her,"  replied  the  lad  cheerfully.  "  But  I  say, 
mother,  there's  trouble  again  at  the  stall.  To-morrow  is  the  day, 
you  know,  and  I'm  behind  again — I'm  two  pounds  behind.  I  know 
it's  the  fifth  time,  and  I  declare  I'm  as  careful  as  I  can  be  ;  I  believe 
somebody  steals  the  books.     Two  pounds  is  a  lot  of  money,  isn't  it  ? 


80  JULIA. 

But  you've  got  more  than  that  belonging  to  me — a  good  many  hun- 
dreds more.  And  I  must  have  the  money  to-morrow  before  twelve 
o'clock — I  must  !" 

"Softly — softly,  James.  Must  is  not  the  word."  The  money 
belonged  to  the  young  man,  who  was  already  of  age  ;  but  his  mother 
had  it  and  kept  it,  because  to  part  with  it  was  parting  with  power, 
and  he  did  not  know  that  he  could  legally  take  it  whenever  he 
pleased.  Power  ?  why,  it  might  mean  the  salvation  of  his  soul ! 
"  Softly,  James.  Before  you  get  that  money  we  must  have  a  little 
further  explanation.  How  has  that  two  pounds  been  lost  ?  In 
Sabbath- breaking  and  bad  company  ?" 

"  No  ;  nor  yet  in  country  walks  on  Sunday  in  good  company. 
It's  only  that  the  accounts  have  got  a  little  wrong.  Now,  mother, 
don't  let  us  begin  about  Sabbath-breaking,  please,  I  always  do  get 
my  accounts  muddled.     You  know  I  do." 

"  In  what  company  did  you  take  these  walks  ?" 

"  In  Julia's."  His  cheek  grew  red  and  his  eyes  flashed.  There 
was  danger  ahead. 

"  Julia  is  her  name,  is  it  ?     She  is,  you  said " 

"  She  keeps  his  accounts  for  a  bookbinder  in  the  City  Road." 

"  James,"  said  his  mother  calmly,  "  you  are  a  liar." 

The  boy  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  banged  his  fist  upon  the  table. 

"  I  am  not  a  liar.  She  keeps  the  accounts  at  Bradberry's  the 
bookbinder's." 

"  You  are  a  liar,  James.  She  is  a  painted  Creature,  and  she  acts 
at  the  Grecian  Theatre.  I  know  all.  You  are  a  liar,  James,  whose 
lot  is  in  the  Pit  with  devils  to  dwell.  She  is  a  painted  acting  hussy, 
You  are  a  liar."     She  spoke  without  external  wrath,  but  judicially. 

"  She  keeps  the  books  all  day,  and  she  goes  on  the  boards  all  the 
evening.     Poor  Julia  !" 

His  mother  was  silent. 

"After  all,"  cried  the  boy,  "I  am  not  obliged  to  consult  you 
about  my  wife.  If  you  like  her,  very  well  :  if  you  don't,  I  can't 
help  it.     There  isn't  in  the  world  a  better  girl  than  Julia." 

"  You  will  give  her  up,"  said  his  mother. 

"  I  will  not  give  her  up.     Nothing  shall  make  me  give  her  up." 

"  You  want  this  money  to-morrow  morning.  You  shall  not  have 
it,  unless  you  give  her  up." 

"  I  will  not  give  her  up."  His  check  paled,  and  he  trembled  from 
head  to  foot.  "  Mother,  do  you  know  what  you  are  saying  ?  The 
House  never  lets  anybody  off.  They  make  an  example  of  every- 
one who  is  short,  on  principle.     Do  you  know  what  you  are  saying  ?" 

"  (iive  her  up,"  she  said.     "  (live  up  your  actress." 

"  Let  mo  have  the  money,"  he  cried.  "  It  is  mine.  My  father 
left  it  to  me." 

"  Not  to  be  wasted  on  play-acting.     Give  her  up." 

"  I  will  never  give  her  up." 

"  Then  you  shall  have  no  money." 


JULIA.  81 

He  stared  at  his  mother,  his  very  lips  white.  Could  she  know 
what  her  words  meant  ? 

He  told  her  in  plain  unmistakable  terms. 

" Give  her  up,"  she  repeated.  "You  shall  not  have  the  money 
unless  you  give  her  up." 

"  Is  this  your  last  word  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Give  her  up,"  she  said. 

He  slowly  rose  and  took  his  hat. 

"Mother,"  he  said,  "you  will  remember,  afterwards,  that  no  one 
but  yourself  done  it.  I  haven't  istolen  the  money.  It's  only  got 
behind.  Anybody  can  get  behind.  I've  been  so  happy  that  I 
didn't  count  it  up  regular.  No  one  but  yourself  done  it.  All  the 
rest  of  your  life  you'll  remember  that.  As  for  me,  if  you  refuse 
me  the  money  I  swear  you  shall  never  see  me  again,  whatever 
happens.  And  as  for  your  religion,  if  people  who  do  such  things 
to  their  sons  are  taken  to  Heaven,  I  pray  they  will  never  take  me. 
Say  it  once  more,  so  that  I  may  never  again  bear  to  think  of  you. 
Say  it  again,  so  that  I  can  face  the  worst  and  remember  that  you, 
and  none  but  you,  done  it." 

"  Give  her  up,"  she  said,  looking  him  in  the  face  with  hard  and 
determined  eyes.     "  Blasphemer,  give  her  up." 

He  hesitated  :  he  put  on  his  hat — he  took  it  off — he  looked  about 
the  room.  It  was  the  room  in  which  he  had  been  brought  up  ;  the 
little  living  room  behind  the  shop  in  which  he  had  played  at  his 
mother's  knee.  He  was  leaving  it  for  the  last  time  ;  he  was  going 
forth  to  certain  and  lifelong  disgrace. 

"Mother !"  he  cried  once  more,  throwing  out  his  arms. 

"  Give  up  the  painted  woman,"  she  repeated  fiercely. 

He  put  on  his  hat  and  left  her. 

All  that  night  he  walked  up  and  down  the  street  under  Julia's 
room.  She  was  asleep  behind  the  window,  that  he  knew.  If  she 
had  been  awake  she  might  have  put  her  head  out  of  the  window, 
and  talked  with  her  lover.  But  she  was  asleep — she  was  tired — she 
had  been  for  a  long  walk,  and  her  head  was  full  of  briars  and  black- 
berries, and  woods  with  golden  leaves  ;  she  was  sound  asleep  and 
dreaming  happily.  She  didn't  wake  even  at  the  fall  of  the  step  she 
knew  so  well.  At  five  o'clock  he  felt  faint,  and  went  to  an  early 
coffee-house  for  some  breakfast.  Then  he  wandered  aimlessly 
about  until  it  was  time  to  open  his  stall  at  the  railway  station  ;  and 
there  he  stood,  anxious,  haggard,  heavy-eyed,  waiting  the  hour  of 
doom. 

Observe,  if  you  please,  that  this  boy  was  a  fool.  He  had  only  to 
go  to  anybody  who  knew  him — to  Mr.  Bradberry,  for  instance  — 
and  tell  his  story  to  get  the  money.  But  of  this  he  did  not  think, 
until  too  late.  As  for  getting  behind  that  had  happened  once  or 
twice  before,  and  the  small  deficit  had  been  met  by  his  mother  : 
and  as  for  his  money,  be  was  of  age,  and  she  ought  to  have  given  it 
to  him  many  months  before.     But  he  did  not  think  of  this  either. 

6 


82  JULIA. 

He  was  accustomed  to  feel  her  power  over  him.  If  she  would  not 
give  him  the  money,  he  could  not  get  it  elseAvhere,  he  thought.  So 
he  sat  and  waited. 

And  in  the  parlour  behind  the  shop  sat  his  mother.  She  said  to 
herself  from  time  to  time,  with  dry  lips,  "  I  have  wrestled  to  save 
his  soul  ;"  but  she  could  not  rise  from  her  chair,  and  she  sat  there 
all  the  night  expecting  the  boy  to  come  home  and  make  submission. 
He  had  always  been  a  dutiful  boy  hitherto.  Besides,  he  must  have 
the  money.  He  would  come  back.  He  could  not  do  without  the 
money.  But  the  daylight  broke  through  the  dingy  blinds  of  the 
room  behind  the  shop,  and  the  sun  rose  upon  the  grimy  back-yard, 
and  the  boy  did  not  come  back. 


VI. 

On  Monday  afternoon  Julia  sat  at  the  high  desk  in  the  little  dingy 
counting-house  over  her  books.  From  the  workshop  came  the 
usual  sounds  of  business,  the  regular  thud  of  the  steam-engine,  the 
hammering  and  stamping,  with  the  smell  of  sour  paste,  to  which 
she  was  accustomed.  Her  thoughts  were  so  pleasant  that  she 
stopped  in  her  work  from  time  to  time  to  lose  herself  in  a  dream 
of  happiness.  Why,  only  four  months  ago,  she  did  not  know  what 
was  even  meant  by  happiness,  or  if  there  were  such  a  thing  allotted 
to  mankind,  any  more  than  an  omnibus  horse  understands  the  free- 
dom of  his  wild  brothers.  And  now  she  had  been  happy  for  a 
whole  summer,  though  her  work  was  quite  as  hard,  and  the  grand- 
father quite  as  trying,  and  the  theatre  quite  as  noisy  and  hot.  A 
whole  summer  of  happiness  ! 

Truly,  considering  the  thing  from  the  last  century  point  of  view, 
when  happiness  was  considered  as  strictly  limited  to  the  landed 
gentry,  and  only  usurped,  so  to  speak,  by  the  better  class  of  mer- 
chants, she  ought  to  have  been  satisfied,  seeing  that  her  "  betters  " 
often  get  little  more  than  four  solid  months  of  perfect  happiness 
in  their  whole  lives.  Yet  she  was  not  satisfied.  Happiness  is  a 
thing  which  never  satisfies.  Unreasonable  people  have  even  laid 
claim  to  nothing  short  of  a  light — a  right,  if  you  please — to  seventy 
years'  solid  happiness  ;  and  grumble  when  they  get  instead  no 
more  than  fifty  years  or  so  of  misery  and  disappointment.  What 
ought  Julia  to  have  looked  for  in  her  humble  position  and  con- 
sidering her  birth  ?  To-day,  however,  she  was  quite  happy,  with  a 
feeling  of  physical  strength  which  came  of  all  their  Sunday  walks, 
the  fresh  air,  and  the  birth  of  sweet  thoughts  ;  a  feeling  of  strength 
which  was  new  and  delightful.  She  gently  crooned,  as  she  added 
up  the  figures,  a  tune  which  had  neither  beginning  nor  end — and, 
indeed,  she  was  not  fond  of  music,  because  she  always  bad  to  stand 
just  in  front  of  the  orchestra  ;  and  if  you  are  within  a  couple  of  feet 


JULIA.  83 

of  the  big  drum,  the  bassoon,  or  the  French  horn,  every  night,  you 
are  apt  to  get  a  disturbed  idea  of  tune,  and  to  form  incomplete  theories 
on  the  subject  of  music.  Presently  Mr.  Bradberry  came  in  from 
his  daily  round  among  his  customers.  He  too  was  in  great  good 
temper,  because  he  had  just  done  a  good  stroke  in  forty-shilling 
work. 

"  Julia,"  he  said,  "  the  sooner  you  give  up  your  grandmother  and 
the  theatre  and  get  married  to  that  young  fellow  the  better,  mind 
that.  I  saw  the  old  woman  yesterday  walking  down  G-oswell 
Road,  near  his  mother's  shop,  and  I  hope  she  hasn't  been  contriving 
mischief.  Don't  you  think  I'm  going  to  give  you  more  money  for 
her." 

Julia  smiled,  and  went  on  adding  up. 

"  As  for  your  spark,  my  girl,  he's  a  good-looking  sort  of  a  chap,  and 
you'll  make  a  pretty  couple.  I've  had  my  eye  on  him  a  good  while, 
and  I've  given  him  my  mind  more  than  once.  A  smart  youngf  ellow, 
but  a  little  careless.  Keep  him  with  a  tight  rein  when  you're  mar- 
ried. But  a  good  lad.  And  he's  fond  of  you,  Julia,  and  that  goes 
a  long  way.    What  does  he  think  of  the  old  woman  ?" 

"  He  has  never  seen  her.  I've  told  him  all  about  her.  But  I 
don't  want  him  to  be  giving  her  money  for  drink." 

"  Did  you  tell  him  about  Saturday  night  ?" 

"  Oh  yes !  I  told  him  all.  I  haven't  hid  anything  from  Jem, 
and  don't  mean  to." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  that's  the  best  way  to  begin.  I  was  never 
married  myself,  and  never  wanted,  finding  it  quite  enough  to 
manage  the  girls  upstairs  without  a  wife  as  well.  No  secrets  from 
each  other.  Seems  a  sound  way  of  beginning,  doesn't  it?  especially 
when  there's  none  to  hide.     Have  you  seen  his  mother  yet  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Julia.     "  Jem  was  to  speak  to  her  last  night." 

"  I  know  her,"  Mr.  Bradberry  continued.  "  When  I  heard  where 
she  lived  and  who  she  was,  I  went  to  see  her.  She  keeps  a  little 
shop  for  stationery,  books,  and  papers,  and  such,  and  is  patronized 
by  her  connection,  which  is  Baptist.  She's  one  of  those  who  torture 
their  lives  with  thinking  of  their  souls.  Give  her  a  wide  berth, 
Julia,  and  don't  let  her  make  mischief  between  you.  Such  as  her 
are  best  in  their  chapels,  where  they  can  sit  upright  and  pity  the 
poor  souls  outside." 

Just  then  the  door  opened  and  a  woman  in  a  widow's  cap  and 
crapes  came  in.  Her  white  face  betokened  the  most  violent  agita- 
tion. 

" It's  the  very  woman  !"  cried  Mr.  Bradberry.  "It's  the  boy's 
mother  !" 

Julia  got  down  quickly  from  her  desk,  and  placed  herself  beside 
the  old  bookbinder  as  if  for  protection.  For  the  woman — Jem's 
mother — glared  at  her  with  a  rage  that  was  for  a  while  speechless. 
The  sight  of  the  woman's  eyes  terrified  the  girl.  What  was  the 
matter  with  her  ? 

6-2 


84  JULIA. 

"  Is  this  the  Creature  ?"  she  cried  at  last,  pointing  with  a  trem< 
bling  finger,  and  asking  the  question  of  Mr.  Bradberry. 
"  If  you  mean  Julia,  and  your  son's  sweetheart,  it  is,"  he  replied. 

"As  for  creature — if  you  come  to  that " 

"  Oh  !"  She  paused  for  a  few  moments,  and  then — then — the 
torrent  of  her  wrath  overflowed,  and  with  the  eloquence  of  a  mad- 
dened woman  she  poured  forth  such  reproaches,  charges,  and  accu- 
sations, with  such  a  string  of  names,  every  one  of  the  worst  and 
vilest,  as  such  a  woman  so  outraged,  so  prejudiced,  in  such  mad- 
ness of  shame  and  rage  as  then  possessed  her,  could  command. 

Julia  caught  the  old  man's  hand,  but  made  no  reply. 

"  Steady,  Julia,  steady  !  Let  the  woman  have  her  say.  Steady, 
my  girl !  don't  answer  back.  Easy  to  call  names.  Best  hold  our 
tongues.  It's  Jem  s  mother,  my  dear.  Pity  poor  Jem.  'Tisn't 
his  fault.  Don't  give  her  a  handle.  As  for  you,  ma'am,  the  sooner 
you've  done  the  better  ;  because  this  is  a  respectable  office,  and 
such  things  as  you've  said  mustn't  be  said  to  any  girl  in  this  place. 
If  the  girl  wasnt  Julia,  and  her  young  man  your  son,  you  would 
have  been  run  out  neck  and  crop  long  ago.     Don't  cry,  Julia  !" 

"  Oh  !"  said  Mrs.  Atherston,  panting,  with  her  hand  to  her  heart. 
"  Ob,  that  I  should  live  to  see  my  son  disgraced  for  ever  for  the 
sake  of  a  painted " 

"  Draw  it  mild,  ma'am.  Where's  the  disgrace  ?  As  for  this 
girl,  she's  as  good  as  gold,  and  your  son  isn't  worthy  to  have  such 
a  wife.  "Where's  the  disgrace  ?  Come  now,  give  over  calling 
names.     Where's  the  disgrace  ?" 

"  Good  !"  she  cried.  "  Good  !  When  she  play-acts  in  short 
petticoats  at  the  Grecian  Theatre  ?  Good  !  When  it's  through 
her  that  my  son  is  in  prison — and  his  good  name — oh,  thank  God  ! 
his  father  is  dead — his  good  name " 

"  Prison  !"  cried  Julia.     "  Jem  in  prison !     What  has  he  done  ?" 

"  Stolen  the  money  to  pay  for  your  wicked  and  sinful  extrava- 
gances. Oh  !  .  ."  (Again  the  names  which  conveyed  her  mean- 
ing without  the  least  room  for  doubt.) 

"  Jem  never  stole  any  money  !"  cried  Julia. 

"  Stolen  the  money — for  you  !  Gone  to  prison— for  you  !  Dis- 
graced for  life— for  you  !  Oh,  I  kept  him  all  I  could  from  the  evil 
woman  !  I  warned  him.  '  Her  feet  go  down  to  death,  her  steps 
take  hold  on  hell.'  It  was  for  your  sake— oh,  for  you  ! — and  for 
your  sake  he  refused  to  make  submission  and  have  the  money  to 
set  him  right." 

"  How  much  was  it  ?"  asked  Mr.  Bradberry. 

"  Two  pounds  he  was  short.  I  offered  it  to  him  if  he  would 
submit  and  give  up  the  wicked  woman." 

"  You  offered  it  him  ?  Miserable  woman  !"  The  old  man  banged 
the  table  with  his  fist.  "  You  have  sent  your  son  to  gaol  for  the 
sake  of  your  cursed  obstinacy  and  your  ignorance.  Go— you  shall 
stay  here  no  longer  I" 


JULIA.  85 

A  man  must  not  lift  his  hand  upon  a  woman  save  in  the  way  of 
kindness,  but  Mr.  Bradberry  literally  hurled  himself  upon  Mrs. 
Atherston,  and  pushed  her,  still  crying  reproaches  upon  poor 
Julia,  into  the  street.  She  stood'there  upon  the  kerbstone  for  ten 
minutes  longer,  waiting  for  Julia  to  come  out.  Then  she  turned 
and  walked  quickly  home. 

Yes,  the  books  bad  been  inspected  and  the  stock  examined,  and 
Jem  was  two  pounds  short. 

The  rule  of  the  House  was  like  the  rule  of  the  London  bankers  : 
every  man  who  is  short  in  his  accounts  is  prosecuted  for  embezzle- 
ment. The  rule  is  perfectly  well  understood.  Those  who  take 
service  in  the  House  know  that  no  exception  is  ever  made,  no 
pardon  ever  extended.  To  use  for  their  own  purposes  the  moneys  be- 
longing to  the  House  is  embezzlement.  Four  times  before,  on  the 
approach  of  the  auditor,  Jem  had  found  himself  a  pound  or  two 
short.  Four  times  his  mother  made  it  up  for  him  in  good  time. 
Now  he  was  two  pounds  short,  and  his  mother  refused  to  give  him 
the  money. 

He  was  smitten,  I  have  said,  with  the  blindness  which  sometimes 
falls  upon  men  before  their  ruin  ;  had  he  gone  to  Mr.  Bradberry 
he  could  have  borrowed  the  money  from  him.  Julia  herself  had 
saved  a  good  deal  more  since  she  began  to  refuse  her  grandmother. 
But  he  could  only  think  of  the  undeserved  repi'oaches  of  his  mother 
and  her  refusal  to  help  him.  And  so  he  did  nothing,  and  was  taken 
by  the  auditor  to  the  central  office.  Perhaps — I  do  not  know — but 
perhaps,  in  spite  of  the  rule,  he  might  still  have  saved  himself  by 
sending  for  Mr.  Bradberry,  but  he  said  nothing  ;  he  offered  no 
excuses  ;  he  made  no  attempt  to  defend  himself  ;  he  suffered  it  to 
be  understood  that  he  had  wilfully  and  deliberately  stolen  the 
money  in  a  lump,  instead  of  being  careless  day  after  day  about  the 
pence  until  the  loss  swelled  up  to  so  frightful  an  amount. 

Then  he  was  taken  by  a  policeman  to  Clerkenwell  and  charged. 
He  said  nothing,  and  was  remanded  till  next  day. 

"  Cheer  up,  Julia,"  said  Mr.  Bradberry.  "  It  is  but  a  little  sum. 
Two  pounds  !  Why,  I  will  lend  it  to  him.  You  wait  here  while 
I  take  it  to  the  head  office.     I'll  bring  the  boy  back  with  me." 

Alas !  he  little  understood  the  procedure  of  a  criminal  court  ! 
The  boy  was  a  prisoner.  At  the  head  office  they  refused  to  take 
the  money.  The  case,  they  said,  was  a  bad  one  :  he  was  young,  and 
had  been  promoted  and  trusted  ;  his  mother  had  been  to  them 
about  it  ;  the  woman  was  greatly  to  be  pitied,  but  in  justice  to 
their  own  people  they  must  prosecute.  Besides,  it  appeared  from 
the  mother's  statement  that  her  son  had  fallen  into  bad  company. 
For  the  sake  of  their  employes  they  would  not  show  leniency  to  one 
who  kept  bad  company. 

"  It's  a  lie  !"  cried  Mr.  Bradberry,  in  a  rage.  "  The  boy's  mother 
is  a  mad-woman.  She  knows  nothing  about  it.  He  has  never  been 
in  bad  company." 


86  JULIA. 

Then  they  told  him  that  they  could  not  have  violent  people  there, 
and  they  shoved  him  out.  So  he  returned  sorrowful  and  ashamed 
and  hanging  his  head. 

"  Julia,"  he  said,  trying  to  keep  up  her  heart,  "  have  courage. 
I'll  go  and  give  evidence  myself  to-morrow." 


VII. 

Julia  went  to  the  Police  Court  with  Mr.  Bradberry,  and  took  a  seat 
in  the  last  bench  of  the  public  gallery.  The  old  man  spoke  without 
ceasing  all  the  way  on  the  certainty  of  the  boy's  acquittal.  What 
was  it  ? — two  pounds  !  The  wrong  addition  of  a  column.  Julia 
herself  sometimes  added  up  wrong  ;  as  for  replacing  the  money,  he 
was  ready  to  do  it  himself  ;  why,  there  was  not  a  more  honest  lad 
in  all  London  ;  let  Julia  cheer  up,  all  would  be  well.  He  spoke  so 
fast  and  so  confidently,  indeed,  that  a  more  experienced  person 
than  Julia  might  have  perceived  his  anxiety.  Outside  the  Court 
the  pavement  was  crowded  with  little  groups  of  people,  friends  of 
the  prisoners ;  the  individuals  vary  from  day  to  day,  but  the  groups 
always  seem  the  same  ;  most  of  them  are  women ;  a  good  many 
carry  babies  in  their  arms,  some  of  them  have  their  heads  tied  up. 
They  are  all  passionately  arguing  the  case  from  their  own  point  of 
view.  From  time  to  time  one  detaches  herself  from  the  rest  and 
rushes,  not  without  a  wild,  tragic  gesture,  into  the  Court,  where 
she  will  give  eager  and  impassioned  evidence,  or  will  sit  in  the 
gallery  and  grind  her  teeth  because  she  is  not  allowed  to  curse  the 
Court. 

The  gallery  is  only  a  little  square  box  with  four  benches,  capable 
of  holding  about  thirty  people  ;  those  who  sat  there  were  like  those 
who  stood  outside,  but  Julia  took  no  notice  of  them.  People  who 
live  in  Hoxton  do  not  pay  much  attention  to  the  external  appear- 
ance of  other  people,  even  though  their  heads  be  tied  up  in  blood- 
stained handkerchiefs,  or  their  eyes  blackened,  or  their  faces 
stamped  with  every  kind  of  ungovernable  passion.  It  was  not  to 
see  these  people  she  had  come,  but  to  see  the  Court  and  to  see  her 
lover  in  his  trouble.     Jem  steal  money  ?    Jem  a  thief  ?     Never  ! 

In  front  of  the  gallery  was  a  narrow  passage,  in  which  stood  a 
very  big  policeman  ;  and  next  to  that  was  the  prisoners'  dock,  for 
all  the  world  like  a  family  pew  :  then  came  an  open  space  with  a 
table  and  seats  for  clerks  and  solicitors  ;  and  lastly,  surrounded  by 
red  curtains,  the  magistrate's  desk  and  seat.  When  this  terrible 
man,  who  has  power  given  to  him  to  lock  up  people,  take  away 
their  good  name,  and  bring  shame  and  disgrace  upon  a  whole 
family,  took  his  seat,  they  began  to  bring  in  the  cases.  First, 
the  drunken  and  disorderly  cases,  men  and  women,  whose 
faces  Julia  seemed   to    know  :  it  is  an  odd  thing  about  London, 


JULIA.  87 

that  if  you  walk  about  it  long  enough  you  seem  to  know  all  the 
faces  there  are.  Some  of  them  were  old  and  grey-headed — Julia 
thought  of  her  grandfather  ;  some  were  women,  old.  young,  and 
middle-aged  ;  but  she  had  seen  many  such  women  before.  One  was 
a  young  gentleman,  who  said  his  name  was  William  Smith,  and  that 
he  was  a  medical  student;  he  was  fined,  and  a  friend  who  happened 
to  be  in  Court  paid  the  fine  for  him,  and  they  went  off  together, 
the  medical  student  looking  ashamed  of  himself,  and  envious,  per- 
haps, of  the  happy  lot  of  those  upon  'whom  strong  drink  comes  with 
smiles  and  friendly  speech,  because  such  do  never  wander  into  a 
dock,  but  are  lovingly  propped  against  the  wall  by  policemen,  or 
led  gently  home.  It  is  a  misfortune  for  a  gentleman  to  get  quarrel- 
some in  his  cups. 

When  these  cases  had  been  all  disposed  of,  there  came  the  more 
serious  charges.  First,  a  man  was  brought  up  for  stealing  a  pair  of 
boots.  He  was  a  most  miserable  creature,  who  looked  as  if  he  had 
once  been  respectable  and  once  been  handsome.  He  was  remanded 
in  order  that  something  more  might  be  found  out  about  him.  And 
then  there  was  a  fellow  with  a  bullet-head  and  no  forehead  to  speak 
of,  who  had  knocked  down  an  old  man  and  robbed  him  of  twopence. 
He  too  was  remanded  in  order,  that  his  history  might  be  inquired 
into,  and  a  black  history  it  very  probably  proved  to  be. 

Then  came — alas  !  ala3  ! — the  case  of  James  Atherston. 

The  girl  at  the  back  of  the  Court  caught  her  breath  and  trembled 
when  her  lover  stepped  into  the  shameful  dock.  His  cheek  was 
flushed  and  angry,  his  teeth  were  set ;  he  grasped  the  bar  before 
him  with  both  hands  and  stood  upright,  gazing  straight  before  him; 
but  he  saw  nothing,  because  his  soul  was  filled  with  a  burning  rage. 
It  was  his  own  mother  who  had  brought  him  here  ;  it  was  his 
mother  who  had  slandered  his  girl — his  own  mother. 

The  case  was  briefly  stated,  and  Jem  was  asked  to  plead.  He 
shook  his  head  and  murmured  something  which  the  Court  took  to 
mean  "  Guilty."  Then  a  solicitor  rising,  said  that  he  was  instructed 
bv  the  House  which  employed  the  prisoner,  to  state  that  they  were 
CO  npelled  to  prosecute  every  case  of  embezzlement.  Another  so- 
licitor said  that  he  was  instructed  to  defend  the  prisoner,  and  that 
he  should  not  deny  the  alleged  deficit,  but  he  should  show  that  the 
character  of  the  prisoner  had  been  excellent  until  he  had  fallen 
into  bad  company,  and  fallen  into  the  hands  of  a  designing  woman, 
and  he  should  therefore  wish  the  magistrate  to  deal  leniently  with 
the  prisoner. 

At  the  words  "  designing  woman"  Julia  clasped  her  hands  tight, 
but  made  no  sign. 

Then  the  principal  witness  deposed  to  the  deficit  in  the  cash,  but 
stated  that  the  books  had  been  correctly  kept,  without  any  attempt 
at  falsifying  the  accounts  ;  nor  did  the  prisoner  try  to  conceal  the 
deficit.  On  being  asked  by  the  witness  if  he  could  not  make  it  up, 
he  said  that  his  mother  had  refused  to  give  him  the  money. 


88  JULIA. 

The  magistrate  here  remarked  that  he  supposed  his  mother  had 
not  the  money  to  give. 

"  No,"  said  the  witness,  "his  mother  is  a  very  respectable  woman 
with  a  shop  and  some  money  of  her  own.  But  she  refused  to  help 
him." 

"  That,"  said  the  magistrate,  "is  very  extraordinary." 

"  She  came  to  the  House  when  it  was  too  late,"  said  the  witness, 
"  and  offered  the  money,  and  said  that  she  would  have  given  it  to 
him  before,  but  he  refused  to  give  up  his  bad  ways  and  company." 

Then  the  policeman  who  took  the  lad  into  custody  gave  his  evi- 
dence. And  then  the  solicitor  who  was  defending  the  prisoner 
called  his  mother,  and  Mrs.  Atherston  herself  stepped  into  the 
witness-box. 

She  was  pale,  her  lips  were  set  firm,  and  her  eyes  were  hard.  But 
she  would  not  look  at  her  son,  who,  for  his  part,  fixed  his  eyes  upon 
her  with  a  kind  of  stupor.  What  had  he  done  that  his  own  mother 
should  have  brought  this  evil  upon  him  ? 

She  said  that  her  son  was  twenty-one  years  of  age,  and  had 
always  been  a  good  son  to  her,  and  steady  in  his  habits,  though  not 
yet  convinced  of  sin  ;  that  it  was  not  until  the  spring  of  that  year 
that  he  began  to  come  home  late  at  night,  and  to  spend  his  Sab- 
baths in  riot  with  profligate  companions  ;  that  she  had  only  just  dis- 
covered that  he  had  formed  an  acquaintance  with  a  wicked  woman 
— here  Mr.  Bradberry  groaned,  but  Julia  seemed  not  to  hear — who 
was  a  dancer  or  acting  person  at  the  Grecian  Theatre  ;  "one  of 
those,"  she  added,  "  who  is  on  the  way  going  down  to  the  Chambers 
of  Death."  It  was  to  find  the  money  for  these  debaucheries  that  he 
spent  all  his  own  wages  and  the  money  of  his  employers. 

The  magistrates  asked  her  if  she  had  refused  to  give  him  the 
money  ? 

She  said  she  had  offered  him  the  money  on  the  simple  condition 
of  giving  up  this  girl — that  he  was  infatuated  with  her,  and  re- 
fused. 

"  You  knew,"  said  the  magistrate,  "  that  if  he  could  not  make  up 
his  accounts,  he  would  be  brought  here." 

"  I  knew  that,"  she  said.  "  The  shame  and  disgrace  will  be  upon 
my  head  all  the  rest  of  my  life  ;  but  I  would  rather  a  thousand 
times  that  he  were  in  a  gaol  than  throwing  away  his  soul  in  his 
company  of  wicked  women.  In  prison  he  will  have,  I  suppose,  the 
Bible  to  read,  and  he  cannot  break  the  Sabbath.  Perhaps  he  will 
forget  the  woman." 

Mr.  Bradberry,  grinding  his  teeth,  looked  sharply  at  Julia.  She 
was  listening  with  bowed  head  and  clasped  hands,  but  she  made  no 
sign.     No  more  bad  words  could  hurt  her  now. 

"  I  have  no  other  witnesses,  sir,"  said  the  solicitor. 

Then  Mr.  Bradberry  rose  and  asked  permission  to  say  a  word  in 
evidence.  He  went  into  the  witness-box  and  was  sworn.  Then  he 
began  to  say  that   he  knew  both  the  young  man  and   the  girl  to 


JULIA.  89 

whom  he  was  engaged  ;  that  he  had  employed  the  girl  for  some 

years- 


Here  the  magistrate  interrupted  him,  saying  that  he  wished  to 
give  the  prisoner  the  benefit  of  previous  good  character,  and  that 
the  young  woman  had  better  not  be  brought  into  the  case  any 
more.  In  fact,  he  spoke  out  of  the  kindness  of  his  heart,  and 
because  a  simple  vague  impression  of  bad  company,  and  a  shadowy 
Delilah  is  better  for  a  prisoner  than  an  exact  description  of  orgies 
and  profligacy.  If  it  is  only  known  in  general  terms  that  the  idle 
apprentice  has  fallen  into  bad  ways,  he  is  not  regarded  with  any- 
thing like  the  contempt  which  is  his  lot  when  Hogarth  draws  those 
ways  with  unsparing  pencil.  Therefore  the  magistrate  bade  Mr. 
Bradberry  stand  aside,  and  asked  the  prisoner  what  he  had  to  say 
for  himself.  Jem  shook  his  head  ;  he  had  nothing.  If  he  had  said 
anything,  it  would  have  been  in  railing  and  bitterness  against  his 
mother.  It  was  she  who  had  brought  this  evil  upon  him  ;  his  own 
mother  had  done  it.  And  so  his  tongue  clave  unto  the  roof  of  his 
mouth,  and  he  said  nothing,  but  shook  his  head. 

Then  the  magistrate  said  that  it  was  a  very  painful  case.  Here 
was  evidently  a  young  man  carefully  and  religiously  brought  up, 
who  had  fallen  into  temptation — the  world  was  full  of  such  temp- 
tations. He  wished  all  .such  young  men  in  London  could  learn  a 
lesson  from  this  case,  of  the  misery  which  follows  upon  bad  company 
and  the  society  of  ballet-girls  and  the  like.  And  then  he  sentenced 
the  prisoner  to  four  months'  imprisonment,  and  the  case  was  over, 
and  Jem  taken  from  the  dock  and  led  out  of  sight. 

The  next  case  was  called  on.  The  solicitor  for  the  defence  began 
to  whisper  with  the-  solicitor  for  the  prosecution,  and  they  laughed 
together  ;  and  Julia  thought  it  strange  that  they  should  laugh  ;  and 
she  saw  Mrs.  Atherston  with  set  lips  walk  quickly  out  of  the  Court. 

"  Come,  Julia,"  said  Mr.  Bradberry,  "  we  have  done  no  good  ;  let 
us  go  home." 

They  went  back  together  to  the  bookbinding-shop.  It  was  two 
o'clock.  Mr.  Bradberry  sent  out  for  some  dinner  ;  but  Julia  refused 
to  take  any,  and  sat  down  saying  nothing.  Then  she  took  off  her 
hat  and  jacket,  climbed  upon  her  high  stool,  and  opened  her  books, 
and  sat  over  them  till  six  o'clock. 

Mr.  Bradberry  presently  went  away  and  left  her  alone. 

At  five  o'clock  he  returned. 

"Julia,"  he  said,  "it  was  your  grandmother  went  round  to  Jem's 
mother,  and  told  her  you  were  engaged  at  the  theatre.  Did  it  on 
purpose  to  make  mischief,  because  she  was  afraid  you'd  marry,  and 
she'd  have  to  go  into  the  House." 

Julia  turned  her  sad  eyes  heavily  upon  him,  but  said  nothing. 

In  the  evening  she  went  to  the  theatre  as  usual,  and  played  her 
part.  That  is  to  say,  she  was  beautifully  dressed  in  a  pink  and  white 
frock,  shorter  than  is  at  present  worn  in  society,  with  an  apron  stuck 
all  over  with  bunches  of  pink  ribbons  ;  had  pink  ribbons  at  her 


go  JULIA. 

shoulders,  and  a  pretty  little  straw  hat  with  pink  ribbons.  She  was 
one  of  a  bevy  of  village  maidens  ;  and  while  the  heroine  was 
dragged  away  by  the  villain,  she  turned  her  eyes  upon  the  pit,  and 
smiled  upon  whole  rows  of  young  fellows,  whose  hearts  beat  faster 
only  to  think  how  happy  would  be  the  shepherd  who  could  call  so 
sweet  a  creature  his  own. 

When  she  could  get  away  it  was  already  past  eleven.  The  dancing 
platform  was  deserted,  and  the  orchestra  was  empty :  but  dancing 
was  going  on  in  the  great  hall,  where  the  band  was  playing. 

She  stopped  and  looked  at  the  scene.  Then  there  fell  upon  her 
suddenly,  and  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  a  full  sense  of  what  the 
magistrate  meant,  and  Jem's  mother  meant,  and  the  solicitor  meant, 
and  everybody  understood.  Why,  in  this  vulgar  Ranelagh,  this 
workgirls'  "Vauxhall,  there  were  in  plenty— what  Jem's  mother  had 
called  her.  Everybody  thought  the  same  of  her  except  Mr.  Brad- 
berry.  It  was  she,  and  no  other,  who  had  dragged  the  poor  boy  to 
prison — everybody  said  so. 

She  ought  to  have  understood  the  thing  fully  before  ;  but  she 
did  not,  nor,  indeed,  could  she  ever  understand  why  they  so  re- 
garded her.  If  you  see  every  night  of  your  life — from  nine  to 
nineteen — the  same  scene,  you  think  nothing  of  it — you  attach  no 
meaning  to  it.  Now,  however,  the  theatre  and  her  grandmother — 
half  her  life — suddenly  became  impossible  :  she  could  never  stand 
upon  the  stage  again,  or  enter  again  the  gates  of  the  Royal  Grecian. 

She  saw  standing  in  the  doorway  with  others  a  girl  she  knew  as 
formerly  one  of  Mr.  Bradberry's  folders — one  of  the  thousands  of 
London  girls  who  live  by  themselves  and  enjoy — poor  creatures  ! — 
perfect  freedom. 

"Emily,"  she  said,  "I'm  not  going  home  any  more.  Take  me 
with  you  for  to-night." 

"  Why,  Julia,"  the  other  cried,  "  surely  you  are  not " 

"I'm  never  going  to  my  grandmother's  any  more.  Let  me  go 
home  with  you  to-night." 


VIII. 

Julia  did  not  go  any  more  to  the  theatre,  nor  did  she  go  home  to 
her  grandmother.  She  »ot  a  bedroom  for  herself,  and  she  continued 
to  keep  the  books  for  Mr.  Brad  berry,  and  to  collect  the  moneys  due 
to  bim.  This  took  her  all  the  day.  In  the  evening  she  sat  by  her- 
self in  her  room  thinking.  She  had  never  got  into  the  habit  of  read- 
ing, and  she  had  no  friends,  and  she  wanted  no  amusement  ;  so  she 
sat  thinking  and  remembering.  Sometimes,  however,  she  remained 
in  the  office;  with  the  old  man,  who  smoked  his  pipe  and  discoursed 
on  the  iniquity  of  people  being  allowed  to  be  poor.  Julia  listened, 
but  said  nothing  ;  yet  it  was  some  sort  of  company  for  her.  She 
hud  become  quite  silent,  and,  in  fact,  had  gone  back  to  her  old  style, 


JULIA.  91 

and  was  again  a  passive,  quiet  girl,  who  took  the  work  that  was 
assigned  to  her  and  did  it  faithfully.  She  never  grumbled  or  com- 
plained, or  seemed  to  think  that  she  had  a  claim  to  anything,  or 
rights  of  her  own,  or  reason  for  expecting  any  good  fortune.  The 
elasticity  was  gone  out  of  her  feet :  the  colour  had  left  her  cheek  ; 
her  shoulders  were  round  again ;  her  chest  was  flat ;  she  looked 
upon  the  ground  as  she  walked  ;  the  little  fineries  with  which  she 
decked  herself  to  walk  with  Jem  all  vanished,  and  were  no  more 
seen. 

Yet  she  could  not  quite  go  back  to  the  old  monotony  ;  the  Sun- 
day spent  in  the  former  way  would  have  been  intolerable.  There- 
fore, on  that  day,  when  it  was  fine,  she  went  out  by  herself,  and 
wandered  alone  among  the  fields  and  country  lanes  which  Jem  had 
shown  her.  The  fields  were  now  wet  and  swampy  ;  the  hedges 
were  bare  ;  the  ditches  where  she  had  picked  the  wild-flowers  were 
full  of  dead,  brown  leaves.  She  walked  along  the  wet  paths  over 
the  swampy  grass,  living  over  again  the  happy  days  she  had  spent 
here  with  her  lover  ;  or  she  sat  crouched  upon  the  steps  of  a  stile 
in  the  lonely  place,  whither  no  one  came  but  herself,  remembering 
the  sunshine  and  happiness  of  the  summer,  while  the  morning 
turned  into  afternoon,  and  the  short  winter's  day  closed  in.  Then 
she  would  remember  that  Jem  was  in  prison,  and  that  she  was  the 
bad  company  who  brought  him  there,  and  would  go  slowly  home 
and  sit  in  her  solitary  room.  A  sad  and  unhealthy  life  !  Always, 
with  the  recollection  of  the  past  joy,  the  reproach  that  all  the  mis- 
chief was  her  own  doing  !  Her  lover  was  sitting  in  a  prison-cell, 
dressed  in  prison-garb  !  Poor  Jem  !  Poor  Jem  !  He  had  fallen 
into  bad  company.  She  was  the  bad  company  ;  she  was  the  wicked 
woman  whom  the  magistrate  held  up  as  a  warning  ;  it  was  she  who 
had  led  him  astray  from  the  paths  of  virtue.  They  said  this  because 
she  was  a  theatre-girl ;  otherwise  no  one  would  have  said  it.  And 
she  had  been  in  the  theatre  since  she  could  walk,  and  never  knew 
that  she  was  wicked  !     It  was  strange  ! 

I  once  read  a  story  of  a  little  girl  who  had  to  make  her  first  con- 
fession. In  her  desire  to  clear  her  soul  of  all  its  sins,  she  learned 
from  a  book  (kindly  provided  by  the  Church  for  the  purpose)  all 
the  possible  sins,  together  with  those  that  were  impossible  for  her. 
Then  she  knelt  before  her  priest,  and  awakened  him  from  the 
drowsy  half -attention  with  which  I  am  told  these  functionaries  re- 
ceive children's  confessions  by  a  confession  of  the  most  startling 
kind.  It  began  with  the  commoner  forms  of  sin,  such  as  murder, 
robbery,  sacrilege,  and  so  forth,  going  steadily  up  the  scale  to  gor- 
mandizing and  guzzling.     Never  was  priest  so  astonished. 

If  Julia  had  met  a  priest,  and  that  priest  had  ordered  her  to 
kneel  down  and  confess,  she  would  have  said  :  "  I  am  a  painted 
hussy  ;  I  am  an  abandoned  woman  :  I  have  led  a  young  man  into 
sin — to  his  ruin  and  undoing  :  I  am  bad  company  ;  my  feet  lead  to 
the  chambers  of  death  ;  my  wickedness  should  be  a  warning  and  an 


92  JULIA. 

example  to  all  young  men."  And  to  questions  of  more  detail,  she 
would  have  added  that  the  work  of  ruin  had  been  accomplished  by 
nothing  worse  than  walking  in  the  fields  with  him  where  others 
walked,  and  taking  tea  in  tea-gardens  where  others  took  tea.  I 
wish  Julia  had  met  that  priest. 

When  the  Sunday  was  wet,  and  she  could  not  go  into  the  country, 
Julia  went  timidly,  because  she  did  not  feel  as  if  she  had  any  business 
there,  to  the  churches  and  chapels.  The  music  and  singing  pleased 
her  ;  the  service  was  some  kind  of  show,  the  nature  of  which  she  only 
imperfectly  understood.  Once  or  twice  she  went  to  Salvation  Army 
meetings,  where  the  clanging  of  the  cymbals,  the  blowing  of  the 
trumpets,  and  the  shouting  of  the  speakers,  brought  back  reminiscences 
of  the  melodrama.  When  all  the  people  sang  together,  and  she  saw 
the  infection  of  religious  fervour  spreading  from  bench  to  bench, 
and  men  and  women  clutching  each  other,  and  weeping  aloud,  and 
calling  out  "  Glory  !"  her  heart  too  was  moved,  and  she  shed  tears 
which  seemed  to  be  those  of  conviction.  But  when  they  exhorted 
her  to  step  forth  and  sit  on  the  stool  of  repentance,  and  to  cast  her 
sins  before  the  Cross,  she  hardened  again,  because  she  was  ignorant 
of  having  committed  any  sin,  though  she  certainly  had  the  misfor- 
tune to  have  been  a  girl  of  the  theatre. 

Early  in  December,  perhaps  brought  on  by  her  lonely  walks  in 
the  winter  fields,  her  cough  came  back  to  her,  and  tore  her  to 
pieces.  In  January  it  became  worse,  giving  her  no  rest  night  or 
day  ;  so  that  she  grew  thinner  in  the  cheek,  and  her  shoulders  grew 
rounder  and  her  chest  more  hollow. 

Then  Mr.  Bradberry  took  her  out  of  her  lodging,  and  gave  her  a 
bedroom — I  believe  it  was  his  own— over  his  office,  and  would  not 
let  her  go  out  at  all  except  in  the  daytime,  and  then  only  when  there 
was  no  cold  wind.  His  manner  was  soft  and  kind  now  to  the  girl ; 
he  tried  to  find  things  that  would  tempt  her  to  eat ;  he  got  a  doctor 
for  her,  and  made  her  take  medicines  ;  and  he  set  himself,  with  all 
the  art  he  knew,  to  lift  the  despair  and  gloom  off  the  poor  girl's 
soul — setting  forth,  first,  that  Jem  would  soon  be  out  again,  and 
must  be  received  with  welcome  and  a  smile,  because  he  had  done 
nothing  wrong  at  all,  unless  carelessness  was  wrong  ;  and  that  as 
for  herself,  she  had  nothing  to  reproach  herself  with,  because,  of 
all  the  innocent  girls  in  the  world,  she  was  the  most  innocent  ;  and 
so  forth.  But  his  words  had  no  other  effect  than  to  make  her  cry  ; 
and  when  he  spoke  of  her  lover  coming  out  of  prison,  she  shuddered, 
because  he  would  doubtless  have  forgotten  her,  as  his  mother  hoped, 
or  he  would  have  learned  to  think  of  her  as  bad  company,  and  so 
be  ashamed  ever  to  speak  to  her  again.  You  sec,  after  a  girl  has 
had  so  many  hard  words  said  to  her,  a  few  kind  ones  easily  make 
her  cry 

I  think  it  was  on  the  afternoon  of  the  last  Sunday  in  Febru.iry — 
Jem  was  to  come  out  on  the  first  Monday  in  March — that  Mr.  Brad- 
berry  met,  walking  in  the  City  Road  together,  Julia's  grandfather 


JULIA.  93 

and  grandmother.  They  -were  out  for  the  day,  by  permission  of  the 
Master  ;  in  fact,  they  now  wore  the  beautiful  and  tasteful  uniform 
of  the  St.  Luke's  Workhouse.  Nobody  could  look  more  venerable, 
more  virtuous,  or  more  hardly  used  by  Fortune  than  this  pair.  It 
seemed  to  passers-by  as  if  they  must  have  spent  their  all  in  good 
works  and  acts  of  charity,  which  accounted  for  their  condition  of 
truly  honourable  poverty,  so  creamy- white  was  the  old  man's  hair, 
so  serene  the  old  woman's  countenance. 

Mr.  Bradberry  stopped  in  front  of  them  and  snorted. 

"  As  for  Julia,  now "  he  began. 

"  Oh,  the  wicked  and  ungrateful  hussy !"  said  the  grandmother. 
"  Oh  !  to  go  away  and  leave  her  old  grand " 

"  As  for  Julia,"  he  repeated,  interrupting,  "  I  believe  she's  dying. 
I  thought  I'd  tell  you  ;  not  that  I  am  going  to  let  you  see  her  or 
trouble  her  last  days,  poor  thing.  She's  got  no  money  for  you  ;  but 
I  tell  you  what  I'll  do.  Yes  ;  you  used  to  get  drunk  once  a  week, 
at  least,  out  of  her  money.  Well,  Julia  shall  give  you  one  more 
chance.  There— go  along  with  you  and  drink  it  up  ;  it's  the  last 
you'll  have."  He  handed  them  two  or  three  shillings,  which  the 
old  woman  snatched  ;  and  then  the  pair  walked  on  in  silence,  and 
Mr.  Bradberry  stood  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  looking  after 
them.  "  Poor  girl !"  he  murmured  ;  "  she  never  had  a  fair  chance. 
Oh  !  nobody  ought  to  be  poor  !" 

At  eight  o'clock  one  Monday  morning  Jem  was  liberated. 
Coming  out  of  prison,  I  am  given  to  understand,  is  even  worse 
than  going  in,  for  such  offenders  as  this  young  man.  When  he 
passed  through  the  accursed  gates,  and  stood  in  the  street  a  free 
man  again,  his  cheek  reddened  with  the  shame  which  he  had  hardly 
felt  in  the  cell,  and  his  heart  fell  low  as  lead,  and  his  eyes  swam  so 
that  he  saw  nothing.  Then  some  one  touched  him  on  the  arm,  and 
he  recovered  and  turned  his  head. 

It  was  his  mother.  Jem  groaned,  and  shrank  back  with  a  look 
of  horror. 

"  You  ?"  he  cried,  shaking  her  off  with  a  gesture  which  she  will 
never  forget.  "  You,  who  put  me  in  there  and  disgraced  me  for 
life  ?    You  come  to  see  my  shame  ?" 

"  I  am  here,"  she  replied,  "  to  know  how  it  goes  with  your  soul. 
Have  you  repented  ?" 

"  Repented !" 

"  The  man  Bradberry  came  to  me  last  night,"  she  went  on  coldly. 
"  He  tells  me  that  the  woman — your  former  companion — has  been 
struck  down  by  Heaven  in  her  iniquities — her  cup  being  full — and 
is  now  dying.  He  accused  me  of  causing  her  death — but  that  is 
nothing.  Save  once  when  I  told  her  plain  truth  about  herself,  I 
have  not  meddled  with  her.  Go  to  her  therefore,  and,  if  possible, 
repent  together." 

He  listened  no  longer,  but  rushed  away.  I  think  that  he  will 
never  see  his  mother  any  more. 


94  JULIA, 

He  thought  nothing  of  Julia's  wasted  face  and  weakness  and 
vanished  beauty.  As  soon  as  she  lifted  her  great  eyes  wistfully 
when  he  opened  the  door,  the  old  love  came  back  to  him — but  it 
had  never  left  him — with  a  yearning  tenderness,  and  a  bitterness 
of  self-reproach  he  had  never  felt  in  the  prison.  He  threw  himself 
on  his  knees  before  her,  and  caught  her  hands.  "  Oh  !  Julia  ! 
Julia!"  he  cried,  "forgive  me.  It  is  I  who  have  brought  this 
suffering  upon  you.  I  did  not  know,  indeed  I  didn't.  I  thought 
my  accounts  were  square — I  did  indeed — and  my  mother  would  not 
give  me  my  own  money.  Oh  !  Julia  !"  He  burst  into  such  tears 
and  weeping  as  went  to  her  very  heart. 

"No,  Jem,"  she  said,  weeping  with  him,  "you  mustn't  cry.  It 
was  my  fault.  Everybody  says  it  was  my  fault.  The  magistrate 
said  so.  Forgive  me  and  go  away.  You  mustn't  keep  bad  com- 
pany any  more.  But  I  didn't  know.  I  didn't  mean  to  be  bad 
company  for  you.  I  loved  you  too  much  to  harm  you,  Jem. 
Don't  think  I  meant  it.     Oh  !  Jem,  you  were  kind  to  me  I" 

He  swore,  kissing  her  and  weeping  again,  that  he  would  never 
leave  her  any  more.  Her  cough  should  go  away.  She  should  get 
strong  again.     But  she  shook  her  head. 

"  No,  Jem,"  she  said,  "  I  am  going  to  die.  The  doctor  says  I 
shall  die  very  soon.  He  told  Mr.  Bradberry  so.  And  oh,  Jem ! 
there's  never  been  an  hour  but  I've  been  with  you  in  your  prison. 
Even  at  night  I  seemed  to  sit  with  you  and  heir  your  poor  heart 
beat.  Poor  Jem  !  Don't  take  on.  Oh  !  don't  take  on,  Jem, 
about  me.  There's  many  and  many  better  than  me  in  the  world 
— not  theatre  gii'H  you  know — girls  your  mother  will  like.  Don't 
mind  me.  Mr.  Bradberry  says  it  doesn't  hurt  to  die.  And  perhaps, 
he  says — he  doesn't  know,  but  perhaps — there'll  be  flowers  and 
hedges  like  Muswull  Hill." 

"  Yes,"  said  Jem.  "  Yes  ;  there's  bound  to  be,  Julia.  There's 
bound  to  be." 

"  Stay  with  mo,  Jem.  Oh  !  I  am  so  glad  to  get  you  back  again  ! 
Stay  with  me,  Jem,  won't  you  V  Stay  with  me.  You  won't  go 
away,  will  you  ?     Oh  1  Jem,  you  are  kind  to  me  1" 


SIR  JOCELYN'S   CAP 


"This,"  said  Jocelyn,  throwing  himself  into  a  chair,  "is  the  most 
wonderful  thing  I  ever  came  across." 

Do  you  know  how,  sometimes  in  the  dead  of  night,  or  even  in 
broad  daylight,  while  you  are  thinking,  you  distinctly  hear  a  voice 
which  argues  with  you,  puts  the  case  another  way,  contradicts  you, 
or  even  accuses  you,  and  calls  names  ? 

This  happened  to  Jocelyn.  A  voice  somewhere  in  the  room,  and 
not  far  from  his  ear,  said  clearly  and  distinctly,  "  There  is  some- 
thing here  much  more  wonderful."  It  was  a  low  voice,  yet  metallic, 
and  with  a  cluck  in  it  as  if  the  owner  had  begun  life  as  a  Hottentot. 

Jocelyn  started  and  looked  around.  He  was  quite  alone.  He 
was  in  chambers  in  Piccadilly :  a  suite  of  four  rooms ;  outside 
there  was  the  roll  of  carriages  and  cabs,  with  the  trampling  of 
many  feet ;  at  five  o'clock  on  an  afternoon  in  May,  and  in 
Piccadilly,  one  hardly  expects  anything  supernatural.  When 
something  of  the  kind  happens  at  this  time,  it  is  much  more 
creepy  than  the  same  thing  at  midnight.  The  voice  was  perfectly 
distinct  and  audible.  Jocelyn  felt  cold  and  trembled  involuntarily, 
and  then  was  angry  with  himself  for  trembling. 

"  Much  more  wonderful,"  repeated  this  strange  voice  with  the 
cluck.  Jocelyn  pretended  not  to  hear  it.  He  was  quite  as  brave 
as  most  of  his  brother-clerks  in  the  Foreign  Office,  but  in  the  matter 

It  is  due  to  Mr.  Charles  Brookfield  to  state  that  the  idea  of  this  ctory 
is  entirely  his.  He  suggested  it  one  day  at  the  Savile  Club  to  Mr.  Walter 
Pollock  and  myself,  and  we  amused  ourselves  for  an  hour  or  two  in  devising 
sundry  situations  which  might  result  from  the  zeal  of  a  demon  grown 
incapable  by  age  and  infirmity  of  fully  carrying  out  his  master's  wishes. 
Most  of  these  situations  are  embodied  in  the  following  pages,  which  were 
afterwards  written  by  Mr.  Pollock  and  myself.  I  have  to  thank  Mr.  Pollock 
for  his  kind  permission  to  include  the  sketch  in  this  volume. 


96  SIK  JOCELYN' S  CAP. 

of  strange  voices  he  was  inexperienced,  and  thought  to  get  rid  of 
this  one  as  one  gets  rid  of  an  importunate  beggar,  by  passing  him 
without  notice. 

"  I've  looked  everywhere,"  he  said. 

"Not  everywhere,"  clucked  the  voice  in  correction. 

"  Everywhere,"  he  repeated,  firmly.  "  And  there's  nothing. 
The  old  man  has  left  no  money,  no  bank-books,  no  sign  of  invest- 
ment, stocks,  or  shares.     What  did  he  live  upon  ?" 

"  Me,"  said  the  voice. 

Jocelyn  started  again.  His  nerves,  he  said  to  himself,  must  be 
getting  shaky. 

"  He  seems  to  have  had  no  'affairs'  of  any  kind  ;  no  solicitors, 
no  engagements  ;  nothing  but  the  letting  of  the  Grange.     How  on 

earth  did  he "     Here  he  stopped,  for  fear  of  being  answered  by 

that  extraordinary  echo  in  his  ear.  He  heard  a  cluck-cluck  as  if 
the  reply  was  ready,  but  was  checked  at  the  moment  of  utterance. 

"  All  his  bills  paid  regularly,  nothing  owing,  not  even  a  tailor's 
bill  running,  and  the  money  in  his  desk  exactly  the  amount,  and  no 
more,  required  for  his  funeral.  Fancy  leaving  just  enough  for 
your  funeral !  Seems  like  a  practical  joke  on  your  lawful  heir. 
Nothing  in  the  world  except  that  old  barn."  He  sat  down  again 
and  meditated. 

The  deceased  was  his  uncle,  the  chief  of  the  old  house,  the 
owner  and  possessor  of  the  Grange.  He  left,  it  is  true,  a  formal 
will  behind  him,  in  which  he  devised  everything  of  which  he  was 
possessed  to  his  nephew  Jocelyn,  who  inherited  the  Grange  and 
the  park  besides  the  title.  Unfortunately,  he  did  not  specify  his 
possessions,  so  that  when  the  young  man  came  to  look  into  his 
inheritance,  he  knew  not  how  great  or  how  small  it  was.  Now, 
when  one  knows  nothing,  one  expects  a  great  deal,  which  accounts 
for  the  buoyancy  of  humau  youth  and  the  high  spirits  of  the 
infant  pig. 

He  began  with  an  unsystematic  yet  anxious  examination  of  the 
old  man's  desks  and  papers.  They  were  left  in  very  good  order  ; 
the  letters,  none  of  which  were  of  the  least  importance,  were  all 
folded,  endorsed,  and  dated  ;  the  receipts — all  for  bills  which 
would  never  be  disputed — were  pasted  in  books ;  the  diaries, 
which  contained  the  record  of  daily  expenditure  and  the  chronicle 
of  small-beer,  stood  before  him  in  a  long  uniform  row  of  black 
cloth  volumes.  Even  the  dinner-cards  were  preserved,  and  the 
play-bills  :  a  most  methodical  old  gentleman.  But  this  made  it  the 
more  surprising  that  there  could  not  be  found  among  all  these 
papers  any  which  referred  to  his  private  affairs  and  his  personal 
property, 

"He  must  have  placed,"  said  Jocelyn,  "all  the  documents 
concerning  his  invested  moneys  in  the  hands  of  some  solicitor.  I 
have  only  got  to  find  his  address." 

He  then   proceeded   to  examine   slowly  and  methodically  the 


SIR  JOCELYN  >S  CAP.  97 

drawers,  shelves,  cupboards,  recesses,  cabinets,  boxes,  cases, 
receptacles,  trunks,  and  portmanteaus  in  the  chambers,  turning 
them  inside  out  and  upside  down,  shaking  them,  banging  them, 
peering  and  prying,  carefully  feeling  the  linings,  lifting  lids, 
sounding  pockets,  and  trying  locks,  until  he  was  quite  satisfied 
that  he  had  left  no  place  untried.  Yet  he  found  nothing.  This 
was  surprising  as  well  as  disappointing.  For  although  of  late 
years  old  Sir  Jocelyn's  habits  had  been  retired  and  even  penurious, 
it  was  well  known  that  in  early  manhood,  that  is  to  say,  somewhere 
in  the  twenties  and  the  thirties,  he  was  about  town  in  a  very  large 
and  generous  sense  indeed.  He  must,  at  that  time,  have  had  a 
great  deal  of  money.  Had  he  lost  it  ?  Yet  something  must  have 
remained.  Else,  how  could  he  live  ?  And  at  least  there  must  be 
some  record  of  the  remnant.  Yet,  strange  to  say,  not  even  a  bank- 
book. Jocelyn  thought  over  this  day  by  day.  He  had  taken  up 
his  abode  in  the  chambers,  which  were  comfortable,  though  the 
furniture  was  old  and  shabby.  The  rent,  which  was  high,  was  paid 
by  the  Grange,  now  let  to  a  family  of  Americans  of  the  same 
surname  as  his  own,  who  wanted  to  say  they  had  lived  in  an  old 
English  country-house,  and  would  go  home  and  declare  that  it  was 
the  real  original  cradle  of  their  race.  Cradles  of  race,  like  family 
trees,  can  be  ordered  or  hired  of  the  cabinet-maker,  either  in 
Wardour  Street  or  the  College  of  Heralds.  The  old  man  must 
have  had  something  besides  the  family  house.  If  it  was  only  an 
annuity,  there  would  be  the  papers  to  show  it.  Where  were  those 
papers  ? 

This  search  among  the  drawers  and  shelves  and  desks  took  him 
several  days.  It  was  upon  the  second  day  that  he  heard  the  voice. 
On  the  fifth  day,  which  was  Saturday,  he  began  with  the  books  on 
the  shelves — there  were  not  many.  First  he  looked  behind  them  : 
nothing  there  ;  he  remembered  to  have  heard  that  sometimes  wills, 
deeds,  and  other  proofs  of  property  have  been  hidden  in  the  leaves 
of  the  Family  Bible  :  there  was  no  Family  Bible,  but  there  was  a 
great  quantity  of  novels,  and  Jocelyn  spent  a  long  afternoon  turning 
over  the  leaves  of  these  volumes  in  search  of  some  paper  which 
would  give  him  a  clue  to  his  inheritance.  He  might  just  as  well 
have  spent  it  squaring  the  circle,  or  extracting  the  square  root  of 
minus  one,  or  pursuing  a  metaphysical  research,  for  all  the  good  it 
did  him.  It  is  only  fair  to  the  young  man  to  say  that  he  would 
have  greatly  preferred  spending  the  time  in  lawn-tennis,  and 
especially  in  playing  that  game  at  a  place  which  was  adorned  with 
the  gracious  presence  of  a  certain  young  lady.  "  A  Foreign  Office 
clerk,"  said  Jocelyn  bitterly  ;  "  a  mere  Foreign  Office  clerk  is  good 
enough  to  dance  with.  She  has  danced  with  me  for  a  year  and  a 
half.  The  other  fellow  can't  dance.  But  when  that  clerk  becomes 
the  owner  of  a  tumble-down  Grange,  though  there  are  not  twenty 
acres  of  ground  belonging  to  it,  and,  besides,  gets  all  the  property 
of  old  Sir  Jocelyn,  whom  all  the  world  knows,  and  inherits  hia 

7 


g8  SIX  JOCELYN'S  CAP. 

title,  that  Foreign  Office  clerk  becomes,  if  you  please,  a  person  oi 
consideration,  as  the  other  fellows  shall  see.  But  where  the  devil 
is  the  property  ?" 

"  Property  !"  It  was  the  same  curious  echo,  in  his  ear,  of  that 
metallic  clucking  voice.  Remember  that  it  was  Saturday  afternoon, 
when  the  streets  are  full  ;  this  made  such  a  phenomenon  as  a 
voice  proceeding  from  empty  space  all  the  more  striking  and 
terrible.  Much  more  terrible  was  the  thing  which  next  occurred. 
You  know  how  in  thought-reading  the  medium  takes  your  hand,  and 
without  your  guidance  moves  slowly,  but  certainly,  in  the  direction 
of  the  spot  where  you  have  hidden  the  ring.  The  phenomenon  has 
been  witnessed  by  hundreds  ;  it  is  a  fact  which  cannot  be  disputed. 
What  happened  to  Jocelyn  was  exactly  of  the  same  kind,  and 
therefore  not  more  surprising.  An  invisible  force — call  it  not  a 
hand — an  invisible,  impalpable,  strange  electrical  force  seized  his 
hand  with  a  kind  of  grasp.  It  was  not  a  strong  grasp  ;  quite  the 
contrary.  The  pressure  was  varying,  flickering,  inconstant,  uncer- 
tain. At  the  very  first  manifestation  and  perception  of  it,  Sir 
Jocelyn's  knees  knocked  themselves  together,  his  hair  stood  on  end, 
his  moustache  went  out  of  curl,  and,  to  use  a  favourite  and  very 
feeling  expression  of  the  last  century,  his  jaws  stuck.  By  this 
feeble  pressure  or  hand-grasp,  the  young  man  was  pulled,  or  rather 
guided  gently  across  the  room  to  a  table  on  which  stood,  with  its 
doors  open,  a  large  Japanese  cabinet.  It  was  one  of  the  things 
with  two  doors,  behind  which  are  two  rows  of  drawers,  and  below 
the  doors  one  large  drawer.  He  had  already  examined  every  one 
of  the  drawers  on  the  first  day  of  the  search,  when  he  had  opened 
and  looked  into  all  the  desks,  drawers,  boxes,  and  cupboards  in  the 
chambers.  He  knew  what  was  in  the  drawers — a  collection  of 
letters,  chiefly  from  ladies,  written  to  his  uncle  and  preserved  by 
him.  Was  it  possible  that  he  had  overlooked  something  ?  He 
opened  all  the  drawers,  turned  out  their  contents,  and  proceeded  to 
examine  every  letter.  This  took  him  two  or  three  hours,  during 
the  whole  of  which  time  he  had  an  uncomfortable  feeling  as  if  his 
forefinger  were  being  gently  but  steadily  pulled.  At  last  he  threw 
down  the  last  letter  and  let  himself  go,  just  as  a  man  who  is  blind- 
folded and  yet  finds  a  hidden  object,  allows  himself  to  be  led  by  the 
unconscious  guide  straight  to  the  place  where  it  has  been  deposited. 
Guided  by  this  unknown  force,  he  found  himself  grasping  the 
lowest  drawer — the  large  one — which  he  had  already  pulled  out. 
What  did  it  mean  ?  He  turned  it  round  :  there  was  nothing  re- 
markable about  the  drawer :  an  empty  drawer  cannot  contain  a 
secret.  Surprising  :  his  fingers  seemed  pulled  about  in  all  directions 
— what  was  it  'i  By  this  time,  the  first  natural  terror  was  gone, 
but  his  pulse  beat  fast  ;  he  was  excited  ;  he  was  clearly  on  the  eve 
of  making  some  strange  discovery. 

He  examined  the  drawer  again,  and  more  carefully.  He  could 
see  nothing  strange  about.  Then  he  heard  again  that  curious  voice 
which  seemed  in  his  own  head,  and  it  said  "  Measure." 


Z/R  JOCELYN1  S  CAP.  99 

What  was  lie  to  measure  ?    If  Jocelyn  had  been  a  conjuror  he 
would  have  understood  at  once  :  he  would  even  have  guessed  :   the 
professor  of  legerdemain  is  a  master  in  all  kinds  of  craft  and  subtlety 
— I  knew  one  of  them  who,  though  passionately  fond  of  whist, 
would  never  play  the  game  on  account  of  the  temptation  in  dealing 
to  give  himself  all  the  thirteen  trumps — but  above  all  he  under- 
stood the  value  of  drawers,  compartments,  divisions,  and  recesses 
which  are  shorter  than  they  seem.     The  drawer  was  in  fact  only 
three-fourths  the  depth  of  the  cabinet.     When  Jocelyn  at  length 
realized  this  fact,  he  perceived  that  there  must  be  a  secret  compart- 
ment at  the  back,  where  no  doubt  something  was  hidden  which  it 
greatly  concerned  him  to  find  out.     Of  course  by  this  time  he  ac- 
cepted without  further  doubt  the  fact  that  unusual   forces — call 
them  forces — were  abroad.     "A  psychic  influence,"  said  Jocelyn, 
though  his  teeth  chattered,  "  of  a  rare  and  most  curious  descrip- 
tion."    The  communication  of  it  to  the  Society  established  as  a 
Refuge  for  the  stories  which  nobody  outside  it  will  believe,  would 
be  very  interesting  :  but  perhaps  it  was  his  uncle  who  thus — here 
another  impatient  jerk  of  his  finger  startled  him.     He  turned  the 
cabinet  round  ;  the  back  presented  a  plain  surface  of  wood  without 
any  possible  scope  for  the  operation  of  secret  springs  ;  the  side  was 
carved  with  little  round  knobs  in  relief.     He  measured  the  drawer 
with  the  side  of  the  cabinet :  there  was  a  difference  of  three  and  a 
half  inches,  and  the  drawer  was  three  inches  high  :   as  the  cabinet 
was  two  feet  broad,  this  gave  a  space  of  3  x  24  x  3§,  which  repre- 
sents 252  cubic  inches.     A  good  deal  may  be  hidden  away  in  252 
cubic  inches.     How  was  he  to  get  at  the  contents  ?     Anyone  can 
take  a  hammer  and  chisel  and  brutally  burst  open  a  cabinet,  whether 
of  Japanese  or  any  other  work.     It  did  strike  Jocelyn  that  perhaps 
with  the  poker  he  might  prise  the  thing  open.     But  then,  so  beauti- 
ful a  cabinet,  and  his  late  uncle's  favourite  depository  for  the  love- 
letters  of  a  life  spent  wholly  in  making  love — 'twould  be  barbarous. 
While  he  considered,  the  forefinger  of  his  right  hand  was  travelling 
slowly  over  the   knobs.     Presently  it  stopped,  and  Jocelyn  felt 
upon  the  knuckle  a  distinct  tap.     He  pressed  the  knob  ;    to  his 
astonishment  a  kind  of  door  flew  open.     Jocelyn  looked  in — there 
icas  something  !     At  this  moment  he  paused.     He  did  not  doubt 
that  the  treasure,  whatever  it  was,  would  prove  of  the  greatest,  the 
very   greatest    importance    to   him,    perhaps   title-deeds,   perhaps 
debentures,  perhaps  notes  of  investments,  perhaps  the  address  of 
the  solicitors  in  whose  hands  Sir  Jocelyn,  his  uncle,  had  placed  his 
affairs,  perhaps — but  here  he   tilted   up  the  cabinet,  not  daring, 
through  some  terror  of  the  supernatural,  as  if  a  spirit  who  could 
bite  might  be  lurking  in  the  recess,  to  put  in  his  hand,  and  the  con- 
tents fell  out  without  any  apparent  supernatural  assistance,  by  tho 
natural  law  of  gravity.     We  may  take  it  as  a  general  rule  in  all  oc- 
currences of  the  supernatural  kind,  that  the   ordinary  machinery 
provided  by  nature  and  already  explained  by  Sir  Isaac  Newton  and 

4 — u 


ioo  SIX  JOCELYN' S  CAP. 

others,  is  employed  wherever  it  is  possible.  In  cases  where  direct 
interference  of  another  kind  is  required,  no  doubt  it  is  always 
forthcoming.  No  ghost  or  spirit  would  hesitate,  of  course,  to  go 
through  closed  doors,  pass  parcels  through  walls,  and  so  forth  ;  but 
if  the  doors  are  open  the  plain  way  is  clearly  and  obviously  the 
easiest  and  best.  So  that,  if  a  thing  will  fall  from  a  receptacle  of 
its  own  accord  when  that  receptacle  is  inverted,  there  is  really  no 
necessity  at  all  for  the  assistance  of  psychic  force.  This  explains 
why  the  parcel  fell  out. 

It  was  wrapped  in  an  old  discoloured  linen  covering.  Jocelyn 
unfolded  it  with  trembling  fingers.  It  contained  a  c?p.  Odd  ; 
only  a  cap.  It  was  made  of  cloth,  thick,  such  as  is  used  for  a  fez, 
and  formerly  no  doubt  red,  but  the  colour  was  almost  gone  out  of 
it,  and  it  was  moth-eaten.  In  shape  it  was  not  unlike  a  Phrygian 
cap.  Round  the  lower  part  there  ran  an  edging,  an  inch  broad,  of 
gold  embroidery,  but  this  too  was  ragged  and,  in  places,  falling  off. 
There  was  also  a  lining  of  silk,  but  it  was  so  ragged  and  worn  that 
it  looked  as  if  at  a  single  touch  it  would  fall  out. 

"A  worn-out,  old,  decrepit  cap,"  said  Jocelyn.  "All  this  fuss 
about  a  worthless  cap  !" 

Just  then  his  little  finger  received  a  tap  ;  and  Jocelyn,  his  at- 
tention thus  directed  to  the  spot,  saw  a  folded  paper  beneath  the 
cap. 

"  Ah !"  he  cried,  "  this  is  what  I  have  been  looking  for.  But  a 
cap  !    I  never  heard  my  uncle  talk  about  a  cap." 

He  took  up  the  paper,  and  yet  he  could  not  choose  but  look  at 
the  cap  itself.  As  he  gazed  upon  it,  he  felt  himself  turning  giddy. 
Cabinet,  cap,  and  paper  swam  before  his  eyes.  "  It  is  nothing," 
he  murmured,  "  the  heat  of  the  room — the — the " 

"  Effendi !"  said  the  voice  he  knew,  metallic  and  yet  quavering. 
"  Excellency  !  it  is — me — your  servant." 

The  cap  was  transformed — it  was  now  of  a  brilliant  hue,  while 
its  gold  embroideries  were  fresh  and  glittering — it  no  longer  lay 
upon  a  table,  decrepit  and  falling  to  pieces,  but  it  now  covered  the 
head  of  a  little  old  man,  apparently  about  eighty  or  more,  so 
wrinkled  and  lined  was  his  visage.  He  seemed  feeble,  and  his  knees 
and  shoulders  were  bent,  but  his  eyes  were  bright.  He  was 
dressed  in  some  Oriental  garb,  the  like  of  which  Jocelyn  had  never 
seen. 

He  bowed,  in  Oriental  style  with  gesture  of  the  fingers.  "  I 
am,"  he  said,  "  the  Slave  of  the  Cap.  I  am  a  Jinn,  and  I  am  at 
his  Excellency's  service,  night  and  day,  to  perform  his  wishes  so 
long  as  he  possesses  the  Cap." 

"  And  at  what  price  ?"  asked  Jocelyn. 

"  At  none.  The  Effendi's  ancestor  paid  the  charges  :  fees  are 
not  allowed  to  be  taken  by  assistants.  Sorcerers  and  great  Effen- 
dis  like  his  Excellency  are  particularly  requested  to  observe  this 
rule." 


SIX  JOCELYN' S  CAP.  101 

"  Certainly,"  said  Jocelyn.  "  If  there  is  to  be  no  signing  of 
bonds  and  terms  of  years " 

"  Nothing,  your  Excellency,  nothing  of  the  kind." 

"  In  that  case "  here  the  faintness  came  over  him  again  and 

his  eyes  swam.  When  he  recovered  he  looked  about  him  for  his 
Oriental  servant.  There  was  no  one  there,  only  the  furniture  in 
the  room  and  the  cabinet,  and  beside  the  cabinet  the  worn  and 
faded  cap. 

"  I  think  I  must  be  going  off  my  head,"  said  Jocelyn.  "  I  wish 
I  had  a  glass  of  water."  As  he  spoke  he  saw  that  a  glass  of  water 
actually  stood  on  the  table  at  his  elbow.  He  took  it  and  was  going 
to  drink  it.  "  Faugh  !"  he  cried,  setting  it  down  hastily,  "  it  has 
had  flowers  in  it." 

Then  he  remembered  the  roll  of  paper — which  he  opened.  It 
was  a  letter  on  two  sheets,  addressed  to  himself  by  his  uncle  ;  but 
the  second  sheet  had  been  twisted,  and  apparently  used  as  a  light, 
for  it  was  partly  burned,  and  had  been  rolled  out  again  and  placed 
with  the  unburned  sheet  as  if  the  writer  had  been  hurried. 

"  My  dear  Nephew,"  it  said,—"  I  have  deferred  until  a  late — 
perhaps  the  last  moment,  writing  to  you.  I  have  long  felt  that 
you  are  ardently  desirous  of  ascertaining  what  I  have  and  what 
I  should  leave  to  you.  In  the  first  place,  there  is  the  Grange.  You 
can  always,  I  should  think,  let  t)  _c  very  old  and  picturesque  build- 
ing for  a  sum  which  will  give  you  the  rent  of  your  chambers,  pay 
your  club  subscriptions  and  your  dinners.  You  have,  besides,  your 
clerkship,  which  ought  to  pay  your  tailor's  bill.  I  do  not  advif  e 
you  as  regards  the  conduct  of  your  life.  My  own,  it  is  true,  has 
been  chiefly  guided  by  the  precepts  of  the  great  and  good  Lord 
Chesterfield  ;  but  I  refrain  from  pressing  my  example  upon  you. 

"  There  is,  however,  a  very  curious  family  possession  which  I  am 
able  to  leave  you.  I  am  sure  you  will  value  it  highly,  if  only  on 
account  of  its  history.  It  has  bee  a  in  the  possession  of  the  chief 
of  our  race  for  five  hundred  and  fifty  years  and  more.  Sir  Jocelyn 
de  Haultegresse,  your  ancestor,  being  one  of  the  later  Crusaders 
under  Richard  Cceur  de  Lion,  received  it  for  some  friendly  services, 
the  nature  of  which  is  unknown,  from  his  noble  and  learned  friend, 
the  Saracen  Sorcerer,  Ali  Ibn  Yussixf,  commonly  called  Khanjared 
Din,  or  the  Ox  Goad  of  Religion.  This  invaluable  cap  confers  on 
its  possessor  the  power  of  having  whatever  he  wishes  for.  Armed 
with  this  talisman,  and  being  all,  like  myself,  men  of  moderate 
ambitions,  anxious  chiefly  to  get  through  life  as  pleasantly  as 
possible,  we  have  not  incurred  odium  by  amassing  broad  lands  and 
great  possessions.  I  bequeath,  therefore,  to  you  this  cap,  in  the 
hope  that  you  will  use  it  with  moderation.  Ponder  carefully 
before  expressing  a  desire,  even  in  your  own  mind,  the  effect  of 
making  a  wish  which  will  be  construed  into  an  order.  I  must  also 
give  you  a  word  of  warning.    I  have  observed  for  some  time,  to  my 


102  SZ£  JOCELYN' S  CAP. 

great  regret " — here  the  page  was  partly  and  irregularly  burned— 
"  to  my  very  great  regret  .  .  on  many  occasions  to  carry  out  my 
wishes  promptly  desirable  to  exercise  modera     .      no  excuse 

for  other  than  prompt  .  not  fall  to  pieces,  or  there  may  be 
alleged  some  pretext  for  crying  off  .  .  ments  have  long  been  lost, 
and  it  might  be  difficult  in  court  of  law  to  recover  Well,  my 

nephew,  this  talisman  kept  me  in  luxury  for  sixty  years  ;  perhaps  it 
may  yet  .         regain,  so  to  speak,  its  old  tone.     At  least,  I  hope  so. 

"Your  affect     .  ," 

"  By  Jove  !"  said  Jocelyn. 

He  might  have  gone  on  to  ask  if  anybody  had  ever  seen  the  like, 
or  if  one  could  have  expected  it,  or  if  one  was  really  living  in  an 
age  when  such  things  are  discredited.  But  he  did  not.  He  only 
said  "  By  Jove  !"  and  looked  about  the  room,  and  at  the  cap,  and 
at  the  letter,  with  bewildered  eyes.  At  last  he  understood  the 
meaning  of  this  very  plain  letter.  He  pushed  back  his  chair  and 
sprang  to  his  feet,  crying,  "  Christopher  Columbus  !  I've  got  a 
Wishing  Cap  I" 

II. 

He  stood  looking  at  the  faded  old  cap.  The  thing  fascinated  him  ; 
the  gold  embroidery  flickered,  >nd  seemed  to  send  out  sparks  and 
tiny  gleams  of  fire.  The  rusty  'tuff  glowed  and  became  ruddy 
again.  Could  the  thing  be  true  ?  But  his  uncle  was  a  sober  man 
and  a  truthful ;  his  narrative  had  nothing  wild  or  enthusiastic 
about  it. 

"  My  ancestor,  Sir  Jocelyn  de  Haultegresse,"  the  young  man  re- 
peated. "  Yes  ;  the  one  who  lies  with  crossed  legs  in  the  old 
church.     I  wish  I  knew  how  he  got  the  cap." 

His  eyes  fell  upon  a  picture.  Why,  he  had  seen  that  picture  a 
hundred  times,  and  never  thought  what  it  might  mean,  or  if  it  had 
any  meaning  at  all.  It  hung,  among  others,  on  the  wall,  and  re- 
presented a  Crusader  in  full  armour  conversing  with  a  Moslem. 
The  former  was  a  young  man  ;  the  latter  was  old,  with  a  long  grey 
beard — an  old  man  who  looked  impossibly  wise. 

They  were  not  only  conversing,  but  Jocelyn  heard  what  they 
were  saying. 

"  I  understand,  Venerable  Ox  Goad  of  Religion,"  said  the 
Christian,  "  that  with  this  thing  in  my  possession  I  can  ask  for  and 
obtain  anything  I  want." 

"Anything  in  reason,"  replied  Khanjar  ed  Din.  "You  cannot, 
for  instance,  walk  dry-shod  from  Palestine  to  Dover,  but  you  can 
sail  in  safety  through  a  storm." 

"  And  not  be  s-ca-:<iek  j"' 

"  Certainly  not,  if  you  command  it." 

"  Suppose,  for  instance— a  valiant  knight  would  not  ask  such  a 
thing — but  suppose,  for  illustration,  one  were  to  ask  for — say  the 


S/J?  JOCELYN"  S  CAP.  103 

absence  of  the  enemy  when  one  lands,  eh  ? — terror  of  the  enemy  at 
one's  approach — flight  of  the  enemy  when  one  charges — safety 
when  the  arrows  are  rattling  about  one's  armour — eh  ?" 

"  All  these  things,"  replied  the  wise  man,  "  you  can  command  and 
ensure." 

"Ha!"  Sir  Jocelyn  smiled.  "  It  rejoices  me,"  he  said  piously, 
"that  I  came  a-crusading.  All  Christendom— ay  !  and  Islam  too 
— shall  ring  with  my  prowess." 

"  Certainly,"  replied  the  Sage,  "  if  you  wish  it." 

"  Can  one  also  command  the  constancy  of  one's  mistress  ?" 

The  magician  hesitated. 

"  You  can  command  it,"  he  said.  "  But  I  know  not  the  Frankish 
ladies.    Perhaps  they  will  not  obey  even  the  Slave  of  the  Cap." 

"  One  more  question,"  said  Sir  Jocelyn.  "  In  my  country  they 
have  a  trick  of  burning  those — even  if  they  be  knights,  crusaders, 
and  pious  pilgrims — burning  and  roasting,  I  say,  at  slow  fires  those 
who  become  magicians,  wizards,  sorcerers,  and  those  who  employ 
the  services  of  a  devil." 

"  Keep  your  secret,"  said  the  wizard.  "  Let  no  one  know.  And, 
that  none  may  guess  it,  let  your  desires  be  moderate.  Farewell, 
Sir  Jocelyn." 

The  conversation  ceased,  but  the  picture  remained.  Pictures,  in 
fact,  last  longer  than  conversations. 

"  This  is  truly  wonderful,"  said  Jocelyn. 

He  threw  open  the  windows  and  looked  into  the  street.  Below 
him,  in  Piccadilly,  was  the  crowd  of  the  early  London  season  :  the 
carriages  and  cabs  rolled  along  the  road  ;  on  the  other  side  the  trees 
were  in  their  early  foliage.  It  seemed  impossible,  in  the  very  heart 
and  centre  of  modern  civilization  and  luxury,  that  such  things  as  he 
had  heard  and  witnessed  should  have  happened.  Yet,  when  he 
looked  round  the  room  again,  there  was  the  Cap,  there  was  his 
uncle's  letter,  and  there  the  picture  of  Sir  Jocelyn's  bargain.  What 
had  he  given  this  Eastern  wizard  for  a  power  so  tremendous  ? 

Then  the  young  man  began  to  reflect  upon  the  history  of  his 
House.  They  had  for  generations  lived  in  the  ease  and  affluence  of 
English  country  gentlefolk  :  they  had  never,  so  far  as  he. knew, 
turned  out  a  spendthrift :  they  had  not  fooled  away  their  small 
estate  :  they  had  neither  distinguished  nor  disgraced  themselves  : 
in  fact,  there  was  no  reason  why  they  should  try  to  distinguish 
themselves  :  they  had  all  they  wanted,  because  they  could  command 
it.  Knowledge  ?  they  had  the  royal  road  to  it  :  art — skill — 
strength '?  they  had  only  to  wish  for  it.  Wealth  ?  they  could 
command  it.  Why,  then,  should  they  seek  to  show  themselves 
■  better,  more  clever,  stronger,  or  wiser  than  their  fellows  ?  It  would 
have  cost  an  infinity  of  trouble,  and  for  no  good  end  ;  becaase  if 
they  succeeded,  how  much  better  off  would  they  have  been  ?  The 
knowledge  of  this  secret  made  him  understand  his  ancestors.  As 
they  had  been,  so  should  he  be.     Except  for  one  thing.     The  four 


io4  SIX  yOCELYN'S  CAP. 

last  baronets  were  unmarried  ;  in  each  case  the  title  descended  to 
a  nephew.  As  for  himself — and  here,  he  murmured  softly, 
"  Eleanor  " — and  choked.  Suppose  you  had  set  your  heart  wholly 
upon  one  thing,  and  that  thing  seemed  impossible  of  attainment, 
so  that  the  future  loomed  before  you  as  dull  and  as  grey  as  noon- 
tide at  a  foggy  Christmas  :  and  then  suppose  the  clouds  lifted,  the 
sun  shining,  and  that  glorious,  that  beautiful  Thing  actually  within 
your  grasp.     Anyone,  under  these  circumstances,  would  choke. 

He  returned  to  the  table  and  contemplated  the  Cap,  wondering 
if  the  Attendant  of  the  Cap  were  actually  at  his  elbow. 

"It  might  be  awkward,"  he  said,  "to  wake  at  night  and  re- 
member that  the  dev —  I  mean  Monsieur  the  Jinn,  the  Minister  of 
the  Cap,  was  sitting  beside  one  on  the  pillow.  Would  he  come  to 
church  with  one,  I  wonder  ?  And  would  he  be  offended  with 
remarks  about  him  ?"  He  half  expected  some  reply,  but  there 
was  none. 

"  He  was  a  very  old  fellow  to  look  at,"  he  went  on.  "  But  in 
these  cases  age  goes  for  nothing.  I  suppose  he  doesn't  know, 
himself,  how  old  he  is  ;  as  for  the  Cap,  I  wish  it  were  a  trifle  less 
shabby." 

Wonderful  to  relate,  a  curious  change  came  over  the  faded  cloth. 
It  looked  bright  again,  and  the  gold  embroidery  smartened  up  ;  not 
to  look  fresh,  but  a  good  many  years  younger. 

"  Sun  came  out,"  said  Sir  Jocelyn,  trying  not  to  be  too  credulous. 
Then  he  thought  he  would  test  the  powers  of  the  Cap,  as  mathe- 
maticians test  a  theory,  namely,  with  elementary  cases.  "  I  wish," 
he  said,  "  that  my  hat  was  new."  Why,  as  he  looked  at  his  hat  it 
suddenly  struck  him  that  it  was  not  so  very  shabby  after  all :  a 
mirror-like  polish  has  a  got-up  look  about  it.  This  hat  was  one 
which  had  evidently  been  worn  for  a  week  or  two,  but  was  still 
quite  good  enough  to  be  worn  in  the  Park  or  anywhere. 

"  My  gloves  " — he  stopped  because,  without  formulating  the  wish 
in  words,  he  instantly  became  aware  that  his  gloves  were  by  no  means 
so  bad  as  they  had  seemed  a  moment  before.  Not  new  certainly  : 
but  what  is  so  horrid  as  a  pair  of  brand-new  gloves  ?  He  had  over- 
rated the  faults  of  his  gloves.  They  were  an  excellent  pair  of 
gloves,  just  worn  long  enough  to  make  them  fit  the  fingers,  and  not 
make  them  look  like  glove-stretchers  ;  the  glove  should  look  made 
for  the  fingers,  in  fact,  not  the  fingers  for  the  glove.  To  be  sure, 
the  gloves  on  the  table  were  not  those  he  had  in  his  mind  ;  and,  in 
fact,  he  could  not  remember  exactly  how  he  came  by  those  gloves. 
Later  on,  he  discovered  that  he  had  taken  up  a  wrong  pair  at  the 
Club. 

He  sat  down  to  argue  out  this  matter  in  his  own  mind.  All 
young  men  try  to  do  this  :  when  they  come  to  realize  that  ''  arguing 
out "  leads  to  hopeless  fogging,  they  give  it  up.  Very  few  middle- 
aged  men  argue  out  a  thing ;  mathematicians,  sometimes  ;  logicians, 
never  ;  the  intellectual  ladies  who  contribute  arguments  on  the 


SIX  yOCELYN'S  CAP.  105 

intellect  of  the  domestic  cat  to  the  Spectator,  frequently.    But  the 
result  is  always  more  fog. 

A  Wishing  Cap,  at  this  enlightened  period,  is  absurd. 

But  tables  turn,  furniture  dances,  men  are  "  levitated,"  thought 
is  read,  and  there  is  a  Psychical  Society,  with  Fellows  of  Trinity 
and  Doctors  of  Letters  at  the  head  of  it.  Nothing,  at  any  time,  is 
absurd. 

What  evidence  had  he  for  the  miraculous  powers  of  the  Cap  ? 

First,  the  word  of  his  uncle,  a  most  truthful  and  honourable 
gentleman.  Next,  the  picture.  Thirdly,  the  two  remarkable 
Visions  he  had  himself  received.  Fourthly,  the  gloves  and  the  hat. 
Lastly,  any  further  evidence  the  Cap  itself  might  afford  him. 

By  this  time  he  was  hopelessly  fogged.  He  began  to  remember 
Will,  Magnetic  Force,  Psychic  fluid,  and  all  the  tags  of  the  spiritual- 
istic folk.  These  phrases  are  like  spectres  which  come  with  fog 
and  mist. 

Sir  Jocelyn  was  then  sensible  enough  to  perceive  that  he  had 
argued  the  matter  thoroughly  out.  After  all,  there  is  nothing  like 
experiment,  especially,  as  the  conjurers  say,  under  "  test  conditions," 
that  is  to  say,  where  collusion,  connivance,  fraud,  and  deception  of 
any  kind  are  impossible.  I  have  seen  at  a  fair,  under  "  test  con- 
ditions," a  plum-cake  made  in  a  gentleman's  hat,  and,  the  hat  none 
the  worse. 

He  lit  a  cigarette  and  tried  to  think  of  other  things  unconnected 
with  a  Wishing  Cap.  And  first  he  reflected  that,  although  it  is 
bad  to  be  a  penniless  Foreign  Office  clerk,  with  no  other  recom- 
mendation than  that  of  being  heir  to  a  Baronet  reputed  well  off, 
it  is  worse  to  have  succeeded  to  the  title  and  to  have  discovered 
that  there  is  no  money  after  all.  "  Hang  it !"  cried  Jocelyn,  "  there 
might  have  been  something.  I  do  wish  my  uncle  had  left  me 
something — even  a  single  sixpence  !"  As  he  spoke  a  small  coin,  a 
sixpence  in  fact,  tumbled  out  of  a  forgotten  hole  in  his  waistcoat 
pocket  and  fell  clinking  on  the  floor.  At  this  point  Jocelyn  gave 
way  to  temper.  "  Damn  the  waistcoat !"  he  cried,  and  at  the  same 
moment  dropped  his  cigarette  and  burnt  an  irreclaimable  hole  in 
the  light  stuff  of  which  the  waistcoat  was  made. 

Then  he  conceived  a  strange  idea,  a  kind  of  trap  to  catch  a  demon, 
or  at  least  to  prove  him.  He  leaned  his  elbows  on  the  table  and 
addressed  the  Cap. 

"  You  are  a  poor  old  moth-eaten  thing,"  he  said.  "  That,  so  far 
as  I  know,  you  may  have  been  when  the  Ox  Goad  of  Religion  gave 
you  to  my  ancestor,  Sir  Jocelyn  the  Valiant.  Now,  you  give  me  a 
test  of  your  powers  in  a  simple  and  unmistakable  way.  I  am  tired 
of  the  uniform  London  dinner.  Cause  me  to  have  an  entirely  new 
dinner.  There  !"  He  expected  some  movement  on  the  part  of 
the  Cap :  a  nod  or  inclination  at  least.  Nothing  of  the  kind.  The 
Cap  remained  perfectly  still. 

"  A.  note  for  you,  sir,"  said  the  servant,  bringing  him  a  letter. 


io6  SJX  JOCELYN' S  CAP. 

It  was  from  a  man  named  Annesley,  a  friend  of  Jocelyn's,  who 
had  rooms  in  Sackville  Street. 

"  If  by  any  lucky  chance,"  it  said,  "  you  are  disengaged  this 
evening,  come  here.  The  experiment  in  menus  we  have  talked  of 
comes  off  to-night.  Courtland  has  been  called  away,  so  we  must 
have  it  now  or  perhaps  never." 

Yes,  there  had  been  talk  about  variety  in  menus.  Annesley,  a 
man  of  invention  and  ideas,  had  promised  something,  vaguely. 
"Well,  he  would  go  :  he  answered  the  note  to  that  effect. 

"  I  suppose,"  he  said  to  the  Cap,  "  that  you  have  got  something 
to  do  with  this.  I  wished  for  a  new  kind  of  dinner,  and  here  is 
one  :  on  the  other  hand,  Annesley  hasn't  got  a  Cap,  and  I  suppose 
he  arranged  his  menu  without  reference  to  you.  I  will  now  give 
you  another  chance.  I  am  going  into  the  Park.  I  wish  to  meet 
the  Stauntons.  Do  you  know  who  the  Stauntons  are  ?  Find  out ! 
Yah  !     You  and  your  sixpence !" 

In  spite  of  his  bluster,  he  was  rapidly  acquiring  confidence  in  his 
Cap.  Before  going  out,  he  carefully  placed  it,  with  his  uncle's 
letter,  in  the  secret  drawer,  which  he  closed.  Then  he  looked  at 
the  picture  of  his  ancestor  and  the  Syrian  magician. 

"Venerable  Ox  Goad  of  Religion  !"  he  said,  imitating  his  great 
ancestor,  "  can  I  command,  in  truth,  all  that  I  desire  ?" 

It  seemed  as  if  a  voice  spoke  in  answer,  but  whose  voice,  or 
whence  it  came,  he  knew  not. 

"  Command !" 

Jocelyn  heard  it  and  shuddered.  Then  he  took  his  hat  and 
gloves,  and  hurried  forth. 

III. 

When  Jocelyn  wished  to  meet  the  Stauntons,  he  should  have  ex- 
plained that  he  wished  to  meet  Nelly,  or  Eleanor  Staunton.  This 
might  have  saved  him  a  good  deal  of  annoyance.  For,  first  there 
were  Connie  Staunton,  the  actress,  and  her  sister  Linda,  both  of 
the  Gaiety.  He  met  them,  driving  in  a  victoria,  and  heard  two 
young  gentlemen,  as  they  lifted  their  hats,  murmur  their  names  in 
accents  of  idolatrous  emotion. 

"You  are  a  fool,"  said  Jocelyn,  addressing  the  Cap.  Then  there 
came  rolling  along  a  great  yellow  chariot,  with  an  old  lady  and  still 
older  gentleman  in  it. 

"  That,"  said  one  of  two  girls  who  were  standing  beside  the  rail- 
ing, "  that  is  Lady  Staunton  and  Sir  George — our  Hemmer  is  her 
lady's-maid.     She's  a  kind  old  thing.' 

"  This  is  ridiculous,"  said  Jocelyn.  Yet  he  was  pleased  to  observe 
the  activity  of  his  new  servant.  Two  sets  of  Stauntons  already, 
though  not  yet  the  right  set.     "  I  mean  the  Howard  Stauntons." 

It  was  before  him,  slowly  advancing  with  the  throng.  He  could 
Bee  the  backs  of  two  heads  and  the  parasol  of  a  third.    Mrs.  Staun- 


SIX  JOCELYN' S  CAP.  107 

ton  and  Caroline,  and — yes — Nelly !  Hers  was  the  parasol.  He 
would  walk  on  and  meet  them  when  they  turned. 

He  was  conscious  that  he  was  regarded  with  no  great  favour  by 
the  young  lady's  mamma.     Still,  he  was  now  a  Baronet,  with  a  place 

in  the  country,  and  an  income,  counting  his  clerkship,  of Well 

— was  it  quite  six  hundred  pounds  a  year  ?  There  was  also  the  Cap, 
but  of  that  he  could  say  nothing.  Yet,  oh !  the  joy  of  wishing 
beautiful  dresses  for  Nelly,  when  Neljy  should  be  his  own  ! 

There  were  two  daughters  :  Caroline,  the  elder,  was  now  seven- 
and-twenty  years  of  age, -and  in  her  ninth  season.  As  she  was 
beautiful,  accomplished,  clever,  and  rich  (by  reason  of  a  bequest 
from  a  rich  uncle),  it  was  to  all  women  a  most  surprising  thing  that 
she  did  not  marry.  Men,  who  undcrt-tand  these  things  better,  were 
not  surprised.  Her  beauty  was  after  the  fine  old  Roman  style,  and 
accompanied  by  a  more  than  classical  coldness.  She  was  an  advo- 
cate of  Woman's  Rights,  an  ardent  politician,  a  student  of  logic, 
learned  in  many  ways,  but  she  was  not,  apparently,  a  devotee  of 
Venus.  That  goddess  loves  her  worshippers  to  be  soft-eyed, 
smiling,  caressing,  lively,  willing  to  be  pleased  and  anxious  to 
please.  Caroline  was  chiefly  anxious  to  be  heard.  There  was 
also  some  talk  about  an  early  affair  which  ended  badly.  Some  girls 
harden  after  such  a  disaster.  Still,  there  was  no  doubt  that  Caro- 
line desired  to  convert  men  into  listeners.  Of  the  opposite  school 
was  Nelly — younger  than  her  sister  by  seven  good  solid  years. 
Not  so  beautiful — in  fact,  with  irregular  features — she  was  singu- 
larly taking,  by  reason  principally  of  her  sympathetic  nature.  She 
had  no  opinions  at  all  of  her  own,  but  she  was  on  the  other  hand 
very  ready  to  hear  those  of  other  people,  especially  those  of  young 
men.  That  woman  is  certain  to  go  far  who  thoroughly  understands 
that  young  men — indeed,  men  of  all  ages — delight  in  nothing  so 
much  as  to  talk  confidentially  with  women,  and  especially  young 
women,  about  themselves.  Many  a  most  excellent  chance  has  been 
lost  through  not  observing  and  acting  upon  this  principle.  Nelly, 
her  mother  was  resolved,  should  not  be  thrown  away.  As  for  Jocelyn, 
he  had  nothing,  and  she  had  nothing  ;  therefore  any  little  tender- 
ness which  might  arise  on  the  girl's  side  should  be  instantly 
nipped  in  the  bud.  A  resolute  mother,  when  assisted  by  an  elder 
daughter,  is  altogether  too  powerful  for  a  detrimental.  Therefore  Jo- 
celyn got  next  to  no  chances,  and  worshipped  at  a  distance  and  sadly. 
Whether  Nelly  ever  understood  the  meaning  of  his  melancholy  I 
know  not.  Meantime,  the  young  man  lost  no  opportunity  of  meet- 
ing the  object  of  his  hopeless  passion,  though  he  too  often  fell  into 
the  hands  of  the  elder  sister,  who  made  him  sit  down  and  hear  her 
opinions.  Now,  however,  he  repeated,  he  was  a  Baronet,  and  he  had 
— he  had  a  Wishing  Cap. 

"  I  wish  they  would  go  slower,"  he  said.  There  was  a  block  at 
Prince's  Gate,  and  the  whole  line  was  stopped. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Jocelyn.     In  another  moment  he  would  have 


108  SIX  yOCELYN'S  CAP. 

reached  the  carriage,  when — oh  ! — he  groaned  deeply — as  there  met 
him  the  greatest  bore  of  his  acquaintance,  a  long-winded  bore,  a 
cheerful  bore,  a  bore  who  laughs,  a  bore  who  tells  very  pointless 
stories,  a  bore  at  the  sight  of  whom  men  fly,  plead  engagements,  and 
for  their  sake  break  up  clubs.  This  creature  seized  Jocelyn  by  the 
button,  and  told  him  how  he  had  landed  a  good  thing.  And  the 
block  was  removed  and  the  carriages  went  on  again.  At  last  he 
broke  away,  still  keeping  the  Stauntons  in  sight.  But  there  was 
another  diversion.  This  time  it  was  a  slight  carriage  accident,  but 
as  it  happened  to  friends  of  his  own  he  could  not  in  common 
decency  pass  on  without  tendering  bis  assistance.  Once  more  he 
got  away,  and  saw  the  Stauntons'  carriage  slowly  making  its  way  to 
the  turning  at  Albert  Gate.  Then  was  his  last  chance  :  the  crowd 
was  thick,  but  he  forced  his  way  through,  and  was  prepared  with  a 
ready  smile  just  before  the  carriage  turned  homewards.  In  fact, 
he  had  already  executed  a  beautiful  bow  before  he  perceived  that 
the  vehicle  was  empty.  The  ladies  had  got  out  without  his  see- 
ing them.  He  turned,  discomfited,  and  went  home  to  dress  for 
dinner. 

While  dressing,  in  a  pretty  bad  temper,  he  began  to  "  argue  it 
out "  again.  Why,  after  all,  he  had  got  his  wishes  in  the  most 
remarkable  manner.  About  the  reality  of  his  power  there  could 
be  no  doubt.  He  had  wished  for  water  :  it  was  at  his  elbow.  No 
doubt,  if  he  had  said  drinking-water,  the  Cap  would  not  have 
brought  water  in  which  flowers  had  been  standing  for  a  week.  He 
had  wished  for  a  new  hat,  and  his  hat  suddenly  blossomed  into 
such  glossiness  as  is  acquired  by  a  coup  de  fer  at  the  hatter's  ;  for 
new  gloves,  and  his  gloves  became — not  new  certainly,  but  newish. 
He  had  foolishly  wished  that  his  uncle  had  left  him  the  smallest 
coin,  and  there  was  a  sixpence  ;  he  had  wished  for  a  new  and  origi- 
nal dinner,  and  there  had  come  Annesley's  invitation  ;  he  had 
wished  to  see  the  Stauntons,  and  he  had  seen  them. 

It  was  with  a  feeling  of  great  elation  that  he  went  to  the  dinner. 
Anybody  would  feel  elated  at  the  acquisition  of  such  a  strange  and 
wonderful  power. 

"You  shall  have,"  said  Annesley,  as  if  he  had  actually  heard 
Jocelyn's  wish,  "you  shall  have  something  perfectly  new  and 
original  for  dinner.  It  is  an  experiment  which  will,  I  think,  please 
you." 

The  table  was  laid  with  the  exquisite  attractiveness  and  skill 
which  belonged  to  all  of  Annesley  s  entertainments.  He  was  a 
young  man  who  had  ideas  and  a  considerable  fortune  to  carry  them 
out  with.  Life  is  only  really  interesting  when  one  has  both  ideas 
and  a  fortune.  As  for  Courtland,  he  was  a  critic.  Not  a  failure  in 
art  and  letters,  but  a  critic  born  :  one  of  the  men  who  are  critics  of 
everything,  from  a  picture  to  a  slice  of  bread  and  cheese,  and  from 
Chfiteau-Lafitte  to  bitter  beer. 

"  I  see,"  said  Annesley,  with  a  gratified  smile,  "  I  see,  my  dear 


S/K  JOCELYN' S  CAP.  109 

fellow,  that  yon  are  surprised  at  seeing  oysters.  It  is  not  the 
season  for  oysters,  certainly,"  yet  there  were  six  on  each  man's 
plate.  "  But  these  are  Chinese  sun-dried  oysters.  They  came  to 
me  by  a  singular  chance,  in  a  state  resembling  shrivelled  rags.  You 
put  them  into  salt  water  for  an  hour  or  two,  and  then,  as  you 
observe,  they  turn  out  as  plump  and  as  fresh  as  natives.  By  the 
Chinese  they  are  esteemed  a  great  delicacy." 

Jocelyn  tasted  one,  though  with  misgiving.  Probably  he  did  not 
share  the  Chinese  opinion  of  sun-dried  oysters,  for  he  turned  pale, 
gasped,  and  hastily  drank  a  glass  of  laoryma,  which  had  been 
chosen  by  Anncsley  to  accompany  the  oysters.  The  other  man, 
observing  the  effect  of  the  sun-dried  oysters  upon  Jocelyn,  pru- 
dently abstained  from  tasting  them  at  all,  but  began  a  stream  of 
conversation,  under  cover  of  which  the  oysters  got  carried  away, 
while  Annesley's  delight  in  his  experiment  prevented  him  from 
observing  its  failure.  Indeed,  he  went  on  to  talk  with  complacent 
assurance  of  the  foolish  and  ignorant  prejudices  with  which  many 
admirable  forms  of  food  are  regarded. 

"  I  shall  proceed,"  he  said,  "  to  give  you  presently  a  remarkable 
illustration  of  this."  Jocelyn  shuddered.  "  Meantime,  here  is  a 
soup  which  I  can  highly  recommend  ;  it  is  a  puree  of  cuttle-fish." 

It  really  was  an  excellent  soup,  could  Jocelyn  have  rid  himself  of 
the  horrible  imagination  of  9,poulpe  flinging  hideous  gelatinous  arms 
about  from  the  middle  of  the  plate,  and  fixing  its  suckers  on  the 
hand  that  grasped  the  spoon. 

"  The  cuttle-fish,"  said  Annesley,  who,  besides  being  a  man  of 
ideas,  was  also  somewhat  of  a  prig,  "  the  cuttle-fish,  which  is  the 
actual  type  of  the  legendary  Kraken — though,  by  the  way,  the 
Kraken  is  not  so  very  legendary,  since  the  great  Squid " 

"  That  will  do,  Annesley,"  said  Courtland.  "  We  know  all  about 
the  Squid.  Fellow  wrote  a  book  about  him.  Model  at  the 
Fisheries." 

"  The  cuttle-fish,"  continued  Annesley,  "  is  a  much  maligned 
creature.  Not  more  so,  however,  than  the  fish  which  Williams  is 
now  putting  on  the  table — the  dog-fish." 

"  Oh  !  I  say  !"  cried  Jocelyn. 

"  Dog-fish,"  said  Courtland.  "  Beasts  when  alive.  Take  all  your 
bait.  Fishermen  roll  'em  up  and  scrub  the  gunwale  with  'em. 
Think  it  will  encourage  the  others." 

"  My  pet  fisherman,"  said  Jocelyn,  "  used  to  do  that  till  I  begged 
him  not  to.     He  told  me,  I  remember,  that  some  people  eat  them." 

"  Did  he  eat  them  himself  ?"  asked  Courtland. 

"  No,  he  did  not." 

"  Cooked  like  this,"  interrupted  Annesley,  with  a  reassuring 
smile,  "he  would  have  eaten  them  with  enthusiasm.  They  are 
6tuffed  with  tinned  shrimps." 

"  Lead  poisoning,"  Courtland  murmured  in  his  beard. 

The  two  guests,  however,  struggled  manfully  with  the  dog-fish, 


no  SIT?  JOCELYN'S  CAP. 

With  it,  Annesley  insisted,  must  be  taken  Catalan  wine.  Little 
was  done  with  either.  Nor  was  the  next  course,  which  consisted 
of  iced  potatoes  with  mulled  Moselle,  much  more  successful.  It 
was  one  of  Annesley's  whims  to  find  for  each  course  its  one  peculiar 
drink  :  thus  with  the  edible  fungus  he  gave  iced  negus  ;  and  though 
he  provided  a  sufficiency  of  dry  champagne,  he  begged  his  guests 
so  pathetically  to  try  his  fancies,  that  they  could  not  refuse.  Long 
before  the  unnatural  dinner  came  to  an  end,  all  three  were  excited 
by  the  mixture  of  drinks  and  the  correspondingly  small  supply  of 
food.  By  the  time  when  the  curried  kingfishers — a  rare  and 
recherclie  dish— arrived,  they  were  tired  of  talking  about  cuisine, 
and  were  arguing  hotly,  especially  Courtland  and  Annesley,  about 
things  of  which  they  knew  nothing  :  as  the  proper  method  of  riding 
a  steeplechase — a  thing  which  none  of  them  had  ever  tried  ;  the 
locality  of  "  Swells'  Corner"  at  Eton — all  three  had  been  at  Harrow 
— and  so  forth.  At  last,  Jocelyn,  weary  of  the  babble,  and  perhaps 
more  than  a  little  cross  with  the  terrible  failure  of  the  dinner,  cried 
out,  "  Oh,  don't  let  us  wrangle  in  this  way  !  I  wish  we  had  a  little 
harmony !" 

He  had  hardly  spoken  when  a  German  band,  brazen  beyond  all 
belief,  broke  out  at  the  end  of  Sackville  Street,  and  a  piano-organ 
below  their  window. 

"  This  is  the  work  " — Jocelyn  banged  his  fist  upon  the  table — 
"  of  my  ancestor's  amazing  fool  of  a  devil !" 

The  others  stopped  and  looked  at  him.  They  only  half  heard 
the  words,  but  Jocelyn  hastily  fled. 

Everything  had  gone  wrong — the  dinner  more  than  anything 
else.  A  terrible  thought  struck  him.  Could  his  devil  by  any  chance 
have  gone  stupid,  or  was  he  inattentive  ?  And,  if  the  latter,  how 
to  correct  him  ?  Suppose,  for  instance,  Ariel  had  refused  to  obey 
Prospero,  and  his  master  had  no  spells  to  compel  obedience  !  Now 
this  seemed  exactly  Jocelyn's  case.  He  sat  down  and  took  a  cigar. 
"  The  dinner,"  he  said,  "  was  the  most  infernal  moss  ever  set  before 
a  man.  I've  taken  too  much  wine,  and  mixed  it  ;  and  I've  eaten 
next  to  nothing.  To-morrow  morning  I  shall  have  a  very  self- 
assertive  head  ;  and  all  through  that  fool  of  a  Cap."  He  remem- 
bered, however,  that  he  had  as  yet  asked  nothing  serious  of  the 
Cap,  and  went  to  bed  hopeful. 


IV 

Perhaps  the  wine  he  had  taken  made  Jocelyn  sleep,  in  spite  of  the 
many  and  exciting  adventures  of  the  day,  without  thinking  of  the 
Cap,  or  being  disturbed  by  the  thought  of  the  invisible  servant  who 
sat  beside  his  pillow.  In  the  morning,  which  happened  to  be  Sun- 
day, he  did  think  of  the  Cap  when  he  awoke,  but  with  a  sleepy 


SIX  jfOCELYN'S  CAP.  in 

comfortable  satisfaction  in  having  got  what  promised  to  be  a  good 
thing.  It  was  eight  o'clock.  "  Too  early  to  get  up,"  he  said  ;  "wish 
I  could  go  to  sleep  again." 

His  eyes  instantly  closed.  When  he  awoke  again  it  was  eleven, 
and  he  proceeded  to  get  up.  It  would  be  wrong  to  say  that  he  did 
not  think  about  the  Cap  ;  in  fact,  his  mind  was  brimful  of  it  ;  but 
Jocelyn  was  not  one  of  those  who  work  themselves  up  to  an  agony 
point  of  nervousness  because  they  cannot  understand  a  thing.  On 
the  contrary,  once  having  realized  that  the  thing  teas — an  unmistakable 
and  undeniable  fact — he  was  ready  to  accept  it,  a  thing  as  difficult 
to  understand  as  the  law  of  attraction. 

"Heigho  !"  he  said  ;  "  I  wish  I  was  dressed." 

He  then  perceived  that  he  had  already  put  on  his  socks,  though 
he  couldn't  remember  having  done  so.  And,  besides,  you  cannot 
tub  in  your  socks  ;  so  he  had  to  take  them  off  again.  He  wished 
for  nothing  more  while  he  was  dressing  except  once,  and  that  at  a 
most  unlucky  momer  b :  it  was  in  the  process  of  shaving.  He  was 
thinking  of  the  battles  round  Suakim,  and  his  young  heart,  like 
that  of  his  crusading  ancestor,  glowed  within  him.  "  I  wish,"  he 
said,  with  enthusiasm,  "  that  I  had  a  chance  of  shedding  my  blood 
for  my  country."  He  forgot  that  his  razor  was  at  that  moment 
executing  its  functions  upon  his  chin  ;  there  was  an  awful  gash 
— and  an  interval  of  ten  minutes  for  temper  and  court-plaister. 

He  then  began  to  comprehend  that,  with  an  attendant  ready  to 
carry  out  every  wish,  it  is  as  well  not  to  wish  for  things  that  you 
do  not  want.  But  no  one  knows,  save  those  who  have  had  a  similar 
experience,  how  many  things  are  wished  for,  carelessly  and  without 
thought.  Jocelyn  had  to  learn  the  lesson  of  prudence  by  many 
more  accidents. 

When  his  landlady,  for  instance,  brought  him  his  breakfast,  she 
began,  being  a  garrulous  old  creature,  to  talk  about  old  Sir  Jocelyn 
and  the  flight  of  time,  and  what  she  remembered  ;  and  presently 
mentioned,  casually,  that  it  was  her  birthday. 

"  Indeed  !"  said  Jocelyn,  with  effusion ;  "  then,  Mrs.  Watts,  I 
wish  you  many  happy  returns  of  the  day  and  all  such  anniver- 
saries." 

He  accompanied  the  wish  with  a  substantial  gift,  but  was  hardly 
prepared,  when  the  good  woman's  daughter  came  up  to  clear  away, 
to  hear  that  it  was  also  the  anniversary  of  her  wedding-day.  In 
fact,  in  a  short  time  the  housekeeper's  anniversaries  rained,  and  all 
of  them  demanded  recognition.  Like  the  clerk  who  accounted  for 
absence  three  times  in  one  year  by  the  funeral  of  his  mother,  so 
this  good  lady  multiplied  her  own  birthdays  and  those  of  her  chil- 
dren as  long  as  their  announcement  drew  half-a-crown  from  her 
lodger.  After  breakfast,  Jocelyn  prepared  to  sally  forth.  He  could 
not  find  his  umbrella.  "  Devil  take  the  thing !"  he  cried  impatiently. 
It  is  to  the  credit  of  the  Cap  that  the  umbrella  has  never  since  been 
found.     Therefore  the  wish  was  granted,  and  the  devil  did  take  the 


U2  SIX  JOCEL  YN'S  CAP. 

umbrella.    Jocelyn  says  that  he  must  have  left  it  at  the  Club,  but 
he  knows  otherwise. 

He  knew  the  church  where  the  Stauntons  had  sittings,  and  he 
proposed  to  meet  them  as  they  came  out,  and  to  walk  in  the  gardens 
with  them— perhaps  to  have  luncheon  with  them.  Nelly  would  be 
there,  he  knew,  in  the  sweetest  of  early  summer  costumes— an 
ethereal  creature  made  up  of  smiles,  bright  eyes,  flowers,  and  airy 
colour.  She  would  smile  upon  him  ;  but  then,  hang  it !  she  would 
smile  upon  another  fellow  just  as  sweetly.  Would  the  time  come, 
he  thought,  when  she  would  promise  to  smile  on  no  one  but  him- 
self ?  Could  one  ever  grow  tired  of  her  smiles  ?  Caroline  would 
be  there,  too,  much  more  beautifully  dressed,  cold,  superior,  and 
ready  to  lecture.  Fancy  marrying  Caroline  !  But  as  for  Nelly — 
"  Oh  !"  he  sighed,  thinking  of  his  empty  lockers  ;  "  I  do  wish  I  had 
some  money !" 

He  instantly  felt  something  hard  in  his  pocket.  It  was  a  shabby 
old  leather  purse  full  of  money.  He  took  out  the  contents  and 
counted  the  money :  three  pounds,  fourteen  shillings,  ninepence 
and  a  farthing  in  coppers.     Jocelyn  sat  down,  bewildered. 

"  It's  the  Cap  !"  he  said.  "  I  wished  for  money.  The  fool  of  a 
Cap  brings  me  three  pounds  fourteen  shillings  and  ninepence- 
farthing  !"  He  threw  the  purse  into  the  fireplace.  "  What  can  you 
do  with  three  pounds  fourteen  and  ninepence-farthing  ?  It  would 
not  do  much  more  than  buy  a  bonnet  for  Nelly." 

Yet  he  remembered  it  was  money.  If  he  could  get,  any  time  he 
wished,  just  such  a  sum,  he  could  get  on.  Almost  mechanically  he 
made  a  little  calculation.  Three  pounds  fourteen  shillings  and 
ninepence-farthing  every  half -hour,  or  say  only  ten  times  a  day, 
comes  to  thirty-seven  pounds  seven  shillings  and  eightpence-half- 
penny  ;  that,  multiplied  by  three  hundred  and  sixty-five,  comes  to 
£13,477  8s.  10^d.  "It  is,"  said  Jocelyn,  "a  very  respectable  in- 
come." 

He  hesitated,  being,  in  fact,  a  little  afraid  of  testing  his  new 
power.     Then  he  said  boldly,  "  I  want  more  money." 

There  was  a  click  among  the  coins  on  the  table.  Jocelyn  counted 
them  again.  He  found  another  sixpence  and  a  halfpenny  more 
than  he  had  at  first  observed. 

"  The  Cap,"  he  said,  "  is  a  fool." 

He  remembered  the  advice  given  by  the  Ox  Goad  of  Religion  to 
the  first  Sir  Jocelyn  to  exorcise  moderation.  The  reason  for  that 
advice,  however,  existed  no  longer.  He  would  not  now  be  burnt 
if  all  the  bishops  and  clergy  of  the  Established  Church  knew  to  a 
man  that  he  had  such  a  Cap.  On  the  contrary,  it  would  be  re- 
garded as  a  very  interesting  fact,  and  useful  for  religion  in  manv 
ways.  He  must  try,  however,  he  said,  to  instruct  his  servant  in 
larger  ideas.  No  doubt,  in  the  latter  days  of  his  uncle,  the  tendency 
to  moderate  or  even  penurious  ways  had  been  suffered  to  grow 
and  to  develop.     It  must  be  checked.     Money  must  be  had,  and  in 


SIR  yOCELYN'S  CAP.  113 

amounts  worth  naming.  Three  pounds  odd !  and  then  sixpence- 
halfpenny  ! 

He  met  his  friends  coming  out  of  church — Nelly,  as  he  expected, 
as  sweet  as  a  rose  in  June  ;  Caroline,  perhaps,  more  resembling  a 
full-blown  dahlia.  He  walked  through  the  Park  to  their  house  in 
Craven  Gardens  ;  Nelly,  however,  walked  with  her  mother  and 
Annesley,  who  also  happened  to  be  on  the  spot,  while  he  walked 
with  Caroline,  who  developed  at  some  length  the  newest  ideas  in 
natural  selection.  He  was  asked  to  luncheon,  and  sat  beside  Caro- 
line, who  continued  her  discourse,  while  Nelly  and  Annesley  were 
talking  all  kinds  of  delightful  and  frivolous  things.  After  luncheon 
Caroline  said  that,  as  Sir  Jocelyn  took  so  much  interest  in  these 
things,  she  would  show  him  some  papers  on  the  subject  which  con- 
tained her  ideas.  She  did  ;  and  the  afternoon  passed  like  a  bad 
dream,  with  the  vision  of  an  unattainable  Nelly  at  the  other  end 
of  the  room,  as  a  mirage  in  the  desert  shows  springs  and  wells  to 
the  thirsty  traveller.  He  might  have  wished,  but  he  was  afraid. 
He  could  not  trust  his  Cap  ;  something  horrible  might  be  done  ; 
something  stupid  would  certainly  be  done.  The  servant  might 
be  zealous,  but  as  yet  he  had  not  shown  that  he  was  intelligent. 

He  came  away  melancholy. 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Staunton  to  Caroline,  when  he  had  gone, 
"  Sir  Jocelyn  seems  to  improve.  He  is  quiet  and — well — amenable, 
I  should  say.  He  comes  of  a  good  family,  and  his  title  is  as  old  as 
a  baronetcy  can  be.  There  is,  I  know,  a  place  in  the  country,  but  I 
am  told  there  is  no  money.     The  last  baronet  spent  it  all." 

Caroline  reflected. 

"  If  a  woman  must  marry,"  she  said,  "  and,  perhaps,  as  things  are, 
it  is  better  that   she  should  for  her  own  independence— a  docile 

husband  with  a  good  social  position But  perhaps  he  is  not 

thinking  of  such  a  thing  at  all." 

"  My  dear,  he  comes  here  constantly.  It  is  not  for  Nelly,  who 
cannot  afford  to  marry  a  poor  man.     Therefore " 

She  was  silent,  and  Caroline  made  no  reply.  There  comes  a  time 
even  to  the  coldest  of  women,  when  the  married  condition  appears 
desirable  in  some  respects.  She  had  not  always  been  the  coldest  of 
women,  and  now  the  thought  of  a  possible  wooer  brought  back  to 
her  mind  that  memory  of  a  former  lover  in  the  days  when  she,  alas  ! 
was  as  poor  as  her  sister  Nelly.  A  warm  flush  came  upon  her 
cheek,  and  her  eye  softened,  as  she  thought  of  the  brave  boy  who 
loved  her  when  she  was  eighteen,  and  he  one-and-twenty  ;  and  how 
they  had  to  part.  He  was  gone.  Bat  things  might  have  been  so 
different. 

"  I  shall  meet  them  again  on  Wednesday,"  Sir  Jocelyn  thought. 
"  They  are  going  to  Lady  Hambledon's.  If  that  Cap  of  mine  has 
any  power  at  all,  it  shall  be  brought  into  use  on  that  evening.  I 
must  have — let  me  see — first  of  all,  opportunity  of  speaking  to  her; 
next,  I  suppose,  I  can  ask  for  eloquence,  or  persuasive  power — the 


ii4  SJI?  yOCEZYN'5  CAP. 

opportunity  must  not  be  thrown  away.  And  she  must  be  well-dis- 
posed— do  you  hear  ?"  he  addressed  the  invisible  servant.    "  No 

fooling  on  Wednesday,  or "     He  left  the  consequences  to  the 

imagination  of  his  menial,  perhaps  because  he  did  not  himself  quite 
see  his  way  to  producing  any  consequences.  What  are  you  to  do, 
in  fact,  with  an  invisible,  impalpable  servant — the  laws  of  whose 
being  you  know  not — whom  you  cannot  kick,  or  discharge,  or  cut 
down  in  wages,  or  anything  ? 

In  the  evening  a  thing  happened  which  helped  to  confirm  him  in 
the  reality  of  his  Cap,  and  at  the  same  time  made  him  distrustful 
of  himself  as  well  as  of  his  slave. 

It  was  rather  late,  in  fact  about  twelve  o'clock.  Jocelyn  was 
walking  quietly  home  from  the  Club  along  the  safest  thoroughfare 
in  Europe — at  least  the  chief  of  the  Criminal  Investigation  Depart- 
ment said  so.  They  used  to  call  it  the  Detective  Department,  but 
changed  the  name  because  nothing  was  ever  detected,  and  the  term 
investigation  does  not  imply  the  arrival  at  any  practical  result. 
There  were  still  a  few  passengers  in  the  street.  One  of  them,  a 
shambling,  miserable-looking  creature,  besought  alms  of  Jocelyn, 
who  gave  him  something,  and  then  fell  a-moralizing  on  the  mysteries 
of  the  criminal  and  pauper  class  in  London.  "  That  man,"  he  said 
to  bimself,  "  is,  I  suppose,  a  vagrant ;  a  person  without  any  visible 
means  of  existence.  Fill  him  with  beef  and  beer,  or  gin,  and  he 
will  become  pot-valiant  enough  to  think  of  obtaining  more  of  such 
things  by  force  or  fraud  instead  of  by  begging.  Then  he  will  be- 
come one  of  the  dangerous  class.  Poor  beggar !  I  wish  I  could 
do  something  to  help  one  of  these  poor  wretches."  Immediately 
afterwards,  he  heard  the  sound  of  personal  altercation.  Two  men, 
both  in  overcoats  and  evening  dress,  were  struggling  together,  and 
one  of  them  raised  the  cry  of  "  Police  !"  Then  there  was  the  sound 
of  a  well-planted  blow,  and  one  of  the  men  broke  away  and  ran  as 
hard  as  he  could  towards  Jocelyn.  The  other  man,  knocked  for  the 
moment  out  of  time,  quickly  gathered  himself  together  and  ran  in 
pursuit.  Jocelyn,  by  instinct,  tried  to  stop  the  first  man,  who,  by  a 
dexterous  trip-up  with  his  foot,  flung  him  straight  into  the  arms  of 
the  second,  his  pursuer.  He,  somewhat  groggy  with  the  blow  he 
had  received,  collared  Jocelyn,  and  rolled  over  with  him. 

"I  give  him  in  charge,"  he  cried,  as  a  policeman  came  up.  "I 
give  him  in  charge — robbery  with  violence." 

"  But,  my  dear  sir,"  explained  Jocelyn,  "it  is  a  mistake.  You 
have  got  the  wrong  man." 

"  Dessay,"  said  the  policeman.  "  You  can  explain  that  little 
matter  at  the  station,  where  you  are  a-going  to." 

"  Little  matter  ?"  repeated  the  man  who  had  been  robbed.  "  You 
call  it  a  little  matter  to  be  robbed  of  watch  and  chain  in  Piccadilly, 
by  a  fellow  who  asks  you  for  a  light  to  his  cigar,  and  then  plants  aa 
neat  a  left-hander  between  your  eyes  as  you  can " 

"  Wbj-  r"  cried  Jocelyn.     "  It's  Annesley  !" 


SZfl  JOCELYN' S  CAP.  115 

It  was. 

"Well,"  said  the  policeman,  when  he  understood,  and  ceased  to 
suspect;  "as  for  him, he's  got  safe  enough  off,  this  journey.  And  as 
for  you,  sir,"  he  addressed  Jocelyn,  "you  couldn't  have  done  a  better 
turn  to  that  fellow — I  know  who  he  is — than  to  let  him  chuck  you 
into  the  other  gentleman's  arms." 

Again  Jocelyn  had  obtained  the  wish  of  his  heart.  He  had, 
thanks  to  the  Cap,  done  something  to  help  one  of  "these  poor 
wretches." 


Jocelyn  reserved  his  final  trial  of  his  power  for  Wednesday  even- 
ing. Meanwhile,  he  thought  he  would  let  the  Cap  rest.  But  one 
thing  happened  which  troubled  him  greatly.  His  housekeeper's 
daughter — she  was  a  girl  of  fourteen  or  so,  all  knuckles  and  elbows 
— brought  up  his  breakfast,  crying. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Please,  Sir  Jocelyn,  mother's  had  a  terrible  loss." 

"  What  has  she  lost  ?" 

"  She's  lost  her  purse,  Sir  Jocelyn,  sir,  with  three  pound  fourteen 
and  ninepence  farthing  in  it.  I  don't  know  what  we  shall  do.  And 
I've  lost  my  lucky  sixpence.     And  Bobby,  he's  lost  his  ha'penny." 

Jocelyn  turned  crimson  with  wrath  and  shame.  His  house- 
keeper's purse  !  The  girl's  lucky  sixpence  !  And  the  child's  half- 
penny !     His  Jinn  had  placed  them  all  in  his  pocket ! 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  he  stammered.  "  As  for  the  purse,  I  can't 
restore — I  mean — find  that  for  you.  But — have  you  looked  every- 
where ?" 

"  Oh,  everywhere,  sir." 

"Look  here,  Eliza.  Here  are  four  pounds," — he  would  have 
handed  over  the  exact  sum,  but  he  remembered  in  time  that  the 
lucky  sixpence  was  among  the  coins  in  his  pocket,  and  would 
certainly  be  identified — "here  are  four  sovereigns.  Tell  your  mother 
to  buy  herself  a  new  purse,  and  if  she  loses  her  money  again,  I 
shall  not  find  it  for  her.  Turn  your  lucky  sixpence  into  a  shilling, 
and  Bobby's  halfpenny  into  a  sixpence." 

When  she  was  gone  he  pulled  out  the  Cap,  and  set  it  before  him 
on  the  table.  "  You  are  a  common  thief,"  he  said,  shaking  his 
forefinger.  "You  are  so  lazy  that,  when  I  ask  for  money,  you  go 
to  the  housekeeper's  room  and  steal — steal  her  purse.    You  are  a  dis 

graceful  sneak  and  thief.     Another  such  action,  and  I  will " 

here  he  remembered  that  he  wanted  the  services  of  the  Cap  for 
Wednesday,  and  said  no  more.  But  he  was  profoundly  disgusted. 
If  money  could  only  be  had  by  stealing,  how  could  he  accept  any 
money  at  all  ?  Then  he  reflected.  There  is  so  much  money  and 
no  more  in  the  world.  All  this  money  has  owners.  The  owners 
do  not  part  with  their  money  except  as  pay  for  services  done. 

8—2 


n6  SIX  yOCELYN'S  CAP. 

How,  then,  can  money  be  got  by  any  servants  of  a  Wishing  Cap 
except  by  stealing  it  ?  But  to  steal  a  poor  housekeeper's  money  ! 
Mean  ! — mean  !  Yet  for  a  Baronet  to  accept  money  stolen  from 
anybody !  Impossible.  And  so  vanished  at  one  blow  his  income 
of  £13,477  8s.  lOid.  The  matter  opened  a  large  field  for  inquiry, 
which  he  "argued  out"  as  before.  That  is  to  say, he  got  hopelessly 
fogged  over  it. 

This  matter  caused  him  a  good  deal  of  annoyance.  There  were 
other  things,  too,  which  made  him  suspect  the  power,  or  the  intelli- 
gence, of  the  Cap.  Thus,  it  was  vexatious,  when  he  had  merely 
wished,  as  so  many  well-meaning  people  do  sometimes  wish,  that  he 
was  able  to  send  to  certain  cases  of  distress,  coals  or  help  in  other 
ways,  to  be  told  by  the  housekeeper  that  the  ton  of  coals  he  had 
ordered  was  come,  "  and  please,  here  is  the  bill."  He  paid  it  silently. 
Again,  he  was  in  his  dressing-room,  thinking  of  Nelly  Staunton. 
"  The  case  is  as  hopeless,"  he  said  to  himself,  "as  if  seas  divided  us. 
I  wish,"  he  added  gloomily,  "  seas  did  divide  us."  Was  it  by  acci- 
dent, or  was  it  by  the  meddlesome  and  mistaken  action  of  the  Cap 
— he  always  called  it  the  Cap,  to  avoid  the  somewhat  invidious 
phrase,  Slave,  or  Demon  of  the  Cap — that  at  this  moment  he  kicked 
over  the  can  containing  his  bath  water,  and  made,  of  course,  a  great 
and  horrible  pool  ?  He  sat  down  and  considered.  As  for  the  ton 
of  coals,  he  had  ordered  them;  but  then  they  came  at  the  very 
moment  when  he  was  wishing  that  he  had  coals  to  send.  He  had 
himself  kicked  over  the  can ;  but  then,  could  it  have  been  zeal  on 
the  part  of  the  Cap  to  carry  out,  however  imperfectly,  even  impos- 
sible orders  ? 

On  the  Monday  evening  he  met  a  lot  of  people  who  had  all  at 
some  time  or  other  gone  in  for  spiritualistic  business.  This  was 
indeed  their  bond  of  union.  After  dinner  a  good  many  wonderful 
stories  were  told,  and  there  was  talk  about  Volition,  Magnetism, 
Clairvoyance,  and  the  like. 

"  I  am  sometimes  interested,"  said  a  lady,  who  was  present,  one  of 
those  who  believe  everything,  "  in  the  old  stories  about  Slaves  of 
the  Lamp,  the  Ring,  or  the  Jewel.  They  seem  to  me  illustrative 
of  the  supreme  power  which  the  Will  of  man  has  been  known  to 
achieve  in  rare  cases  ;  that,  namely,  when  he  can  command  even 
senseless  matter  and  make  it  obey  him." 

"  As,  for  instance,"  said  Jocelyn,  waking  up,  for  this  seemed 
likely  to  interest  him,  "  if  I  was  to  order  this  glass  to  be  upset. 
Pardon  me,  but  I  did  not  ask  Mr.  Andersen  to  upset  it." 

Yet  it  was  upset.  Mr.  Andersen,  one  of  the  guests,  had  at  that 
moment  knocked  it  over. 

"  That,  certainly,"  observed  the  lady,  "  would  be  an  exercise  of 
Will  of  a  very  singular  and  remarkable  kind.  It  belongs  to  the 
class  of  phenomena  which  the  Orientals  accounted  for  by  the 
invention  of  their  so-called  Slaves.  Solomon  had  such  Slaves. 
Mohammed  had  them.    Every  great  man  had  them." 


SIJ?  yOCELYN'S  CAP.  117 

"Do  you  think,"  asked  Jocelyn  anxiously,  "that  they  exist 
now  ?" 

"  The  Slaves  ?  Certainly  not."  This  lady,  it  is  evident,  knew  a 
great  deal.  "But  the  power— yes — oh  yes  ! — that  exists  if  we  can 
at'ain  to  it."  She  was  a  woman  about  thirty  years  of  age,  with 
large  full  eyes.  "If  I  choose  to  exercise  my  Will,  Sir  Jocelyn,  you 
will  advance  towards  me  whether  you  like  it  or  not." 

"  I  very  much  doubt  that ;  but,"  said  Jocelyn  recklessly,  "  if  / 
choose  to  exercise  my  Will,  you  shall  recede  from  me." 

"  Really  !"  said  the  lady  scornfully  ;  "  Ave  will  try,  if  you  please. 
My  Will  against  your  Will.  You  shall  advance,  but  I  will  not 
recede." 

No  one  had  ever  before  suspected  young  Sir  Jocelyn  of  any  pre- 
tence at  supernatural  powers,  so  that  they  all  laughed,  and  expected 
instant  discomfiture.  Yet  a  remarkable  thing  happened.  The  lady 
sat  in  a  chair  before  him,  and  Jocelyn  fixed  his  eyes  upon  hers, 
which  met  his  with  a  dilated  glare.  He  did  not  advance,  but  pre- 
sently the  lady's  chair  began  to  move  backward,  very  slowly.  She 
sprang  up  with  a  shriek  of  affright,  and  the  chair  fell  over. 

"  What  have  you  done  ?"  she  cried.  "  Some  one  was  pulling  the 
chair." 

"Very  clever  indeed,"  observed  a  man  who  was  addicted  to  feats 
of  legerdemain  and  deception.  "  Very  clever,  Sir  Jocelyn ;  you 
have  deceived  even  me.  But  you  will  not  do  it  twice,  otherwise  I 
shall  find  out  how  you  did  it." 

"No,"  he  replied,  half  ashamed,  "  not  twice.  A  trick,"  he  added, 
"  ought  not  to  be  done  over  again." 

"  A  trick  ?"  said  the  lady.  "  But  no — that  was  no  trick.  If  the 
chair  were  not  actually  pulled,  why,  you  must  have  the  power,  Sir 
Jocelyn.  Yes ;  you  have  the  Will  that  causes  even  inanimate 
matter  to  move.     It  was  not  me,  but  the  chair  that  you  repelled." 

He  deprecated,  modestly,  the  possession  of  so  strong  a  Will. 
The  story,  however,  without  the  names,  has  been  preserved,  and 
may  be  read  among  the  papers  of  the  Psychical  Society.  It  is  one 
of  their  choicest  and  best  authenticated  anecdotes.  But  the  real 
simple  truth  is  not  known  to  them,  and  in  revealing  it  one  does  but 
set  the  narrative,  so  to  speak,  upon  a  different  platform.  It  is  no 
longer  a  mysterious  Will  but  a  mysterious  Agent. 

"  It  is  a  long  time,"  observed  the  Mr.  Andersen  who  had  upset 
the  glass — he  was  a  bright  and  sprightly  Americanised  Dane — "  it 
is  a  long  time  since  I  did  busy  myself  with  the  secrets  and  mysteries 
of  the  unseen  world  ;  but,  if  you  please,  I  will  give  you,  of  the 
final  result  at  which  I  arrived,  an  account." 

"  You  did  get  a  result,  then  ?"  said  the  lady  of  the  strong  Will. 

"  You  shall  hear.  I  was  out  camping  one  night ;  all  the  fellows 
had  gone  to  sleep  except  me,  and  I  was  keeping  watch  by  the  camp- 
fire  with  my  six-shooter,  and  the  big  dog  for  company.  The  sky 
above  us  was  as  clear  and  pure  as  a  young  maiden's  heart,  and  the 


n8  SIX  JOCELYN' S  CAP. 

tall  trees  stood  up  against  the  sky  like  sentinels,  dark  and  steadfast, 
and  the  whole  air  was  as  still— as  still  as  a  fellow  keeps  when  he 
wants  to  see  if  the  other  fellow  will  copper  a  queen  or  not.  But  I 
fell  to  thinking  and  thinking ;  and  there  was  some  one  far  away 
that  I  wanted  so  much  to  see  and  to  know  what  .  that  person 
— might  be  thinking  and  doing " 

"  And  you  saw  her  !"  cried  the  lady. 

"I  remembered,"  he  went  on,  not  regarding  the  interruption, 
"  how  the  fellow  who  taught  us  the  mesmeric  passes  told  me  what 
an  ever  so  strong  mesmeric  power  I  possessed,  and  I  thought  that 
here,  if  ever,  was  a  high  old  time  to  try  that  power.  I  looked  round 
at  the  still  sky,  and  the  quiet  trees,  and  the  sleeping  fellows,  and  I 
just  began  to  wish.  Then  the  big  dog  lifted  up  his  head  and  made 
as  though  he'd  like  to  give  a  howl,  and  he  looked  at  my  face,  and 
it  seemed  as  if  he  believed  he'd  best  swallow  that  howl.  The  more 
he  didn't  howl  the  more  I  wished  ;  and  I  wished  and  I  wished  and 
I  wished  till  it  seemed  as  if  the  whole  world  was  standing  still  to 
judge  how  wonderful  I  was  wishing,  and  then  there  came  a  faint 
rustle,  way  off  among  the  tops  of  the  trees,  and  I  thought  there 
was  something,  maybe,  beginning  to  come  out  of  it  all.     And! 

wished  and  I  wished  and  I  wished.    And "  here  he  paused  in 

a  manner  which  thrilled  his  hearers. 

"  Well  ?"  asked  Jocelyn,  giving  voice  to  the  general  expectation. 

"  And,  by  Jupiter,  Sir  Jocelyn,"  said  the  narrator,  "  by  Jupiter, 
nothing  never  came  of  it  l" 


Yl 

Before  going  to  the  ball  at  Lndy  Hambledon's,  Jocelyn  took  the 
most  careful  precautions  to  prevent  any  possible  mistake.  He  put 
the  Cap  before  him  and  lectured  it  solemnly. 

"  Now,  you  understand,  there  is  to  be  no  fooling  this  evening. 
I  am  going  to  Lady  Hambledon's — don't  confound  her  with  any 
other  Hambledon — Lady  Hambledon  in  Brook  Street  ;  the  Staun- 
tons  are  going  to  be  there  :  you  will  arrange  an  opportunity  for  me 
to  speak  to — the  young  lady  ;  you  will  do  your  best  to — to  stimu- 
late— to  give  me  a  shove  if  I  get  stuck  ;  you  will  also,  if  that  is 
possible,  predispose  the  young  lady  in  my  favour.  I  don't  think 
there  is  anything  more  you  can  do.  See  that,  this  evening  at  least, 
you  make  no  blunders.  Remember  the  housekeeper's  purse."  By 
this  time  ho  had  learned  to  avoid  the  phrase  "  I  wish  "  as  most 
dangerous  and  misleading,  when  a  servant  of  limited  intellect  in- 
terprets every  wish  literally. 

He  went  off,  however,  comforted  with  the  conviction  that  really 
ho  had  said  all  that  was  necessary  to  say.  If  this  Cap,  or  the  Slave 
of  the  Cap,  was  not  a  fool  and  an  imbecile,  his  orders  would  be 
executed  to  the  letter.     He  was  a  little  excited,  of  course  ;   any» 


SIX  fOCELYN'S  CAP.  119 

body  would  have  been  so  under  the  circumstances.  Not  only  -was 
his  happiness  at  stake — at  five-and-twenty  one's  whole  futm-e 
happiness  is  very  often  at  stake — but  he  was  about  to  test  and 
prove  the  power  of  the  Cap.  Hitherto  that  power  had  not  been 
exercised  to  his  advantage  in  anyway.  He  should  now  ascertain 
exactly  whether  he  was  going  to  be  a  real  wizard,  or  quite  a  com- 
mon person  like  other  young  Baronets.  On  the  stairs  he  overheard 
a  whispered  conversation  which  made  him  feel  uneasy. 

"  I  saw  the  Stanntons  go  up  just  now,"  said  one. 

"  And  I  saw  Annesley  go  up  just  before  them,"  said  another. 
"Everybody  says  that  he  is  hard  hit.  Came  here  after  her,  of 
course." 

Nothing  absolutely  to  connect  Annesley  with  Nelly.  Yet  he 
was  uneasy.  Certainly,  Annesley  would  not  be  hard  hit  by 
Caroline.  Two  people  full  of  ideas  cannot  marry  and  be  happy. 
No,  it  must  be  Nelly.  He  fortified  himself  with  the  thought  of 
his  Cap,  and  went  on  upstairs. 

The  first  thing  he  saw  was  Nelly  herself,  dancing  with  Annesley. 
"  Confound  him  I"  said  Jocelyn.  "  He  is  as  graceful  3s  an  ostrich  !" 
On  the  other  side  of  the  room  sat  Mrs.  Staunton.  To  her  he  made 
his  way,  and  reached  her  just  at  the  moment  when  Caroline  was 
brought  back  to  the  same  spot  by  her  partner  in  the  last  dance. 
He  could  do  nothing  less  than  ask  Caroline  for  the  valse  which  had 
just  begun.     She  was  disengaged. 

At  this  juncture  there  fell  upon  him  the  strangest  feeling  pos- 
sible. It  was  exactly  as  if  he  was  being  guided.  He  felt  as  if 
some  one  were  leading  him,  and  he  seemed  to  hear  a  whisper 
saying,  "  Everything  is  arranged  according  to  your  Excellency's 
commands."  The  consciousness  of  supernatural  presence  in  a 
London  ball-room  is  a  very  strange  thing.  There  is  an  incongruity 
in  it  ;  it  makes  one  act  and  feel  as  if  in  a  dream.  It  was  in  a 
waking  dream  that  Jocelyn  performed  that  dance.  Presently — he 
was  not  in  the  least  surprised  now,  whatever  should  happen — he 
found  himself  sitting  in  the  conservatory  with  Caroline.  She  was 
discoursing  in  a  broad  philosophical  spirit  on  the  futility  of  human 
hopes  and  opportunities. 

Then  he  heard  his  own  voice  asking  her  :  "What  is  the  use  of 
opportunities  unless  one  knows  how  to  use  them  ?" 

"  What  indeed  ?"  replied  Caroline  ;  "  but  surely,  Sir  Jocelyn,  it 
is  only  the  weaker  sort  to  whom  that  happens?  The  strong"  — 
here  she  directed  an  encouraging  glance  at  him — "can  always  use, 
and  can  even  make,  if  need  be,  their  opportunities." 

Yes  :"  Jocelyn  forced  the  conversation  a  st«  p  lower,  "  but  if  a 
girl  won't  give  a  fellow  a  chance." 

"I  think,"  said  Caroline,  "that  any  man  can  find  his  chance,  if 
he  likes  to  seize  it." 

There  was  a  pause — Jocelyn  felt  himself  impelled  to  speak.  It 
was  as  if  some  one  was  pushing  him  towards  a  precipice.     When 


120  SIX  yOCELYN'S  CAP. 

he  afterwards  thought  of  himself  and  his  extraordinary  behaviour 
at  this  moment,  he  could  only  account  for  it  by  the  theory  that  ho 
was  compelled  to  speak  and  to  conduct  himself  in  this  wonderful 
way.  "You  must  have  seen,"  he  whispered,  "you  must  have  seen 
all  this  time,  that  I  have  been  hoping  for  a  chance,  and  was  unable 
to  get  one.  There  was  always  your  mother  or  your  sister  in  the 
way.  And  I  did  hope — I  mean — I  did  think  that  the  Cap — I  mean 
that  I  did  rather  fancy  that  one  might  perhaps  get  a  chance  here, 
though  it  isn't  exactly  what  I  ordered  and  wished.  But  I  can't 
help  it.  In  fact,  I  made  up  my  mind  last  Sunday  that  it  must  be 
to-night  or  never.  But  what  with  the  crush,  and  seeing  other 
fellows  cut  in — Annesley  and  the  others " 

Caroline  interrupted  this  incoherent  speech,  which,  however, 
could  have  but  one  meaning.  "  This  is  not  the  only  place  or  the 
only  time  in  the  world." 

"  Well,"  said  Jocelyn,  "  may  I  call  to-morrow  ?     But  then — oh  ! 

this  isn't  what  I  wanted — may  I  call "  his  eyes  wandered,  and  he 

began  a  kind  of  love-babble,  yet  with  a  look  of  bewilderment. 

Caroline  listened  calmly.  She  remembered  another  love-scene 
years  before,  when  much  the  same  kind  of  thing  was  said  to  her, 
though  her  lover  then  had  a  far  different  expression  in  his  eyes. 
They  were  burning  eyes,  and  terrified  her.  Jocelyn's  were  bewil- 
dered eyes,  and  made  her  feel  just  a  little  contemptuous.  Even 
the  coldest  women  like  some  fierceness  in  their  wooer. 

"  Hush  !"  she  said,  "  you  will  be  overheard.  Take  me  now  back 
to  mamma.  We  are  going  immediately.  You  may  come  to-mor- 
row at  five." 

He  pressed  her  hand,  and  took  her  back.  Nelly  was  with  her 
mother,  Annesley  in  attendance.  She  glanced  at  her  sister,  and 
caught  in  reply  a  smile  so  full  of  meaning,  that  she  did  not  hesitate 
to  bestow  a  look  upon  Jocelyn  of  the  sweetest  sympathy.  Her 
pretty  eyes  and  this  sympathetic  look  of  sisterly — yes  !  sisterly — 
pleasure,  completed  the  business.  It  wanted  nothing  but  Nelly's 
sympathy  to  round  off  the  situation  and  fill  up  his  cup  of  misery. 

Then  they  went  away.  Jocelyn  retired  to  a  comparatively 
secluded  place  on  the  landing,  and  there,  leaning  against  a  door,  he 
began  to  curse  his  fate  and  his  folly.  He  was  so  absorbed  in 
railing  at  fortune  and  in  self-pity,  that  he  absolutely  forgot  the  very 
existence  of  the  Cap.  The  situation  was  too  desperate  ;  in  a  lesser 
stress  of  circumstances  he  would  have  remembered  it  ;  but  as  yet 
he  did  not  even  connect  the  Cap  with  the  present  fearful  disaster, 
of  which  the  worst  was  that  it  could  not  possibly  be  worse  ;  it  was 
hopeless  ;  he  had  told  a  girl  to  whom  he  was  utterly  indifferent, 
that  he  was  in  love  with  her  ;  without  being  drunk,  or  blinded  for 
a  space  by  her  charms,  he  had  addressed  words  to  her  which  he  had 
intended  for  her  sister.  "Oh,"  he  groaned,  "I  wish  I  were  some- 
how, anyhow,  out  of  this  horrible  situation  !" 

As  he  spoke,  he  involuntarily  straightened  his  legs  and  leaned 


SIX  yOCELYN'S  CAP.  121 

back  with  a  jerk.  The  door  opened,  and  he  fell  back  with  a  fearful 
crash  of  broken  glass  upon  the  back  stairs  and  a  trav  of  ices  on  the 
way  to  the  tea-room. 

Unlucky  Jocelyn!  To  fall  downstairs  backwards  is  at  best 
undignified,  but  who  can  describe  the  indignity  and  discomfort  of 
falling  in  such  circumstances  as  this  ?  He  was  helped  to  his  feet 
by  some  of  the  servants,  and  slipped  away  as  quickly  as  he  could. 

The  cool  night  air  restored  him  a  little  ;  he  found  himself  able 
to  think  coherently  ;  and  he  now  understood  that  the  whole  of 
this  miserable  evening's  work  was  due  to  his  infernal  Cap. 

He  took  it  out  of  the  cabinet  as  soon  as  he  reached  his  chambers. 
"  You  fool !  you  beast !  you  blind,  blundering  blockhead  !"  he  thus 
addressed  the  Cap.  "It  is  all  your  doing.  The  wrong  girl  ?  Yes: 
of  course  it  was  the  wrong  girl.  Didn't  give  you  her  name  ?  You 
ought  to  have  known  it.  G-irl  you  talked  so  long  with  ?" — All  this 
time  he  seemed  to  be  hearing  and  answering  excuses.     "  Talked  so 

long  with "     He  sank  in  a  chair  and  groaned.     Alas !   it  was 

his  own  fault ;  he  had  forgotten  to  name  the  girl  ;   the  Slave  of 
the  Cap  knew  that  he  wanted  one  of  the  Stauntons,  and  supposed 
that  he  wanted  the  one  with  whom  he  had  conversed  so  much  on 
Sunday.     How  should  he  know  ? 
He  mixed  a  glass  of  whisky  and  seltzer. 

"  I  wish,"  he  said  desperately,  "  that  the  stuff  would  poison  me." 
He  drank  off  half  the  tumbler.  Heavens !  it  was  methylated 
spirit,  not  seltzer  (the  bottles  were  alike  in  shape),  that  he  had 
poured  into  the  whisky.  His  wish  was  very  nearly  gratified. 
Fortunately  the  quantity  he  had  drunk  proved  the  cause  of  his 
safety.  Over  the  bad  quarter  of  an  hour  which  followed  let  us 
drop  the  veil  of  pity. 

But  he  was  to  have  another  and  as  rude  a  lesson  in  the  activity 
of  his  slave.  He  awoke  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  with  a  sort  of 
nightmare,  in  which  Caroline  was  lecturing  him  and  saying,  "  I  am 
to  be  your  companion  all  your  life.  You  will  never  cease  listening 
to  the  voice  of  instruction."  The  weight  of  his  horrible  blunder 
became  intolerable  to  him.  He  threw  off  the  clothes  and  sat  up  in 
the  bed.  "  I  wish,"  he  gasped,  "  I  wish  I  was  dead."  Something 
seized  him  by  the  throat.  He  could  not  breathe.  He  sprang  from 
the  bed  and  rushed  to  the  window  for  air.  He  was  choking.  He 
battled  with  the  fit,  or  whatever  it  was,  which  held  him  for  three 
or  four  minutes  and  left  him  purple  in  the  face  and  trembling  in  the 
limbs. 

"  It  is  spasmodic  asthma,"  he  said,  when  he  had  recovered  a  little. 

"  My  father  had  it,  and  his  father  had  it.  I  knew  it  would  come 
some  day."  At  the  same  time,  it  was  odd  that  it  should  come  just 
when  he  was  wishing  to  be  dead.  And  the  constriction  of  the 
pipes  did  seem  astonishingly  like  the  fingers  of  some  one  trying  to 
throttle  him. 


122  SIX  yOCELYN'S  CAP. 


VII. 

"Dear  Sir  Jocelyn"  (it  was  a  note  from  Mrs.  Staunton), — "I 
shall  be  very  glad  to  see  you  to-day  at  twelve.  Caroline  tells  me 
you  have  something  important — may  I  guess  what  it  is  ? — to  say  to 
me. — Yours  very  sincerely, 

"  Julia  Staunton." 

Jocelyn  received  this  note  with  the  cup  of  tea  which  he  took  in 
bed,  according  to  vicious  morning  usage.  He  read  it  and  groaned. 
It  meant,  this  harmless  note,  nothing  short  of  a  life-Jong  lecture 
from  a  female  philosopher  ;  and  he  a  perfectly  frivolous  young  man  ! 

He  fell  back  upon  his  pillow  and  groaned.  Then  he  foolishly 
began  to  wish,  forgetting  his  Cap.  "  I  wish  the  confounded  letter 
could  be  washed  out  of  existence,"  he  said  ;  and  with  an  impatient 
gesture  threw  out  his  arms  and  upset  the  cup  of  tea  over  the  paper. 
It  would  take  ten  minutes  to  get  another  cup.  "  It's  that  accursed 
Cap,"  he  said  ;  "  it  always  takes  one  up  wrong.  I've  a  good  mind 
to  burn  it."  He  dressed  himself  in  the  vilest  temper.  Had  he 
heard  the  conversation  at  that  moment  going  on  between  Caroline 
and  her  mother,  he  would  have  been  more  angry  still. 

"  I  do  not  pretend,"  said  the  young  lady,  "  to  feel  any  violent 
attachment  for  him — that  kind  of  thing  is  over  for  me.  There  was 
a  time,  as  you  know " 

"  My  dear,"  said  her  mother,  "  that  is  so  long  ago,  and  you  were 
so  very  young,  and  it  was  before  your  uncle  died." 

"Yes,  it  is  so  long  ago,"  said  Caroline  ;  "  I  am  seven-and-twenty 
now — two  years  older  than  Jocelyn.  Poor  boy  !  he  is  weak,  but  I 
think  I  shall  have  a  docile  husband  ;  unless,  to  be  sure,  he  turns 

stubborn,  as  weak  men   sometimes  do.     In  that  case "     Her 

face  hardened,  and  her  mother  felt  that  if  Caroline's  husband 
should  prove  stubborn,  there  would  be  a  game  of  "  Pull  devil,  pull 
baker." 

There  was,  Jocelyn  felt,  no  way  out  of  it  at  all,  unless  the  way 
of  flight,  which  is  always  open  to  everybody.  And  then,  what  a 
tremendous  fool  he  would  seem  !  As  for  the  truth,  it  could  not 
possibly  be  told.  That,  at  any  rate,  must  be  concealed  ;  and  at 
this  point  he  began  to  understand  some  of  the  inconveniences, 
besides  that  of  being  misunderstood,  in  keeping  a  private  demon. 
It  is  not,  nowadays,  that  you  would  be  burned  ff  it  were  found  out. 
Quite  the  contrary :  all  the  clergymen  in  the  world  would  be  de- 
lighted at  finding  an  argument  so  irrefragable  against  atheists  and 
rationalists.  The  thing  was  wrong,  of  course,  but  beautifully  oppor- 
tune. But  it  would  be  so  supremely  ridiculous.  A  Slave  of  the 
Cap,  Jinn,  or  Afreet,  who  could  only  find  his  master  money  by 
stealing  the  housekeeper's  purse  ;  who  interpreted  a  wish,  without 


SIX  JOCELYN'S  CAP.  123 

the  least  regard  to  consequences,  literally  and  blindly  ;  who  led  his 
master  into  the  most  ridiculous  scrapes,  even  to  getting  him  engaged 
to  the  wrong  girl :  a  blundering,  stupid  slave— this,  if  you  please, 
would  be  simply  ridiculous.  As  for  Nelly,  his  chance  with  her  was 
hopelessly  gone,  even  if,  by  any  accident,  he  could  break  off  with 
her  sister.  Yet,  he  thought,  he  should  like  to  know  if  there  was 
any  truth  in  the  report  about  her  and  Annesloy.  "  I  wish,"  he  said, 
"  I  wish,  now,  that  I  had  never  known  her." 

Then  it  became  apparent  to  him  that  he  really  never  had  known 
her  at  all.  She  could  not  suspect  his  intentions  because  she  had  no 
opportunity  of  guessing  them  ;  and  he  remembered  that  though  he 
had  known  the  Stauntons  a  good  while,  he  had  never  once  got  an 
opportunity  of  talking  with  her  alone,  except  at  a  dance,  and  then 
her  card  was  always  filled  up  for  the  whole  time  she  stayed.  Sym- 
pathetic eyes  are  very  sweet,  but  they  do  not  mean  an  understanding 
without  being  told  that  a  man  is  in  love  with  one.  To  do  Nelly 
justice,  she  had  never  thought  of  Jocelyn  in  this  way.  He  was  an 
agreeable  young  man  to  dance  with  ;  he  came  to  afternoon  tea  and 
talked  with  Caroline,  or  rather  listened ;  she  thought  he  was  not 
very  clever,  but  he  seemed  nice. 

Mrs.  Staunton  received  Jocelyn  with  great  cordiality.  "  Let 
re;,'  she  said,  "hear  at  once,  my  dear  Jocelyn,  what  you  wish  to 
civ  :o  me."  It  was  a  sign  of  the  very  worst  that  she  addressed  him 
by  his  Christian  name,  without  the  handle,  for  the  first  time. 

"  Caroline  has  told  me  that  last  night " 

"Yes,"  said  Jocelyn.  "I  wish  she  hadn't."  The  last  words 
sotto  voce. 

"  She  did  not  tell  me  all,"  replied  Mrs.  Staunton.  "  In  fact,  very 
little  ;  but  I  gathered " 

"I  told  her,"  said  Jocelyn,  in  a  tone  most  melancholy  and  even 
sepulchral — "  I  told  her  that  I  loved  her." 

"Yes — I  gathered  so  much — and,  indeed,  I  was  not  surprised. 
To  love  my  Caroline  betrays,  as  well  as  becomes,  a  liberal  education. 
Yet  I  need  not  disguise  from  you,  Jocelyn,"  the  young  lady's  mamma 
continued,  "that  from  one  point  of  view — the  only  one,  I  am  bound 
to  confess — the  match  is  undesirable.  You  are  of  ancient  family  ; 
you  have  rank  ;  you  have,  I  am  assured,  excellent  morals  and  the 
best  principles  ;  but,  my  dear  boy,  you  have — pardon  me  for  re- 
minding you  of  it — so  scanty  a  fortune." 

"  It  is  true,"  Jocelyn  said  briskly,  and  plucking  up  a  little  hope  ; 
"and  if  you  think  that  obstacle  insurmountable — if,  I  say,  Mrs. 
Staunton,  that  fact  stands  in  the  way — I  will  at  once  withdraw." 
He  half  rose,  as  if  to  withdraw  at  once. 

"  It  would  have  been  insurmountable  in  Nelly's  case,"  said  Mrs. 
Staunton,  "  because  my  poor  Nelly  will  have  but  a  slender  portion. 
With  Caroline  the  case  is  different.  The  dear  girl  is  provided  for 
by  her  uncle's  bequest ;  and  though  you  will  not  be  really  rich, 
there  will  be  enough.     No,  Jocelyn,  the  objection  is  not  insur- 


124  SIX  JOCELYN' S  CAP. 

mountable,  but  I  feel  it  my  duty  to  state  its  existence  and  its 
nature.  I  want  you  to  understand  entirely  my  feelings.  And,  in 
fact,  my  dear  Jocelyn,"  she  gave  him  her  hand,  which  he  pressed, 
but  languidly,  "  you  have  my  full  permission  to  go  on  with  your 
suit,  and  my  very  best  wishes  for  your  success  ;  because  I  think- 
nay,  I  am  sure — that  you  already  appreciate  Caroline  at  her  true 
value,  and  will  make  her  happiness  your  only  study." 

Jocelyn  murmured  something. 

"It  is  not  often  that  two  sisters  get  engaged  on  the  same  day," 
Mrs.  Staunton  continued,  smiling  ;  "  yet  it  will  please  you  to  hear 
that  I  have  this  morning  already  consented  to  Nelly's  engagement 
with  Mr.  Annesley." 

"  With  Annesley  ?"  It  was  true,  then.  All  was  indeed  over 
now.  Yes  :  when  one  is  already  hopelessly  crushed,  one  more  wheel 
may  go  over  without  materially  increasing  the  agony. 

"  We  have  not  known  him  long,  but  he  bears,  so  far  as  we  can 
learn,  as  good  a  character  as  one  can  desire.  He  is  an  intimate 
friend  of  your  own,  Jocelyn,  is  he  not  ?" 

"He  is,"  said  Jocelyn  gloomily.  "He  nearly  poisoned  me  last 
Saturday." 

"  That  is  indeed  a  proof  of  sincere  friendship,"  the  lady  replied, 
laughing.  "  He  and  Nelly  have  been  attached  to  each  other,  it 
seems,  for  some  time,  though  the  foolish  couple  said  nothing  to 

me  about  it ;  and  at  last Well,  I  hope  they  will  be  happy.    In 

addition  to  other  advantages,  he  has  a  large  private  income." 

"  He  has,  I  believe,  about  four  thousand  a  year.  Frillings  did 
it,  in  Coventry." 

"  Ye — yes — so  many  of  our  best  families  have  made  their  fortune 
in  trade.  We  must  not  think  too  much  of  these  things.  And  he 
certainly  has  as  good  a  manner  as  one  would  expect  in  an  Earl." 
Then  a  smile,  doubtless  at  the  thought  of  the  four  thousand  a  year, 
stole  over  her  motherly  face.  "It  is  certainly  pleasant  to  think 
that  the  dear  girl  will  have  everything  that  a  reasonable  person  can 
desire.  His  principles,  too,  are  excellent.  And  he  is,  I  am  assured, 
a  remarkably  clever  man." 

Jocelyn  said  nothing  ;  he  had,  in  fact,  nothing  to  say,  except 
that  all  young  men  with  four  thousand  a  year  are  believed  to 
possess  excellent  principles. 

"And  now,"  she  said,  "you  may  go  to  Caroline.  My  clear  boy, 
why — why  did  not  your  uncle,  or  your  father,  make  money  in 
frillings  at  Coventry  ?" 

He  went  to  Caroline  ;  but  it  was  with  creeping  feet,  as  a  school- 
boy goes  to  school,  and  with  hanging  head,  as  that  boy  goes  on  his 
way  to  certain  punishment. 

"What  on  eaith  am  I  to  say  to  her?"  he  thought.     "Am  I  to 
kiss  her  ?    Will  she  expect  me  to  kiss  her  ?    Hang  it !  I  don't  want 
to  kiss  her.     I  wish  I  could  kiss  Nelly  instead." 
Just  then  Nelly  herself  ran  out. 


SIX  JOCELYN' S  CAP.  12s 

"  Oh,  Jocelyn  !"  she  said  ;  "  you  have  seen  mamma  ?  Of  course 
it  is  all  right.  I  am  so  glad  !  You  are  going  to  Caroline  ? — poor 
Caroline !  You  are  going  to  be  my  brother  !  I  am  so  glad,  and  I 
am  so  happy — we  are  all  so  happy  !  Did  mamma  tell  you  about  me 
as  well  ?     Wish  me  joy,  brother  Jocelyn  !" 

"My  dear  Nelly,"  he  said,  with  a  little  sob  in  his  voice — "  I  sup- 
pose I  may  call  you  Nelly  now,  and  my  dear  Nelly  as  well — I  sin- 
cerely wish  you  all  the  joy  that  the  world  has  to  give." 

She  put  up  her  face  and  smiled.  He  stooped  and  kissed  her 
forehead. 

"  Be  happy,  sister  Nelly,"  he  whispered,  and  left  her. 

Nelly  wondered  why  there  was  a  tear  in  his  eye.  Her  own  lover 
certainly  had  not  shed  one  tear  since  he  first  came  a-courting  ;  but 
then  men  are  different. 

Caroline  was  calmly  expecting  her  wooer.  She  half-rose  when 
he  opened  the  door,  and  her  cheek  flushed.  She  wished  the  busi- 
ness over. 

"  Caroline,"  he  said.  But  he  could  say  no  more  ;  his  voice  and 
his  speech  failed  him. 

"  Jocelyn,"  she  replied.  And  then,  because  in  another  moment 
the  situation  would  have  become  strained — and,  besides,  he  was  a 
gentleman,  and  would  not  give  her  pain — and,  again,  if  there  was 
any  mistake,  it  was  his  own  folly  that  had  done  it — he  took  both 
her  hands,  and  drew  her  gently  towards  him  and  kissed  her  lips, 
without  another  word  of  love  or  of  protestation. 

Then  he  sat  beside  her,  keeping  her  hand  in  his,  and  she  began 
to  talk  of  marriage  and  its  duties,  especially  the  duty  of  the  husband, 
from  a  lofty  philosophical  point  of  view.  It  was  agreed  that  she 
was  to  have  absolute  freedom  :  to  take  up  any  opinion,  to  advocate 
any  cause,  that  she  pleased.  At  that  moment,  because  she  varied  a 
good  deal,  she  was  thinking  what  a  splendid  field  was  open  to  any- 
one, especially  any  woman,  who  would  preach  Buddhism  and  the 
Great  Renunciation.  She  made  no  allusion  at  all  to  her  fortune, 
but  Jocelyn  perfectly  understood  that  she  meant  to  manage  her 
house  in  her  own  way.  As  for  himself,  she  designed,  she  said,  a 
career  for  him.  Of  course,  he  would  give  up  the  F.O.  ;  and  so  on. 
He  mildly  acquiesced  in  everything.  His  own  slave  had  landed 
him  in  a  slavery  worse  than  anything  ever  imagined  or  described. 
He  was  to  spend  his  life  under  the  rule  of  a  strong-minded  woman 
of  advanced  opinions. 

VIII. 

Then  followed  two  or  three  weeks,  of  which  Jocelyn  thinks  now 
with  a  kind  of  wondering  horror.  He  was  expected  to  be  con- 
tinually in  attendance.  He  was  expected  to  listen  diligently.  He 
was  even  expected  to  read  a  great  many  books,  lists  of  which  were 
prepared  for  him.    Everything,  he  clearly  perceived,  was  to  be 


126  SIR  JOCELYN' S  CAP. 

arranged  for  him.  Very  well :  nothing  mattered  now.  Let  things 
go  on  in  their  own  way. 

The  worst  of  all  was  the  abominably  selfish  rapture  with  which 
Annesley,  of  whom  he  now,  very  naturally,  saw  a  great  deal,  treated 
him.  The  man  could  talk  of  nothing  but  the  perfections  of  Nelly. 
As  poor  Jocelyn  knew  these  perfections,  and  had  every  opportunity 
of  studying  them  daily,  the  words  of  the  accepted  suitor  went  into 
his  heart  like  a  knife.  Yet  he  could  not  object  to  listen,  or  contra- 
dict his  friend,  or  show  any  weariness.  To  be  sure,  he  might  have 
conversed  about  Caroline,  but  it  seemed  ridiculous.  Everybody 
knew  that  she  was  regularly  and  faultlessly  beautiful ;  everybody 
also  knew  that  she  was  strong-minded  and  held  all  kinds  of  views. 
Besides,  he  could  not  trust  himself  to  speak  of  her.  It  was  bad 
enough  every  day  to  speak  with  her. 

The  two  weddings  were  to  take  place  on  the  same  day,  which 
was  already  fixed  for  the  first  week  in  July.  It  was  arranged  where 
the  brides  should  spend  their  honeymoon — Caroline  and  Jocelyn  in 
Germany  ;  Nelly  with  her  bridegroom  at  the  Lakes.  Meantime  it 
was  impossible  not  to  perceive  that  Jocelyn,  who  ought  to  have 
been  dancing,  singing,  and  laughing,  grew  daily  more  silent  and 
melancholy.  Caroline,  however,  either  did  not  or  would  not  see 
this.  Nelly,  who  did,  wondered  what  it  meant,  and  even  taxed 
Jocelyn  with  the  thing. 

"What  does  it  mean?"  she  said.  "  You  get  your  heart's  desire, 
and  then  you  hang  your  head  and  sit  mum.  Why,  I  haven't  heard 
you  laugh  once  since  your  engagement  ;  and  as  for  your  smile,  you 
smile  as  if  you  were  going  to  have  a  tooth  out." 

"Nonsense!"  said  Jocelyn.  "I  suppose  men  are  always  quiet 
when  they  are  most  happy." 

"  Then  Jack  " — this  was  Annesley — "  must  be  miserable  indeed, 
for  he  is  always  laughing  and  singing  and  making  a  noise.  Come, 
Jocelyn,  tell  me  all  about  it.     Are  you  in  debt  ?" 

'••  No." 

"Are  you — have  you "  She  blushed  but  insisted,  "have  you 

got  any  kind  of  previous  engagement?  Oh!  I  know  young  men 
sometimes  entangle  themselves  foolishly  " — what  a  wise  Nelly  ! — 
"  and  then  have  trouble  in  breaking  off." 

"  It  isn't  that,  Nelly.     It  really  is  nothing." 

"  Then  laugh  and  hold  up  your  head.  Or  I  will  pinch  you  :  I 
will  indeed.  You  are  going  to  marry  Caroline,  who  is  the  most 
beautiful  girl  in  London  and  the  cleverest ;  and  you  go  about  as  if 
you  wanted  to  sit  in  a  coiner  and  cry." 

Jocelyn  obeyed  her,  and  laughed  as  cheerfully  as  a  starving  clown. 
When  he  went  home,  however,  it  was  with  a  stern  resolve.  He 
would  have  it  out  with  the  Cap. 

In  taking  it  out  of  the  cabinet,  however,  he  took  with  it  his 
uncle's  letter  and  read  it  again.  The  latter  part  he  read  with  new 
understanding  :  "  moderation  "  "  failure  to  comprehend  ;"  "  want 


SIX  JOCELYN  S  CAR  \zn 

of  obedience."  Yes,  there  was  something  wrong  with  this  Slave  of 
the  Cap,  As  for  the  Cap  itself,  it  looked  surprisingly  shabby — far 
worse  than  it  had  appeared  when  he  first  got  possession  of  it. 

"  Now,"  he  said — the  time  was  midnight,  and  he  was  alone  in  his 
chamber — "  let  us  understand  this."  He  took  the  Cap  in  his  hand. 
"  If  you  can  appear  to  me,  Slave  or  Demon,  show  yourself  to  me 
and  answer  for  your  blunders  if  you  can." 

The  same  sensation  of  f aintness  which  he  had  before  experienced 
came  over  him  again.  When  he  opened  his  eyes,  he  saw  before  him 
the  same  vision  of  a  tottering,  battered  old  creature,  with  fiery 
bright  eyes. 

"  I  have  done  my  best,  Excellency,"  said  the  Slave  of  the  Cap,  in 
a  tremulous  quavering  pipe. 

"  Your  best  !  You  have  done  everything  that  is  stupid,  blunder- 
ing, and  feeble.  What  does  it  mean  ?  What  the  devil,  I  say,  does 
it  mean  ?" 

"  I  beg  your  Excellency's  pardon.     If  you  had  mentioned  which 

young  lady " 

"  Jinn !  you  knocked  me  head-over-heels  down  the  back 
stairs." 

"  It  was  the  only  way  out  of  it.     You  wished  to  be  out  of  it." 
"  Slave  of  the  Ox  Goad  of  Religion  !  you  stole  the  housekeeper's 
money." 

"  I  have  always  stolen  money  for  your  Excellency's  ancestors. 
You  cannot  have  other  people's  money  without  stealing  it.  This 
was  the  nearest  money,  and  I  was  anxious  not  to  keep  your 
Excellency  waiting." 

'■  You  have  covered  me  with  disappointment  and  shame." 
"  I  am  old,  sir.  The  Cap  is  falling  to  pieces.  I  have  slaved  for 
it  for  five  hundred  years.  After  five  hundred  years  of  work  no 
Cap  is  at  his  best."  He  looked,  indeed,  at  his  very  worst,  so  feeble 
and  tottering  was  he.  "  In  love  matters,"  he  went  on,  "  I  am  still, 
however,  excellent,  as  the  late  Sir  Jocelyn  always  found  me.  Up 
to  the  very  last  I  managed  all  his  affairs  for  him.     If  I  can  do 

anything  for  your  Excellency  now " 

"You  have  already  clone  enough  for  me.     Stay "  a  thought 

struck  Jocelyn.     "  You  would  like  your  liberty." 
"  Surely,  sir." 

''You  shall  have  it.  I  will  throw  this  Cap  into  the  fire- 
understand  that — on  one  condition  :  it  is  that  you  undo  what  you 
have  already  done.  It  is  by  your  blundering  and  stupidity  that  I 
have  become  engaged  to  Caroline  Staunton.  Get  me  out  of  the 
engagement.  But  mind,  nothing  dishonourable  :  nothing  that  will 
affect  her  reputation  or  mine  :  the  thing  must  be  broken  off  by 
her,  for  some  good  reason  of  her  own,  and  one  which  will  do 
neither  of  us  any  harm.  For  my  own  part,  I  don't  in  the  least 
understand  how  it  is  to  be  done.     That  is  your  look-out." 

"  Excellency,  it  shall  be  done.     It  shall  be  done  immediately.'' 


128  SIX  yOCELYN'S  CAP. 

He  vanished,  and  Jocelyn  replaced  the  Cap  in  the  cabinet.  It 
was  with  anxious  heart  that  he  lay  down  to  sleep,  nor  did  sleep 
come  readily.  He  was  quite  sure,  now,  that  the  engagement  would 
be  broken  off  somehow,  but  he  could  not  possibly  understand 
how  or  why.  There  had  been  between  them  no  quarrel  nor  the 
slightest  disagreement — in  fact,  Jocelyn  always  agreed  to  every- 
thing :  there  was  nothing,  on  either  side,  that  was  not  perfectly 
well  known ;  nothing,  that  is,  as  sometimes  happens  with  young 

men,  which  might  "  come  out  and  have  to  be  explained."    How ■ 

But,  after  all,  it  was  the  business  of  his  servant  to  find  out  the 
way.     He  went  asleep. 

In  the  afternoon,  next  day,  a  note  came  to  him  at  the  Foreign 
Office.  It  was  from  Caroline,  begging  him  to  call  upon  her  as 
soon  as  possible. 

"  I  have,"  she  said,  "  a  very  important  communication  to  make 
to  you — a  confession — an  apology  if  you  please.    Pray  come  to  me." 

He  received  this  strange  note  with  a  feeling  of  the  greatest 
relief.  He  knew  that  she  was  going  to  release  him.  Why  or  with 
what  excuse  he  neither  knew  nor  cared. 

Caroline  was  in  her  own  room,  her  study.  She  gave  him  her 
hand  with  some  constraint,  and  when  he  would  have  kissed  her,  she 
refused.     "  No,  Jocelyn,"  she  said,  "  that  is  all  over." 

"  But — Caroline— why  ?"  A  smile  of  ineffable  satisfaction  stole 
over  his  face  which  she  did  not  see.  He  would  have  been 
delighted  to  fall  on  his  knees  in  order  to  show  the  depth  of  his 
gratitude.  But  he  refrained  and  composed  himself.  At  all  events 
he  would  play  the  lover  to  the  end,  as  he  had  begun.  It  was 
due,  in  fact,  to  the  lady  as  well  as  to  himself. 

"  Jocelyn,"  she  said  frankly,  yet  with  some  confusion  in  her 
e3res,  "I  have  made  a  great  mistake.  Listen  a  moment,  and 
forgive  me  if  you  can.  It  is  now  eight  years  since  a  certain  man 
fell  in  love  with  me — and  I  with  him.  My  poor  boy  !  I  have 
never  felt — I  know  it  now — towards  you  as  I  did  towards  him. 
We  could  not  marry  because  neither  of  us  had  any  money.  And 
then  he  went  abroad.  But  he  has  come  back — and — and — I  have 
money  now,  if  he  has  not— and — oh  !  Jocelyn — do  you  understand, 
now  ?" 

"  You  have  met  him" — oh  !  rare  and  excellent  Slave  ! — "  you 
have  met  him,  Caroline,  and  you  love  each  other  still."  He  wanted 
to  dance  and  jump,  but  he  did  not  :  he  spoke  slowly,  with  a  face 
of  extraordinary  gravity. 

"  Oh !  Jocelyn."  Could  this  be  the  same  Caroline  ?  Why,  she 
was  soft-eyed  and  tearful,  her  cheeks  were  glowing,  and  her .  lips 
trembled.  "  Oh  !  Jocelyn.  Can  you  forgive  me  ?  You  loved  me, 
too,  poor  boy,  because  you  thought  me,  perhaps,  better  and  wiser 
than  many  other  women.  Better,  you  see,  I  am  not,  though  I  may 
be  wiser  than  some." 

He  gave  her  his  hand. 


SIR  JOCELYN' S  CAP.  129 

"  Caroline,"  he  said  heroically,  "  what  does  it  matter  for  me,  if 
only  you  are  happy  ?" 

"  Then  you  do  forgive  me,  Jocelyn  ?  I  cannot  bear  to  think 
that  you  will  break  your  heart  over  this — that  I  am  the  cause " 

"  Forgive  you  ?     Caroline,  you  are  much  too  good  for  me.     I 

should  never  have  made  you  happy.     As  for  me "  he  gulped 

a  joyful  laugh  and  choked — "  as  for  me,  do  not  think  of  me.  I  shall 
— in  time — perhaps.      .  Meantime,  Caroline,  we  remain  friends." 

"Yes — always  friends — yes,"  she  replied  hurriedly.  Then  she 
burst  into  tears.  "  I  did  not  know,  Jocelyn,  I  did  not  know  !  I 
thought  I  had  forgotten  him,  indeed  I  did." 

He  lifted  her  hand  and  kissed  it  with  reverence.  Then  he  left 
her,  went  to  the  Club,  and  had  a  pint  of  champagne  to  pull  himself 
together.  As  for  what  people  said,  when  it  became  known,  that 
mattered  nothing,  because,  whatever  they  said,  they  did  not  say 
openly  to  him. 

It  may  be  mentioned  that  no  alteration  was  made  in  the  date  of 
the  double  wedding,  only  that  one  of  the  bridegrooms  was  changed. 
It  was  a  beautiful  wedding,  and  nobody  noticed  Sir  Jocelyn,  who 
was  up  in  the  gallery,  his  countenance  wreathed  with  smiles. 

When  he  left  Caroline,  Jocelyn  went  back  to  his  chambers  and 
prepared  a  little  ceremony.  He  first  lit  the  fire  ;  then  he  took  out 
the  Cap  and  wrapped  it  in  his  uncle's  letter.  Then  he  solemnly 
placed  both  Cap  and  letter  in  the  flames. 

"You  are  free,  my  friend,"  he  said.  "An  old  Cap  and  an  old 
Slave  are  more  trouble  than  they  are  worth.  Perhaps,  now  that 
the  Cap  is  burned,  you  will  recover  your  youth." 

There  was  no  answer  or  any  sign.  And  now  nothing  remains  to 
Jocelyn  of  the  family  heirloom,  except  the  picture  of  Sir  Jocelyn 
de  Haultegresse  and  Ali  Ibn  Yussuf,  otherwise  called  Khanjar  ed 
Din,  or  the  Ox  Goad  of  Religion. 


A  GLORIOUS   FORTUNE. 


JOHNNY  OF  OREGON. 

The  road,  which  is  little  more  than  a  rough  track — in  the  open 
parts,  during  the  summer,  dust ;  in  the  winter,  mud — runs  at  this 
place  through  the  virgin  forest,  untouched,  for  the  most  part,  by- 
axe,  and  almost  untrodden  by  foot  of  man.  It  is  a  very  remote 
and  untrodden  track  ;  it  has  not  yet  even  advanced,  like  a  young 
ploughboy,  to  the  dignity  of  corduroy  ;  it  runs  along  slopes  of 
hills  and  across  the  valleys  between  them.  When  the  way  is  clear 
of  trees,  which  is  not  often,  one  gets  a  view  of  the  blue  Pacific 
far  away  in  the  west  ;  every  evening  the  sun  sinks  into  it,  making 
a  glorious  double  rose  of  evening  in  the  sky  above  and  the  sea 
beneath.  Yet  every  half-dozen  miles  or  so  one  may,  perhaps— or 
may  not,  perhaps — come  across  a  clearing  or  farm  cut  out  of  the 
solid  forest,  the  stumps  of  the  trees  still  sticking  dolefully  out  of 
the  ground,  and  the  fields  divided  and  staked  out  by  rough  snake- 
fences.  In  a  few  years,  when  the  stumps  have  quite  disappeared, 
and  beautiful  green  things  have  grown  over  the  ugly  fences,  this 
farm,  with  its  backing  of  wood  and  hill,  will  be  as  perfectly  beauti- 
ful as  it  is  now  unkempt,  ragged,  and  unsightly. 

You  never  meet  anybody  walking  along  this  road,  for  it  runs 
straight  up  into  the  hills,  where  it  is  presently  lost  ;  but  in  the 
fields  and  upon  the  new  farms  you  may  sometimes  see  a  man  at 
work.  It  is,  in  fact,  on  the  other  side  of  the  Rocky  Mountains, 
which  seems  a  great  way  off  to  all  except  those  philosophers  who 
find  the  world  so  small ;  in  the  land  of  Oregon,  on  the  borders 
of  the  great  Pacific,  where,  as  yet,  men  are  scarce. 

The  most  untidy,  most  uncared-for  clearing  along  this  road  was 
one  in  the  wildest  and  most  solitary  part  of  it,  high  up  amon" 
the  slopes  of  the  hills.  It  seemed  as  if  the  settler  had  be>ruu 
with  immense  energy,  stubbing  up  brushwood,  sowing  timothy - 
yrass,  hewing  the  fir-trunks,  and  laying  down  log-fences,  as  if  he 


JOHNNY  OF  OREGON.  131 

intended  to  live  a  thousand  years  there,  but  had  then  lost  heart, 
and  so  suffered  the  weeds  to  grow,  stubbed  up  no  more  brushwood, 
and  left  his  fences  unfinished. 

The  house  belonging  to  the  farm  was  nothing  but  a  little  log- 
cabin,  grey-coloured  and  weather-beaten,  with  two  windows  and  a 
door  in  the  middle  opening  to  a  narrow  stoop  or  veranda.  A 
little  beyond  the  hut  there  ran  babbling  and  sparkling  in  the  sun 
(where  it  was  not  overhung  with  alder,  wild-cherry,  and  syringa), 
quite  the  most  beautiful  little  brook  in  the  world.  At  the  back 
of  the  house  rose  steeply  a  great  hill  covered  with  oak,  maple, 
hemlock,  and  fir  ;  where  the  trees  had  been  cut  down,  but  the 
ground  not  further  cleared,  there  grew  every  kind  of  under- 
wood, bush,  briar,  and  climbing-plant ;  the  wild  cucumber  trailing 
its  long  shoots  ;  blackberries  as  big  as  English  mulberries  ;  huckle- 
berries ;  thimbleberries  ;  yellow  salmon  berries  ;  and  sweet  sal-lal ; 
for  this  is  the  country  where  the  King  of  Berry-land  holds  his 
court. 

Under  the  trees,  and  wherever  there  is  a  glade  or  opening,  there 
are  huge  ferns  :  it  is  a  land  of  greenery  and  sunshine  ;  a  land 
where  everywhere  trickling  streams  make  carpets  of  spongy  moss, 
and  the  air  is  soft  like  unto  the  air  of  England.  On  the  right  hand, 
looking  east,  are  the  great  mountains,  and  on  the  left,  if  you  can 
see  it,  the  broad  Pacific. 

High  up  among  the  hills  at  this  time  of  year,  which  is  autumn 
(or  else  the  berries  would  not  be  ripe),  the  farmers  and  their 
families  camp  out — the  girls  sleeping  in  tents  and  the  boys  in  the 
open  ;  they  shoot,  fish,  gather  berries,  and  make  jam — buckets 
of  jam,  casks  of  jam,  hogsheads  of  jam — breathe  as  sweet  and 
pure  an  air  as  there  is  anywhere  in  the  world  (except,  of  course, 
Dartmoor,  Hexham  Common,  and  the  top  of  Malvern  Hill)4  ._inct 
presently  go  home  again,  ready  for  the  winter's  dances,  flirtations 
and  sledging  and  skating  and  fun.  Also  on  the  slopes  of  those 
mountains  live  herdsmen,  mostly  eremites  or  solitaries,  who  doubt- 
less meditate  on  things  holy  and  spiritual  among  their  cattle-;  and, 
just  as  the  holy  men  of  old  were  continually  troubled  by  devils 
permitted  to  assume  the  forms  of  men  or  women — especially  the 
latter — so  these  herdsmen  are  hindered  in  their  spiritual  musings 
by  bears,  grey  wolves,  and  coyotes.  And  they  do  not  go  away  in 
the  winter  like  the  campers-out,  but  abide  upon  the  hills  and 
endure  hardness  and  frost,  snow  and  hail,  rain  and  wind,  in  their 
season. 

The  clearing  and  cabin  of  which  I  speak  stood  quite  alone,  and 
at  least  ten  miles  from  any  other  farm.  In  Europe  a  man  would 
be  afraid  to  live  in  so  solitary  a  fashion  ;  in  Oregon,  loneliness  is 
not  so  much  felt,  because  there  is  nothing  to  be  afraid  of.  Very 
few  of  these  hermits  in  log-huts  have  got  anything  to  lose,  and  if 
they  had  there  would  be  no  one  to  rob  them.  Wayfarers  by  day 
are  few  and  far  between ;  wayfarers  by  night  exist  not :  while  as 


132  A  GLORIOUS  FORTUNE. 

for  ghosts,  phantoms,  wraiths,  dames  blanches,  and  spectres,  they 
belong  to  old  settled  places,  and  have  not  yet  had  time  to  get 
farther  west  than  New  England  ;  and  have  their  origin  in  what 
we  fondly  call  the  Romance  of  History,  meaning  the  murders, 
robberies,  piracies,  cruelties,  tortures,  abductions,  fratricides,  re- 
venges, wraths,  and  violences  of  which,  in  a  new  country,  there 
have  been  as  yet  comparatively  few.  In  the  matter  of  ghosts,  the 
county  of  Northumberland,  little  though  it  be,  would,  I  am  con- 
vinced, prove  a  match  for  the  whole  of  the  United  States  taken 
together  (with  Canada  thrown  in),  excepting  only  Alaska,  which 
is  a  grisly  and  a  creepy  country,  and  haunted  by  troops  of  devils, 
in  honour  of  whom  the  belles  of  Alaska  blacken  their  faces — a 
thing  done  in  no  other  country,  and  a  compliment  which  must  be 
received  as  at  once  delicate  and  unexpected. 

It  was  a  warm  afternoon  in  late  September ;  there  was  a  feel- 
ing in  the  air  as  if,  after  four  months — nay,  six — of  splendid  sun- 
shine, one  ought  to  be  satisfied  and  contented.  Even  of  warmth  and 
clear  skies,  there  cometh  satiety  in  the  end.  and  certain  hymns 
which  speak  hopefully  concerning  everlasting  sunshine  were 
written  by  poets  imperfectly  acquainted  with  human  wants,  and 
ignorant  of  the  tropics.  I  believe  an  expurgated  edition  of  the 
hymn-book  has  been  prepared,  in  which  a  Paradise  with  occasional 
clouds  is  dwelt  upon,  for  the  use  of  our  equatorial  brethren. 
Nature,  in  fact,  was  saying  as  plainly  as  she  could  speak  :  '  I  could 
now,  thank  you,  enjoy  a  little  coolness,  with  clouds  and  rain,  in 
order  to  turn  my  green  leaves  into  red,  and  crimson  and  gold,  for 
the  delight  of  humans.  After  that  I  will  trouble  you  for  the 
customary  frost  and  snow;  but  all  in  moderation.'  Everybody 
who  can  hear  the  voice  of  Nature  should  immediately  make  haste 
to  be  in  harmony  with  her.  Then  they  will  be  strong  and  sturdy 
in  the  winter  ;  hopeful  in  the  spring,  and  brimming  over  with 
love  for  everybody,  especially  for  those  who  are  still  young  and 
beautiful ;  in  the  summer,  they  will  be  meditative,  drowsy,  and 
slumberous  ;  and  in  the  autumn,  whether  or  no  a  man  wears  that 
blue  ribbon  about  which  they  make  nowadays  such  a  coil,  he  should 
feel  the  vinous  mystery  of  the  season,  and  grow  drunk,  if  only  in 
imagination,  upon  the  fruits  and  harvest  of  the  year. 

There  were  two  men  outside  that  log-hut  on  the  shady-side, 
which  was  the  front ;  between  them  was  a  table  (home-made), 
on  which  were  cards,  tobacco,  a  pannikin,  and  a  whisky-bottle. 
One  had  a  chair  ;  the  other  sat  on  an  empty  keg  turned  bottom 
upwards.  The  man  on  the  keg  was  the  squire  or  owner  of  the 
clearing,  and  lived  alone  in  the  hut.  A  man  of  five-and-forty,  or 
perhaps  fifty,  about  the  middle  height,  and  spare  ;  he  wore  a  long 
beard,  and  his  hair  was  long.  Both  beard  and  hair  were  brown, 
touched  with  grey ;  he  had  regular  features,  which  had  been  once, 

Erobably,  handsome,  but  weak  ;  and  blue  eyes,  which  wandered  as 
e  spoke,  and  were  unsteady.    His  fingers  were  long  and  delicate  j 


JOHNNY  OF  OREGON.  133 

and  somehow  at  the  very  first  sight  of  him,  one  thought  that  here 
was  a  poor,  weak  creature,  whose  opinions  mattered  nothing,  and 
who  was  perfectly  certain  never  to  get  on  in  the  world.  He  had 
a  pipe  in  his  mouth,  and  continually  he  turned  upon  the  whisky- 
bottle  eyes  of  affection. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  table  sat  his  companion,  a  man  of  much 
the  same  height  and  figure,  with  eyes  of  the  same  colour,  only  of  a 
darker  blue,  steadier,  not  to  say  keener,  in  their  look  ;  his  hair 
and  beard  were  quite  grey  ;  his  hands  were  strong  and  square  ;  at 
sight  of  him  the  inexperienced,  thinking  of  certain  stories,  would 
have  said  that  here  was  a  strong,  brave  man,  one  of  Nature's  noble- 
men, turned  out  ready-made,  uneducated  and  ignorant,  never, 
maybe,  having  read  a  single  book  ;  rude  and  rough  of  speech,  coarse 
of  manners  ;  yet  chivalrous  as  a  true  Castilian,  honourable  as  an 
English  gentleman,  and  as  full  of  noble  sentiments  and  lofty  aspi- 
rations as  the  most  cultivated  Dean. 

We  know  very  well,  and  feel  ashamed  of  it,  that  such  a  man 
cannot  be  found  in  this  country  of  ours.  He  does  not  grow  in  the 
same  soil  as  an  enslaving  aristocracy,  whether  of  birth,  education, 
genius,  or  knowledge.  This  man,  then,  would  have  appeared  at 
first  sight,  and  to  persons  of  limited  experience  and  unlimited  im- 
agination, a  true  nobleman  of  Nature's  making.  But  there  were 
about  him  certain  outward  signs  and  tokens,  which  spoke  volumes 
to  such  as  had  wisdom,  and  could  interpret  small  facts  of  evidence, 
and  were  not  too  eager  to  believe  in  the  perfection  of  the  human 
race.  For  instance,  among  other  signs,  his  hands  were  white, 
which,  in  such  a  country  bodes  ill ;  his  eye  was  restless,  his  clothes 
were  good ;  therefore,  whenever  wise  (and  therefore  suspicious) 
persons  met  this  man,  or  any  like  unto  him,  they  would  edge  away 
from  him,  avoid  him,  and  whisper  to  each  other  such  words  as 
"sportsman,"  "gang,"  "sharper,"  "cheat  and  rogue,"  or  their 
equivalents,  whether  in  Bostonian,  Tirginian,  Kentuckian,  Califor- 
nian,  or  Oregonese ;  pleasant  languages,  every  one,  full  of  local 
colouring,  and  all  remarkably  like  modern  English. 

This  man  had  a  cigar  in  his  mouth,  and  sat  on  a  chair — the  only 
chair — tilted  up  against  the  door-posts.  His  feet  were  on  the  table ; 
it  is  a  graceful,  easy,  convenient,  well-bred  attitude,  and  was  based  by 
the  original  inventor  on  consideration  for  the  comfort  of  others. 

"  Go  on,  Johnny,"  he  said  encouragingly.  Note,  that  when  one 
man  calls  another,  without  first  asking  his  Christian  name,  Johnny, 
this  single  fact  saves  the  historian  whole  pages  of  character- 
drawing.  Many  a  novel  of  "  analysis  of  character  "  would  vanish 
altogether  if  the  hero  were  at  the  outset  simply  named  Johnny. 
But  then  that  novel  would  never  get  written.  Pity ;  but  then, 
again,  perhaps  no  one  ever  wanted  it  to  be  written.  And,  again, 
when  one  man,  not  knowing  another  man's  Christian  or  surname, 
addresses  that  man,  from  the  outset,  as  Colonel,  that  also  is  a  fact 
which  speaks  volumes. 


134  ^  GLORIOUS  FORTUNE. 

"  I  was  talking,  Colonel,"  replied  the  other,  "  about  the  old  days, 
and  my  wife  and  the  little  one,  wasn't  I?"  he  asked  with  some 
doubt,  as  if  he  might  have  been  talking  state  politics,  and  had, 
perhaps,  forgotten  the  thread  of  his  argument. 

"You  never  talk  about  anything  else,  Johnny,"  said  the  man  in 
the  chair. 

"  Why,  no,  Colonel — p'r'aps  not.  You  see,  mate,  when  you've 
been  four  years  and  more  mostly  alone,  and  a  stranger  comes  along 
and  stays  a  week,  you  naturally  talk  about  what's  in  your  mind ; 
don't  you  now  ?  I  don't  know  who  you  are,  Colonel,  nor  where 
you  come  from,  but  you're  good  company,  and  I  thank  you  for 
staying.     Make  it  another  week." 

"  Co  on,  Johnny !  Don't  get  drunk  till  the  evening,  or  I  shall 
have  no  one  to  play  poker  with."  For  Johnny's  hand  was  wander- 
ing feebly  and  tentatively  in  the  direction  of  the  bottle. 

"  The  little  maid  must  be  growing  a  tall  girl  now,"  Johnny  went 
on.  "It 'is  nigh  twenty  years  since  I  saw  her  last,  and  then  she 
was  only  a  babe  of  four  months.  Quite  a  tall  girl  she  must  be 
growing— almost  a  woman  now." 

"  Almost,  indeed  !" 

"  A  surprising  baby  she  was,  with  a  beautiful  voice  already.  I 
was  sorry  to  come  away  for  her  sake,  I  remember." 

"What  did  you  do,  Johnny  ?"  The  Colonel  asked  this  question 
without  the  least  hesitation  or  apology,  though  it  is  a  most  improper 
and  embarrassing  question  to  put  anywhere  in  America  or  Australia 
to  a  gentleman  of  European  birth  and  slender  luck.  "  What  did 
you  do,  Johnny  ?" 

''Nothing,"  replied  the  other  man. 

"Nothing?  Not  any  little  difficulty  with  accounts  or  trust- 
money — eh  ?" 

"  No,"  he  said,  not  at  all  offended  by  an  insinuation  which  would 
have  made  some  sensitive  brothers  wince  and  kick.  "  No  ;  I  was 
always  for  straight  ways." 

"  Drink,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  Not  in  those  days,  Colonel.  I've  only  been  used  to  drink  since 
I  came  to  the  Land  o'  Freedom." 

"What  did  you  come  over  for,  then  ?" 

"  Well,  it's  a  strange  story.  Some  wouldn't  believe  it.  You  see, 
I  had  a  wife." 

"  So  you've  told  me  before." 

"  Yes,  I  was  married.  Why  I  got  married  the  Lord  knows ;  but 
I  did.  And  I  had  a  berth  in  a  good  House  at  three  quid  a  week — 
more  than  ever  I've  had  since.  We  lived  at  Hackney  Wick  then. 
Quite  a  nice  house  we  had,  with  two  sittin'-rooms  and  three  bed- 
rooms, furnished  and  genteel ;  and  for  a  bit  my  Matilda — that  was 
her  name — was  as  contented  a  woman  as  you'd  come  across,  in  spite 
of  my  ridiculous  Christian  name." 

"  What  was  your  Christian  name  ?" 


JOHNNY  OF  OREGON.  135 

"  Never  mind,  Colonel.  That  hasn't  come  across  the  Atlantic,  at 
any  rate.  It  was  a  beast  of  a  name.  The  boys  at  school  made 
nicknames  out  of  it ;  they  called  me  the  Lord  Mayor  and  his  lord- 
ship and  —never  mind.  The  clerks  in  the  House  found  it  out,  and 
made  my  life  miserable  about  it.  A  man  ought  to  be  able  to  bring 
an  action  against  his  godfathers  and  godmothers  for  libel ;  but  I 
suppose  the  lawyers  would  get  all  the  money,  because  it  would  have 
to  be  done  under  age.  Don't  you  worry  about  my  Christian  name, 
because  you  won't  learn  it.  My  Christian  name  !  When  I  came 
away,  it  was  a  comfort  to  think  that  I'd  left  that  behind.  The 
boys  have  had  their  fun  out  of  me  over  here,  you  bet,  because  I 
won't  shoot  nor  fight ;  but  they  never  found  that  out.     No,  no  !" 

"  Well,  go  on ;  one  may  just  as  well  listen  to  your  story  as  go  to 
sleep.    Go  on,  Johnny." 

"  We  got  on  very  well  for  a  spell — about  a  year  and  a  half  it  was 
—Matilda  happy  and  contented,  and  feeling  quite  the  lady.  We 
had  two  seats  in  a  pew  at  church,  and  the  clergyman  called  more 
than  once.  And  then  a  dreadful  misfortune  happened,  though  we 
thought  it  was  grandeur.  For  Matilda's  younger  sister,  P'leena, 
did  a  great  deal  better  than  herself,  and  married  into  carriage  com- 
pany and  the  wholesale  line,  at  Hornsey.  After  that,  nothing  went 
well,  and  every  time  her  sister  P'leena  drove  over  to  call  on  Matilda 
— which  was  of  tener  than  was  necessary  between  married  sisters, 
and  meant  display — in  her  own  carriage,  Matilda  turned  yellow,  and 
had  to  go  to  bed.  Then  nothing  would  do  but  I  must  have  am- 
bition. I  must  rise— I  must  soar  ;  she  threw  in  my  teeth,  as  if  it 
were  a  disgrace,  that  I  was  only  a  clerk.  Why  not  a  clerk  ?  My 
father  was  a  clerk ;  so  was  hers ;  so  were  her  cousins,  and  her 
brothers,  and  her  friends ;  so  were  all  mine.  She  ought  to  have 
thought  of  it  before  she  married  me.  I  didn't  want  to  soar.  I 
wanted  my  pipe  of  an  evening,  and  be  left  alone ;  soaring  would 
have  made  me  uncomfortable.  The  nagging,  especially  the  day 
after  P'leena  had  called,  was  more  than  I  could  bear.  So  I  came 
away,  and  I  think  I've  made  my  fortune  and  done  pretty  well,  at 
last."  His  eye  ran  slowly  round  his  weedy  fields,  and  unfinished 
fences,  and  at  last  rested  lovingly  upon  the  whisky-bottle.  "Pretty 
well— though  I  had  a  good  spell  of  waiting." 

"You  call  this  pretty  well,  do  you?  Then,  Johnny,  vou  are 
easily  pleased."  J'  J 

"This  is  a  sweet  spot,  Colonel,  for  a  man  to  rest  in ;  there's  a  pig 
or  two  in  the  sty,  there's  a  barrel  of  pork  in  the  house ;  there's 
plenty  of  game  and  birds  on  the  hills  ;  there's  oats  and  grass  to  be 
traded  for  whisky  and  things.  As  for  the  wife,  she's  gone,  and 
the  little  maid  don't  feel  she  wanted  me,  and  I'd  be  ungrateful  to 
up  and  cut  sticks  and  leave  this  place.  Besides,  it  fell  into  my  hands 
providential— quite  providential,  which  a  man  should  think  upon 

"  How  did  it  fall  into  your  hands  ?" 

"  This  way  it  was.    I  was  going  along,  four  years  ago,  alone  and 


136  A  GLORIOUS  FORTUNE. 

down  on  my  luck,  as,  in  those  days,  I  generally  was.  Suddenly,  at 
the  turn  of  the  road,  I  came  upon  this  very  cleariu',  and  on  this 
same  identical  house.  The  door  was  open,  and  I  walked  in.  No 
one  in  the  house,  but  a  whisky-bottle  on  the  table,  so  that  I  took 
a  drink.  Then  I  went  out  and  looked  around.  Presently,  I  saw, 
lyin'  under  a  tree,  a  dead  man.  He  was  quite  dead ;  but  he  hadn't 
been  dead  very  long,  and  must  ha'  dropped,  bein'  neither  knifed 
nor  shot.  First,  I  buried  him  under  that  tree  there ;  yes,  that's  his 
grave ;  then  I  stayed  here ;  then  I  came  to  feel  as  if  I'd  inherited 
the  shanty  and  the  clearin',  the  pigs  and  the  oats.  If  there  had 
been  any  money,"  he  added  slowly,  "  I  should  have  inherited  that 
as  well ;  but  there  was  not  any.     No,  there  was  no  money,  Colonel." 

"  Did  anybody  ever  accuse  you  of  murdering  that  man,  Johnny  ?" 

"Nobody." 

"  Lucky  for  you."  The  Colonel  yawned.  "  And  now  I  suppose 
you  mean  to  stay  till  you  send  in  your  checks  ?" 

"  I  think  that  is  so,"  he  replied,  looking  about  him  contentedly. 
The  sun  was  sloping  westward  now,  and  the  hills  and  forests  were 
lying  in  a  splendid  golden  bath.  "  Why  should  I  move  on  ?  What 
could  I  get  anywhere  better  than  this?  I  am  boss.  I've  never 
been  boss  before.  I  get  up  when  I  like,  I  work  no  harder  than  I 
like.  Before,  I  had  to  work  as  it  pleased  other  people;  here  I  work 
for  myself :  all  the  wages  are  my  own.  As  for  company,  I  don't 
want  any  but  my  own,  seeing  that  most  of  the  company  in  this 
country  is  fighting  and  quarrelling,  and  screechin'  mad  with  drink." 

"  Don't  you  want  to  see  your  wife  and  daughter,  then  ?" 

"  As  for  my  wife,  I  shall  see  her  quite  soon  enough,  because,  I 
tell  you,  she's  dead  ;  therefore  there's  no  hurry  respecting  her.  As 
for  my  little  maid,  I  should  like — yes,  I  really  should  like — to  set 
eyes  on  that  child  again."  He  made  a  determined  effort,  grasped 
the  whisky-bottle,  and  resolutely  filled  half  the  pannikin,  which 
iie  drank  off.  "  A  beautiful  voice  she  had."  His  eyes  grew  softer 
and  weaker,  and  he  rambled  in  his  talk,  and  began  feebly  to  repeat 
himself.  "  Her  mother  wanted  to  be  proud  of  her  husband,  but 
couldn't,  she  said,  because  he  was  nothing  but  an  insignificant 
clerk,  and  contented  with  that  and  his  low  friends.  So  how  could 
she  ?  Lord  !  I  was  always  the  most  contented  of  men.  Give  me 
my  pipe,  I  say,  and  my  drop  of  beer  in  the  evening,  with  a  talk 
and  a  friend  or  two  :  what  more  does  any  man  want  ?  And  pay  ? 
Why,  they  would  have  advanced  me  to  five  pounds  a  week  in  time ; 
more  than  ever  I've  had  since  she  nagged  me  into  running  away." 

"  Then  you  did  pluck  up  spirit  to  run  away  ?" 

"  I  did.  One  evening,  when  she'd  been  going  on  worse  than 
usual,  I  put  on  my  hat  and  coat,  and  wrapped  up  my  throat  with  a 
comforter  on  account  of  the  east  wind,  and  I  said,  'Very  well, 
Matilda  ;  I'm  off.'  That's  all  I  said.  '  I'm  off,  Matilda.'  All  she 
eaid  was  '  Good-bye '  and  my  Christian  name,  which  she  never  used 
but  for  purposes  of  nagging." 


yoHNNY  OF  OREGON.  137 

"So  you  came  away,  and  left  your  wife  on  the  parish  ?" 

"No,  Colonel ;  I  didn't"— he  said  this  without  the  least  indigna- 
tion at' this  charge—"  no.  Matilda  had  her  own  money,  left  to  her 
and  invested  in  houses.  Now  she's  dead,  the  little  maid  has  it,  no 
doubt.  A  hundred  and  twenty  pounds  a  year  the  money  was. 
Perhaps  it  is  more  by  this  time." 

"  Was  it  settled  upon  her  ?" 

"Why?"  He  took  another  drink  out  of  the  pannikin.  "  Don't 
I  tell  you  it  was  her  money  ?" 

"  What  is  the  wife's  is  the  husband's." 

"  You  wouldn't  say  that,  Colonel,  if  you'd  known  Matilda.  You 
wouldn't,  indeed." 

"  Well,  you  ran  away  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  ran  away."  He  laughed  gently.  "  I  thought  I  would 
surprise  Matilda,  so  I  took  my  passage  that  same  day  for  New 
York.  When  I  got  there  I  wrote  to  Matilda.  I  said  she'd  be  glad 
to  find  her  husband  was  a  man  of  spirit ;  that  I  was  bound  to  make 
my  Fortune  before  I  came  home  again  ;  and  I  told  her  where  a 
letter  would  find  me.  She  replied  that  she  should  think  the  better 
of  me  for  the  future  ;  and  as  regards  the  Fortune,  I  was  to  send  it 
home  bit  by  bit,  as  I  made  it,  because  she  didn't  believe,  if  I  knew 
how  to  make  it,  that  I  had  the  pluck  to  keep  it. 

"  I  don't  think,"  he  went  on  after  a  pause,  "  that  any  man's 
Fortune  was  so  slow  of  coming  as  mine.  I  tried  it  clerking  in  a 
store  ;  I  tried  it  as  a  book-agent,  and  a  bogus  auctioneer's  help, 
and  a  traveller  in  clocks  and,  reaping-machines,  and  a  conjurer's 
confederate,  and  an  actor,  and  a  schoolmaster,  and  Lord  knows 
what.  Except  a  preacher,  I  think  I've  been  most  everything.  Just 
before  the  Fortune  came — I  mean  this  little  clearin',  and  the  house 
— I  had  the  hardest  job  of  all,  for  I  hitched  on  to  a  plough 
gang." 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  you  must  have  always  been  a  pretty  useless 
galoot.     There's  lots  like  you,  Johnny." 

"  Matilda,"  Johnny  went  on,  heedless  of  these  contemptuous 
words,  "  didn't  quite  know  all  that  happened.  No,  sir  ;  the  letters 
I  sent  home  would  have  done  credit  to  Mr.  Yanderbilt ;  for  I  told 
her  that  the  dollars  were  running  in  so  thick  'twas  impossible  to 
count  them,  but  I  couldn't  send  them  home  because  they  had  all  to 
be  invested  again.  She  wasn't  so  grateful  for  the  news  as  she 
might  have  been,  wanting  all  the  time  to  take  a  better  position,  as 
she  said  ;  and  if  I  was  making  all  this  money,  why  was  she  starving 
on  a  hundred  and  twenty  pounds  a  year?  Well,  poor  thing, 
perhaps  she  would  have  found  out  the  truth,  because  she  was 
threatening  to  come  out  after  the  dollars,  but  she  was  taken  ill  and 
died — all  pure  vexation  because  I  wouldn't  send  any  of  it  home. 
After  that  the  little  maid  wrote  instead  ;  and  I  kept  on,  just  to 
please  her,  pilin'  it  up  about  my  Glorious  Fortune.  But,  somehow, 
what  with  this  unexpected  Fortune  and  the  whisky,  I've  forgotten 


138  A  GLORIOUS  FORTUNE. 

to  change  the  post-town  and  the  State,  and  I  guess  she  must  have 
left  off  writing." 

"  So,"  said  the  other  man,  "  you've  got  a  daughter  at  home,  and 
you've  done  nothing  to  prevent  your  showing  your  face  again  ;  and 
there's  money  waiting  for  you,  and  yet  you  stay  here  in  this  cursed 
lonely  place  without  a  friend" — Johnny  embraced  the  whisky- 
bottle— "or  a  man  to  speak  to." 

"  You've  been  with  me  for  a  week,  Colonel,"  said  Johnny. 

"  And  no  money " 

"  Enough  to  buy  whisky  and  notions,"  he  interrupted. 

"  And  nothing  to  expect." 

"  I  expect,"  said  Johnny,  "  to  go  on  living  here  for  a  thousand 
years.  What  do  I  want  with  change  ?  I've  been  driven  around 
long  enough.  Land  o'  Freedom,  is  it  ?  I've  never  come  across 
any  freedom.  What's  it  like,  your  freedom  ?  Show  me  a  bit  of  it. 
All  I've  seen  in  this  country  is  a  boss  at  one  end  of  a  bit  of  work 
and  a  beefsteak  at  the  other.  As  for  you,  Colonel,  you've  had  a 
bally  fine  time,  I  guess.     Euchre  ?" 

The  other  nodded. 

"Monty?" 

He  nodded  again. 

"  Poker  ?  I  thought  so,  and  a  difficulty  now  and  then  ?  Quite 
so.  I  thought  once  of  going  into  the  sporting  line  myself,  but  I 
concluded  'twas  unwholesome  for  delicate  constitutions.  I  dare 
say,  Colonel,  you've  shot  your  man  before  now  ?  Yes,  I  thought 
so.  You  look  like  it.  P'r'aps  you  wouldn't  believe  it,  but  I've 
never  even  carried  a  revolver,  and  never  had  a  fight.  Born  in 
England,  Colonel  ?  Said  so,  moment  I  set  eyes  on  you.  In 
London,  most  likely.  They  all  come  from  London.  Some  trouble, 
no  doubt  ?  Jes'  so.  As  is  most  often  the  case,  and  no  need  to  ask 
further.  For  there's  more  deserves  the  trouble  than  gets  it,  and  if 
the  jury  was  to  change  place  with  the  prisoner,  very  often  more 
justice  would  be  done." 

Johnny  went  on  rambling  in  this  discursive  way,  with  an  oc- 
casional sip  at  the  pannikin,  his  guest  paying  little  heed. 

Presently  he  got  up,  and  said  rather  thickly  that  it  was  close  on 
sunset,  and  he  must  go  and  fix  up  the  supper. 

Two  or  three  hours  later  the  two  men  were  within  the  hut,  sitting 
with  the  table  between  them.  On  the  table  were  a  petroleum 
lamp,  the  whisky-bottle,  and  a  pack  of  cards.  But  unhappily 
Johnny  had  over-estimated  his  strength  of  head,  which  now  lay  on 
the  table  among  the  cards.    In  other  words,  he  was  drunk. 

The  Colonel,  who  seemed  sober,  sat  perfectly  still.  Presently  he 
rose  and  softly  went  into  the  open  air.  It  was  a  cloudless  night  ; 
there  was  a  perfect  stillness  in  the  air,  but  the  Colonel  looked  round 
him  with  restless  and  uneasy  eyes. 

"  What  is  it  ?"  he  murmured.  "  I  haven't  felt  like  this  for 
fifteen  years  or  more.     Why,  I  see  and  feel  London  again.    I  am 


JOHNNY  OF  OREGON.  139 

to  give  one  of  them  a  dinner  at  the  Cafe  Koyale.  We  are  going  to 
the  theatre  afterwards.  It  is  all  just  as  it  used  to  be  before  the 
smash.  By  this  time  I  suppose  they  have  got  old,  and  there's  a 
new  lot,  but  they  are  exactly  like  their  predecessors,  and  the  old 
games  go  on  just  the  same.  Oh  !"  he  heaved  a  long,  deep  sigh. 
"  But  it  is  without  me.     I  am  out  of  it — for  ever." 

He  sighed  again,  and  began  to  walk  backwards  and  forwards, 
swinging  his  arms  and  cracking  his  fingers.  He  was  living  over 
again  the  old  life.  The  rambling  talk  of  his  companion  had 
touched  some  chord  which  awakened  old  memories,  and  these  for 
the  time  maddened  him.  He  was  at  Newmarket,  at  Doncaster,  at 
Epsom  ;  he  was  singing  and  drinking  after  a  great  supper  ;  he  was 
gambling  at  a  baccarat-table  ;  he  was  riding  a  steeplechase  ;  he  was 
acting  with  a  troupe  of  amateurs  ;  he  was  dancing  ;  he  was  love- 
making. 

"  If  I  had  money,"  he  said,  "  I  could  go  back  to  all  of  it.  As  for 
the  old  set,  I  suppose  they  are  alive.  They  would  welcome  any- 
one back  again  who  had  money  to  go  the  pace.  Even  if  I  had  no 
money,"  he  went  on,  "  I  might  go  home  and  pretend  I  had. 
Lots  of  men  get  on  without  money.     Why  not  ?" 

For  two  hours  and  more  he  remained  outside,  while,  within  the 
hut,  the  drunken  man  still  lay  asleep,  breathing  heavily,  his  head 
upon  the  table. 

Presently  a  chill  breeze  sprang  up  from  the  sea,  and  the  dreamer 
returned  to  the  hut  shivering. 

"  Ugh  !"  he  groaned,  looking  round  the  bare  planks  and  comfort- 
less room,  his  head  full  of  memories  of  Clubdand. 

The  lamp  was  burning  low  ;  he  trimmed  it.  Then  he  took  a 
drink  from  the  whisky-pannikin  ;  then  he  sat  down  again  with  the 
cards  and  began  to  shuffle,  deal,  cut,  combine,  arrange,  and  sort  the 
cards  with  deft  fingers,  all  the  time  looking  an  imaginary  partner 
in  the  face,  so  that  when  the  game  should  be  finished,  the  stakes 
would  be  handed  over  to  himself  without  a  suspicion  or  any  dimi- 
nution of  confidence.  He  alone  is  the  perfect  sportsman  who  can 
always  land  the  money  and  never  be  suspected.  But  there  are, 
alas  !  few  of  these. 

Presently  he  got  tired  of  his  game  of  dummy  pigeon,  and  began 
to  think  that  he  was  tired,  and  might  as  well  turn  in.  Now  his  host, 
in  offering  him  hospitality  during  the  last  week,  had  naturally  re- 
served for  himself  his  own  bed,  giving  his  guest  a  shake-down  of 
skins  and  blankets,  and  it  occurred  to  the  Colonel  that,  Johnny 
being  so  very  drunk,  he  himself  might  just  as  well  take  the  bed, 
which  would  be  easier  than  the  shake-down  on  the  floor.  A  drunken 
man  does  not  mind  a  hard  bed. 

The  bed-place  was  a  kind  of  bunk,  in  which  blankets  were  spread 
on  straw.  The  Colonel  began  to  beat  up  the  straw  and  arrange  the 
blankets.  Now  while  he  was  thoughtfully  preparing  a  pillow,  a  very 
strange  thing  happened.     At  the  head  of  the  bed  he  found  a  small 


140  A  GLORIOUS  FORTUNE. 

recess,  contrived,  no  doubt,  by  the  builder  of  the  house,  for  a  safe 
receptacle  of  valuable  things.  It  was,  in  fact,  a  secret  cupboard  ; 
no  one  would  suspect  such  a  thing  in  a  log-hut,  and,  least  of  all,  at 
the  head  of  the  bed-place.  Secret  cupboards  belong  to  old  manor- 
houses,  granges,  baronial  halls,  and  castles,  not  to  wooden  cabins  in 
"Western  States  ;  yet  here  was  such  a  hiding-place.  The  Colonel, 
with  considerable  curiosity,  pulled  out  the  contents  and  brought 
them  to  the  table.  First,  there  were  three  or  four  little  bundles 
of  letters,  tied  up  with  string  ;  they  were  frayed  at  the  edges  and 
soiled,  because  they  had  been  a  good  deal  carried  about  in  the 
pocket.  The  drunken  man  still  lay  motionless  and  sleeping  heavily. 
The  Colonel  untied  the  string  and  turned  over  the  letters.  Some 
were  signed  "  Your  affectionate  wife."  He  read  two  or  three  of 
them,  and  smiled.  Johnny,  therefore,  had  told  the  truth  ;  he  had 
really  run  away  from  a  nagging  wife.  He  deceived  her  as  to  his 
success  in  the  New  World  ;  she  nagged  him  still  by  letter.  The 
others,  of  which  there  were  a  good  many,  were  written,  first  in  a 
schoolgirl's  unformed  hand,  but  afterwards  in  a  firm  round  writing, 
clear  and  strong.  They  began  "  My  dear  father,"  and  ended  "  Your 
affectionate  daughter,  Milly  Montoro." 

"So,"  said  the  Colonel,  "I  thought  the  man  was  lying.  He's  a 
poor  helpless  creature.  Can't  even  lie.  His  name  is  Montoro. 
How  the  devil  do  these  clerks  and  beggars  get  such  names  ?  And 
his  daughter's  name  is  Milly.  What  is  Milly  ?  Emily  ?  Matilda  ? 
What's  in  this  bundle  ?     More  letters,  I  suppose." 

The  last  bundle  was  tied  up  with  the  greatest  care,  and  wrapped 
in  an  oilskin  cloth.  The  Colonel  opened  it,  and  changed  colour, 
turning  suddenly  quite  white  ;  for  the  bundle  was  nothing  else  than 
a  packet  of  English  bank-notes — ten-pound  notes,  eighty  of  them — 
eight  hundred  pounds  I  He  counted  them  three  times  over.  Eight 
hundred  pounds  ! 

As  he  counted  them  and  gazed  upon  them,  his  eyes  flashed  and 
his  lips  trembled.  Then  he  thought  they  might  be  forged  notes. 
What  on  earth  could  a  man  want  with  good  English  notes  in  a  log- 
cabin  ?  He  held  them  up  to  the  light  and  examined  their  edges 
and  looked  at  the  numbers.     No  ;  they  were  good  notes. 

Then  he  remembered  how  the  man  he  called  Johnny— the  Mon- 
toro man— had  alluded  to  money.  "  If  there  had  been  any,"  he 
said,  "  I  should  have  inherited  that  as  well."  He  could  lie,  then, 
after  all,  this  mean  creature  ;  and  he  had  lied. 

Eight  hundred  pounds  in  notes  !  And  still  the  drunken  man  lay, 
head  on  table,  snoring  heavily. 

Eight  hundred  pounds!  What  could  not  be  done  with  eight 
hundred  pounds  ? 

You  may  invest  it  in  the  Three  per  Cents,  and  get  twenty-four 
pounds  a  year  for  it,  which  is  not  much  more  than  a  soldier's 
pension  of  a  shilling  a  day  ;  you  may  buy  the  stock  and  goodwill 
of  a  genteel  shpp,  such  as  a  tobacconist's  or  a  fancy-shop  with 


JOHNNY  OF  OREGON.  141 

Berlin  work  ;  you  may  buy  a  lodging-house  furnished ;  you  may 
publish  two  or  three  novels  with  it  ;  you  may  have  your  portrait 
painted  ;  you  may  buy  a  really  beautiful  blue  vase  with  it — you 
may  do  quantities  of  useful  things  with  eight  hundred  pounds  ;  but 
the  Colonel  thought  not  of  these.  His  fancy  quickly  turned  to 
London  and  the  West  End. 

He  stood  there  for  half  an  hour  and  more  with  the  notes  in  his 
hand,  irresolute,  listening  to  the  voice  of  the  Tempter. 

Now  the  Tempter  whispered  this  and  that,  but  always  came  back 
to  the  same  point,  which  was  that  with  eight  hundred  pounds  for 
capital  a  man  who  knew  how  to  play  might  do  very  well  in  London. 
Why,  when  he— not  the  Temptei-,  but  the  Colonel — was  a  young- 
ster he  lost  his  whole  fortune  because  he  played  with  such  men  as 
he  himself  had  since  become.  Eight  hundied  pounds !  Why, 
with  two  hundred  he  could  go  back  to  that  old  life  and  begin 
again.  Nobody  knew  anything  when  he  came  away  except  that  he 
was  stone-broke.  Yes,  he  could  go  back  again.  He  was  fifty,  and 
he  had  grown  quite  grey.  That  could  be  remedied.  It  was  fifteen 
years  since  he  disappeared  from  the  West  End,  and  now  he  could 
go  back  again  if  he  liked.  Heavens!  how  he  should  enjoy  once 
more  the  glad  following  of  the  rosy  hours  !  Besides,  as  the  honest 
and  virtuous  Tempter  said,  it  was  not  Johnny's  money  at  all.  He 
had  lied.  He  said  there  was  no  money  ;  it  was  quite  certainly  the 
money  of  the  dead  man.  Serve  Johnny  right  to  punish  him  for 
lying,  and  to  take  away  his  money. 

It  grew  late.  The  drunken  man  slept  on.  There  are  never  any 
clocks  in  log-huts  until  the  agent  in  clocks  has  called.  But  I  think 
it  must  have  been  midnight  when  the  Tempter  said  his  last  word, 
and  the  Colonel,  without  listening  to  that  other  voice,  which  said 
that  though  he  had  done  a  good  many  tolerably  bad  things,  he  had 
never  done  anything  half  so  bad  as  what  he  was  now  going  to  do, 
and  did  he  think  that  he  could  ever  after  it  consider  himself  worthy 
of  any  respect  or  consideration  at  all  ?  For  to  swagger  and  captain 
it  around,  to  cheat  and  bully  with  those  who  cheat  and  bully — 
ready  at  a  moment  to  fight  for  your  life— to  be  a  ruffian,  open  and 
confessed,  hath  in  it  something  of  bravery  which  commands  a  little 
admiration  ;  but  to  be  a  mean,  secret  thief — to  reward  hospitality 
with  robbery — this,  indeed,  is  different.  But  this  voice  was  a  small 
voice,  and  the  other  was  loud  and  persuasive.  Therefore  the 
Colonel  put  on  his  hat,  turned  down  the  lamp,  stuffed  the  bundles, 
notes,  letters,  and  all  into  his  pocket,  and  stepped  out  stealthily  and 
disappeared. 

An  hour  or  so  afterwards,  Johnny  moved  uneasily,  moaned  and 
grunted  in  his  sleep,  discovered  that  the  edge  of  the  table  was  sharp 
and  his  neck  stiff  ;  then  he  opened  his  eyes  and  lifted  his  head, 
feeling  a  little  cold  and  somewhat  cramped  from  the  position  in 
which  he  had  been  lying. 


142  A  GLORIOUS  FORTUNE. 

Pretty  well  awake  now,  he  slowly  rose  and  tried  to  shake  himself 
together.     Then  he  remembered  something. 

"  Colonel !"  he  said  hoarsely. 

There  was  no  reply. 

"  Colonel's  asleep,"  he  whispered.    "  Let's  go  to  bed." 

He  threw  himself  into  the  bunk  and  drew  the  blankets  over  him, 
without  the  usual  preliminary  of  undressing.  As  soon  as  he  was 
quite  comfortable,  he  addressed  himself  to  sleep,  but  first,  as  a 
matter  of  custom,  he  felt  in  the  right-hand  corner  for  the  recess  in 
which  he  kept  his  bundles.  Very  odd  ;  he  could  not  find  them. 
They  were  not  there. 

In  a  moment  he  was  broad  awake,  and  perfectly  sober.  On  his 
knees,  he  began  to  fumble  and  feel  everywhere  for  his  treasures. 
Then  he  sprang  out  of  bed,  crying,  ''  Colonel  !  Colonel !  wake  up !" 
and  groped  about  for  his  matches.  When  he  had  found  them,  still 
wondering  why  the  Colonel  slept  so  heavily,  he  lit  the  lamp,  and 
searched  again  for  his  packets.  But  in  vain.  They  were  gone. 
Then  he  looked  for  his  guest,  and  he  was  gone  too. 

Then  he  understood  what  had  happened,  and  seizing  his  gun  with 
a  loud  cry,  the  robbed  man  ran  wildly  out  into  the  road,  and  rushed 
along  the  track  southward.  That  was  a  great  pity,  because  the 
Colonel,  who  felt  quite  safe  and  easy  in  his  mind,  and  was  not 
making  any  violent  effort  to  cover  the  ground  quickly,  was  march- 
ing due  north. 

II. 

ON   THE   KIVEE  LEA. 

The  River  Lea  is  honourably  known  among  fellows  of  the  Royal 
Geographical  Society,  schoolboys  who  go  in  for  their  prize,  and  the 
makers  of  maps,  as  forming  the  eastern  boundary  of  Middlesex.  It 
is  not,  however,  a  river  which  goes  into  society,  like  a  certain  other 
river  which  runs  along  the  south  of  the  same  county.  This  is  to  be 
accounted  for  in  several  ways  :  first,  because  society  is  a  good  long 
way  off  ;  next,  because  you  cannot  get  at  the  East  of  London 
except  from  Broad  Street,  which  is  not  a  society  station  ;  next,  on 
account  of  what  may  be  called  the  personal  character  of  the  river. 
Its  mouth  is  respectable  but  homely,  and  a  good  deal  encumbered, 
though  of  a  lordly  breadth  at  high-tide,  with  barges,  lighters,  works, 
and  wharves.  Higher  up,  it  shows  a  sad  want  of  directness  and 
purpose  ;  it  winds  about  among  the  low  meadows  and  marches 
without  ever  making  a  bold  push  among  such  unresisting  material ; 
it  continually  goes  off  into  three  or  four  channels  ;  for  a  large  part 
of  its  course  the  prospect  on  one  bank  at  least  always  terminates 
with  a  row  of  low  cottages,  built  of  grey  brick  with  red  roofs. 
Even  the  Thames  at  Cliveden  could  not  maintain  its  dignity  against 
that  mean  endless  row  of  small  grey  houses  and  red  roofs. 


ON  THE  RIVER  LEA.  143 

Yet  the  river  is  regarded  with  passionate  fondness  by  all  who 
dwell  between  Stratford  and  Hertford.  For  you  may  fish  in  it 
all  the  year  round ;  and  you  may  now  row  upon  it  for  nine  months 
in  the  year  ;  you  may  bathe  in  it  for  three  months  in  the  year ; 
and  you  may  get  drowned  in  it,  and  very  often  do,  if  you  happen 
to  be  upset  and  cannot  swim.  On  half -holidays  and  on  summer 
evenings,  there  are  as  many  boats  upon  it  as  on  the  Thames  at 
Richmond.  There  is  also  to  be  found  upon  its  banks  the  River- 
side Jack,  a  creature  whom,  at  first,  it  seems  incongruous  to  meet 
so  far  east.  The  ignorant  traveller  would  as  soon  expect  a  salmon 
in  the  River  Lea  as  a  Jack  like  him  of  Putney,  Richmond,  Chertsey, 
and  Kingston  upon  its  banks.  Yet  here  he  is  ;  using  his  favourite 
language  with  the  one  favourite  adjective  which  goes  with  every- 
thing, like  the  Spanish  onion,  or  curry-powder,  or  Soyer's  Uni- 
versal Sauce ;  patriotically  drinking  the  national  beverage  ; 
loafing  about  among  the  boats ;  always  pretending  to  be  extremely 
busy,  yet  never  doing  anything,  and  still  a  waiter — '  he  also  serves, 
who  only  stands  and  waits  ' — upon  Providence  for  the  casual  tip  ; 
his  expectations  being  pitched  lower  than  those  of  his  Richmond 
cousins.  The  Lea  River  Jack  has  a  cottage  upon  the  bank,  green 
with  damp  in  the  winter  and  picturesque  with  dirt  in  the  summer ; 
behind  the  cottage  is  a  garden  in  which  he  grows  the  most  gigantic 
Jerusalem  artichokes — perhaps  that  vegetable,  in  some  subtle, 
unknown  way,  appeals  to  a  poetic  side,  hitherto  unsuspected,  in 
his  nature  :  here  and  there  he  has  a  ferry-boat,  in  which  he  will 
take  you  across  for  a  penny.  Whether  business  is  brisk  or  slack, 
he  has  always  a  rod  or  two  in  the  water,  and  as  he  goes  about  his 
chores,  he  still  keeps  one  eye  upon  the  float,  ready  at  a  moment's 
notice  to  strike  the  silver  roach. 

If  you  were  to  ascend  the  river  from  the  mouth,  where  it  is 
called  Bow  Creek,  beside  the  East  India  Dock,  you  would  pass,  on 
your  left,  wharves,  gasworks,  and  mankind,  all  the  way  to  Bromley, 
Bow,  and  Stratford,  till  you  came  to  Clapton ;  and  all  the  way 
upon  the  right  you  would  have  a  broad  and  dreary  flat,  which  has 
many  names,  but  is  one  swamp— the  Great  Dismal  Swamp — once, 
I  believe,  and  up  to  the  days  of  Henry  the  Eighth,  who  loved  hunt- 
ing in  Epping  and  Hainault,  and  thereabout,  full  of  alligators, 
snapping  turtles,  and  Wantley  Dragons,  or  at  least  the  Sussex 
kind,  which  were  smaller.  No  one  must  contemplate  this  swamp 
too  long,  or  on  many  days,  except  when  there  is  a  sunny  sky  above, 
with  a  west  wind  driving  light  clouds  about,  making  alternations 
of  light  and  shade. 

It  is  not,  I  think,  until  one  gets  to  Clapton  that  the  stream 
becomes  possible  for  those  who  are  affected  by  their  surroundings  ; 
above  that  point  it  is  a  real  river,  which  may  be  rowed  upon  or 
fished  in,  and  enjoyed  as  much  as  any  other  river  in  England, 
though  with  more  moderate-  raptures.  It  is  not  so  picturesque 
as  the  Wye,  for  instance ;  nor  so  bright  as  the  southern  Avon ; 


144  A  GLOXIOUS  FORTUNE. 

nor  bo  dashing  as  the  Usk  ;  nor  so  pleasing  as  the  Tyne  ;  nor  sc 
lovely  as  the  Coquet :  but  yet  it  pleases. 

It  was  on  the  evening  of  Thursday,  the  28th  of  June  in  the  pre- 
sent year  of  grace,  1883,  that  among  other  boats  upon  the  River  Lea 
was  one — the  only  one  with  which  we  are  concerned — containing 
two  persons.  Had  these  two  persons  been  old,  or  even  middle-aged, 
nobody  would  have  noticed  them  ;  but  as  they  were  both  young, 
and  one  was  not  only  young,  but  very  pleasing  for  the  eye  to  rest 
upon,  people  on  the  bank  looked  after  them  as  the  boat  sped  on  her 
way.  As  for  the  evening,  it  was  exactly  the  sort  of  evening  which 
this  homely  river  wants  to  set  off  its  simple  beauty.  The  wind 
was  from  the  west,  and  blew  in  gusts,  but  not  too  heavily  ;  the 
clouds  scudded  across  the  sky  ;  the  air  was  clear  ;  there  was  a  lively 
ripple  in  the  water,  and  a  pleasant  lapping  and  plashing  of  the 
water  among  the  tall  rank  grass  which  serves  the  Lea  at  this  part 
in  place  of  reeds  and  water-lilies.  The  river  was  quite  full  and 
brimming  over  ;  but  the  girl  who  sat  in  the  stern  and  held  the 
rudder-strings  could  not  see  the  flat  marshy  fields,  because  of  this 
tall  grass  standing  in  the  red  clay  of  the  low  bank.  "When  the  sun 
got  a  chance  between  the  impertinent  clouds,  the  wavelets  were 
blue  and  bright,  and  sparkled  and  danced  merrily,  like  bubbles  in  a 
glass  of  champagne,  or  zoedone  at  the  very  least ;  so  that  it  did  one 
good  only  to  see  them.  When  a  flying  cloud  hid  the  sun,  and  the 
wind  came  down  upon  the  water,  it  became  inky-black,  and  the 
little  billows  were  as  threatening  as  if  they  had  been  great  waves, 
and  the  girl's  eyes  fell  instinctively  upon  the  young  man  with  her, 
as  if  for  protection.  This  was  quite  natural,  because  he  was  her 
lover  ;  any  girl  would  have  done  the  same. 

As  for  her  appearance,  I  declare  that  there  was  nothing  at  all 
out  of  the  common  in  her  face  ;  and  yet  she  was  very  far  from 
being  common.  Women  said  of  her  that  she  was  rather  pretty,  in 
their  cold  and  critical  way  ;  young  men  would  have  found  her 
charming,  bat  she  only  knew  one  or  two.  I  have  seen  thousands 
of  such  pretty,  sweet-faced  English  girls,  with  the  seal  of  goodness 
and  tenderness  on  their  foreheads  ;  you  may  see  them  in  any  town 
of  this  happy  realm  wherever  girls  do  congregate  ;  that  is  to  say, 
in  church  or  at  evening  parties— whether  most  they  love  their 
prayers  or  their  waltzing  is  a  question  which  I  leave  to  philosophers 
— they  are  as  plenty  as  blackberries  ;  and  yet,  though  so  plenty,  they 
are  so  very  precious.  This  girl,  Milly  Montoro,  was  nineteen,  or 
perhaps  twenty  ;  of  her  beauty,  it  is  enough  to  say  that  it  was 
entirely  conformable  to  the  ideal  of  this  present  year,  which,  among 
other  things,  likes  its  damsels  to  be  tall  rather  than  petites,  and 
perhaps  prefers  a  brunette  to  a  blonde.  This  evening  she  was  per- 
fectly happy  ;  she  had  all  she  wanted  :  love,  and  plenty  of  it ; 
youth,  health,  strength,  hope,  a  modest  sufficiency — what  can  girl 
desire  more  ?  She  was  so  happy  that  she  felt  in  a  way  ashamed, 
and  afraid  of  showing  her  happiness  too  much.  let>  George  should 


0?*  THE  RIVER  LEA.  145 

think  her  silly,  which  indeed  she  was  not.  She  was  so  happy  that 
she  did  not  care  much  about  talking,  and  would  have  been  contented 
to  go  on  watching  river,  and  sky,  and  bank,  and  the  face  of  her  lover 
before  her,  without  a  word  ;  she  was  so  happy,  in  short,  that  she  felt 
as  if  all  the  rest  of  the  world  must  needs  be  as  happy  as  herself  ;  and 
the  golden  age  with  Roger  Bontemps  ;  the  Ship  which  is  bound  to 
come  home,  but  is  always  overdue  ;  the  Home  of  Plenty  ;  the  Land 
of  Cockaigne  ;  the  Garden  of  Delight,  and  the  Paradise  of  Sweet 
Contentment,  were  all  come  together  most  unexpectedly,  and  had 
every  intention  of  staying,  and  never  going  away  again  at  all !  A 
blissful  dream,  truly  !  Happy  those  who  fail  not  of  it  once  in  their 
lives ! 

Along  the  bank  there  sat  rows  of  anglers.  On  the  Lea  they  are 
of  all  ages.  The  angler,  like  the  poet  and  the  aesthete,  is  born,  not 
made  ;  some  upon  the  bank  were  old,  old  men — seventy,  eighty, 
ninety  years  of  age.  Charles  Lamb,  fifty  years  ago,  used  to  see 
them  in  the  same  place,  fishing  with  the  same  rod,  after  the  same 
roach.  Others  were  middle-aged  men,  whose  work  in  the  Citj, 
though  necessary,  was  irksome,  because  it  kept  them  from  the 
banks  ;  others  were  young  men,  but  thoughtful  and  reflective,  who 
sit  every  evening,  rod  in  hand,  in  grave  silence  and  patience,  while 
their  frivolous  compeers,  in  cruelty  collars  and  tight  trousers,  go 
a-masning  ;  others,  again,  were  mere  boys  and  striplings  yet,  already 
bound  for  life  to  the  brotherhood,  though  no  oaths  or  secret  mys- 
teries of  initiation  and  reception  were  offered  or  required.  Milly 
pitied  them  a  little  this  evening  ;  it  certainly  did  seem  to  her  that 
men  at  every  time  of  life  would  be  better  employed  in  making 
love  than  in  fishing. 

"  Oh,  George,"  she  leaned  forward  and  murmured  low,  "  do  the 
young  men  never  leave  the  banks  and  look  for  some  girl,  to  make 
her  happy  ?" 

"  You  would  like  everybody  to  be  happy,"  said  her  lover,  resting 
on  his  oars.  "  Why,  my  darling,  it  is  not  every  girl  who  can  make 
every  man  happy.  I>o  you  think  any  other  girl  in  the  world  would 
have  made  me  happy  ?" 

If  you  think  of  it,  there  seems  a  little  arrogance  and  self-conceit 
in  this  little  speech ;  but  the  young  man  did  not  intend  it.  What 
he  meant  was,  that  not  every  girl  has  the  power  of  making  the 
happiness  of  even  an  average,  ordinary,  typical,  commonplace  young 
man  such  as  himself  ;  he  was  quite  a  humble  young  man  in  his  own 
estimation.  He  designed  to  pay  a  high  compliment  to  his  betrothed, 
because,  so  lofty  being  the  ideal  woman  even  in  the  most  common 
place  manly  bosom,  Milly  Montoro  alone,  of  all  the  women  he  had 
ever  seen,  reached  this  giddy  height.  She  understood  him  to  mean 
this,  and  she  blushed  and  lowered  her  eyes,  being  afraid  for  herself, 
lest  she  might  fail  in  this  point  or  in  that,  and  so  have  to  come 
down  to  a  lower  step,  whereby  she  might  imperil  the  affections  she 
had  won. 

10 


146  A  GLORIOUS  FORTUNE. 

The  early  days  of  courtship  are,  to  an  innocent  maid,  as  the  steps 
of  one  who  walks  with  trembling  feet  upon  frozen  snow,  doubting 
the  assurance  of  the  guide  who  has  gone  before,  and  assures  her 
that  all  is  safe  ;  going  delicately,  fearfully,  pit-a-pat,  softly  feeling 
the  strength  of  the  treacherous  surface,  until,  quite  assured  that  it 
is  safe  indeed,  the  traveller  may  walk  in  ease  and  happiness.  The 
very  peril,  however,  lends  excitement  and  pleasure  to  the  journey. 

So  the  girl  listened,  and  her  heart  glowed  within  her  to  hear  these 
words  ;  and  yet  she  was  afraid.  Is  it  not  a  delightful  thing  to  feel, 
for  once  in  a  life,  that  you  are  a  real  angel,  wanting  nothing  but  a 
couple  of  wings,  and  bound  to  play  up  to  the  part,  and  to  scorn  the 
little  temperous  tiffs,  sharp  sayings,  unworthy  thoughts,  with  which 
some  girls,  not  yet  fully  assured  that  they  belong  to  the  holy  army 
of  angels,  do  poison  and  corrupt  their  minds  ? 

"  Oh,  George,"  she  murmured,  "  do  not  spoil  me,  or  you  will  be 
disappointed  afterwards.     Let  us  talk  of  our  future." 

The  young  man,  at  the  invigorating  thought  of  the  future, 
grasped  his  sculls  with  firmer  hands,  and  put  his  back  into  half 
a  dozen  strokes,  so  that  the  little  craft,  astonished,  and  a  little  hurt 
in  her  feelings  and  rowlocks,  clove  the  waters  at  racing  speed. 

I  am  firmly  fixed  in  the  opinion,  and  am  prepared  to  maintain  it 
in  open  tourney,  lance  in  rest,  and  buckler  (especially  buckler)  on 
arm,  that  the  whole  hope  of  the  country  in  the  future,  its  mainstay 
in  the  present,  its  glory  in  the  past,  lies,  will  lie,  and  has  always 
lain,  in  those  boys  who  do  not  distinguish  themselves,  or  show 
any  enthusiasm  over  the  subjects  which  we  commonly  call  literce 
humaniores,  or  belles  lettres— in  other  words,  who  do  not  "  take  to 
books,"  but  prefer  the  carpenter's  shop,  the  lathe,  the  Zoological 
Gardens,  the  natural  history  of  birds,  beasts,  fishes,  and  men  ;  who 
want  always  to  find  out  how  things  are  done,  with  what  tools  and 
methods,  and  then  are  never  satisfied  until  they  can  see  their  way 
to  improve  those  methods  ;  whose  heaven  upon  this  earth  is  a 
chemical  and  physical  laboratory ;  who  really  cannot  be  made  to 
care  for  poetry — unless  there  is  a  rattling  good  story  in  it — or  for 
a  story  unless  it  is  real,  full  of  adventure,  and  the  fellow  who  wrote 
it  knew  what  ho  was  talking  about ;  who  have  no  feeling  for  style, 
ii  ad  no  taste  for  the  rhythm  of  verse,  the  lino  aroma  of  an  essay, 
the  balance  of  a  period,  the  pointing  of  an  epigram.  That  those 
who  do— bookish  men — exist  at  all  seems  to  those,  who  do  not, 
chiefly  due  to  the  necessity  for  keeping  printers  occupied.  But 
what  a  waste  of  life  it  appears  compared  with  that  which  is  wholly 
given  over  to  practical  contrivances,  making  easy  what  has  hitherto 
proved  hard,  and  cheap  what  lias  hitherto  been  dear.  George 
Ambrose  was  one  of  the  practical  men.  Look  at  him  as  he  handles 
his  sculls,  with  bare  head  and  uprollcd  sleeves.  You  see  that  ho 
lias  a  clear,  steady  eye,  clean-cut  features,  a  mouth  set  firm,  and  a 
square  chin.  These  are  all  indications  pointing  in  the  same  direc- 
tion.   As  a  boy,  when  other  boys  read  books,  be  made  things,  or 


ON  THE  RIVER  LEA.  147 

inquired  into  causes.  When  it  became  time  for  him  to  leave  school 
he  requested  that  he  might  not  be  sent  into  the  City,  whither  all 
his  schoolfellows  were  bound,  but  might  find  a  place,  if  it  were 
only  as  door-keeper,  in  some  establishment  where  they  made  things. 
His  request  was  granted,  because  in  the  lower  valley  of  the  Lea 
such  a  request  is  recognised  as  not  only  reasonable,  but  as  likely  to 
lead  unto  things  substantial.  The  only  difficulty  with  a  young  man 
is  to  choose  ;  for  there  are  at  Stratford,  West  Ham,  Hackney  WiJs, 
yea,  and  at  Clapton  itself,  men  running  many  and  divers  trades, 
arts,  and  industries — those  who  spin  jute,  make  cigar-boxes,  creosote, 
patent  fuel,  dye,  tanks,  crucibles,  grease,  chicory,  drain-pipes ;  with 
workers  in  glass,  iron,  leather,  stone,  lead,  gelatine,  tin,  zinc,  and 
xylonite  ;  and  money  to  be  made  in  all  these  trades  did  one  know 
how  to  choose  the  most  likely.  Young  Ambrose  made  two  or  three 
false  starts.  First,  he  entered  the  works  of  a  gas  company,  but 
speedily  mastered  the  subject,  and  despised  a  thing  in  which  the 
amount  of  knowledge  required  is  so  limited.  Next,  he  went  into 
a  galvanized  iron  company,  but  pined  for  still  wider  scope,  and 
finally  began  afresh  at  the  bottom  of  the  ladder  in  a  great  chemical 
company,  which  had  to  do  with  a  whole  group  of  things,  every  one 
of  inexhaustible  interest.  He  was  now  twenty-six  years  of  age  ; 
he  had  worked  his  way  up  to  a  good  salary  and  highly  responsible 
work  ;  he  had  taken  his  degree  in  science  at  the  university  in 
Piccadilly ;  he  was  a  member  of  the  Chemical  Society  ;  he  had 
written  papers,  and  was  already  known  ;  and  he  was  so  full  of  am- 
bitions, projects,  designs,  hopes,  and  plans,  that  it  was  impossible 
for  him  to  remain  any  longer  alone,  but  needs  must  that  he  take  a 
wife.  Whom  should  he  take  but  the  girl  he  had  known  for  a  dozen 
years,  who  lived  with  his  own  cousin,  Keginald  Ambler — the  best 
and  sweetest  of  girls,  and  eke  the  prettiest  ?  He,  who  had  thought 
for  ten  years  of  nothing  but  the  laboratory  at  the  works,  his  ex- 
periments, his  science,  and  his  reading,  discovered  suddenly  that  he 
had  always  been  in  love  with  Milly  Montoro  ;  and  when  he  pro- 
posed to  her — which  he  did  with  as  much  eloquence,  yet  fear  and 
trembling,  as  if  he  had  been  a  poet  of  the  first  water — he  told  her 
so,  and  ascribed  not  to  himself,  but  to  her,  all  the  merit. 

"  Milly  dear,"  he  said,  after  throwing  his  excitement  into  the 
boat,  "the  house  is  perfect  :  no  basement,  no  kitchen  below  ;  two 
rooms  on  the  ground-floor,  three  above — nobody  can  want  more. 
It's  only  two  miles  from  Stratford,  and  one  from  the  river,  where 
we  shall  like  to  take  a  row  now  and  then.  As  to  the  garden,  you 
shall  have  the  front  for  your  flowers,  and  I  shall  have  the  back  for 
peas  and  beans.     On  Saturday  afternoons  I  will  look  after  it." 

"  Yes,  George  ;  and  I  will  iook  after  it  every  day.  Go  on.  You 
will  start  every  morning  at  half-past  eight.  Yes,  I  know — break- 
fast at  half -past  seven  ;  but  you  will  be  home  to  tea  by  seven  every 
evening.  George,  we  must  make  our  evenings  delightful.  Some- 
times you  shall  read  to  me.    I  will  play  for  you  ;  I  will  teach  you 


148  A  GLOfilOC/S  FORTUNE. 

to  sing.  You  have  got  a  very  good  voice,  sir,  only  you  want  to  bo 
taught  how  to  keep  it  in  order.  On  Sundays  we  will  go  to  church 
together — no  more  reading  chemistry  on  Sunday  mornings — and 
after  church  a  little  walk,  and  then  dinner.  Think  of  having  you 
to  dinner  every  Sunday  !  After  dinner  I  shall  send  you  for  a  long 
walk  to  shake  the  cobwebs  out  of  your  brain,  and  you  shall  come 
home  to  tea  and  supper.  Perhaps  we  may  have  one  or  two  of  the 
children  to  tea  with  us  ;  and,  George,  we  will  furnish  the  spare 
room,  so  as  to  give  a  bed  to  them  sometimes,  will  we  not  ?  They 
are  as  good  as  my  brothers  and  sisters,  you  know  ;  and " 

"  You  mean  you  have  been  as  good  as  a  sister  to  them,  Milly," 
he  laughed.  "  Yes — you  shall  have  your  spare  room,  and  put  as 
many  of  the  children  into  the  bed  as  the  bed  will  hold.  My  dear, 
I  do  not  want  you  to  lose  your  friends." 

"No,  George."  The  tears  stood  in  her  eyes  for  a  moment,  but 
soon  cleared  away.  "  It  is  bad  enough  for  them,  poor  dears,  as  it 
is.     They  have  been  crying  ever  since  it  was  fixed  for  August." 

George  showed  no  kind  of  sympathy  with  these  poor  sufferers, 
knowing  that  their  loss  was  his  own  gain.  This  feeling  very  much 
helps  to  harden  the  heart ;  and  besides,  he  was  ready  to  explain,  if 
necessary,  that  every  girl  must  expect  to  exchange  her  home  for  her 
husband,  and  to  point  out  that  it  was  not  as  if  the  young  Amblers 
had  any  real  claim  upon  Milly,  who  was  neither  kith  nor  kin,  but 
had  only  lived  with  them  for  eight  years  or  so  ;  and  the  fact  that 
they  regarded  her  as  their  elder  sister  did  not  make  her  one,  but 
showed  only  the  extraordinary  goodness  of  her  disposition,  seeing 
that  she  could  command  an  amount  of  affection  that  can  only  be 
wrung  from  the  unsympathetic  breasts  of  the  young  by  extra- 
ordinary sacrifice  and  ceaseless  devotion.  These  thoughts  passed 
through  his  brain  quickly,  but  without  requiring  him  to  put  them 
into  words.  So  he  only  looked  at  his  fiancee  and  nodded  his  head, 
and  she  understood  just  as  well  as  if  he  had  talked  a  whole  yard, 
or  an  ell  or  two,  of  printed  slips. 

Then  the  young  chemist  began  to  talk  of  his  own  schemes,  which 
it  would  be  a  shame  to  reveal,  because  he  is  in  reality  another 
Edison,  only  as  yet  his  plans  have  not  become  patents.  He  knew 
all  the  things  which  want  to  be  invented  or  made  practicable 
through  being  made  cheap,  with  the  inventions  which  want  to  be 
converted  from  toys  to  practical  purposes,  and  the  possibilities  of 
certain  scientific  facts  which  are  as  yet  in  the  limbo  of  unpractical 
laboratories.  Heavens  !  what  extended  openings,  chances,  oppor- 
tunities, and  occasions  there  are  for  the  young  chemist  who  has  got 
eyes  that  look  outside  his  retort,  and  can  connect  his  laboratory 
with  humanity ! 

"  You  shall  find  out  all  the  things  that  have  to  be  found  out, 
George !"  cried  Milly,  as  if  every  woman  has  the  power  of  con- 
ferring genius,  insight,  conception,  and  more  power  to  his  elbow  upon 
the  man  she  loves.     And  yet  not  every  woman,  my  friends  j  but 


ON  THE  RIVER  LEA.  li& 

unto  some  women  is  this  power  given,  and  then  happy — thrice 
happy- — is  he  whom  that  woman  loves.  The  powers  of  women 
are  as  yet  imperfectly  known,  which  is  one  reason  why  they  some- 
times try  to  imitate  man  ;  and  I  wish  I  could  be  born  a  hundred 
years  hence,  when  these  powers  are  understood  and  developed,  and 
be  clever,  strong,  handsome,  fresh,  and  frolic.  Then  would  a  great 
career  await  me.     Perhaps — who  knows  ?|; 

"Oh,"  he  went  on,  "when  one  thinks  of  the  wonderful  world 
which  is  opening  out  all  round  us  ;  the  instruments  which  register 
speech  so  that  it  can  never  be  lost — fancy,  Milly,  all  one's  foolish 
words  preserved  for  ever! — the  little  machine  with  which  a  scene 
is  caught  in  a  moment  and  so  never  lost  ;  the  wire  which  sends 
messages,  and  the  wire  which  whispers  words  ;  the  unknown  forces 
which  our  great  men  are  reducing  to  order  and  obedience,  so 
that  before  many  years  the  reign  of  steam,  and  gas,  and  coal  will 
be  at  an  end !  It  seems  as  if  there  was  nothing  else  worth 
living  for,  and  everything  outside  the  laboratory  was  a  sham  and 
a  delusion,  except  the  school  which  prepares  the  boys  for  the 
workshop." 

"And  me,  George,"  said  Milly  jealously.  "Am  I  not  worth 
living  for  ?  Tell  me  all  that  is  in  your  thoughts  always.  I  know 
nothing  of  your  science,  but  you  shall  teach  me.  Promise  that  you 
will  tell  me  everything." 

"My  dear,"  he  replied,  "that  is  the  reason  why  I  want  you  to 
marry  me,  because  I  must  talk  to  some  one." 

Again,  he  did  not  mean  to  be  selfish,  yet  he  might  have  seemed 
so  ;  but  he  had  never  learned  the  language  of  compliment,  and  he 
meant  that  to  Milly  it  was  an  honour  that  he  should  think  her 
able  to  understand  and  to  share  his  thoughts  ;  and  all,  just  as 
before,  because  he  was  a  humble  youth,  who  felt  himself  to  be 
quite  of  the  ordinary  kind,  but  educated,  which  Milly  was  not, 
only  that  she  belonged  to  the  nobler  kind  of  women  who  could,  he 
thought,  understand  everything  without  education.  Indeed,  one 
knows  hundreds  of  women  who  do,  and  will  sit  out  the  most 
scientific  lecture,  bristling  with  hard  words,  their  faces  as  full  of 
intelligence  at  the  end  as  at  the  beginning  ;  and  I  do  not  for  a 
moment  believe  the  wicked  calumny  which  accuses  them  of 
abstracting  their  thoughts  at  the  very  beginning,  and  so  remaining 
during  the  whole  discourse. 

Then  he,  in  his  turn,  listened  while  Milly  told  him  her  thoughts, 
but  bashfully,  being  afraid  lest,  after  the  great  ambition  of  her 
lover,  her  own  hopes  might  seem  to  him  small.  Yet  they  were 
not,  because  they  were  nothing  short  of  an  ardent  desire  to 
possess  her  life  with  ease,  love,  and  happiness,  and  her  soul  with 
comfort.  No  woman  can  desire  more,  so  that,  in  fact,  Milly  was 
most  ambitious.  It  is  true  that  almost  every  girl  permits  herself 
the  same  dream.  "While  they  talked,  the  sun  went  down,  and  a 
light  mist  rose  upon  the  low  ground  and  spread  over  the  river. 


iSo  A  GLORIOUS  FORTUNE. 

Then  they  turned,  and  George  rode  gently  down  stream,  the  water 
plashing  at  the  bows. 

"  George,"  said  Milly  presently,  "  I  am  thinking  of  my  father." 

"  Why,"  he  replied,  "  it  is  four  years  since  you  heard  from  him. 
He  must  be  dead,  long  ago." 

"Yes,"  she  sighed  ;  " else  he  would  never  have  forgotten  me.  I 
will  show  you  some  of  his  letters.  They  are  full  of  love  and 
thought  for  me.  He  must  be  dead — my  poor  father!  And  to 
think  that  he  never  saw  me  since  I  was  a  child  in  arms.  He  was 
only  a  clei-k  in  the  City,  you  know  ;  and  suddenly  he  resolved  to 
go  abroad  and  make  his  fortune,  which  shows  what  a  courageous 
spirit  he  had.  But  no  one  ever  thought  he  would  have  done  so 
splendidly." 

"No  one  ever  knows,"  said  George,  "what  he  can  do,  until  he  is 
put  upon  his  mettle.  Yet  he  must  have  been  a  determined  and 
clever  man.  Because,  you  see,  Milly,  if  fortunes  are  to  be  made  in 
America,  the  Americans  are  generally  sharp  enough  to  keep  them 
in  their  own  hands.  At  the  same  time,  very  often  people  do  not 
see  what  lies  at  their  feet.  What  did  he  go  away  for  ?  Because  I 
am  quite  sure  a  clever  man  can  do  quite  as  well  at  home." 

"  Can  he  ?"  asked  Milly.  "  I  thought  that  everybody  who  goes 
to  America  makes  a  great  fortune." 

"  That  is  what  they  hope  to  do  beforehand.  When  they  are 
there,  I  believe  they  find  life  as  hai'd,  and  money  as  scarce,  as  it  is 
at  home.  There  is  a  clerk  in  the  accountant's  office  at  the  works 
who  remembers  your  father.  Saj-s  nobody  ever  thought  much  of 
his  cleverness  ;  says  he  was  a  lazy,  easy  sort  of  chap,  who  did  his 
work  and  went  home,  and  was  happy.  No  one  ever  could 
understand  why  he  threw  up  a  good  place  and  went  away." 

''Yet,"  said  Milly,  "my  father  said  once  in  his  letters  that 
America  offers  such  a  vast  field  for  a  man  that  his  money  can  be 
invested  as  fast  as  it  is  made.     Sometimes  he  spoke  of  millions." 

"  Why,  dear,"  said  her  lover,  ''if  these  millions  could  be  found  ! 
They  must  be  somewhere ;  but  I  am  afraid  they  have  got  into 
the  wrong  hands ;  what  splendid  works  we  would  put  up !  Oh, 
Lord  !"  he  sighed  heavily.  "  What  a  laboratory  we  could  have  with 
a  million  to  spend  on  it !  Think  of  the  electric  batteries  !  What 
experiments  we  could  direct,  and  what  an  army  of  workmen  we 
could  employ  !" 

"  It  would  be  too  delightful,  George,"  Milly  replied,  kindling  in 
sympathy.  "You  should  be  the  greatest  man  in  Stratford.  But 
my  poor  father  is  dead,  and  as  for  his  fortune,  that  must  bo  all  gone 
and  scattered." 

I  think  she  imagined  her  father's  fortune  to  consist  of  dollars 
tied  up  in  sacks.     But  we  know  otherwise. 

"  If,"  he  said,  "your  father's  money  was  invested,  the  investments 
must  be  somewhere  and  the  papers  in  somebody's  hands.  Unless, 
that  is,  people  stole  them  and  forged  his  signature.     There  must  be 


ON  THE  RIVER  LEA.  151 

all  kinds  of  mortgages,  shares,  leases,  contracts,  bonds,  all  sorta 
of  things.  Unless,  again — money  got  easily  is  as  easily  lost — tho 
speculations  proved  disastrous.  Come,  my  dear ;  never  think  of 
your  father's  fortune.  We  shall  never  see  any  of  it.  "Why,  with 
my  three  hundred  a  year  and  your  hundred  and  fifty,  we  shall  begin 
twice  as  well  off  as  most  young  married  people.  And  of  course  I 
shall  get  a  rise  ;  not  to  speak  of  the  great  things  we  shall  do  pre- 
sently.    And  here  we  are.     Steady,  stciJy.     Let  me  get  out  first." 

They  walked  along  the  lane,  between  the  river  and  the  road. 
Milly  turned  back  to  look  at  the  river  when  they  reached  the  higher 
ground. 

The  romantic  suburb  of  Upper  Clapton  stands  upon  a  terrace, 
like  Richmond,  and  overlooks  the  broad  valley  of  the  Lea  ;  gardens 
lie  on  the  gentle  slope  of  tho  low  hill,  and  beyond  these  you  can 
discern  the  river  winding  about  among  tho  flat  meadows  ;  beyond 
the  meadows,  again,  are  tho  hills  and  woo  Id  inclines  of  Waltham- 
stow,  Woodford,  and  Chingford ;  beyond  these  (but  you  cannot  see 
it)  is  Epping  Forest. 

"  See,"  said  Milly,  "  how  white  and  strange  the  meadows  look 
with  the  mist  upon  them,  and  how  shadowy  the  marshes  lie  beyond 
it !    And  look  !  did  you  ever  see  a  moon  so  big  and  dim  ?" 

"  A  sign  of  rain,"  said  George  the  practical. 

"  George,"  said  the  girl,  shivering,  "  I  feel  afraid.  Give  me  your 
hand.  How  strong  it  is  !  If  there  was  any  danger  I  should  always 
have  this  strong  hand,  shouldn't  I  ?" 

He  kissed  her — no  one  was  in  the  lane,  and  it  was  twilight  and 
misty  beside — he  kissed  her  twice,  on  her  forehead  and  her  lips, 
saying : 

"  Why,  dear,  what  danger  can  there  be  ?  And  if  there  were  !" 
He  clenched  his  fist  and  his  eyes  looked  dangerous.  ''  Come,  my 
darling.  It  is  past  nine  o'clock,  and  the  Great  Discoverer  will  be 
getting  hungry.  To  say  nothing  of  Kepler,  Copernica,  and  Tycho 
Brahe  " 


III. 

IS  THE   WORLD   ROUND? 

Supper  was  laid  in  the  dining-room  of  Veritas  Villa  waiting  for 
the  return  of  Milly  and  her  lover.  I  call  it  the  dining-room,  but 
it  was  also  the  breakfast-room,  the  sitting-room,  the  clay- nursery, 
the  play-room,  the  work-room,  and  my  lady's  boudoir ;  not  because 
there  were  not  other  rooms  in  this  genteel  villa,  but  because  the 
drawing-room  was  wanted  for  Mr.  Ambler's  maps  and  books,  and 
the  breakfast-room,  which  opened  conveniently  upon  the  garden, 
for  his  observatory,  his  models,  his  Orrery,  his  telescope,  and  his 
scientific  instruments.  If  you  belong  to  a  great  man  you  must  be 
content  to  let  him  have  the  comfort.     There  are  so  few  great  men 


152  A  GLORIOUS  FORTUNE. 

that  this  law  causes  little  hardship.  Besides,  "who  would  not  willingly 
give  up  two  out  of  three  rooms  for  the  pride  of  being  an  Ambler  ? 

The  boys,  this  evening,  were  shaping  bows — that  is  to  say,  they 
were  making  things  with  knives — boys  who  never  have  pocket- 
money  are  greatly  to  be  envied,  because  they  learn  to  make  so  many 
things  for  themselves  ;  and  the  girls  were  spinning.  That  is  to  say, 
Copernica  Ambler,  the  only  girl  in  the  room,  was  finishing  a  frock 
for  her  sister  Somerville,  now  in  bed  and  asleep,  while  her  mother, 
with  a  great  basket  beside  her,  which  never  grew  less  in  bulk,  was 
looking  after  the  stockings  and  the  socks,  darning-needle  in  hand. 
Across  her  face  lay  the  line  of  care  which  marks  the  face  of  the 
woman  who  has  to  make  every  shilling  do  the  work  of  half-a-crown, 
and  contrives,  manages,  and  continually  occupies  her  mind  with  the 
maintenance  of  her  children.  Who  does  not  know  such  women  by 
the  score  ?  It  seems  a  waste  of  life,  this  giving  it  all  to  the  boys 
and  girls  ;  but  perhaps  it  is  made  up  somehow — here  or  hereafter. 

When  Milly  came  home,  followed  by  her  lover,  there  was  a 
general  stir,  with  the  sudden  appearance  of  smiles  and  revival  of 
cheerfulness,  due  partly  to  the  immediate  prospect  of  supper,  and 
partly  as  the  toll  of  affection  exacted  at  all  hours  by  this  young 
person.  For  the  mother  looked  up  and  smiled  over  her  pile  of 
stockings ;  and  Copernica,  who  was  a  sharp-featured  thin  girl  of 
sixteen,  who  wore  spectacles,  held  up  her  newly  finished  skirt  for 
admiration  ;  and  the  boys  shouted  ;  and  everyone  called  upon  Milly 
for  sympathy  with  his  work ;  and  everybody  had  something  to  tell 
her,  which  was  always  the  way  when  she  came  home,  whether  she 
had  been  away  for  an  hour  or  a  day. 

"  You  must  be  hungry,  George,"  said  Mrs.  Ambler.  "  Tycho,  my 
dear,  go  call  your  father." 

Everybody,  or  nearly  everybody,  knows  Reginald  Ambler  by 
reputation  ;  a  very  large  class  of  humanity,  namely,  the  Editors, 
know  his  handwriting,  and  cruelly  toss  his  communications  into  the 
basket  unread  ;  few,  comparatively,  have  the  advantage  of  his  per- 
sonal acquaintance.  He  is  a  man  now  about  fifty  years  of  age  ;  he 
is  rather  tall  and  thin,  his  hair,  gone  grey,  lies  over  his  forehead  in 
a  great  mass,  which  he  is  always  pushing  back  ;  his  eyes  are  large 
and  full ;  they  are  also  of  a  light  blue  colour,  so  that  his  face  seems 
at  first  furnished  with  too  much  eye.  "When  he  is  in  repose,  the 
eyes  have  a  far-off  look  ;  when  he  is  talking,  they  are  quick  and 
eager.  His  lips  are  nervous  and  his  fingers  are  resilass.  Columbus, 
one  thinks,  must  have  been  a  good  deal  like  Mr.  Reginald  Ambler. 
As  for  his  manner,  it  varies  with  every  hour,  ranging  from  the 
depth  of  despondency — when  an  article  has  been  rejected  or  a  letter 
treated  contemptuously — to  the  height  of  confidence,  hope,  and 
happiness — when  he  has  begun  another  or  has  trapped  some  un- 
fortunate into  a  controversy.  And  he  has  never  been  known  to 
engage  in  any  other  subject  of  conversation,  or  think  upon  any 
other  matter  whatever,  except  his  Great  Discovery, 


JS  THE  WORLD  ROUND  t  153 

To-night  he  came  to  the  supper-table  and  sat  down  with  a  smile 
of  welcome. 

"Milly,  my  child,"  he  said,  "take  your  place  beside  me.  George, 
you  next  to  her,  of  course.  Copernica,  my  dear,  this  side  of  me. 
Galileo,  fill  George's  glass.      Cut   some   bread,    Tycho,   my    boy. 

Kepler,    some    cheese    for    Milly  and   your   sister.     So "     He 

rubbed  his  hands  and  looked  round  upon  his  boys  with  the  simple 
pride  of  a  father,  though  he  was  so  great  a  man.  "  Ptolemy  and 
Mary  Somerville  have  gone  to  bed,  I  suppose  ? 

"  This  day,"  he  went  on,  "will  be  a  remarkable  day  in  my  history. 
I  have  noted  it  in  the  Autobiography.  Children,  I  have  now  laid 
down  the  last  of  the  great  voyages  round  the  world  completely  on 
the  map.  It  threatened  to  be  troublesome  at  first,  but  it  agrees,  I 
find — of  course  I  expected  nothing  less — with  my  anticipations  in 
every  particular  !" 

"  Oh,  father  !"  Copernica  clapped  her  hands.  The  wife  smiled, 
her  mind  being  still  full  of  the  socks  in  the  basket.  Milly  nodded 
and  laughed.  The  boys  alone  said  nothing.  Boys,  if  you  come  to 
think  of  it,  never  understand  a  father's  greatness.  Many  great 
men  have  lamented  this  to  me,  speaking  confidentially.  "  Oh,  father  !" 
cried  Copernica,  "  what  will  they  say  now  ?" 

"  They  will  say,  my  daughter,  what  they  always  do  say.  The 
Fellows  of  the  Geographical  Society  will  sneer  ;  the  Editors  of 
scientific  journals  will  refuse  to  listen  ;  comic  writers  will  make 
jokes  upon  it  ;  map-makers  and  globe-makers  will  try  to  hide  the 
truth  ;  and  the  rest  of  the  world,  like  George  here,  will  pass  it  over 
without  paying  any  attention." 

"If  it  were  something  in  the  chemical  line,"  said  George,  "I 
would  listen  ;  as  it  is  not,  I  have  not  time  for  it." 

This  he  said  out  of  subtlety  and  duplicity,  because  in  his  secret 
soul  he  jeered  at  the  Great  Discovery. 

"  No,  no  ;  and  thus  it  is,"  said  the  Philosopher,  "  that  the  greatest 
discoveries  steal  upon  the  worid,  and  those  who  make  them  are  un- 
heeded. I  have  now  laid  down  upon  the  map  the  route  of  every 
great  voyager  ;  my  distances,  my  time,  agree  with  his !  Show 
me  the  globe-geographer  who  has  ever  attempted  the  like.  Yes, 
my  work  is  done  ;  the  chain  of  evidence  is  complete  ;  I  can  at  any 
moment,  if  I  should  be  called  away,  leave  the  work  of  my  life  to 
the  judgment  of  posterity.  As  for  my  contemporaries,  they  may, 
if  they  choose,  continue  to  class  me  with  the  crack-brained  enthu- 
siasts  " 

"  Oh,  father  !"  said  Copernica. 

" who  think  they  can  square  the  circle,  find  out  the  site  of 

Paradise " 

"  I  wish  I  could  go  and  look  in  at  the  gate,"  said  Milly. 

" and  transmute  metals." 

"  That  would  be  only  changing  the  currency,"  said  George. 

The  boys  were  steadily  eating.     They  had  heard  this  talk  before 


154  A  GLORIOUS  FORTUNE. 

"  As  for  meeting  me  on  a  platform,"  Mr.  Ambler  continued. 
"  they  remember  the  victory  over  Bagshott,  and  tremble." 

Bagshott  was  a  Baptist  minister  who  once  ventured  on  a  public 
controversy  with  Mr.  Ambler,  and  had  his  head  knocked  into  a 
cocked-hat,  a  thing  quite  improper  for  a  minister  of  the  Gospel  to 
wear,  and  recanted,  and  was  now  a  fervent  disciple. 

"  As  for  admitting  at  once  and  peacefully  that  I  am  right,  and 
they  themselves,  therefore,  wrong,  that  is,  I  suppose,  too  much  to 
expect  of  anyone,  especially  of  men  who  live  by  the  propagation  of 
error." 

"  A  great  deal  too  much,"  said  George. 

The  boys  went  on  with  their  supper,  and  said  nothing.  The 
two  elder  lads,  Tycho  Brahe  and  Kepler,  arrived  at  the  dignity 
of  clerkery,  had  long  since  plainly  understood,  and  now  made  no 
secret  of  their  opinion,  that  a  Great  Discovery  may  be  a  most 
calamitous  thing  for  a  family.  Palissy,  himself,  did  not  bring  a 
more  rooted  antipathy  to  fame  into  his  home-circle  than  their  father. 
Honour  and  glory  are  very  fine  things  indeed  ;  meantime,  when 
they  are  abstract  qualities,  and  therefore  unproductive,  and  the  heels 
of  your  boots  are  down,  they  might  be  sold,  if  there  were  any  pur- 
chaser, for  whatever  they  would  fetch  in  the  rough. 

"Better,  far  better,"  thought  Tycho,  "for  my  father  to  care 
nothing  at  all  about  honour,  but  a  good  deal  about  making  money, 
and  saving  it  or  using  it  to  push  his  boys." 

Such  a  father  he  would  have  desired,  red  of  cheek,  important  in 
his  bearing,  pompous  in  his  talk,  as  might  be  seen  every  day  on 
Stamford  Hill ;  a  father  who  could  put  his  sons  into  good  houses, 
buy  them  partnerships,  give  them  holidays  at  the  seaside,  with — oh, 
all  the  things  for  which  these  lads  vainly  longed. 

Reginald  Ambler  is  nothing  less,  if  you  please,  than  the  Dis- 
coverer of  the  great  truth  that  the  world,  so  far  from  being  a  round 
ball,  thoughtfully  flattened  at  the  north  and  south,  so  as  to  prevent 
the  ice  from  slipping  down  and  spoiling  the  equator,  is  really,  as 
can  be  demonstrated  with  case,  a  great  flat  circular  disc  of  unknown 
thickness.  "What  we  call  the  Artie  Pole,  believing  that  the  world 
twirls  perpetually  and  iguomiuiously  round  it,  like  a  fat  goose  upon 
the  spit,  is  in  fact  a  central  circle  of  ice  and  snow,  the  origin  and 
cause  of  which  must  be  left  for  the  discovery  of  future  philosophers  ; 
round  it  is  the  temperate  zone  ;  beyond  this,  the  torrid  zone  ;  be- 
yond this  again  another  great  temperate  circle,  in  which  Australia, 
the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  and  New  Zealand  are  comfortably  placed  ; 
"  neither  het  nor  cauld,"  as  the  Scot  said.  Outside  this  vast  tem- 
perate zone,  the  ocean  lies,  a  tract  of  sea  indeed,  immeasurable, 
desolate,  without  land  or  sail.  Spread  round  in  another,  and  the 
last,  great  circle,  beyond  the  ocean  at  the  outer  edge  is  allim,  ledge, 
hedge,  barrier,  frontier- mark,  boundary -wall,  or  whatever  the  inade- 
quacy of  language  permits  us  to  call  it,  of  thick,  solid,  mountainous 
ice.     How  broad  is  this  Rim,  whether  it  stretches  out  for  ever  into 


IS  THE  WORLD  ROUND  t  155 

boundless  space,  whether  it  is  narrow,  so  that  perhaps  some  day  the 
voyager  may  hope  to  reach  its  limit,  and  to  peep  over  into  infinity, 
no  one  can  at  present  say.  From  time  to  time  ships,  which  have 
sailed  south,  have  reported  cliffs,  rocks,  and  mountains,  ice-bound, 
covered  with  snow,  inaccessible,  inhospitable,  without  life.  Nothing 
lives  in  this  boundary  Rim  except,  upon  the  edge  of  it,  a  few  seals, 
walruses,  narwhals,  sword-fish,  polar  bears,  whales,  and  such  sea 
monsters,  who  do  not  know  how  miserable  they  are.  As  for  men, 
there  are  none  at  all,  and  will  be  none  till  time  shall  be  no  more. 

" "What  is  beyond  the  Rim,"  said  Reginald  modestly,  "I  cannot 
say,  any  more  than  the  globe-professors  can  tell  you  what  is  beyond 
the  farthest  star." 

This  improved  kind  of  earth  requires  an  entirely  new  disposition 
of  the  heavens. 

Reginald,  quite  early  in  the  history  of  his  Discovery,  remem- 
bered this,  and  constructed,  with  infinite  pains,  a  beautiful  Orrery. 
In  this,  the  sun,  no  longer  an  immense  globe  of  fire  ninety  millions 
of  miles  away,  or  thereabouts,  but  a  comfortable  little  fireplace,  so 
to  speak,  half  a  dozen  miles  above  the  world,  went  round  and  round 
above  the  great  circle  of  the  torrid  zone,  wobbling  to  north  or 
south  so  as  to  produce  summer  and  winter.  He  pulled  a  string, 
and  you  saw  the  daily  and  the  annual  motion  most  clearly  set  forth. 
The  moon  and  planets  in  the  same  way  went  on  what  seemed  to  be 
recklessly  independent  and  dangerous  paths  of  their  own,  and 
the  fixed  stars  went  round  the  polar  stars  continually.  By  an  in- 
genious adjustment  of  bars,  eccentrics,  and  curves,  he  accounted  for 
all  the  natural  phenomena — except  one.  This  exception  came  home 
to  him  sometimes  in  the  dead  of  night,  and  took  the  conceit  out 
of  him.  He  had  never  been  able  to  account  for  lunar  eclipses. 
Why  not  lunar  eclipses  ?  It  is  too  much  to  say  that  his  faith  ever 
wavered,  but  he  was  worried  and  rendered  unhappy  when  he  re- 
membered that  his  Orrery  would  account  for  everything  except  a 
lunar  eclipse.  But  "those  moments,  happily,  were  rare.  Mostly  he 
was  content  to  gaze  upon  his  model  with  a  perfect  satisfaction,  to 
show  inquirers  over  and  over  again  how,  upon  a  flat  and  stationary 
earth,  all  the  natural  phenomena — morning,  noon,  and  evening,  with 
the  four  seasons,  the  phases  of  the  moon,  the  winter's  downward 
slope,  and  the  summer's  elevation  of  the  sun — can  all  be  explained 
and  accounted  for. 

Naturally  he  became  one  of  the  bugbears — there  are  always  half 
a  dozen  living  at  the  same  time — of  the  scientific  world.  He  wrote 
to  all  the  papers,  journals,  transactions,  and  reports  of  the  learned 
bodies  ;  he  offered  to  lecture,  he  asked  for  an  hour — only  one  short 
hour  ;  he  sent  his  name,  with  the  offers  of  a  paper,  to  the  British 
Association,  to  the  Social  Science  Congress,  to  the  Balloon  Society, 
to  the  Church  Congress,  to  the  Oriental  Congress,  to  the  Congress 
of  Librarians,  to  the  Congress  of  Head-masters,  to  the  Geographical 
Society,  the  Geologists,  the  Society  of  Arts,  the  Physical  Society, 


156  A  GLORIOUS  FORTUNE. 

the  Royal  Astronomical  Society,  the  Young  Men's  Christian  Insti- 
tute, the  Sunday  School  Union,  the  Church  Missionary  Society, 
the  Open- Air  Mission,  the  Salvation  Army,  the  Eleusis  Club,  the 
Grand  Lodge  of  Freemasons,  and  the  Congress  of  Cathedral  Ver- 
gers, not  once,  but  every  year,  offering  to  read  a  paper,  show  his 
maps  and  models,  and  reconstruct  the  geography  and  shape  of  the 
world.  It  is  sad  to  relate  that  no  one  paid  the  least  attention  to 
these  proposals,  and,  being  now  fifty  years  of  age,  and  with  many 
years'  experience,  he  had  ceased  to  expect  a  hearing  from  these 
learned  bodies,  any  more  than  he  expected  admission  into  the 
Times,  Standard,  Daily  News,  Morning  Post,  Daily  Telegraph,  and 
Daily  Chronicle,  of  the  letters  which  he  regularly  sent  them  all  once 
every  year,  after  six  months  of  preparation.  As  for  the  monthly, 
weekly,  and  quarterly  journals,  he  had  tried  them  all.  They  would 
have  none  of  him.  And  as  for  eminent  men  of  science,  there  was 
not  a  single  mathematician  at  Cambridge,  or  a  professor  of  science 
in  any  university  or  college  of  the  United  Kingdom  to  whom  he 
did  not  propose  a  meeting,  public  or  private,  to  discuss  his  theories. 
The  signal  victory  already  alluded  to,  which  he  achieved  over  the 
Rev.  Mr.  Bagshott,  Baptist  minister  of  Hackney  Wick,  in  a  public 
discussion  held  at  the  chapel,  was  an  abiding  proof  of  his  strength 
in  advocacy  and  the  goodness  of  his  cause. 

The  school  is  small.  It  consists  really  of  two,  the  Prophet  him- 
self and  Bagshott,  but  it  is  full  of  zeal.  They  have  an  office  and 
an  office-boy  in  Chiswell  Street.  The  office  is  a  second-pair 
back  ;  the  office-boy,  whose  hours  are  from  nine  to  six,  spends  his 
time  chiefly  in  the  street  surveying  mankind  ;  the  publications — 
tracts  and  maps — of  the  society  are  on  sale  there,  but  no  one  has 
ever  bought  a  copy  except  a  journalist,  who  once  saw  his  way  to  a 
scoffing  article  on  the  subject,  and  so  bought  everything  there  was, 
and  put  the  things  in  his  pocket-book  and  went  away,  and  presently 
forgot  all  about  it.  In  fact,  there  exists  a  general  conspiracy 
against  the  Truth. 

"Astronomers,"  said  Mr.  Ambler,  "  tremble  at  mention  of  my 
name  for  fear,  but  pretend  to  smile  in  scorn.  They  hope  their 
system  will  last  at  least  their  own  time,  forgetting  that  to  be  found 
out  after  death  will  be  more  fatal  to  their  reputation  than  to  yield 
in  life.  In  my  Autobiography  will  be  found  not  only  the  '  Short 
Reasons'  but  also  the  'Argument  at  Length,'  and  the  'Questions* 
which  I  have  sent  to  every  one  of  them  demanding  a  reply,  a  plat- 
form, a  public  discussion,  or  an  opportunity  to  state  my  views. 
Not  one  of  them  has  given  me  either.  It  will,  indeed,''  he  added, 
with  a  lofty  sneer,  "be  greatly  to  the  credit  of  the  Universities,  in 
the  next  century,  that  they  refused  even  to  let  me  speak." 

It  was  in  this  house  that  Milly  was  placed  when  the  death  of  her 
mother  left  her  alone  at  ten  years  of  age.  The  reasons  why  Mr. 
Reginald  Ambler  was  chosen  for  her  guardian  were  unusual,  but 
not  without  precedent.     He  had  a  cousin — many  people  havo 


IS  THE  WORLD  ROUND?  157 

cousins  ;  this  cousin,  Richard  Ambler,  a  practical  Ambler,  an  un- 
imaginative Ambler,  was  a  solicitor.  Richard  Ambler,  therefore, 
on  being  asked  by  the  child's  relations — they  were  unnatural 
relations,  descended  by  the  parent's  side  from  a  certain  illustrious 
uncle  or  two — who  wanted  to  put  the  burden  of  the  little  girl  on 
somebody  else's  shoulders,  and  to  find  a  home  and  a  guardian  for  a 
child  whom  nobody  wanted,  naturally  considered  first  of  all  which 
of  his  own  friends  would  find  the  money  most  useful,  and  seeing 
that  among  all  his  friends  and  cousins  no  one  was  so  perfectly 
hopeless,  impecunious,  and  unpractical  as  Reginald  the  Discoverer, 
and  few  so  poor,  sent  ber  to  him  ;  not  for  any  fitness  or  special 
aptitude  which  Reginald  possessed  for  the  task  of  guardian,  but 
wholly  and  solely  that  the  child's  money,  which  now  amounted  to 
a  hundred  and  eighty  pounds  a  year — house  property  having  gone 
up — might  be  paid  yearly  to  Reginald  for  the  good  of  himself  and 
his  household.  They  were  kind-hearted  people,  and  as  Milly  was 
a  willing,  clever  kind  of  child,  they  were  easily,  though  gradually, 
persuaded  to  let  her  become  governess,  nurse,  assistant-housekeeper, 
maker  of  puddings  and  pies,  milliner,  dressmaker,  chaplain,  adviser, 
counsellor,  and  eldest  sister  to  the  family.  "  And  oh,  my  dear," 
said  Mrs.  Ambler,  when  Milly's  engagement  began,  "  what  we 
should  have  done  without  you  nobody  knows  ;  and  what  we  are 
?oing  to  do  without  you  nobody  can  tell." 

Milly's  life  was  so  busy  that  she  never  understood  how  dull  it 
would  seem  to  anyone  outside  the  house,  for  there  were  in  it  no 
amusements,  no  sights,  no  theatres,  no  concerts,  no  opera,  no 
pictures,  and  even  very  few  novels  ;  nor  perceived  that  she  ought 
to  have  been  treated  differently  ;  nor  comprehended  that  her 
guardian  was  regarded  by  everybody  as  a  lunatic  with  a  harmless 
craze  ;  nor  knew  or  suspected  that  there  were  any  enjoyments  to  be 
had  in  life  other  than  those  within  her  reach,  namely,  the  children 
in  good  temper  and  looking  nice,  the  Sunday  church,  a  summer 
evening  walk,  and  the  daily  cup  of  tea.  She  was,  however,  distin- 
guished above  all  her  contemporaries  of  Clapton  Common  by  the 
possession  of  a  romantic  history.  She  was  the  daughter  of  a  man 
who  had  made  a  most  Glorious  Fortune.  Everybody  knew  so 
much.  Nobody  knew  what  the  Fortune  actually  was,  either  in 
amount  or  in  form,  whether  it  was  silver,  oil,  hogs,  or  railways  ; 
whether  it  had  been  acquired  by  rings  and  corners,  by  bulling  and 
bearing,  by  lying,  treachery,  and  deceit,  by  contracts,  by  plunder 
and  pillage  of  the  public  money,  or  in  any  of  the  many  ways  in 
which  many  tempt  fortune  and  a  few  succeed,  winning  thereby 
the  universal  respect  of  their  fellow-creatures.  Mr.  Montoro— no 
one  ever  spoke  of  him  without  the  honourable  prefix— had  been 
once  a  clerk  in  the  City.  Somewhere  about  twenty  years  ago  he 
threw  up  his  place  and  went  away  to  seek  his  Fortune.  And  he 
found  it.  Matter  of  common  knowledge  that  he  found  it ;  that  he 
had  sent  none  of  it  home  was  also  known;  and  that  for  four  or  five 


158  A  GLORIOUS  FORTUNE. 

years  his  daughter  had  heard  nothing  from  him,  whence  it  might  be 
concluded  that  he  was  dead.  And  the  great  Fortune — where  was 
that  ?  Why,  the  United  States  of  America,  being  so  big,  one  might 
as  well  look  for  a  lost  needle  in  Hyde  Parkas  for  a  lost  fortune  in  a 
country  popularly  believed  to  consist  entirely  of  men  who  have  made 
enormous  fortunes.  No  doubt  it  was  lying  somewhere  packed  up, 
and  would  be  lost  for  want  of  some  one  to  claim  it.  So  that  Milly 
was  not  regarded  as  an  heiress  so  much  as  the  daughter  of  a  man 
who  had  distinguished  himself.  But  still  there  was  always  the 
chance  that  her  father  might  turn  up,  his  Fortune  in  his  hand. 
The  thought  that  her  father  might  be  still  alive  and  might  yet 
return  never  left  the  girl.  She  had  his  letters  in  her  desk,  which 
she  read  until  she  knew  them  by  heart,  both  those  to  her  mother 
and  those  to  herself.  The  former  were  curiously  cold  and  con- 
strained. He  was  prospering  exceedingly,  but  he  did  not  explain 
how.  He  was  richer  already  than  any  of  the  people  they  had 
known  at  home  ;  he  was  waiting  an  opportunity  to  realize  some  of 
his  gains  and  enable  her  to  keep  her  carriage,  and  so  on.  To  her- 
self the  letters  were  full  of  affection  and  tenderness,  speaking  of 
a  time  when  he  would  either  go  home  or  have  his  daughter  with 
him.  He  spoke  of  his  continued  success,  but  without  the  least 
hint  of  his  occupation,  and  his  address  was  always  changing ; 
so  that  whatever  it  was,  his  work  took  him  from  one  State  to 
another. 

The  girl  constructed  her  ideal  father  from  the  letters.  He  must 
be  a  gentle  and  quiet  creature,  because  her  mother  had  always 
spoken  of  him  as  a  peaceful  man  who  gave  no  offence  to  any,  and 
loved  tranquillity  ;  yet  he  must  be  a  man  of  great  courage  thus  to 
have  forced  his  way  to  the  front,  in  a  strange  country,  with  no 
friends  to  help  him.  He  must  be  a  man  of  fine  manner  and  noble 
mind,  because  his  letters  were  full  of  the  most  admirable  senti- 
ments, and  he  must  be  a  father  whom  any  girl  would  be  too  ready 
to  love,  so  full  of  tenderness  was  he  himself.  The  letters  which 
this  poor  English  waif  and  stray  wrote  twice  or  three  times  every 
year  to  his  daughter  were  in  fact  to  him,  though  they  were  loaded 
with  falsehoods,  the  one  thing  which  kept  up  his  soul.  He  con- 
sorted with  gangs  of  the  roughest  ;  his  work  was  the  lowrest  ;  yet 
he  had  to  console  him  the  letters  of  his  child,  fresh,  innocent, 
confiding  ;  and  he  had,  to  lift  himself  out  of  the  mire,  to  make  up 
in  reply  some  answer  which  should  make  the  girl  happy  about  him; 
and  in  order  to  do  that  he  was  forced  to  imagine  himself  back  in 
civilized  life,  a  gentleman.  If  you  come  to  think  of  it,  there  wants 
a  good  deal  of  imagination  for  an  unsuccessful  emigrant,  sunk  as 
low  as  can  well  be,  to  make  people  at  home  believe  that  he  is 
rolling  in  prosperity.  It  grew  harder  every  year  for  the  poor  man, 
but  still  he  persevered,  until  he  fell  in  with  his  great  stroke  of  luck, 
and  became  a  landowner  in  Oregon.  Then,  his  life  being  now  easy, 
and  even  assured,  and  the  whisky-bottle  always  handy,  his  brain 


IS  THE  WORLD  ROUND?  159 

began  to  deteriorate,  and  he  wrote  no  more  letters.  While  he  was 
a  vagrant  journeyman,  ready  to  do  anything,  he  would  imagine, 
conceive,  and  describe.  The  moment  he  became  settled,  the  foun- 
tain of  fancy  dried  up,  and  he  could  picture  no  more.  Therefore, 
the  drop  being  too,  great  from  a  millionnaire  to  a  settler  in  a  half- 
cleared  spot  of  forest-ground,  with  a  log-hut  and  a  couple  of 
blankets,  he  ceased  to  send  any  mors  letters.  He  was  one  of  those 
who  have  been  ruined  by  prosperity.  Had  he  still  continued  one 
of  a  plough-gang,  or  a  herdsman,  or  a  hand  on  a  steamer,  or  a 
picker-up  of  odd  jobs,  his  daughter  would  have  continued  to 
receive  those  letters  which  for  so  many  years  had  been  the  chief 
happiness  of  her  life. 

But  he  would  come  home  some  day,  she  said — he  would  come 
home. 

Thus  she  grew  up  a  sweet  and  natural  girl,  careless  of  her  own 
beauty,  because  she  was  always  thinking  about  the  children,  till 
she  was  past  nineteen  years  of  age,  and  then  love  came  to  her  in 
the  shape  of  a  brave  young  fellow — strong,  ambitious,  obstinately 
resolved  to  get  on,  and  quite  certain  to  expect  of  her  in  return  as 
much  as  he  would  give  to  her.  Then,  the  practical  business  of  life 
thus  suddenly  opened  out  before  her,  she  left  off  dreaming  about 
her  father,  rinding  henceforth  no  room  for  anyone  in  her  dreams 
except  her  sweetheart.  To  be  sure,  she  had  known  him  ever  since 
she  had  joined  the  Ambler  household,  because  he  was  a  cousin  of 
Reginald  Ambler  ;  but  then  to  see  a  young  fellow  occasionally  in 
the  house,  and  to  be  wooed  by  him,  are  very  different  things.  And 
how  that  love  gradually  came  about,  I  am  not  going  to  tell,  because 
it  is  so  simple  a  process  that  all  the  world  may  imagine  it.  Besides, 
as  the  princess  said  to  the  one-eyed  Calender,  "  This  is  not  a  common 
love-story." 

Now,  on  this  evening,  the  supper  was,  as  has  been  indicated,  a 
meal  of  unusually  cheerful  character,  not  on  account  of  George's 
presence,  because  he  was  there  nearly  every  evening,  but  for  certain 
unknown  and  inscrutable  reasons  which  act  upon  the  family  atmo- 
sphere, and  can  only  be  judged  by  their  effects,  and  make  it,  in 
fact,  like  the  climate  of  this  country,  variable — sometimes  cloudy, 
sometimes  misty,  and  always  impossible  to  be  foretold.  Everyone 
who  belongs  to  a  large  family  must  know  the  uncertainty  of  the 
general  temper,  however  that  of  the  individual  (meaning  one's  self) 
may  be  depended  upon.  This  evening  the  dining-room  of  Veritas 
Villa  seemed  a  little  heaven  of  cheerfulness.  Even  the  two  elder 
boys — Kepler,  who  was  eighteen,  and  Tycho,  who  was  sixteen— 
listened  to  their  father  without  open  scorn  or  impatience,  though 
they  had  the  firmest  belief  that  his  talk  was  unmitigated  nonsense. 
If  anyone  had  held  a  curved  hand  to  his  ear  he  would  probably 
have  heard  distinctly  a  kind  of  purr  of  satisfaction  and  content. 
Perhaps  on  a  really  fine  evening  in  June,  when  it  is  light  at  nine 
o'clock,  and  the  windows  can  be  kept  open,  and  the  roses  are  already 


160  A  GLORIOUS  FORTUNE. 

in  blossom,  everyone  ought  to  be  in  a  good  temper.    But  then  fin« 
weather  does  not  always  make  fine  tempers. 

"  I  have  never,"  the  Discoverer  went  on — he  had  been  talking 
ever  since  the  last  remark  of  his,  quoted  a  few  pages  back,  but 
we  had  other  things  to  talk  about  and  have  not  followed  him — "  I 
have  never,"  he  was  saying,  "  thought  less  of  a  man  for  being 
wrong,  so  long  as  his  mind  is  open  to  truth,  and  he  has  the  courage 
of  his  opinions.  Thus,  I  have  named  the  children  after  those  who 
were  my  forerunners,  though  they  did  not,  it  is  true,  prepare  the 
way  for  my  discoveries,  but  quite  the  contrary.  Ptolemy,  Kepler, 
Tycho  Brahe,  Galileo,  Copernicus,  are  names  which  will  always  be 
held  in  honour,  long,  long  after  that  of  Reginald  Ambler  has  been 
elevated  to  the  highest  place  in  the  roll  of  honour.  This,  my 
children,  may  not  be  till  after  I  am  dead  and  gone  ;  yet  it  will 
come  in  the  lifetime  of  some  among  you.  I  say  no  more,  but  that 
three  letters  of  inquiry  have  been  received  at  the  Society's  offices 
this  week.  Already  the  cause  spreads  rapidly  ;  but  nothing,  nothing 
to  the  wildfire-speed  with  which  it  will  be  taken  up  when  once  the 
people  have  been  allowed  to  see  and  judge  for  themselves." 

He  drank  off  a  whole  glass  of  beer,  paused,  meditated  for  a  few 
moments,  with  his  finger  to  his  forehead,  pushed  back  his  hair,  and 
was  about  to  proceed,  when  there  were  sounds  of  wheels  in  the 
road,  and  a  ring  at  the  bell  of  the  outer  gate.  And  this  was  so 
rare  an  event — indeed,  an  event  hitherto  unheard-of — that  every- 
body jumped  in  his  chair  and  looked  at  each  other. 

"  It  is  perhaps  another  anxious  inquirer,"  said  the  philosopher. 
"  Can  one  of  the  Cambridge  professors  be  going  to  accept  the 
challenge  ?" 

"  It  is  the  Parcels  Delivery  Company,"  said  Kepler. 
"  It  is  Milly's  great  Fortune,"  said  Copernica,  "  coming  home 
from  America  in  a  box." 

"  It  is "  began  another,  but  stopped,  because  the  door  opened 

and  the  servant— they  had  but  one — put  in  her  head. 

"  Please,  mm,"  she  said,  "  there's  a  gentleman  wants  to  see  Miss 
Milly." 

They  looked  at  each  other  in  something  like  consternation.     A 
gentleman  wanting  Milly  !     What  gentleman  ?     Who  could  it  be  ? 
Milly  turned  very  pale,  and  took  George's  hand. 
"  Come  with  me,  George,"  she  said. 

"If  it  is— if  it  is "  Mrs.  Ambler  could  not  say  "your  father.' 

"  Whoever  it  is,  I  think,  Reginald,  as  Milly's  guardian,  you  or 
both  of  us  ought  to  go  with  her  too." 

"  Certainly,"  said  Mr.  Ambler.  "  Shall  we  show  him  into  the  map- 
room  ?    The  contemplation  of  the  charts  may  lead  him  round " 

"  He  shall  come  in  here,''  said  the  mother,  looking  round.  "  Who- 
ever it  is,  he  shall  see  Milly  in  the  ordinary  way,  with  the  children 
round  her,  bless  her  1  Kepler,  my  dear,  ask  the  gentleman  to 
come  in." 


IS  THE  WORLD  ROUND  f  161 

It  was  now  nearly  ten.  Outside  it  was  still  twilight,  but  in  the 
room  there  was  a  pleasant  obscurity.  Milly  stood  at  the  table,  her 
back  to  the  window,  George  beside  her,  holding  her  hand.  Every- 
body had  risen  in  expectation.  The  tears  were  already  in  Coper- 
nica's  eyes,  and  making  her  spectacles  dim  out  of  pure  sympathy. 
The  family  atmosphere  was  changed.  Calm  and  serenity  were 
vanished  ;  in  their  place  the  beating  heart,  the  quickened  pulse, 
the  agitation  and  oppression  which  fill  the  mind  before  a  thunder- 
storm. 

Then  the  "  gentleman  "  came  into  the  room.  In  the  dim  twi- 
light Milly  saw  a  tall  figure  in  the  doorway. 

"  Is  there  here,"  he  said,  ''  a  young  lady  named  Milly  Montoro  ?" 

"  I  am  her  guardian,"  replied  Mr.  Ambler.  "  My  name  is 
Reginald  Ambler.  I  am,  as  you  may  be  aware,  the  Discoverer, 
under  Providence,  of  the  true  astronomy.  Miss  Montoro  is  here. 
Have  you  any  message  or  parcel,  or — or  anything  for  her  ?" 

"  If  you  will  light  your  gas,"  said  the  stranger,  ''  I  will  tell  you." 

One  of  the  boys  lit  the  burners.  They  saw  now  a  gentleman 
with  a  heavy  brown  moustache,  no  beard  or  whiskers,  strongly 
marked  features,  and  eyes  very  keen,  hard,  and  bright.  He  was 
well  dressed,  and  looked  as  if  he  was,  in  City  language,  a  sub- 
stantial, or  "  warm  "  man,  yet  not  in  the  least  like  any  City  man 
they  had  ever  encountered.  He  looked  round  the  room,  resting 
his  eye  first  for  a  moment  on  Copernica,  but,  as  if  dissatisfied  with 
the  spectacles,  he  turned  to  Milly.  Then  he  stepped  forward  and 
held  out  his  hand,  saying  coldly,  "I  suppose  you  are  my  daughter!" 

She  sprang  forward,  and  fell  into  his  arms  with  a  cry  of  surprise 
and  joy.     Her  father  at  last ! 

Her  father  1  Then  her  Fortune  had  come  home.  The  boys 
looked  straight  before  them,  with  tightness  in  their  throats. 
Copernica  wept  silently  ;  the  mother  wept  loudly.  Only  George 
seemed  discontented. 

"  My  daughter,"  the  stranger  repeated  coldly,  and  disengaging 
himself  from  her  arms  without  so  much  as  kissing  her.  "  Yes,  it 
is  natural  after  all  these  years.  I  suppose  I  might  have  expected 
to  be  hugged.  That  will  do,  Milly.  I  suppose  I  must  call  you 
Milly.  Of  course.  I  was  hardly  prepared,  I  must  own,  Mr.  Ab — 
Ambler,  for  such  a — in  fact,  I  could  not  have  believed  that  you 
were  so  well-grown  a  girl.  However — yes,  my  dear,  it  is  your 
father.     You  did  not  expect  to  see  me,  perhaps  ?  ' 

"  You  have  been  silent  for  four  long  years,"  she  replied.  "  How 
could  I " 

"  True,  true  ,  we  will  talk  of  that  another  time.  You  have  been 
living  here,  I  suppose.  And  this  is  Mr.  Ambler  ;  and— ah  !— Mrs. 
Ambler  ;  and — ah  !— the  family  Amblers." 

"These,"  said  Milly,  "are  the  kind  friends,  and  the  boys  and 
girls  I  have  told  you  of  in  my  letters  so  often." 

"  You  have,  my — my  dear."    Strange  that  the  adjective  should 


i62  A  GLORIOUS  FORTUNE. 

seem  so  hard  to  say.  "  You  certainly  have.  Your  letters  are  all 
in  my  pocket  at  this  moment.  They  have  never  left  me,  I  assure 
you." 

"  Oh,  father !" 

"  Never,  my— ahem  !— my  dear.  I  have  read  some  of  them — 
ahem  !—  more  than  once." 

Between  having  letters  always  in  your  pocket  and  reading  them 
more  than  once  there  seems  a  wide  gap. 

Milly's  eyes  dropped. 

"  Well,  my  daughter  ?"  He  hesitated  and  looked  round.  "  As 
it  is  evening,  and  a  little  late,  and  I  have  to  get  back  to  the  West 
End,  and — and — is  there  anything  you  wish  to  say  before  I  go  ? 
Of  course  we  shall  meet  again  to-morrow  or  next  day,  or — or — in 
fact,  you  will  study  your  own  convenience.  As  regards  future 
arrangements,  I  do  not  suppose  that  I  shall  go  back  to  America  for 
a  few  weeks ;  but  of  that  we  can  speak  afterwards.  So,  for  the 
present " 

"Stay,  father,  one  moment!"  The  girl  took  George's  hand, 
while  the  rest  looked  at  each  other  bewildered.  Was  this  the  kind 
of  meeting  one  would  dream  of  between  father  and  daughter  after 
twenty  years'  separation  ?  "  This,"  said  Milly,  "is  George  Ambrose, 
my  lover.     We  are  going  to  be  married." 

Mr.  Montoro  slowly  put  up  a  pair  of  eye-glasses,  and  looked  at 
George  from  head  to  foot. 

"  Not  so  fast,"  he  said,  "  not  so  fast.  You  have  a  father,  whose 
permission May  I  ask  you,  sir,  what  is  your  profession  ?" 

"  I  am  at  present  a  clerk  in  a  chemical  works,"  said  George,  hot 
and  red. 

"  A  clerk — a  mere  clerk !  My — ahem  ! — my  daughter,  we  will 
speak  of  this  afterwards." 

"  You  were  a  clerk  yourself  once,"  said  George  in  a  quiet  rage, 
while  the  two  elder  boys  murmured,  because  they  too  were  clerks. 

"What  the  devil  do  you  mean  by  that?"  asked  Mr.  Montoro 
fiercely.     "  How  dare  you  say  that  I  was  once  a  clerk  !" 

"  If  you  arc  ashamed  of  it,"  said  George,  "  I  shall  certainly  not 
remind  you  of  the  fact  again.  I  am  not  ashamed  of  beginning  as  a 
clerk.     Perhaps  I  shall  rise  out  of  it." 

Here  was  a  pretty  beginning.  Milly  looked  in  consternation 
from  her  father  to  her  lover.  Why  did  her  father  fall  into  such 
sudden  and  violent  wrath  ?  Everybody  knew  he  had  been  a  clerk, 
and  had  gone  away  and  made  his  Fortune.  However,  he  recovered 
as  quickly,  and  deigning  no  further  reply  to  the  unlucky  lover, 
turned  to  his  daughter. 

"  We  will  talk,  Milly,"  he  said,  with  a  coldness  of  voice  which  fell 
upon  her  heart  like  ice — "we  will  talk  of  these  things  another  time. 
Meantime,  I  have  found  out  where  you  live,  which  is  a  disgusting 
distance  from  anywhere.  I  shall  probably  call  here  again  to-morrow 
afternoon.    Meantime— ah  !— good- night." 


IS  THE  WORLD  ROUND  ?  163 

He  gave  her  his  hand  without  offering  to  kiss  her,  and  retired 
without  another  word. 

Mr.  Ambler  had  the  presence  of  mind  to  follow  him  and  catch 
him  by  the  arm. 

"  Pardon  me,  sir — one  word,  if  only  to  satisfy  the  neighbours. 
Your  Glorious  Fortune,  of  which  we  have  heard  so  much,  is  it — is 
it  safe  ?     Is  all  well  with  it  ?" 

"  Quite  safe,"  Mr.  Montoro  replied.  "  It  is,"  he  added  with  a 
grin,  "  just  exactly  as  safe  as  it  always  has  been — on  as  sound  a 
basis,  and  as  gigantic.  I  thought  you  would  want  to  know  first 
thing  about  the  Fortune.'  And  as  to  neighbours,  be  good  enough 
to  tell  them  that  I  don't  want  to  know  'era,  and  I  won't  know  'em, 
and  I  won't  see  'em.  What  I  am  going  to  do  about  Milly  I  cannot 
just  yet  tell  you;  perhaps  I  have  not  made  up  my  mind.  But  hark 
ye,  Mr.  Addlepate,  or  whatever  your  name  is " 

"  Ambler,  sir — Reginald  Ambler,  the  Discoverer  of " 


"  Remember,  I  will  have  no  neighbours  here.  Perhaps  I  may 
have  been  a  clerk  myself  in  the  old  days.  Perhaps  I  am  not  too 
anxious  to  have  them  recalled.  Keep  them  out  of  my  way,  do  vou 
hear  ?" 

He  opened  the  door,  walked  noisily  down  the  gravel,  got  into  his 
cab,  and  drove  away. 

"Oh,  good  gracious!"  cried  Mrs.  Ambler.  "My  poor — poor 
child  !     Did  anyone  ever  hear  or  see  such  a  thing  ?" 

"  Oh,  poor  Milly  !"  said  Copernica,  kissing  her  until  the  spectacles 
scratched  her  cheek. 

"  But  the  letters  he  used  to  write  !"  said  Milly.  "  I  cannot  un- 
derstand it.  What  has  changed  him  ?  Not  one  kind  word  !  and 
the  letters  so  full  of  sweet  things  !     And— oh,  George  !" 

"Never  mind  me,  clear,"  said  George  hoarsely. 

"But  I  must  mind  you.  Yoa  are  to  come  first,  not  my  father. 
He  must  not  upset  my  life.  Yes,  I  know  about  the  fifth  command- 
ment, but  that  can't  be  meant  for  fathers  who  stay  away  twenty 
years."  She  looked  determined.  "  Go  now,  George  ;  it  is  getting 
late.     Go,  dear,  and  trust  me." 

"  I  wish,"  said  Mr.  Ambler,  "  I  do  wish  that  he  had  been  shown 
first  into  the  map-room,  If  he  had  understood,  even  a  little,  under 
what  a  roof  his  daughter  has  been  brought  up,  he  would  have  ap- 
proached the  question  of — of  George — with  a  little  more  feeling. 
I  say  nothing  about  the  Truth.  That  may,  or  may  not,  come  after- 
wards. He  looked  as  if  he  might  become  an  Enquirer.  But  wo 
should  have  impressed  him  first.  We  did  wronic.  We  should  have 
impressed  him  first  of  all,  with  the  maps,  the  charts,  and  the  work- 
ing models." 


11-2 


164  A  GLORIOUS  FORTUNE. 

IT. 

A  WARM  WELCOME. 

An  interval  of  fifteen  years  for  moral  refreshment  is  a  good  spell. 
Unfortunately,  whether  the  time  be  passed  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
Weymouth,  or  on  Dartmoor,  or  in  the  New  World,  the  patient,  on 
his  return  to  society,  generally  finds  that  his  finer  qualities,  to 
remember  which  has  probably  been  his  chief  comfort  in  exile,  are 
all  clean  forgotten,  and  only  those  little  episodes  which  necessitated 
his  departure  are  now  remembered. 

The  extraordinary  vitality  of  disagreeable  things  has  never  yet 
been  treated  seriously.  A  man  shall  be  your  most  delightful  com- 
panion for  years,  your  bosom  friend  and  confidant;  he  then,  perhaps, 
forges  your  name — only  once ;  steals  your  money— is  only  found 
out  once  ;  cheats  at  cards — and  is  only  once  detected  ;  embezzles  his 
employer's  money— but  is  only  once  discovered,  and  therefore  is 
compelled  to  seek  retirement  for  a  while.  On  his  return  it  is  exces- 
sively annoying  to  find  that  nothing  is  remembered  except  the 
misfortune  which  separated  him  from  his  friends. 

In  a  better  state  of  things  the  patient  will  be  welcomed  back  as 
one  who  has  been  suffering  from  some  brain  disorder,  the  treatment 
of  which  is  understood.  He  will  be  considered  perfectly  recovered, 
and  be  even  ostentatiously  trusted  with  cheques  payable  to  order, 
bags  of  gold,  and  heaps  of  postal  orders  ;  he  will  be  invited  to  play 
cards  in  the  most  highly  moral  circles  ;  he  will  be  begged  to  take 
care  of  money  belonging  to  the  Church,  or  the  neediest  widow,  or 
the  most  helpless  orphans,  and  in  every  way  be  made  to  feel  that 
his  disease  is  completely  cured. 

This,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  was  not  the  treatment  received  by  the 
Colonel  on  his  return  to  England,  which  followed  very  shortly  after 
his  departure  from  Oregon.  He  was  in  a  somewhat  delicate  posi- 
tion, because  he  was  unable  to  know  how  far  the  reasons  of  his 
exile  were  understood  by  his  old  associates.  Now,  if  a  man  simply 
disappears  and  remains  a  "  vanished  hand "  for  a  period  of  years, 
society  has  certainly  no  right  to  question  that  man's  own  version  of 
his  story,  or  to  entertain  injurious  suspicions,  or  to  spread  malicious 
reports.  There  are  many  instances  on  record  of  such  re-appear- 
ances, and  I  have  never  heard  that  the  adventures  related  by  the 
man  supposed  to  have  gone  under  for  good  have  been  seriously 
doubted,  whether  he  declares  that  he  was  wrecked  on  a  desert  island, 
married  to  an  Amazon  in  the  heart  of  the  Dark  Continent,  carried 
off  by  friendly  gorillas,  or  compelled  to  wander  among  Patagonians, 
Guachos,  and  Aztecs.  But  things  are  different  where  nasty  stories 
survive,  as  the  Colonel  experienced. 

His  name,  while  he  was  yet  in  English  society,  was  Percival 
Brooke  West ;  he  was  a  gentleman  by  birth,  and  the  only  son  of  hia 


A   WARM  WELCOME.  165 

mother,  who  was  a  widow.  By  what  extravagances,  selfish  indul- 
gences, wanton  wastings,  profligacies,  and  prodigal-son  business,  he 
ran  through  his  patrimony  ;  hardened  his  heart ;  deadened  his  con- 
science ;  lost  his  taste  for  any  pleasures  which  were  not  highly 
flavoured,  peppered,  and  cabob-curried  ;  destroyed  the  sense  of 
honour,  and  converted  himself  into  a  man-eating  tiger,  it  needs  not 
here  to  relate.  Nor  need  we  here  even  indicate  the  path  by  which  a 
plunging  youth  becomes  a  profligate  and  ruined  man.  Nor  need  we 
pause  to  tell  the  story  of  what  he  did.  He  "  did  something  "  many 
times,  but  at  the  last  he  was  discovered.  And  then  he  retired — dis- 
appeared, became  the  "  vanished  hand  "  at  the  card-table,  and  the 
"  voice  that  is  still  "  in  the  smoking-room.  The  world  went  on 
without  him,  and,  for  fifteen  3'ears,  the  racecourse,  the  club,  the 
streets  of  the  West  End  knew  him  no  longer,  and  without  him  the 
old  game  went  on  merrily — the  young  fellows  on  the  "  unlimited 
chuck,"  the  hawks  hovering  over  the  pigeons,  and  ever  and  anon 
another  young  fellow  "doing  something"  and  speedily  disappearing. 

Then  he  returned. 

Before  Mr.  Percival  Brooke  "West  showed  himself  in  the  old 
haunts — before,  in  fact,  he  took  passage  from  New  York,  he  cut  off 
his  beard,  dyed  his  hair  and  moustache  brown,  and  dressed  himself 
in  raiment  as  youthful  as  a  man  near  fifty,  who  wishes  to  pass  for 
five-and -thirty,  can  venture  upon.  He  took  up  his  quarters  in  a 
good  Bond  Street  hotel,  and  he  then  considered  which  of  his  old 
friends  he  should  first  attempt.  Naturally  he  chose  the  ones  who 
had  been  in  the  same  "swim"  with  himself— that  plunging,  head- 
long, exhilarating  swim  down  the  rapids,  with  the  beautiful  whirl- 
pool at  the  end,  reported  to  have  sucked  many  a  stout  swimmer 
beneath  its  boiling  waters.     Had  not  he  himself ? 

He  remembered  seven  or  eight  of  the  old  set  and  sat  down  to 
write  to  them.  The  letters  were  really  models.  No  polite  letter- 
writer  could  have  taught  him  more  artfully  to  convey  the  strength 
and  enduring  warmth  of  his  old  friendship,  his  own  joy  at  his 
return,  and  his  eager  looking  forward  to  another  meeting.  He  also 
contrived  to  let  it  be  understood  that  his  financial  position  was 
extraordinarily  sound,  and  that  feasting  would  come  into  fashion 
again. 

He  forgot  that  in  fifteen  years  such  a  set  as  his  would  most  cer- 
tainly have  fallen  all  to  pieces — first,  because  the  pace  could  not 
continue  ;  and  secondly,  because  many  of  the  men,  younger  than 
himself,  would  leave  it  in  order  to  enter  seriously  upon  the  pursuit 
of  a  career.  There  are  really  very  few  who  continue  in  the 
resolute  pursuit  of  pleasure  until  past  middle  life,  even  though  the 
ashes  of  the  Dead  Sea  apples  have  got  into  their  throats,  and  made 
them  cough  and  choke. 

The  letters  despatched,  he  walked  about  the  streets  waiting  for 
answers.  The  dear  old  streets !  Heavens !  how  delightful  to  be 
back  again  among  them,  even  with  so  moderate  a  sum  as  eight 


1 66  A  GLORIOUS  FORTUNE. 

hundred  pounds  to  spend  !  But  it  would  be  enough,  perhaps, 
to  procure  him  readmission  into  the  old  circles,  with  such  share 
in  the  riot  of  the  Fool's  Paradise  as  a  man  of  fifty  may  look 
for. 

After  two  days  he  got  one  answer — the  first  and  the  only  one.  It 
was  from  a  dour  and  old  friend,  and  a  follower  of  his  own  way  of 
thinking.  Tiie  writer  said  that  he  rejoiced  to  receive  so  friendly  a 
letter,  because  he  had  long  thought  he  had  no  friends  left  at  all ; 
that  he  had  been  for  a  good  while  quite  down  on  his  luck,  and  was 
now  stone-broke  ;  but  that  he  had  a  wife  and  family  to  support,  and 
in  these  his  wretched  and  impoverished  circumstances  he  knew  not 
where  to  look  even  for  food  for  them  ;  that  he  was  ill,  moreover, 
and  like  to  die — with  a  good  deal  more  to  the  same  effect,  concluding 
with  the  remark  that  they  had  both  had  misfortunes  of  the  same 
kind,  and  ought  to  feel  for  each  other.  ("What  the  deuce  does  he 
mean  ??'  asked  the  reader.)  Wherefore  a  temporary  advance  would 
be  most  thankfully  accepted,  and  a  reply  to  this  note  would  be  ex- 
pected with  the  fullest  confidence  and  hope. 

I  am  obliged  to  own  that  Mr.  Brooke  West  tore  this  letter  up  in 
a  rage. 

"  Confound  the  fellow  !  What  did  he  mean  by  '  the  same  misfor- 
tune '  ?     Stone-broke,  was  he  ?     Let  him  starve  !" 

But  there  came  no  more  answers  to  his  letters.  Therefore  he 
resolved  upon  calling  on  his  old  friends,  though  with  some  mis- 
givings. 

"  The  same  misfortune  ! "  What  did  the  impudent  beggar  and 
pauper  mean  ? 

One  of  the  old  set  was  a  partner  in  a  City  house  ;  another  was  a 
barrister  ;  a  third,  a  fourth,  and  a  fifth  had  once  been  officers  in  the 
army,  and  so  on.  He  would  call — he  would  find  out  if  they  intended 
to  be  nasty  about  a  thing  now  fifteen  years  old — if,  indeed,  they 
knew  of  it. 

The  results  of  his  visits  illustrated  in  a  very  surprising  manner 
the  tendency  which  I  have  already  deplored.  That  is  to  say,  no 
one  was  in  the  least  disposed  to  forget  that  thing,  which  they  knew 
perfectly  well,  and  coupled  with  his  memory  as  indelibly  as  the 
sailor  associates  an  anchor  with  the  skin  of  his  arm.  And  yet 
remark  that  he,  the  man  chiefly  concerned,  was  as  willing  to  bury 
it  and  have  done  with  it,  as  the  Red  Indians  are,  in  time  of  peace, 
to  bury  a  tomahawk  ! 

I  have  often  wondered  if  that  tomahawk  was  always  expended 
in  the  funeral  service,  or  whether  it  was  sometimes  dug  up  by  a 
Resurrection  brave  and  traded  away  for  what  it  would  fetch  in 
whisky. 

It  is  a  dreadful  story  of  outrage  and  humiliation. 

First,  Mr.  Brooke  West  went  to  call  upon  his  old  friend  the 
partner  in  the  City  house.  No  one  in  his  younger  days  had  carried 
on   the  game  with  greater  eagerness  than  the  frolicsome  young 


A   WARM  WELCOME.  167 

merchant-adventurer  ;  surely  this  man,  at  least,  would  be  glad  to 
welcome  his  old  friend. 

Was  he  glad  ?  Not  at  all.  On  the  contrary,  it  appeared  that  he 
was  very  sorry.  When  he  got  Mr.  Brooke  West's  card,  which  was 
sent  in  to  him,  this  merchant,  no  longer  frolicsome,  but  now  quite 
sober  and  dignified,  turned  very  red  in  the  cheeks — they  were  most 
respectable  cheeks  now,  as  ready  to  blush  at  wickedness  as  the 
cheek  of  the  young  person,  and  regularly  seen  every  Sunday  at 
church — said  strong  things  about  the  unqualified  impudence  of  dis- 
graced swindlers,  and  sent  out  word  that  if  the  caller  and  owner  of 
the  card  did  not  instantly  leave  that  office,  he  was  without  delay  to 
be  driven  and  kicked  down  the  stairs  by  the  united  efforts  of  the 
clerks. 

Mr.  Brooke  West  received  this  message,  delivered  in  ifa  integrity, 
without  making  any  reply  or  attempt  at  justification.  Ir'<  >v  a  moment 
his  eyes  flashed  and  he  clenched  his  fists,  so  that  th;:.  o!c;k,  who 
glibly  delivered  the  reply,  quailed  and  turned  pale  ;  then,  without 
a  word,  he  walked  away.  It  is  the  worst  of  such  a  situation  that 
a  man  cannot  afford  the  luxury  of  a  row,  else  he  would  have  gone 
for  that  irreproachable  merchant. 

Next  he  went,  but  with  much  less  confidence,  to  call  upon  another 
old  pal,  a  barrister  in  the  Temple.  He  was  a  man  who  had  got  on 
in  his  profession,  thought  of  taking  silk,  gambled  no  more,  had  for- 
gotten the  ways  of  iniquity  and  its  wages,  was  married  and  lived  on 
Oampden  Hill,  and  the  memory  of  his  younger  days,  when  it  came 
back  to  him,  was  no  longer  a  thing  he  loved  to  dwell  upon. 

He,  too,  on  receiving  the  card,  jumped  in  his  chair,  used  strong 
words,  tore  up  the  card,  and  sent  an  insulting  message  that  he  had 
nothing  whatever  to  say  to  Mr.  Brooke  West,  and  refused  to  see 
him. 

Again  the  Colonel  waited  away  without  reply  ;  but  I  think  that, 
had  he  got  that  respectable  merchant  and  that  successful  lawyer  on 
the  Embankment  in  the  evening,  two  distinct  flops  or  splashes  would 
have  been  presently  heard  in  the  river  ;  or  had  he  met  either  of  them 
on  a  lonely  heath  after  dark,  there  would  have  been  a  lively  dance, 
with  steps  not  described  in  the  books. 

Next,  he  went  to  his  old  club,  where  he  found  a  new  hall-porter, 
who  did  not  know  him.  First,  he  asked  for  his  old  friend  Captain 
Pacer.  Alas  !  the  gallant  captain  was  dead  this  many  a  long  year, 
Then  for  Major  Fauchelevent,  another  of  the  glorious  band  of 
revellers.  Why,  the  major  had  left  the  club  a  long  time  ;  had  been, 
in  fact,  expelled  from  it.  Then  he  asked  for  Colonel  Cassade. 
This  member,  now  General  Cassade,  was  actually  in  the  club  at 
that  moment.  Mr.  Brooke  West  sent  up  his  card,  and  waited  with 
pale  face,  and  lips  that  trembled  a  little.  In  two  minutes  the 
general  himself  came  down  the  stairs,  leaning  heavily  on  his  stick, 
grey-haired,  red-faced,  gouty.  And  as  for  greeting,  friendly  smile, 
hand-shaking,  and  a  cordial  welcome  home ! — when  the  returned 


1 63  A  GLORIOUS  FORTUNE. 

prodigal  held  out  his  hand,  advancing  with  a  genial  smile,  though 
an  uncertain  eye,  and  said  with  hearty  smile,  "  Old  fellow  !  How 
goes  it?"  the  gallant  officer,  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  hall, 
banged  his  stick  on  the  floor,  so  that  the  panes  in  the  windows 
shook  for  fear,  and  every  pair  of  tongs  jumped,  and  most  of  the 
glasses  in  the  house  fell  into  small  fragments,  and  asked  with  purple 
cheeks  and  furious  eyes,  and  a  stentorian  voice,  what  in  the  name 
of  this  and  of  that — words  which  find  their  fittest  home  on  the 
banks  of  t>e  ^i'ver  Thames,  and  especially  at  Richmond,  or  beside 
the  stalls  of  Billingsgate — what  he  meant  by  his  confounded  impu- 
dence ?  A  feiiow  who  was  expelled — actually  expelled — that  very 
sa^e  club,  daring  to  send  up  his  impudent  card,  to  call  upon  him, 
the  general ! 

••  Turn  him  out,  hall-porter — do  you  hear  ?"  he  cried.  "  Turn 
him  out  into  the  street !  Knock  him  down  if  he  ventures  to  call 
again  !     Turn  him  out,  I  say  !" 

This  last  blow  left  no  room  for  hope.  That  part  of  the  world — 
after  all,  a  very  small  one — was  closed.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Mr. 
Brooke  West  did  not  know  until  then  that  he  had  been  expelled 
the  club.  He  thought  that  perhaps  a  kindly  interpretation  of  cer- 
tain fishy  transactions,  which  had  led  to  his  exile,  might  have  been 
laid  before  the  committee.  Well,  that  was  done  ;  he  must  try  some- 
thing else.  As  for  making  a  scene  or  having  a  row,  that  was  out 
of  the  question.  He  changed  his  hotel ;  he  went  to  the  Langham, 
where  there  are  generally  more  Americans  than  English.  There 
was  little  fear  that  anybody  there  would  recognise  him  for  what  he 
had  been  in  the  Southern  or  Western  States.  He  was  now  the 
English  gentleman,  who  had  travelled  and  lost  some  of  the  national 
prejudice  and  reserve.  And  here  he  stayed  for  six  months  and 
more.  He  began  to  make  acquaintances,  and  presently  forced  his 
way  to  certain  places  where  play — good,  honest,  high  play — is  to  be 
bad,  whether  baccarat,  napoleon,  hazard,  monte,  euchre,  poker,  or 
the  simple  roulette.     He  fornd   there  were  still  plenty  of  haw1:* 

•■."int.,  and  pigeons  harder  tlu.n  ever  to  catch  and  pluck  ;  but  he  did 
^'.■iity  well. 

1  do  not  know  bow  or  when  it  was  that  he  first  thought  of  Mou- 
toio's  daughter.  By  accident  he  carried  off  her  letters  with  the 
bank-notes.  Now  and  then  he  turned  them  over  in  his  portmanteau. 
"  My  dearest  Father,"  they  began,  and  after  eight  pages  at  least  of 
gossip,  they  ended,  "Your  most  affectionate  and  loving  daughter, 
Milly  Montoro."  There  was  property — she  spoke  about  "the 
houses."  The  poor  creature,  her  father,  had  spoken  of  certain 
houses.  Gradually  he  came  to  think  upon  this  property  more  and 
more.  It  was  almost  certainly  ber  father's  property  ;  it  was  not 
likely  that  it  was  settled  upon  the  girl.  Could  not  he  get  that 
property  ?  It  was  a  little  thing,  but  it  might  be  of  immense  ser- 
vice to  him.  And  the  thought  came  to  fill  his  brain,  as  the  thought 
of  Naboth's  vineyard  filled  the  brain  of  Ahab.     But  there  was  only 


A  WARM  WELCOME.  169 

one  way  to  get  it — only  one  way  to  get  that  property  ;  viz.,  boldly 
to  assume  the  name  of  the  man  he  had  robbed  ;  to  see  as  little  as 
possible  of  the  girl  and  her  relatives  ;  and  to  sell  the  property  for 
what  it  would  fetch,  put  the  money  in  his  own  pocket,  and  go  away 
with  it.  As  for  the  girl,  she  would  find  something  to  do  ;  young 
people  can  always  work.  And  houses  worth  a  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds  a  year  can  be  sold  for  something — two  thousand  pounds,  or 
perhaps  more.  Two  thousand  pounds  !  But  then  to  become  a 
Claimant — to  assume  another  man's  personality  ! 

The  longer  he  pondered  over  this  idea  tin  more  it  pleased  him. 
As  for  difficulties,  there  were,  so  far  as  be  could  see.  few,  so  long  as 
he  kept  out  of  the  w.ty  of  I\U.,.;io;o's  cousins  and  relations  ;  he  could 
show  uii  exact  knowledge  or  tue  lite  led  by  the  girl  who  had  told 
her  father  everything  ;  he  had  her  letters  ;  he  knew  the  scram  1"  ling 
household,  the  enthusiast  and  visionary,  the  sons  who  had  no  chance 
at  home  and  longed  for  one  abroad — everything.  He  knew,  or 
guessed,  what  kind  of  letters  the  man  who  had  made  so  enormous  a 
fortune  sent  to  his  daughter  ;  they  were  vague  letters,  full  of 
splendours  and  hazy  glories,  about  which  he  could  build  any 
structure  he  pleased.  Everything  was  ready  to  his  hand,  provided 
only  there  was  no  one  to  swear  that  he  could  not  be  the  lost  Mon- 
toro.  Here  again  he  was  helped,  though  he  admitted  to  himself 
that  it  was  the  one  serious  risk.  The  girl's  relations  neglected  her 
altogether.  They  never  made  any  inquiry  about  her  ;  her  father's 
people,  who  belonged  to  quite  the  lower  class  of  clerks,  were  scattered 
and  dispersed,  and  too  much  occupied  with  their  own  troubles  to 
ask  what  had  become  of  Charles's  girl ;  her  mother's  sister,  she  who 
had  married  into  "carriage  company,"  had  gone  on  up  the  hill  of 
fortune,  and  was  now,  with  her  husband,  so  rich  that  she  had  a  great 
house  at  Wimbledon,  with  more  than  one  carriage,  and  contented 
herself  with  writing  to  her  niece  once  a  year  or  so.  The  very  people 
in  whose  bouse  she  lived  knew  nothing  of  her  father  ;  nothing  was 
w: ■.  :;■.  d  to  cfirry  through  the  business  but  swiftness  and  courage — a 
rvsh  md  a  bold  fumt.  If,  in  the  interval,  which  must  be  brief, 
between  the  first  appearance  and  the  last,  cousins  should  offer  to 
renew  cousinly  acquaintance,  those  cousins  must  be  insulted  and 
snubbed.  The  thing  could  be  done  safely  if  it  were  done  quickly. 
And  though  it  was  impossible  to  foresee  all  the  difficulties  which 
might  arise,  he  cou'd  provide  against  most.  Freedom  and  skill  in 
lying,  it  seemed  to  him,  were  the  first  essentials.  And  so  far  he  was 
the  equal  of  any  living  maa. 

You  have  seen  how  he  made  his  first  appearance.  It  was  after 
dark  ;  if,  peradventure,  there  was  anyone  who  might  have  known 
Montoro  in  the  old  days,  then  was  there  time  to  prepare  that  person 
for  a  change  in  appearance,  manner,  and  voice  ;  he  did  not  assume 
the  manner  of  the  affectionate  and  tender  parent ;  he  could  not,  in 
the  first  place,  and  in  the  next,  it  was  better  for  his  purposes  to  be 


i7o  A  GLORIOUS  FORTUNE. 

the  hard  and  stern  father.  He  was  astonished,  certainly,  at  his 
daughter's  embrace,  having  forgotten  that  girls  do  kiss  their  fathers  ; 
but  on  the  whole  he  was  satisfied.  So  far  he  had  been  accepted 
without  the  slightest  suspicion. 

The  next  day  he  drove  to  Veritas  Villa  in  the  afternoon.  His 
daughter  came  to  him,  but  on  this  occasion  she  did  not  offer  to 
throw  herself  into  his  arms  ;  he  held  out  his  hand  coldly,  and  she 
took  it  as  coldly,  though  she  had  been  crying  all  the  night  over  this 
disappointment  of  a  father.  Many  a  woman  cries  over  a  disappoint- 
ing son,  but  few  have  to  lament  that  a  father  does  not  turn  out  as 
he  had  been  expected.  Perhaps  she  had  allowed  her  imagination 
too  much  freedom.  All  she  had  to  go  upon  were  his  letters,  and 
these  spoke  to  her  of  a  writer  very  different  from  this  cold  man  with 
the  hard  eyes. 

"  Let  us  talk,"  he  said.  "  There  is  a  good  deal  to  say.  Let  me 
see,  Milly  is  your  name,  is  it  not  ?  Yes — Milly,  to  be  sure — Milly." 
He  wondered  if  it  was  Emily,  Amelia,  Millicent,  Matilda,  or  some- 
thing else.     "  It  is  strange,  at  first,  talking  to  my  own  daughter." 

"You  did  not  find  it  strange  writing  to  her." 

"No,  that  was  different.  Did  you  expect  to  find  your  father 
what  he  is?" 

"  I  did  not,"  said  Milly  truthfully. 

"  You  took  me  at  your  mother's  estimate.  I  believe  she  told  you 
I  was  a  meek  and  gentle  nature.  Perhaps,  in  those  days,  I  was.  If 
a  man  wants  to  get  on,  over  there,  mind  you,  he  must  get  rid  of  his 
meekness.  So,  that  is  the  first  thing  I  have  to  say.  Next,  I  am 
accustomed  to  have  my  own  way.  Please  remember  that.  Perhaps 
you  thought  when  I  came  home  you  would  have  it  all  your  way. 
Not  so  fast,  young  lady." 

Milly  said  nothing  ;  but  a  red  flush  on  either  cheek  might  have 
told  him,  had  he  remembered  Matilda,  that  she  was  her  mother's 
daughter. 

"  When  your  mother  died,  you  left  Hackney  Wick.  Lord  !  what 
a  place  to  live  in  !    Where  was  it  that  you  lived  in  Hackney  Wick '?'' 

"Why,"  said  the  girl,  surprised,  "in  the  old  house,  of  course, 
where  you  lived  until  you  wont  away." 

"  To  be  sure — the  old  house  ;  the  old  house  in  Hackney  YvTick. 
And  then  you  came  here  ?" 

"Mr.  Richard  Ambler,  who  managed  the  houses,  suggested  his 
cousin  to  my  aunt,  when  they  wanted  some  oitj  to  take  care  of  me." 

"Richard — Richard  Ambler,"  he  stroked  his  chin.  "Do  I  re- 
member him  ?" 

"  No,  I  should  think  not.    He  told  me  once  he  had  never  seen  you." 

"  Good.  I  will  go  to  see  him  then.  Write  down  his  address.  He 
manages  the  houses,  docs  he  ?  We  will  walk  round  some  day  and 
see  the  old  place.  Are  there  any  of  my  old  friends  left  to  see  you 
jjometimes  ?" 

She  shook  her  head. 


A   WARM  WELCOME.  171 

"  I  think  I  have  never  seen  any  of  your  old  friends  or  relations  at 
all.    I  do  not  know  where  they  are." 

"Nor  do  I,"  he  said,  with  perfect  truth.  "We  shall  not  trouble 
ourselves  much  to  find  them,  that  is  very  certain.  And  your 
mother's  people  ?" 

"  They  now  live  at  Wimbledon,  a  long  way  off  ;  and  I  seldom  see 
my  aunt  Paulina  or  my  cousins.  I  do  not  think  anybody  cares  very 
much  about  me,  except  the  Amblers  here." 

"  Very  good,"  her  father  replied.  "  They  keep  away  from  you  so 
long  as  you  are  poor,  do  they  ?  Then  we  will  keep  away  from  them 
now  that  we  are  rich.  As  for  me,  remember  that  I  refuse  to  see 
cousins  of  this  kind.     Absolutely  refuse,  mind  !" 

He  looked  so  fierce — so  needlessly  fierce — that  Milly  was  frightened. 
Certainly  this  new  father  of  hers  was  not  one  to  be  crossed. 

"When  I  went  away,"  he  said  presently,  "when  I  gave  up  the 

post  I  held  in  the  firm  of What  the  devil  now  was  the  name 

of  the  people  ?" 

Milly  shook  her  head.     She  did  not  know. 

"  I  think  the  least  you  could  have  done,"  he  replied  angrily,  "  was 
to  make  yourself  acquainted  with  the  history  of  your  own  father. 
Never  mind.  What  did  you  care  about  your  father  ?  When  I  went 
away  your  mother  had  about  a  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  a  year — 
some  trifle " 

"  She  lived  upon  it,  trifle  though  you  call  it,  until  she  died,  since 
you  sent  her  nothing,  and  I  have  lived  upon  it  since,"  said  Milly 
quickly. 

"Yes,  yes — I  know.     What  is  it  worth  now ?" 

"  The  houses  are  all  let,  and  they  produce,  I  believe,  after  allow- 
ing for  repairs,  about  a  hundred  and  eighty  pounds  a  year.  This  is 
all  paid  to  Mr.  Ambler  for  my  maintenance,  education,  and  dress." 

"  A  very  handsome  sum,  upon  my  word  !  A  hundred  and  eighty 
pounds  a  year !  It  should  have  been  eighty,  that  would  have  been 
quite  enough,  and  the  rest  saved  for  me.;l 

"  For  you  ?  But  the  property  was  my  mother's,  who  left  it  to 
me!" 

"  Did  she  make  any  will  ?" 

"  No  ;  there  was  no  need.    Nobody  else  could  take  her  property." 

"  You  forget — her  husband.  There  were  no  settlements  ;"  he  did 
not  at  all  know  whether  there  were  any  or  not,  but  he  assumed  that 
there  were  none.  "  All  your  mother's  effects  were  therefore,  and 
are  still,  mine." 

His !  Milly  trembled— was  she  to  lose  her  little  property — the 
property  which  was  going  to  do  so  much  for  the  home  when  she 
married  George  ? 

"  Fortunately,"  she  said  timidly,  "  you  are  so  rich  that  you  do  not 
want  it !" 

"Rich!  yes  ;  but  no  man  refuses  money,  or  can  afford  to  throw 
it  away.    As  for  those  houses —see,  girl,"  he  rose  and  walked  to  the 


172  A  GLORIOUS  FORTUNE. 

window,  "  it  is  as  well  to  understand  at  once — I  have  come  over 
here  at  great  loss  of  time  and  money,  leaving  enormous  affairs — 
affairs  of  the  very  greatest  importance,  in  the  hands  of  people  I 
only  half  trust,  for  you.  I  cannot  stay  long,  there  is  nothing  for 
me  to  do  here  ;  I  have  got  no  friends  in  England  ;  I  am  out  of  the 
world  ;  and  there  is  no  getting  back  to  the  old  life." 

"  Getting  back  to  the  old  life  !"  Milly  stared  and  gasped.  She 
pretty  well  knew  what  the  old  life  was,  with  penniless  brother- 
clerks  for  companions,  and  the  bar-parlour  for  club  ;  "  the  old  life !" 

"  Of  course  ;  when  I  said  the  old  life,  I  mean  the  old  friends." 

"  Would  you  care  to  meet  them  ngain — those  old  friends  of  yours  ?" 

Milly  remembered  her  mother's  lamentations  over  the  memory  of 
those  old  friends  who  took  her  husband  from  his  home,  led  him 
into  taverns,  drank  with  him,  and  made  him  smoke  too  much  to- 
bacco ;  initiated  him  into  the  Orders  and  Brotherhoods  of  Ancient 
Buffaloes,  Druids,  Shepherds,  Odd-Fellows,  or  even  Free  and  Ac- 
cepted Masons.  Her  husband's  love  of  low  life,  she  said,  coupled 
with  his  lack  of  ambition,  was  the  bane  of  her  married  life.  Per- 
haps she  exaggerated. 

"  As  for  the  friends,"  her  father  replied,  "  if  they  have  gone  on 
in  the  old  way,  I  don't  want  to  meet  them.  When  a  man  gets  up 
in  the  world,  the  first  thing  he  should  do  is  to  kick  away  the  ladder, 
and  not  know  one  of  'em.  As  for  the  old  life,  I  don't  suppose  I 
ever  want  to  hear  about  that  again.  Why,  I  was  a  clerk  in  the 
City ;  I  had  to  go  and  write  all  day.  A  pretty  kind  of  life  mine 
was  :  at  a  desk  all  day,  and  your  mother's  tongue  in  the  evening. 
Very  well,  then.  Don't  interrupt.  There  is  nothing  to  keep  me 
here.  I  shall  sell  the  property,  and  we  will  go  back  together  ; 
father  and  daughter  ought  not  to  be  separated  :  I  suppose  there  is 
no  particular  reason  why  you  should  stay  here,  is  there  ?" 

"  There  is  George,"  she  replied. 

"Your  sweetheart  ?  The  chemist's  clerk  ?  You  m:iy  leave  me  to 
settle  with  him.  About  this  Ambler  fellow,  this  jackass  with  the 
Discovery,  has  he  got  any  money,  or  do  you  keep  him  and  all  his 
family,  too  ?" 

"  He  has  a  small  fortune  ;  I  know  what  it  is,  because  I  have  henrd 
over  and  over  again.  He  has  five  thousand  pounds  in  the  Three 
per  Cents." 

•'  Of  course,  then,  he  is  mighty  fond  of  you  with  your  hundred 
and  eighty.  Why,  it  is  as  good  as  doubling  his  income.  Go,  tell 
him,  if  he  is  in  the  house,  that  I  want  to  see  him." 

"  Father,"  said  Milly,  standing  before  him,  and  looking  him 
straight  in  the  face,  "  there  is  one  thing  in  which  you  must  please 
understand  me  at  once.     I  can  never  give  up  George." 

"  Not  even  to  go  back  with  me — your  own  father  ?" 

"Not  even  that.  I  do  not  think,  in  any  case,  even  without 
George,  I  could  go  back  with  you." 

"  Why  not,  pray  ?" 


A   WARM  WELCOME.  173 

"  Because — "  she  was  a  perfectly  truthful  girl,  and  she  therefore 
spoke  exactly  what  was  in  her  mind — "  because  I  am  afraid  of 
you.  Your  letters  prepared  me  for  something  very  different.  You 
are  cold  and  harsh  ;  you  begin  with  taking  away  my  property — 
my  own,  although  you  are  so  rich  that  you  despise  it  for  being 
such  a  yery  little  property.  I  cannot  prevent  you,  I  suppose. 
But  I  will  not  go  back  to  America  with  you,  and  I  will  not  give 
up  Geo " 

She  broke  down — her  voice  choked  ;  she  fled  because  she  would 
not  let  this  hard  father  of  hers  see  that  he  had  made  her  cry. 

"  It  is  rather  more  serious  work  than  I  anticipated,"  said  the 
Claimant  to  himself.  "  It  makes  a  man  respect  the  stage-father. 
I  suppose  she  expected  to  be  kissed  and  cuddled  and  made  much  of. 
Well — I  can't  do  it.  As  for  George,  I  think  it  is  a  deuced  lucky 
thing  there  is  a  George,  because  she's  a  creature  with  a  will  of  her 
own — not  like  her  fool  of  a  father — and  she  certainly  will  not  give 
up  her  lover  for  a  dozen  fathers.  So  much  the  better  for  me.  Be- 
cause now  I  can  sell  up  the  property,  and  go  away  openly,  without 
concerning  myself  about  an  undutiful  child  who  prefers  to  remain 
with  her  George.  It  is  better  than  running  away.  I  am  really  very 
pleased  there  is  a  George.  Bless  them  both  !  Suppose  she  had 
thrown  herself  upon  my  bosom  and  swore  never  to  leave  her  fond 
and  faithful  father !" 

At  supper  that  evening,  Mr.  Ambler  could  talk  of  nothing  but 
Mr.  Montoro,  who  had  spent  two  hours  with  him  in  the  map-room, 
and  had  been  most  affable  and  kind. 

"  Before  speaking  of  the  business  in  hand,  which  was,  of  course, 
you,  Milly,  my  dear,  he  engaged  in  conversation  concerning  the 
Great  Discovery.  I  found  in  him  one  of  those  candid  intellects, 
keen,  incisive,  logical,  and  open  to  conviction.  Nothing  of  preju- 
dice about  Mr.  Montoro.  He  has  been  brought  up,  he  confesses,  in 
the  old  exploded  school,  and  has  always  been  taught  that  the  earth 
was  round  ;  he  was,  indeed,  greatly  surprised  to  learn  that  it  is,  on 
the  other  hand,  flat,  with  a  surrounding  Rim  of  ice.  I  begged  him 
not  to  take  my  simple  word  for  it,  but  to  listen,  first,  to  the  argu- 
ments. Well,  he  sat  down.  First,  I  gave  him  my  Plain  Reasons  — 
these  shook  him.  Then  he  answered,  one  after  another,  my  Simple 
Questions,  and  I  flatter  myself  conviction  was  growing  in.  Then  I 
read  him  the  Refutation,  which  he  put  in  his  pocket,  and  promised 
to  see  me  again  upon  the  matter. 

"  Then  he  began  to  talk  about  his  own  affairs.  Milly,  he  is 
immensely  rich,  he  is  a  millionnaire  over  and  over  again.  I  can 
hardly  tell  you  what  he  has  ;  there  are  mines,  cattle-runs,  farms, 
houses — one  whole  town  belongs  to  him,  he  says.  Think  of  it ! 
What  a  glorious  country  it  must  be  for  a  man  in  less  than  twenty 
years  to  accumulate  such  wealth  !  I  think  I  have  made  a  Recruit 
of  the  very  first  water — a  Crcesus  among  Recruits.     Hitherto,  what 


174  A  GLORIOUS  FORTUNE. 

we  lacked  in  money  we  made  up  in  logic.  Perhaps  now  We  shall 
get  both  money  and  logic. 

"  He  spoke,  among  other  things,  of  a  college  or  university,  I  forget 
which,  in  this  city  of  his.  It  was  built  and  is  owned  entirely  by 
himself.  He  said,  that  among  other  professional  chairs  there  is  a 
chair  of  astronomy  worth  a  thousand  a  year  or  so,  and  that  it  is,  by 
great  good  luck,  at  present  vacant.  He  has  this  appointment  in  his 
own  gift.  If,  he  added,  he  is  quite  satisfied  with  the  new  Discovery 
as  to  which  he  was  already  favourably  prepared  by  his  daughter's 
letters — thank  you,  Milly,  my  dear,  you  are  always  our  guardian 
angel"  —  Milly  looked  horribly  guilty — "he  sees  no  reason  why  I 
should  not  fill  that  chair." 

"  Oh,  Lord  !"  cried  George. 

"  Eh,  my  dear  ?— eh,  boys  ?" 

"  Where  did  he  say  it  is  ?"  asked  George,  "A  thousand  a  year  ! 
In  his  own  gift  ?     And  in  America  ?" 

"  He  did  not  say  where.  We  were  only  discussing  preliminaries, 
and  I  do  think,  children,  that  the  name  of  Professor  Ambler — no 
longer  plain  Reginald  Ambler— on  a  title-page  will  carry  weight, 
whether  it  is  the  title-page  of  the  Plain  Reasons,  or  the  Simple 
Questions." 

But  Milly's  cbeeks  were  burning  because  she  had  never  spoken  of 
her  guardian's  Discovery  with  respect,  in  any  letter  to  her  father. 
What  did  he  want  to  deceive  Mr.  Ambler  for  in  so  trifling  a  matter? 
And  with  all  this  wealth,  why — why  should  he  desire  to  take  from 
her  the  little  property  which  would  be  so  useful  to  George  and 
herself  ?    Was  it  to  make  her  an  heiress  ? 

"  George,"  she  said  that  night  when  she  dismissed  him  at  the 
garden  gate,  "  I  do  not  want  his  riches  ;  I  wish  he  would  go  away 
and  leave  me.  Oh,  George,  I  do  not  feel  the  least  speck  of  love  for 
him !" 


A  BEAUTIFUL   DREAM. 

So  far,  things  had  gone  so  easily  with  this  Pretender,  that  he  began 
seriously  to  wonder  why — considering  the  vast  number  of  lost 
cousins,  missing  parents,  strayed  brothers,  and  wandering  uncles 
—claimants  like  himself  for  the  family  affection,  family  friends, 
and  family  funds  do  not  continually  turn  up.  Perhaps  they  do. 
Perhaps  there  are  hundreds  among  us — unsuspecting  innocents  — 
bearing  names  to  which  they  are  not  entitled,  and  enjoying  for- 
tunes in  which  they  have  no  right.  What  is  to  prevent  a  man  who 
knows  the  circumstances  to  march  into  the  club  of  a  dead  man,  for 
instance,  supposing  he  alone  knows  that  the  man  is  dead,  and  taking 
up  his  membership  ? 
Our  Claimant  went  to  the  villa  again  next  day,  and  the  day  after. 


A  BEAUTIFUL  DREAM.  175 

The  girl,  who  thought  she  was  his  daughter,  attracted  him.  She 
looked  so  pretty  that  he  could  not  choose  but  come.  And  after 
fifteen  years  the  sight  of  a  young  and  beautiful  English  girl  is 
something,  even  to  a  hardened,  selfish  old  gambler.  She  behaved 
nicely  to  him,  was  respectful  in  her  language,  and  obedient,  save  in 
the  matter  of  that  young  fellow. 

"  Milly,"  he  said  at  the  fourth  visit — he  was  already  so  far  ad- 
vanced, that  he  called  the  girl  by  her  Christian  name,  and  even 
addressed  her  as  "my  dear,"  and  "  my  child,"  without  stammering 
or  hesitation — "  Milly,  we  are  getting  on  better.  Are  you  still 
afraid  of  me  ?" 

"  How  can  I  help  being  afraid  of  you  ?"  she  replied  truthfully. 
"You  want  to  take  me  away  from  my  friends,  and  from  my  lover  ; 
and  you  are  going  to  take  away  what  I  thought  was  my  property." 

"  Oh,  your  property  !  Silly  child  !  "Why,  across  the  ocean,  for 
every  pound  you  have  here,  you  shall  get  a  hundred.  Your  pro- 
perty !  Why,  it  is  because  I  want  to  have  done  with  the  place  alto- 
gether that  I  wish  to  sell  it.  Never  heed  such  a  trifle.  Now  tell 
me — do  you  like  society '?" 

"  I  do  not  know — we  have  no  friends.  I  believe  there  is  very 
good  society  at  Stamford  Hill ;  but  wc  never  go  anywhere." 

"  Do  you  like  theatres  ?" 

"I  do  not  know  ;  we  never  go  to  any." 

"Do  you  like  concerts  ?" 

"  Oh  yes  !  I  have  been  to  a  good  many  concerts,  and  there  are 
lectures  and  dissolving  views." 

"  Do  you  like  the  West  End  ?" 

"  I  have  never  been  there.  You  do  not  know  us  yet — we  are  very 
quiet  people  ;  we  are  always  at  home  working  for  the  children." 

"Yes,"  her  father  was  grown  softer  in  his  manner,  though  he  was 
no  whit  more  demonstrative  or  affectionate  ;  "  ye — yes,"  he  said, 
stroking  his  moustache;  "all  these  things  you  know  nothing  of  ; 
"  but  you  would  love  them  if  you  knew  them,  iiilly,  without 
society  there  is  no  life  ;  without  excitement  there  is  no  life.  You 
miserable  people  here  do  not  live  ;  you  sit  all  together  in  a  room, 
you  breathe  and  walk  in  a  cage  ;  you  know  nothing  about  the  world  ; 
j-ou  have  no  idea  of  its  pleasures.  If  you  marry  this  young  clerk, 
you  will  go  on  breathing  and  walking  in  a  cage.  Why,  it  fills  me 
with  amazjment  that  you  can  go  on  contentedly  with  this  subur- 
ban life  ;  and  yet  there  must  be  millions  all  living  like  this." 

"  Why  not  ?  It  is  a  very  pleasant  life.  I  think  I  would  rather 
not  have  the  excitement  you  speak  of." 

"  Come  with  me,  Milly,"  said  her  father,  his  face  actually  soften- 
ing, '■  and  you  shall  have  a  life  which  shall  give  you  one  pleasure 
after  another — every  day  crowded  and  filled  up  with  pleasures." 

But  she  shook  her  head. 

"  I  was  thankful  for  George  at  first,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  I 
thought  it  would  rid  me  of  the  girl.    Now  I  see  I  was  a  fool,  for 


176  A  GLORIOUS  FORTUNE. 

I  could  do  much  better  with  her  than  without  her.  But  hovt  to 
persuade  her  ?" 

For  by  this  time  another  thought  was  lying  in  his  brain,  receiv- 
ing every  day  new  food  and  encouragement.  He  saw,  in  a  kind  of 
ecstatic  vision,  a  salon  or  drawing-room  such  as  he  had  read  of  in 
the  old  days  when  he  used  to  read  French  novels.  It  was  a  beauti- 
fully furnished  room,  with  cabinets,  china,  pictures,  a  piano,  mirrors, 
and  all  the  pretty  things  which  belong  to  the  life  he  had  abandoned 
fifteen  years  ago.  He  sighed  as  he  thought  of  such  a  room.  "  I 
did  not  know,"  he  said,  "until  I  came  home,  that  I  cared  for  it  all 
so  much."  The  room  was  full  of  people  ;  there  were  ladies  in 
beautiful  toilettes,  young  men  in  evening  dcess.  They  were  sitting, 
walking,  and  talking.  He  was  himself  a  gentleman  again  to  out- 
ward show.  At  the  piano  sat  the  girl — he  always  thought  of  Milly 
as  the  girl— playing  and  singing,  the  younger  men  hovering  round 
her,  making  their  court.  Presently  she  rose,  said  something,  and 
laughed,  and  they  all  sat  down  to  a  table  covered  with  green  cloth, 
he  at  the  head. 

Yes,  the  Colonel  was  not  in  imagination  returning  to  paths  of 
virtue,  which,  whether  they  led  him  into  pleasant  drawing-rooms 
or  not,  would  certainly  prove  monotonous  to  him.  It  filled  his 
soul  with  happiness,  however,  to  think  that  he  could  fill  a  room 
with  people  "  comme  il  f  aut,"  through  the  attractions  of  his 
daughter,  and  do  a  stroke  of  business  with  them  afterwards.  The 
perfect  gambler  can  think  of  nothing  as  complete,  unless  there  are 
a  pack  of  cards  in  it  and  a  green  table. 

There  was  also  another  dream  which  much  he  loved,  yet  some- 
times feared  might  be  difficult  to  realize.  In  this  dream  there  was 
one  young  man  only  in  the  room  besides  the  girl  and  himself.  The 
young  man  was  often  changed,  because  the  evening  was  made 
expensive  for  him.  And  in  this  dream  there  was  a  mirror  before 
the  piano,  in  which  the  girl  saw  the  hand  held  by  the  young  man 
when  the  flirting  and  singing  were  over  and  play  began.  Then,  by 
a  judicious  arrangement  of  chords,  she  conveyed  to  her  confederate 
the  knowledge  of  that  hand  ;  or  else  she  got  up  and  looked  over 
his  shoulder,  while  that  innocent  sheep's  eyes  looked  up  into  her 
artless  face.  Oh,  a  beautiful  dream  !  But  before  it  could  become 
possible  two  things  were  necessary  :  the  girl  must  be  across  the 
water,  and  away  from  her  friends,  and  she  must  be  made  to  love  a 
life  of  luxury  and  ease. 

"Good  Heavens!"  he  cried,  "what  a  chance  there  is  for  me! 
They've  tried  it  with  their  painted  and  ruddled  old  hacks,  their 
Frenchwomen  and  their  octoroons,  but  never  once,  I  swear,  with  a 
sweet-faced,  innocent-looking  English  girl.  They  couldn't  get  one. 
As  for  difficulty,  there  would  be  none,  once  across  the  Atlantic, 
away  from  all  her  friends.  As  for  doing  her  any  harm,  that  is 
rubbish.  Very  likely  she  would  fall  in  love — many  young  women 
do.    I  could  get  her  off  my  hands  that  way  without  any  trouble. 


A  BEAUTIFUL  DREAM.  177 

And,  if  not,  why,  then,  when  I  had  made  all  I  want — it  isn't  really 
much — I  could  tell  her  everything,  and  pack  her  off  to  Johnny  in 
Oregon.  She'll  console  him  for  the  loss  of  the  money,  which 
wasn't  his  any  more  than  mine,  and  I  shouldn't  want  her  more  than 
a  year  or  two." 

He  forgot  that,  before  you  get  an  honest  English  girl -to  act  as 
professional  decoy  to  a  card-sharper,  there  is  likely  to  be  a  very 
considerable  kind  of  row. 

This  dream  remained  in  his  mind  so  long  that  it  became  a  purpose 
with  him.  He  was  growing  old  ;  it  would  be  dreadful  to  give  up 
the  comfortable  life  to  which  he  had  returned,  and  yet  what  to  do 
when  the  money  went  ?  He  thought  how  easy  and  pleasant  it 
would  be  to  receive  his  friends  in  a  real  high-toned  salon,  with  a 
pretty  girl  to  play  and  sing  to  them,  and  help  him  to  cheat  them. 
She  should  go  with  him.     As  for  her  lover,  he  must  be  given  up. 

But  first  it  was  necessary  to  win  her  confidence.  This  he  might 
have  done  very  easily  by  the  simple  show  of  affection.  The  man 
could  feign  a  good  deal,  but  love,  the  plain  and  unmistakable  love 
with  which  many  foolish  fathers  wrap  up  and  surround  their 
daughters,  he  could  not  feign.  Therefore  he  sought  to  win  her 
confidence  by  dazzling  her. 

First,  he  took  her  to  a  splendid  restaurant,  and  gave  her  a  magni- 
ficent dinner,  consisting  of  a  dozen  courses,  served  in  a  great  room 
full  of  glass,  mirrors,  and  flovrers,  with  champagne,  of  which  Milly 
had  heard,  but  had  never  tasted. 

"If  you  like,"  said  her  father,  "you  shall  dine  like  this  every 
night.  Good  Heavens  !  how  have  I  longed  in  America  for  this 
kind  of  thing  again — I  mean  in  the  first  days,  you  know,  be- 
fore  " 

"  What,  could  you  have  known  anything  of  this  kind  of  life  in 
the  old  days  ?" 

"Perhaps,"  he  said,  after  a  while,  "a  clerk  may  get  some  know- 
ledge of  what  a  dinner  should  be  by  flattening  his  nose  at  the 
window." 

"  But,"  she  went  on,  "  to  waste  all  this  time  and  money  every 
day  in  such  a  tedious " 

"  Confound  it !"  he  cried  in  a  rage.  "  You  are  not  worth  such 
a  dinner.  After  all,  how  should  you  understand  it  ?  A  mutton- 
chop  and  a  potato,  I  believe,  would  have  pleased  you  quite  as 
well." 

Then  he  took  her  to  a  theatre.  They  sat  in  a  private  box,  and 
Milly  looked  with  wonder  from  the  stage  to  the  house,  and  the 
house  to  the  stalls.  The  performance  was  a  burlesque,  and  a 
favourite  one.  It  was  played  partly  by  actresses  dressed  as  men, 
and  Milly  pitied  them,  though  the  audience  clapped  and  applauded. 
She  could  see  nothing  to  applaud  ;  you  see,  it  wants  a  little  educa- 
tion before  a  girl,  a  suburban  and  East  End  girl,  can  really  admire 
the  spectacle  of  women  dressed  in  tights,  or  the  performance  of  a 

12 


178  A  GLORIOUS  FORTUNE. 

ballet,  or  the  delivery  of  bad  verses  crammed  with  puns,  or  the 
comic  business,  which  seems  to  them  like  horseplay.  Such  a  girl 
does  not  see  anything  to  laugh  at  in  a  pun,  or  in  a  funny  get-up, 
or  in  a  man  tumbling  down — for  that  matter,  she  does  not  want  to 
laugh  at  all ;  she  would  like  rather  to  cry,  even,  so  long  as  she 
could  see  a  beautiful  story  beautifully  played.  But  this  her 
father  did  not  understand,  and  fell  into  a  rage  when  he  perceived 
that  Milly  was  only  bored  with  the  performance.  He  thought  she 
was  sulking  with  him  on  account  of  his  previous  harshness. 

"  You  shall  have  a  private  theatre  of  your  own  if  you  like,  and 
a  ballet  and  all,  and  you  shall  be  manager,"  he  said.  "  You  shall 
act  on  your  stage  if  you  like  ;  only  say  what  you  would  like." 

"  I  do  not  want  any  ballet,  thank  you,"  she  replied  coldly;  "  and 
I  thought  theatres  were  better  worth  going  to." 

"  Oh,  very  well,"  he  replied  ;  "if  you  are  resolved  to  like  nothing 
I  do  for  you,  I  might  as  well  leave  off  trying  to  please  you." 

He  was  now  in  no  hurry  about  going  back.  At  first  he  spoke  of 
going  back  in  a  few  days,  but  he  stayed  on.  It  was  a  fortnight 
since  he  first  came  to  the  villa,  and  now  he  came  every  day,  though 
Upper  Clapton  is  not  by  any  means  "  handy "  for  the  Langham 
Hotel.  He  saw  that  the  girl  disliked  him  still,  but  that  she  was 
trying  to  conquer  her  dislike,  and  he  went  on  with  his  plan  of 
conciliation.  He  had  expected  suspicion  ;  there  was  none  in  any 
quarter  :  he  was  even  received  by  Mr.  Richard  Ambler,  on  whom 
he  called  to  ask  about  his  houses,  without  the  least  suspicion. 
What  he  had  not  expected,  because  he  would  not  have  reckoned 
it  as  a  factor  of  the  least  importance,  was  dislike.  Now,  with  this 
larger  scheme  in  his  mind,  it  was  of  the  first  importance  that  the 
girl  should  learn  to  trust  in  him  and  to  believe  him  before  getting 
her  to  obey  him. 

He  therefore  persisted.  Since  she  did  not  care  for  the  theatre, 
he  took  her  to  the  races.  He  was  rewarded  by  the  consciousness 
that  the  girl  was  all  day  profoundly  dejected.  She  did  not  want 
to  see  the  horses  running  ;  she  did  not  in  the  least  care  who  won  ; 
and  she  was  frightened  at  the  great  crowd,  in  which  she  felt  so 
entirely  out  of  place.  Yet  he  had  got  a  carriage,  a  hamper,  and  a 
most  beautiful  lunch,  and  was  mindful  of  a  day  long  past  when 
with  a  similar  carriage  and  hamper,  but  another  companion,  he  had 
spent  a  most  enjoyable  day  at  Ascot. 

He  drank  all  the  champagne  himself — a  little  too  much — and 
then  began  telling  her  stories  which  terrified  her,  and  made  her 
wonder  what  manner  of  life  her  father  must  have  led  before  he 
married,  since  he  was  familiar  with  what  seemed  to  her  simple 
mind  the  most  wicked  and  wasteful  profligacy. 

"  Do  you  like  no  kind  of  amusement,  then  ?"  he  asked  her. 

She  tried  to  explain  to  him  that  there  are  many  other  amuse- 
ments besides  feasting,  drinking,  burlesques,  racing,  betting,  and 
gambling,  which  might  seem  to  girls  pleasing  and  desirable  things. 


A  BEAUTIFUL  DREAM. 


179 


"  Sometimes,"  she  said,  "  on  summer  evenings  I  go  upon  the  river 
with  George,  or  we  walk  to  Tottenham  and  as  far  as  Hornsey. 
There  are  lectures  to  go  to,  and  a  choral  society  ;  then  we  have 
lawn-tennis,  and  sometimes  there  are  new  books  to  read,  and  new 
music  to  play." 

Her  father  grunted. 

Then  he  tried  her  with  the  shops  of  Regent  Street.  No  woman, 
he  thought,  can  withstand  the  temptation  of  fine  things.  He  showed 
her  all  the  beautiful  things  in  the  world,  or  nearly  all — dainty 
costumes,  costly  with  lace,  bonnets  which  were  a  dream  of  loveli- 
ness, gloves  and  parasols,  ribbons,  and  what  not — such  as  the  girl 
had  never  dreamed  of  possessing.  She  refused  them — she  actually 
refused  them. 

"  George,"  she  said,  "  is  only  a  clerk  as  yet.  If  I  were  to  go 
dressed  in  these  beautiful  things,  it  would  make  him  ridiculous." 

"George  !  What  do  I  know  about  George?  Are  you  not  m}' 
daughter  and  my  heiress  ?  Can't  you  remember  that  ?  Sometimes 
one  would  think  you  were  going  out  to  America  as  a  pauper.  Do 
you  really  imagine  that  my  daughter — mine  ! — could  show  herself 
in  New  York  dressed  like " 

"Like  the  daughter  and  the  wife  of  a  clerk.  But  perhaps  the 
New  York  people  will  have  no  opportunity  of  giving  an  opinion." 

"Was  there  ever  before,"  asked  her  father  impatiently,  "a  girl 
who  was  bound  to  inherit  millions,  and  preferred — actually  pre- 
ferred— to  go  about  as  shabby  as  a  shop-girl  ?" 

"  George  is  only  a  clerk,"  she  said  ;  "  I  must  dress  according  to 
my  husband's  station." 

*'  Why,  hang  it !  are  you  not  my  heiress  ?  Who  will  have  my 
money  if  not  you  ?  One  would  think  you  were  going  out  to 
America  to  be  a  governess." 

"  Forgive  me,"  she  said.  "  I  have  been  so  long  accustomed  to 
consider  your  Fortune  as  a  thing  which  has  nothing  to  do  with  me, 
that  I  cannot  suddenly  change  my  mind.  If  you  designed  to  make 
me  an  heiress,  you  should  have  told  me  so  ten  years  ago.  Then,  I 
dare  say,  I  should  have  been  brought  up  differently.  And,  perhaps, 
I  should  have  liked  these  things.  But  I  belong  to  the  people  whom 
you  now  despise,  though  you  were  born  among  them.  "We  live  the 
simple,  homely  life  which  you  have  forgotten.  As  for  these  things 
— your  great  dinners,  your  theatres,  and  all  the  rest  of  them,  I 
suppose  you  enjoy  them  now.  But  in  the  old  days  you  knew 
nothing  of  them.  Had  you  not  better  leave  me  alone  with  my 
friends,  just  as  you  always  have  done  ?  You  do  not  want  me  in 
your  new  life.  Why,"  she  looked  him  full  in  the  face  with  those 
honest  eyes  of  hers,  "  there  is  something — I  know  not  what — which 
stands  between  us.  You  do  not  love  me  as  you  used  to  do  when  you 
wrote  to  me,  or  else  you  can  no  longer  pretend  as  you  did  then — 
but  I  cannot  believe  those  letters  were  all  pretence.  When  I  am 
with  you  I  irritate  you,  and  then  you  fly  into  a  rage  and  swear. 

12—2 


i So  A  GLORIOUS  FORTUNE. 

mu  try  to  please  me  with  all  kinds  of  things  which  I  do  not 
■want " 

•'  What  is  it  you  do  want  ?"  lie  asked  her.  "  What  can  I  bny  for 
you  ?  Only  tell  me.  See,  Milly,  I  want  you  to  like  me.  It  isn't 
a  question  of  money  " — indeed  it  was  not — "  I  will  buy  anything 
you  fancy.  But  you  won't  like  anything  that  I  can  say  or  do.  As 
for  those  old  letters  of  mine,  bring  them  to  me.  Who  is  to  re- 
member what  he  said  ten  years  ago — writing  to  a  little  schoolgirl  ?" 

She  brought  them  to  him  obediently.  They  were  not  many- 
only  about  twenty,  all  tied  up  neatly  with  green  silk  and  smelling 
of  lavender.  He  cut  the  string  and  read  the  letters  deliberately. 
Remembering  the  log-hut  and  the  whisky-bottle,  Johnny's  wander- 
ing eyes  and  rambling  speech,  his  miserable  story  and  his  wretched 
life,  he  was  struck  with  admiration.  The  man  possessed  the  first 
and  most  essential  qualifications  of  a  novelist — he  could  make  those 
who  read  his  letters  believe  his  statements  ;  more  than  this,  he 
could  enter  into  his  reader's  mind  and  understand  what  she  would 
think  of  himself ;  what  sort  of  hero  she  would  construct  of  her 
father  ;  and  he  wrote  accordingly. 

"  I  was  a  clever  fellow,"  he  said  at  length,  "  when  I  wrote  those 
letters.  Yes,  Milly,  there  are  many  things  in  my  life  of  which  I 
may  be  proud,  and  many  which  might  have  to  be  explained  away. 
You  thought  from  these  letters  that  it  was  all  sailing  before  a  fair 
wind.  You  are  mistaken  ;  it  was  a  hard  fight  all  the  time  with 
men  as  keen  to  get  on  as  I  was  myself.  Would  you  have  liked  me 
to  tell  you  the  true  history  of  those  years  of  struggle  ?" 

'•  I  should  like,"  said  Milly,  "  my  father  to  be  as  affectionate  and 
as  tender  to  me  in  words  as  he  was  in  writing." 

He  shook  his  head. 

'•  It  can't  be,  my  child.  If  you  like,  I  could  write  more  letters  to 
3rou,  just  the  same  as  these.  But  I  can't  talk  like  that.  Here, 
take  back  the  things  !" 

"  I  do  not  want  them  any  more,"  she  replied  sadly.  "  To  read 
them  now  would  give  me  more  pain  than  pleasure.  I  would  rather 
talk  with  you  than  have  any  more  letters  from  you." 

"  Why,  there,"  he  replied  ;  "  that  is  exactly  what  I  wanted  you 
to  say.  No  more  humbugging  milk-and-water  letters,  but  good, 
honest,  straightforward  talk.  You  know  me  now,  Milly,  for  what 
I  am" — he  stood  upright  and  struck  his  chest — "a  strong,  plain 
man,  and  perhaps  as  good-hearted  as  if  I  came  to  you  with  tears 
and  kisses.  I  am  pleased  with  you — yes,  satisfied  and  pleased. 
Yoa  are  a  very  pretty,  well-set-up  girl,  good  face,  good  figure,  good 
form.  You  will  do.  You  don't  pretend  to  love  your  father  ;  very 
well,  how  should  you  ?  And  you  are  not  afraid  to  tell  him  so. 
1  like  you  the  better  for  it.  Some  day,  perhaps,  you  will  like  me. 
Meantime,  as  you  are  my  daughter,  and  are  going  to  inherit  every- 
thing, come  out  with  me  first  to  look  at  your  inheritance." 

Always  the  same  refrain,  "  Come  out  with  me." 


A  BEAUTIFUL  DREAM.  381 

He  certainly  made  no  pretence  at  being  a  mild  and  peaceful 
character,  and  filled  the  walls  of  Veritas  Villa  with  tales  which 
fired  the  blood  of  the  boys,  and  made  them  long  to  rush  beyond 
the  reach  of  civilization,  to  ride  the  half-broken  mustang,  to  shoot 
at  Mexican  robbers,  to  sleep  round  camp-fires,  to  wear  a  red  flannel 
shirt,  a  crimson  belt,  a  slouched  hat,  and  great  boots.  Even 
Copernica  thought  that  no  woman  could  have  a  happier  lot  than  to 
live  in  constant  danger  from  scalping  Indians  and  bloodthirsty 
Mexicans. 

He  laid  himself  out  to  please  everybody  except  George,  whom  he 
treated  with  cold  contempt,  insomuch  that  the  lover  was  fain  to 
keep  away  from  the  house  when  Milly's  father  was  there,  and 
carried  on  his  courtship  in  the  garden,  fie  conciliated  Mrs.  Ambler 
with  smooth  words  and  flatteries,  assuring  her  that  there  was  no 
lady  in  England  who  would  have  brought  up  his  daughter  with 
more  care  and  kindness  than  she  had  shown,  and  that  the  boys  and 
girls  should  always  be  his  sacred  care  ;  and  he  gave  them  all  watches, 
and  to  Copernica  a  gold  watch  and  chain. 

Yet  they  were  afraid  of  him. 

As  for  the  Discoverer,  Mr.  Montoro  became  to  him  as  a  god,  or 
pope  at  least,  because  he  announced  his  adhesion  to  the  theory, 
and  admitted  that  he  could  no  longer  stand  out  against  the  over- 
whelming arguments  in  its  favour. 

"  The  world  is  flat,"  he  said.  "  How  thick  it  is,  which  we  should 
see  if  we  looked  beyond  the  Outer  Rim,  it  is  impossible,  as  you  say, 
for  us  to  surmise.  I  have  never  taken  any  special  interest  in  science, 
because  my  work  has  been  of  a  more  practical  nature,  but  I  hope  I 
can  follow  an  argument  as  well  as  other  men  ;  and  your  argument, 
Mr.  Ambler,  has  convinced  me." 

"  To  win  a  Recruit,  and  such  a  Recruit,"  replied  the  blushing 
philosopher,  "  by  the  sheer  force  of  persuasion  is  indeed  a 
triumph." 

Mr.  Montoro  then  turned  the  conversation  upon  the  subject  of 
his  college.  It  was  a  new  college,  he  said  ;  there  would  be, 
probably,  at  first,  but  a  small  number  of  students  ;  the  astro- 
nomical class  would  be  one  of  the  smallest.  Still,  it  was  an  open- 
ing ;  the  country  was  becoming  settled  and  populated  ;  the  college 
was  endowed  ;  gradually  the  institution  would  grow.  Wotdd  it 
really  be  worth  Mr.  Ambler's  while  to  leave  London  and  transport 
himself  to  a  strange  country  in  order  to  lecture  on  his  own  system 
in  his  own  way  ? 

Worth  his  while  !     The  Discoverer  bounded  in  his  chair. 

"  Then,  Mr.  Ambler,  I  shall  be  pleased  to  offer  you  the  post.  It 
is  my  intention  to  leave  this  country  for  America  in  a  few  weeks. 
You  can  follow  as  soon  after  me  as  is  possible  for  you  to  wind  up 
your  affairs." 

''  I  have  no  affairs,"  replied  the  Philosopher.  "  The :e  is  the 
60ciety,  to  be  sure,  but  I  am  afraid  that  there  is  only  one  man,  my 


i?2  A  GLORIOUS  FORTUNE. 

convert  Bagshott,  who  will  lament  its  temporary  suspension. 
Bagshott  leaves  me  the  scientific  department,  and  occupies  himself 
•with  the  weekly  demonstration  from  his  pulpit  that  the  Discovery 
is  the  only  way  of  reconciling  revelation  with  science.  The  only 
way,  Mr.  Montoro !  Such  a  man  is  useful  to  me,  and  I  shall  be 
sorry  to  leave  him.  They  say  his  congregation  has  dwindled  to 
nothing.  But  the  scientific  aspect  of  the  question,  which  is  my  own 
special  department,  demands  that  such  a  chance  of  spreading  the 
Truth  should  not  be  neglected.  Where,  sir,  if  I  may  ask,  is  your 
college  situated  ?" 

"  It  is,"  said  Mr.  Montoro,  as  unblnshingly  as  if  he  had  been 
Johnny  of  Oregon  himself — "  it  is  in  Nevada,  in  the  city  which  has 
risen  on  my  own  ground,  surrounding  my  own  works.  You  will 
not  find  it  on  any  map,  because  the  city  has  only  been  built  two  or 

three  years.    You  go  first  to  Colorado,  and  next But  no  matter 

for  these  details.     They  can  wait." 

It  will  be  seen  presently  with  what  object  the  Colonel  was  deceiv- 
ing the  unfortunate  Philosopher. 

"  Children,"  he  said  that  evening,  "  the  way  is  now  clear  to  me. 
Should  you  like  to  go  to  Nevada  ?" 

Nevada  !  Bret  Harte's  books  were  about  Nevada,  were  they  not  ? 
Nevada!  where  there  are  rocky  mountains,  grizzly  bears,  silver- 
mines,  adventurers,  wolves,  buffaloes,  prairies,  rattlesnakes,  perils 
and  dangers,  wealth,  revolvers,  bowie-knives,  and  happiness !  Go 
to  Nevada  ?  Kepler  looked  at  Tycho  Brahe,  and  gasped.  Ptolemy 
seized  Galileo  by  the  hand,  and  said,  "  Oh,  oh  1"  slowly,  and  from 
his  heart. 

"  "Where  is  Nevada  ?"  asked  his  wife. 

"  It  is  one  of  the  newest  of  the  States.  It  is  the  place  where 
Mr.  Montoro  made  his  money.     You  did  not  know  that,  Milly  ?" 

"  No.     I  have  never  had  any  letters  from  Nevada." 

"  There  he  has  built  a  city — it  is  only  two  years  old — on  his  own 
grounds,  and  about  his  own  works  ;  and  in  the  city  is  the  college. 
I  am  offered — definitively  and  formally  offered — the  chair  of  astro- 
nomy.    (Shall  I  except  the  offer  ?" 

There  was  a  rapturous  shout. 

"  Well,  my  children,"  he  went  on,  "  if  it  is  ordained  that  I  achieve 
the  greatness  in  America,  which  Oxford  and  Cambridge  refuse  me, 
I  hope  that  I  shall  accept  it  in  a  becoming  spirit.  As  for  you  going 
with  me,  boys,  I  am  sure  that  with  Mr.  Montoro's  glorious  example 
before  us,  and  his  patronage  at  starting,  we  need  have  no  fear  or 
hesitation." 

And  then  there  was  such  joy  in  the  Ambler  family  as  would  have 
done  your  heart  good  only  to  see  it,  without  understanding  what  it 
was  about  at  all.  To  the  elder  boys  it  meant  wealth  unbounded, 
like  Mr.  Montoro's,  but  without  so  much  temper  ;  to  the  younger  it 
meant  change  and  fun — no  doubt  there  were  no  schools  in  Nevada; 
to  Copcrnica  it  meant  justice — tardy,  but  still  justice — to  her  father; 


A  BEAUTIFUL  DUE  AM.  183 

to  the  good  wife  it  meant  relief  from  tightness.  Who  would  not 
go  to  Nevada  for  a  thousand  pounds  a  year  ? 

Perhaps,  too,  they  all  thought  there  might  come  a  time  when 
there  would  be  less  talk  about  that  Grand  Discovery  which  made 
the  family  look  upon  all  glory  as  vanity,  so  much  had  it  spoiled  and 
wasted  the  father's  life. 

It  was  now  four  weeks  since  Mr.  Montoro's  return.  He  had 
partly  succeeded  in  reconciling  Milly.  She  did  not,  it  is  true,  ven- 
ture again  upon  the  mistake  of  kissing  him,  or  of  expecting  any 
caresses  from  him  ;  but  she  had  overcome  the  repulsion  which  at 
first  filled  her  soul  with  regard  to  him.  Perhaps,  if  he  had  behaved 
more  kindly  with  regard  to  George,  she  would  have  looked  upon  him 
with  some  approach  to  affection.  What  he  wanted  most,  however, 
he  had  got  from  her.  She  trusted  him ;  she  did  not  in  the  least 
suspect  him,  and  she  was  growing  very  nicely,  and  just  as  he  could 
wish,  to  feel  towards  the  great  Fortune  a  personal  interest.  He 
felt  sure  that  he  could  manage  the  rest  very  easily,  once  she  was 
away  from  her  friends.  You  do  not,  when  you  go  a-tempting, 
approach  the  subject  straight ;  you  work  round  it ;  you  talk  about 
other  things  ;  you  prepare  the  mind  for  it ;  you  sap  the  ground ; 
you  gradually  destroy  principle  ;  you  do  not,  at  last,  make  the  last 
step  till  you  are  perfectly  certain  of  success.  The  Colonel,  who  was 
a  veritable  serpent  for  craft  and  subtlety,  knew  that  it  would  take 
time  to  convert  an  innocent  girl  into  a  rogue,  thief,  and  confederate 
of  cheats  ;  but  he  knew  what  he  was  about,  and  he  also  knew  from 
long  experience  that  there  are  few  so  strong  as  to  resist  all  kinds  of 
temptation. 

He  now  took  his  next  step. 

"  I  must  tell  you,  Milly,"  he  said  with  a  touch  of  sorrow  in  his 
voice,  "  that  I  am  now  making  my  preparations  to  go  back  in  a 
week — this  day  week.  I  have  again  seen  Mr.  Richard  Ambler,  and 
I  hear  that  he  can  find  me  a  purchaser  for  the  houses,  and  will  draw 
up  the  necessary  papers  immediately.  You  have  heard  that  I  have 
given  Mr.  Ambler  a  post  in  my  college.  He  and  his  family  will 
therefore  start  at  once.  This,  if  you  persist  in  refusing  to  accom- 
pany me,  deprives  you  of  a  home." 

"  I  can  find  one  with  George." 

"I  shall  not  oppose  it,"  said  her  father.  "I  might  have  looked 
higher  for  my  daughter,  but  I  will  no  longer  oppose  your  inclina- 
tions. You  shall  marry  the  man  of  your  choice,  and  I  hope  you 
will  be  happy.  What  you  will  do  when  you  come  into  your  Fortune 
I  do  not  know.  You  will  not,  I  fear,  either  of  you,  be  equal  to 
the  position  in  which  you  will  find  yourselves.  However,  that  is, 
after  all,  not  my  business,  because  I  neglected  you  so  long.  It 
is  my  punishment  that  I  cannot  interfere  as  an  ordinary  parent 
might." 

"  You  are  very  kind  to  me  now,"  said  Milly. 

"  You  mean  that  I  was  not  always.     Perhaps  not — perhaps  not, 


1 84  A  GLORIOUS  FORTUNE. 

I  did  not  know  you,  Milly,  when  first  I  landed,  four  weeks  ago 
Forgive  me,  my  daughter  !" 

She  looked  at  him  in  surprise.  Strange  that  even  when  he  was 
at  his  softest,  using  words  which  in  other  men  would  have  been 
accompanied  by  some  outward  sign  of  tenderness,  his  eyes  were  as 
keen  and  his  mouth  as  hard  as  if  he  were  contemplating  something 
connected  with  fight  and  struggle. 

"  Now,  Milly,  I  have  been  thinking  a  good  bit  over  things,  and  I 
am  prepared  to  say  to  you,  '  Go  and  marry  your  lover.'  I  will  not 
ask  you  to  give  him  up,  and  come  across  the  water  with  me.  I  will 
even  make  a  handsome  allowance,  which  will  enable  you  to  live  like 
a  lady,  if  you  please." 

"  Oh  !"  she  replied,  taking  his  hand.  But  he  withdrew  it  quickly, 
as  if  afraid  of  her  falling  upon  his  neck  again.  "  I  did  not  expect 
this,"  she  added.     "  What  am  I  to  say  ?     How  shall  I  thank  you  ?" 

"  Nay,  I  want  no  thanks.  There  is  only  one  thing  you  might  do 
to  pleasure  your  father." 

"Why,  is  there  anything,  except  giving  up  George,  that  I  would 
not  do  ?" 

"  It  is  this,  Milly  :  You  know  I  have  been  a  long  time  from  home, 
but  I  have  never  forgotten  you ;  my  letters  prove  that.  Now,  it 
grieves  me  to  go  back  without  even  being  able  to  show  any  of  my 
kith  or  kin  what  I  have  done  and  the  edifice  I  have  raised.  It  is 
hard  to  have  no  one  belonging  to  you.  They  will  say  when  I  go 
back,  'Colonel' — they  call  me  Colonel,  out  there — 'how  did  you 
find  the  little  maid  ?' — that's  you,  Milly — that  is  you  ;  and  I  shall 
have  to  tell  them  in  reply  that  the  little  maid  is  grown  up  into  a 
woman,  who  doesn't  care  about  her  father — why,  how  should  she  ? 
it  is  not  in  reason  that  she  should— and  is  going  to  be  married  to  a 
lover  in  a  low  station  of  life.  And  there  is  not  a  creature  in  all  the 
world  who  cares  about  me.  It  seems  hard,  doesn't  it  ?  What  is 
the  use  of  money  if  it  can't  bring  me  that  kind  of  happiness  ?" 

The  tears  came  into  Milly's  eyes  as  she  stood  before  her  father 
and  listened.  They  would  have  flowed  more  readily  if  his  own  had 
showed  the  least  emotion. 

"  Then  I  thought  to  myself,  suppose  that  Milly  would  come  over 
with  me  for  a  year,  or  two  years — not  more.  Suppose  I  were  to  pro- 
mise her  faithfully  that  after  two  years,  at  most,  she  should  go  back 
to  her  lover,  if  she  pleased.  It  is  not  a  very  long  time,  two  years. 
Milly  is  young ;  her  lover  is  young.  He  may  very  well  wait  two  years. 
Come,  Milly,  what  do  you  say  ?  A  run  across  the  ocean,  a  ride 
across  the  continent.  First,  Nevada  for  a  year  or  so  ;  then  we  will 
run  over  to  California  ;  perhaps  go  up  country  to — to  Oregon,"  he 
laughed.  "  Yes,  I  should  like  to  show  you  Oregon.  I  know  people 
in  Oregon  who  would  interest  you  very  much.  And  when  you  were 
tired  of  your  father,  and  his  great  house,  and  all,  you  could  come 
Btraight  away  back  to  your  lover's  arms.    What  do  you  say,  Milly  V" 

She  was  silent,  thinking.    Was  there  ever  a  more  reasonable  or 


A  BEAUTIFUL  DREAM.  185 

more  generous  offer  ?  He  would  let  her  do  what  she  pleased,  and 
only  suggested,  leaving  the  offer  for  her  consideration,  that  she 
should  give  him  two  years  of  her  society. 

"  I  will  consult  George  about  it,"  she  said  at  length. 

"Soit!  Let  it  be  so.  Consult  this  infallible  George.  Milly, 
one  word  of  advice.  Don't  let  George  know  that  you  think  him 
infallible.  It  spoils  a  husband.  Your  mother  never  spoiled  me  in 
that  way.     Quite  the  contrary." 

That  evening  George  and  Milly  had  a  long  and  earnest  talk.  The 
proposal  made  by  Mr.  Montoro  seemed  really  prompted  by  affec- 
tion. After  two  years  she  might  return  to  him.  Was  two  years  a 
great  deal  for  a  father  to  ask  of  his  daughter  ?  And  then — one 
need  not  be  quixotic,  although  one  is  a  clerk  in  a  chemical  works, 
with  prospects — there  was  all  this  great  Fortune.  No  one  dcubted 
the  existence  of  the  Fortune,  any  more  than  they  suspecied  Mr. 
Montoro  of  being  somebody  else.  This  Glorious  Fortune  !  Her 
father  might  marry  again  ;  he  might  leave  it  away  from  his 
daughter  ;  he  might  do  anything  with  it.  Surely  it  was  worth  a 
little  concession  to  make  that  inheritance  safe. 

"  I  think,  dear,"  he  said  at  length,  "  I  think — how  can  I  part  with 
you  for  two  years  ? — that  you  ought  to  go." 

''  I  think  so,  too,  George.  But  I  am  afraid  of  him.  I  do  not 
know  why,  but  I  am  afraid  of  him.  The  Amblers  will  be  with  us. 
It  is  a  great  thing  that  Copernica  is  going.  But  I  am  afraid  of 
him." 

YI. 

JOHNNY    AGAIN. 

Milly  must  go,  then.  For  two  years  she  would  be  her  father's 
companion.  It  was  quite  right  and  just  ;  the  proposal  was  put  so 
generously  that  it  was  impossible  to  refuse.  Yet  George  came  away 
that  night  from  Veritas  Villa  in  great  sadness  and  despondency. 
Milly  was  afraid  of  her  father.  Would  he  suffer  her  to  return  after 
two  years  ?  He  was  afraid  of  the  man,  too.  He  knew  not  why, 
but  he  was  ;  the  sight  of  Mr.  Montoro  filled  him  with  a  kind  of 
rage.  What  business  had  such  a  man  with  such  a  daughter  ?  Some 
wise  men  hold  that  daughters  do  take  after,  and  resemble,  more  the 
father  than  the  mother,  which  is  an  admirable  thing  when  the 
character  of  the  father  is  worth  preserving  and  copying.  But  in 
what  single  respect  did  Milly  resemble  her  father  ? 

Filled  with  these  thoughts,  he  did  not  at  first  perceive  that  there 
was  a  man  wandering  about  in  the  middle  of  the  road  with  unsteady 
gait,  apparently  the  worse  for  drink,  and  looking  for  something. 
Presently  this  man  made  for  him  in  a  devious  and  zigzag  course, 
and  accosted  him.  His  voice  was  a  little  thick,  but  he  was  not  too 
drunk  to  express  himself.     He  knew  what  he  wanted. 


1 86  A  GLORIOUS  FORTUNE. 

"Sir,"  he  said— in  fact,  he  did  say  -'shir,"  and  he  ran  his  words 
together  a  little,  and  missed  a  syllable  here  and  there,  and  omitted 
many  of  the  minor  words,  pronouns,  conjunctions,  auxiliary  verbs, 
and  so  forth.  Let  us  hide  these  proofs  of  human  frailty  as  much  as 
possible,  and  print  what  he  meant  to  say  without  dwelling  too  much 
on  how  he  said  it.  We  are  all  human,  only  some  are  more  human 
than  others.  "  Sir,"  he  said,  "  can  you  tell  me  which  is  the  house  of 
Mr.  Ambler  ?" 

"  Mr.  Ambler's  house  ?"  George  stared.  "What  do  you  want 
with  Mr.  Ambler  ?  It  is  half -past  ten,  and  they  are  all  gone  to  bed. 
Come,  you  must  wait  to  see  Mr.  Ambler  till  to-morrow.  Do  you 
want  to  prove  that  the  world  is  square  ?" 

The  man  shook  his  head. 

"  Must  get  up  for  me.     Haven't  seen  her  nigh  twenty  years." 

"  Seen  whom  ?" 

"Seen  the  little  maid." 

"  What  little  maid  ?> 

"My  little  maid —my  daughter — Milly  Montoro." 

"What?" 

"  My  little  maid — my  dear  little  maid,"  this  strange  person  went 
on  repeating. 

Why,  it  was  like  the  burden  of  Milly's  father's  letters.  They 
were  full  of  "  my  little  maid,  my  dear  little  maid  !" 

"  Who  are  you,  then  ?"  George  seized  him  by  the  shoulder. 
"  Stand  up,"  he  said,  "  try  to  be  sober.  Pretend  to  be  sober,  man. 
Who  the  devil  are  you,  then  ?" 

"I'm— I'm— her  father  :  the  little  maid's  father— Milly's  father." 

"  Her  father  !     What  is  your  name,  man  ?" 

"My  name  is  Montoro.  The  Colonel  called  me  Johnny.  Eeal 
Christian  name — baptized  name — is  a  fool  of  a  name — Worshipful 
Charles." 

"  Good  Lord  !"  cried  George.  "  But  you  are  drunk.  Where  do 
you  come  from  ?" 

"  The  Commercial  Docks,  Rotherhithe.  Came  over  from  Quebec 
n  timber  ship.     Was  ship's  cook." 

"  Look  here,"  said  George.  "  Whoever  you  are,  you  cannot  go  to 
the  house  to-night,  because  you  are  drunk,  and  because  it  is  late. 
You  must,  therefore,  come  with  me." 

He  took  the  man  by  the  arm,  and  led  him  unresisting  to  his  own 
lodgings,  which  were  not  far  off. 

"  Now,"  he  said,  turning  up  the  gas  in  the  sitting-room,  "  let  me 
look  at  you."     He  did  look,  and  he  trembled. 

The  man  was  dressed  in  an  old  and  ill-fitting  suit  of  black  cloth. 
I  do  not  think  there  is  any  kind  of  dress  in  which  a  man  may  look 
so  fearfully  shabby  as  a  suit  of  black.  This  is  partly  due  to  the 
fact  that  it  is  evening  dress,  and  should  suggest  social  cheerfulness. 
In  the  same  way,  no  one  could  possibly  look  more  melancholy  than 
a  clown  by  daylight  outside  his  show  and  in  official  dress.    A  dress- 


JOHNNY  AGAIN.  187 

coat,  too,  when  it  has  grown  old,  and  has  seen  long  service  in  some 
third-class  restaurant,  falls  into  curves,  lines,  and  folds  which  seem 
to  debase  and  degrade  the  figure  of  man  beneath.  This  man's 
whole  suit,  again,  was  disgracefully  and  deplorably  dirty,  and 
covered  with  streaks  of  grease.  Everything  was  to  match  ;  he  wore 
no  collar,  but  had  a  red  handkerchief  tied  about  his  neck,  and  a  grey 
flannel  shirt  in  rags  ;  his  hat  was  a  slouched  felt  of  the  commonest 
description.  He  took  off  the  hat  and  stood  in  the  light,  a  little 
sobered,  but  his  eyes  were  heavy  with  drink.  They  were  light  blue 
eyes,  unsteady  and  weak.  He  wore  a  long  greyish  beard,  but  his 
hair  was  brown  and  silky.  And  the  reason  why  George  trembled 
was  not  because  his  clothes  were  so  shabby,  but  because  his  face 
was  like  unto  the  face  of  his  sweetheart,  and  his  eyes  like  her  eyes, 
though  different  in  expression.  The  daughter  was  like  the  father, 
and  he  knew — he  was  perfectly  certain — that  before  him  stood  the 
man  whom  the  other  pretended  to  be. 

"  Once  more — who  do  you  say  you  are  ?" 

"  Worshipful  Charles  Montoro  is  my  name." 

"  Where  do  you  come  from  ?" 

"  From  Oregon  last,"  he  replied,  partly  sobered  by  this  young 
man's  earnestness.  "  I  came  from  Quebec  in  a  timber  vessel  ; 
shipped  as  cook." 

"  You  came  over  here  as  cook  ?    Where  is  all  your  money,  then  ?" 

The  man  shook  his  head. 

"  I  haven't  got  any  money,"  he  replied.  "  There  was  some  in  the 
bunk  ;  the  Colonel  stole  it." 

"  Where  is  your  Fortune,  then  ?" 

"  I  haven't  got  any  Fortune.     How  should  I  have  any  ?" 

"What  did  you  mean,  then,  by  your  letters  ?" 

"My  letters?  Oh!"  Then  he  put  his  hand  to  his  head  in  a 
feeble  way,  trying  to  understand.  Then  he  sat  down  looking  be- 
wildered. And  presently,  while  George  waited  for  further  explana- 
tion, his  head  fell  back  and  his  eyes  closed.  He  was  asleep.  And 
while  he  slept  he  looked  still  more  like  Hilly. 

The  man  slept  all  through  the  night,  George  mounting  guard 
over  him,  lest  he  should  wake  up  and  slip  away.  By  the  morning 
light  he  looked  more  disreputable  than  ever.  When  he  awoke  at 
seven,  George  took  him  into  his  own  bedroom,  and  gave  him,  to 
begin  with,  a  completely  new  rig-out,  in  which,  at  all  events,  he  pre- 
sented a  respectable  appearance.  The  man  was  very  much  subdued, 
and  asked  no  questions,  taking  what  was  offered  him,  and  doing  what 
he  was  told.  Apparently  a  gentle  and  amenable  person.  Then  George 
gave  him  breakfast,  and  after  breakfast  bade  him  tell  his  story. 

I  suppose  there  never  was  a  man,  since  gift  of  speech  was  first 
granted  to  humanity,  who  rambled  in  his  talk  so  much  as  Johnny  of 
Oregon  ;  what  he  had  to  tell  we  already  know,  but  George  did  not. 
He  got  at  last,  and  after  a  thousand  twistings  and  turnings,  to  the 
point  at  which  the  Colonel  came,  stayed  with  him  a  week,  proved 


1 88  A  GLORIOUS  FOX  TUNE. 

excellent  company,  and  finally  made  off  with  the  money  and  the 
letters.     Then  ho  went  on  : 

"  When  the  Colonel  stole  that  money,  and  the  letters  as  well,  and 
I  could  not  come  up  with  him,  nor  hear  of  him  anywheres,  I  hadn't 
the  heart  to  go  back  to  the  clcarin',  and  hung  around  a  bit  doin'  odd 
jobs,  as  many  are  ready  to  do  all  over  the  States.  And  so  somehow 
I  worked  my  way  back  again  to  the  east,  and  in  the  spring  got  to 
Quebec.  Now  when  you  stand  on  the  hill  at  Quebec  and  look 
across  to  the  east,  it  seems  as  if  you  can  see  all  the  way  across  the 
water  to  London.  Curious  that,  isn't  it  ?  And  what  with  havin' 
none  of  her  letters  to  read,  and  lookin'  across  the  water,  and  think- 
ing I  was  gazing  upon  Hackney  Wick,  I  fell  to  dreamin'  about  the 
little  maid,  and  longin'  to  see  her  again." 

"  So  you  come  home,  and  got  drunk  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  that  is  so.  Oh,  I  knew  very  well  I  should  have  to 
own  up  !  And  I  knew  what  they  would  say;  particularly  Matilda's 
sister,  P'leena,  who  married  very  well,  and  now  keeps  carriage  com- 
pany. It  would  be  rough  on  the  little  maid  at  first  to  see  her  father 
such  a  disgraceful  old  pauper,  and  a  shame  to  a  respectable  terrace 
to  be  seen  loafin'  around,  after  all  I'd  told  her,  too.  First  I  thought 
I  would  just  look  over  the  palings  like,  and  go  away  ;  somebody 
would  tell  me  which  of  them  she  was  ;  perhaps  I'd  beg  a  copper  to 
carry  away  and  remember  her  by.  Then  I  thought  how  would  it 
be  if  I  made  a  clean  breast  and  begged  her  pardon  humble,  and  so 
went  away  again.  All  the  journey  across  the  ocean  in  that  timber 
ship  I  thought  about  it,  and  what  I  should  do.  And  when  I  got 
across  to  Poplar  only  this  morning,  I  tell  you,  sir,  I'd  no  more 
notion  of  what  was  best  to  be  done  than  when  I  started." 

"  Perhaps  you  never  have  had  any  notion  in  all  your  life  of  what 
was  best  to  be  done." 

"  Perhaps  not,  sir.  Men  who  see  clear  got  on  in  the  world.  1 
never  saw  farther  than  the  end  of  the  job." 

"  But  why  did  you  get  drunk  ?" 

"  Well,  'twasn't  right ;  but  think  of  it.  I  hadn't  seen  a  public- 
house  for  nineteen  years.  They  haven't  got  any  where  I've  been. 
They've  got  bars  ;  but  if  you  want  a  comfortable  drink,  with  a 
pipe  and  a  friend  to  talk  to,  you  must  come  to  England.  I  don't 
quite  know  how  many  public-houses  there  arc  on  the  straight  road 
between  this  and  Poplar,  but  I  tried  the  drink  at  most,  with  a  pipe 
here  and  a  pipe  there,  f eelin'  comfortable  because  I  was  workin'  my 
way,  you  see,  with  the  little  maid  at  the  end  of  the  way." 

"  And  so  you  got  disgracefully  drunk.     Yes — I  see." 

There  seemed  no  possibility  of  doubting  or  disputing  the  man's 
statements  ;  thoy  were  told  too  naturally  for  deception.  But  what 
was  to  be  done  next  ? 

"  What  is  tho  Colonel  like  ?" 

Johnny  described  the  man  who  had  repaid  his  hospitality  by 
stealing  his  money.     He  described  him  so  exactly,  that  there  was 


yOHNN  Y  A  GA  IN.  189 

little  doubt  in  George's  mind  who  was  the  personator,  in  spite  of 
the  discrepancies  of  beard  and  moustache. 

"  As  for  his  profession,  he's  a  sportsman,"  continued  his  informer. 
"He  sometimes  plays  alone,  and  sometimes  he's  one  of  a  gang. 
Sometimes  he  travels  and  plays  in  the  cars  ;  sometimes  he  goes  to 
bars,  and  sometimes  he  keeps  a  gaming-saloon.  There's  thousands 
like  him  in  the  countries  where  I've  been.  Very  good  company 
they  are  when  there's  no  plunderin'  and  cheatin'  around.  If  there's 
a  quarrel— which  there  mostly  is — it's  wild  cats.  I  was  a  peaceful 
man,  I  was,  and  nobody  never  drew  bead  on  me  ;  but  I've  seen 
many  a  fight  over  the  cards,  and  now  and  then  a  quiet  man  like 
myself  got  hit  when  the  firm'  begun.  The  best  way  is  to  roll  over 
and  lie  on  the  floor  till  it's  over.  I  remember  now,  once,  down 
to " 

"  Never  mind  that.     Let  us  get  on." 

"  I'm  a  peaceful  man,"  he  continued,  repeating  himself  as  usual  ; 
"  yet  if  I  had  come  across  the  Colonel  after  he  stole  my  money,  I'd 
have  shot  him — yes,  if  I  hanged  for  it.  Seems  now  as  if  I  don't 
care  much  about  it  any  more.  I  never  had  any  money  before  I 
found  that  roll  of  notes  in  the  empty  cabin,  and  I'm  no  worse  off 
than  I  was  then.  P'r'aps  I  shall  go  back  to  Oregon,  and  live  in  the 
cabin  again  by  myself  when  I've  seen  the  little  maid.  It's  quiet 
living  all  by  myself.  When  you  go  about  in  gangs  there's  no  such 
thing  as  getting  an  hour's  quiet ;  and  a  peaceful  man  loves  to  be 
quiet.  Lord  !  if  you'd  heard  the  language  I  had  to  hear  every  day, 
you'd  like  a  few  years'  quiet.  No  ;  I  don't  care  so  much  about  the 
money,  and  of  course  the  Colonel  has  lost  it  all  by  this  time." 

"  You  want  to  see  your  daughter.  I  will  help  you,  but  on  con- 
ditions.    First,  I  must  tell  you  that  I  am  going  to  marry  her." 

"You  are  going  to  marry  my  little  maid  !"  He  stared  in  great 
amazement.     "  Why,  she  can't " 

"  I  am  sure,"  said  George,  "  that  she  has  not  remained  a  baby  in 
arms  for  nineteen  years.  Yes  ;  I  am  going  to  marry  her.  And  it 
seems  to  me  that  the  sooner  I  do  it  the  better." 

"  Well,  sir,  it's  real  friendly  of  you,  and  I  hope  she'll  make  a  good 
wife,  and  that  you'll  treat  her  kindly.  But  I  do  assure  you,  sir, 
that  it  is  not  my  wish  nor  my  intention  to  disgrace  my  daughter  by 
staying  at  home.-  No,  sir  ;  a  clerk  I  was  once,  with  three  pound  a 
week,  and  therefore  a  gentleman.  But  I've  had  that  knocked  out 
of  me  long  ago  ;  and  now  I'm  only  a  common  loafer  and  tramp, 
except  when  I'm  on  my  clearin'  in  Oregon,  and  the  whisky-bottle's 
most  always  too  much  for  me.  She  shan't  blush  for  her  father,  sir 
— not  after  the  first  go-off,  after  I've  had  to  own  up.  Tell  me,  sir, 
does  she  think  much  about  the  Fortune  ?  Does  she  want  money 
sent  home  to  her  to  keep  up  her  position,  like  her  poor  mother  ?" 

"  No,  she  does  not.  She  believes — or  did  believe  until  the  other 
day — that  you  are  dead,  and  your  Fortune  all  lost,  or  fallen  into 
wrong  hands.     The  loss  of  what  she  did  not  expect  will  certainly 


l9o  A   GLORIOUS  FORTUNE. 

not  gi-ieve  her  much — not  half  so  much  as  to  learn  that  her  father, 
of  whom  she  has  learnt  to  think  so  tenderly,  is  a  man  who — finds  a 
whisky-bottle  most  always  too  much  for  him." 

The  man  hung  his  head  like  a  schoolboy  receiving  reproof. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  ;  "  I  mustn't  stay  at  home — that's  a  fact.  Can't  I 
go  over  this  morning  and  have  it  out  with  her,  and  go  away  again  ?" 

"  No,"  George  replied  with  energy,  "  you  cannot.  It  is  one  of 
the  conditions  I  make  with  you.  You  are  to  stay  here  quietly,  for 
a  week  if  necessary ;  you  must  not  go  out  unless  I  go  with  you. 
You  must  not  make  any  attempt  at  all  to  speak  with  her.  Do  you 
promise  ?" 

The  man  hesitated. 

"If  you  will  not,"  said  George,  "I  will  make  you  put  on  again 
those  disgraceful  clothes  ;  I  will  give  you  a  bottle  of  whisky,  and 
turn  you  into  the  road  ;  you  can  then  drink  yourself  blind  drunk, 
and  stagger  off  to  find  your  daughter,  and  make  her  have  you 
marched  off  to  the  station  as  a  drunken  vagabond." 

The  man  shuddered  and  trembled. 

"  I  will  do,"  he  replied,  "  whatever  you  tell  me." 

"Very  well,  then.  Stay  at  home — here — until  I  come  back.  You 
may  smoke  a  pipe  all  day  long  if  you  like,  but  there  is  no  drink. 
Do  you  promise  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  I  will  do  what  you  order.  I  wouldn't  shame  the  little 
maid." 

"  Very  good.  But  just  tell  me  what  you  did  it  for.  What  was 
the  good  of  deceiving  her  about  your  success  ?" 

"  Well,  now  " — he  had  grafted  a  kind  of  American  drawl  upon  a 
full  and  rich  Cockney  twang,  the  result  of  which  gave  a  peculiar 
flavour  to  his  speech — "  well,  now,"  he  said  slowly,  "  put  it  to  your- 
self. Here's  a  child  at  home  taught  to  believe  her  father  a  lazy  and 
idle  fellow,  with  no  smartness.  Her  mother  taught  her  that,  likely. 
Here's  a  father  a  good  many  miles  away,  who  wants  that  child  to 
stick  out  her  chin  like  girls  who  have  pride  in  their  parents,  as  some 
do,  not  only  in  Stamford  Hill,  but  also  Tottenham,  and  many  other 
places.  Nothin'  makes  a  girl  so  proud  and  haughty,  and  therefore 
happy,  as  being  .•are  she's  got  a  great  and  noble  father.  I  remember 
them  in  church  on  a  Sunday  morning,  their  father  being  perhaps  an 
alderman,  and  perhaps  a  common  council  man.  What  does  that 
father  do  ?  Twice  a  year  ho  borrows  a  sheet  of  paper,  and  on  the 
Sabbath,  when  the  rest  are  asleep  or  playin'  monty,  ho  sits  and 
writes  to  that  daughter  letters  which  shall  make  her  proud  and 
happy.  Do  you  call  that,  sir,  doiu'  of  a  parent's  duty,  or  do  you 
not?" 

George  did  a  very  unusual  thing  that  morning  ;  he  asked  for  a 
week's  holiday,  and  was  granted  it. 

He  began  his  week  by  a  very  busy  and  important  morning. 
First,  he  had  a  long  conference  with  Mr.  Richard  Ambler,  in  which 


JOHNNY  AGAIN.  191 

many  things  of  interest  were  considered  and  action  resolved 
upon. 

"Remember,"  said  the  solicitor,  "you  have  to  protect  Milly 
against  the  real  man  as  well  as  against  the  pretender.  And  sup- 
pose the  real  man  wants  to  sell  her  houses  and  pocket  the  money  ?" 

"  He  will  not,"  said  George. 

"  I  do  not  know.  Perhaps  he  will  not  be  tempted.  As  for  Regi- 
nald, leave  him  to  me.  Professor  of  Astronomy,  indeed !  But 
what  is  the  use  of  fooling  poor  Reginald  ?  And  to  think  that  not 
one  of  us  suspected  the  fellow !  Now  go,  and  lose  no  time.  We 
have  the  rogue  safe  enough,  but  I  do  not  know  yet  if  we  can  pro- 
ceed against  him  criminally." 

"  At  all  e^-mts,  he  stole  the  notes." 

"Yes,  yes,  but  it  was  in  Oregon,  and  perhaps  they  might  ask  to 
whom  these  notes  belonged  ;  on  the  whole,  it  is  a  tangled  business. 
He  has  attempted  to  defraud  iu  instructing  me  to  sell  the  property, 
but  in  doing  this  he  injures  not  me  nor  his  daughter,  but  the  right- 
ful owner,  who  is  this  man  Montoro  himself  ;  and  from  your  account 
I  should  say  he  would  not  be  a  likely  man  to  become  a  prosecutor 
or  give  good  evidence." 

"  The  limpest  weed  of  a  man  you  ever  saw,"  said  George. 

In  the  evening  George  came  home.  His  prisoner  had  been  asleep 
most  of  the  day,  and  had  obediently  kept  within  the  house. 

"  Very  good,"  said  George  ;  "  I  will  now  reward  you." 

He  took  him  out,  and  walked  in  the  direction  of  Veritas  Villa. 
At  this  time,  in  these  summer  evenings,  the  Discoverer's  family 
were  generally  in  the  garden  playing  lawn-tennK  This  evening 
they  were  all  on  the  lawn  together,  Milly  with  them,  playing. 
There  was  only  a  low  wooden  paling,  over  which  one  could  easily 
look  without  the  appearance  of  curiosity  or  impertinence. 

"There,"  said  George,  "is  your  daughter.  Not  the  little  girl 
with  the  glasses  ;  she  is  only  fifteen,  and  Mr.  Ambler's  daughter. 
The  taller  girl.  Look  at  her  well.  In  a  day  or  two  you  shall  speak 
to  her." 

The  man  looked  his  best.  When  George,  a  few  minutes  later, 
drew  him  away,  the  tears  were  running  down  his  face. 

"  I  see,"  said  George,  "  that  your  story  is  true.  You  are  really 
Milly's  father.    But  I  was  certain  of  it  from  the  beginning." 

VII. 

TILL  TO-MORROW. 

The  next  morning  George  greatly  astonished  tlie  inhabitants  of 
Veritas  Villa  by  paying  them  a  visit  in  the  morning — a  thing  never 
known  before.  He  explained  that,  as  he  had  a  holiday,  he  thought 
he  would  just  look  round  and  see  them.  His  cousin  Reginald  was 
jn  the  map-room  ?     He  would  go  there. 


192  A  GLORIOUS  FORTUNE. 

He  found  the  Discoverer,  aided  by  Copernica,  spectacles  on  nose, 
busily  engaged  in  cataloguing  books,  looking  through  letters,  roll- 
ing up  maps,  and  between  these  labours  making  notes  for  that 
great  inaugural  lecture  which  was  to  revolutionize  astronomical 
research,  in  America  first,  and  the  Old  World  next.  It  was  already 
a  voluminous  mass  of  notes — the  Philosopher  belonging  to  the 
school  which  thinks  that  the  longer  they  make  their  utterances  the 
more  likely  they  are  to  be  listened  to.  In  the  same  way  the 
scholars  of  the  Renaissance  used  to  believe  that  the  bigger  their 
books  the  more  certain  would  be  their  immortality.  And  there 
are  not  wanting  poets  of  this  very  century  who  also  believe  that 
the  more  they  write  the  better  they  will  be  loved  and  preserved, 
and  their  memory  kept  green.  As  for  novelists,  they  do  not  count, 
because  nobody  ever  supposes  that  a  picture  of  life  can  be  thought 
worthy  of  preservation — lucky  those  who  get  read  by  their  own 
generation. 

"  Come  in,  come  in,  George  I"  cried  Reginald  cheerily.  "  Here 
we  are,  hard  at  work — hard  at  work.  I  expect  we  shall  have  to 
sail  in  a  week  or  two — as  soon,  that  is,  as  we  can  sell  off  our  sticks 
and  get  rid  of  the  house.  I  am  writing  my  inaugural  lecture. 
This,  George,"  he  added  with  great  seriousness,  "  is  the  most  im- 
portant piece  of  work,  I  am  convinced,  that  I  have  ever  yet  been 
called  upon  to  do.  In  it  I  have  to  strike  a  note,  such  a  note  as 
shall  be  at  once  an  alarm  and  a  message  of  Truth,  and  an  echo '' — 
he  did  not  explain  how  an  alarm  could  be  all  these — "  yes,  and 
shall  re-echo  through  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  land,  from 
the  North  Pole  to  the — to  the  mysterious  ice-caverns  of  the  Outer 
Rim.  A  college  class,  George,  is  a  very  serious  thing,  it  is  a 
sacred  thing.  I  may  regard  my  own  as  a  collection  of  empty 
vessels  waiting  to  be  filled,  or  as  so  many  canals  which  have  to 
irrigate  a  thirsty  country,  or  as  so  many  springs  of  Truth.  Ought 
we  not,  myself  and  Copernica,  who  shall  be  my  assistant  lecturer, 
to  consider  ourselves  as  instruments  appointed  for  the  spreading 
of  Truth,  or  even  prophets  ?" 

Copernica  blushed  and  gasped,  and  adjusted  her  glasses. 

"  Ought  we  not,  I  say " 

"You  certainly  ought,"  George  repVed,  rudely  interrupting. 
"  But,  Reginald — I  will  not  stop  your  work  many  minutes— are 
you  quite  sure  that  it  is  wise  to  build  upon  this  offer,  to  jump  at  the 
conclusion  that  you  ought  to  accept  it,  to  be  so  certain  of  going  ?" 

"  Why,  George,"  the  Discoverer  smiled,  "  as  regards  the  wisdom 
of  the  step,  I  may  be  allowed  to  be  the  best  judge  ;  as  regards 
the  certainty  of  going,  I  have  already  accepted  the  offer." 

"Yes,  yes;  but,  Reginald,  are  you  quite  sure" — here  George 
looked  confused — "  that  it  is  a  genuine  offer  ?" 

"  Genuine  offer  !  What  do  you  mean,  George  ?  The  offer  is 
made  by  Mr.  Montoro  himself — by  Milly's  own  father.  Surely  I 
can  trust  Milly's  father  ?" 


TILL  TO-MORROW.  533 

"Yes,  I  believe  you  can  trust  Milly's  father." 

George  could  not  help  saying  this. 

"  When  he  offers  me  such  a  post,  what  can  I  do  but  accept  with 
gratitude?'' 

"  Why,"  George  replied,  "  it  is  ungracious  to  look  a  gift-horse 
in  the  mouth  ;  but  I  think,  if  I  were  you,  I  would  first  find  out 
where  the  college  is." 

"  It  is  in  Nevada,  near  the  city  of  Colorado.  I  know  where  it  is." 

"  In  Nevada.  Yes,  yes.  That  is  a  long  way  off.  Would  it  not 
be  prudent  first  to  get  the  prospectus,  papers,  calendar,  or  what- 
ever the  college  has  got  to  prove  its  existence  ?" 

"  Now,  George."  Mr.  Ambler  was  really  annoyed  at  this  appear  • 
ance  of  distrust.  "  In  Milly's  father's  hands  I  am  quite  safe. 
'He  is  bound  to  us,'  he  kindly  says,  'by  bonds  of  gratitude;" 
though  Heaven  knows  Milly  has  done  ten  times  as  much  for  us 
as  we  have  done  for  her.  It  is  all  quite  settled.  I  have  told 
Cousin  Dick  to  have  my  funds  sold  out,  and  placed  to  my  credit 
in  the  bank.  When  we  get  out,  Mr.  Montoro  is  going  to  invest 
the  money  for  us  at  ten  or  twelve  per  cent.  Think  of  that, 
after  a  beggarly  three  !  Milly  is  going  with  us."  George  started. 
He  had  not  quite  realized  what  this  meant.  "  Going  too.  We 
shall  be  quite  a  family  party.  George !  What  are  you  swearing 
for  ?  and  what  are  you  banging  the  table  for  ?"  Because  George 
suddenly  remembered  that  he  had  only  the  night  before  agreed 
to  entrust  Milly  to  this  villain's  care  for  two  years. 

"  George,"  said  Copernica,  frightened,  "  don't  look  like  that. 
What  is  the  matter  ?  Because  Milly  is  to  go  away  for  two  years  ? 
Oh,  for  shame !" 

He  made  a  desperate  .effort,  and  controlled  himself. 

"  I  want  you  seriously,  Reginald,"  he  said,  speaking  calmly, 
"  to  consider  the  possibility  of  your  not  going  at  all." 

"  I  cannot." 

"  Oh,  George,"  said  Copernica,  "  when  he  has  got  the  chance 
at  last  of  spreading  the  Truth  all  over  the  world." 

"He  can  spread  the  Truth  just  as  well — better  even — from 
Veritas  Villa,"  replied  George  cruelly.  "  Reginald,"  he  repeated, 
'•you  must  renounce  this  project." 

"  What  1  and  give  up  my  professorship  ?" 

"  Why,  George  ?"  asked  Copernica.  "  Why  is  he  to  renounce  the 
project  V" 

"  Because — because  there  is  a  very  good  reason,  but  I  cannot  tell 
you  to-day." 

"If  there  is  a  good  reason,"  Copernica  insisted,  "all  the  more 
reason  for  telling  it  at  once." 

"  No.  But  think,  Reginald,  what  would  the  place  be  to  you,  even 
if  it  were  all  that  has  been  represented  to  you  ?  An  obscure  college, 
in  a  new,  far-olf  American  town,  a  ,place  where  your  voice  would 
not  reach  beyond  the  walls  of  the  lecture-room  with  its  half-dozen 

13 


194  A  GLORIOUS  FORTUNE. 

students.  Call  that  an  opening  ?  Why,  here  in  London  you  address 
the  whole  world.  Everybody  looks  to  London.  Things  said  and 
written  in  London  go  over  the  whole  world.  You  are  at  the  head 
of  a  society,  growing  " — here  he  stammered,  but  held  on  bravely — 
"  growing  daily  and  rapidly  in  importance.  You  know  that  they 
are  afraid  of  you  at  the  universities.  If  you  were  in  America  you 
would  be  out  of  their  way  ;  they  would  fear  you  no  longer.  They 
ask  for  nothing  better  than  your  removal.  Mr.  Montoro  is  playing 
into  their  hands.  As  for  your  society,  it  would  fall  to  pieces,  and 
your  theories  would  be  set  aside,  and  speedily  forgotten,  while  you 
were  eating  out  your  heart  in  obscurity.  It  would  be  exactly  as  if 
you  had  never  lived,  while,  after  your  death,  some  one  would  take 
up  your  ideas  and  steal  them,  and  bring  them  over  here  and  pretend 
that  they  were  his  own.  But  here  you  live  like  a  king — like  a 
king,"  he  repeatedly  mendaciously.  "You  control  the  scientific 
world,  you  keep  your  trembling  opponents  in  perpetual  terror;  they 
are  obliged  to  have  recourse  to  every  kind  of  disreputable  dodge 
which  you  defeat ;  they  try  to  close  one  avenue,  you  open  another. 
This  incessant  activity  frightens  them  ;  it  confounds  them  ;  they 
never  know  on  what  side  they  are  next  to  be  attacked.  Consider 
this,  my  dear  Reginald." 

"George,"  murmured  the  girl,  "you  don't  mean  it.  You  have 
never  talked  like  this  before.  If  only  you  meant  it,  you  would  be 
a  Recruit,  and  the  best  we  have  ever  had." 

"  I  mean  every  word,"  he  replied,  though  he  felt  that  his  name 
ought  to  have  been  written  Ananias — "every  word  I  have  said. 
And  as  for  you,  Copernica,  instead  of  crying  out  upon  me  for  being 
unkind,  you  ought  to  be  backing  your  father  up,  and  making  him 
feel  that  his  right  place  is  where  he  is  sitting,  in  his  wooden  chair 
in  the  map-room  at  Veritas  Villa,  ready  to  fight  with  all  comers." 

"But  what  does  it  mean?"  asked  Reginald  blankly.  "  Tell  us 
only  what  you  mean." 

"  I  cannot  to-day.  But  I  will  tell  you  to-morrow  morning. 
Meantime,  for  Heaven's  sake  cease  to  build  your  hopes  upon  this 
project  I" 

"  As  for  the  honour  of  Mr.  Montoro "  Reginald  began,  but 

stopped  short,  because,  to  his  amazement,  George  began  to  clench 
his  fist,  grind  his  teeth,  jump  about  the  room,  and  show  all  the  ex- 
ternal signs  of  a  wrath  which  can  be  only  appeased  and  satisfied  by 
the  kickings,  whackings,  and  free  fights  of  the  good  old  times. 

Some  day — we  may  not  live  to  see  it — we  shall  return  to  that 
excellent  method  of  our  ancestors.  There  are  many  men  with 
whom  one  would  like  to  have  it  out  "  en  champ  clos."  I  should, 
myself,  enormously  enjoy  contemplating  my  enemy  after  I  had 
taken  the  conceit  out  of  him  with  a  battle-axe. 

This  entanglement  with  Reginald  Ambler  was  difficult  to  under- 
stand. What  did  the  man  want  ?  To  get  them  all  out  in  America 
away  from  their  friends,  and  to  rob  them  ?    It  must  be  that.     Or 


TILL  TO-MORROW.  195 

was  it  possibly  pure  devilry  and  wanton  mischief  ?  Not  the  latter, 
certainly.  The  Colonel  was  not  at  all  the  man  to  perpetrate  such  a 
gigantic  hoax.  One  may  imagine  Theodore  Hook  doing  such  a 
thing  if  he  had  got  the  chance  and  it  occurred  to  him  ;  and  how  he 
would  have  made  a  song  about  it,  and  how  they  would  all  have 
laughed  over  their  punch  in  the  delicate  and  feeling  manner  of  their 
time  at  the  fine  situation  of  the  broken-hearted  enthusiast.  But 
not  the  Colonel  ;  he  did  not  desire  to  laugh — had  not  laughed,  in 
fact,  for  something  like  twenty  years,  that  is  to  say,  ever  since  he 
began  to  live  on  his  wits.  Those  savages  of  Ceylon,  who  never 
laugh,  and  only  begin  to  smile  when  they  are  defunct  and  ghosts, 
live  on  their  wits,  which  accounts  for  their  melancholy.  What  tbe 
Colonel  was  contriving  was  pure  rascality  and  robbery.  In  order 
to  set  up  his  gaming-saloon  in  the  best  style  he  wanted  as  much 
money  to  begin  with  as  he  could  command.  And  he  saw  his  way 
to  getting  a  good  large  haul  out  of  Reginald  Ambler.  However, 
George  said  no  more,  but  left  them  abruptly.  Then  Copernica 
burst  into  tears,  and  threw  herself  into  her  father's  arms. 

"  Oh,  papa  dear,  what  is  it  ?  what  does  he  mean  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know,  child.  How  should  I  know  ?  Is  George  gone 
mad  ?" 

No  ;  she  shook  her  head.     George  was  certainly  not  gone  mad. 

"There  is  something  behind,"  she  cried  ;  "  George  does  not  talk 
at  random.     Oh  !  what  is  it  ?" 

"  I  would  stake  my  life,"  said  her  father  shortly,  "  on  Mr.  Mon- 
toro's  honour.  Why — is  George  silly  ?  Here  comes  home  a  man  who 
has  been  so  busy  for  twenty  years  making  a  great  Fortune  that  he  has 
never  even  had  time  to  come  home  before — he  is  changed,  of  course. 
No  one  expected  in  a  rich  millionnaire  the  manner  of  a  clerk,  which  he 
was  before  he  went  out.  Everybody  says  he  was  once  a  very  meek 
and  humble  creature.  He  isn't  now.  But  so  rich  and  successful 
a  man  can  afford  to  be  a  little  overbearing.  He  comes  home, 
then " 

"  Father,"  said  Copernica  desperately,  "  we  may  go  on  talking  till 
to-morrow  morning,  when  George  is  to  tell  us  what  he  means.  Talk 
as  much  as  we  like,  we  shall  get  no  further  forward.  Shall  we  try 
and  make  believe  that  the  whole  thing  is  a  dream,  and  that  we  shall 
not  go  out  at  all,  so  that  we  shall  feel  the  blow  less  ?" 

"  I  can't,  my  dear,"  her  father  replied.  "  I  think  I  must  go  out  to 
America  or  somewhere  else  and  have  my  say,  or  choke.  Here  no  one 
will  listen  to  me." 

"  They  wouldn't  listen  to  Galileo." 

"  I  wish  they  never  had.  But  as  for  me,  I  must  speak.  And  this 
is  my  only  chance." 

"  To-morrow  morning — let  us  wait  till  to-morrow  morning.  At 
any  rate,  papa  dear,  if  the  worst  were  to  happen — that  is  to  say,  if 
we  could  not  go — we  should  be  exactly  the  same  as  we  were  before 
Mr.  Montoro  came.    But,  oh,  it  is  impossible  !" 

13-2 


196  A  GLORIOUS  FORTUNE. 

"It  is  impossible,"  said  her  father,  trying  to  feel  the  confidence  of 
his  words  ;  "  George  has  got  a  bee  in  his  bonnet.  Many  chemists 
get  bees  in  their  bonnets.  Let  us  go  on  with  our  work,  Copernica. 
Let  us  lose  no  time.     The  college  must  find  us  prepared." 

But  his  hand  shook,  and  his  brain  was  troubled. 

For  there  was  a  thing  which  he  had  not  told. 

On  the  morning  before,  Mr.  Montoro  bad  held  with  him  a  last 
conference  on  the  subject  of  the  college  and  the  chair  ;  he  gave  him 
a  paper  of  instructions  how  to  get  to  Colorado,  showing  what  would 
be  the  cost  of  the  journey,  the  time  taken,  and  the  best  way  there. 
It  was  a  paper  calculated  to  carry  conviction  to  the  mind  of  the  most 
suspicious,  even  a  Yankee  lawyer.  In  fact,  there  is  nothing  which 
one  man  cannot  persuade  another  to  believe  if  heigets  him  quiet  and 
away  from  his  fellow-creatures.  In  the  smoking-room  of  a  club, 
for  instance,  nobody  believes  anybody.  In  the  retirement  of  the 
Discoverer's  map-room,  the  Colonel's  lies,  ingeniously  constructed, 
were  accepted  without  the  least  suspicion. 

"  And  now,  my  dear  friend,"  said  Mr.  Montoro  finally,  "I  think 
we  have  settled  everything.  I  cannot  tell  you  with  what  satisfac- 
tion I  look  upon  the  fact  that  we  have  secured  you  for  our  new 
college.  The  possession  of  genius  in  our  Professorial  Chairs  is, 
above  all,  the  great  thing  wanted  for  a  new  Institution.  Oh  yes, 
to  be  sure,  I  had  almost  forgotten.  About  your  own  money  matters. 
Have  you  arranged  them  ?" 

"  I  have  written  to  my  cousin,  who  manages  my  affairs,  to  sell  out 
my  stock  and  pay  the  amount  to  my  account  in  the  bank." 

"  Yes  ;  that  is  well.  We  can  get  you  better  interest  across  the 
water.     How  are  you  going  to  bring  it  with  you  ?" 

"  I  do  not  quite  know,"  replied  the  Philosopher,  who  bad  thought 
of  tying  it  up  in  gold,  and  so  bringing  it  in  his  pocket. 

"  Let  me  advise  you,"  said  Mr.  Montoro.  "  If  you  are  sure  yon 
can  quite  trust  me — actually  trust  me — I  will  pay  it  into  my  own 
account,  giving  you  a  note  or  receipt  for  it,  which  will  make  you 
quite  safe.  You  can  give  me  a  cheque  payable  to  bearer,  and  I  will 
save  you  all  further  trouble  about  it." 

This  was  a  perfectly  faithful  promise.  He  fully  intended  to  save 
Mr.  Ambler  and  his  family  all  trouble  about  the  money  for  the 
future. 

He  then  sat  down  and  calculated  the  cost  of  the  journey,  with  a 
margin  ;  he  was  very  particular  about  the  margin,  so  as  to  allow 
ample  room,  he  said,  for  possible  emergencies.  This  done,  he  sub- 
tracted the  total  amount  from  the  sum  lying  to  Mr.  Ambler's 
credit. 

"  There,"  he  said  pleasantly,  "  it  is  a  real  comfort  for  me  to  be  of 
a  little  assistance  as  a  practical  man  to  a  Genius  and  a  Philosopher. 
Draw  me  the  cheque,  payable  to  bearer — so.  When  did  you  order 
the  sale  of  the  stock  ?  Yes,  I  do  not  think  the  money  will  be 
paid  to  your  credit  till  the  day  after  to-morrow.     Theu  I  should 


TILL  TO-MORROW.  197 

think — but  that  matters  nothing  to  you.  So  sign  the  cheque- 
Reginald  Ambler.  Shake  hands,  my  dear  friend.  I  believe  firmly 
that  you  will  always  consider  this  as  the  very  luckiest  day  in  all  your 
life.  Courage  !  The  way  of  glory  lies  plain  and  clear  before  yon. 
Of  glory  ?  Ay,  and  of  wealth  and  success  to  your  boys.  For  I 
shall  take  care  of  them  all.     Yes,  I  charge  myself  with  them." 

It  was  the  memory  of  this  cheque  and  what  it  might  mean, 
because  the  poor  man  knew  nothing  about  stopping  cheques,  that 
lay  on  the  Discoverer's  conscience  as  heavy  as  lead. 

George  sought  Milly,  who  was,  if  one  may  confess  a  thing  which 
should  not  be  a  cause  of  shame,  in  the  kitchen  making  gooseberry 
jam.  This  is  a  conserve  favourably  regarded  by  the  youthful  palate, 
and  is  cheap.  To  the  adult  who  is  picksome,  the  jelly  of  Siberian 
crab,  which  is  soft  and  silky  to  the  palate—  as  they  say  of  claret  and 
of  tea — is  preferable,  and  so  is  the  preserve  made  of  blackberries, 
which  is  full-flavoured  and  fragrant,  yet  fresh  from  the  wood. 

"  Milly,  my  dear,"  he  said  cheerfully,  though  he  was  oppressed 
with  the  thing  he  had  to  face,  "  you  look  delightful  in  a  white 
apron,  and  your  fingers  are  so  sticky  that  you  are  defenceless." 

"  George,"  she  said  demurely,  "  did  you  stay  away  from  business 
on  purpose  to  kiss  me  ?" 

"  Not  quite,  dear  child.  On  the  contrary,  I  have  a  great  deal  to 
say  to  you.  First  of  all,  I  have  made  my  cousin  Reginald  miserable, 
and  Copernica  as  well." 

"  Oh  !     But  why  ?" 

"  Next,  I  am  going  to  make  you,  not  miserable,  but  full  of  wonder. 
My  dear  Milly,  a  very  strange  and  most  unexpected  thing  has  hap- 
pened. I  do  not  think  I  ought  to  tell  you  to-day  what  that  is.  In- 
deed, you  must  not  hint  or  let  fall  the  slightest  suspicion  that  any- 
thing at  all  has  happened." 

"Has  it  anything  to  do,  George,  with — with — with  my  father  ?" 

"  A  good  deal,  Milly.     But  ask  me  no  more." 

"  Yes,  tell  me  ;  is  it  anything  against  him  ?  I  told  you,  George, 
that  I  do  not  love  him  as  I  ought  to  love  my  father,  but " 

"But  his  honour  is  a  sacred  thing,  Milly.  There  is  nothing 
against  your  father's  honour  that  I  know  of.  Yet,  remember  that 
Mr.  Montoro  does  not  know  that,  and  must  not  be  told,  or  allowed 
for  a  moment  to  suspect,  until  to-morrow." 

"  It  looks  like  conspiring  against  one's  own  father  ;  but  I  do  not 
expect  that  he  will  come  here  to-day." 

"  It  is  not  that,  Milly,  as  you  will  toe  to-morrow.  It  is  conspiring 
for  him." 

"  George,  I  do  not  understand  in  the  least.  To-morrow  !  Why, 
he  is  coming  here  to-morrow,  to  meet  Mr.  Richard  about  the  sale  of 
the  houses.  Oh,  my  poor  houses  !  I  am  so  sorry  they  are  to  be 
Bold." 

"  I  don't  think  they  will  be  sold,"  said  George. 


198  A  GLORIOUS  FORTUNE. 

"  And  to-morrow  I  am  to  drive  about  London  to  buy  fine  things 
for  my  outfit." 

"  Perhaps  you  will  not  take  that  drive,"  said  George  mysteriously. 

"  And  I  had  a  letter  to-day  from  my  aunt  Paulina.  She  has  not 
seen  me  for  four  years,  but  I  told  her,  when  I  wrote  last,  that  my 
father  had  returned,  and  she  is  coming  here  to-morrow  to  see  him. 
'  Congratulate  him,'  she  says,  '  on  his  splendid  success,  and  we  shall 
always  be  pleased  to  see  him,  and  you  with  him,  at  Wimbledon.' " 

George  laughed. 

"  I  am  glad  your  aunt  is  coming.  It  will  be  another  agreeable 
surprise  for  your  father.    Does  he  know  ?" 

"  No,  he  does  not.  I  only  got  the  letter  this  morning.  He  has 
always  declared  that  he  does  not  desire  to  see  any  of  his  relations." 

"  Shall  you  send  him  the  letter  ?" 

"  Why,"  said  Milly,  "  my  father  has  never  even  told  me  where  he 
is  staying." 

"  I  can  tell  you  that,  if  you  want  to  know.  Stay — I  will  tell  you 
to-morrow." 

"  George,  you  are  most  mysterious.  Tell  me,  is  this  a  bad  thing 
that  has " 

"  No,  not  a  bad  thing.  It  is  such  a  good  thing,  Milly,  that  had  it 
not  happened" — his  face  darkened — "I  would  have  wished  you 
lying  dead  and  buried  in  the  graveyard,  and  myself  beside  you. 
Oh,  my  dear,"  again  he  clenched  his  fist,  and  looked  like  one  who 
thirsts  for  another  man  s  blood,  "  it  is  such  a  good  thing  that  we 
shall  have  to  go  in  humble  gratitude  for  it  all  the  rest  of  our  lives." 

"  And  I  shall  learn  it  to-morrow  ?  Why,  George,  what  can  it 
be  ?  It  is  not  money — nothing  to  do  with  money  would  make  you 
wish  me  dead.  And  you  say  that  it  does  not  affect  my  father's 
honour.     Why,  what  can  it  be  ?" 

"  You  shall  learn  it  to-morrow.  But  for  to-day,  Milly,  can  you 
trust  me  ?" 

|'  Why,  George  dear,"  she  said,  throwing  her  arm  round  his  neck 
— it  was  not  true  that  her  fingers  were  sticky — "  George,  if  I  can- 
not trust  you,  whom  am  I  to  trust  ?" 

"  Then,  my  darling,  obey  me  for  exactly  four-and-twenty  hours, 
and  I  will  obey  you  for  all  my  life  to  come.     Listen,  my  dear." 

He  whispered. 

The  effect  of  that  whisper  could  not  bo  equalled  even  by  the 
gallery  in  St.  Paul's  Cathedral.  Milly  blushed,  and  then  turned 
pale  ;  first,  her  eyes  looked  startled  and  frightened  ;  next,  they 
became  soft ;  first  she  opened  her  mouth  and  gasped  ;  then  her 
lips  trembled,  and  gradually  settled  into  a  smile. 

"  George,"  she  said,  "  do  you  mean  this  ?" 

For  reply  he  drew  out  a  document  and  showed  it  to  her.  She 
read  it  through  and  blushed  again.  It  was  a  formal  document, 
the  nature  of  which  became  evident  to  her  after  the  first  few  words 
of  preamble. 


TILL  TO-MORROW.  199 

"  But  I  sail  the  day  after  to-morrow." 

"  Do  you  think,  my  dear,  that  I  am  going  to  let  you  go  ?" 

"  But  what  am  I  to  say  ?     Oh,  George,  what  will  my  father  say  ?" 

"  He  will  approve — he  will  consent ;  and  yet  you  will  not  go  to 
America  with  him." 

"  Oh,  I  am  in  a  dream  !" 

"  Do  you  consent,  then,  my  dear  ?" 

She  gave  him  both  her  hands. 

"  Yes,  George  ;  only  tell  me  what  to  do." 

"  You  have  only  to  come  to  my  rooms  to-morrow  morning  at 
ten.  Bring  Copernica — poor  little  maid ! — with  you,  and  say 
nothing — not  one  word — to  anyone,  my  dear.  I  cannot  rest  for 
thinking  that  you  are  not  yet  under  my  protection.  Only  one  day 
more  to  wait.     You  cannot  be  carried  off  in  one  day." 

"  Who  is  to  carry  me  off,  George  ?" 

"There  is  only  one  man,  my  dear,  who  would  try,  but  he  is 
possessed  of  many  devils.  Kiss  me,  and  trust  me,  and  say 
nothing." 

All  that  day  there  was  a  restraint  at  Veritas  Yilla,  and  an  uneasy 
feeling  that  something  or  other  was  going  to  happen.  Copernica 
went  on  with  her  task  of  cataloguing,  but  without  heart ;  the  Dis- 
coverer continued  to  sit  before  the  notes  of  his  inaugural  lecture, 
but  somehow  his  enthusiasm  was,  for  the  moment,  quenched.  He 
even  fell  into  one  of  those  fits  of  despondency  which  sometimes, 
but  rarely,  filled  his  mind  with  the  blackness  of  despair,  because  at 
those  times  a  mocking  voice  asked  him  how  it  was  that  he  could 
never  account  for  a  lunar  eclipse.  What  should  he  say,  when  his 
class  asked  him  how,  on  his  system,  he  could  produce  an  eclipse  of 
the  moon  ? 

"  Father,"  said  Copernica  at  length,  "  it  is  no  use  trying  to  work. 
George  meant  something — he  never  talks  idly ;  but  let  us  put  the 
things  away  and  go  for  a  walk." 

She  took  her  father  to  the  banks  of  the  river,  where  they 
wandered  in  a  mood  of  settled  gloom.  The  child  tried  to  raise 
her  father's  spirits  by  pointing  out  the  many  proofs  of  the  earth's 
flatness  which  could  be  gathered  from  the  prospect  around  them. 
In  fact,  anyone  who  contemplates  the  Wanstead  Marshes  long 
enough  cannot  fail  of  arriving  at  the  conclusion  that  the  earth  is 
as  flat  as  a  pancake.  But  the  Discoverer  remained  dejected.  Was 
the  cup  to  be  dashed  away  from  his  lips  at  the  very  moment  of 
fruition  ?  Was  he  really  to  go  on  in  the  old  half-hearted  way, 
making  a  Recruit  now  and  then,  courting  contempt,  being  held  up 
to  ridicule  ?  And  then — the  recollection  of  that  cheque  lay  at  his 
heart.  Yet  if  one  could  not  trust  Milly's  father,  in  whom  was 
trust  to  be  placed  ? 

To-morrow — to-morrow  he  was  to  know. 

One  person  remained  to  be  prepared  ;  this  vas  the  unfortunate 


2co  A  GLOKIOUS  FORTUNE. 

Johnny.  George  took  him  in  the  afternoon  to  see  his  old  haunts. 
They  visited  together  the  places  which  he  had  known  in  the  old 
days  :  the  cottage  where  he  brought  home  his  young  wife,  and  was 
happy  before  the  sister  married  into  carriage  company,  and  the 
baneful  passion  of  envy  was  aroused  ;  the  church  where  he  once 
held  part  of  a  pew  ;  the  tavern,  where  there  had  been  a  club,  to 
which  he  went  once  a  week,  when  there  was  a  sing-song.  Johnny 
— whom  it  is  impossible  to  call  Mr.  Montoro — shed  tears  in  think- 
ing of  that  weekly  sing-song.  Then  they  took  train— in  the  old 
days  it  was  an  omnibus — to  the  City,  and  gazed  at  the  exterior  of 
the  house  where  he  had  once  been  a  clerk.  When  the  man's  heart 
was  thus  softened  with  the  past,  George  began  to  prepare  him  for 
the  morrow. 

"  I  have  kept  you  a  prisoner  all  this  time,"  he  said,  "partly  for 
your  own  sake.  Tell  me,  what  would  happen  if  you  had  met  the 
Colonel  in  America  ?" 

"I  should  have  shot  him,"  he  replied.  "  Oh  yes!  I  know  I  should 
have  shot  him  ;  I  felt  exactly  like  shooting  him." 

"  If  you  were  to  meet  him  here  in  England,  what  would  you  do  ?" 

"There  would  be  a  fight,"  he  said  courageously.  "  Yes,  I  think 
— I'm  most  sure  there'd  be  a  fight,  because  I'm  bound  to  call  him  a 
thief,  and  the  Colonel  is  not  a  man  likely  to  stand  that — you  lay 
your  last  dollar  he  isn't.     So  there  must  be  a  fight,  you  see." 

"  It  would  be  a  poor  sort  of  a  fight,"  said  George.  "  "Well, 
suppose  you  heard  that  the  Colonel  was  calling  himself  by  your 
name " 

"  What  'd  he  do  that  for  ?" 

"  Suppose  he  went  to  Mr.  Ambler's  house  and  said  he  was  Mr. 
Montoro,  and  that  Milly  was  his  daughter,  and  sold  her  houses,  and 
told  her  to  go  over  to  America  with  him  ?" 

"  With  him  !  Go  with  him !"  The  man  became  pale,  and  trem- 
bled in  all  his  limbs.     "  The  little  maid  go  with  him  !" 

"  That  is  exactly  what  he  has  done." 

Then  Johnny  began  to  swear.  Mild  as  he  was,  he  had  learned 
to  swear  after  the  manner  of  the  American  rough  and  rowdy.  He 
swore  at  the  Colonel  so  terribly,  that  George  thought  ho  would 
have  some  kind  of  fit.  He  swore  so  long,  that  George  thought  he 
would  never  finish. 

"  Come,"  he  said  at  length  ;  "if  you  hadn't  already  sworn  enough 
for  ten  men,  I  would  ask  you  to  say  it  all  over  again  for  me.  Now, 
I  warn  you,  to-morrow  you  will  meet  that  identical  villain.  What 
are  you  going  to  do  ?" 

"Why,"  Johnny  replied  slowly,  "ho  hasn't  got  the  little  maid, 
has  he  ?  'Twould  be  very  different  if  he  had.  And  ho  hasn't  sot 
the  money  for  them  houses,  has  he  ?  So,  mister,  I  think  as  I'm  a 
peaceful  man,  I  shall  kind  o'  let  him  go.  The  Colonel's  a  terrible 
man  to  fight.  It's  a  great  thing  to  be  peaceful — kind  o'  gets  a  man 
on  in  the  world." 


WHO  GIVETH  AWAY  THIS  WOMAN t  201 

"Yes,"  said  George  ;  "  you  are  a  beautiful  example,  are  yon  net?" 
"  But,"  said  Johnny,  "  about  them  notes.     Yes,  I  am  afraid  there 
may  be  a  fight." 

Poor  Milly !  Her  luck  in  fathers  was  very  bad.  George  won- 
dered which  of  the  twain,  on  the  whole,  was  the  most  undesiiable. 
Difficult  to  honour  either  of  them — and  there  is  an  old-world  preju- 
dice that  it  is  better  to  be  a  sturdy  rogue  than  a  coward.  If  the 
Colonel  was  a  rogue,  he  was  sturdy.  If  Johnny  was  indifferent 
honest,  he  was  a  most  dreadful  coward. 


VIII. 

WHO  GIVETII   AWAY  THIS  WOMAN? 

"  I  KNEW,"  said  Copernica,  when  Milly  asked  her  to  put  on  her  hat 
and  go  for  a  walk  with  her — "  I  knew  that  something  would  happen 
to-day,  and  I  knew  it  would  be  something  to  do  with  you,  because 
George  was  in  it ;  and  it  will  be  something  to  do  with  Mr.  Montoro, 
because  papa  is  in  it.  Yes,  Milly  dear,  I  will  be  ready  in  a  minute. 
As  for  poor  papa,  he  has  not  slept  a  wink  all  night,  but  walked 
about  groaning,  and  this  morning  he  is  sitting  all  of  a  heap-like 
among  the  boxes.  And  ob,  good  gracious,  Milly !  you've  got  on 
your  white  frock  and  white  gloves  !     "What  in  the  world " 

"  Come,"  said  Milly,  smiling  ;  "  you  shall  know  in  half  an  hour 
as  much  as  I  know  myself.  Why,  dear,  as  to  what  it  all  means,  I 
know  no  more  than  you.  But  something  has  happened — something 
which  is  to  make  us  grateful  all  our  days,  George  says,  and  to-day 
we  shall  learn  what  it  is." 

"  But  why  white  frock  and  white  gloves  ?"  Copernica  persisted. 
"  It  is  like  a  wedding." 

"  Yes,  dear,"  Milly  blushed  ;  "  it  is  terribly  like  a  wedding,  is  it 
not  ?" 

First,  they  went  to  George's  lodgings.  This  was  in  itself  a  re- 
markable thing,  because  George  should  have  been  at  his  business. 
Bat  he  was  not  ;  he  was  standing  at  the  garden-gate  waiting  for 
them.  With  him  were  two  gentlemen — one  of  them  Copernica's 
cousin,  Mr.  Richard  ;  the  other,  a  strange  man — not  a  gentleman 
exactly,  to  judge  by  his  look,  which  was  downcast  and  shy,  as  if  he 
was  dressed  in  a  suit  of  clothes  too  good  for  him  ;  and  really,  when 
Copernica,  who  was  sharp  of  observation,  brought  her  eyes  to  bear 
upon  that  stranger's  dress,  she  became  conscious  that  he  was  dressed 
in  George's  clothes,  which  made  her  feel  as  if  she  was  in  a  dream. 
She  was  certain  of  it — quite  certain  of  it — she  knew  the  pattern 
and  recognised  the  cut.  Who  was  this  strange  man  who  must  needs 
borrow  a  suit  of  George's  clothes  ?  Had  he  turned  up  with  nothing 
to  wear  ?  And  when  he  lifted  his  head  and  looked  round  him,  in  a 
furtive,  ashamed  kind  of  way,  the  child's  brain  became  suddenly 


202  A  GLORIOUS  FORTUNE. 

troubled,  because  he  reminded  her  of  somebody— she  knew  not, 
for  the  moment,  who  it  could  be.  This  more  than  ever  made  her 
feel  like  being  in  a  dream. 

This  uncanny  ghost-like  feeling  may  be  arrived  at  any  day  by 
walking  about  the  streets  of  London  at  twilight,  when  you  just 
catch  a  glimpse — no  more — of  the  faces  as  they  pass,  and  find  your 
mind  presently  filled  with  odd  fancies  and  vague,  sorrowful  sug- 
gestions. You  have  seen — you  remember  when  they  have  passed 
you — faces  which  reminded  you  of  dead  friends.  The  procession  of 
London  faces  is  endless  ;  as  one  grows  older  the  streets  become 
more  and  more  filled  with  the  faces  of  the  dead  ;  so  that  one  thinks 
sometimes  that  this  marching  in  procession  beside  the  living  may  be 
one  form  of  purgatory  ;  and  one  trembles  to  think  that  if  we  were 
to  grow  very  old  indeed,  the  procession  of  faces  in  a  crowded  street 
would  be  wholly  composed  of  dead  men.  To  this  girl,  the  face  of 
the  strange  man  suggested  likeness  to  some  one,  a  feeling  of  having 
seen  it  before  somewhere  ;  and  it  made  her  uncomfortable.  George 
did  not  introduce  him  to  them  ;  took  no  notice  of  him  ;  and  merely 
nodded  to  him  when  he  said  that  it  was  time  to  be  moving. 

They  formed  a  little  procession.  George  and  Milly  went  first ; 
Mr.  Richard  and  Copernica  came  next ;  and  the  stranger  followed 
behind,  saying  nothing,  but  hanging  his  head  with  every  appearance 
of  great  dejection. 

It  was  only  a  part  of  the  general  mystery  and  strangeness,  and, 
therefore,  it  did  not  in  the  least  surprise  Copernica  that  they  walked 
all  the  way  to  Hackney  Church,  and  went  up  the  steps,  observing 
the  same  order. 

But  in  the  porch  of  that  great  square  Saratoga,  or  travelling-trunk, 
which  does  duty  for  a  parish  church,  George  stopped  and  said  : 

"  Milly  dear,  I  thought  you  would  like  to  be  married  in  the  same 
church  as  your  father  and  mother." 

"Aye,"  said  the  stranger  in  a  low  voice,  "it  was  in  this  very  same 
church,  twenty-one  years  ago.     And  Matilda  in  pink." 

Then  Milly  was  going  to  be  married.  That  was  one  of  the  things. 
But  why  ?  And  where  was  her  father  ?  And  George  looking  as 
serious  as  if  ho  was  going  to  a  funeral.  At  weddings  people  ought 
to  laugh  and  be  happy,  she  thought,  being  as  yet  young  and  ignorant, 
and  not  thinking  that  from  weddings  spring  most  of  the  ills  which 
do  afflict  humanity  ;  such  as  a  lean  purso,  a  nagging  tongue,  house- 
hold troubles,  sick  children,  bad  sons,  disappointing  daughters,  dis- 
traction of  peace,  abolition  of  comfort,  and  many  others.     It  is  true 

that  there  is  the  chance  of  great  blessings  ;  such  as But  they 

are  known  to  everybody,  and  at  the  outset  we  all  expect  them,  and 
mean  to  have  them,  and  shape  our  course  accordingly.  But  what, 
Copernica  wondered,  what  in  the  world  did  this  mysterious  person 
mean  by  saying,  "  Matilda  in  pink  "  ?     Who  was  Matilda  ? 

Then  they  went  into  the  church.  There  were  already  assembled 
the  People,  represented — as  is  the  way  with  the  People  on  state 


WHO  GIVETH  AWAY  THIS  WOMAN?  203 

occasions,  because  they  are  all  busy  outside,  toiling  and  moiling — by 
their  elected  and  trusted  functionaries,  the  verger  and  the  pew- 
opener.  And  a  curate  was  in  the  vestry  putting  on  his  robes  of 
office. 

They  walked  up  the  aisle  and  stood  before  the  altar,  and  presently 
the  clergyman  came  out  of  the  vestry,  and  took  his  place,  book  in 
hand,  and  began  the  service.  The  words  echoed  mockingly  in  the 
great  empty  church.  Copernica  would  have  cried  had  not  at  the 
very  beginning  the  stranger  dressed  in  George's  clothes  begun  to 
snuffle  and  to  shed  tears,  which  made  her  ashamed  of  being  in  his 
company.  Why  should  he  cry  ?  What  business  had  he  with  the 
wedding  at  all  ?  She  would  have  liked  to  whisper  her  opinion  of 
this  conduct  to  her  cousin  Dick  Ambler,  but  he  looked  as  serious  as 
George,  and  bore  himself  as  if  weeping  strangers  in  other  people's 
clothes  belonged  to  every  wedding,  like  the  dreadful  old  skeleton 
which  was  always  present  at  the  feast,  though  it  was  good  manners 
to  take  no  manner  of  notice  of  it. 

Another  wonderful  thing.  When  the  clergyman  asked,  "Who 
giveth  away  this  woman  ?"  the  stranger  it  was  who  officiously 
stepped  forward  and  performed  this  duty  which  Cousin  Dick  should 
have  done,  and  he  did  it,  too,  with  a  most  indecent  choke  and  gulp, 
murmuring  irreverently,  "You  bet  I  do,"  which  is  not  in  the  prayer- 
book.  And  then  to  the  end  of  the  service  he  never  took  his  eyes 
from  the  bride,  who  regarded  him  not  at  all,  and  seemed  not  to 
know  that  he  was  present,  being  wholly  occupied  with  the  over- 
whelming fact  that  she  was  being  swiftly  converted  into  a  wife. 
She  had  her  heart's  desire — not  quite  in  the  way  she  had  expected, 
which  was  a  way  of  festivity  and  good  wishes,  but  she  had  her 
desire.  Therefore  she  ought  to  have  been  happy.  But,  oh,  what 
would  her  father  say  ?  And  what  about  that  promise  to  go  with 
him  for  two  years  ?  Yet  George  assured  her  that  her  father  would 
actually  consent.  Why,  how  could  that  be  ?  But  she  was  married, 
the  ring  was  on  her  finger,  and  the  words  were  said  ;  yet  she  was 
afraid — a  girl  on  such  an  occasion  wants  to  have  her  spirits  kept  up 
by  the  gathering  of  her  friends  ;  no  one  likes  to  be  married  in  an 
absolutely  empty  church  ;  it  was  like  some  uncared-for  creature  to 
be  married  with  no  one  to  support  her  except  Copernica,  and  even 
her  own  father  not  present. 

When  they  went  to  the  vestry  to  sign,  the  strange  man  came  wi  l.h 
them,  and  signed  his  name  after  the  bride,  but  she  did  not  read  his 
signature. 

Then  the  ceremony  was  complete,  and  Copernica  fell  into  the 
bride's  arms  and  kissed  and  hugged  her. 

"  Oh,  Milly,  Milly,"  she  said,  "  what  does  it  mean  ?  Are  you  to 
stay  while  we  go  away  without  you  ?  And  what  will  your  father 
say,  and  what  will  he  do  ?  Will  he  take  you  away  with  him  just 
the  same  ?" 

"  What  should  he  do  ?"  interposed  the  stranger  huskily.     "  It  isn't 


204  A  GLORIOUS  FORTUNE. 

for  the  likes  of  him  to  carry  sweet  maids  away  to  America.  Don't 
you  take  on,  miss.  He  never  meant  it.  Not  for  one  minute  did  he 
think  of  doing  such  a  thing." 

"  Come,  Milly  dear,"  said  George  ;  "  you  have  got  to  listen  to  a 
little  story  before  you  go  home — I  mean,  before  you  go  back  to  yonr 
old  home.  Your  home  is  with  me  now,  thank  Heaven  !  You  will 
come  too,  Copernica.  It  is  a  strange  story,  not  very  terrible,  but  it 
might  have  been." 

So  they  all  went  back  again.  There  was  no  wedding-breakfast 
prepared,  no  champagne  or  drinking  of  healths,  or  wishing  of  joy, 
or  throwing  of  rice,  or  looking  up  of  old  shoes.  Not  at  all.  They 
went  silently  into  George's  room,  and  stood  looking  at  each  other, 
and  especially  at  the  stranger,  whose  face  betokened  the  most  painful 
shame  and  confusion. 

"  Now,"  Mr.  Richard  said  to  him,  "  you  have  got  something  to  tell 
us  and  something  to  confess.  Try  to  tell  your  story  straight  through 
if  you  can.  You  had  better  begin  at  once.  Milly,  sit  down  and 
listen.    We- will  all  sit  down." 

They  did  so,  leaving  the  unfortunate  man  standing  before  them 
just  like  a  culprit  schoolboy. 

"  I  s'pose  I  must  begin  somewheres,"  he  said  feebly. 

When  this  man  was  a  clerk  in  the  City  he  used  not  to  say  "  some- 
wheres," but  "  somewhere."  He  had  lost,  among  other  things,  the 
art  of  speaking  correctly,  and  now  spoko  as  his  companions  for  so 
many  years  habitually  spoke.  It  is  terrifying  to  think  that  any  one 
of  us,  under  similar  conditions,  would  probably  experience  the  same 
losses,  and  come,  in  time,  to  speak  like  a  Cockney  coster  or  a  Cali- 
fornian  rough. 

In  spite  of  the  respectable  clothes  he  wore — Milly  herself  now 
perceived  with  wonder  that  they  were  borrowed  plumes — the  poor 
man  had  so  dejected  and  hang-dog  a  look  that  one  felt  sorry  for 
him.  But  by  this  time  she  quite  understood  that  something  more 
unexpected  even  than  her  own  wedding  was  to  happen,  and 
now  she  connected  this  walking  Mystery  in  George's  tweeds 
with  the  unexpected,  than  which,  as  we  know,  nothing  is  more 
certain. 

"  When  I  went  away,"  this  mysterious  person  began  slowly,  and 
as  if  feeling  for  his  facts,  "  I  thought,  being  a  fool  and  inexperienced, 
that  if  you  wanted  money  all  you  had  to  do  was  to  go  to  America, 
where  you  would  be  sure  to  find  it.  Everybody,  I  thought,  got  rich 
in  the  States.  It  was  only  the  trouble  of  going  there  and  pickin' 
up  the  dollars.  Lord !  what  a  fool  I  was !  Don't  none  of  you 
believe  it.  America's  the  biggest  fraud  out.  If  anybody  gets  rich, 
it's  the  Americans  themselves.  You've  got  to  work  there  harder 
than  at  home.  If  there's  any  easy  places  they're  grabbed  by  tho 
natives.  Look  at  me.  I  gave  up  three  pound  a  week  to  go  out  and 
make  a  Fortune.  Did  I  ever  get  that  three  pound  a  week  again  ? 
Did  I  ever  get  another  easy  place  ?    Don't  you  think  it." 


WHO  GIVETH  AWAY  THIS  WOMAN?  205 

"  Isn't  this,"  asked  Mr.  Richard  unf  eelingly,  "  rather  a  roundabout 
way  of  beginning  ?" 

Copernica  looked  from  Milly  to  the  speaker,  and  back  again. 
Strange,  he  was  like  Milly  ! 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  the  man  replied  humbly.  "I'm  comin'  round 
to  what  I  want  to  say.  Lernme  go  my  own  way,  if  you  please. 
Though  if  you've  a  better  way,  tell  me  that  way,  and  I  will  go  that 
way." 

"  You  shall  go  any  way  you  please,"  said  George,  "  if  only  you'll 
get  to  the  end  somehow." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  he  replied  ;  "  you  are  the  only  man  as  has  said  a 
kind  word  to  me  for  twenty  years,  and  I'm  bound  to  please  that 
man  if  I  can" — he  kept  looking  at  Milly  furtively — "especially 
since  he's  husband  of  the  little  maid."  Milly  started.  "Very  well, 
then.  Hard  berths  I  got,  not  easy  at  all.  Sometimes  it  would  be 
porter's  work  at  a  store.  Did  I  expect  when  I  gave  up  a  most  gentle- 
manly desk  to  go  rolling  casks  of  treacle?  Did  I  expect  to  load  the 
steamboats  with  wood  ?  Did  I  go  out  there  to  do  odd  chores  around, 
a  day's  work  here,  and  another  there,  with  a  spade  and  a  hoe,  or  a 
crowbar  and  a  hammer  ?  I've  been  a  navvy  on  a  railway  ;  I've  dug 
graves  for  a  cemetery  ;  I've  cut  wood  and  stacked  it.  All  the  hard 
jobs  I  had  to  do,  while  the  natives  spread  themselves  out  around  the 
stoves  and  put  up  their  feet.  That's  the  way  they  reward  a  man 
who  gives  up  three  pound  a  week  to  go  out  to  them  ;  that's  the  kind 
of  Fortune  they  let  him  make  ;  that's  the  kind  of  friend  America 
is — a  dollar  and  a  hef  a  day,  and  leave  it  if  you  don't  like  it :  there's 
plenty  of  tramps  on  the  road  will  take  it ;  that's  what  I  gave  up  my 
berth  for  ;  that's  what  Matilda  "—Milly  started — "  my  wife,  Matilda, 
sent  me  out  for — said  I  was  bound  to  be  ambitious.  Told  me  I 
ought  to  soar." 

"  George,"  said  Milly  quickly,  "  who  is  this  man  ?" 
"Wait  a  moment,   dear.     Go  on,  if  you  can,"  he  said  to  the 
speaker.     "  I  suppose  we  shall  get  to  something  in  time.     Patience, 
Milly  dear." 

"  I  know  who  he  is,"  said  Copernica,  nodding  her  head.  "  I  am 
sure  I  know.     He  gave  her  away.     Oh,  I  see  now  !" 

"  "Well,"  he  continued,  "  at  first  I  thought  this  was  only  the  begin- 
ning—kind of  a  rough,  hearty,  free  and  easy  welcome  to  new-comers  ; 
presently  I  should  get  the  hang  of  things,  and  then  I  should  begin 
to  make  that  Fortune.  By  this  time  I  was  as  ambitious  as  Matilda 
could  ha'  wished,  because  I  wanted  badly  to  get  back  that  three 
pound  a  week  with  store  clothes  and  a  stove-pipe  hat.  Then,  Icon- 
eluded  she'd  be  the  least  mite  anxious  about  me,  and  so  I  wrote  her 
a  letter.  And  ju't  to  make  her  mind  easy  and  to  prevent  her  from 
falling  into  one  of  her  tempers,  which  she  certainly  would  have  done 
if  she'd  known  I  was  just  then  rollin'  molasses,  tyin'  up  sugar, 
heavin'  logs,  and  countin'  candles-,  I  just  told  her  I  was  soarin' 
already  to  unexpected  heights,  and  the  dollars  comin'  in  wonderful. 


206  A  GLORIOUS  FORTUNE. 

No  country,  I  wrote,  like  America.  She  wrote  back,  by  return 
post,  that  I  was  to  send  all  the  money  home  as  fast  as  I  made  it. 
I  said  'twas  all  wanted  for  the  big  business  I  was  carrying  on,  and 
bounced  the  more  because  I  saw  she  was  ashamed  of  having  thought 
me  such  a  poor  weak  creature.  The  more  I  bounced,  the  more  she 
was  ashamed,  and  kept  a-wantin'  to  come  out,  and  bring  the  little 
maid  with  her." 

"  George,"  cried  Milly  again,  "  who  is  this  man  ?"  But  George 
made  no  reply. 

"  I  know  who  he  is,"  repeated  Copernica  ;  "  I  am  certain  I  know. 
'  Matilda  was  in  pink.'     Oh,  I  know !" 

"  When  a  man  begins  to  lie,  it  seems  kind  of  impossible  to  go 
back  on  himself  ;  so  I  kept  it  up,  and  when  Matilda  died,  I  carried 
on  the  same  tale  with  the  little  maid,  who  I  can't  believe  to  be 
grown  up  so  tall  and  handsome,  and  married  before  my  very  eyes." 

"  George,"  cried  Milly  for  the  third  time,  and  springing  to  her 
feet,  "tell  me,  who  is  he?" 

"  My  dear,  he  is  your  father — not  the  other  man  at  all.  This  is 
your  father." 

"  Yes,  my  dear,"  the  man  repeated  humbly,  "  your  father,  and  you 
are  the  little  maid  as  I've  written  so  many  letters  to,  and  told  so 
many  lies  about  the  Glorious  Fortune." 

"I  said  I  knew,"  Copernica  murmured.  "Her  father;  but  I 
wonder  who  the  other  is.     You  can't  have  two  fathers." 

"  My  father  !"  A  month  before  Milly  would  have  jumped  into 
his  arms  first,  and  remarked  his  hang-dog  look  and  poverty-stricken 
appearance  afterwards.  But  I  suppose  there  is  only  a  limited 
amount  of  what  may  be  called  the  impulse  of  affection  in  the  human 
heart.  At  all  events,  her  own  did  not  leap  up  at  all,  nor  did  she 
show  any  signs  of  joy,  but  held  her  husband's  hand  more  tightly, 
looking  at  this  colossal  American  failure,  the  man  who  had  been  twenty 
years  wriggling  at  the  lowest  depths,  and  could  never  wriggle  any 
higher,  and  she  repeated  with  much  more  wonder  than  joy  :  "  My 
father  1" 

"  I  am,  indeed,"  he  said.  "  I  would  have  liked  to  come  home  in 
silks  and  satins  and  gold  rings,  but  I  never  had  any  luck.  I  would 
have  sent  the  little  maid  all  the  money  she  could  wish  if  I'd  had  it. 
But  I  hadn't  got  any  to  send." 

"  George,"  cried  Milly,  "  if  this  is  my  father,  who  is — the  other  ?" 

"  The  other,  my  dear,  is  a what  you  shall  presently  learn." 

"  But — but  I  have  kissed  him,  and  I  was  going  away  with  him." 

"You  were,"  replied  Mr.  llictmri,  who,  to  his  honour  be  it  said, 
had  been  witnessing  the  proccedim  «  with  more  than  professional 
interest,  though  the  morni\it^'s  work  would  certainly  be  charged  in 
the  bill.  "  If  it  had  not  been  for  this  discovery  you  would  have 
Cone  with  him.  Fortunately  we  are  in  time  to  save,  not  only  you 
from  this  danger,  but  also  your  fortune  from  destruction." 

"  He  must  be  a  rogue  and  a  cheat,"  Copernica  said  in  a  low  voice. 


WHO  GIVETH  AWAY  THIS  WOMAN?  207 

"Then  all  he  told  us  and  all  he  promised  us  were  lies.  0 — h  ! 
But  I  knew  who  this  one  was  directly  he  began  to  speak.  And  this 
is  what  we  were  to  learn  this  morning.  And  George  knew  it  yester- 
day." 

"  My  darling,"  said  George,  taking  his  wife's  hand,  "  you  under- 
stand now  why  I  wanted  to  marry  you  at  once.  If  it  rains  fathers 
they  cannot  harm  you  now  or  take  you  from  me.  As  for  this  one, 
I  think  he  will  not  try  to  harm  you.  He  is  very  different  from  the 
other.  To  begin  with,  he  quite  understands  " — George  shook  his 
left  forefinger  in  the  direction  of  the  man  as  if  he  were  a  lecturer 
in  a  show  and  pronouncing  a  discourse  upon  a  giant,  a  dwarf,  or  a 
monster — "  he  quite  understands  that,  after  the  life  he  has  led,  the 
way  he  came  home,  the  habits — the  habits,  I  say" — the  stranger 
groaned  and  nodded  gloomily — "  he  has  contracted,  the  companions 
he  has  been  among,  the  very  language  he  has  learned,  and — and — 
and  everything,  it  can  no  longer  be  considered  reasonable  that  you 
either  owe  him  any  obedience  or  that  he  has  any  claim  upon  your 
affection.  Besides,  he  has  practised  a  most  cruel  and  heartless 
deception  upon  you."  The  returned  Fortune-hunter  shook  his  head 
in  the  deepest  self-reproach.  "  The  most  he  can  ask  of  you  will  be 
your  forgiveness.  As  for  staying  on  here,  that,  of  course,  is  out  of 
the  question " 

"  Quite,"  said  Johnny.     "  Oh,  quite  !     I  know  it." 

"  He  has  been  among  rough  and  common  people  so  long  that  he 
would  feel  unhappy  in  a  respectable  English  house." 

"  That  is  so,"  said  Johnny. 

"  He  has  got,  he  tells  me,  a  very  comfortable  clearing  out  in  the 
Western  States  somewhere,  with  a  house  upon  it,  and — and,  I  sup- 
pose, what  is  wanted  to  live  comfortably." 

"  Don't  forget  there's  a  whisky-bottle,"  said  Johnny,  not  boast- 
fully, but  as  one  who  wishes  to  make  a  completely  clean  breast. 

"  You  see,"  George  went  on,  that  one  fact  illustrating  the  manner 
and  customs  of  the  man,  without  need  of  further  revelations,  "  he 
has  a  whisky-bottle." 

"  When  you've  got  that,"  said  Johnny,  "  you  don't  want  anything 
else,"  again,  not  boastfully  or  ostentatiously,  but  meaning  to  deliver 
himself  of  his  own  sentiments,  and  show  himself  to  his  daughter,  in 
one  full  confession,  the  man  he  really  was. 

"  Oh,  good  gracious  !"  said  Copernica  ;  "  nothing  else  !" 

"  So  that,"  George  continued,  "  he  has  agreed  and  promised  me, 
in  point  of  fact,  to  go  away  at  once — this  very  day — and  get  back  to 
his  cabin  and  his  clearing  in  Oregon,  as  fast  as  he  can.  I  do  not 
think  he  can  get  away  much  farther  from  us  than  Oregon,  which  is 
on  the  other  side  of  the  Rocky  Mountains.  And  when  he  is  really 
back  again  in  his  own  clearing,  we  shall  be  very  glad  to  hear  from 
him — occasionally." 

But  Milly's  heart  softened. 

"If  you  are  really  my  father,"  she  said,  holding  out  both  her 


208  A  GLORIOUS  FORTUNE. 

hands,  "  who  used  to  write  me  such  loving  letters,  you  should  have 
something  more  to  say  to  me,  now,  but  farewell  ?" 

He  took  her  hand,  and  then  timidly  bent  and  kissed  her  forehead. 

"  My  pretty,"  he  murmured,  "  I'm  not  fit  to  be  your  father.  I 
doubt  whether  you  ought  to  ha'  let  me  kiss  you.  I'm  only  what 
your  husband  says  I  am.  But  I  meant  well.  I  did  indeed.  And 
they  were  a  great  comfort  to  me — them  letters." 

He  said  no  more,  but  his  eyes — those  foolish,  helpless,  and  wan- 
dering eyes — filled  with  tears  and  ran  over.  This  natural  emotion 
was  sufficient  excuse  to  his  daughter  for  his  shambling  speech  and 
ungrammatical  expressions.  When  had  the  other  man  shown  the 
least  emotion  ? 

"  Milly,"  said  Copernica  in  her  quick  way,  "  I  suppose  you'll  come 
home  with  me,  if  it  is  only  to  break  the  news  and  help  unpack  the 
maps  again.  How  my  poor  father  will  ever  get  over  it,  I  don't 
know.  Mother  will  be  pleased,  I  think.  She  never  greatly  took  to 
the  plan,  and  I  think  she'll  be  pleased  to  stay.  But  there,  mother, 
you  see,  doesn't  much  believe  in  my  father's  wonderful  discoveries. 
As  for  the  boys,  they  must  just  stay  where  they  are — poor  fellows  ! 
"Well,  I  should  be  sorry  to  think  that  poor  Tycho  was  going  out  to 
roll  molasses  tubs,  and  Kepler  to  load  up  a  steamboat  with  wood. 
As  to  the  people,"  she  added  vindictively,  turning  her  glasses  full 
on  the  people  referred  to,  "  who  go  abroad  and  come  home  again 
without  the  common  decency  of  being  rich  " — the  returned  pauper 
blushed — "  all  I  can  say  is  that  they're  quite  as  bad  as  other  people 
who  come  home  and  pretend  to  have  colleges,  and  not  half  so 
pleasant,  while  they  last.  What,"  she  snapped  at  him  so  fiercely 
that  he  jumped,  "  what  did  you  go  away  at  all  for,  then  V" 


IX. 

HIS  CHRISTIAN   NAME. 

The  map-room  of  Veritas  Villa  was  stripped  of  everything.  The 
maps  and  charts  were  rolled  up,  the  sections  showing  the  Polar  Sea 
and  the  confines  of  the  great  Outer  Rim,  the  drawings,  drawn  from 
the  Scriptural  accounts,  the  pictures  made  up  from  travellers' 
accounts,  the  books,  all  of  which  wore  astronomical,  were  taken 
down  and  packed  in  black  boxes,  locked  up,  fastened  with  rope,  the 
Professor's  name  on  them  in  white — Professor  Ambler,  Passenger 
for  Colorado,  via  New  York.  Only  the  notes  for  the  inaugural 
lecture  remained,  because  the  Discoverer  intended  to  touch  up, 
beautify,  and  make  perfect  the  inaugural  lecture  during  the  journey. 
The  notes  were  therefore  neatly  stitched  together  and  placed  in  a 
little  portfolio  made  on  purpose  for  thein  by  Copernica,  out  of  mill- 
board and  white  silk,  the  title  being  in  crimson  and  gold,  and  the 


HIS  CHRISTIAN  NAME.  209 

ran,  moon,  and  stars,  which  floated  on  the  cover,  being  in  blue.  It 
was  beautiful  and  soul-inspiring  even  to  look  at  that  white  silk 
portfolio,  and  to  feel  what  an  Evangel  of  Astronomical  Truth  it 
contained,  and  how  fortunate  were  the  Americans  of  Colorado 
State  in  getting  such  a  Discoverer  to  reveal  such  a  discovery.  He 
sat — the  Philosopher — among  the  boxes.  He  should  have  been 
triumphant,  because  he  was  going  to  get  what  he  had  prayed  for  all 
his  life  ;  but  there  was  a  cloud  upon  his  brow  ;  he  was  anxious. 
George's  warning  words  weighed  upon  him  still. 

His  wife  sat  with  him.  To  her  this  breaking  up  of  the  old  home, 
where  her  children  had  been  born,  where  they  had  all  been  so 
happy,  so  anxious,  so  full  of  love,  fear,  hope,  joy,  sorrow— all  the 
things  which  go  to  make  life  a  thing  always  felt,  if  not  always  en- 
joyed, made  her  profoundly  dejected.  To  be  sure,  she  could  not 
believe  that  they  were  really  going. 

"  Reginald,"  she  said  presently,  and  after  a  long  silence,  "  is  it 
real  ?     Are  we  to  have  an  income  of  a  thousand  a  year  ?" 

"  You  doubt  still,  my  dear.  To  be  sure,  you  have  doubted 
always." 

"  Not  your  cleverness,  Reginald  ;  but  I  could  not  understand 
how  you  alone  could  be  right,  and  all  the  wise  men  wrong.  Forgive 
me,  husband." 

"  It  matters  nothing,"  he  replied  grandly  ;  "  the  faith  of  the 
whole  world  will  strengthen  your  faith  too." 

"  But  George,  my  dear — what  did  George  mean  ?" 

"I  don't  know  what  he  meant.  What  he  said  was  silly.  Why, 
he  tried  to  make  out  that  I  should  do  better  by  staying  here. 
Staying  here,  where  I  have  had  to  undergo  every  kind  of  contempt! 
What  does  George  think  about  that?  It  seems  to  him  a  light 
thing  for  a  man  to  be  held  up  as  a  laughing-stock.  They  have 
called  me  a  madman,  they  won't  answer  my  letters,  they  quote  me 
as  one  of  the  enthusiasts  who  ought  to  be  locked  up,  they  whispe* 
if  I  get  into  a  train  ;  and  if  I  go  to  church " 

"  You  never  do,  dear." 

"  No  ;  because  when  I  do,  I  hear  them  whispering  as  I  walk  up 
the  aisle  :  '  There  is  the  madman,  or  the  fool,  or  the  ass,  who 
teaches  that  the  earth  is  flat.'  Do  you  think  that  is  pleasant  for 
me  to  hear  ?  And  then  the  Society  does  not  increase.  Bagshott 
is  very  good  ;  he  talks  about  Truth  prevailing  ;  but  Truth  doesn't 
make  a  start.  The  office-boy  says  that  no  one  has  called  for  six 
months,  and  there  have  been  no  letters  for  three.  The  office  might 
as  well  be  shut.  Bagshott  says  he  will  remain  at  home  and  circulate 
the  journal,  which  I  shall  be  able  to  fill  once  I  get  a  hearing.  Why, 
out  there — oh,  wife,  I  shall  have  a  hearing  at  last  !" 

He  sprang  from  his  chair  and  walked  about,  swinging  his  arms 
and  sending  his  coat-tails  flying — a  sure  sign  of  the  deepest 
emotion. 

His  wife  threw  her  arms  round  his  neck. 

14 


2io  A  GLORIOUS  FORTUNE. 

"  My  dear,"  she  said,  "  it  is  sad  to  me  that  our  home  should  bo 
broken  up.  But  what  matters  anything  if  only  you  get  the  recog- 
nition which  is  your  due  ?" 

"Ah,"  he  continued,  "  we  shall  begin  a  new  life  with  an  honour- 
able position,  an  official  and  recognised  position  which  must 
command — I  say,  my  dear,  command  ;  hitherto  we  have  begged — 
the  attention  even  of  old-fashioned  astronomers.  Oh,  wife, 
do  you  not  think  I  have  felt  the  ignominy  of  my  life,  which  I 
thought  was  going  to  be  so  glorious  ?  Fifty  years  old  next  birth- 
day, and  nearly  thirty  given  to  the  great  Discovery,  and  Error  still 
taught  in  every  school,  though  I  have  never  ceased  to  lift  up  my 
voice.  Here,  what  hope  have  I  ?  But  there  ! — oh,  there !  with 
young  and  generous  hearts,  unprejudiced,  open  to  reason,  what 
a  future  awaits  me  there  !" 

He  stopped,  clapped  his  hand  to  his  eyes  as  one  who  is  dazzled 
by  the  prospect,  and  sat  down.  His  wife  listened  and  sighed.  She 
had  never  before,  perhaps,  so  fully  realized  her  husband's  position 
and  enthusiasm  ;  she  sighed  because  the  thought  would  intrude 
itself  that  something  safe  in  the  City  would  have  been  worth  all 
the  glory  that  science  can  confer.  This  is  the  way  with  mothers 
who  have  a  large  family  and  a  small  income  ;  they  would  at  any 
moment  actually  sacrifice  all  the  immortality  about  to  be  conferred 
by  a  grateful  posterity  on  their  husbands  in  return  for  a  solid  in- 
come ;  they  think  that  there  is  nothing  in  the  world  like  domestic 
ease,  comfort,  and  a  good  house  allowance  ;  nothing  like  bringing 
up  the  boys  and  girls  well,  and  giving  them  a  good  start  in  life.  If 
that  great  man,  their  father,  cannot  do  that,  why,  a  thousand  pities 
that  glory  and  an  income  do  not  go  together.  Perhaps  the  reason 
why  the  children  of  great  men  do  not  often  become  themselves 
great  is  that  the  family  income  would  not  allow  of  the  first  elements 
of  greatness  being  properly  taught. 

"  The  boys  like  the  prospect,"  said  their  mother  dubiously.  "  We 
could  not  go  without  them,  but  Tycho  is  getting  on  so  well,  and 
we  have  such  good  reports  about  Kepler." 

"  They  will  get  on  better  under  Mr.  Montoro's  patronage.  Every- 
body gets  on  in  America  ;  the  Americans  welcome  Englishmen  ; 
they  give  them  their  best  things  ;  they  smooth  the  way  for  them  to 
get  on.  Mr.  Montoro  says  so,  and  he  ought  to  know.  Look  at  his 
example.  My  dear,  I  have  always  been  a  Republican,  I  believe.  It 
will  be  a  congenial  atmosphere."  He  threw  out  his  arms  as  if  to 
breathe  the  stimulating  and  bracing  air  of  a  Republic.  "It  is  only 
only  under  such  a  government  that  Prejudice  vanishes  and  Truth 
can  win  her  way.  You  will  see  very  clearly  that  in  astronomy  the 
great  heart  of  the  American  people  will  soon  beat  true  and 
sound." 

Just  then  Copernica  appeared.  She  was  returned  from  the 
wedding.  Her  cheeks  were  flushed,  her  eyes  red,  and  the  traces  of 
tears  lay  upon  her  spectacles.     She  stole  in  like  a  guilty  criminal, 


HIS  CHRISTIAN  NAME.  211 

and  sank  upon  one  of  the  boxes  in  a  fine  unstudied  attitude  of 
despair. 

"  Papa,"  she  said,  "  we  may  begin  to  unpack  our  boxes  at  once." 
She  jumped  up  and  began  to  untie  the  cords  with  feverish  haste. 
"  Let  us  put  back  the  maps  and  books,  and  go  on  as  we  used  to. 
There  will  be  no  going  to  America." 

"  Copernica,  are  you  mad  ?" 

The  Discoverer  turned  pale  and  trembled. 

"  lam  Dot  mad,"  she  replied.  "  In  a  little  while  you  will  hear  all. 
It  is  enough  to  make  one  mad,  but  I  am  in  my  senses." 

At  this  moment  the  Benefactor  himself  appeared  with  a  white 
rosebud  in  his  button-hole,  a  white  waistcoat,  and  brand-new  hat 
and  lavender  gloves.  No  one  could  look  richer  than  Mr.  Montoro. 
Perhaps  he  overdid  the  part.  Very  rich  men,  if  I  may  generalize 
from  a  limited  field  of  observation,  generally  wear  shabby  hats  and 
are  careless  about  their  gloves.  But  at  Veritas  Villa  they  were  not 
close  observers.  At  sight  of  him,  so  glossy,  so  well  groomed,  so 
prosperous  and  sleek,  so  confident  and  so  brave,  the  Philosopher 
recovered  heart. 

But  his  wife  caught  Copernica  by  the  hand  and  watched,  her 
suspicions  fully  aroused. 

"  I  shall  not  keep  you  long,  Professor,"  he  said,  smiling.  "  All 
goes  well  with  the  preparations  ?  The  day  after  to-morrow,  Milly 
and  I  shall  be  on  salt  water.  Your  cousin  is  coming  here  at  twelve 
to  complete  the  sale  of  my  little  property.     He  told  you  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes,"  the  Professor  wiped  his  brow — all  would  be  well, 
surely.  "  Yes,  Dick  said  I  was  to  be  in  the  way.  To  be  sure,  I 
am  always  at  home." 

"  It  is  a  bore,"  said  Mr.  Montoro,  "  that  one  cannot  take  a  house 
and  sell  it  as  one  sells  a  horse.  The  affair  has  been  dragging  for 
three  weeks,  and  every  week  means  loss  when  one's  concerns  are  so 
vast  as  mine.  Money,  my  friend,  even  the  richest  of  ris  cannot 
afford  to  lose,  and  yet  I  believe  I  have  lost  more  by  the  delay  than 
if  I  had  given  the  houses  away.  Milly  will  come  with  me,  after  we 
have  finished,  to  complete  her  outfit  in  Regent  Street." 

"  Why,"  said  the  Professor,  "  this  little  girl  of  mine  came  running 
in  five  minutes  ago,  crying  that  we  should  not  go  to  America  at  all." 

"No  more  we  shan't,'  said  Copernica  doggedly  and  idio- 
matically. 

Mr.  Montoro's  eyes  flar  bed. 

"  What  does  the  girl  mean  ?"  he  asked. 

"  We  shall  not  go  to  America,"  she  repeated. 

Mr.  Montoro  hesitated.  What  did  she  mean  ?  It  puzzled  him. 
At  this  moment  he  had  not  the  slightest  fear  or  suspicion  of  danger, 
yet  the  girl's  words  troubled  him.  What  did  she  mean  ?  In  his 
pocket  was  the  cheque  for  the  whole  of  his  victim's  fortune.  In  a 
few  moments  he  was  to  receive  the  produce  of  the  sale  of  his  houses 
which  were  not  his  to  sell.     In  another  day  he  was  to  start  for 

14—2 


2i2  A  GLORIOUS  FORTUNE. 

America,  taking  with  him  the  girl  whom  he  proposed  to  employ  ai 
a  confederate  and  a  decoy. 

The  moralist  may  pause  to  remark  that  the  whole  of  this  villain- 
ous scheme  had  grown  up  bit  by  bit  from  the  robbery  of  the  notes 
and  the  letters.  Thus  does  one  ill  weed  produce  another,  till  the 
whole  garden  is  overrun. 

"  Of  course  you  will  please  yourselves  about  coming  out.  But  I 
thought  you  had  accepted  my  offer,  Mr.  Ambler." 

The  coldness  of  his  tone  frightened  the  Astronomer. 

"  Of  course  I  have  accepted,"  he  hastened  to  make  submission  ; 
''  of  course  I  have  accepted.  Why,  the  child  is  mad  !  I  do  not 
know  what  has  possessed  her  this  morning.  Don't  be  offended,  Mr. 
Montoro." 

"  And  yet  we  shall  not  go,"  repeated  this  amazing  girl. 

Just  then,  at  the  stroke  of  twelve,  Mr.  Richard  Ambler  arrived, 
bearing  his  bundle  of  papers.     With  him  were  Milly  and  George. 

It  was  remarked  by  Mrs.  Ambler  that  Milly  bestowed  no  greet- 
ing upon  her  father.  She,  too,  exhibited  outward  and  visible  signs 
that  something  had  happened.  Her  father,  however,  seemed  to 
observe  nothing. 

"  Now,"  he  said,  "  let  us  finish  the  business." 

"  Your  business,"  replied  the  solicitor,  "  shall  be  settled  in  a  very 
few  moments." 

He  stood  at  the  table,  the  papers  in  his  hand,  at  the  right  of  the 
Discoverer,  who  sat  in  his  wooden  chair,  looking  on  with  troubled 
eyes,  because  things  were  going  on  which  he  understood  not.  On 
his  left  stood  Mr.  Montoro.  Behind  the  solicitor  was  Milly,  George 
standing  beside  her,  and  in  the  window  Copernica  and  her  mother. 
Then  there  was  a  hush  while  Mr.  Richard  read  over  his  papers. 

"  I  must  trouble  you,  Mr. — ah  ! — Mr.  Montoro,"  he  said,  "  with  a 
little  business  first.  I  have  received  your  rents  for  a  good  many 
years.  I  have  here  a  complete  statement,  with  vouchers  of  receipts 
and  disbursements  for  years." 

"I  don't  want  to  see  it,"  Mr.  Montoro  replied.  "I  really  have 
not  the  time  to  look  into  these  trifles." 

"  A  hundred  and  eighty  pounds  a  year,  or  thereabouts,"  said  Mr. 
Richard,  "  is  not  a  trifle.  But  if  you  will  not  examine  the  account, 
you  will  not  perhaps  object  to  give  me  a  discharge  in  full  of  all 
claims.  My  cousin,  as  you  know,  has  received  the  whole  income, 
after  paying  ground-rents,  repairs,  and  my  own  charges,  for  the 
maintenance  and  education  of  Miss  Montoro." 

"  Let  us  sign  this  discharge  and  get  on,"  said  his  client. 

He  took  the  paper  offered  him  and  wrote  his  name  at  the  end  of 
the  form — "  Charles  Montoro." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Mr.  Richard.  "Only,  pardon  me,  in  legal 
documents  it  is  necessary  to  sign  the  name  in  full.  Is  this  your 
only  Christian  name  ?" 

The  effect  of  these  words  was  wonderful.    For  suddenly  the 


HIS  CHRISTIAN  NAME.  213 

man  remembered  the  rambling  talk  of  Johnny  in  his  cabin  about 
his  ridiculous  Christian  name.  He  had  forgotten  to  find  out  what 
it  was.  He  changed  colour  and  glanced  round  him  like  a  wild  crea- 
ture at  bay.  In  the  grave  face  of  the  solicitor,  the  angry  looks  of 
George  Ambrose,  and  the  cold  eyes  of  Milly  he  saw  that  the  game, 
somehow,  was  up. 

"  "We  will  have  both  your  Christian  names,  Mr. — ah !— Mr. 
Montoro." 

"  Both  my  names  ?"  He  seized  the  pen  again.  "Give  me  the 
paper  back.  I  am  to  sign  here,  am  I — and  in  full  ?  Very  good. 
Milly,  my  dear,  were  you  ever  told  your  father's  ridiculous  Christian 
name  ?"  Milly  made  no  reply.  "  Do  you  know  it,  Mr.  Ambler  ? 
I  think  I  would  bet  you  five  dollars  that  you  do  not  know  it." 

"  I  do  know  it,"  said  Mr.  Richard.  "The  point  is,  that  you  do 
not." 

Mr.  Montoro  threw  down  the  pen  and  tore  the  paper  across,  with 
a  remark  about  the  Christian  name  which  is  generally  expressed  by 
a  long  black  line. 

"  Tell  me,  if  you  please,  what  this  means  ?" 

"  It  means  many  things.  But,  first  of  all,  is  it  not  an  unusual 
thing  for  a  man  to  forget  his  Christian  name  ?  You  may  learn 
yours  by  looking  at  the  register  in  Hackney  Church,  where  you 
were  christened  and  married.  You  are  welcome  to  that  information. 
Did  you  ever  know  a  case  in  which  a  man  forgot  his  Christian 
name  ?" 

"  This  is  a  most  extraordinary  proceeding,"  said  Mr.  Montoro, 
recovering  his  coolness.    "  Is  there  anything  more  to  follow  ?    Milly, 

are  you — "     She  turned  her  head  and  made  no  sign  of  hearing. 

"  Is  this  a  conspiracy,  in  which  my  own  daughter  is  concerned  ? 
Are  you  in  it  too,  you  drivelling  old  idiot  ?"  He  looked  so  fierce 
as  he  addressed  the  Discoverer,  that  the  latter  jumped  in  his  chair, 
and  was  seized  with  a  mighty  terror. 

"  We  are  all  in  it,  except  Mr.  Ambler,"  said  George. 

"  In  that  case,"  Mr.  Montoro  replied  with  dignity,  "  there  is 
nothing  for  it  but  to  set  the  law  at  work.  You,  sir,"  he  addressed 
Mr.  Richard,  "will  have  togivean  account  of  your  management ;  part 
of  the  plot,  I  suppose,  was  to  say  nothing  about  it.  Your  share," 
he  addressed  George,  "  was  the  house  property.  Yours,"  he  ad- 
dressed Milly,  "  was  to  aid  and  abet  your  lover.  An  ungrateful  and 
unnatural  daughter  !" 

"  Go  on,"  said  George  ;  "  my  turn  will  come  directly." 

"  I  have  nothing  more  to  say,"  Mr.  Montoro  replied,  taking  his 
bat.  "  So  far  as  I  am  concerned,  this  is  the  last  time  I  shall  speak 
with  anybody  in  this  room.     The  law  shall  take  its  course." 

"  By  all  means,"  said  Mr.  Richard.  "  First,  however,  George, 
you  wished  to  tell  the  man  what  we  know  about  him." 

"I  will  tell  Reginald  in  his  presence,"  said  George.  He  took  up 
his  position  at  the  door,  as  if  to  bar  escape.     "  This  man,  Reginald, 


214  A  GLORIOUS  FOXTC/NE. 

is  not  Charles  Montoro  at  all — he  is  an  impostor  and  a  pretender— 
his  real  name  is  Percival  Brooke  West ;  he  was  once  a  gentleman, 
and  in  the  army,  but  sold  out  many  years  ago,  after  the  Crimean 
War  ;  he  then  lived  about  town,  gambling  and  throwing  away  his 
money.  Fifteen  years  ago  he  got  into  a  mess,  and  did  something — 
I  know  not  what — something  disgraceful.  Then  he  was  obliged  to 
fly,  and  was  expelled  his  club.  He  went  to  America,  and  has  lived 
on  his  wits,  that  is  to  say,  by  cheating  and  gambling  in  various  forms. 
He  met  Milly's  father  in  Oregon,  robbed  him  of  bis  money  and  his 
daughter's  letters,  and  came  to  London.  He  now  lives  at  the  Lang- 
ham  Hotel  under  his  own  name.  No,  sir,  you  stay  until  I  have 
finished.  If  you  try  to  get  out  before  we  let  you  go,  you  will  have 
to  fight  me." 

The  Claimant  folded  his  arms,  and  tried  to  look  unconcerned ;  but 
he  failed,  because  he  was  totally  unprepared  for  this.  How  on 
earth  had  they  found  it  out  ?  As  regards  the  Christian  name,  that 
was  an  accident  caused  by  his  own  carelessness  ;  he  ought  to  have 
foreseen  this  danger  ;  it  was  a  most  foolish  thing  to  forget.  But 
the  array  of  f acts— how  had  they  got  hold  of  them  ?  And  he 
remembered,  too  late,  what  he  had  at  the  very  outset  proposed  to 
himself,  namely,  to  rush  the  thing  through,  and  be  off  before  any 
questions  could  arise.  Better,  far  better,  had  he  not  been  tempted 
by  this  dream  of  gambling  in  its  higher  branches,  with  a  beautiful 
woman  to  help  him.  Better  had  he  been  contented  with  the  plunder 
of  Milly's  houses,  and  made  no  attempt  upon  the  poor  Astronomer. 
But  he  had  his  cheque  in  his  pocket  that  moment.  When  he  got 
away  he  would  drive  straight  to  the  bank  :  perhaps  it  would  not  be 
too  late. 

"  You  see,"  George  concluded,  "  you  are  known." 

"I  see,"  he  replied,  "that  you  have  conspired  together  to  make 
up  a  story.  Now,  if  you  please,  we  will  conclude  this  scene.  But 
do  not  imagine  that  I  am  going  to  let  you  have  my  property." 

"  One  moment.  We  shall  not  keep  you  much  longer."  George 
opened  the  door,  and  admitted  the  lawful  owner  of  the  name  of 
Montoro.     "  You  know  this  man,  perhaps." 

"  Oh,"  said  the  Colonel,  "  you  have  got  hold  of  Johnny,  have  you ! 
That  explains  it.  So  you  made  your  way  home,  Johnny,  did  you  ? 
Now  I  understand  it  all,  and  I  suppose  the  game  is  up." 

"  Colonel,"  said  Johnny,  with  a  show  of  courage,  "give  me  back 
my  money  and  my  letters." 

"  As  for  the  letters,"  the  Colonel  took  out  his  pocket-book,  "here 
they  are  ;  I  have  no  longer  any  use  for  them.  As  for  the  money, 
it  was  no  more  yours  than  mine.  You  have  now  got  your  cabin  and 
your  clearing.  Be  content  with  it,  unless  you  prefer  to  stay  at 
home  with  the  most  dutiful  daughter  in  the  world,  and  the  most 
delightful  son-in-law.  They  will  be  as  charmed  with  your  personal 
habits  as  you  will  be  with  the  young  man's  manners.  You  were 
made  for  each  other." 


HIS  CHRISTIAN  NAME.  215 

He  tossed  the  letters  across  the  table.  Johnny  seized  them,  and 
crammed  them  into  his  pockets. 

"  Can  you  tell  me  your  Christian  name  before  we  break  up  this 
meeting  ?" 

"  They  baptized  me  Worshipful  Charles,"  said  Johnny.  "  Colonel, 
don't  keep  all  the  money." 

"  Worshipful  Charles  !"  the  Colonel  repeated.  "  Now,  Mr.  Richard 
Ambler,  could  anyone  guess  such  a  fool  of  a  name  as  that  ?  Wor- 
shipful Charles  !  It's  enough  to  turn  any  man  into  such  a  Johnny 
as  this  poor  creature.  Milly,  you  will  learn  to  love  your  new  father 
more  and  more  the  longer  you  know  him.  He  is  as  brave  as  he  is 
truthful ;  he  is  as  warlike  as  he  is  clear-sighted  ;  he  is  as  temperate 
as  he  is  resolute  ;  he  hates  whisky  as  he  hates  the  sin  of  falsehood  ; 
and  he  is  as  rich  as  I  am  myself.     As  for  the  houses " 

"Matilda's  houses,"  said  Johnny;  "they're  the  little  maid's 
now — not  mine  at  all.  Colonel,  don't  be  hard  on  a  man.  I'm 
a  peaceful  man  ;  but  don't  keep  all  them  notes." 

"Peaceful!  Good  Lord  !"  cried  George.  "  Is  there  a  single  kick 
in  the  whole  man?  He  robs  you  of  your  money — he  trie^  to  rob 
you  of  your  daughter — he  has  almost  robbed  her  of  her  little  for- 
tune ;  and  you  call  yourself  a  peaceful  man." 

"  It  pays  best,"  Johnny  replied  ;  "  I've  got  through  life  comfort- 
ably through  being  peaceful,  with  lots  of  fighting  men,  stickers 
and  shooters,  around  all  the  time.  Colonel,  say  you  won't  keep 
it  all !" 

"  Good  Heavens  !"  cried  George  again ;  "  why,  you  ought  to  give 
him  in  charge.  You  should  follow  him  to  his  hotel,  and  go  with 
him  wherever  he  goes,  until  he  gives  you  back  the  money." 

"  That  is  what  you  would  do,  my  fine  fellow,"  said  the  Colonel. 
"I  wish  I  had  you  out  in  the  West;  I  would  make  you  dance,  my 
cocky  little  clerk  with  the  bantam  crow." 

"  And  I,  Mr.  Brooke  West,  would  make  you  hang." 

"  Hush  !  You  don't  know,"  said  Johnny.  "  Oh,  you  don't  guess 
what  it  is  to  fight  a  man  like  the  Colonel.  No,  no— speak  him  fair. 
You  will  find  him  very  good  company,  too,"  he  added,  without 
much  fitness  as  far  as  anyone  could  tell.  But  doubtless  in  his  mind 
there  was  some  sort  of  connection. 

"  There  are  difficulties,  Mr.  Ambrose,"  the  Colonel  went  on.  He 
was  quite  easy  and  comfortable  in  his  manner  now,  having  made  up 
his  mind  that  it  was  quite  useless  to  carry  on  the  game  any  longer. 
"  There  are  difficulties  which  you  do  not  understand.  Our  gallant 
and  daring  friend  Johnny,  or  Worshipful  Charles,  claims  some 
money.  He  must  first  prove  that  he  lost  that  money ;  next,  that 
I  took  that  money ;  and,  thirdly,  that  it  was  his  money." 

"  I  found  it,"  said  Johnny. 

"  A  very  likely  story.  Now,  is  there  anything  more  you  wish  to 
Bay,  Mr.  Ambrose,  or  any  of  you?" 

At  thia  point  the  Great  Discoverer,  who  had  been  listening  in  an 


216  A  GLORIOUS  FORTUNE. 

abject  state  of  confusion,  bewilderment,  and  terror,  began  to  realize 
something  of  the  situation. 

"  George  "—he  pointed  to  the  new-comer — "  who,  after  all,  is  this 
gentleman  ?" 

"  This  is  Milly's  father,  Reginald.     Do  you  not  understand  ?" 

"  The  place  in  his  college  has  been  offered  to  me.  He  knows 
that,  I  suppose  ?" 

"Ob,  papa,"  cried  Copernica,  "there  is  no  college — there  is  no 
Fortune.  This  poor  man  is  a  beggar  and  a  pauper ;  all  that  was 
said  about  the  Fortune  was  false,  wasn't  it,  you  Mr.  Montoro?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  All  lies,"  he  replied. 

"  Oh  !"  The  Discoverer  sprang  from  his  chair  and  literally  hurled 
himself  upon  the  Colonel.  He  was  not  a  fighting  man,  but  his 
whole  thought  was  not  to  let  him  go  ;  therefore,  he  threw  bis  arms 
round  his  neck  and  hung  on.  "  Hold  him— keep  him  from  running 
away!"  he  screamed.  "  He  has  got  a  cheque  for  all  my  money — all 
my  money — in  his  pocket — all  my  money  !"  He  really  shrieked  in 
his  agony,  thinking  that  he  had  made  his  wife  and  children  penniless. 

"  Let  him  go,  Reginald,"  said  his  cousin ;  "  let  him  go.  Your 
money  is  safe."  They  dragged  him,  crying  out  for  his  money,  from 
his  enemy.  ''  Your  money  is  quite  safe.  You  see,  cousin,  I  natu- 
rally thought,  when  you  sent  me  instructions  to  sell  out,  that  you 
were  up  to  some  foolishness,  so  I  took  the  liberty  of  delaying  the 
business.  Your  stock,  my  poor  cousin,  still  stands  to  your  name, 
and  your  cheque  is  worthless." 

"  Richard,"  said  Mrs.  Ambler,  who  had  been  looking  on  with  an 
earnest  desire  for  all  to  go  away,  so  that  she  could  begin  to  make 
things  as  they  used  to  be — "  Richard,  I  shall  be  grateful  to  you  for 
my  whole  life." 

"In  that  case,"  said  the  Colonel,  adjusting  his  rosebud,  which 
had  been  slightly  bruised  in  the  struggle — "in  that  case,  let  us  tear 
it  up."  He  took  it  out  of  his  pocket-book  and  did  so.  "  And  now, 
I  am  afraid  there  remains  nothing  but  to  unpack  your  boxes  and 
put  up  your  maps  again.  But  you  have  my  free  permission  to 
quote  my  case  as  that  of  a  Recruit  won  over  by  force  of  reason 
and  argument.  If  I  can  flatten  the  earth  a  little  more  for  you  in 
any  part  of  it,  I  shall  willingly  do  so.     Nothing  more,  I  think  ?" 

"  Richard,"  said  Mrs.  Ambler,  "  please  make  Reginald's  money  so 
that  he  can  never  touch  any  of  it  again." 

"  Except  a  criminal  prosecution  for  conspiring  to  obtain  money 
under  false  pretences,"  said  Mr.  Richard. 

"  Yes  ;  that  I  fully  expect.  This  witness  " — he  pointed  to  Johnny 
— "  will  be  invaluable  to  you,  will  he  not  ?  Good-bye,  Milly  ;  I 
wish  you,  for  your  husband's  sake,  your  mother's  temper — good- 
bye !" 

"  Good  Heavens !"  said  Mrs.  Ambler  ;  "  we  were  within  a  day  of 
being  beggars !     Oh,  Copernica  !" 


n/S  CHRISTIAN  NAME.  217 

He  put  on  his  hat  and  was  about  to  go,  when  the  door  opened, 
and  a  lady  of  middle  age,  very  stout,  and  extremely  dignified  in  her 
bearing,  dressed  in  gorgeous  silks,  appeared. 

"  Where,"  she  said,  looking  round  the  room,  "  is  my  brother-in- 
law,  Charles  Montoro  ?" 

"  Your  brother-in-law,  madam  ?"  asked  the  Colonel.  "  Is  "Wor- 
shipful Charles  your  brother-in-law  ?  Do  you  mean  the  rich,  the 
successful — the  enormously  rich  and  successful  Worshipful  Charles 
Montoro  ?" 

"  Certainly  I  do.  Milly,  'my  dear,  is  this  gentleman  your  father  ? 
He  does  not  look " 

"  Behold  him !  Come,  Johnny."  The  Colonel  seized  the  man 
of  peace,  who  had  shown  at  sight  of  the  new-comer  a  desire  to  hide 
himself  behind  Mr.  Richard,  and  dragged  him  forward.  "  Your 
sister-in-law — perhaps  Matilda's  sister,  who  married  into  carriage- 
company." 

"  Oh,  Lord !  It  is  P'leena !"  said  Johnny,  looking  horribly 
guilty. 

"My  dear  Aunt  Paulina" — Milly  stepped  forward — "there  has 
been  a  very  great  mistake.  My  father  has  not  made  the  great  For- 
tune we  all  thought  he  had.  He  has  failed,  and  is  very  poor  ;  in 
fact,  he  is  going  back  to  America,  where  he  has  a  small  farm.  All 
our  plans  are  changed  ;  and  I  was  married  this  morning  to  George 
Ambrose." 

"No  Fortune?  No  money  made?  You  a  pauper,  Charles?" 
The  lady  grew  very  red.  "  Explain  this  deception,  pray.  Milly,  I 
demand  an  explanation." 

"  It  is  P'leena  !"  Johnny  repeated. 

"  There  is  none  to  make,  aunt,  except  what  I  have  told  you — my 
father  is  not  rich." 

"  I  have  driven  all  the  way  from  Wimbledon  to  be  confronted 
with  a  Pauper  !"  said  this  amiable  lady  ;  "  after  what  I  have  been 
given  to  understand.  And  you,  Milly,  have  actually  married  with- 
out consulting  me,  your  ouly  respectable  relation !  Pray,  what  is 
your  husband  ?" 

"  I  am  a  clerk,"  paid  George  unblushingly. 

"Henceforth,  Milly,"  said  the  outraged  lady,  "go  your  own  way. 
You  have  no  more  ambition  than  your  father.  A  Pauper  !"  She 
withered  the  luckless  Johnny.  "  It  is  enough  to  make  my  poor, 
deceived,  unfortunate  sister  Matilda  turn  in  the  grave  into  which 
you  have  worried  her.  After  all  that  has  been  done  for  you,  Milly, 
you  marry  a  clerk  !" 

She  walked  out,  and  the  next  moment  they  heard  the  wheels  of 
her  carriage  driving  her  away. 

"  This  is  very  amusing,"  said  the  Colonel.  "  I  congratulate  you, 
Johnny,  on  your  reception  by  your  friends.  Nothing  like  the 
domestic  affections,  is  there  ?  Now  I  am  going — my  cab  is  out- 
Bide.     Would  you  like  a  lift  to  town,  Johnny,  just  to  talk  about 


2i8  A  GLORIOUS  FORTUNE. 

those  notes  ?    We  shall  agree  very  well  together,  once  we  get  away 
from  mischievous  pettifoggers  and  greedy  clerks." 

Johnny  followed  unresisting  ;  he  could  not  resist  the  Colonel. 
He  did  not  even  say  good-bye  to  his  daughter,  but  went  without  a 
word. 

Milly  expected  her  father  to  return  that  day,  and  the  next,  and 
the  day  after.  Then  George  went  to  the  Langham  and  inquired. 
Mr.  Brooke  West  was  gone,  and  nothing  was  known  of  any  Mr. 
Montoro.  What  happened  was  very  simple.  The  Colonel  drove 
his  friend  Johnny  to  Wapping,  or  the  neighbourhood.  There  he 
gave  him  dinner,  with  copious  whisky.  He  then  found  out  a  steamer 
going  to  sail  to  New  York  the  next  day.  He  persuaded  Johnny, 
without  the  least  difficulty,  that  his  only  chance  was  to  get  back  to 
Oregon  with  all  speed,  lest  somebody  should  take  possession  of  his 
clearing,  and  that  ten  pounds,  as  an  advance,  would  quite  cover  any 
claims  he  might  have  on  account  of  that  bundle  of  notes.  He 
nursed  Johnny  all  that  day,  keeping  him  happy  with  whisky  and 
amused  with  continual  talk.  In  the  morning  he  took  him  on  board, 
and  did  not  leave  him  until  the  last  bell  rang  and  the  last  visitor  had 
to  descend  the  companion.  In  fact,  he  was  the  last ;  and  as  he 
went  down,  Johnny  was  feebly  hanging  over  the  bulwarks,  waving 
his  hat  in  a  friendly  farewell.     Never  was  such  a  Johnny  known. 

I  believe  that  he  is  now  sitting  by  himself  in  the  shade  beside 
his  cabin,  listening  contentedly  to  the  murmur  of  the  stream,  and 
regarding  through  the  door  with  sentimental  admiration  a  distant 
view  of  the  whisky-bottle  on  the  table. 

As  for  the  Astronomer,  it  took  him  many  days  to  recover  even 
the  semblance  of  dignity  and  self-respect.  He  was  crushed  ;  he 
did  not  dare  to  face  the  boys,  who  were  reduced  to  mere  rags  of 
despair  and  wrath.  Copernica  took  her  father  to  the  seaside  at 
Walton-on-Naze,  where  he  amused  himself  by  considering  the 
flatness  of  the  ocean,  and  so  gradually  pulled  round.  He  has  now 
entirely  recovered,  because  he  has  made  converts  of  two  ladies — 
sisters — with  money.  They  are  convinced  that  he  is  not  only 
right  and  a  very  great  Discoverer  indeed,  but  also  that  he  is 
mentioned  in  Prophecy,  and  will  be  connected  with  the  end  of  the 
world.  They  talk  of  leaving  him  all  their  money  for  the  purpose 
of  disseminating  the  truth.  He  has  begun  a  new  chapter  on  the 
Flatness  of  the  Earth,  and  has  promised  a  Speculation  on  the 
Outer  Rim.  Sometimes,  however,  the  healed  wound  breaks  out 
afresh,  and  he  remembers  with  shame  and  sorrow  how  he  was 
cajoled  and  deceived,  and  how  he  was  ready  to  part  with  the 
whole  of  his  fortune  to  an  unscrupulous  adventurer  and  cheat. 

I  ought  to  leave  the  Colonel  to  his  own  devices.  In  novels  he 
would  have  gone  back  to  America,  there  to  lose  all  his  ill-gotten 
money  on  euchre  and  a  black  bottle ;  after  this  he  would  have 


xaj.<>  >^j.hvj.^j.±sij.J  NAME.  219 

become  once  more  adventurer,  sportsman,  and  card-sharper  ;  and 
he  would  have  been  finally  hanged  for  horse-stealing,  or  shot  for 
cheating  at  monty.  I  beg  to  explain  that  Mr.  Percival  Brooke 
West  did  nothing  of  the  kind. 

Johnny  despatched,  he  sat  down  to  think. 

First  of  all,  he  had  not  done  so  badly  since  he  had  managed  to 
get  into  his  little  gambling  circle.  The  stolen  eight  hundred 
pounds  had  increased  to  more  than  a  thousand,  without  deducting 
his  personal  expenses.  And  he  felt  that  he  could  not  possibly 
return  to  the  old  life.  And  then  he  remembered  that  he  had  a 
mother  and  sisters. 

They  lived  by  the  seaside  in  a  pretty  cottage — a  widow-woman 
and  two  elderly  daughters.  They  are  quite  well-to-do  people,  and 
until  the  autumn  of  this  year  of  grace,  eighteen  hundred  and 
eighty-three,  they  lamented  continually  the  absence  of  the  son  and 
brother  who  had  turned  out  so  badly,  and  been  so  "  extravagant" — ■ 
that  is  how  they  put  it ;  but  though  they  knew  nothing  for  certain, 
they  were  aware  that  there  had  been  more  than  extravagance. 
One  morning  in  September  the  prodigal  came  home. 
"Mother,"  he  said,  "let  us  have  no  talk  of  the  past.  I  have 
had  time  to  sow  my  wild  oats.  I  have  saved,  at  the  expense  of 
many  privations  and  great  resolution,  a  small  sum  of  money  to 
come  home  with.  Let  me  stay  a  little  while  with  you  and  my 
sisters  before  I  go  back  to  the  struggle."  He  had  grown  his  grey 
beard  again,  looked  quite  gentle  and  humble,  and  spoke  so  kindly 
that  their  hearts  were  melted. 

Let  him  stay  ?  Will  they  ever  let  him  go  ?  And  if  a  tiger  be 
well  fed,  regularly  fed,  and  kept  warm,  and  given  all  that  he 
wants,  that  tiger,  in  course  of  time,  will  become,  if  you  please,  a 
mere  tame  cat.  He  will  undergo  this  transformation  without  any 
repentance,  tears,  remorse,  sorrow,  self-reproach,  penitence,  or 
lamentations  of  a  sinner,  but  comfortably,  gradually,  and  smoothly. 
In  course  of  time,  Mr.  Percival  Brooke  West  will,  I  dare  say, 
inherit  his  mother's  property.  He  will  not  return  to  town,  where 
his  late  reception  inspired  him  with  a  dislike  for  Clubland  ;  but 
will  remain  in  the  country,  and  will  become  an  authority  on  whist ; 
he  will  be  popular  among  many  as  he  grows  older,  on  account  of 
his  strange  experiences  and  his  varied  stories  of  travel  and 
adventure  ;  and  though  in  course  of  time  there  may  come  into  the 
country  rumours  of  wild  youth  and  excesses,  followed  by  trouble, 
no  one  will  believe  that  he  was  ever  anything  but  an  honourable 
gentleman,  with  as  fair  a  record  as  falls  to  the  lot  of  most,  though 
perhaps  he  lost  his  money,  and  had  to  go  abroad  for  a  time  to 
make  more. 

But  Milly  and  her  husband  abide  by  the  banks  of  the  gentle 
river  Lea,  and  are  contented,  and  he  hopes  to  do  such  great  things 
in  the  future  as  will  lead  him  to  the  gate  of  honour  ard  the  way 
of  wealth. 


IN   LUCK  AT   LAST. 


WITHIN   THBEE    WEEKS. 

If  everyone  were  allowed  beforehand  to  choose  and  select  for 
himself  the  most  pleasant  method  of  performing  this  earthly 
pilgrimage,  there  would  be,  I  have  always  thought,  an  immediate 
run  upon  that  way  of  getting  to  the  Delectable  Mountains  which 
is  known  as  the  Craft  and  Mystery  of  Second-hand  Bookselling. 
If,  further,  one  were  allowed  to  select  and  arrange  the  minor 
details — such,  for  instance,  as  the  character  of  the  shop,  it  would 
seem  desirable  that  the  kind  of  bookselling  should  be  neither  too 
lofty  nor  too  mean — that  is  to  say,  that  one's  ambition  would  not 
aspire  to  a  great  collector's  establishment,  such  as  one  or  two  we 
might  name  in  Piccadilly,  the  Haymarket,  or  New  Bond  Street : 
these  should  be  left  to  those  who  greatly  dare  and  are  prepared  to 
play  the  games  of  Speculation  and  of  Patience  ;  nor,  on  the  other 
hand,  would  one  choose  an  open  cart  at  the  beginning  of  the 
"Whitechapel  Road,  or  a  shop  in  Seven  Dials,  whose  stock-in-trade 
would  consist  wholly  of  three  or  four  boxes  outside  the  door  filled 
with  odd  volumes  at  twopence  apiece.  As  for  "  pitch"  or  situation, 
one  would  wish  it  to  be  somewhat  retired,  but  not  too  much  ;  one 
would  not,  for  instance,  willingly  be  thrown  away  in  Hoxton,  nor 
would  one  languish  in  the  obscurity  of  Kentish  Town  ;  a  second- 
hand bookseller  must  not  be  so  far  removed  from  the  haunts  of 
men  as  to  place  him  practically  beyond  the  reach  of  the  collector  ; 
nor,  on  the  other  hand,  should  he  be  planted  in  a  busy  thoroughfare 
— the  noise  of  many  vehicles,  the  hurry  of  quick  footsteps,  the 
swift  current  of  anxious  humanity,  are  out  of  harmony  with  the 
atmosphere  of  a  second-hand  bookshop.  Some  suggestion  of 
external  repose  is  absolutely  necessary  ;  there  must  be  some 
stillness  in  the  air ;  yet  the  thing  itself  belongs  essentially  to  the 
city ;  no  one  can  imagine  a  second-hand  bookshop  beside  green 
fields — so  that  there  should  be  some  murmur  and  perceptible  hum 
of  mankind  always  present  in  the  ear.   Thus  there  are  half-a-dozen 


WITHIN  THREE  WEEKS.  221 

bookshops  in  King  William  Street,  Strand,  which  seem  to  enjoy 
every  possible  advantage  of  position,  for  they  are  in  the  very  heart 
of  London,  but  yet  are  not  exposed  to  the  full  noise  and  tumult  of 
that  overflowing  tide  which  surges  round  Charing  Cross.  Again, 
tbere  are  streets  north  of  Holborn  and  Oxford  Street  most 
pleasantly  situated  for  the  second-hand  bookseller,  and  there  are 
streets  where  he  ought  not  to  be,  where  he  has  no  business,  and 
where  his  presence  jars.  Could  we,  for  instance,  endure  to  see  the 
shop  of  a  second-hand  bookseller  established  in  Cheapside  ? 

Perhaps,  however,  the  most  delightful  spot  in  all  London  for  a 
second-hand  bookshop  is  that  occupied  by  Emblem's  in  the  King's 
Road,  Chelsea. 

It   stands  at  the  lower  end  of  the  road,  where  one  begins  to 
realize   and   thoroughly  feel   the  influences  of   that  ancient  and 
lordly  suburb.     At  this  end  of  the  road  there  are  rows  of  houses 
with  old-fashioned  balconies  ;  right  and  left  of  it  there  are  streets 
which  in  the  summer  and  early  autumn  are  green,  yellow,  red,  and 
golden  with  their  masses  of  creepers  ;  squares  which  look  as  if, 
with  the   people  living  in  them,   they  must  belong  to  the  year 
eighteen  hundred  ;  neither  a  day  before  nor  a  day  after;  they  lie 
open  to  the  road,  with  their  gardens  full  of  trees.     Cheyne  Walk 
and    the    old    church,    with   its   red-brick   tower,   and    the    new 
Embankment,  are  all  so  close  that  they  seem  part  and  parcel  of 
the  King's  Road.    The  great  Hospital  is  within  five  minutes'  walk, 
and    sometimes    the    honest   veterans    themselves    may   be    seen 
wandering  in  the  road.     The  air  is  heavy  with  associations  and 
memories.     You  can  actually  smell  the  fragrance  of  the  new-made 
Chelsea  buns,  fresh  from  the  oven,    as  they  were  baked  just  a 
hundred  years  ago.     You  may  sit  with  dainty  damsels,  all  hoops 
and  furbelows,  eating  custards  at  the  Bunhouse  ;  you  may  wander 
among  the  rare  plants  of  the   Botanic  Gardens.     The  old  great 
houses  rise,  shadowy  and  magnificent,  above  the  modern  terraces  ; 
Don  Sal'tero's   Coffee-House  yet  opens  its  hospitable  doors  ;   Sir 
Thomas  More  meditates  again  on  Cheyne  Walk  ;  at  dead  of  night 
the  ghosts  of  ancient  minuet  tunes  may  be  heard  from  the  Rotunda 
of  Ranelagh  Gardens,  though  the  new  barracks  stand  upon  its  site  ; 
and  along  the  modern  streets  you  may  see  the  ladies  with  their 
hoop  petticoats  and  the  gentlemen  with  their  wigs  and  their  three- 
cornered  hats  and  swords,  and  you  are  not  in  the  least  astonished. 
Emblem's  is  one  of  two  or  three  shops  which  stand  together,  but 
it  differs  from  its  neighbours  in  many  important  particulars.     For 
it  has  no  plate-glass,  as  the  others  have  ;  nor  does  it  stand  like 
them  with  open  doors  ;  nor  does  it  flare  away  gas  at  night  ;  nor  is 
it  bright  with  gilding  and  fresh  paint  ;  nor  does  it  seek  to  attract 
notice  by  posters  and  bills.     On  the  contrary,  it  retains  the  old, 
small,  and  unpretending  panes  of  glass  which  it  has  always  had  ; 
in  the  evening  it  is  dimly  lighted,  and  it  closes  early  ;  its  door  is 
always  shut,  and  although  the  name  over  the  shop  is  dingy,  one 


-*22  IN  L UCK  AT  LAST. 

feels  that  a  coat  of  paint,  while  it  would  certainly  freshen  up  the 
place,  would  take  something  from  its  character.  For  a  second- 
hand bookseller  who  respects  himself  must  present  an  exterior 
which  has  something  of  faded  splendour,  of  worn  paint  and 
shabbiness.  Within  the  shop,  books  line  the  walls  and  cumber  the 
floor.  There  are  an  outer  and  an  inner  shop  ;  in  the  former  a 
small  table  stands  among  the  books,  at  which  Mr.  James,  the 
assistant,  is  always  at  work  cataloguing,  when  he  is  not  tying  up 
parcels  ;  sometimes  even  with  gum  and  paste  repairing  the  slighter 
ravages  of  time — foxed  bindings  and  close-cut  margins  no  man  can 
repair.  In  the  latter,  which  is  Mr.  Emblem's  sanctum,  there  are 
chairs  and  a  table,  also  covered  with  books,  a  writing-desk,  a  small 
safe,  and  a  glass  case,  wherein  are  secured  the  more  costly  books  in 
stock.  Emblem's,  as  must  be  confessed,  is  no  longer  quite  what  it 
was  in  former  days  ;  twenty,  thirty,  or  forty  years  ago  that  glass 
case  was  filled  with  precious  treasures.  In  those  days,  if  a  man 
wanted  a  book  of  county  history,  or  of  genealogy,  or  of  heraldry, 
he  knew  where  was  his  best  chance  of  finding  it,  for  Emblem's  in 
its  prime  and  heyday,  had  its  speciality.  Other  books  treating  on 
more  frivolous  subjects,  such  as  science,  belles  lettres,  Art,  or 
politics,  Emblem's  would  consider,  buy,  and  sell  again  ;  but  it  took 
little  pride  in  them.  Collectors  of  county  histories,  however,  and 
genealogy-hunters  and  their  kind,  knew  that  at  Emblem's,  where 
they  would  be  most  likely  to  get  what  they  wanted,  they  would 
have  to  pay  its  market  price  for  it. 

There  is  no  patience  like  the  patience  of  a  book-collector  ;  there 
is  no  such  industry  given  to  any  work  comparable  with  the 
thoughtful  and  anxious  industry  with  which  he  peruses  the  latest 
catalogues  ;  there  is  no  care  like  unto  that  which  rends  his  mind 
before  the  day  of  auction  or  while  he  is  still  trying  to  pick  up  a 
bargain  ;  there  are  no  eyes  so  sharp  as  those  which  pry  into  the 
contents  of  a  box  full  of  old  books,  tumbled  together,  at  sixpence 
a  piece.  The  bookseller  himself  partakes  of  the  noble  enthusiasm 
of  the  collector  ;  he  is  himself  a  collector,  though  he  sells  his  col- 
lection ;  like  the  amateur,  the  professional  moves  heaven  and  earth 
to  get  a  bargain  ;  like  him,  he  rejoices  as  much  over  a  book  which 
has  been  picked  up  below  its  price,  as  over  a  lost  sheep  which  has 
returned  into  the  fold.  But  Emblem  is  now  old,  and  Emblem's 
shop  is  no  longer  what  it  was  to  the  collector  of  the  last  generation. 

It  was  an  afternoon  in  late  September,  and  in  this  very  year  of 
grace,  eighteen  hundred  and  eighty-four.  The  day  was  as  sunny 
and  warm  as  any  of  the  days  of  its  predecessor  Augustus  the 
Gorgeous,  but  yet  there  was  an  autumnal  feeling  in  the  air  which 
made  itself  felt  even  in  the  streets  where  there  were  no  red  and 
yellow  Virginia  creeper,  no  square  gardens  with  long  trails  of 
mignonette  and  banks  of  flowering  nasturtiums.  In  fact,  you  cannot 
anywhere  escape  the  autumnal  feeling  which  begins  about  the  middle 
of   September.    It  makes  old  people  think  with  sadness  that  the 


WITHIN  THREE  WEEKS.  223 

grasshopper  is  a  burden  in  the  land,  and  that  the  almond-tree  is 
about  to  flourish  ;  but  the  young  it  fills  with  a  vinous  and  intoxi- 
cated rejoicing,  as  if  the  time  of  feasting,  fruits,  harvests,  and  young 
wine,  strong  and  fruity,  was  upon  the  world.  It  made  Mr.  James 
— his  surname  has  never  been  ascertained,  but  man  and  boy,  Mr. 
James  has  been  at  Emblem's  for  twenty-five  years  and  more — leave 
his  table  where  he  was  preparing  the  forthcoming  catalogue,  and  go 
to  the  open  door,  where  he  wasted  a  good  minute  and  a  half  in 
gazing  up  at  the  clear  sky  and  down  the  sunny  street.  Then  he 
stretched  his  arms  and  returned  to  his  work,  impelled  by  the  sense 
of  duty  rather  than  by  the  scourge  of  necessity,  because  there  was 
no  hurry  about  the  catalogue  and  most  of  the  books  in  it  were  rub- 
bish, and  at  that  season  of  the  year  few  customers  could  be  expected, 
and  there  were  no  parcels  to  tie  up  and  send  out.  He  went  back 
to  his  work,  therefore,  but  he  left  the  door  partly  open  in  order  to 
enjoy  the  sight  of  the  warm  sunshine.  Now  for  Emblem's  to  have 
its  door  open,  was  much  as  if  Mr.  Emblem  himself  should  so  far 
forget  his  self-respect  as  to  sit  in  his  shirt- sleeves.  The  shop  had 
been  rather  dark,  the  window  being  full  of  books;  but  now  through 
the  open  door  there  poured  a  little  stream  of  sunshine,  reflected 
from  some  far-off  window.  It  fell  upon  a  row  of  old  eighteenth- 
century  volumes,  bound  in  dark  and  rusty  leather,  and  did  so  light 
up  and  glorify  the  dingy  bindings  and  faded  gold,  that  they  seemed 
fresh  from  the  binder's  hands,  and  just  ready  for  the  noble  pur- 
chaser, long  since  dead  and  gone,  whose  book-plate  they  bore. 
Some  of  this  golden  stream  fell  also  upon  the  head  of  the  as- 
sistant— it  was  a  red  head  with  fiery  red  eyes,  red  eyebrows,  bristly 
and  thick,  and  sharp  thin  features  to  match — and  it  gave  him  the 
look  of  one  who  is  dragged  unwillingly  into  the  sunlight.  How- 
ever, Mi.  James  took  no  notice  of  the  sunshine,  and  went  on  with 
his  cataloguing  almost  as  if  he  liked  that  kind  of  work.  There  are 
many  people  who  seem  to  like  dull  work,  and  they  would  not  be  a 
bit  more  unhappy  if  they  were  made  to  take  the  place  of  Sisyphus, 
or  transformed  into  the  damsels  who  are  condemned  to  toil  con- 
tinually at  the  weary  work  of  pouring  water  into  a  sieve.  Perhaps 
Sisyphus  does  not  so  much  mind  the  continual  going  up  and  down 
hill.  "  After  all,"  he  might  say,  "this  is  better  than  the  lot  of  poor 
Ixion.  At  all  events,  I  have  got  my  limbs  free."  Ixion,  on  the 
other  hand,  no  doubt,  is  full  of  pity  for  his  poor  friend  Sisyphus. 
"I,  at  least,"  he  says,  "have  no  work  to  do.  And  the  rapid  motion 
of  the  wheel  is  in  sultry  weather  breezy  and  pleasant." 

Behind  the  shop,  where  had  been  originally  the  "  back  parlour," 
in  the  days  when  every  genteel  house  in  Chelsea  had  both  its  front 
and  back  parlour — the  latter  for  sitting  and  living  in,  the  former 
for  the  reception  of  company — sat  this  afternoon  the  proprietor,  the 
man  whose  name  had  stood  above  the  shop  for  fifty  years,  the 
original  and  only  Emblem.  He  was — nay,  he  is — for  you  may  still 
find  him  in  his  place,  and  may  make  his  acquaintance  over  a  county 


224  IN  L UCK  AT  LAST. 

history  any  day  in  the  King's  Road — he  is  an  old  man  now,  ad- 
vanced in  the  seventies,  who  was  born  before  the  battle  of  Waterloo 
was  fought,  and  can  remember  Chelsea  when  it  was  full  of  veterans 
wounded  in  battles  fought  long  before  the  Corsican  Attila  was  let 
loose  upon  the  world.  His  face  wears  the  peaceful  and  wise  expres- 
sion which  belongs  peculiarly  to  his  profession.  Other  callings  make 
a  man  look  peaceful,  but  not  all  other  callings  make  him  look  wise. 
Mr.  Emblem  was  born  by  nature  of  a  calm  temperament — other- 
wise he  would  not  have  been  happy  in  his  business  ;  a  smile  lies 
general 'y  upon  his  lips,  and  his  eyes  are  soft  and  benign  ;  his  hair 
is  white,  and  his  face,  once  ruddy,  is  pale,  yet  not  shrunk  and 
seamed  with  furrows,  as  happens  to  so  many  old  men,  but  round 
and  firm  ;  like  his  chin  and  lips,  it  is  clean  shaven  ;  he  wears  a  black 
coat  extraordinarily  shiny  in  the  sleeve,  and  a  black  silk  stock,  just 
as  he  used  to  wear  in  the  thirties  when  he  was  young,  and  some- 
thing of  a  dandy,  and  would  show  himself  on  a  Saturday  evening 
in  the  pit  of  Drury  Lane  ;  and  the  stock  is  fastened  behind  with  a 
silver  buckle.  He  is,  in  fact,  a  delightful  old  gentleman  to  look  at, 
and  pleasant  to  converse  with,  and  on  his  brow  everyone  who  can 
read  may  see,  visibly  stamped,  the  seal  of  a  harmless  and  honest 
life.  At  the  contemplation  of  such  a  man,  one's  opinion  of 
humanity  is  sensibly  raised,  and  even  house  agents,  plumbers,  and 
suburban  builders,  may  feel  when  they  gaze  upon  Mr.  Emblem, 
that,  after  all,  virtue  may  bring  with  it  some  reward. 

The  quiet  and  warmth  of  the  afternoon,  unbroken  to  his  accus- 
tomed ear,  as  it  would  be  to  a  stranger,  by  the  murmurous  roll  of 
London,  made  him  sleepy.  In  his  hand  he  held  a  letter  which  he 
had  been  reading  for  the  hundredth  time,  and  of  which  he  knew 
by  heart  every  word  ;  and  as  his  eyes  closed  he  went  back  in  imagi- 
nation to  a  passage  in  the  past  which  it  recalled. 

He  stood,  in  imagination,  upon  the  deck  of  a  sailing-ship — an 
emigrant  ship.  The  year  was  eighteen  hundred  and  sixty-four,  a 
year  when  very  few  were  tempted  to  try  their  fortunes  in  a  country 
torn  by  civil  war.  "With  him  were  his  daughter  and  his  son-in-law, 
and  they  were  come  to  bid  the  latter  farewell. 

"  My  dear — my  dear,"  cried  the  wife,  in  her  husband's  arms, 
"  come  what  may,  I  will  join  you  in  a  year." 

Her  husband  shook  his  head  sadly. 

"  They  do  not  want  me  here,"  he  said  ;  "  the  work  goes  into 
stronger  and  rougher  hands.  Perhaps  over  there  we  may  get  on 
better;  and  besides,  it  seems  an  opening." 

If  the  kind  of  work  which  he  wanted  was  given  to  stronger  and 
rougher  hands  than  his  in  England,  far  more  would  it  be  the  case 
in  young  and  rough  America.  It  was  journalistic  work — writing 
work — that  he  wanted  ;  and  he  was  a  gentleman,  a  scholar,  and  a 
creature  of  retired  and  refined  tastes  and  manners.  There  are, 
perhaps,  some  still  living  who  have  survived  the  tempestuous  life  of 
the  ordinary  Fleet  Street  "  newspaper  man  "  of  twenty  or  thirty 


WITHIN  THREE  WEEKS.  225 

years  ago  ;  perhaps  one  or  two  among  these  remember  Claude  Aglen 
— but  he  was  so  short  a  time  with  them  that  it  is  not  likely  ;  those 
who  do  remember  him  will  understand  that  the  way  to  success, 
rough  and  thorny  for  all,  for  such  as  Aglen  was  impossible. 

"  But  you  will  think  every  day  of  little  Iris  ?"  said  his  wife. 
"  Oh,  my  dear,  if  I  were  only  going  with  you  !  And  but  for  me 
you  would  be  at  home  with  your  father,  well  and  happy." 

Then  in  his  dream,  which  was  also  a  memory,  the  old  man  saw 
how  the  young  husband  kissed  and  comforted  his  wife. 

"My dear,"  said  Claude,  "if  it  were  not  for  you,  what  happiness 
could  I  have  in  the  world  ?  Courage,  my  wife  !  courage  and  hope. 
I  shall  think  of  you  and  of  Iris  all  day  and  all  night,  until  we  meet 
again." 

And  so  they  parted,  and  the  ship  sailed  away. 

The  old  man  opened  his  eyes  and  looked  about  him.  It  was  a 
dream. 

"  It  was  twenty  years  ago,"  he  said,  "  and  Iris  was  a  baby  in  arms. 
Twenty  years  ago,  and  he  never  saw  his  wife  again.  Never  again  ! 
Because  she  died,"  he  added,  after  a  pause  ;  "  my  Alice  died  !" 

He  shed  no  tears,  being  so  old  that  the  time  of  tears  was  well- 
nigh  past — at  seventy-five  the  eyes  are  drier  than  at  forty,  and  one 
is  no  longer  surprised  or  disappointed,  and  seldom  even  angry,  what- 
ever happens. 

But  he  opened  the  letter  in  his  band  and  read  it  again  mechani- 
cally. It  was  written  on  thin  foreign  paper,  and  the  creases  of  the 
folds  had  become  gaping  rents.  It  was  dated  September,  1866, 
just  eighteen  years  back. 

"  When  you  read  these  lines,"  the  letter  said,  "  I  shall  be  in  the 
silent  land,  whither  Alice,  my  wife,  has  gone  before  me.  It  would 
be  a  strange  thing  only  to  think  upon  this  journey  which  lies  before 
me,  and  which  I  must  take  alone,  had  I  time  left  for  thinking.  But 
I  have  not.  I  may  last  a  week,  or  I  may  die  in  a  few  hours.  There- 
fore, to  the  point. 

"  In  one  small  thing  we  deceived  you,  Alice  and  I — my  name  is 
not  Aglen  at  all ;  we  took  that  name  for  certain  reasons.  Perhaps 
we  were  wrong,  but  we  thought  that  as  we  were  quite  poor,  and 
likely  to  remain  poor,  it  would  be  well  to  keep  our  secret  to  our- 
selves. Forgive  us  both  this  suppression  of  the  truth.  We  were 
made  poor  by  our  own  voluntary  act  and  deed,  and  because  I  mar- 
ried the  only  woman  I  loved. 

"  I  was  engaged  to  a  girl  whom  I  did  not  love.  We  had  been 
brought  up  like  brother  and  sister  together,  but  I  did  not  love  her, 
though  I  was  engaged  to  her.  In  breaking  thi3  engagement  I 
angered  my  father.     In  marrying  Alice  I  angered  him  still  more. 

"  I  now  know  that  he  has  forgiven  me  ;  he  forgave  me  on  his 
death-bed  ;  he  revoked  his  former  will,  and  made  me  his  sole  heir 
— just  as  if  nothing  had  happened  to  destroy  his  old  affection — 
6ubject  to  one  condition — viz.,  that  the  girl  to  whom  I  was  first 

15 


226  IN  L UCK  AT  LAST. 

engaged  should  receive  the  whole  income  until  I,  or  my  heira 
should  return  to  England  in  order  to  claim  the  inheritance. 

"  It  is  strange.  I  die  in  a  wooden  shanty,  in  a  little  western  town,  the 
editor  of  a  miserable  little  country  paper.  I  have  not  money  enough 
even  to  bury  me,  and  yet,  if  I  were  at  home,  I  might  be  called  a  rich 
man,  as  men  go.  My  little  Iris  will  be  an  heiress.  At  the  very 
moment  when  I  learn  that  I  am  my  father's  heir,  I  am  struck  down 
by  fever  ;  and  now  I  know  that  I  shall  never  get  up  again. 

"  It  is  strange.  Yet  my  father  sent  me  his  forgiveness,  and  my 
wife  is  dead,  and  the  wealth  that  has  come  is  useless  to  me.  Where- 
fore, nothing  now  matters  much  to  me,  and  I  know  that  you  will 
held  my  last  wishes  sacred. 

"  I  desire  that  Iris  shall  be  educated  as  well  and  thoroughly  as 
you  can  afford  ;  keep  her  free  from  rough  and  rude  companions  ; 
make  her  understand  that  her  father  was  a  gentleman  of  ancient 
family  ;  this  knowledge  will,  perhaps,  help  to  give  her  self-respect. 
If  any  misfortune  should  fall  upon  you,  such  as  the  loss  of  health 
or  wealth,  give  the  papers  enclosed  to  a  trustworthy  solicitor,  and 
bid  him  act  as  is  best  in  the  interests  of  Iris.  If,  as  I  hope,  all  will 
go  well  with  you,  do  not  open  the  papers  until  my  child's  twenty- 
first  birthday;  do  not  let  her  know  until  then  that  she  is  going  to  be 
rich  ;  on  her  twenty -first  birthday  open  the  papers  and  bid  her  claim 
her  own. 

"  To  the  woman  I  wronged — I  know  not  whether  she  has  married 
or  not — bid  Iris  carry  my  last  message  of  sorrow  at  what  has  hap- 
pened. I  do  not  regret,  and  I  have  never  regretted,  that  I  married 
Alice.  But  I  gave  her  pain,  for  which  I  have  never  ceased  to 
grieve.  I  have  been  punished  for  this  breach  of  faith.  You  will 
find  among  the  papers  an  account  of  all  the  circumstances  connected 
with  this  engagement.  There  is  also  in  the  packet  my  portrait, 
taken  when  I  was  a  lad  of  sixteen  ;  give  her  that  as  well ;  there  is 
the  certificate  of  my  marriage,  my  register  of  baptism,  that  of  Iris's 
baptism,  my  signet-ring "  "  His  arms  " — the  old  man  inter- 
rupted his  reading — "his  arms  were  quarterly  :  first  and  fourth, 
two  roses  and  a  boar's  head,  erect;  second  and  third,  gules  and  fesse 
between — between — but  I  cannot  remember  what  it  was  between 

"     He  went    on    reading  :    "My  father's   last  letter  to  me  ; 

Alice's  letters,  and  one  or  two  from  yourself.  If  Iris  should 
unhappily  die  before  her  twenty-first  birthday,  open  these  papers, 
find  out  from  them  the  owner's  name  and  address,  seek  her  out, 
and  tell  her  that  she  will  never  now  be  disturbed  by  any  claimants 
to  the  estate." 

The  letter  ended  here  abruptly,  as  if  the  writer  had  designed  to 
add  more,  but  was  prevented  by  death. 

For  there  was  a    postscript,  in   another  hand,  which    stated 
"  Mr.  Aglen  died  November  25th,  1866,  and  is  buried  in  the  cemetery 
of  Johnson  City,  111." 

The  old  man  folded  the  letter  carefully,  and  laid  it  on  the  table. 


WITHIN  THREE  WEEKS.  227 

Then  he  rose  and  walked  across  the  room  to  the  safe,  which  stood 
with  open  door  in  the  corner  farthest  from  the  fireplace.  Among 
its  contents  was  a  packet  sealed  and  tied  up  in  red  tape,  endorsed  : 
"  For  Iris.  To  be  given  to  her  on  her  twenty -first  birthday.  From 
her  father." 

"  It  will  be  her  twenty-first  birthday,"  he  said,  "  in  three  weeks. 
Then  I  must  give  her  the  packet.  So — so — with  the  portrait  of  her 
father,  and  his  marriage-certificate."  He  fell  into  a  fit  of  musing, 
with  the  papers  in  his  hand.  "  She  will  be  safe,  whatever  happens 
to  me  ;  and  as  to  me,  if  I  lose  her — of  course  I  shall  lose  her.  Why, 
what  will  it  matter  ?  Have  I  not  lost  all,  except  Iris  ?  One  must 
not  be  selfish.  Oh,  Iris,  what  a  surprise— what  a  surprise  I  have  in 
store  for  you  !" 

He  placed  the  letter  he  had  been  reading  within  the  tape  which 
fastened  the  bundle,  so  that  it  should  form  a  part  of  the  communi- 
cation to  be  made  on  Iris's  birthday. 

"  There,"  he  said,  "  now  I  shall  read  this  letter  no  more.  I  won- 
der how  many  times  I  have  read  it  in  the  last  eighteen  years,  and 
how  often  I  have  wondered  what  the  child's  fortune  would  be  ?  In 
three  weeks — in  three  short  weeks.     Oh,  Iris,  if  you  only  knew !" 

He  put  back  the  letters  and  the  packet,  locked  the  safe,  and  re- 
sumed his  seat.  The  red-eyed  assistant,  still  gumming  and  pasting 
his  slips  with  punctilious  regard  to  duty,  had  been  following  his 
master's  movements  with  curiosity. 

"  Counting  his  investments  again  as  usual,"  Mr.  James  murmured. 
"  Ah,  and  adding  'em  up  !  Always  at  it.  Oh,  what  a  trade  it  must 
have  been  once  !" 

Just  then  there  appeared  in  the  door  a  gentleman.  He  was  quite 
shabby,  and  even  ragged  in  his  dress,  but  he  was  clearly  a  gentle- 
man. He  was  no  longer  young  ;  his  shoulders  were  bent,  and  he 
had  the  unmistakable  stamp  and  carriage  of  a  student. 

"Guvnor's  at  home,"  said  the  assistant  briefly. 

The  visitor  walked  into  the  sanctum.  He  had  under  his  arm 
half  a  dozen  volumes,  which,  without  a  word,  he  laid  before  Mr. 
Emblem,  and  untied  the  string. 

"  You  ought  to  know  this  book,"  he  said,  without  further  intro- 
duction. 

Mr.  Emblem  looked  doubtfully  at  the  visitor. 

"  You  sold  it  to  me  twenty-five  years  ago,"  he  went  on,  "  for  five 
pounds." 

"I  did.  And  I  remember  now.  You  are  Mr.  Frank  Farrar. 
Why,  it  is  twenty-five  years  ago  !" 

"  I  have  bought  no  more  books  for  twenty  years  and  more,"  he 
replied. 

"  Sad — sad  !  Dear  me — tut,  tut ! — bought  no  books  ?  And  you, 
Mr.  Farrar,  once  my  best  customer.  And  now — you  do  not  mean 
to  say  that  you  are  going  to  sell — that  you  actually  want  to  sell — 
this  precious  book  ?" 

15—2 


228  IN  L  UCK  AT  LA  ST. 

"  I  am  selling,  one  by  one,  all  ray  books,"  replied  the  other  with 
a  sigh.     "  I  am  going  downhill,  Emblem,  fast." 

"  Oh,  dear,  dear,  dear  !"  replied  the  bookseller.  "  This  is  very 
sad.  One  cannot  bear  to  think  of  the  libraries  being  dispersed  and 
sold  off.  And  now  yours,  Mr.  Farrar  ?  Eeally,  yours  ?  Must  it 
be  ?" 

"  '  Needs  must,'  "  Mr.  Farrar  said  with  a  sickly  smile,  "  needs  must 
when  the  devil  drives.  I  have  parted  with  half  my  books  already. 
But  I  thought  you  might  like  to  have  this  set,  because  they  were 
once  your  own." 

"  So  I  should  " — Mr.  Emblem  laid  a  loving  band  upon  the  volumes 
— "  so  I  should,  Mr.  Farrar,  but  not  from  you  ;  not  from  you,  sir. 
"Why,  you  were  almost  my  best  customer — I  think  almost  my  very 
best — thirty  years  ago,  when  my  trade  was  better  than  it  is  now. 
Yes,  you  gave  me  five  pounds — or  was  it  five  pounds  ten  ? — for  this 
very  work.  And  it  is  worth  twelve  pounds  now — I  assure  you  it  is 
worth  twelve  pounds,  if  it  is  worth  a  penny." 

"  Will  you  give  me  ten  pounds  for  it,  then  ?"  cried  the  other 
eagerly  ;  "  I  want  the  money  badly." 

"  No,  I  can't  ;  but  I  will  send  you  to  a  man  who  can  and  will.  I 
do  not  speculate  now  ;  I  never  go  to  auctions.  I  am  old,  you  see. 
Besides,  I  am  poor.  I  will  not  buy  your  book,  but  I  will  send  you 
to  a  man  who  will  give  you  ten  pounds  for  it,  I  am  sure,  and  then 
he  will  sell  it  for  fifteen."  He  wrote  the  address  on  a  slip  of  paper. 
"Why,  Mr.  Farrar,  if  an  old  friend,  so  to  speak,  can  put  the  ques- 
tion, why  in  the  world " 

"  The  most  natural  thing,"  replied  Mr.  Farrar,  with  a  cold  laugh  ; 
"  I  am  old,  as  I  told  you,  and  the  younger  men  get  all  the  work. 
That  is  all.     Nobody  wants  a  genealogist  and  antiquary." 

"  Dear  me,  dear  me  !  Why,  Mr.  Farrar,  I  remember  now  ;  you 
used  to  know  my  poor  son-in-law,  who  is  dead  eighteen  years  since. 
I  was  just  reading  the  last  letter  he  ever  wrote  me,  just  before  he 
died.  You  used  to  come  here  and  sit  with  him  in  the  evening.  I 
remember  now.     So  you  did. 

"Thank  you  for  your  goodwill,"  said  Mr.  Farrar.  "Yes,  I  re- 
member your  son-in-law.     I  knew  him  before  his  marriage." 

"Did  you?     Before  his  marriage?     Then "     He  was  going 

to  add,  "  Then  you  can  tell  me  his  real  name,"  but  he  paused,  because 
it  is  a  pity  ever  to  acknowledge  ignorance,  and  especially  ignorance 
in  such  elementary  matters  as  your  son-in-law's  name. 

So  Mr.  Emblem  checked  himself. 

"  He  ought  to  have  been  a  rich  man,"  Mr.  Farrar  continued  ;  "  but 
he  quarrelled  with  his  father,  who  cut  him  off  with  a  shilling,  I 
suppose." 

Then  the  poor  scholar,  who  could  find  no  market  for  his  learned 
papers,  tied  up  his  books  again,  and  went  away  with  hanging  head. 

"Ugh!"  Mr.  James,  who  had  been  listening,  groaned  as  Mr. 
Farrar  passed  through  the  door.     "  Ugh  !     Call  that  a  way  of  doing 


WITHIN  THREE  WEEKS.  22) 

business  ?  Why,  if  it  had  been  me,  I'd  have  bought  the  book  off  of 
that  old  chap  for  a  couple  o'  pounds,  I  would .  Aye,  or  a  sov,  so 
seedy  he  is,  and  wants  money  so  bad.  And  I  know  who'd  have 
given  twelve  pound  for  it,  in  the  trade  too.  Call  that  carrying  on 
business  ?  He  may  well  add  up  his  investments  every  day,  if  he 
can  afford  to  chuck  away  such  chances.  Ah,  but  he'll  retire  soon." 
His  fiery  eyes  brightened,  and  his  face  glowed  with  the  joy  of 
anticipation.     "  He  must  retire  before  long." 

There  came  another  visitor.  This  time  it  was  a  lanky  boy,  with 
a  blue  bag  over  his  shoulder  and  a  note-book  and  pencil-stump  in 
his  band.  He  nodded  to  the  assistant  as  to  an  old  friend  with  whom 
one  may  be  at  ease,  set  down  his  bag,  opened  his  note-book,  and 
nibbled  his  stump.  Then  he  read  aloud,  with  a  comma  or  semicolon 
between  each,  a  dozen  or  twenty  titles.  They  were  the  names  of 
the  books  which  his  employer  wished  to  pick  up.  The  red-eyed 
assistant  listened,  and  shook  his  head.  Then  the  boy,  without 
another  word,  shouldered  his  bag  and  departed,  on  his  way  to  the 
next  second-hand  book-shop. 

He  was  followed,  at  a  decent  interval,  by  another  caller.  This 
time  it  was  an  old  gentleman  who  opened  the  door,  put  in  his  head, 
and  looked  about  him  with  quick  and  suspicious  glance.  At  sight 
of  the  assistant  he  nodded  and  smiled  in  the  most  friendly  way 
possible,  and  came  in. 

11  Good-morning,  Mr.  James  ;  good-morning,  my  friend.  Splendid 
weather.  Pray  don't  disturb  yourself.  I  am  just  having  a  look 
round — only  a  look  round,  you  know.     Don't  move,  Mr.  James." 

He  addressed  Mr.  James,  but  he  was  looking  at  the  shelves  as  he 
spoke,  and,  with  the  habit  of  a  book-hunter,  taking  down  the 
volumes,  looking  at  the  title-pages  and  replacing  them  ;  under  his 
arm  he  carried  a  single  volume  in  old  leather  binding. 

Mr.  James  nodded  his  head,  but  did  disturb  himself  ;  in  fact,  he 
rose  with  a  scowl  upon  his  face,  and  followed  this  polite  old  gentle- 
man all  round  the  shop,  placing  himself  close  to  his  elbow.  One 
might  almost  suppose  that  he  suspected  him,  so  close  and  assiduous 
was  his  assistance.  But  the  visitor,  accepting  these  attentions  as  if 
they  were  customary,  and  the  result  of  high  breeding,  went  slowly 
round  the  shelves,  taking  down  book  after  book,  but  buying  none. 
Presently  he  smiled  again,  and  said  that  he  must  be  moving  on,  and 
very  politely  thanked  Mr.  James  for  his  kindness. 

"  Nowhere,"  he  was  so  good  as  to  say,  "  does  one  get  so  much 
personal  kindness  and  attention  as  at  Emblem's.  Good-morning, 
Mr.  James  ;  good-morning,  my  friend." 

Mr.  James  grunted,  and  closed  the  door  after  him. 

"  Ugh  1"  he  said  with  disgust,  "  I  know  you  ;  1  know  your  likes. 
Want  to  make  your  set  complete — eh  ?  Want  to  sneak  one  of  our 
books  to  do  it  with,  don't  you  ?  Ah  I"  He  looked  into  the  back 
shop  before  he  returned  to  his  paste  and  his  slips.  "  That  was  Mr. 
Potts,  the  great  Queen  Anne  collector,  sir.     Most  notorious  book- 


230  IN  L  UCK  AT  LA  ST. 

snatcher  in  all  London,  and  the  most  barefaced.  "Wanted  our  fourth 
volume  of  the  '  Athenian  Oracle. '  I  saw  his  eyes  reached  out  this 
way,  and  that  way,  and  always  resting  on  that  volume.  I  saw  him 
edging  along  to  the  shelf.  Got  another  odd  volume  just  like  it  in 
his  wicked  old  hand,  ready  to  change  it  when  I  wasn't  looking." 

"  Ah,"  said  Mr.  Emblem,  waking  up  from  his  dream  of  Iris  and" 
her  father's  letter  ;  "ah,  they  will  try  it  on.  Keep  your  eyes  open, 
James." 

"  No  thanks,  as  usual,"  grumbled  Mr.  James,  as  he  returned  to  his 
gum  and  his  scissors.  "  Might  as  well  have  left  him  to  snatch  the 
book." 

Here,  however,  James  was  wrong,  because  it  is  the  first  duty  of 
an  assistant  to  hinder  and  obstruct  the  book-snatcher,  who  carries 
on  his  work  by  methods  of  crafty  and  fraudulent  exchange  rather 
than  by  plain  theft,  which  is  a  mere  brutal  way.  For,  first,  the 
book-snatcher  marks  his  prey ;  he  finds  the  shop  which  has  a  set 
containing  the  volume  which  is  missing  in  his  own  set ;  next,  he 
arms  himself  with  a  volume  which  closely  resembles  the  one  he 
covets,  and  then,  on  pretence  of  turning  over  the  leaves,  he  watches 
his  opportunity  to  effect  an  exchange,  and  goes  away  rejoicing,  his 
set  complete.  No  collector,  as  is  very  well  known,  whether  of  books, 
coins,  pictures,  medals,  fans,  scarabs,  book-plates,  autographs,  stamps, 
or  anything  else,  has  any  conscience  at  all.  Anybody  can  cut  out 
slips  and  make  a  catalogue,  but  it  requires  a  sharp  assistant,  with 
eyes  all  over  his  head  like  a  spider,  to  be  always  on  guard  against 
this  felonious  and  unscrupulous  collector. 

Next,  there  came  two  schoolboys  together,  who  asked  for  and 
bought  a  crib  to  Virgil ;  and  then  a  girl  who  wanted  some  cheap 
French  reading-book.  Just  as  the  clock  began  to  strike  five,  Mr. 
Emblem  lifted  his  head  and  looked  up.  The  shop-door  opened,  and 
there  stepped  in,  rubbing  his  shoes  on  the  mat  as  if  he  belonged  to 
the  house,  an  elderly  gentleman  of  somewhat  singular  appearance. 
He  wore  a  Fez  cap,  but  was  otherwise  dressed  as  an  Englishman — 
in  black  frock-coat,  that  is,  buttoned  up — except  that  his  feet  were 
encased  in  black  cloth  shoes,  so  that  he  went  noiselessly.  His  hair 
was  short  and  white,  and  he  wore  a  small  white  beard  ;  his  skin  was 
a  rather  dark  brown  ;  he  was,  in  fact,  a  Hindoo,  and  his  name  was 
Lala  Roy. 

He  nodded  gravely  to  Mr.  James,  and  walked  into  the  back  shop. 

"  It  goes  well,"  he  asked,  "  with  the  buying  and  the  selling  ?" 

"  Surely,  Lala,  surely." 

"  A  quiet  way  of  buying  and  selling  ;  a  way  fit  for  one  who 
meditates,"  said  the  Hindoo,  looking  round.  "  Tell  me,  my  friend, 
what  ails  the  child  ?     Is  she  sick  ?" 

"  The  child  is  well,  Lala." 

"  Her  mind  wandered  this  morning.  She  failed  to  perceive  a 
simple  method  which  I  tried  to  teach  her.  I  feared  she  mi^ht 
be  ill." 


WITHIN  THREE  WEEKS.  231 

*'  She  is  not  ill,  my  friend,  but  I  think  her  mind  is  troubled." 

"  She  is  a  woman.  We  are  men.  There  is  nothing  in  the  world 
that  is  able  to  trouble  the  mind  of  the  Philosopher." 

"Nothing,"  said  Mr.  Emblem  manfully,  as  if  he  too  was  a 
Disciple.     "  Nothing  ;  is  there  now  ?" 

The  stoutness  of  the  assertion  was  sensibly  impaired  by  the 
question. 

"  Not  poverty,  which  is  a  shadow ;  nor  pain,  which  passes  ;  nor 
the  loss  of  woman's  love,  which  is  a  gain  ;  nor  fall  from  greatness 
— nothing.  Nevertheless  " — his  eyes  did  look  anxious  in  spite  of 
his  philosophy — "  this  trouble  of  the  child — will  it  soon  be  over  ?" 

"  I  hope  this  evening,"  said  Mr.  Emblem.  "  Indeed,  I  am  sure 
that  ib  will  be  finished  this  evening." 

"  If  the  child  had  a  mother,  or  a  brother,  or  any  protectors  but 
ourselves,  my  friend,  we  might  leave  her  to  them.  But  she  has 
nobody  except  you  and  me.    I  am  glad  that  she  is  not  ill." 

He  left  Mr.  Emblem,  and  passing  through  the  door  of  com- 
munication between  house  and  shop,  went  noiselessly  up  the 
stairs. 

One  more  visitor — unusual  for  so  many  to  call  on  a  September 
afternoon.  This  time  it  was  a  youngish  man  of  thirty  or  so,  who 
stepped  into  the  shop  with  an  air  of  business,  and,  taking  no  notice 
at  all  of  the  assistant,  walked  swiftly  into  the  back-shop  and  shut 
the  door  behind  him. 

"  I  thought  so,"  murmured  Mr.  James.  "  After  he's  been  count- 
ing up  his  investment,  his  lawyer  calls.     More  investments." 

Mr.  David  Chalker  was  a  solicitor,  and,  according  to  his  friends, 
who  were  proud  of  him,  a  sharp  practitioner.  He  was,  in  fact,  one 
of  those  members  of  the  profession  who,  starting  with  no  connec- 
tion, have  to  make  business  for  themselves.  This,  in  London,  they 
do  by  encouraging  the  county  court,  setting  neighbours  by  the  ears, 
lending  money  in  small  sums,  fomenting  quarrels,  charging  com- 
missions, and  generally  making  themselves  a  blessing  and  a  boon 
to  the  district  where  they  reside.  But  chiefly  Mr.  Chalker  occupied 
himself  with  lending  money. 

"  Now,  Mr.  Emblem,"  he  said,  not  in  a  menacing  tone,  but  as  one 
who  warns  ;  "now,  Mr.  Emblem." 

"  Now,  Mr.  Chalker,"  the  bookseller  repeated  mildly. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  for  me  ?" 

"  I  got  your  usual  notice,"  the  old  bookseller  began,  hesitating, 
"  six  months  ago." 

"Of  course  you  did.  Three  fifty  is  the  amount.  Three  fifty 
exactly." 

"  Just  so.  But  I  am  afraid  I  am  not  prepared  to  pay  off  the 
Bill  of  Sale.     The  interest,  as  usual,  will  be  ready." 

"  Of  course  it  will.  But  this  time  the  principal  must  be  ready, 
too." 

"  Can't  you  get  another  client  to  find  the  money  ?" 


232  IN  L UCK  AT  LA  ST. 

"No,  I  can't.  Money  is  tight,  and  your  security,  Mr.  Emblem, 
isn't  so  good  as  it  was." 

"  The  furniture  is  there,  and  so  is  the  stock." 

"  Furniture  wears  out  ;  as  for  the  stock — who  knows  what  that 
is  worth  ?  All  your  books  together  may  not  be  worth  fifty  pounds, 
for  what  I  know." 

"  Then  what  am  I  to  do  ?" 

"  Find  the  money  yourself.  Come,  Mr.  Emblem,  everybody 
knows — your  grandson  himself  told  me — all  the  world  knows — 
you've  been  for  years  saving  up  for  your  granddaughter.  You 
told  Joe  only  six  months  ago — you  can't  deny  it — that  whatever 
happened  to  you  she  would  be  well  off." 

Mr.  Emblem  did  not  deny  the  charge.  But  he  ought  not  to 
have  told  this  to  his  grandson,  of  all  people  in  the  world. 

"As  for  Joe,"  Mr.  Chalker  went  on,  "you  are  going  to  do 
nothing  for  him.  I  know  that.  But  is  it  business-like,  Mr. 
Emblem,  to  waste  good  money  which  you  might  have  invested  for 
your  granddaughter  ?" 

"  You  do  not  understand,  Mr.  Chalker.  You  really  do  not,  and 
I  cannot  explain.  But  about  this  Bill  of  Sale — never  mind  my 
granddaughter." 

"  You  the  aforesaid  Richard  Emblem  " — Mr.  Chalker  began  to 
recite,  without  commas — "have  assigned  to  me  David  Chalker 
aforesaid  his  executors  administrators  and  assigns  all  and  singular 
the  several  chattels  and  things  specifically  described  in  the  schedule 
hereto  annexed  by  way  of  security  for  the  payment  of  the  sum  of 
three  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  and  interest  thereon  at  the  rate  of 
eight  per  cent,  per  annum." 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Chalker.     I  know  all  that." 

"  You  can't  complain,  I'm  sure.  It  is  five  years  since  you 
Korrowed  the  money." 

"  It  was  fifty  pounds  and  a  box  of  old  law  books  out  of  your 
office,  and  I  signed  a  bill  for  a  hundred." 

"  You  forget  the  circumstances." 

"No,  I  do  not.  My  grandson  was  a  rogue.  One  does  not 
readily  forget  that  circumstance.  He  was  also  your  friend,  I  re- 
member." 

"  And  I  held  my  tongue." 

"  I  have  had  no  more  money  from  you,  and  the  sum  has  become 
three  hundred  and  fifty." 

"  Of  course  you  don't  understand  law,  Mr.  Emblem.  How 
should  you  ?  But  we  lawyers  don't  work  for  nothing.  However, 
ft  isn't  what  you  got,  but  what  I  am  to  get.  Come,  my  good  sir, 
it's  cutting  off  your  nose  to  spite  your  face.  Settle  and  have  done 
with  it,  even  if  it  does  take  a  little  slice  off  your  granddaughter's 
fortune.  Now,  look  here  " — his  voice  became  persuasive — "  why 
not  take  me  into  your  confidence  ?  Make  a  friend  of  me.  You 
want  advice  ;  let  me  advise  you.    I  can  get  you  good  investments 


WITHIN  THREE  WEEKS.  233 

— far  better  than  you  know  anything  of — good  and  safe  invest- 
ments— at  sis  certain,  and  sometimes  seven  and  even  eight  per 
cent.  Make  me  your  man  of  business — come  now.  As  for  this 
trumpery  Bill  of  Sale — this  trifle  of  three  fifty,  what  is  it  to  you  ? 
Nothing — nothing.  And  as  for  your  intention  to  enrich  your 
granddaughter,  and  cut  off  your  grandson  with  a  shilling,  why,  I 
honour  you  for  it — there,  though  he  was  my  friend.  For  Joe 
deserves  it  thoroughly.  I've  told  him  so,  mind.  You  ask  him. 
I've  told  him  so  a  dozen  times.  I've  said  :  '  The  old  man's  right, 
Joe.'     Ask  him  if  I  haven't." 

This  was  very  expansive,  but  somehow  Mr.  Emblem  did  not  re- 
spond. 

Presently,  however,  he  lifted  his  head. 

"  I  have  three  weeks  still." 

"  Three  weeks  still." 

"  And  if  I  do  not  find  the  money  within  three  weeks  ?'• 

"  Why — but  of  course  you  will  ;  but  if  you  do  not — I  suppose 
there  will  be  only  one  thing  left  to  do—  realize  the  security — sell  up 
— sticks,  and  books,  and  all." 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Chalker.  I  will  look  round  me,  and — and — do 
my  best.     Good-day,  Mr.  Chalker." 

"  The  best  you  can  do,  Mr.  Emblem,"  returned  the  solicitor,  "  is 
to  take  me  as  your  adviser.     You  trust  David  Chalker." 

"  Thank  you.     Good-day,  Mr.  Chalker." 

On  his  way  out,  Mr.  Chalker  stopped  for  a  moment  and  looked 
round  the  shop. 

"  How's  business  ?"  he  asked  the  assistant. 

"Dull,  sir,"  replied  Mr.  James.  "He  throws  it  all  away,  and 
neglects  his  chances.     Naturally,  being  so  rich " 

"  So  rich,  indeed  !"  the  solicitor  echoed. 

"  It  will  be  bad  for  his  successor,"  Mr.  James  went  on,  thinking 
how  much  he  should  himself  like  to  be  that  successor.  "  The  good- 
will won't  be  worth  half  what  it  ought  to  be,  and  the  stock  is  just 
falling  to  pieces." 

Mr.  Chalker  looked  about  him  again  thoughtfully,  and  opened  his 
mouth  as  if  about  to  ask  a  question,  but  said  nothing.  He  remem- 
bered, in  time,  that  the  shopman  was  not  likely  to  know  the  amount 
of  his  master's  capital  or  investments. 

"There  isn't  a  book  even  in  the  glass-case  that's  worth  a  five- 
pound  note,"  continued  Mr.  James,  whispering,  "  and  he  don't  look 
about  for  purchases  any  more.     Seems  to  have  lost  his  pluck." 

Mr.  Chalker  returned  to  the  back-shop. 

"Within  three  weeks,  Mr.  Emblem,"  he  repeated  ;  and  then  de- 
parted. 

Mr.  Emblem  sat  in  his  chair.  He  had  to  find  three  hundred  and 
fifty  pounds  in  three  weeks.  No  one  knew  better  than  himself  that 
this  was  impossible.  Within  three  weeks  !  But  in  three  weeks  he 
would  open  the  packet  of  letters,  and  give  Iris  her  inheritance.     At 


234  IN  L UCK  AT  LAST 

least,  she  would  not  suffer.  As  for  himself— —  He  looked  round 
the  little  back -shop,  and  tried  to  recall  the  fifty  years  he  had  spent 
there,  the  books  he  had  bought  and  sold,  the  money  which  had 
slipped  through  his  fingers,  the  friends  who  had  come  and  gone. 
Why,  as  for  the  books,  he  seemed  to  remember  them  every  one — 
his  joy  in  the  purchase,  his  pride  in  possession,  and  his  grief  at 
letting  them  go.  All  the  friends  gone  before  him,  his  trade  sunk 
to  nothing. 

"  Yet,"  he  murmured,  "  I  thought  it  would  last  my  time." 
But  the  clock  struck  six.    It  was  his  tea-time.     He  rose  me- 
chanically, and  went  upstairs  to  Iris. 


XL 

FOX  AND  WOLF. 

Mr.  James,  left  to  himself,  attempted,  in  accordance  with  his  daily 
custom,  to  commit  a  dishonourable  action. 

That  is  to  say,  he  first  listened  carefully  to  the  retreating  foot- 
steps of  his  master,  as  he  went  up  the  stairs  ;  then  he  left  his  table, 
crept  stealthily  into  the  back-shop,  and  began  to  pull  the  drawers, 
turn  the  handle  of  the  safe,  and  try  the  desk.  Everything  was 
carefully  locked.  Then  he  turned  over  all  the  papers  on  the  table, 
but  found  nothing  that  contained  the  information  he  looked  for. 
It  was  his  daily  practice  thus  to  try  the  locks,  in  hope  that  some 
day  the  safe,  or  the  drawers,  or  the  desk  would  be  left  open  by 
accident,  when  he  might  be  able  to  solve  a  certain  problem,  the 
doubt  and  difficulty  of  which  sore  let  and  hindered  him — namely, 
of  what  extent,  and  where  placed,  were  those  great  treasures, 
savings,  and  investments,  which  enabled  his  master  to  be  careless 
over  his  business.  It  was,  further,  customary  with  him  to  be  thus 
frustrated  and  disappointed.  Having  briefly,  therefore,  also  in  ac- 
cordance with  his  usual  custom,  expressed  his  disgust  at  this  want 
of  confidence  between  master  and  man,  Mr.  James  returned  to  Iih 
paste  and  scissors. 

About  a  quarter-past  six  the  shop-door  was  cautiously  opened, 
and  a  head  appeared,  which  looked  round  stealthily.  Seeing  nobody 
about  except  Mr.  James,  the  head  nodded,  and  presently,  followed 
by  its  body,  stepped  into  the  shop. 

"  Where's  the  Admiral,  Foxy  ?"  asked  the  caller. 

"  Guvnor's  upstairs,  Mr.  Joseph,  taking  of  bis  tea  with  Miss 
Iris,"  replied  Mr.  James,  not  at  all  offended  by  the  allusion  to  his 
craftiness. 

Who  should  resemble  the  Fox  if  not  the  peeond-hand  book- 
seller ?  In  no  trade,  perhaps,  can  the  truly  admirable  qualities  of 
that  animal — his  patience,  his  subtlety  and  craft,  his  pertinacity, 


FOX  AND  WOLF.  235 

his  sagacity — be  illustrated  more  to  advantage.  Mr.  James  felt  a 
glow  of  virtue — would  that  lie  could  grow  daily  and  hourly,  and 
more  and  more  towards  the  Perfect  Fox !  Then,  indeed,  and  not 
till  then,  would  he  be  able  to  live  truly  up  to  his  second-hand  books. 

"  Having  tea  with  Iris  ;  well " 

The  speaker  looked  as  if  it  required  some  effort  to  receive  this 
statement  with  resignation. 

"  He  always  does  at  six  o'clock.  Why  shouldn't  he  ?"  asked  Mr. 
James. 

"  Because,  James,  he  spends  the  time  in  cockering  up  that  gal 
whom  he's  ruined  and  spoiled — him  and  the  old  Nigger  between 
them — so  that  her  mind  is  poisoned  against  her  lawful  relations, 
and  nothing  will  content  her  but  coming  into  all  the  old  man's 
money,  instead  of  going  share  and  share  alike,  as  a  cousin  should, 
and  especially  a  she-cousin,  while  there's  a  biscuit  left  in  the  locker 
and  a  drop  of  rum  in  the  cask." 

"Ah!"  said  Mr.  James,  with  a  touch  of  sympathy,  called  forth, 
perhaps,  at  the  mention  of  the  rum,  which  is  a  favourite  drink  with 
second-hand  booksellers'  assistants. 

•'Nothing  too  good  for  her,"  the  other  went  on  ;  "the  best  of 
education,  pianos  to  play  upon,  and  nobody  good  enough  for  her  to 
know.  Not  on  visiting  terms,  if  you  please,  with  her  neighbours  ; 
waiting  for  Duchesses  to  call  upon  her.  And  what  is  she,  after  all  ? 
A  miserable  teacher !" 

Mr.  Joseph  Gallop  was  a  young  man  somewhere  between  twenty 
and  thirty,  tall,  large-limbed,  well  set-up,  and  broad-shouldered.  A 
young  man  who,  at  first  sight,  would  seem  eminently  fitted  to  push 
his  own  fortunes.  Also,  at  first  sight,  a  remarkably  handsome  fel- 
low, with  straight,  clear-cut  features  and  light,  curly  hair.  When 
he  swung  along  the  street,  his  round  hat  carelessly  thrown  back, 
and  his  handsome  face  lit  up  by  the  sun,  the  old  women  murmured 
a  blessing  upon  his  comely  head — as  they  used  to  do,  a  long  time 
ago,  upon  the  comely  and  curly  head  of  Absalom — and  the  young 
women  looked  meaningly  at  one  another — as  was  also  done  in  the 
case  of  Absalom — and  the  object  of  their  admiration  knew  that 
they  were  saying  to  each  other,  in  the  feminine  way,  where  a  look 
is  as  good  as  a  whisper,  "  There  goes  a  handsome  fellow."  Those 
who  knew  him  better,  and  had  looked  more  closely  into  his  face, 
said  that  his  mouth  was  bad  and  his  eyes  shifty.  The  same  opinion 
was  held  by  the  wiser  sort  as  regards  his  character.  For,  on  the 
one  hand,  some  averred  that  to  their  certain  knowledge  Joe  Gallop 
had  shown  himself  a  monster  of  ingratitude  towards  his  grand- 
father, who  had  paid  his  debts  and  done  all  kinds  of  things  for  him; 
on  the  other  hand,  there  were  some  who  thought  he  had  been  badly 
treated  :  and  some  said  that  no  good  would  ever  come  of  a  young 
fellow  who  was  never  able  to  remain  in  the  same  situation  more 
than  a  month  or  so  ;  and  others  said  that  he  had  certainly  been  un- 
fortunate, but  that  he  was  a  quick  and  clever  young  man,  who  would 


236  IN  L UCK  AT  LAST. 

some  day  find  the  kind  of  work  that  suited  him,  and  then  he  would 
show  everybody  of  what  stuff  he  was  composed.  As  for  us,  we 
have  only  to  judge  of  him  by  his  actions. 

"Perhaps,  Mr.  Joseph,"  said  Mr.  James,  "  perhaps  Miss  Iris  won't 
have  all  bequeathed  to  her." 

"  Do  you  know  anything  ?"  Joe  asked  quickly.  "  Has  he  made  a 
new  will  lately  ?" 

"Not  that  I  know  of.  But  Mr.  Chalker  has  been  here  off  and  on 
a  good  bit  now." 

"Ah!  Chalker's  a  close  one,  too.  Else  he'd  tell  me,  his  old 
friend.  Look  here,  Foxy,"  he  turned  a  beaming  and  smiling  face 
upon  the  Assistant.  "  If  you  should  see  anything  or  find  anything 
out,  tell  me,  mind.    And,  remember,  I'll  make  it  worth  your  while." 

Mr.  James  looked  as  if  he  was  asking  himself  how  Joseph  could 
make  it  worth  his  while,  seeing  that  he  got  nothing  more  from  his 
grandfather,  and  by  his  own  showing  never  would  have  anything 
more. 

"  It's  only  his  will  I'm  anxious  to  know  about  ;  that,  and  where 
he's  put  away  all  his  money.  Think  what  a  dreadful  thing  it  would 
be  for  his  heirs  if  he  were  to  go  and  die  suddenly,  and  none  of  us 
to  know  where  his  investments  are.  As  for  the  shop,  that  is  already 
disposed  of,  as  I  dare  say  you  know." 

"  Disposed  of  ?  The  shop  disponed  of  !  Oh,  Lord  !"  The  Assist- 
ant turned  pale.  "  Oh,  Mr.  Joseph,"  he  asked  earnestly,  "  what  will 
become  of  the  shop  ?     And  who  is  to  have  it  ?" 

"  I  am  to  have  it,"  Mr.  Joseph  replied  calmly.  This  was  the  Lie 
Absolute,  and  he  invented  it  very  cleverly  and  at  the  right  moment 
— a  thing  which  gives  strength  and  life  to  a  Lie,  because  he  already 
suspected  the  truth  and  guessed  the  secret  hope  and  ambition 
which  possesses  every  ambitious  Assistant  in  this  trade — namely,  to 
get  the  succession.  Mr.  James  looked  upon  himself  as  the  lawful 
and  rightful  heir  to  the  business.  But  sometimes  he  entertained 
grievous  doubts,  and  now  indeed  his  heart  sank  into  his  boots.  "  I 
am  to  have  it,"  Joe  repeated. 

"  Oh,  I  didn't  know.     You  are  to  have  it,  then  ?     Oh  !" 

If  Mr.  James  had  been  ten  years  younger,  I  think  he  would  have 
burst  into  tears.  But  at  the  age  of  five-and-thirty  weeping  no 
longer  presents  itself  as  a  form  of  relief.  It  is  more  usual  to  seek 
consolation  in  a  swear.  He  stammered,  however,  while  he  turned 
pale,  and  then  red,  and  then  pale  again. 

"  Yes,  quite  proper,  Mr.  Joseph,  I'm  sure,  and  a  most  beautiful 
business  may  be  made  again  here  by  one  who  understands  the  way. 
Oh,  you  are  a  lucky  man,  Mr.  Joseph.  You  are  indeed,  sir,  to  get 
such  a  noble  chance." 

"  The  shop,"  he  went  on,  "  was  settled — settled  upon  me,  long  ago." 
The  verb  "  to  settle  "  is  capable  of  conveying  large  and  vague  im- 
pressions.   "  But  after  all,  what's  the  good  of  this  place  to  a  sailor  ?" 

"  The  good — the  good  of  this  place  V"    Mr.  James's  cheek  flushed. 


FOX  AND  WOLF.  237 

"  Why,  to  make  money,  to  be  sure — to  coin  money  in.  If  I  had 
this  place  to  myself — why — why,  in  two  years  I  would  be  making 
as  much  as  two  hundred  a  year.     I  would  indeed." 

"  You  want  to  make  money.  Bah  !  That's  all  you  fellows  think 
of.  To  sit  in  the  back-shop  all  day  long  and  to  sell  mouldy  books  ! 
We  jolly  sailor-boys  know  better  than  that,  my  lad," 

There  really  was  something  nautical  about  the  look  of  the  man. 
He  wore  a  black-silk  tie,  in  a  sailor's  running  knot,  the  ends  loose  ; 
his  waistcoat  was  unbuttoned,  and  his  coat  was  a  kind  of  jacket  ; 
not  to  speak  of  his  swinging  walk  and  careless  pose.  In  fact,  he 
had  been  a  sailor  ;  he  had  made  two  voyages  to  India  and  back  as 
assistant-purser,  or  purser's  clerk,  on  board  a  P.  and  0.  boat,  but 
some  disagreement  with  his  commanding  officer  concerning  negli- 
gence, or  impudence,  or  drink,  or  laziness — he  had  been  charged  in 
different  situations  and  at  different  times  with  all  these  vices,  either 
together  or  separately — caused  him  to  lose  his  rating  on  the  ship's 
books.  However,  he  brought  away  from  his  short  nautical  experi- 
ence, and  preserved,  a  certain  nautical  swagger,  which  accorded  well 
with  his  appearance,  and  gave  him  a  swashbuckler  air,  which  made 
those  who  knew  him  well  lament  that  he  had  not  graced  the  Eliza- 
bethan era,  when  he  might  have  become  a  gallant  buccaneer,  and  so 
got  himself  shot  through  the  head;  or  that  he  had  not  flourished 
under  the  reign  of  good  Queen  Anne,  when  he  would  probably  have 
turned  pirate  and  been  hanged  ;  or  that,  being  born  in  the  Victorian 
age,  he  had  not  gone  to  the  far  West,  where  he  would,  at  least,  have 
had  the  chance  of  getting  shot  in  a  gambling-saloon. 

"  As  for  me,  when  I  get  the  business,"  he  continued,  "  I  shall  look 
about  for  some  one  to  carry  it  on  until  I  am  able  to  sell  it  for  what 
it  will  fetch.  Books  at  a  penny  apiece  all  round,  I  suppose  " — James 
gasped — "  shop  furniture  thrown  in  " — James  panted — "  and  the 
goodwill  for  a  small  lump  sum."  James  wondered  how  far  his  own 
savings,  and  what  he  could  borrow,  might  go  towards  that  lump 
sum,  and  how  much  might  "remain."  "My  grandfather,  as  you 
know,  of  course,  is  soon  going  to  retire  from  business  altogether." 
This  was  another  Lie  Absolute,  as  Mr.  Emblem  had  no  intention 
whatever  of  retiring. 

"  Soon,  Mr.  Joseph  ?     He  has  never  said  a  word  to  me  about  it." 

"  Very  soon,  now — sooner  than  you  expect.  At  seventy-five,  and 
with  all  his  money,  why  should  he  go  on  slaving  any  longer  ?  Very 
soon,  indeed.     Any  day." 

"Mr.  Joseph,"  the  Assistant  positively  trembled  with  eagerness 
and  apprehension. 

"  What  is  it,  James  ?  Did  you  really  think  that  a  man  like  me 
was  going  to  sit  in  a  back-shop  among  these  mouldy  volumes  all 
day  ?  Come,  that's  too  good.  You  might  have  given  me  credit  for 
being  one  cut  above  a  counter,  too.  I  am  a  gentleman,  James,  if 
you  please  ;  I  am  an  officer  and  a  gentleman." 

He  then  proceeded  to  explain,  in  language  that  smacked  some- 


238  IN  L  UCK  AT  LA  ST. 

thing  of  the  sea,  that  his  ideas  soared  far  above  trade,  which  was,  at 
best,  a  contemptible  occupation,  and  quite  unworthy  of  a  gentleman, 
particularly  of  an  officer  and  a  gentleman  ;  and  that  his  personal 
friends  would  never  condescend  even  to  formal  acquaintance,  not  to 
speak  of  friendship,  with  trade.  This  discourse  may  be  omitted. 
When  one  reads  about  such  a  man  as  Joe  Gallop,  when  we  are  told 
how  he  looked  and  what  he  said  and  how  he  said  it,  with  what 
gestures  and  in  what  tone,  we  feel  as  if  it  would  be  impossible  for 
the  simplest  person  in  the  world  to  be  mistaken  as  to  his  real 
character.  My  friends,  especially  my  young  friends,  so  far  from 
the  discernment  of  character  being  easy,  it  is,  on  the  contrary,  an 
art  most  difficult,  and  very  rarely  attained.  Nature's  indications 
are  a  kind  of  handwriting,  the  characters  in  which  are  known  to 
few,  so  that,  for  instance,  the  quick,  inquiring  glance  of  an  eye,  in 
which  one  may  easily  read — who  knows  the  character — treachery, 
lying,  and  deception,  just  as  in  the  letter  Beth  was  originally  easily 
discerned  the  effigies  of  a  house,  may  very  easily  pass  unread  by  the 
multitude.  The  language,  or  rather  the  alphabet,  is  much  less  com- 
plicated than  the  cuneiform  of  the  Medes  and  Persians  ;  yet  no  one 
studies  it,  except  women,  most  of  whom  are  profoundly  skilled  in 
this  lore,  which  makes  them  so  fearfully  and  wonderfully  wise. 
Thus  it  is  easy  for  man  to  deceive  his  brother  man,  but  not  his 
sister  woman.  Again,  most  of  us  are  glad  to  take  everybody  on  his 
own  statements  ;  there  are,  or  may  be,  we  are  all  ready  to  acknow- 
ledge, with  sorrow  for  erring  humanity,  somewhere  else  in  the 
world,  such  things  as  pretending,  swindling,  acting  a  part,  and 
cheating,  but  they  do  not  and  cannot  belong  to  our  own  world. 
Mr.  James,  the  Assistant,  very  well  knew  Mr.  Emblem  s  grandson 
had  already,  though  still  young,  as  bad  a  record  as  could  be  desired 
by  any  ;  that  he  had  been  turned  out  of  one  situation  after  another  ; 
that  his  grandfather  had  long  since  refused  to  help  him  any  more  ; 
that  he  was  always  to  be  found  in  the  Broad  Path  which  leadeth  to 
destruction.  When  he  had  money  he  ran  down  that  path  as  fast  as 
his  legs  could  carry  him  ;  when  he  had  none,  he  only  walked  and 
wished  he  could  run.  But  he  never  left  it,  and  never  wished  to 
leave  it.  Knowing  all  this,  the  man  accepted  and  believed  every 
word  of  Joe's  story.  James  believed  it,  because  he  hoped  it.  He 
listened  respectfully  to  Joe's  declamation  on  the  meanness  of  trade, 
and  then  he  rubbed  his  hands,  and  said  humbly  that  he  ventured  to 
hope,  when  the  sale  of  the  business  came  on,  Mr.  Joseph  would  let 
him  have  a  chance. 

"You?"  asked  Joe.  "I  never  thought  of  you.  But  why  not? 
Why  not,  I  say  ?    Why  not  you  as  well  as  anybody  else  ?" 

"Nobody  but  me,  Mr.  Joseph,  knows  what  the  business  is,  and 
how  it  might  be  improved  ;  and  I  could  make  arrangements  for 
paying  by  regular  instalments." 

"  Well,  we'll  talk  about  it  when  the  time  comes.    I  won't  forget 


FOX  AND  WOLF.  239 

Sailors,  you  know,  can't  be  expected  to  understand  the  value  of 
shops.     Say,  James,  what  does  the  Commodore  do  all  day  ?" 

"  Sits  in  there  and  adds  up  his  investments." 

"  Always  doing  that — eh  ?  Always  adding  'em  up  ?  Ah  !  and 
you've  never  get  a  chance  of  looking  over  his  shoulder,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  Never." 

"  You  may  find  that  chance,  one  of  these  days.  I  should  like  to 
know,  if  only  for  curiosity,  what  they  are  and  where  they  are.  He 
sits  in  there  and  adds  'em  up.  Yes — I've  seen  him  at  it.  There 
must  be  thousands  by  this  time." 

"  Thousands,"  said  the  Assistant,  in  the  belief  that  the  more  you 
add  up  a  sum  the  larger  it  grows. 

Joe  walked  into  the  back-shop  and  tried  the  safe. 

"  Where  are  the  keys  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Always  in  his  pocket  or  on  the  table  before  him.  He  don"t 
leave  them  about." 

"  Or  you'd  ha'  known  pretty  sharp  all  there  is  to  know — eh,  my 
lad  ?  Well,  you're  a  Foxy  one,  you  are,  if  ever  there  was  one. 
Let's  be  pals,  you  and  me.  When  the  old  man  goes,  you  want  the 
shop — well,  I  don't  see  why  you  shouldn't  have  the  shop.  Some- 
body must  have  the  shop  ;  and  it  will  be  mine  to  do  what  I  please 
with.  As  for  his  savings,  he  says  they  are  all  for  Iris — well,  wills 
have  been  set  aside  before  this.  Do  you  think  now,  seriously,  do 
you  think,  James,  that  the  old  man  is  quite  right — eh  ?  Don't 
answer  in  a  hurry.  Do  you  think,  now,  that  he  is  quite  right  in  his 
chump  ?" 

James  laughed. 

"  He's  right  enough,  though  he  throws  away  his  chances." 

"  Throws  away  his  chances.  How  the  deuce  can  he  be  all  right, 
then  ?  Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  bookseller  in  his  right  mind  throw- 
ing away  his  chances  ?" 

''Why — no — for  that  matter " 

"  Very  well,  then  ;  for  that  matter,  don't  forget  that  you've  seen 
him  throw  away  all  his  chances — all  his  chances,  you  said.  You 
are  ready  to  swear  to  that.  Most  important  evidence,  that,  James." 
James  had  not  said  "  all,"  but  he  grunted,  and  the  other  man  went 
on  :  "  It  may  come  in  useful,  this  recollection.  Keep  your  eyes 
wide  open,  my  red-haired  pirate.  As  for  the  mouldy  old  shop,  you 
may  consider  it  as  good  as  your  own.  Why,  I  suppose  you'll  get 
somebody  else  to  handle  the  paste-brush  and  the  scissors,  and  tie  up 
the  parcels,  and  water  the  shop — eh  ?  You'll  be  too  proud  to  do 
that  for  yourself,  you  will." 

Mr.  James  grinned  and  rubbed  his  hands. 

"  All  your  own — eh  ?    Well,  you'll  wake  'em  up  a  bit,  won't  you  ?" 
Mr.  James  grinned  again — he  continued  grinning. 
"  Go  on,  Mr.  Joseph,"  he  said  ;  "  go  on — I  like  it." 
"  Consider  the  job  as  settled,  then.    As  for  terms,  they  shall  be 
easy  ;  I'm  not  a  hard  man.     And— I  say,  Foxy,  about  that  safe  ?" 


240  IN  L UCK  AT  LAST. 

Mr.  James  suddenly  ceased  grinning,  because  he  observed  a  look 
in  his  patron's  eyes  which  alarmed  him. 

"  About  that  safe.  You  must  find  out  for  me  where  the  old  maa 
has  put  his  money,  and  what  it  is  worth.  Do  you  hear  ?  Or 
else " 

"  How  can  I  find  out  ?     He  won't  tell  me  any  more  than  you." 

"  Or  else,  you  must  put  me  in  the  way  of  finding  out."  Mr.  Jo- 
seph lowered  his  voice  to  a  whisper.  "  He  keeps  the  keys  on  the 
table  before  him.  When  a  customer  takes  him  out  here,  he  leaves 
the  keys  behind  him.     Do  you  know  the  key  of  the  safe  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  know  it." 

"  What  is  to  prevent  a  clever,  quick-eyed  fellow  like  you,  mate, 
stepping  in  with  a  bit  of  wax — eh  ?  While  he  is  talking,  you  know. 
You  could  rush  in  in  a  moment." 

"It's — it's  dangerous,  Mr.  Joseph." 

"  So  it  is — rather  dangerous— not  much.     What  of  that?" 

"  I  would  do  anything  I  could  to  be  of  service  to  you,  Mr.  Jo 
seph  ;  but  that's  not  honest,  and  it's  dangerous." 

"  Dangerous  !     There's  danger  on  the  briny  deep  and  shipwreck 
in  the  blast,  if  you  come  to  danger.     Do  we,  therefore,  jolly  mari 
ners  afloat,  ever  think  of  that  ?    Never,     As  to  honesty,  don't  make 
a  man  sick." 

"  Look  here,  Mr.  Joseph.  If  you'll  give  me  a  promise  in  writing, 
that  I'm  to  have  the  shop,  as  soon  as  you  get  it,  at  a  fair  valuation 
and  easy  terms — say  ten  per  cent,  down,  and " 

"  Stow  it,  mate;  write  what  you  like,  and  I'll  sign  it.  Now  about 
that  key  ?" 

"  Supposing  you  was  to  get  a  duplicate  key,  and  supposing  you 
was  to  get  into  trouble  about  it,  Mr.  Joseph,  should  you — should 
you — I  only  put  it  to  you — should  you  up  and  round  upon  the  man 
as  got  you  that  key  ?" 

"  Foxy,  you  are  as  suspicious  as  a  Chinaman.  Well,  then,  do  it 
this  way.  Send  it  me  in  a  letter,  and  then  who  is  to  know  where 
the  letter  came  from  ?" 

The  Assistant  nodded. 

"  Then  I  think  I  can  do  the  job,  though  not,  perhaps,  your  way. 
But  I  think  I  can  do  it.     I  won't  promise  for  a  day  or  two." 

"  There  you  spoke  like  an  honest  pal  and  a  friendly  shipmate ! 

Dangerous  !     Of  course  it  is.     When  the  roaring  winds  do  blow ■ 

Hands  upon  it,  brother.  Foxy,  you've  never  done  a  better  day's 
work.  You  are  too  crafty  for  any  sailor — you  are,  indeed.  Here, 
just  for  a  little  key " 

"  Hush,  Mr.  Joseph  !  Oh,  pray — pray  don't  talk  so  loud  !  You 
don't  know  who  may  be  listening.  There's  Mr.  Lala  Loy.  You 
never  hear  him  coming." 

"  Just  for  a  trifle  of  a  key  you  are  going  to  get  possession  of  the 
best  book-shop  in  all  Chelsea.  Well,  keep  your  eyes  skinned  and 
the  wax  ready,  will  you  ?    And  now,  James,  I'll  be  off." 


FOX  AND  WOLF.  241 

"  Oh,  I  say,  Mr.  Joseph,  wait  a  moment !"  James  was  beginning 
to  realize  what  he  had  promised.  "If  anything  dreadful  should 
come  of  this  ?  I  don't  know  what  is  in  the  safe.  There  may  be 
money  as  well  as  papers." 

"  James,  do  you  think  I  would  steal  ?  Do  you  mean  to  insinu- 
ate that  I  am  a  thief,  sir  ?  Do  you  dare  to  suspect  that  I  would  take 
money  ?" 

James  certainly  looked  as  if  he  had  thought  even  that  possible. 

"  I  shall  open  the  safe,  take  out  the  papers,  read  them,  and  put 
them  back  just  as  I  found  them.    Will  that  do  for  you  ?" 

He  shook  hands  again,  and  took  himself  off. 

At  seven  o'clock  Mr.  Emblem  came  downstairs  again. 

"  Has  anyone  been  ?"  he  asked  as  usual. 

"  Only  Mr.  Joseph." 

"  What  might  Mr.  Joseph  want  ?" 

"Nothing  at  all." 

"  Then,"  said  his  grandfather,  "  Mr.  Joseph  might  just  as  well 
have  kept  away." 

Let  us  anticipate  a  little.  James  spent  the  next  day  hovering 
about  in  the  hope  that  an  opportunity  would  offer  of  getting  the 
key  in  his  possession  for  a  few  moments.  There  was  no  opportunity. 
The  bunch  of  keys  lay  on  the  table  under  the  old  man's  eyes  all  day, 
and  when  he  left  the  table  he  carried  them  with  him.  But  the  day 
afterwards  he  got  his  chance.  One  of  the  old  customers  called  to 
talk  over  past  bargains  and  former  prizes.  Mr.  Emblem  came  out 
of  the  back-shop  with  his  visitor,  and  continued  talking  with  him 
as  far  as  the  door.  As  he  passed  the  table — James's  table — he 
rested  the  hand  which  carried  the  keys  on  it,  and  left  them  there. 
James  pounced  upon  them  and  slipped  them  into  his  pocket 
noiselessly.  Mr.  Emblem  returned  to  his  own  chair  and  thought 
nothing  of  the  keys  for  an  hour  and  a  half  by  the  clock,  and 
during  this  period  James  was  out  on  business.  When  Mr.  Em- 
blem remembered  his  keys,  he  felt  for  them  in  their  usual  place, 
and  missed  them,  and  then  began  searching  about  and  cried  out 
to  James  that  he  had  lost  his  bunch  of  keys. 

"Why,  sir,  sir,"  said  James,  bringing  them  to  him,  after  a  little 
search,  and  with  a  very  red  face,  "  here  they  are  ;  you  must  have 
left  them  on  my  table." 

And  in  this  way  the  job  was  done. 


III. 

IRIS   THE   HERALD. 

By  a  somewhat  remarkable  coincidence  it  was  on  this  very  evening 
that  Iris  iirst  made  the  acquaintance  of  her  pupil,  Mr.  Arnold 
Arbuthnot.     These  coincidences,  I  believe,  happen  oftener  in  real 

16 


242  IN  L UCK  AT  LAST. 

life  than  they  do  even  on  the  stage,  where  people  are  always  turning 
up  at  the  very  nick  of  time  and  the  critical  moment. 

I  need  little  persuasion  to  make  me  believe  that  the  first  meeting 
of  Arnold  Arbuthnot  and  Iris,  on  the  very  evening  when  her  cousin 
was  opening  matters  with  the  Foxy  one,  was  nothing  short  of  Pro- 
vidential. You  shall  see,  prcRently,  what  things  might  have  hap- 
pened if  they  had  not  met.  The  meeting  was,  in  fact,  the  second 
of  the  three  really  important  events  in  the  life  of  a  girl.  The  first, 
which  is  seldom  remembered  with  the  gratitude  which  it  deserves, 
is  her  birth  ;  the  second,  the  first  meeting  with  her  future  lover ; 
the  third,  her  wedding-day  ;  the  other  events  of  a  woman's  life  are 
interesting,  perhaps,  but  not  important. 

Certain  circumstances,  which  will  be  immediatclyexplained,  con- 
nected with  this  meeting,  made  it  an  event  of  very  considerable 
interest  to  Iris,  even  though  she  did  not  suspect  its  immense  import- 
ance. So  much  interest  that  she  thought  of  nothing  else  for  a 
week  beforehand  ;  that  as  the  appointed  hour  drew  near  she  trem- 
bled and  grew  pale  ;  that  when  her  grandfather  came  up  for  his  tea, 
she,  who  was  usually  so  quick  to  discern  the  least  sign  of  care  or 
anxiety  in  his  face,  actually  did  not  observe  the  trouble,  plainly 
written  in  his  drooping  head  and  anxious  eyes,  which  was  due  to 
his  interview  with  Mr.  David  Chalker. 

She  poured  out  the  tea,  therefore,  without  one  word  of  sympathy. 
This  would  have  seemed  hard  if  her  grandfather  had  expected  any. 
He  did  not,  however,  because  he  did  not  know  that  the  trouble 
showed  in  his  face,  and  was  trying  to  look  as  if  nothing  had  hap- 
pened. Yet  in  his  brain  were  ringing  and  resounding  the  words 
"Within  three  weeks — within  three  weeks,"  with  the  regularity  of 
a  horrid  clock  at  midnight,  when  one  wants  to  go  to  sleep. 

"  Oh,"  cried  Iris,  forced,  as  young  people  always  arc,  to  speak  of 
her  own  trouble,  "  oh,  grandfather,  he  is  coming  to-night." 

"Who  is  coming  to-night,  my  dear?"  and  then  he  listened  again 
for  the  ticking  of  that  clock  :  "  Within  three  weeks— within  three 
weeks."     "  Who  is  coming  to-night,  my  dear  ?" 

He  took  the  cup  of  tea  from  her,  and  sat  down  with  an  old  man's 
deliberation,  which  springs  less  from  wisdom  and  the  fulness  of 
thought  than  from  respect  to  rheumatism. 

The  iteration  of  that  refrain,  "Within  three  weeks,"  made  him 
forget  everything,  even  the  trouble  of  his  granddaughter's  mind. 

"  Oh,  grandfather,  you  cannot  have  forgotten  !" 

She  spoke  with  the  ieast  possible  touch  of  irritation,  because  she 
had  been  thinking  of  this  thing  for  a  week  past,  day  and  night,  and 
it  was  a  thing  of  such  stupendous  interest  to  her,  that  it  seemed 
impossible  that  anyone  who  knew  of  it  could  forget  what  was 
coming. 

"  No,  no."  The  old  man  was  stimulated  into  immediate  recollec- 
tion by  the  disappointment  in  her  eyes.  "  No,  no,  my  dear,  I  have 
not  forgotten.     Your  puoil  is  cominsr.     Mr.  Arbuthnot  is  cominsr. 


IRIS  THE  HERALD.  243 

Bat,  Iris,  child,  don't  let  that  worry  you.    I  will  see  him  for  you. 
if  you  like." 

"  No  ;  I  must  see  him  myself.  You  see,  dear,  there  is  the  awful 
deception.     Oh,  how  shall  I  tell  him  ?" 

"  No  deception  at  all,"  he  said  stoutly.  "You  advertised  in  your 
own  initials.  He  never  asked  if  the  initials  belonged  to  a  man  or 
to  a  woman.  The  other  pupils  do  not  know.  Why  should  this 
one  ?  What  does  it  matter  to  him  if  you  have  done  the  work  for 
which  he  engaged  your  services  ?" 

"  But,  oh,  he  is  so  different !  And  the  others,  you  know,  keep 
to  the  subject." 

"  So  should  he,  then.     Why  didn't  he  ?" 

"  But  he  hasn't.  And  I  have  been  answering  him,  and  he  must 
think  that  I  was  drawing  him  on  to  tell  me  more  about  himself  ; 
and  now — oh,  what  will  he  think  ?  I  drew  him  on  and  on — yet  I 
didn't  mean  to — till  at  last  he  writes  to  say  that  he  regards  me  as 
the  best  friend  and  the  wisest  adviser  he  has  ever  had.  What  will 
he  think  and  say  ?     Grandfather,  it  is  dreadful !" 

"  What  did  you  tell  him  for,  Iris,  my  dear  ?  Why  couldn't  you 
let  things  go  on  ?     And  by  telling  him  you  will  lose  your  pupil." 

"  Yes,  of  course  ;  and,  worse  still,  I  shall  lose  his  letters.  We 
live  so  quietly  here  that  his  letters  have  come  to  me  like  news  of 
another  world.  How  many  different  worlds  are  there  all  round  one 
in  London  ?  It  has  been  pleasant  to  read  of  that  one  in  which 
ladies  go  about  beautifully  dressed  always,  and  where  the  people 
have  nothing  to  do  but  to  amuse  themselves.  He  has  told  me  about 
this  world  in  which  he  lives,  and  about  his  own  life,  so  that  I  know 
everything  he  does,  and  where  he  goes  ;  and " — here  she  sighed 
heavily — "  of  course  it  could  not  go  on  for  ever  ;  and  I  should  not 
mind  so  much  if  it  had  not  been  carried  on  under  false  pretences." 

"  No  false  pretences  at  all,  my  dear.     Don't  think  it." 

"  I  sent  back  his  last  cheque,"  she  said,  trying  to  find  a  little  con- 
solation for  herself.     "  But  yet " 

"  Well,  Iris,"  said  her  grandfather,  "  he  wanted  to  learn  heraldry, 
and  you  have  taught  him." 

"  For  the  last  three  months  " — the  giii  blushed  as  if  she  was  con- 
fessing her  sins — "  for  the  last  three  months  there  has  not  been  a 
single  word  in  his  let  Lors  about  heraldry.  He  tells  me  that  he  writes 
because  he  is  idle,  or  because  he  wants  to  talk,  or  because  he  is  alone 
in  his  studio,  or  because  he  wants  his  unknown  friend's  advice.  I 
am  his  unknown  friend,  and  I  have  been  giving  him  advice." 

"  And  very  good  advice,  too,"  said  her  grandfather  benevolently. 
"  Who  is  so  wise  as  my  Iris  ?" 

"I  have  answered  all  his  letters,  and  never  once  told  him  that  I 
am  only  a  girl." 

"  I  am  glad  you  did  not  tell  him,  Iris,"  said  her  grandfather  ;  but 
he  did  not  say  why  he  was  glad.  "  And  why  can't  he  go  on  writing 
his  letters  without  making  any  fuss  ?" 

16-2 


244  IN  L UCK  AT  LAST. 

"  Because  he  says  he  must  make  the  acquaintance  of  the  man— 
the  man,  he  says — with  whom  he  has  been  in  correspondence  so 
long.     This  is  what  he  says." 

She  opened  a  letter  which  lay  upon  a  table  covered  with  papers, 
but  her  grandfather  stopped  her. 

"  Well,  my  dear,  I  do  not  want  to  know  what  he  says.  He  wishes 
to  make  your  acquaintance.  Very  good,  then.  You  are  going  to 
see  him,  and  to  tell  him  who  you  are.     That  is  enough.     But  as  for 

deceiving "     He   paused,   trying  to   understand   this   extreme 

scrupulosity  of  conscience.  "  If  you  come  to  deceiving — well,  in 
a  kind  of  a  sort  of  way  you  did  allow  him  to  think  his  cor- 
respondent a  man — I  admit  that.  What  harm  is  done  to  him  ? 
None.  He  won't  be  so  mean,  I  suppose,  as  to  ask  for  his  money 
back  again  ?" 

"  I  think  he  ought  to  have  it  all  back,"  said  Iris  ;  "  yes,  all,  from 
the  very  beginning.  I  am  ashamed  that  I  ever  took  money  from 
him  ;  my  face  burns  when  I  think  of  it." 

To  this  her  grandfather  made  no  reply.  The  returning  of  money 
paid  for  services  rendered  was,  to  his  commercial  mind,  too  foolish 
a  thing  to  be  even  talked  about.  At  the  same  time,  Iris  was  quite 
free  to  manage  her  own  affairs.  And  then  there  was  that  roll  of 
papers  in  the  safe.  Why,  what  matter  if  she  sent  away  all  her 
pupils  ?     He  changed  the  subject. 

"  Iris,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "  about  this  other  world,  where  the 
people  amuse  themselves  ;  the  world  which  lives  in  the  squares  and 
in  the  big  houses  on  the  Chelsea  Embankment  here,  you  know — 
how  should  you  like,  just  for  a  change,  to  belong  to  that  world,  and 
have  no  work  to  do  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  replied  carelessly,  because  the  question  did 
not  interest  her. 

"  You  would  have  to  leave  me,  of  course.  You  would  sever  your 
connection,  as  they  say,  with  the  shop." 

"Please,  don't  let  us  talk  nonsense,  grandfather." 

"  You  would  have  to  be  ashamed,  perhaps,  of  ever  having  taught 
for  your  living." 

"  Now,  that  I  never  should  be — never :  not  if  they  made  me  a 
duchess." 

"  You  would  go  dressed  in  silk  and  velvet.  My  dear,  I  should 
like  to  see  you  dressed  up  just  for  once,  as  we  have  seen  them  at 
the  theatre." 

"  Well,  I  should  like  one  velvet  dress  in  my  life — only  one  ;  and 
it  should  be  crimson — a  beautiful,  deep,  dark  crimson." 

"  Very  good.  And  you  would  drive  in  a  carriage  instead  of  an 
omnibus  ;  you  would  sit  in  the  stalls  instead  of  the  upper  circle  ; 
you  would  give  quantities  of  money  to  poor  people  ;  and  you  would 
buy  as  many  second-hand  books  as  you  pleased.  There  are  rich 
people,  I  believe — ostentatious  people — who  buy  new  books.  Bat 
you,  my  dear,  have  been  better  brought  up.     No  books  are  worth 


rfi/S  THE  HERALD.  245 

buying  till  they  have  stood  the  criticism  of  a  whole  generation  at 

least.     Never  buy  new  books,  my  dear." 

"  I  won't,"  said  Iris.  "  But,  you  dear  old  man,  what  have  you  got 
in  your  head  to-night  ?  "Why  in  the  world  should  we  talk  about 
getting  rich  ?" 

"  I  was  only  thinking,"  he  said,  "  that  perhaps  you  might  be  so 
much  happier " 

"  Happier  ?  Nonsense  !  I  am  as  happy  as  I  can  be.  Six  pupils 
already.  To  be  sure,  I  have  lost  one,"  she  sighed  ;  "and  the  best 
among  them  all." 

When  her  grandfather  left  her,  Iris  placed  candles  on  the  writing- 
table,  but  did  not  light  them,  though  it  was  already  pretty  dark. 
S3he  had  half  an  hour  to  wait ;  and  she  wanted  to  think,  and  candles 
are  not  necessary  for  meditation.  She  sat  at  the  open  window,  and 
suffered  her  thoughts  to  ramble  where  they  pleased.  This  is  a  rest- 
ful thing  to  do,  especially  if  your  windows  look  upon  a  tolerably 
busy  but  not  noisy  London  road.  For  then  it  is  almost  as  good  as 
sitting  beside  a  swiftly-running  steam  ;  the  movement  of  the  people 
below  is  like  the  unceasing  flow  of  the  current ;  the  sound  of  the 
footsteps  is  like  the  whisper  of  the  water  alojig  the  bank  ;  the  echo 
of  the  half -heard  talk  strikes  your  ear  like  the  mysterious  voices 
wafted  to  the  banks  from  the  boats  as  they  go  by  ;  and  the  lights 
of  the  shops  and  the  street  presently  become  spectral  and  unreal, 
like  lights  seen  upon  the  river  in  the  evening. 

Iris  had  a  good  many  pupils — six,  in  fact,  as  she  had  boasted  ; 
why,  then,  was  she  so  strangely  disturbed  on  account  of  one  ? 

An  old  tutor  by  correspondence  may  be,  and  very  likely  is,  indif- 
ferent about  his  pupils,  because  he  has  had  so  many ;  but  Iris  was 
a  young  tutor,  and  had  as  yet  known  few.  One  of  her  pupils,  for 
instance,  was  a  gentleman  in  the  fruit  and  potato  line,  in  the 
Borough.  By  reason  of  his  early  education,  which  had  not  been 
neglected  so  much  as  entirely  omitted,  he  was  unable  to  personally 
conduct  his  accounts.  Now,  a  merchant  without  his  accounts  is  as 
helpless  as  a  Tourist  without  his  Cook.  So  that  he  desired,  in  his 
mature  age,  to  learn  book-keeping,  compound  addition,  subtraction, 
and  multiplication.  He  had  no  partners,  so  that  he  did  not  want 
Division.  But  it  is  difficult — say,  well-nigh  impossible — for  a 
middle-aged  merchant,  not  trained  in  the  graces  of  letter- writing, 
to  inspire  a  young  lady  with  personal  regard,  even  though  she  is 
privileged  to  follow  the  current  of  his  thoughts  day  by  day,  and  to 
set  him  his  sums. 

Next  there  was  a  young  fellow  of  nineteen  or  twenty,  who  was 
beginning  life  as  an  assistant-teacher  in  a  commercial  school  at 
Lower  Clapton.  This  way  is  a  stony  and  a  thorny  path  to  tread  ; 
no  one  walks  upon  it  willingly  ;  those  who  are  compelled  to  enter 
upon  it  speedily  either  run  away  and  enlist,  or  they  go  and  find  a 
secluded  spot  in  which  to  hang  themselves.  The  smoother  ways  of 
the  profession  are  only  to  be  entered  by  one  who  is  the  possessor 


246  IN  L UCK  AT  LAST. 

of  a  degree  ;  and  it  was  the  determination  of  this  young  man  to 
pass  the  London  University  Examinations,  and  obtain  the  degree 
of  Bachelor.  In  this  way  his  value  in  the  Educational  market 
would  be  at  once  doubled,  and  he  could  command  a  better  place 
and  lighter  work.  He  showed  himself,  in  his  letters,  to  be  an 
eminently  practical,  shrewd,  selfish,  and  thick-skinned  young  man, 
who  would  quite  certainly  get  on  in  the  world,  and  was  resolved  to 
lose  no  opportunities,  and,  with  that  view,  he  took  as  much  work 
out  of  his  tutor  as  he  could  get  for  the  money.  Had  he  known 
that  the  "  I.  A."  who  took  such  a  wonderful  amount  of  trouble 
with  his  papers  was  only  a  woman,  he  would  certainly  have  extorted 
a  great  deal  more  work  for  his  money.  All  this  Iris  read  in  his 
letters  and  understood.  There  is  no  way  in  which  a  man  more 
surely  and  more  naturally  reveals  his  true  character  than  in  his 
correspondence,  so  that,  after  a  while,  even  though  the  subject  of 
the  letters  be  nothing  more  interesting  than  the  studies  in  hand, 
those  who  write  the  letters  may  learn  to  know  each  other  if  they 
have  but  the  mother-wit  to  read  between  the  lines.  Certainly  this 
young  schoolmaster  did  not  know  Iris,  nor  did  he  desire  to  discover 
what  she  was  like,  being  wholly  occupied  with  the  study  of  himself. 
Strange  and  kindly  provision  of  Nature.  The  less  desirable  a  man 
actually  appears  to  others,  the  more  fondly  he  loves  and  believes  in 
himself.  I  have  heard  it  whispered  that  Narcissus  was  a  hunch- 
back. 

Then  there  was  another  pupil,  a  girl  who  was  working  her  very 
hardest  in  order  to  become,  as  she  hoped,  a  first-class  governess, 
and  who,  poor  thing  !  by  reason  of  natural  thickness  would  never 
reach  even  the  third  rank.  Iris  would  have  been  sorry  for  her, 
because  she  worked  so  fiercely,  and  was  so  stupid,  but  there  was 
something  hard  and  unsympathetic  in  her  nature  which  forbade 
pity.  She  was  miserably  poor,  too,  and  had  an  unsuccessful  father, 
no  doubt  as  stupid  as  herself,  and  made  pitiful  excuses  for  not 
forwarding  the  slender  fees  with  regularity. 

Everybody  who  is  poor  should  be,  on  that  ground  alone,  worthy 
of  pity  and  sympathy.  But  the  hardness,  and  stupidity,  and  the 
ill-temper,  all  combined  and  clearly  shown  in  her  letters,  repelled 
her  tutor.  Iris,  who  drew  imaginary  portraits  of  her  pupils,  pictured 
the  girl  as  plain  to  look  upon,  with  a  dull  eye,  a  leathery,  pallid 
cheek,  a  forehead  without  sunshine  upon  it,  and  lips  which  seldom 
parted  with  a  smile. 

Then  there  was,  besides,  a  Cambridge  undergraduate.  He  was 
neither  clever,  nor  industrious,  nor  very  ambitious  ;  he  thought 
that  a  moderate  place  was  quite  good  enough  for  him  to  aim  at, 
and  he  found  that  this  unknown  and  obscure  tutor  by  correspond- 
ence was  cheap  and  obliging,  and  willing  to  take  trouble,  and  quite 
as  efficacious  for  his  purposes  as  the  most  expensive  Cambridge  coach. 
Iris  presently  discovered  that  he  was  lazy  and  luxurious,  a  deceiver 
of  himself,  a  dweller  in  Fool's  Paradise,  and  a  consistent  shirker 


IXZS  THE  HEKALD.  247 

of  work.  Therefore,  she  disliked  him.  Had  she  actually  known 
him  and  talked  with  him,  she  might  have  liked  him  better,  in  spite 
of  these  faults  and  shortcomings,  for  he  was  really  a  pleasant,  easy- 
going youth,  who  wallowed  in  intellectual  sloth,  but  loved  physical 
activity  ;  who  will  presently  drop  easily,  and  comfortably,  and 
without  an  effort  or  a  doubt,  into  the  bosom  of  the  Church,  and 
will  develop  later  on  into  an  admirable  country  parson,  unless  they 
disestablish  the  Establishment ;  in  which  case,  I  do  not  know  what 
he  will  do. 

But  this  other  man — this  man  who  was  coming  for  an  explana- 
tion, this  Mr.  Arnold  Arbuthnot,  was,  if  you  please,  a  very  differ- 
ent kind  of  pupil.  In  the  first  place,  he  was  a  gentleman,  a  fact 
which  he  displayed,  but  not  ostentatiously,  in  every  line  of  his 
letters  ;  next,  he  had  come  to  her  for  instruction — the  only  pupil 
she  had  in  that  science,  in  heraldry,  which  she  loved.  It  is  far 
more  pleasant  to  be  describing  a  shield  and  setting  questions  in  the 
queer  old  language  of  this  queer  old  science,  than  in  solving  and 
proposing  problems  in  trigonometry  and  conic  sections.  And  then 
— how  if  your  pupil  begins  to  talk  round  the  subject  and  to  wander 
into  other  things  ?  You  cannot  very  well  talk  round  a  branch 
of  mathematics,  but  heraldry  is  a  subject  surrounded  by  fields, 
meadows,  and  lawns,  so  to  speak,  all  covered  with  beautiful  flowers. 
Into  these  the  pupil  wandered,  and  Iris  not  unwillingly  followed. 
Thus  the  teaching  of  heraldry  by  correspondence  became  the  most 
delightful  interchange  of  letters  imaginable,  set  off  and  enriched 
with  a  curious  and  strange  piquancy,  derived  from  the  fact  that 
one  of  them,  supposed  to  be  an  elderly  man,  was  a  young  girl, 
ignorant  of  the  world  except  from  books,  and  the  advice  given  her 
by  two  old  men,  who  formed  all  her  society.  Then,  as  was  natural, 
what  was  at  first  a  kind  of  play,  became  before  long  a  serious  and 
earnest  confidence  on  the  ono  side,  and  a  hesitating  reception  on 
the  other. 

Latterly  he  more  than  once  amused  himself  by  drawing  an 
imaginary  portrait  of  her  ;  it  was  a  pleasing  portrait,  but  it  made 
her  feel  uneasy. 

"  I  know  you,"  he  said, "  from  your  letters,  but  yet  I  want  to 
know  you  in  person.  I  think  you  are  a  man  advanced  in  years." 
Poor  Iris  !  and  she  not  yet  twenty-one.  "  You  sit  in  your  study 
and  read  ;  you  wear  glasses,  and  your  hair  is  grey  ;  you  have  a  kind 
heart  and  a  cheerful  voice  ;  you  are  not  rich — you  have  never  tried 
to  make  yourself  rich  ;  you  are  therefore  little  versed  in  the  ways 
of  mankind  ;  you  take  your  ideas  chiefly  from  books  ;  the  few 
friends  you  have  chosen  are  true  and  loyal ;  you  are  full  of 
sympathy,  and  quick  to  read  the  thoughts  of  those  in  whom  you 
take  an  interest."  A  very  fine  character,  but  it  made  Iris's  cheek 
to  burn  and  her  eyes  to  drop.  To  be  sure,  she  was  not  rich,  nor 
did  she  know  the  world  ;  so  far  her  pupil  was  right,  but  yet  she 


248  IN  L  UCK  AT  LA  ST. 

was  not  grey  nor  old.  And,  again,  she  was  not,  as  he  thought, 
a  man. 

Letter-writing  is  not  extinct,  as  it  is  a  commonplace  to  affirm, 
and  as  people  would  have  us  believe.  Letters  are  written  still — 
the  most  delightful  letters — letters  as  copious,  as  charming  as  any 
of  the  last  century  ;  but  men  and  women  no  longer  write  their 
letters  as  carefully  as  they  used  to  do  in  the  old  days,  because  they 
were  then  shown  about,  and  very  likely  read  aloud.  Our  letters, 
therefore,  though  their  sentences  are  not  so  balanced  nor  their 
periods  so  rounded,  are  more  real,  more  truthful,  more  spontaneous, 
and  more  delightful  than  the  laborious  productions  of  our  ancestors 
who  had  to  weigh  every  phrase,  and  to  think  out  their  bons  mots, 
epigrams,  and  smart  things  for  weeks  beforehand,  so  that  the  letter 
might  appear  full  of  impromptu  wit.  I  should  like,  for  instance, 
just  for  once,  to  rob  the  Outward  or  the  Homeward  Mail,  in  order 
to  read  all  the  delightful  letters  which  go  every  week  backwards 
and  forwards  between  the  folk  in  India  and  the  folk  at  home. 

"  I  shall  lose  my  letters,"  Iris  reflected,  and  her  heart  sank.  Not 
only  did  her  correspondent  begin  to  draw  these  imaginary  portraits 
of  her,  but  he  proceeded  to  urge  upon  her  to  come  out  of  her  con- 
cealment, and  to  grant  him  an  interview.  This  she  might  have 
refused  in  her  desire  to  continue  a  correspondence  which  brightened 
her  monotonous  life.  But  there  came  another  thing,  and  this 
decided  her.  He  began  to  give,  and  to  ask,  opinions  concerning 
love,  marriage,  and  such  topics — and  then  she  perceived  it  could  not 
possibly  be  discussed  with  him,  even  in  domino  and  male  disguise. 
"  As  for  love,"  her  pupil  wrote,  "  I  suppose  it  is  a  real  and  not  a 
fancied  necessity  of  life.  A  man,  I  mean,  may  go  on  a  long  time 
without  it,  but  there  will  come  a  time — do  not  you  think  so  ? — 
when  he  is  bound  to  feel  the  incompleteness  of  life  without  a  woman 
to  love.  We  ought  to  train  our  boys  and  girls  from  the  very  begin- 
ning to  regard  love  and  marriage  as  the  only  things  really  worth 
having,  because  without  them  there  is  no  happiness.  Give  me  your 
own  experience.  I  am  sure  you  must  have  been  in  love  at  some 
time  or  other  in  your  life." 

Anybody  will  understand  that  Iris  could  not  possibly  give  her 
own  experience  in  love-matters,  nor  could  she  plunge  into  speculative 
philosophy  of  this  kind  with  her  pupil.  Obviously  the  thing  must 
come  to  an  end.  Therefore  she  wrote  a  letter  to  him,  telling  him 
that  "  I.  A."  would  meet  him,  if  he  pleased,  that  very  evening  at  the 
hour  of  eight. 

It  is  by  this  time  sufficiently  understood  that  Iris  Aglen  professed 
to  teach — it  is  an  unusual  combination — mathematics  and  heraldry  ; 
she  might  also  have  taught  equally  well,  had  she  chosen,  sweetness 
of  disposition,  goodness  of  heart,  the  benefits  conferred  by  pure  and 
lofty  thoughts  on  the  expression  of  a  girl's  face,  and  the  way  to 
acquire  all  the  other  gracious,  maidenly  virtues  ;  but  either  there  is 
too  limited  a  market  for  these  branchos  of  culture,  or — which  is 


IRIS  THE  HERALD.  249 

perhaps  the  truer  reason — there  are  so  many  English  girls,  not  to 
speak  of  Americans,  who  are  ready  and  competent  to  teach  them, 
and  do  teach  them  to  their  brothers,  and  their  lovers,  and  to  each 
other,  and  to  their  younger  sisters,  all  day  long. 

As  for  her  heraldry,  it  was  natural  that  she  should  acquire  that 
science,  because  her  grandfather  knew  as  much  as  any  Pursuivant  or 
King-at-Arms,  and  thought  that  by  teaching  the  child  a  science 
which  is  nowadays  cultivated  by  so  few,  he  was  going  to  make  her 
fortune.  Besides,  ever  mindful  of  the  secret  packet,  he  thought 
that  an  heiress  ought  to  understand  heraldry.  It  was,  indeed,  as 
you  shall  see,  in  this  way  that  her  fortune  was  made  ;  but  yet  not 
quite  in  the  way  he  proposed  to  make  it.  Nobody  ever  makes  a 
fortune  quite  in  the  way  at  first  intended  for  him. 

As  for  her  mathematics,  it  is  no  wonder  that  she  was  good  in  this 
science,  because  she  was  a  pupil  of  Lala  Roy. 

This  learned  Bengalee  condescended  to  acknowledge  the  study  of 
mathematics  as  worthy  even  of  the  IndiaD  intellect,  and  amused 
himself  with  them  when  he  was  not  more  usefully  engaged  in  chess. 
He  it  was  who,  being  a  lodger  in  the  house,  taught  Iris  almost  as 
soon  as  she  could  read  how  letters  placed  side  by  side  may  be  made 
to  signify  and  to  accomplish  stupendous  things,  and  how  they  may 
disguise  the  most  graceful  and  beautiful  curves,  and  how  they  may 
even  open  a  way  into  boundless  space,  and  there  disclose  marvels. 
This  wondrous  world  did  the  philosopher  open  to  the  ready  and 
quick-witted  girl ;  nor  did  he  ever  lead  her  to  believe  that  it  was  at 
all  an  unusual  or  an  extraordinary  thing  for  a  girl  to  be  so  quick 
and  apt  for  science  as  herself,  nor  did  he  tell  her  that  if  she  went  to 
Newnham  or  to  Girton,  extraordinary  glories  would  await  her,  with 
the  acclamations  of  the  multitude  in  the  Senate  House  and  the 
praise  of  the  Moderators.  Iris,  therefore,  was  not  proud  of  her 
mathematics,  which  seemed  part  of  her  very  nature.  But  of  her 
heraldry  she  was,  I  fear,  extremely  proud— proud  even  to  sinful- 
ness. No  doubt  this  was  the  reason  why,  through  her  heraldry,  the 
humiliation  of  this  evening  fell  upon  her. 

"If  he  is  young,"  she  thought,  "if  he  is  young — and  he  is  sure  to 
be  young — he  will  be  very  angry  at  having  opened  his  mind  to  a 
girl " — it  will  be  perceived  that,  although  she  knew  so  much  mathe- 
matics, she  was  really  very  ignorant  of  the  opposite  sex,  not  to  know 
that  a  young  man  likes  nothing  so  much  as  the  opening  of  his  mind 
to  a  young  lady.  "  If  he  is  old,  he  will  be  more  humiliated  still " — 
as  if  any  man  at  any  age  was  ever  humiliated  by  confessing  himself 
to  a  woman.  "  If  he  is  a  proud  man,  he  wili  never  forgive  me. 
Indeed,  I  am  sure  that  he  can  never  forgive  me,  whatever  kind  of 
man  he  is.  But  I  can  do  no  more  than  tell  him  I  am  sorry.  If  he 
will  not  forgive  me  then,  what  more  can  I  say  ?  Oh,  if  he  should 
be  vindictive  !" 

When  the  clock  began  to  strike  the  hour  of  eight,  Iris  lighted  her 


250  IN  LUCK  AT  LAST. 

candles,  and  before  the  pulsation  of  the  last  stroke  had  died  away, 
she  heard  the  ringing  of  the  house-bell. 

The  door  was  opened  by  her  grandfather  himself,  and  she  heard 
his  voice. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "you  will  find  your  tutor,  in  the  first-floor  front, 
alone.  If  you  are  inclined  to  be  vindictive,  when  you  hear  all,  pleasie 
ring  the  bell  for  me." 

The  visitor  mounted  the  stairs,  and  Iris,  hearing  his  step,  began 
to  tremble  and  to  shake  for  fear. 

When  the  door  opened  she  did  not  at  first  look  up.  But  she  knew 
that  her  pupil  was  there,  and  that  he  was  looking  for  his  tutor. 

"Pardon  me" — the  voice  was  not  unpleasant — "pardon  me.  I 
was  directed  to  this  room.     I  have  an  appointment  with  my  tutor." 

"  If,"  said  Iris,  rising,  for  the  time  for  confession  had  at  length 
arrived,  "  if  you  are  Mr.  Arnold  Arbutimot,  your  appointment  is,  I 
believe,  with  me." 

"  It  is  with  my  tutor,"  he  said. 

''  I  am  your  tutor.     My  initials  are  I.  A." 

The  room  was  only  lighted  by  two  candles,  but  they  showed  him 
the  hanging  head  and  the  form  of  a  woman,  and  he  thought  she 
looked  young,  judging  by  the  outline.     Her  voice  was  sweet  and 

"My  tutor?    You?" 

"  If  you  really  are  Mr.  Arnold  Arbuthnot,  the  gentleman  who 
has  corresponded  with  I.  A.  for  the  last  two  years  on  heraldry,  and 
— and  other  things,  I  am  your  tutor." 

She  had  made  the  dreaded  confession.  The  rest  would  be  easy. 
She  even  ventured  to  raise  her  eyes,  and  she  perceived,  with  a  sink- 
ing of  the  heart,  that  her  estimate  of  her  pupil's  age  was  tolerably 
correct.  He  was  a  young  man,  apparently  not  more  than  five  or 
six  and  twenty. 

It  now  remained  to  be  seen  if  he  was  vindictive. 

As  for  the  pupil,  when  he  recovered  a  little  from  the  blow  of  this 
announcement,  he  saw  before  him  a  girl,  quite  young,  dressed  in  a 
simple  grey  or  drab-coloured  stuff,  which  I  have  reason  to  believe  is 
called  Carmelite.  The  dress  had  a  crimson  kerchief  arranged  in 
folds  over  the  front,  and  a  lace  collar,  and  at  first  sight  it  made  the 
beholder  feel  that,  considered  merely  as  a  sotting  of  face  and  figure, 
it  was  remarkably  effective.  Surely  this  is  the  true  end  and  aim  of 
all  feminine  adornment,  apart  from  the  elementary  object  of  keep- 
ing one  warm. 

"I— I  did  not  know,"  the  young  man  said,  after  a  pause,  "I  did 
not  know  at  all  that  I  was  corresponding  with  a  lady." 

Here  she  raised  her  eyes  again,  and  he  observed  that  the  eyes 
were  very  large  and  full  of  light — "  eyes  like  the  fishpools  of  Hesh- 
bon  " — dove's  eyes. 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  she  said  meekly.     "  It  was  my  fault." 

He  observed  other  things  now,  having  regained  the  use  of  hia 


IRIS  THE  HERALD.  251 

senses.  Thus  he  saw  that  she  wore  her  hair,  which  was  of  a  wonder- 
ful chestnut-brown  colour,  parted  at  the  side  like  a  boy's,  and  that 
she  had  not  committed  the  horrible  enormity  of  cutting  it  short. 
He  observed,  too,  that  while  her  lips  were  quivering  and  her  cheek 
was  blushing,  her  look  was  steadfast.  Are  dove's  eyes,  he  asked 
himself,  always  steadfast  ? 

"  I  ought  to  have  told  you  long  ago,  when  you  began  to  write 
about — about  yourself  and  other  things,  when  I  understood  that 
you  thought  I  was  a  man — oh,  long  ago  I  ought,  to  have  told  you 
the  truth  !" 

"  It  is  wonderful !"  said  the  young  man,  "it  is  truly  wonderful !" 
He  was  thinking  of  the  letters — long  letters,  full  of  sympathy,  and 
a  curious  unworldly  wisdom  which  she  had  sent  him  in  reply  to  his 
own,  and  he  was  comparing  them  with  her  youthful  face,  as  one  in- 
voluntarily compares  a  poet's  appearance  with  his  poetry — generally 
a  disappointing  thing  to  do,  and  always  a  foolish  thing. 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  she  repeated. 

"  Have  you  many  pupils,  like  myself  ?" 

"I  have  several  pupils  in  mathematics.  It  does  not  matter  to 
them  whether  they  are  taught  by  a  man  or  a  woman.  In  heraldry 
I  had  only  one — you." 

He  looked  round  the  room.  One  end  was  occupied  by  shelves, 
filled  with  books  ;  in  one  of  the  windows  was  a  table,  covered  with 
papers  and  adorned  with  a  type-writer,  by  means  of  which  Iris 
carried  on  her  correspondence.  For  a  moment  the  unworthy  thought 
crossed  his  mind  that  he  had  been,  perhaps,  artfully  lured  on  by  a 
Siren  for  his  destruction.  Only  for  a  moment,  however,  because 
she  raised  her  face  and  met  his  gaze  again,  with  eyes  so  frank  and 
innocent,  that  he  could  not  doubt  them.  Besides,  there  was  the 
clear  outline  of  her  face,  so  truthful  and  so  honest.  The  young 
man  was  an  artist,  and  therefore  believed  in  outline.  Could  any 
sane  and  intelligent  creature  doubt  those  curves  of  cheek  and  chin  ? 

"  I  have  put  together,"  she  said,  "  all  your  letters  for  you.  Here 
they  arc.  Will  you,  please,  take  them  back  ?  I  must  not  keep 
them  any  longer."  He  took  them,  and  bowed.  "  I  made  this  ap- 
pointment, as  you  desired,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  because  I  have 
deceived  you  too  long  ;  and  to  beg  you  to  forgive  me  ;  and  to  say 
that,  of  course,  there  is  an  end  to  our  correspondence." 

"  Thank  you.  It  shall  be  as  you  desire.  Exactly,"  he  repeated, 
"  as  you  desire." 

He  ought  to  have  gone  at  once.  There  was  nothing  more  to  say. 
Yet  he  lingered,  holding  the  letters  in  his  hand. 

"  To  write  these  letters,"  he  said,  "  has  been  for  a  long  time  one 
of  my  greatest  pleasures,  partly  because  I  felt  that  I  was  writing  to 
a  friend,  and  so  wrote  in  full  trust  and  confidence,  partly  because 
they  procured  me  a  reply — in  the  shape  of  your  letters.  Must  I 
take  back  these  letters  of  mine  ?" 

She  made  no  answer. 


252  IN  L  UCK  AT  LA  ST. 

"  It  is  hard,  is  it  not,  to  lose  a  friend  so  slowly  acquired,  thus 
suddenly  and  unexpectedly  V" 

"  Yes^"  she  said,  "  it  is  hard.    I  am  very  sorry.    It  was  my  fault." 

"  Perhaps  I  have  said  something,  in  my  ignorance — something 
which  ought  not  to  have  been  said  or  written — something  careless 
— something  which  has  lowered  me  in  your  esteem " 

"  Oh,  no— no  !"  said  Iris  quickly.  "  You  have  never  said  any- 
thing that  a  gentleman  should  not  have  said." 

"And  if  you  yourself  found  any  pleasure  in  answering  my 
letters " 

"  Yes,"  said  Iris  with  frankness,  "  it  gave  me  great  pleasure  to 
read  and  to  answer  your  letters,  as  well  as  I  could." 

"I  have  not  brought  back  your  letters.  I  hope  you  will  allow 
me  to  keep  them.  And,  if  you  will,  why  should  we  not  continue 
our  correspondence  as  before  ?" 

But  he  did  not  a-sk  the  question  confidently. 

"No,"  said  Iris  decidedly;  "it  can  never  be  continued  as  before. 
How  could  it,  when  once  we  have  met  and  you  have  learned  the 
truth  ?" 

"  Then,"  he  continued,  "  if  we  cannot  write  to  each  other  any 
more,  can  we  not  talk  ?" 

She  ought  to  have  informed  him  on  the  spot  that  the  thing  was 
quite  impossible,  and  not  to  be  thought  of  for  one  moment.  She 
should  have  said,  coldly  but  firmly — every  right-minded  and  well- 
behaved  girl  would  have  said,  "  Sir,  it  is  not  right  that  you  should 
come  alone  to  a  young  lady's  study.  Such  things  are  not  to  be 
permitted.  If  we  meet  in  society,  we  may,  perhaps,  renew  our 
acquaintance." 

But  girls  do  go  on  sometimes  as  if  there  was  no  such  thing  as 
propriety  at  all,  and  such  cases  are  said  to  be  growing  more  fre- 
quent. Besides,  Iris  was  not  a  girl  who  was  conversant  with  social 
conrniancca.     She  looked  at  her  pupil  thoughtfully  and  frankly. 

'•  Can  we  ?"  she  asked.  She  who  hesitates  is  lost — a  maxim  which 
cannot  be  too  often  read,  said,  and  studied.  It  is  one  of  the  very 
few  golden  rules  omitted  from  Solomon's  Proverbs.  "  Can  we  ?  It 
would  be  pleasant." 

"  If  you  will  permit  me,"  he  blushed  and  stammered,  wondering 
at  her  ready  acquiescence,  "  if  you  will  permit  me  to  call  upon  you 
sometimes — here,  if  you  will  allow  me,  or  anywhere  else.  You 
know  my  name.  I  am  by  profession  an  artist,  and  I  have  a  studio 
close  at  hand,  in  Tite  Street." 

"  To  call  upon  me  here  !"  she  repeated. 

Now,  when  one  is  a  tutor,  and  has  been  reading  with  a  pupil  for 
two  years,  one  regards  that  pupil  with  a  feeling  which  may  not  be 
exactly  parental,  but  which  is  unconventional.  If  Arnold  had  said  : 
"  Behold  me  !  May  I,  being  a  young  man,  call  upon  you,  a  young 
woman  ?"  she  would  have  replied  :  "  No,  young  man,  that  can 
never  be."     But  when  he  said,  "  May  I,  your  pupil,  call  sometimes 


IRIS  THE  HERALD.  253 

upon  you,  my  tutor?"  a  distinction  was  at  once  established,  by 
■which  the  impossible  became  possible. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I  think  you  may  call.  My  grandfather  has  his 
tea  with  me  every  evening  at  six.  You  may  call  then,  if  it  will 
give  you  any  pleasure." 

"  You  really  will  let  me  come  here  ?" 

The  young  man  looked  as  if  the  permission  was  likely  to  give 
him  the  greatest  pleasure. 

"Yes  ;  if  you  wish  it." 

She  spoke  just  exactly  like  an  Oxford  Don  giving  an  under- 
graduate permission  to  take  an  occasional  walk  with  him,  or  to  call 
for  conversation  and  advice  at  certain  times  in  his  rooms.  Arnold 
noticed  the  manner,  and  smiled. 

"  Still,"  he  said,  "  as  your  pupil  ?" 

He  meant  to  set  her  at  her  ease  concerning  the  propriety  of  these 
visits.  She  thought  he  meant  a  continuation  of  a  certain  little 
arrangement  as  to  fees,  and  blushed. 

"No,"  she  said  ;  "I  must  not  consider  you  as  a  pupil  any  longer. 
You  have  put  an  end  to  that  yourself." 

"  I  do  not  mind,  if  only  I  continue  your  friend." 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  "  but  we  must  not  pledge  ourselves  rashly  to 
friendship.  Perhaps  you  will  not  like  me  when  you  once  come  to 
know  me." 

"  Then  I  remain  your  disciple." 

"Oh  no,"  she  flushed  again,  "you  must  already  think  me  pre- 
sumptuous enough  in  venturing  to  give  you  advice.  I  have 
written  so  many  foolish  things " 

"  Indeed,  no,"  he  interrupted  ;  "  a  thousand  times  no.  Let  me 
tell  you  once  for  all,  if  I  may,  that  you  have  taught  me  a  great 
deal — far  more  than  you  can  ever  understand,  or  than  I  can  explain. 
Where  did  you  get  your  wisdom  ?  Not  from  the  Book  of  Human 
Life.     Of  that  you  cannot  know  much  as  yet." 

"  The  wisdom  is  in  your  imagination,  I  think.  You  shall  not  be 
my  pupil,  nor  my  disciple,  but — well — because  you  have  told  me 
so  much,  and  I  seem  to  have  known  you  so  much,  and  I  seem  to 
have  known  you  so  long,  and,  besides,  because  you  must  never 
feel  ashamed  of  having  told  me  so  much,  you  shall  come,  if  you 
please,  as  my  brother." 

It  was  not  till  afterwards  that  she  reflected  on  the  vast  responsi- 
bilities she  incurred  in  making  this  proposal,  and  on  the  eagerness 
with  which  her  pupil  accepted  it. 

"  As  your  brother  ?"  he  cried,  offering  her  his  hand.  "  Why,  it  is 
far— far  more  than  I  could  have  ventured  to  hope.  Yes,  I  will 
come  as  your  brother.  And  now,  although  you  know  so  much 
about  me,  you  have  told  me  nothing  about  voursclf — not  even  your 
name." 

"  My  name  is  Iris  Aglen." 

"  Iris  !     It  is  a  pretty  name." 


254  IN  L  UCR  AT  LA  ST. 

"  It  was,  I  believe,  my  grandmother's.  But  I  never  saw  her,  and 
I  do  not  know  who  or  what  my  father's  relations  are." 

"  Iris  Aglen  !"  he  repeated.  "  Iris  was  the  Herald  of  the  Gods, 
and  the  rainbow  was  constructed  on  purpose  to  serve  her  for  a  way 
from  Heaven  to  the  Earth." 

"Mathematicians  do  not  allow  that,"  said  the  girl,  smiling. 

"  I  don't  know  any  mathematics.  But  now  I  understand  in  what 
schools  you  learned  your  heraldry.  You  are  Queen-at-Arms,  at 
least,  and  Herald  to  the  Gods  of  Olympus." ' 

He  wished  to  add  something  about  the  loveliness  of  Aphrodite, 
and  the  wisdom  of  Athene,  but  he  refrained,  which  was  in  good 
taste. 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Arbuthnot,"  Iris  replied.  "  I  learned  my  heraldry 
of  my  grandfather,  who  taught  himself  from  the  books  he  sells. 
And  my  mathematics  I  learned  of  Lala  Roy,  who  is  our  lodger,  and 
a  learned  Hindoo  gentleman.  My  father  is  dead — and  my  mother  as 
well — and  I  have  no  friends  in  the  world  except  these  two  old  men, 
who  love  me,  and  have  done  their  best  to  spoil  me." 

Her  eyes  grew  humid  and  her  voice  trembled. 

No  other  friends  in  the  world  !  Strange  to  say,  this  young  man 
felt  a  little  sense  of  relief.  No  other  friends.  He  ought  to  have 
sympathized  with  the  girl's  loneliness  ;  he  might  have  asked  her 
how  she  could  possibly  endure  life  without  companionship,  but  he 
did  not ;  he  only  felt  that  other  friends  might  have  been  rough 
and  ill-bred  ;  this  girl  derived  her  refinement,  not  only  from  nature, 
but  also  from  separation  from  the  other  girls  who  might  in  the  ordi- 
nary course  have  been  her  friends  and  associates.  And  if  no  other 
friends,  then  no  lover.  Arnold  was  only  going  to  visit  the  young 
lady  as  her  brother  ;  but  lovers  do  not  generally  approve  the  in- 
troduction of  such  novel  effects  as  that  caused  by  the  appearance 
of  a  brand-new  and  previously  unsuspected  brother.  He  was  glad, 
on  the  whole,  that  there  was  no  lover. 

Then  he  left  her,  and  went  home  to  his  studio,  where  he  sat  till 
midnight,  sketching  a  thousand  heads  one  after  the  other  with 
rapid  pencil.  They  were  all  girls'  heads,  and  they  all  had  hair 
parted  on  the  left  side,  with  a  broad,  square  forehead,  full  eyes, 
and  straight,  clear-cut  features. 

"No,"  he  said  ;  "  it  is  no  good.  I  cannot  catch  the  curve  of  her 
mouth — nobody  could.  What  a  pretty  girl  I  And  I  am  to  be  her 
brother  !  What  will  Clara  say  'i  And  how — oh,  how  in  the  world 
can  she  be,  all  at  the  same  time,  so  young,  so  pretty,  so  learned,  so 
quick,  so  sympathetic,  and  so  wise  'C 


THE  WOLF  AT  HOME.  255 


IV- 

THE  WOLF  AT  HOME. 

There  is  a  certain  music-hall,  in  a  certain  street,  leading  out 
of  a  certain  road,  and  this  is  quite  clear  and  definite  enough. 
Its  distinctive  characteristics,  above  any  of  its  fellows,  is  a 
vulgarity  so  profound,  that  the  connoisseur  or  student  in  that 
branch  of  mental  culture  thinks  that  here  at  last  he  has  reached 
the  lowest  depths.  For  this  reason  one  shrinks  from  actually 
naming  it,  because  it  might  become  fashionable,  and  then,  if  it 
fondly  tried  to  change  its  character  to  suit  its  changed  audience,  it 
might  entirely  lo&e  its  present  charm,  and  become  simply  common- 
place. 

Joe  Gallop  stood  in  the  doorway  of  this  hall,  a  few  days  after 
the  Tempting  of  Mr.  James.  It  was  about  ten  o'clock,  when  the 
entertainments  were  in  full  blast.  He  had  a  cigarette  between  his 
lips,  as  becomes  a  young  man  of  fashion  ;  but  it  had  gone  out,  and 
he  was  thinking  of  something.  To  judge  from  the  cunning  look  in 
his  eyes,  it  was  something  not  immediately  connected  with  the 
good  of  his  fellow-creatures.  Presently  the  music  of  the  orchestra 
ceased,  and  certain  female  acrobats,  who  had  been  "contorting" 
themselves  fearfully  and  horribly  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  upon 
the  stage,  kissed  their  hands,  which  were  as  hard  as  ropes,  from  the 
nature  of  their  profession,  and  smiled  a  fond  farewell.  There  was 
some  applause,  but  not  much,  because  neither  man  nor  woman 
cares  greatly  for  female  acrobats,  and  the  performers  themselves  are 
with  difficulty  persuaded  to  learn  their  art,  and  generally  make 
haste  to  "go  in  "  again  as  soon  as  they  can,  and  try  henceforward 
to  forget  that  they  have  ever  done  things  with  ropes  and  bars. 

Joe,  when  they  left  the  stage,  ceased  his  meditations,  whatever 
may  have  been  their  subject,  lit  a  fresh  cigarette,  and  assumed  an  air 
of  great  expectation,  as  if  something  really  worth  seeing  and  hearing 
were  now  about  to  appear.  And  when  the  Chairman  brought  down 
the  hammer  with  the  announcement  that  Miss  Carlotta  Clara- 
dine,  the  People's  Favourite,  would  now  oblige,  it  was  Joe  who 
loudly  led  the  way  for  a  tumultuous  burst  of  applause.  Then  the 
band,  which  at  this  establishment,  and  others  like  unto  it,  only 
plays  two  tunes,  one  for  acrobats,  and  one  for  singers,  struck  up 
the  second  air,  and  the  People's  Favourite  appeared.  She  may 
have  had  by  nature  a  sweet  and  tuneful  voice  ;  perhaps  it  was  in 
order  to  please  her  friends,  the  People,  that  she  converted  it  into  a 
harsh  and  rasping  voice,  that  she  delivered  her  words  with  even  too 
much  gesture,  and  that  she  uttered  a  kind  of  shriek  at  the  begin- 
ning of  every  verse,  which  was  not  in  the  composer's  original  music, 
but  was  thrown  in  to  compel  attention.  She  was  dressed  with 
great  simplicity,  in  plain  frock,  apron,  and  white  cap,  to  represent 


256  IN  L  UCK  AT  LA  ST. 

a  fair  young  Quakeress,  and  she  sang  a  song  about  her  lover  with 
much  "  archness" — a  delightful  quality  in  woman. 

"  Splendid,  splendid  !  Bravo  !"  shouted  Joseph  at  the  end  of  the 
first  verse.  "  That  fetches  'em,  don't  it,  sir  ?  Positively  drags  em 
in,  sir." 

He  addressed  his  words,  without  turning  his  head,  to  a  man  who 
had  just  come  in,  and  was  gazing  at  him  with  unbounded  astonish- 
ment. 

"  You  here,  Joe  ?"  he  said. 

Joe  started. 

"  Why,  Chalker,  who'd  have  thought  to  meet  you  in  this  music- 
hall  ?" 

"  It's  a  good  step,  isn't  it  ?  And  what  are  you  doing,  Joe  ?  I 
heard  you'd  left  the  P,  &  O.  Company." 

"Had  to,"  said  Joe.  "A  gentleman  has  no  choice  but  to 
resign.  Ought  never  to  have  gone  there.  There's  no  position, 
Chalker — no  position  at  all  in  the  service.  That  is  what  I  felt. 
Besides,  the  uniform,  for  a  man  of  my  style,  is  unbecoming.  And 
the  Captain  was  a  Cad." 

"  Humph  !  and  what  are  you  doing  then  ?  Living  on  the  old 
man  again  ?" 

"  Never  you  mind,  David  Chalker,"  replied  Joe  with  dignity ; 
"  I  am  not  likely  to  trouble  you  any  more  after  the  last  time  I 
called  upon  you." 

"  Well,  Joe,"  said  the  other,  without  taking  offence,  "  it  is  not 
my  business  to  lend  money  without  security  ;  and  all  you  had  to 
offer  was  your  chance  of  what  your  grandfather  might  leave  you — 
or  might  not." 

"And  a  very  good  security,  too,  if  he  does  justice  to  his 
relations." 

"  Yes  ;  but  how  did  I  know  whether  he  was  going  to  do  justice  ? 
Come,  Joe,  don't  be  shirty  with  an  old  friend." 

There  was  a  cordiality  in  the  solicitor's  manner  which  boded 
well.  Joe  was  pretty  certain  that  Mr.  Chalker  was  not  a  man  to 
cultivate  friendship  unless  something  was  to  be  got  out  of  it.  It  is 
only  the  idle  and  careless  who  can  waste  time  over  unprofitable 
friendships.  With  most  men  friendship  means  assisting  in  each 
other's  little  games,  so  that  every  man  must  becdme,  on  occasion, 
bonnet,  confederate,  and  pal,  for  his  friend,  and  may  expect  the 
same  kindly  office  for  himself. 

If  Chalker  wished  to  keep  up  his  old  acquaintance  with  Joe 
Gallop,  there  must  be  some  good  reason.  Now  the  only  reason 
which  suggested  itself  to  Joe  at  that  moment  was  that  Chalker  had 
lately  drawn  a  new  will  for  the  old  man,  and  that  he  himself 
might  be  in  it.  Here  he  was  wrong.  The  only  reason  of  Mr. 
Chalker's  friendly  attitude  was  curiosity  to  know  what  Joe  was 
doing,  and  how  he  was  living. 

"Look  here,  Chalker,"  Joe  whispered,  "you  used  to  pvcLcud  to 


THE  WOLF  AT  HOME.  257 

be  a  pal.  What's  the  good  of  being  a  pal  if  you  won't  help  a  fellow  ? 
You  see  my  grandfather  once  a  week  or  so  ;  you  shut  the  door  and 
have  long  talks  with  him.  If  you  know  what  he's  going  to  do  with 
his  money,  why  not  tell  a  fellow  ?  Let's  make  a  business  matter 
of  it." 

"  How  much  do  you  know,  Joe,  and  what  is  your  business  pro- 
posal worth  ?" 

"  Nothing  at  all  ;  that's  the  honest  truth — I  know  nothing.  The 
old  man's  as  tight  as  wax.  But  there's  other  business  in  the  world 
besides  his.  Suppose  I  know  of  something  a  precious  sight  better 
than  his  investments,  and  suppose — just  suppose — that  I  wanted  a 
lawyer  to  manage  it  for  me." 

"  Well,  Joe  ?" 

"  Encore  !  Bravo  !  Encore  !  Bravo !"  Joe  banged  his  stick  on 
the  floor  and  shouted  because  the  singer  ended  her  first  song.  He 
looked  so  fierce  and  big,  that  all  the  bystanders  made  haste  to  follow 
his  example. 

"  Splendid,  isn't  she  ?"  he  said. 

"  Hang  the  singer  !     What  do  you  mean  by  other  business  ?" 

"  Perhaps  it's  nothing.  Perhaps  there  will  be  thousands  in  it. 
And  perhaps  I  can  get  on  without  you,  after  all." 

"  Very  well,  Joe.    Get  on  without  me  if  you  like." 

"  Look  here,  Chalker,"  Joe  laid  a  persuasive  hand  on  the  other's 
arm,  "  can't  we  two  be  friendly  ?  Why  don't  you  give  a  fellow  a 
lift  ?  All  I  want  to  know  is  where  the  old  man's  put  his  money, 
and  how  he's  left  it." 

"  Suppose  I  do  know,"  Mr.  Chalker  replied,  wishing  ardently  that 
he  did,  "do  you  think  I  am  going  to  betray  trust — a  solicitor  betray 
trust — and  for  nothing  ?  But  if  you  want  to  talk  real  business, 
Joe,  come  to  my  office.     You  know  where  that  is." 

Joe  knew  very  well  ;  in  fact,  there  had  been  more  than  one  diffi- 
culty which  had  been  adjusted  through  Mr.  Chalker's  not  wholly 
disinterested  aid. 

Then  the  singer  appeared  again,  attired  in  a  new  and  startling 
dress,  and  Joe  began  once  more  to  applaud  with  voice  and  stick. 
Mr.  Chalker,  surprised  at  this  newly-developed  enthusiasm  for 
art,  left  him  and  walked  ur>  the  hall,  and  sat  down  beside  the 
Chairman,  whom  he  seemed  io  know.  In  fact,  the  Chairman  was 
also  the  Proprietor  of  the  show,  and  Mr.  Chalk  jr  was  acting  for  him 
in  his  professional  capacity,  much  as  he  had  acted  for  Mr.  Emblem. 

"Who  is  your  new  singer  ?"  he  asked. 

"  She  calls  herself  Miss  Carlotta  Claradine.  She's  a  woman,  let 
me  tell  you,  Mr.  Chalker,  who  will  get  along.  Fine  figure,  plenty 
of  cheek,  loud  voice,  flings  herself  about,  and  don  t  mind  a  bit  when 
the  words  are  a  leetle  strong.  That's  the  kind  of  singer  the  people 
like.  That's  her  husband,  at  the  far  end  of  the  room — the  big, 
good-looking  chap  with  the  light  moustache  and  the  cigarette 
in  his  mouth." 

17 


258  IN  LUCK  A T  LAST. 

"  Whew  !"  Mr.  Chalker  whistled  the  low  note  which  indicates 
surprise.  "  That's  her  husband,  is  it  ?  The  husband  of  Miss 
Carlotta  Claradine,  is  it  ?  Oho  !  oho  !  Her  husband  !  Are  you 
sure  he  is  her  husband  ?" 

"  Do  you  know  him,  then  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  know  him.     What's  the  real  name  of  the  girl  ?" 

"  Charlotte  Smithers.  This  is  her  first  appearance  on  any  stage — 
and  we  made  up  the  name  for  her  when  we  first  put  her  on 
the  posters.  I  made  it  myself — out  of  Chlorodyne,  you  know, 
which  is  in  the  advertisements.  Sounds  well,  don't  it  ? — Carlotta 
Claradine." 

"  Very  well  indeed.     By  Jove  !     Her  husband,  is  he  ?" 

"And,  I  suppose,"  said  the  Chairman,  "lives  on  his  wife's  salary. 
Bless  you,  Mr.  Chalker,  there's  a  whole  gang  about  every  theatre  and 
music-hall  trying  to  get  hold  of  the  promising  girls.  It's  a  regular 
profession.  Them  as  have  nothing  but  their  good  looks  may  do  for 
the  mashers,  but  these  chaps  look  out  for  the  girls  who'll  bring  in 
the  money.  What's  a  pretty  face  to  them  compared  with  the 
handling  of  a  big  salary  every  week  ?  That's  the  sort  Carlotta's 
husband  belongs  to." 

"  Well,  the  life  will  suit  him  down  to  the  ground." 

"  And  jealous  with  it,  if  you  please.  He  comes  here  every  night 
to  applaud,  and  takes  her  home  himself.  Keeps  himself  sober  on 
purpose." 

And  then  the  lady  appeared  again  in  a  wonderful  costume  of  blue 
silk  and  tights,  personating  the  Lion  Masher.  It  was  her  third  and 
last  song. 

In  the  applause  which  followed,  Mr.  Chalker  could  discern  plainly 
the  stick  as  well  as  the  voice  of  his  old  friend.  And  he  thought 
how  beautiful  is  the  love  of  husband  unto  wife,  and  he  smiled, 
thinking  that  when  Joe  came  next  to  see  him,  ho  might  perhaps 
hear  truths  which  he  had  thought  unknown,  and,  for  certain  reasons, 
wished  to  remain  unknown. 

Presently  he  saw  the  singer  pass  down  the  hall,  and  join  her  hus- 
band, who  now,  his  labours  ended,  was  seeking  refreshment  at  the 
bar.  She  was  a  good-looking  girl — still,  only  a  girl,  and  apparently 
under  twenty' — quietly  dressed,  yet  looking  anything  but  quiet. 
But  that  might  have  been  due  to  her  fringe,  which  was,  so  to  speak, 
a  prominent  feature  in  her  face.  She  was  tall  and  well-made,  with 
large  features,  an  ample  cheek,  a  full  eye,  and  a  wide  mouth.  A 
good-natured-looking  girl,  and  though  her  mouth  was  wide,  it  sug- 
gested smiles.  The  husband  was  exchanging  a  little  graceful 
badinage  with  the  barmaid  when  she  joined  him,  and  perhaps  this 
made  her  look  a  little  cross.  "  She's  jealous,  too,"  said  Mr.  Chalker, 
observant  ;  "  all  the  better."  Yet  a  face  which,  on  the  whole,  was 
prepossessing  and  good-natured,  and  betokened  a  disposition  to  maka 
the  best  of  the  world. 


THE  WOLF  AT  HOME.  259 

■''  How  long  has  she  been  married  ?"  Mr.  Chalker  asked  the  Pro- 
prietor. 

"  Only  about  a  month  or  so." 

"  Ah  !" 

Mr.  Chalker  proceeded  to  talk  business,  and  gave  no  further  hint 
of  any  interest  in  the  newly-married  pair. 

"Now,  Joe,"  said  the  singer,  with  a  freezing  glance  at  the  bar- 
maid, "  are  you  going  to  stand  here  all  night  ?" 

Joe  drank  off  his  glass  and  followed  his  wife  into  the  street. 
They  walked  side  by  side  in  silence,  until  they  reached  their  lodg- 
ings. Then  she  threw  off  her  hat  and  jacket,  and  sat  down  on  the 
horsehair  sofa  and  said  abruptly  : 

"  I  can't  do  it,  Joe  ;  and  I  won't.     So  don't  ask  me." 

"Wait  a  bit — wait  a  bit,  Lotty,  my  love.  Don't  be  in  a  hurry, 
now.  Don't  say  rash  things,  there's  a  good  girl."  Joe  spoke  quite 
softly,  as  if  he  were  not  the  least  angry,  but,  perhaps,  a  little  hurt. 
"There's  not  a  bit  of  hurry.  You  needn't  decide  to-day,  nor  yet 
to-morrow." 

"  I  couldn't  do  it,"  she  said.  "  Oh,  it's  a  dreadful,  wicked  thing 
even  to  ask  me.    And  only  five  weeks  to-morrow  since  we  married !" 

"  Lotty,  my  dear,  let  us  be  reasonable."  He  still  spoke  quite 
softly.  "  If  we  are  not  to  go  on  like  other  people — if  we  are  to 
be  continually  bothering  our  heads  about  honesty,  and  that  rubbish 
— we  shall  be  always  down  in  the  world.  How  do  other  people 
make  money  and  get  on  ?  By  humbugj  my  dear — by  humbug.  As 
for  you,  a  little  play-acting  is  nothing." 

"  But  I  am  not  the  man's  daughter,  and  my  own  father's  alive 
and  well." 

"  Look  here,  Lotty.  You  are  always  grumbling  about  the  music- 
halls." 

"Well,  and  good  reason  to  gru.ailee.  If  you  heard  those  ballet- 
girls  talk,  and  see  how  they  yo  <aa  at  the  back,  you'd  aa  amble.  As 
for  the  music "  She  laughed,  as  if  against  her  will.  "  If  any- 
body had  told  me  six  mouths  ago — me,  that  used  to  go  to  the 
Cathedral  Service  every  afternoon — that  I  should  be  a  Lion  Masher 
at  a  music  hall,  and  go  on  dressed  in  tights,  I  should  have  boxed  his 
ears  for  impudence." 

"  Why,  you  don't  mean  to  tell  mo,  Lotty,  that  you  wish  you  had 
stuck  to  the  uiouiuy  old  place,  and  sold  music  over  the  counter  ?" 

"  Well,  then,  perhaps  I  do." 

"No,  no,  Lotty  ;  your  husband  cannot  let  you  say  that." 

"My  lia-band  can  laugh  and  talk  with  barmaids.  That  makes 
him  happy." 

"  Lotty,"  he  said,  "  you  are  a  little  fool.  And  think  of  the  Glory ! 
Posters  with  your  name  in  letters  a  foot  and  a  half  long — 'Tho 
People's  Favourite  !'  Why,  don't  they  applaud  you  till  their  hands 
drop  off  ?" 

She  melted  a  little. 

17—2 


26o  IN  L UCK  AT  LAST. 

"  Applaud  !    As  if  that  did  any  good  !    And  me  in  tights !" 

"  As  for  the  tights,"  Joe  replied,  with  dignity,  "  the  only  person 
whom  you  need  consult  on  that  subject  is  your  husband  ;  and  since 
I  do  not  object,  I  should  like  to  see  the  man  who  does.  Show  me 
that  man,  Lotty,  and  I'll  straighten  him  out  for  you.  You  have  my 
perfect  approval,  my  dear.     I  honour  you  for  the  tights." 

"  My  husband's  approval !" 

She  repeated  his  words  again  in  a  manner  which  had  been  on 
other  occasions  most  irritating  to  him  ;  but  to-night  he  refused  to 
be  offended. 

"  Of  course,"  he  went  on,  "  as  soon  as  I  get  a  berth  on  another 
ship  I  shall  take  you  off  the  boards.  It  is  the  husband's  greatest 
delight,  especially  if  he  is  a  jolly  sailor,  to  brave  all  dangers  for  his 
wife.  Think,  Lotty,  how  pleasant  it  would  be  not  to  do  any  more 
work !" 

"  I  should  like  to  sing  sometimes — to  sing  good  music  at  the  great 
concerts.     That's  what  I  thought  I  was  going  to  do  !" 

';  You  shall  ;  you  shall  sing  as  little  or  as  often  as  you  like.  '  A 
sailor's  wife  a  sailor's  star  should  be.'  You  shall  be  a  great  lady, 
Lotty,  and  you  shall  just  command  your  own  line.  Wait  a  bit,  and 
you  shall  have  your  own  carriage,  and  your  own  beautiful  house, 
and  tfc-  to  as  many  balls  as  you  like  among  the  countesses  and  the 
swellti." 

"  Oh,  Joe  !"  she  laughed.  "  "Why,  if  we  were  as  rich  as  anything, 
I  should  never  get  ladies  to  call  upon  me.  And  as  for  you,  no  one 
would  ever  take  you  to  be  a  gentleman,  you  know." 

"  Why,  what  do  you  call  me,  now  ?" 

He  laughed,  but  without  much  enjoyment.  No  one  likes  to  be 
told  that  he  is  not  a  gentleman,  whatever  his  own  suspicions  on  the 
subject  may  be. 

"  Never  mind.  I  know  a  gentleman  when  I  see  one.  Go  on  with 
your  nonsense  about  being  rich." 

"  I  shall  make  you  rich,  Lotty,  whether  you  like  it  or  not,"  he 
said,  still  with  unwonted  sweetness. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  Not  by  wickedness,"  she  said  stoutly. 

"I've  got  here,"  he  pulled  a  bundle  of  papers  out  of  his  pocket, 
"  all  the  documents  wanted  to  complete  the  case.  All  I  want  now 
is  for  the  rightful  heiress  to  step  forward." 

"  I'm  not  the  rightful  heiress,  and  I'm  not  the  woman  to  step  for- 
ward, Joe  ;  so  don't  you  think  it." 

"  I've  been  to-day,"  Joe  continued,  "  to  Doctor's  Commons,  and 
I've  seen  the  will.  There's  no  manner  of  doubt  about  it ;  and  the 
money — oh,  Lord,  Lotty  !  if  you  only  knew  how  much  it  is  !" 

"  What  does  it  matter,  Joe,  how  much  it  is,  if  it  is  neither  yours 
nor  mine  ?" 

"  It  matters  this  :  that  it  ought  all  to  be  mine." 

"  How  can  that  be,  if  it  was  not  left  to  you  ?" 


THE  WOLF  AT  HOME,  261 

Joe  -was  nothing,  if  not  a  man  of  resource  ;  he  therefore  replied, 
without  hesitation  or  confusion  : 

"  The  money  was  left  to  a  certain  man  and  to  his  heirs.  That 
man  is  dead.  His  heiress  should  have  succeeded,  but  she  was  kept 
out  of  her  rights.  She  is  dead  ;  and  I  am  her  cousin,  and  entitled 
to  all  her  property,  because  she  made  no  will." 

"  Is  that  gospel-truth,  Joe  ?     Is  she  dead  ?    Are  you  sure  ?" 

"  Quite  sure,"  he  replied.     "  Dead  as  a  door-nail." 

"  Is  that  the  way  you  got  the  paners  ?" 

"  That's  the  way,  Lotty." 

"  Then  why  not  go  to  a  lawyer  and  make  him  take  up  the  case 
for  you,  and  honestly  get  your  own  ?" 

"  You  don't  know  law,  my  dear,  or  you  wouldn't  talk  nonsense 
about  lawyers.  There  are  two  ways.  One  is  to  go  myself  to  the 
present  unlawful  possessor  and  claim  the  whole.  It's  a  woman  ; 
she  would  be  certain  to  refuse,  and  then  we  should  go  to  law,  and 
very  likely  lose  it  all,  although  the  right  is  on  our  side.  The  other 
way  is  for  some  one — say  you — to  go  to  her  and  say,  '  I  am  that 
man's  daughter.  Here  are  my  proofs  ;  here  are  all  his  papers.  Give 
me  back  my  own.'  That  you  could  do  in  the  interests  of  justice, 
though  I  own  it  is  not  the  exact  truth." 

"  And  if  she  refuses  then  ?" 

"  She  can't  refuse,  with  the  man's  daughter  actually  standing 
before  her.  She  might  make  a  fuss  for  a  bit,  but  she  would  have 
to  give  in  at  last." 

"  Joe,  consider.  You  have  got  some  papers,  whatever  they  may 
contain.     Suppose  that  it  is  all  true  that  you  have  told  me " 

"  Lotty,  my  dear,  when  did  I  ever  tell  you  an  untruth  ?" 

"  When  did  you  ever  tell  me  the  truth,  my  dear  ?  Don't  talk 
wild.  Suppose  it  is  all  true,  how  are  you  going  to  make  out  whire 
your  heiress  has  been  all  this  time,  and  what  she  has  been  doing '?" 

"  Trust  me  for  that." 

"  I  trust  you  for  making  up  something  or  other,  but — oh,  Joe, 
you  little  think,  you  clever  people,  how  seldom  you  succeed  in  de- 
ceiving anyone." 

"  I've  got  such  a  story  for  you,  Lotty,  as  would  deceive  anybody. 
Listen  now.  It's  part  truth  and  part — the  other  thing.  Your 
father " 

"My  father,  poor  dear  man,"  Lotty  interrupted,  "is  minding  his 
music-shop  in  Gloucester,  and  little  thinking  what  wickedness  his 
daughter  is  being  asked  to  do." 

"  Hang  it !  the  girl's  father,  then.  He  died  in  America,  where 
he  went  under  another  name,  and  you  were  picked  up  by  strangers 
and  reared  under  that  name,  in  complete  ignorance  of  your  own 
family.     All  that  is  true  and  can  be  proved.'' 

"  Who  brought  her  up  ?" 

"  People  in  America.     I'm  one  of  'em." 

"  Who  is  to  prove  that  '■'" 


26a  IN  L  UCK  AT  LA  ST. 

"  I  am.    I  am  come  to  England  on  purpose.    I  am  her  guardian." 

"Who  is  to  prove  that  you  are  the  girl's  guardian?" 

"  I  shall  find  somebody  to  prove  that." 

His  thoughts  turned  to  Mr.  Chalker,  a  gentleman  whom  he  judged 
capable  of  proving  anything  he  was  paid  for. 

"And  suppose  they  ask  me  questions  ?" 

"Answer  'em.  You  know  very  little.  The  papers  were  only 
found  the  other  day.     You  are  not  expected  to  know  anything." 

"Where  was  the  real  girl  ?" 

"  With  her  grandfather." 

"  Where  was  the  grandfather  ?" 

"What  does  that  matter?"  he  replied;  "I  will  tell  you  after- 
wards." 

"  When  did  the  real  girl  die  ?" 

"  That,  too,  I  will  tell  you  afterwards." 

Lotty  leaned  her  cheek  upon  her  hand,  and  looked  at  her  husband 
thoughtfully. 

"Let  us  be  plain,  Joe." 

"You  can  never  be  plain,  my  dear,"  he  replied,  with  the  smile  of 
a  lover,  not  a  husband  ;  "  never  in  your  husband's  eyes  ;  not  even 
in  tights." 

But  she  was  not  to  be  won  by  flattery. 

"  Fine  words,"  she  said,  "  fine  words.  What  do  they  amount  to  ? 
Oh,  Joe,  little  I  thought  when  you  came  along  with  your  beautiful 
promises,  what  sort  of  a  man  I  was  going  to  marry." 

"  A  very  good  sort  of  a  man,"  he  said.  "  You've  got  a  jolly  sailor 
— an  officer  and  a  gentleman.  Come  now,  what  have  you  got  to  say 
to  this  ?     Can't  you  be  satisfied  with  an  officer  and  a  gentleman  ?" 

He  drew  himself  up  to  his  full  height.  Well,  he  was  a  handsome 
fellow  ;  there  was  no  denying  it. 

"  Good  looks  and  fine  words,"  his  wife  went  on.  "  Well,  and  now 
I've  got  to  keep  you,  and  if  you  could  make  me  sing  in  a  dozen 
halls  every  night,  you  would,  and  spend  the  money  on  yourself — 
joyfully  you  would." 

"  We  would  spend  it  together,  my  dear.    Don't  turn  rusty,  Lotty." 

He  was  not  a  bad-tempered  man,  and  this  kind  of  talk  did  not 
anger  him  at  all.  So  long  as  his  wife  worked  hard  and  brought  in 
the  coin  for  him  to  spend,  what  mattered  for  a  few  -words  now  and 
then  ?     Besides,  he  wanted  her  assistance. 

"  What  are  you  aiming  at  ?"  he  went  on.  "  I  show  you  a  bit  of 
my  hand,  and  you  begin  talking  round  and  round.  Look  here, 
Lotty.  Here's  a  splendid  chance  for  us.  I  must  have  a  woman's 
help.  I  would  rather  have  your  help  than  any  other  woman's — yes, 
than  any  other  woman's  in  the  world.  I  would  indeed.  If  you 
won't  help  me,  why,  then,  of  course  I  must  go  to  some  oiher  woman." 

His  wife  gasped  and  choked.  She  knew  already,  after  only  five 
weeks'  experience,  how  bad  a  man  he  was — how  unscrupulous,  false, 
and  treacherous,  how  lazy  and  selfish.     But,  after  a  fashion,  she 


THE  WOLF  AT  HOME.  263 

loved  him  ;  after  a  woman's  fashion,  she  was  madly  jealous  of  him. 
Another  woman  !  And  only  the  other  night  she  had  seen  him  giving 
brandy-and-soda  to  one  of  the  music-hall  ballet-girls.  Another 
woman  ! 

"  If  you  do,  Joe,"  she  said  ;  "  oh,  if  you  do— I  will  kill  her  and 
you  too !" 
He  laughed. 

"  If  I  do,  my  dear,  you  don't  think  I  shall  be  such  a  fool  as  to  tell 
you  who  she  is.  Do  you  suppose  that  no  woman  has  ever  fallen  in 
love  with  me  before  you  ?  But  then,  my  pretty,  you  see,  I  don't 
talk  about  them  ;  and  do  you  suppose — oh,  Lotty,  are  you  such  a 
fool  as  to  suppose  that  you  are  the  first  girl  I  ever  fell  in  love  with  ?" 
"  What  do  you  want  me  to  do  ?  Tell  me  again  " 
"  I  have  told  you  already.  I  want  you  to  become,  for  the  time, 
the  daughter  of  the  man  who  died  in  America  ;  you  will  claim  your 
inheritance  ;  I  will  provide  you  with  all  the  papers  ;  I  will  stand  by 
you  ;  I  will  back  you  up  with  such  a  story  as  will  disarm  all  sus- 
picion.    That  is  all." 

"Yes.  I  understand.  Haven't  people  been  sent  to  prison  for 
less,  Joe  ?" 

"Foolish  people  have.  Not  people  who  are  well  advised  and 
under  good  management.  Mind  you,  this  business  is  under  my 
direction.     I  am  boss." 

She  made  no  reply,  but  took  her  candle  and  went  off  to  bed. 
In  the  dead  of  night  she  awakened  her  husband. 
"Joe,"  she  said,  "is  it  true  that  you  know  another  girl  who  would 
do  this  for  you  ?" 

"  More  than  one,  Lotty,"  he  replied,  this  man  of  resource,  although 
he  was  only  half  awake.  "  More  than  one.  A  great  many  more. 
Half-a-dozen,  I  know,  at  least." 

She  was  silent.     Half  an  hour  afterwards  she  woke  him  up  again. 
"  Joe,"  she  said,  "  I've  made  up  my  mind.     You  shan't  say  that  I 
refused  to  do  for  you  what  any  other  girl  in  the  world  would  have 
done." 

As  a  tempter,  it  will  be  seen  that  Joe  was  unsurpassed. 
It  was  now  a  week  since  he  had  received,  carefully  wrapped  in 
wool,  and  deposited  in  a  wooden-box  despatched  by  Post,  a  key, 
newly-made.  It  was,  also,  very  nearly  a  week  since  he  had  used 
that  key  It  was  used  during  Mr.  Emblem's  hour  for  tea,  while 
James  waited  and  watched  outside  in  an  agony  of  terror.  But  Joe 
did  not  find  what  he  wanted.  There  were  in  the  safe  one  or  two 
ledgers,  a  banker's  book,  a  cheque-book,  and  a  small  quantity  of 
money.  But  there  were  not  any  records  at  all  of  moneys  invested. 
There  were  no  railway  certificates,  waterwork  shares,  transfers,  or 
notes  of  stocks,  mortgages,  loans,  or  anything  at  all.  The  only 
thing  that  he  saw  was  a  roll  of  papers  tied  up  with  red  tape.  On 
the  roll  was  written,  "For  Iris.  To  be  <nvoD  to  her  on  her  twenty- 
first  birthday." 


264  IN  L UCK  AT  LAST. 

"What  the  deuce  is  this,  I  wonder?"  Joe  took  this  out  and 
looked  at  it  suspiciously.  "Can  he  be  going  to  give  her  all  his 
money  before  hj  dies  ?  Is  he  going  to  make  her  inherit  at  once  ?" 
The  thought  was  so  exasperating  that  he  slipped  the  roll  into  his 
pocket.  "  At  all  events,"  he  said,  "  she  shan't  have  them  until  I 
have  read  them  first.  I  dare  say  they  won't  be  missed  for  a  day  or 
two." 

He  calculated  that  he  could  read  and  master  the  contents  that 
night,  and  put  back  the  papers  in  the  safe  in  the  morning  while 
James  was  opening  the  shop. 

"  There's  nothing,  James,"  he  whispered  as  he  went  out,  the  safe 
being  locked  again.  "  There  is  nothing  at  all.  Look  here,  my  lad, 
you  must  try  another  way  of  finding  out  where  the  money  is." 

"  I  wish  I  was  sure  that  he  hasn't  carried  off  something  in  his 
pocket,"  James  murmured. 

Joe  spent  the  whole  evening  alone,  contrary  to  his  usual  practice, 
which  was,  as  we  have  seen,  to  spend  it  at  a  certain  music-hall.  He 
read  the  papers  over  and  over  again. 

"  I  wish,"  he  said  at  length,  ';  I  wish  I  had  known  th  "s  only  two 
months  ago.  I  wish  I  had  paid  more  attention  to  Iris.  "What  a 
thing  it  is  to  have  a  grandfather  who  keeps  secrets  from  his  grand- 
son !  What  a  game  we  might  have  had  over  this  job  !  What  a 
game  we  might  have  still,  if " 

And  here  he  stopped,  for  the  first  germ  or  conception  of  a  mag- 
nificent coup  dawned  upon  him,  and  fairly  dazzled  him  so  that  his 
eyes  saw  a  bright  light  and  nothing  else. 

"  If  Lotty  would,"  he  said.  "  But  I  am  afraid  she  won't  hear  of 
it."  He  sprang  to  his  feet  and  caught  sight  of  his  own  face  in  the 
looking-glass  over  the  fireplace.  He  smiled.  "I  will  try,"  he  said  ; 
"  I  think  I  know,  by  this  time,  how  to  get  round  most  of  'em. 
Once  they  get  to  feel  there  are  other  women  in  the  world,  beside 
themselves,  they're  pretty  easy  worked.     I  will  try  " 

One  has  only  to  add  to  the  revelations  already  made  that  Joe  paid 
a  second  visit  to  the  shop,  this  time  early  in  the  morning.  The 
shutters  were  only  just  taken  down.  James  was  going  about  with 
that  remarkable  watering-pot  only  used  in  shops,  which  has  a  little 
stream  running  out  of  it,  and  Mr.  Emblem  was  upstairs  slowly  shav- 
ing and  dressing  in  his  bedroom.  He  walked  in,  nodded  to  his 
friend  the  Assistant,  opened  the  safe,  and  put  back  the  roll. 

"  Now,"  he  murmured,  "  if  the  old  man  has  really  been  such  a 
dunder-headed  pump  as  not  to  open  the  packet  all  these  years,  what 
the  devil  can  he  know  ?  The  name  is  diJl'evcnt  ,  he  hasn't  got  any 
clue  to  the  will  ;  he  hasn't  got  the  certificate  of  his  daughter's 
marriage,  or  of  the  child's  baptism — both  in  the  real  name.  He 
hasn't  got  anything.  As  for  the  girl  here,  Iris,  having  the  right 
Christian  name,  that's  nothing.  I  suppose  there  is  more  than  one 
Woman  with  such  a  fool  of  a  name  as  that  about  in  the  world." 

"  Foxy,"  he  said  cheerfully,  "  have  you  found  anything  yet  about 


THE  WOLF  AT  HOME.  265 

the  investments  ?    Odd,  isn't  it  ?    Nothing  in  the  safe  at  all.    You 
can  have  your  key  back." 

He  tossed  him  the  key  carelessly  and  went  away. 
The  question  of  his  grandfather's  savings  was  grown  insignificant 
beside  this  great  and  splendid  prize  which  lay  waiting  for  him. 
What  could  the  savings  be  ?  At  best  a  few  thousands  ;  the  slowly 
saved  thrift  of  fifty  years  ;  nobody  new  better  than  Joe  himself 
how  much  his  own  profligacies  had  cost  his  grandfather ;  a  few 
thousands,  and  those  settled  on  his  cousin  Iris,  so  that,  to  get  his 
share,  he  would  have  to  try  every  kind  of  persuasion  unless  he 
could  get  up  a  case  for  law.  But  the  other  thing — why,  it  was 
nearly  all  personal  estate,  so  far  as  he  could  learn  by  the  will,  and 
he  had  read  it  over  and  over  again  in  the  room  at  Somerset  House, 
with  the  long  table  in  it,  and  the  watchful  man  who  won't  let  any- 
body copy  anything.  What  a  shame,  he  thought,  not  to  let  wills  be 
copied  !  Personalty  sworn  under  a  hundred  and  twenty  thousand, 
all  in  Three  Per  Cents,  and  devised  to  a  certain  young  lady,  the 
testator's  ward,  in  trust,  for  the  testator's  son,  or  his  heirs,  when  he 
or  they  should  present  themselves.  Meantime,  the  ward  was  to 
receive  for  her  own  use  and  benefit,  year  by  year,  the  whole  income. 
"  It  is  unfortunate,"  said  Joe,  "  that  we  can't  come  down  upon  her 
for  arrears.  Still,  there's  an  income,  a  steady  income,  of  three 
thousand  six  hundred  a  year  when  the  son's  heirs  present  themselves. 
I  should  like  to  call  myself  a  solicitor,  but  that  kite  won't  fly,  I'm 
afraid.  Lotty  must  be  the  sole  heiress.  Dressed  quiet,  without 
any  powder,  and  her  fringe  brushed  flat,  she'd  pass  for  a  lady  any- 
where. Perhaps  it's  lucky,  after  all,  that  I  married  her,  though  if 
I  had  had  the  good  sense  to  make  up  to  Iris,  who's  a  deuced  sight 
prettier,  she'd  have  kept  me  going  almost  as  well  with  her  pupils, 
and  set  me  right  with  the  old  man,  and  handed  me  over  this  magni- 
ficent haul  for  a  finish.  If  only  the  old  man  hasn't  broken  the  seals 
and  read  the  papers  !" 

The  old  man  had  not,  and  Joe's  fears  were,  therefore,  groundless. 

V. 

A3    A    BEOTHER. 

At;xold  immediately  began  to  use  the  privilege  accorded  to  him 
with  a  large  and  liberal  interpretation.  If,  he  argued,  a  man  is  to 
be  treated  as  a  brother,  there  should  be  the  immediate  concession  of 
the  exchange  of  Christian  names,  and  he  should  be  allowed  to  call 
as  often  as  he  pleases.  Naturally  he  began  by  trying  to  read  the 
secret  of  a  life  self-contained,  so  dull,  and  yet  so  happy,  so  strange 
to  his  experience. 

"  Is  this,  Iris,"  he  asked,  "  all  your  life  ?  Is  there  nothing  more  ?" 

"No,"  she  said  ;  "  I  think  you  have  seen  all.     In  the  morning  I 

have  my  correspondence  ;  in  the  afternoon  I  do  my  sewing,  I  play  a 


266  IN  L UCK  AT  LAST. 

little,  I  read,  or  I  walk,  sometimes  by  myself,  and  sometimes  with 
Lala  Roy;  in  the  evening  I  play  again,  or  I  read  again,  or  I  work  at 
the  mathematics,  while  my  grandfather  and  Lala  Roy  have  their 
chess.  We  used  to  go  to  the  theatre  sometimes,  but  of  late' my 
grandfather  has  not  gone.  At  ten  we  go  to  bed.  That  is  all  my 
life." 

"But,  Iris,  have  you  no  friends  at  all,  and  no  relations?  Are 
there  no  girls  of  your  own  age  who  come  to  see  you  V" 

"  No,  not  one  ;  I  have  a  cousin,  but  he  is  not  a  good  man  at  all. 
His  father  and  mother  are  in  Australia.  When  he  comes  here, 
which  is  very  seldom,  my  grandfather  falls  ill  only  with  thinking 
about  him  and  looking  at  him.  But  I  have  no  other  relations,  be- 
cause, you  see,  I  do  not  know  who  my  father's  people  were." 

"Then,  Iris,"  said  Arnold,  "you  may  be  a  countess  in  your  own 
right;  you  may  have  any  number  of  rich  people  and  nice  people  for 
your  cousins.     Do  you  not  sometimes  think  of  that  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Iris  ;  "  I  never  think  about  things  impossible." 
"  If  I  were  you,  I  should  go  about  the  streets  and  walk  round  the 
picture-galleries  looking  for  a  face  like  your  own.  There  cannot  be 
many.  Let  me  draw  your  face,  Iris,  and  then  we  will  send  it  to  the 
Grosvenor,  and  label  it,  '  Wanted,  this  young  lady's  cousins.'  You 
must  have  cousins,  if  you  could  only  find  them  out." 

"I  suppose  I  must.  But  what  if  they  should  turn  out  to  be 
rough  and  disagreeable  people  ?" 

"  Your  cousins  could  not  be  disagreeable,  Iris,"  said  Arnold. 
She  shook  her  head. 

"One  thing  I  should  like,"  she  replied.  "It  would  be,  to  find 
that  my  cousins,  if  I  have  any,  are  clever  people — astronomers, 
mathematicians,  great  philosophers,  and  writers.  But  what  non- 
sense it  is  even  to  talk  of  such  things ;  I  am  quite  alone,  except 
for  my  grandfather  and  Lala  Roy." 

"  And  they  are  old,"  murmured  Arnold. 

"  Do  not  look  at  me  with  such  pity,"  said  the  girl.  "  I  am  very 
happy.  I  have  my  own  occupation  ;  I  am  independent  ;  I  have 
my  work  to  fill  my  mind  ;  and  I  have  these  two  old  gentlemen  to 
care  for  and  think  of.  They  have  taken  so  much  cave  of  me  that  I 
ought  to  think  of  nothing  else  but  their  comfort ;  and  then  there 
are  all  the  books  downstairs — thousands  of  beautiful  old  books 
always  within  my  reach." 

"  But  you  must  have  some  companions,  if  only  to  talk  and  walk 
with." 

"Why,  the  books  are  my  companions  ;  and  then  Lala  Roy  gees 
for  walks  with  me  ;  and  as  for  talking,  I  think  it  is  much  more 
pleasant  to  think." 

"  Where  do  you  walk  ?" 

"  There  is  liattersea  Park  ;  there  are  the  squares  :  and  if  you 
take  an  omnibus,  there  are  the  Gardens  and  Hyde  Park." 
"  But  never  alone,  Iris  ?" 


AS  A  BROTHER.  267 

"  Oh  yes,  I  am  often  alone.    Why  not  ?" 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Arnold,  shirking  the  question,  because  this  is  a 
civilized  country,  and,  in  fact,  why  not  ?  "  I  suppose  that  it  is  your 
work  which  keeps  you  from  feeling  life  dull  and  monotonous." 

"  No  life,"  she  said,  looking  as  wise  as  Newton,  if  Newton  was  ever 
young  and  handsome — "  no  life  can  be  dull  when  one  is  thinking 
about  mathematics  all  day.     Do  you  study  mathematics  ?" 

"  No  ;  I  was  at  Oxford,  you  know." 

"  Then  perhaps  you  prefer  metaphysics  ?  Though  Lala  Roy  says 
that  the  true  metaphysic,  which  he  has  tried  to  teach  me,  can  only 
be  reached  by  the  Hindoo  intellect." 

"  No,  indeed  ;  I  have  never  read  any  metaphysics  whatever.  I 
have  only  got  the  English  intellect."  This  he  said  with  intent 
satirical,  but  Iris  failed  to  understand  it  so,  and  thought  it  was  meant 
for  a  commendable  humility. 

"  Physical  science,  perhaps  ?" 

"No,  Iris.  Philosophy,  mathematics,  physics,  metaphysics,  or 
science  of  any  kind,  have  I  never  learned,  except  only  the  science 
of  Heraldry,  which  you  have  taught  me,  with  a  few  other  things." 

"  Oh  !"  She  wondered  how  a  man  could  exist  at  all  without  learn- 
ing these  things.  "  Not  any  science  at  all  ?  How  can  anyone  live 
without  some  science  ?" 

"  I  knew  very  well,"  he  said,  "  that  as  soon  as  I  was  found  out  I 
should  be  despised." 

"  Oh  no,  not  despised.     But  it  seems  such  a  pity " 

"  There  is  another  kind  of  life,  Iris,  which  you  do  not  know. 
You  must  let  me  teach  you.  It  is  the  life  of  Art.  If  you  would 
only  condescend  to  show  the  least  curiosity  about  me,  Iris,  I  would 
try  to  show  you  something  of  the  Art  life." 

"  How  can  I  show  curiosity  about  you,  Arnold  ?     I  feel  none." 

"  No  ;  that  is  just  the  thing  which  shames  me.  I  have  felt  the 
most  lively  curiosity  about  you,  and  I  have  asked  you  thousands  of 
impertinent  questions." 

"  Not  impertinent,  Arnold.  If  you  want  to  ask  any  more,  pray 
do.     I  dare  say  you  cannot  understand  my  simple  life." 

"  And  you  ask  me  nothing  at  all  about  myself.    It  isn't  fair,  Iris." 

"  Why  should  I  ?     I  know  you  already." 

"  You  know  nothing  at  all  about  me." 

"  Oh  yes,  I  know  you  very  well  indeed  ;  I  knew  you  before  you 
came  here.  You  showed  me  yourself  in  your  letters.  You  are 
exactly  like  the  portrait  I  drew  of  you.  I  never  thought,  for  in- 
stance, that  you  were  an  old  gentleman,  as  you  thought  me." 

He  laughed.  It  was  a  new  thing  to  see  Iris  using,  even  gently, 
the  dainty  weapons  of  satire. 

"But  you  do  not  know  what  I  am,  or  what  is  my  profession,  or 
anything  at  all  about  me." 

"  No  ;  I  do  not  care  to  know.  All  that  is  not  part  of  yourself. 
It  is  outside  you." 


268  IN  L UCK  AT  LAST. 

"  And  because  you  thought  you  knew  me  from  those  letters, 
you  surfer  me  to  come  here  and  be  your  disciple  still  ?  Yet  you 
gave  me  back  my  letters  ?" 

"  That  was  because  they  were  written  to  me  under  a  wrong  im- 
pression.'' 

"  Will  you  have  them  back  again  ?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  I  know  them  all  by  heart,"  she  said  simply. 

There  was  not  the  slightest  sign  of  coquetry  or  flattery  in  her 
voice,  or  in  her  eyes,  which  met  his  look  with  clear  and  steady  gaze. 

"  I  cannot  ask  you  to  read  my  portrait  to  me  as  you  drew  it  from 
those  pictures." 

"  Why  not  ?"  She  began  to  read  him  his  portrait  as  readily  as  if 
she  were  stating  the  conclusion  of  a  problem.  "  I  saw  that  you 
were  young  and  full  of  generous  thoughts  ;  sometimes  you  were 
indignant  with  things  as  they  are,  but  generally  you  laughed  at 
them  and  accepted  them.  It  is,  it  seems,  the  nature  of  your  friends 
to  laugh  a  great  deal  at  things  which  they  ought  to  remedy  if  they 
could,  not  laugh  at  them.  I  thought  that  you  wanted  some  strong 
stimulus  to  work;  anybody  could  see  that  you  were  a  man  of  kindly 
nature  and  good-breeding.  You  were  careful  not  to  offend  by  any- 
thing that  you  wrote,  and  I  was  certain  that  you  were  a  man  of 
honour.  I  trusted  you,  Arnold,  before  I  saw  your  face,  because  I 
knew  your  soul." 

"  Trust  me  still,  Iris,"  he  said  in  rather  a  husky  voice. 

"  Of  course  I  did  not  know,  and  never  thought,  what  sort  of  a 
man  you  were  to  look  at.  Yet  I  ought  to  have  known  that  you 
were  handsome.  I  should  have  guessed  that  from  the  very  tone  of 
your  letters.  A  hunchback  or  a  cripple  could  not  have  written  in 
so  light-hearted  a  strain,  and  I  should  have  discovered,  if  I  had 
thought  of  such  a  thing,  that  you  were  very  well  satisfied  with  your 
personal  appearance.  Young  men  should  always  be  that,  at  least, 
if  only  to  give  them  confidence." 

"  Oh,  Iris — oh  !     Do  you  really  think  me  conceited  V" 

"I  did  not  say  that.  I  only  said  that  you  were  satisfied  with 
yourself.  That,  I  understand  now,  was  clear,  from  many  little 
natural  touches  in  your  letters." 

"  What  else  did  you  learn  ?" 

"  Oh,  a  great  deal — much  more  than  I  can  tell  you.  I  knew  that 
you  go  into  society,  and  I  learned  from  you  what  society  means  ; 
and  though  you  tried  to  be  sarcastic,  I  understood  easily  that  you 
liked  social  pleasure." 

"  Was  I  sarcastic  ?" 

"  Was  it  not  sarcastic  to  tell  me  how  the  fine  ladies,  who  affect  so 
much  enthusiasm  for  art,  go  to  see  the  galleries  on  the  private-view 
day,  and  are  never  seen  in  them  again  ?     Was  it  not  sarcastic " 

"  Spare  me,  Iris.  I  will  never  do  it  again.  And  knowing  so 
much,  do  you  not  desire  to  know  more  ?" 


AS  A  BROTHER.  269 

"  No,  Arnold.     I  am  not  interested  in  anything  else." 

"  But  my  position,  my  profession,  my  people — are  you  not  curious 
to  know  them  ?" 

"  No.     They  are  not  you.     They  are  accidents  of  yourself." 

"  Philosopher !  But  you  must  know  more  about  me.  I  told  you 
I  was  an  artist.  But  you  have  never  inquired  whether  I  was  a 
great  artist  or  a  little  one." 

"  You  are  still  a  little  artist,"  she  said.  "  I  know  that,  without 
being  told.  But  perhaps  you  may  become  great  when  you  learn  to 
work  seriously." 

'•I  have  been  lazy,"  he  replied,  with  something  like  a  blush,  "  but 
that  is  all  over  now.  I  am  going  to  work.  I  will  give  up  society. 
I  will  take  my  profession  seriously,  if  only  you  will  encourage  me." 

Did  he  mean  what  he  said  ?  When  he  came  away  he  used  at  this 
period  to  ask  himself  that  question,  and  was  astonished  at  the  length 
he  had  gone.  With  any  other  girl  in  the  world,  he  would  have  been 
taken  at  his  word,  and  either  encouraged  to  go  on,  or  snubbed  on 
the  spot.  But  Iris  received  these  advances  as  if  they  were  a  con- 
fession of  weakness. 

"  Why  do  you  want  me  to  encourage  you  ?"  she  asked.  "  I  know 
nothing  about  art.     Can't  you  encourage  yourself,  Arnold  ?" 

"  Iris,  I  must  tell  you  something  more  about  myself.  Will  you 
listen  for  a  moment  ?  Well,  I  am  the  son  of  a  clergyman  who  now 
holds  a  colonial  appointment.  I  have  got  the  usual  number  of 
brothers  and  sisters,  who  are  doing  the  usual  things.  I  will  not  bore 
you  with  details  about  them." 

"No,"  said  Iris,  "  please  do  not." 

"  I  am  the  adopted  son,  or  ward,  or  whatever  you  please,  of  a 
certain  cousin.  She  is  a  single  lady  with  a  great  income,  which  she 
promises  to  bequeath  to  me  in  the  future.  In  the  meantime,  I  am 
to  have  whatever  I  want.     Do  you  understand  the  position,  Iris  '?" 

"  Yes,  I  think  so.  It  is  interesting,  because  it  shows  why  you 
will  never  be  a  great  artist.     But  it  is  very  sad." 

"  A  man  may  rise  above  his  conditions,  Iris,"  said  Arnold  meekly. 

"  No,"  she  went  on  ;  "  it  is  only  the  poor  men  who  do  anything 
good.     Lala  Roy  says  so." 

"  I  will  pretend  to  be  poor — indeed,  I  am  poor.  I  have  nothing. 
If  it  were  not  for  my  cousin,  I  could  not  even  profess  to  follow 
art." 

"  What  a  pity,"  she  said,  "  that  you  are  rich  !  Lala  Roy  was  rich 
once." 

Arnold  repressed  an  inclination  to  desire  that  Lala  Roy  might  be 
kept  out  of  the  conversation. 

"  But  he  gave  up  all  his  wealth  and  has  been  happy,  and  a  Philo- 
sopher, ever  since." 

"  I  can't  give  up  my  wealth,  Iris,  because  I  haven't  got  any — I 
owe  my  cousin  everything.  But  for  her,  I  should  never  even  have 
known  you." 


270  IN  L UCK  AT  LAST. 

He  watched  her  at  her  work  in  the  morning  when  she  sat  patiently 
answering  questions,  working  out  problems,  and  making  papers. 
She  showed  him  the  letters  of  her  pupils,  exacting,  excusing,  petu- 
lant— sometimes  dissatisfied  and  even  ill-tempered.  He  watched  her 
in  the  afternoon  while  she  sewed  or  read.  In  the  evening  he  sat 
with  her  while  the  two  old  men  played  their  game  of  chess.  Regu- 
larly every  evening  at  half -past  nine  the  Bengalee  checkmated  Mr. 
Emblem.  Up  to  that  hour  he  amused  himself  with  his  opponent, 
formed  ingenious  combinations,  watched  openings,  and  gradually 
cleared  the  board  until  he  found  himself,  as  the  hour  of  half-pa-st 
nine  drew  near,  able  to  propose  a  simple  problem  to  his  own  mind, 
such  as,  "  White  moves  first,  to  mate  in  three,  four,  or  five  moves," 
and  then  he  proceeded  to  solve  that  problem,  and  checkmated  his 
adversary. 

No  one,  not  even  Iris,  knew  how  Lala  Roy  lived,  or  what  he  did 
in  the  daytime.  It  was  rumoured  that  he  had  been  seen  at  Simp- 
son's in  the  Strand,  but  this  report  wanted  confirmation.  He  had 
lived  in  Mr.  Emblem's  second  floor  for  twenty  years  ;  he  always 
paid  his  bills  with  regularity,  and  his  long  spare  figure  and  white 
moustache  and  fez  were  as  well  known  in  Chelsea  as  any  red-coated 
lounger  among  the  old  veterans  of  the  Hospital. 

"It  is  quiet  for  you  in  the  evenings,"  said  Arnold. 

"I  play  to  them  sometimes.  They  like  to  hear  me  play  during 
the  game.     Look  at  them." 

She  sat  down  and  played.  She  had  a  delicate  touch,  and  played 
soft  music,  such  as  soothes,  not  excites  the  soul.  Arnold  watched 
her,  not  the  old  men.  How  was  it  that  refinement,  grace,  self-pos- 
session, manners,  and  the  culture  of  a  lady,  could  be  found  in  one 
who  knew  no  ladies  ?  But  then  Arnold  did  not  know  Lala  Roy, 
nor  did  he  understand  the  old  bookseller. 

"  You  are  always  wondering  about  me,"  she  said,  talking  while 
she  played  ;  "  I  see  it  in  your  eyes.  Can  you  not  take  me  as  I  am, 
without  thinking  why  I  am  different  from  other  girls  ?  Of  course 
I  am  different,  because  I  knov.r  none  of  them." 

"  I  wish  they  were  nil  like  you,"  he  said. 

"  No  ;  that  would  bo  a  great  pity.  You  want  girls  who  under- 
stand your  own  life,  and  can  enter  into  your  pursuits— you  want 
companions  who  can  talk  to  you.  Go  back  to  them,  Arnold,  as 
soon  as  you  are  tired  ot  coming  here." 

And  yet  his  instinct  was  right  which  told  him  that  the  girl  was 
not  a  coquette.  She  had  no  thought— not  the  least  thought — as  yet 
that  anything  was  possible  beyond  the  existing  friendship.  It  was 
pleasant,  but  Arnold  would  get  tired  of  her,  and  go  back  to  his  own 
people.  Then  he  would  remain  in  her  memory  as  a  Study  of  Cha- 
racter. This  she  did  not  exactly  formulate,  but  she  had  that  feel- 
ing. Every  woman  makes  a  study  of  character  about  every  man  in 
whom  she  becomes  ever  so  little  interested.  But  we  must  not  get 
conceited,  my  brothers,  over  this  fact.     The  converse,  unhappily, 


AS  A  BROTHER.  271 

does  not  hold  true.  Very  few  men  ever  study  the  character  of  a 
woman  at  all.  Either  they  fall  in  love  with  her  before  they  have 
had  time  to  make  more  than  a  sketch,  and  do  not  afterwards  pursue 
the  subject,  or  they  do  not  fall  in  love  with  her  at  all ;  and  in  the 
latter  case  it  hardly  seems  worth  while  to  follow  up  a  first  rough 
draft. 

"  Checkmate,"  said  Lala  Roy. 

The  game  was  finished  and  the  evening  over. 

li  Would  you  like,"  he  said,  another  evening,  "  to  see  my  studio, 
or  do  you  consider  my  sturtio  outside  myself  ?" 

"  I  should  very  much  like  to  see  an  artist's  studio,"  she  replied, 
with  her  usual  frankness,  leaving  it  an  open  question  whether  she 
would  not  be  equally  pleased  to  see  any  other  studio. 

She  came,  however,  accompanied  by  Lala  Roy,  who  had  never 
been  in  a  studio  before,  and  indeed  had  never  looked  at  a  picture, 
except  with  the  contemptuous  glance  which  the  Philosopher  be- 
stows upon  the  follies  of  mankind.  Yet  he  came,  because  Iris 
asked  him.  Arnold's  studio  is  one  of  the  smallest  of  those  in  Tite 
Street.  Of  course  it  is  built  of  red- brick,  and  of  course  it  has  a 
noble  staircase,  and  a  beautiful  painting-room  or  studio-proper,  all 
set  about  with  bits  of  tapestry,  armour,  pictures,  and  china,  besides 
the  tools  and  properties  of  the  craft.  He  had  portfolios  full  of 
sketches  ;  against  the  wall  stood  pictures,  finished  and  unfinished  ; 
on  an  easel  was  a  half -painted  picture  representing  a  group  taken 
from  a  modern  novel.  Most  painters  only  draw  scenes  from  two 
novels— the  Vicar  of  Wakefield  and  Don  Quixote  ;  but  Arnold 
knew  more.  The  central  figure  was  a  girl,  quite  unfinished — in 
fact,  barely  sketched  in. 

Iris  looked  at  everything  with  the  interest  which  belongs  to  the 
new  and  unexpected. 

Arnold  began  to  show  the  pictures  in  the  portfolios.  There 
were  sketches  of  peasant-life  in  Norway  and  on  the  Continent ; 
there  were  landscapes,  quaint  old  houses,  and  castles  ;  there  were 
ships  and  ports  ;  and  there  were  heads — hundreds  of  heads. 

"  I  said  you  might  be  a  great  artist,"  said  Iris.  "  I  am  sure  now 
that  you  will  be  if  you  choose." 

"  Thank  you,  Iris.  It  is  the  greatest  compliment  you  could  pay 
me." 

"  And  what  is  this  ?"  She  was  before  the  easel  on  which  stood 
the  unfinished  picture. 

"  It  is  a  scene  from  a  novel  But  I  cannot  get  the  principal 
face  ;  none  of  the  models  are  half  good  enough.  I  want  a  sweet 
face — a  serious  face — a  face  with  deep,  beautiful  eyes.  Iris  " — it 
was  a  sudden  impulse,  an  inspiration — "let  me  put  your  face  there. 
C  ive  me  my  first  commission." 

She  blushed  deeply.  All  these  drawings,  the  multitudinous 
faces  and  heads  and  figures  in  the  portfolio,  were  a  revelation 
to  her.     And  just  at  the  very  moment  when  she  discovered  that 


272  IN  L UCK  AT  LAST. 

Arnold  was  one  of  those  who  worship  beauty — a  thing  she  had 
never  before  understood — he  told  her  that  her  face  was  so  beauti- 
ful that  he  must  put  it  in  his  picture. 

"  Oh,  Arnold,"  she  said,  "  my  face  would  be  out  of  place  in  that 
picture." 

"  Would  it  ?     Please  sit  down,  and  let  me  make  a  sketch." 

He  seized  his  crayons  and  began  rapidly. 

"  What  do  you  say,  Lala  Roy  ?"  he  asked,  by  way  of  diversion. 

"  The  gifts  of  the  understanding,"  said  the  Sage,  "  are  the  trea- 
sures of  the  Lord  ;  and  He  appointeth  to  every  man  his  portion  " 

"  Thank  you,"  replied  Arnold.  "  Very  true  and  very  apt,  I'm 
sure.  Iris,  please,  your  face  turned  just  a  little.  So.  Ah !  if  I 
can  but  do  some  measure  of  justice  to  your  eyes  !" 

When  Iris  went  away,  there  was  for  the  first  time  the  least  touch 
of  restraint  or  self -consciousness  in  her.  Arnold  felt  it ;  she  showed 
it  in  her  eyes,  and  in  the  touch  of  her  fingers  when  he  took  her  hand 
at  parting.  It  was  then  for  the  first  time,  also,  that  Arnold  dis- 
covered a'  truth  of  overwhelming  importance.  Every  new  fact — 
everything  which  cannot  be  disputed  or  denied  is,  we  all  know,  of 
the  most  enormous  importance.  He  discovered  no  less  a  truth  than 
that  he  was  in  love  with  Iris.  So  important  is  this  truth  to  a  young 
man,  that  it  reduces  the  countless  myriads  of  the  world  to  a  single 
pair — himself  and  another;  it  converts  the  most  arid  waste  of 
streets  into  an  Eden  ;  and  it  blinds  the  eyes  to  ambition,  riches, 
and  success.  Arnold  sat  down  and  reasoned  out  this  truth.  He 
said  coldly  and  "  squarely"  : 

"  This  is  a  girl  whom  I  have  known  only  a  fortnight  or  so  ;  she 
lives  over  a  second-hand  bookshop  ;  she  is  a  teacher  by  profession  ; 
she  knows  none  of  the  ways  of  society  ;  she  would  doubtless  be 
guilty  of  all  kinds  of  queer  things,  if  she  were  suddenly  introduced 
to  good  people  ;  probably,  she  would  never  learn  our  manners," 
with  more  to  the  same  effect,  which  may  bo  reasonably  omitted. 
Then  his  Conscience  woke  up,  and  said  quite  simply  :  "  Arnold,  you 
are  a  liar."  Conscience  does  sometimes  call  hard  names.  She  is 
feminine,  and  therefore  privileged  to  call  hard  names.  Else  we 
should  sometimes  kick  and  belabour  Conscience.  "Arnold,  don't 
tell  more  lies.  You  have  been  gradually  learning  to  know  Iris, 
through  the  wisest  and  sweetest  letters  that  were  ever  written,  for 
a  whole  year.  You  gradually  began  to  know  her,  in  fact,  when  you 
first  began  to  interlard  your  letters  with  conceited  revelations  about 
yourself.  You  knew  her  to  be  sympathetic,  quick,  and  of  a  most 
kind  and  tender  heart.  You  are  quite  sure,  though  you  try  to  dis- 
guise the  fact,  that  she  is  as  honest  as  the  day,  and  as  true  as  steel. 
As  for  her  not  being  a  lady,  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself 
for  even  thinking  such  a  thing.  Has  she  not  been  tenderly  brought 
up  by  two  old  men  who  are  full  of  honour,  and  truth,  and  all  the 
simple  virtues  ?  Does  she  not  look,  move,  and  speak  like  the  most 
gracious  lady  in  the  land  ?" — "  Like  a  goddess,"  Arnold  confessed 


AS  A  BROTHER.  273 

— "  As  for  the  ways  and  talk  of  society,  what  are  these  worth  ? 
and  cannot  they  be  acquired  ?  And  what  are  her  manners  save 
those  of  the  most  perfect  refinement  and  purity  ?"  Thus  far  Con- 
science. Then  Arnold,  or  Arnold's  secret  advocatus  diaboli,  began 
upon  another  and  quite  different  line.  "  She  must  have  schemed 
at  the  outset  to  get  me  into  her  net  ;  she  is  a  Siren  ;  she  assumes 
the  disguise  of  innocence  and  ignorance  the  better  to  beguile  and 
to  deceive.  She  has  crone  home  to-day  elated  because  she  thinks 
she  has  landed  a  gentleman." 

Conscience  said  nothing  :  there  are  some  things  to  which  Con- 
science has  no  reply  in  words  to  offer  ;  yet  Conscience  pointed  to 
the  portrait  of  the  girl,  and  bade  the  most  unworthy  of  all  lovers 
look  upon  even  his  own  poor  and  meagre  representation  of  her  eyes 
and  face,  and  ask  whether  such  blasphemies  could  ever  be  forgiven. 

After  a  self-abasement,  which  for  shame's  sake  we  must  pass  over, 
the  young  man  felt  happier. 

Henry  the  Second  felt  much  the  same  satisfaction  the  morning 
after  his  scourging  at  the  hands  of  the  monks,  who  were  as  muscular 
as  they  were  vindictive. 


VI. 

COUSIN   CLARA. 

That  man  who  spends  his  days  in  painting  a  girl's  portrait,  in 
talking  to  her,  and  in  gazing  upon  the  unfinished  portrait  when  she 
is  not  with  him,  and  occupies  his  thoughts  during  the  watches  of 
the  night  in  thinking  about  her,  is  perilously  near  to  taking  the  last 
and  fatal  step.  Flight  for  such  a  man  is  the  only  thing  left,  and 
he  so  seldom  thinks  of  flight  until  it  is  too  late. 

Arnold  was  at  this  point. 

"  I  am  possessed  by  this  girl,"  he  might  have  said,  had  he  put  his 
thoughts  into  words.  "  I  am  haunted  by  her  eyes  ;  her  voice  lin- 
gers in  my  ears  ,  I  dream  of  her  face  ;  the  touch  of  her  fingers  is 
like  the  touch  of  an  electric  battery."  What  symptoms  are  these, 
so  common  that  one  is  almost  ashamed  to  write  them  down,  but  the 
infallible  symptoms  of  love?  And  yet  he  hesitated,  not  because  he 
doubted  himself  any  longer,  but  because  he  was  not  independent, 
and  such  an  engagement  might  deprive  him  at  one  stroke  ol  all  that 
he  possessed.  Might  ?  It  certainly  would.  Yes  ;  the  new  and 
beautiful  studio,  all  the  things  in  it,  all  his  prospects  for  the  future, 
would  have  to  be  given  up.  "She  is  worth  more  than  that,"  said 
Arnold,  "  and  I  should  find  work  somehow.  But  yet,  to  plunge  her 
into  poverty — and  to  make  Clara  the  most  unhappy  of  women  !" 

The  reason  why  Clara  would  be  made  the  most  unhappy  of 
women,  was  that  Clara  was  his  cousin  and  his  benefactor,  to  whom 
he  owed  everything.     Sbe  was  the  kindest  of  patrons,  and  she  liked 

18 


274  IN  LUCK  A  T  LA  ST. 

nothing  so  much  as  the  lavishing  upon  her  ward  everything  that  he 
could  desire.  But  she  also,  unfortunately,  illustrated  the  truth  of 
Chaucer's  teaching,  in  that  she  loved  power  more  than  anything  else, 
and  had  already  mapped  out  Arnold's  life  for  him. 

It  was  his  custom  to  call  upon  her  daily,  to  use  her  house  as  his 
own.  When  they  were  separated,  they  wrote  to  each  other  every 
day  ;  the  relations  between  them  were  of  the  most  intimate  and 
affectionate  kind,  lie  advised  in  all  her  affairs,  while  she  directed 
his  ;  it  was  understood  that  he  was  her  heir,  and  though  she  was 
not  more  than  five-and-forty  or  so,  and  had,  apparently,  a  long  life 
still  before  her,  so  that  the  succession  was  distant,  the  prospect  gave 
him  importance.  She  had  been  out  of  town,  and  perhaps  the  fact 
of  a  new  acquaintance  with  so  obscure  a  person  as  a  simple  tutor  by 
correspondence,  seemed  to  Arnold  not  worth  mentioning.  At  all 
events,  he  had  not  mentioned  it  in  his  daily  letters. 

And  now  she  was  coming  home  ;  she  was  actually  arrived  ;  he 
would  see  her  that  evening.  Her  last  letter  was  lying  before 
him. 

"  I  parted  from  dear  Stella  yesterday.  She  goes  to  stay  with  the 
Essex  Mainwarings  for  a  month ;  after  that,  I  hope  that  she  will  give 
me  a  long  visit.  I  do  not  know  where  one  could  find  a  sweeter  girl, 
or  one  more  eminently  calculated  to  make  a  man  happy.  Beautiful, 
strictly  speaking,  she  is  not,  perhaps  ;  but  of  excellent  connections, 
not  without  a  portion,  young,  clever,  and  ambitious.  With  such  a 
wife,  my  dear  Arnold,  a  man  may  aspire  to  anything." 

"  To  anything,"  repeated  Arnold;  "  what  is  her  notion  of  any- 
thing ?  She  has  arrived  by  this  time."  He  looked  at  his  watch 
and  found  it  was  past  five.  "  I  ought  to  have  been  at  the  station 
to  meet  her.  I  must  go  round  and  see  her,  and  I  must  dine  with 
her  to-night."  He  sighed  heavily.  "  It  would  be  much  pleasanter 
to  spend  the  evening  with  Iris." 

Then  a  carriage  stopped  at  his  door.  It  was  his  cousin,  and  the 
next  minute  he  was  receiving  and  giving  the  kiss  of  welcome.  For 
his  own  part,  he  felt  guilty,  because  he  could  put  so  little  heart  into 
that  kiss,  compared  with  all  previous  embraces.  She  was  a  stout, 
hearty  little  woman,  who  could  never  have  been  in  the  least  beauti- 
ful, even  when  she  was  young.  Now  on  the  middle  line,  between 
forty  and  fifty,  she  looked  as  if  her  face  had  been  chopped  out  of 
the  marble  by  a  rude  but  determined  artist,  one  who  knew  what  he 
wanted  and  would  tolerate  no  conventional  work.  So  that  her 
face,  at  all  events,  was,  if  not  unique,  at  least  unlike  any  other  face 
one  had  ever  seen.  Most  faces,  we  know,  can  be  reduced  to  certain 
general  types — even  Iris's  face  might  be  classified — while  of  yours, 
my  brother,  there  are,  no  doubt,  multitudes.  Miss  Holland,  how- 
ever, had  good  eyes— bright,  clear  grey — the  eyes  of  a  woman  who 
knows  what  she  wants  and  means  to  get  it  if  she  can. 

"  Well,  my  dear,"  she  said,  taking  the  one  comfortable  chair  in 
the  iiludio,  ''  I  am  back  again,  and  1  have  enjoyed  my  journey  very 


COUSIN  CLARA.  275 

much  :  we  will  have  all  the  travels  this  evening.     You  are  looking 
splendid,  Arnold  !" 

"  I  am  very  well  indeed.  And  yon,  Clara  ?  But  I  need  not 
ask." 

"  No,  I  am  always  well.  I  told  you  about  dear  Stella,  did  I  not  ? 
I  never  had  a  more  delightful  companion." 

''  So  glad  you  liked  her." 

"  If  only,  Arnold,  you  would  like  her  too.  But  I  know  " — for 
Arnold  changed  colour — "  I  know  one  must  not  interfere  in  these 
matters.  But  surely  one  may  go  so  far  with  a  young  man  one 
loves  as  to  say,  'Here  is  a  girl  of  a  million  '?  There  is  not,  Arnold, 
I  declare,  her  equal  anywhere  ;  a  clearer  head  I  never  met,  or  a 
better  educated  girl,  or  one  who  knows  what  a  man  can  do,  and 
how  he  can  be  helped  to  do  it." 

"  Thank  you,  Clara,"  Arnold  said  coldly  ;  "  I  dare  say  I  shall 
discover  the  young  lady's  perfections  in  time." 

"  Not,  I  think,  without  some  help.  She  is  not  an  ordinary  girl. 
You  must  draw  her  out,  my  dear  boy." 

"  I  will,"  he  said  listlessly.  "  I  will  try  to  draw  her  out,  if  you 
like." 

"  We  talked  a  great  deal  of  you,  Arnold,"  Clara  went  on.  "  T 
confided  to  her  some  of  my  hopes  and  ambitions  f  or  j'ou  ;  and  I  am 
ivte  to  confess  to  you  that  she  has  greatly  modified  all  my  plans 
and  calculations." 

"  Oh  !"  Arnold  was  interested  in  this.  "But,  my  dear  Clara,  I 
have  my  profession.     I  must  follow  my  profession." 

"  Surely — surely  !  Listen,  Arnold,  patiently.  Anybody  can  be- 
come an  artist — anybody,  of  course,  who  has  the  genius.  And  all 
kinds  of  people,  gutter  people,  have  the  genius." 

"The  sun,"  said  Arnold,  just  as  if  he  had  been  Lala  Roy, 
"  shines  on  all  alike." 

"Quite  so  ;  and  there  is  an  immense  enthusiasm  for  Art  every- 
where ;  but  there  is  no  Art  leader.  There  is  no  one  man  recognised 
as  the  man  most  competent  to  speak  on  Art  of  every  kind.  Think 
of  that.  It  is  Stella's  idea  entirely.  This  man,  when  he  is  found, 
will  sway  enormous  authority ;  he  will  become,  if  he  has  a  wife 
able  to  assist  him,  an  immense  social  power." 

"  And  you  want  me  to  become  that  man  ?" 

"Yes,  Arnold.  I  do  not  see  why  you  should  not  become  that 
man.  Cease  to  think  of  becoming  President  of  the  lv>yal 
Academy,  yet  go  on  painting  ;  prove  your  genius,  so  as  to  command 
respect ;  cultivate  the  art  of  public  speaking  ;  and  look  about  for 
a  wife  who  will  be  your  right  hand.  Think  of  this  seriously. 
This  is  only  a  rough  sketch  ;  we  can  fill  in  the  details  afterwards. 
But  think  of  it.  Oh,  my  dear  boy  !  if  I  were  only  a  man,  and  five- 
and-twenty,  with  such  a  chance  before  me  !  What  a  glorious 
career  is  yours,  if  you  choose  !  But  of  course  you  will  choose. 
Good  gracious,  Arnold  !  who  is  that  ?" 

18—2 


276  IN  LUCK  A T  LAST. 

She  pointed  to  the  canvas  on  the  easel,  where  Iris's  face  was  like 
the  tale  of  Cambuscan,  half -told. 

"  It  is  no  one  you  know,  Clara." 

"  One  of  your  models  ?"  She  rose  and  examined  it  more  closely 
through  her  glasses.  "  The  eyes  are  wonderful,  Arnold.  They 
are  eyes  I  know.  As  if  I  could  ever  forget  them  !  They  are  the 
same  eyes  ;  exactly  the  same  eyes.  I  have  never  met  with  any  like 
them  before.  They  are  the  eyes  of  my  poor,  lost,  betrayed  Claude 
Descret.  AVhere  did  you  pick  up  this  girl,  Arnold  ?  Is  she  a 
common  model  ?" 

"Not  at  all.  She  is  not  a  model.  She  is  a  young  lady  who 
teaches  by  correspondence.  She  is  my  tutor — of  course  I  have  so 
often  talked  to  you  about  her — who  taught  me  the  science  of 
Heraldry,  and  wrote  me  such  charming  letters." 

"  Your  tutor  !     You  said  your  tutor  was  an  old  gentleman." 

"  So  I  thought,  Clara.  But  I  was  wrong.  My  tutor  is  a  young 
lady  ;  and  this  is  her  portrait,  half-finished.  It  does  not  do  her 
any  kind  of  justice." 

,l  A  young  lady  !"  She  looked  suspiciously  at  Arnold,  whose  tell- 
tale cheek  flushed.  "A  young  lady!  Indeed!  And  you  have 
made  her  acquaintance." 

"  As  you  see,  Clara  ;  and  she  does  me  the  honour  to  let  me  paint 
her  portrait." 

"  What  is  her  name,  Arnold  ?" 

"  She  is  a  Miss  Aglen." 

"  Strange.  The  Deserets  once  intermarried  with  the  Aglens. 
I  wonder  if  she  is  any  connection.  They  were  Warwickshire 
Aglens.  But  it  is  impossible — a  teacher  by  correspondence,  a  mere 
private  governess  !     Who  are  her  people  ?" 

"She  lives  with  her  grandfather.  I  think  her  father  was  a  tutor 
or  journalist  of  some  kind,  but  he  is  dead  ;  and  her  grandfather 
keeps  a  second-hand  bookshop  in  the  King's  Road  close  by." 

"  A  bookshop  !  But  you  said,  Arnold,  that  she  was  a  young 
lady." 

"  So  she  is,  Clara,"  he  replied  simply. 

"  Arnold  !"  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  Arnold  saw  his  cousin 
angry  with  him.  She  was  constantly  being  angry  with  other  people, 
but  never  before  had  she  been  angry  with  him.  "  Arnold,  spare 
me  this  nonsense.  If  you  have  been  playing  with  this  shop-girl  I 
cannot  help  it;  and  I  beg  that  you  will  tell  me  no  more  about  it, 
and  do  not,  to  my  face,  speak  of  her  as  a  lady." 

"  I  have  not  been  playing  with  her,  I  think,"  said  Arnold 
gvsvely  ;  "  I  have  been  very  serious  with  her." 

Everybody  nowadays  is  a  young  lady.  The  girl  who  gives  you  a 
«up  of  tea  in  a  shop  ;  the  girl  who  dances  in  the  ballet  ;  the  girl 
'who  makes  your  dresses." 

"  In  that  case,  Clara,  you  need  not  mind  my  calling  Miss  Aglen  a 
young  lady." 


COUSIN  CLARA.  277 

"  There  is  one  word  left,  at  least :  women  of  my  class  are  gentle- 
women." 

"Miss  Aglen  is  a  gentlewoman." 

"  Arnold,  look  me  in  the  face.  My  dear  boy,  tell  me,  are  yon 
mad  ?  Oh,  think  of  my  poor  unhappy  Claude,  what  he  did,  and 
what  he  must  have  suffered  !" 

"  I  know  what  he  did.  I  do  not  know  what  he  suffered.  My 
case,  however,  is  different  from  his.     I  am  not  engaged  to  anyone." 

"  Arnold,  think  of  the  great  scheme  of  life  I  have  drawn  out  for 
you.     My  dear  boy,  would  you  throw  that  all  away  ?" 

She  laid  her  hands  upon  his  arm  and  looked  in  his  eyes  with  a 
pitiful  gaze.     He  took  her  hands  in  his. 

"  My  dear,  every  man  must  shape  his  life  for  himself,  or  must 
live  out  the  life  shaped  for  him  by  his  Fate,  not  by  his  friend-!. 
"What  if  I  see  a  life  more  delightful  to  me  than  that  of  which  yoa 
dream  ?" 

"You  talk  of  a  delightful  life,  Arnold ;  I  spoke  of  an  honourable 
career." 

"  Mine  will  be  a  life  of  quiet  work  and  love.  Yours,  Clara,  would 
be  one  of  noisy  and  troublesome  work  without  love." 

"Without  love,  Arnold?     You  are  infatuated  !" 

She  sank  into  the  chair,  and  buried  her  face  in  her  hands.  First, 
it  was  her  lover  who  had  deserted  her  for  the  sake  of  a  governess, 
the  daughter  of  some  London  tradesman  ;  and  now  her  adopted 
son,  almost  the  only  creature  she  loved,  for  whom  she  had  schemed 
and  thought  for  neai'ly  twenty  years,  was  ready  to  give  up  every- 
thing for  the  sake  of  another  governess,  also  connected  with  the 
lower  forms  of  commercial  interests. 

''  It  is  very  hard,  Arnold,"  she  said.  "  No,  don't  try  to  persuad j 
me.  I  am  getting  an  old  woman,  and  it  is  too  late  for  me  to  learu 
that  a  gentleman  caD  be  happy  unless  he  marries  a  lady.  You 
might  as  well  ask  me  to  look  for  happiness  with  a  grocer." 

"Not  quite,"  said  Arnold. 

"  It  is  exactly  the  same  thing.  Pray,  have  you  proposed  to  this 
— this  young  lady  of  the  second-hand  bookshop  ?" 

"  No,  I  have  not." 

"  You  are  in  love  with  her,  however  ?" 

"  I  am,  Clara." 

"  And  you  intend  to  ask  her — in  the  shop,  I  dare  say,  among  Ihe 
second-hand  books — to  become  your  wife  ?" 

"  That  is  my  serious  intention,  Clara." 

"Claude  did  the  same  tiling.  His  father  remonstrated  with  him 
in  vain.  He  took  his  wife  to  London,  where,  for  a  time,  he  lived 
in  misery  and  self-reproach." 

"  Do  you  know  that  he  reproached  himself  ?" 

"I  know  what  must  have  happened  when  he  found  out  his  mis- 
take. Then  he  went  to  America,  where  he  died,  no  doubt  in  despair, 
althouirh  his  father  had  fomiven  him." 


278  IN  LUCK  AT  LAST 

"  The  cases  are  hardly  parallel,"  said  Arnold.  "  Still,  will  yon 
permit  me  to  introduce  Miss  Aglen  to  you,  if  she  should  do  me  the 
honour  of  accepting  me  ?  Be  generous,  Clara.  Do  not  condemn 
the  poor  girl  without  seeing  her." 

li  I  condemn  no  one — I  judge  no  one,  not  even  you,  Arnold.  But 
I  will  not  receive  that  young  woman." 

"  Very  well,  Clara." 

"  How  shall  you  live,  Arnold  ?"  she  asked  coldly. 

It  was  the  finishing  stroke — the  dismissal. 

"  I  suppose  we  shall  not  marry  ;  but,  of  course,  I  am  talking  as 
if » 

"As  if  she  was  ready  to  jump  into  your  arms.  Go  on." 
"  We  shall  not  marry  until  I  have  made  some  kind  of  a  beginning 
in  my  work.  Clara,  let  us  have  no  further  explanation.  I  under- 
stand perfectly  well.  But,  my  dear  Clara,"  he  laid  his  arm  upon 
her  neck  and  kissed  her,  "  I  shall  not  let  you  quarrel  with  me.  I 
owe  you  too  much,  and  I  love  you  too  well.  I  am  always  your 
most  faithful  of  servants." 

"  No  ;  till  you  are  married — then ■     Oh,  Arnold  !  Arnold  !" 

A  less  strong-minded  woman  would  have  burst  into  tears.  Clara 
did  not.  She  got  into  her  carriage  and  drove  home.  She  spent  a 
miserable  evening  and  a  sleepless  night.    But  she  did  not  cry. 


VII. 

ON   BATTEr.SEA   TERRACE. 

If  a  woman  were  to  choose  any  period  of  her  life  which  she  pleased' 
for  indefinite  prolongation,  she  would  certainly  select  that  period 
which  lies  between  the  first  perception  of  the  first  symptoms — when 
she  begins  to  understand  that  a  man  has  begun  to  love  her — and  the 
day  when  he  tells  her  so. 

Yet  women  who  look  back  to  this  period  with  so  much  fondness 
and  regret  forget  their  little  tremors  and  misgivings — the  self-dis- 
trust, the  hopes  and  fears,  the  doubts  and  perplexities,  which  troubled 
this  time.  For  although  it  is  acknowledged,  and  has  been  taught 
by  all  philosophers  from  King  Lemuel  and  Lao-Kiun  downwards, 
that  no  greater  prize  can  be  gained  by  any  man  than  the  love  of  a 
good  woman,  which  is  better  than  a  Peerage — better  than  a  Bonanza 
mine — better  than  Name  and  Fame,  Kudos  and  the  newspaper  para- 
graph, and  is  arrived  at  by  much  less  exertion,  being  indeed  tbe 
special  gift  of  the  gods  to  those  they  love  ;  yet  all  women  perfectly 
understand  the  other  side  to  this  great  truth — namely,  that  no 
greater  happiness  can  fall  to  any  woman  than  the  love  of  a  good  man. 
So  that,  in  all  the  multitudinous  and  delightful  courtships  which 
go  on  around  us,  and  in  our  midst,  there  is,  on  both  sides,  both  with 
man  and  with  maid,  among  those  who  truly  reach  to  the  right  under- 


ON  BATTERSEA  TERRACE.  279 

standing  of  what  this  great  thing  may  mean,  a  continual  distrust  of 
self,  with  humility  and  anxiety.  And  when,  as  sometimes  happens, 
a  girl  has  been  brought  up  in  entire  ignorance  of  love,  so  that  the 
thought  of  it  has  never  entered  her  head,  the  thing  itself,  when  it 
falls  upon  her,  is  overwhelming,  and  enfolds  her  as  with  a  garment 
from  head  to  foot,  and,  except  to  her  lover,  she  becomes  as  a  sealed 
fountain.  I  know  not  how  long  this  season  of  expectation  would 
have  lasted  for  Iris,  but  for  Arnold's  conversation  with  his  cousin, 
which  persuaded  him  to  speak  and  bring  matters  to  a  final  issue. 
To  this  girl,  living  as  secluded  as  if  she  were  in  an  Oriental  Harem, 
who  had  never  thought  of  love  as  a  thing  possible  for  herself,  the 
consciousness  that  Arnold  loved  her  was  bewildering  and  astonishing; 
and  she  waited,  knowing  that  sooner  or  later  something  would  be 
said,  but  trembling  for  fear  that  it  should  be  said. 

After  all,  it  was  Lala  Roy,  and  not  Clara,  who  finally  determined 
Arnold  to  wait  no  longer. 

He  came  every  day  to  the  studio  with  Iris  when  sho  sit  for  her 
portrait.  This  was  in  the  afternoon.  But  he  now  got  into  the 
habit  of  coming  in  the  morning,  and  would  sit  in  silence  looking  on. 
He  came  partly  because  he  liked  the  young  man,  and  partly  because 
the  painter's  art  was  new  to  him,  and  it  amused  him  to  watch  a 
man  giving  his  whole  time  and  intellect  to  the  copying  of  faces  and 
things  in  canvas.  Also  he  was  well  aware  by  this  time  that  it  was 
not  to  see  Mr.  Emblem  or  himself  that  Arnold  spent  every  evening 
at  the  house,  and  he  was  amused  to  watch  the  progress  of  an  English 
courtship.  In  India,  we  know,  they  manage  matters  differently, 
and  so  as  to  give  the  bridegroom  no  more  trouble  than  is  necessary. 
This  young  man,  however,  took,  he  observed,  the  most  wonderful 
pains  and  the  most  extraordinary  trouble  to  please. 

"Do  you  know,  Lala  Roy,"  Arnold  said  one  morning,  after  a 
silence  of  three  hours  or  so,  "do  you  know  that  this  is  going  to  be 
the  portrait  of  the  most  beautiful  woman  in  the  world,  and  the  best  ?" 

" It  is  well,"  said  the  Philosopher,  "when  a  young  man  desires 
virtue  as  well  as  beauty." 

"You  have  known  her  all  her  life.  Don't  trouble  yourself  to 
speak,  Lala.  You  can  nod  your  head  if  there  isn't  a  maxim  ready. 
You  began  to  lodge  in  the  house  twenty  years  ago,  and  you  have 
seen  her  every  day  since.  If  she  is  not  the  best,  as  well  as  the  most 
beautiful  girl  in  the  world,  you  ought  to  know  and  can  contradict 
me.    But  you  do  know  it." 

"  Happy  is  the  man,"  said  the  Sage,  "  who  shall  call  her  wife  ; 
happy  the  children  who  shall  call  her  mother." 

"I  suppose,  Lala,"  Arnold  went  on  with  an  ingenuous  blush,  "I 
suppose  that  you  have  perceived  that — that — in  fact — I  love  her." 

The  Philosopher  inclined  his  head. 

"  Do  you  think — you  who  know  her  so  well — that  she  suspects  or 
knows  it  ?" 

"  The  thoughts  of  a  maiden  are  secret  thoughts.     As  well  may 


280  IN  L UCK  AT  LAST. 

one  search  for  the  beginnings  of  a  river  as  inquire  into  the  mind  of 
a  woman.  Their  ways  are  not  our  ways,  nor  are  their  thoughts 
ours,  nor  have  we  wit  to  understand,  nor  have  they  tongue  to  utter, 
the  things  they  think.     I  know  not  whether  she  suspects." 

"  Yet  you  have  had  experience,  Lala  Roy  ?" 

A  smile  stole  over  the  Sage's  features. 

"  In  the  old  days  when  I  was  young,  I  had  experience,  as  all  men 
have.  I  have  had  many  wives.  Yet  to  me,  as  to  all  others,  the 
thoughts  of  the  Harem  are  unknown." 

"Yet,  Iris — surely  you  know  the  thoughts  of  Iris,  your  pupil." 

"  I  know  only  that  her  heart  is  the  abode  of  goodness,  and  that 
she  knows  not  any  evil  thought.  Young  man,  beware.  Trouble 
not  the  clear  fountain." 

"  Heaven  knows,"  said  Arnold,  "  I  would  not "    And  here  he 

stopped. 

"  Youth,"  said  the  Sage  presently,  "  is  the  season  for  love.  Enjoy 
the  present  happiness.  Woman  is  made  to  be  loved.  Receive  with 
gratitude  what  Heaven  gives.  The  present  moment  is  your  own. 
Defer  not  until  the  evening  what  you  may  accomplish  at  noon." 

With  these  words  the  Oracle  became  silent,  and  Arnold  sat  down 
and  began  to  think  it  all  over  again. 

An  hour  later  he  presented  himself  at  the  house  in  the  King's 
Road.     Iris  was  alone,  and  she  was  playing. 

"  You,  Arnold  ?     It  is  early  for  you." 

"  Forgive  me,  Iris,  for  breaking  in  on  your  afternoon  ;  but  I 

thought — it  is  a  fine  afternoon — I  thought  that,  perhaps You 

have  never  taken  a  walk  with  me." 

She  blushed,  I  think  in  sympathy  with  Arnold,  who  looked 
confused  and  stammered,  and  then  she  said  she  would  go  with  him. 

They  left  the  King's  Road  by  the  Royal  Avenue,  where  the 
leaves  were  already  thin  and  yellow,  and  passed  through  the  Hospital 
and  its  broad  grounds  down  to  the  river-side  ;  then  they  turned  to 
the  right,  and  walked  along  the  Embankment,  where  are  the  great 
new  red  houses,  to  Cheyne  Walk,  and  so  across  the  Suspension 
Bridge.  Arnold  did  not  speak  one  word  the  whole  way.  His  heart 
was  so  full  that  he  could  not  trust  himself  to  speak.  Who  would 
not  be  four-and-twenty  again,  even  with  all  the  risks  and  dangers 
of  life  before  one,  the  set  traps,  the  gaping  holes,  and  the  treacherous 
quicksands,  if  it  were  only  to  feel  once  more  the  overwhelming 
spirit  of  the  mysterious  goddess  of  the  golden  cestus !  In  silence 
they  walked  side  by  side  over  the  bridge.  Half-way  across,  they 
stopped  and  looked  up  the  river.  The  tide  was  running  in  with  a 
swift  current,  and  the  broad  river  was  nearly  at  the  full  ;  the  strong 
September  sun  fell  upon  the  water,  which  was  broken  into  little 
waves  under  a  fresh  breeze  meeting  the  current  from  the  north-west. 
There  were  lighters  and  barges  majestically  creeping  up  stream, 
some  with  brown  three-cornered  sails  set  in  the  bows  and  stern, 
some  slowly  moving  with  the  tide,  their  bows  kept  steady  by  long 


ON  BATTERSEA  TERRACE.  281 

oars,  and  some  lashed  one  to  the  other,  forming  a  long  train,  and 
pulled  along  by  a  noisy  little  tug,  all  paddle-wheel  and  engine. 
There  was  a  sculler  vigorously  practising  for  his  next  race,  and 
dreaming,  perhaps,  of  sending  a  challenge  to  Hanlan  ;  there  were 
some  boys  in  a  rowing-boat,  laughing  and  splashing  each  other  ;  on 
the  north  bank  there  was  the  garden  of  the  Embankment,  with  its 
young  trees  still  green,  for  the  summer  lasted  into  late  September 
this  year,  and,  beyond,  the  red-brick  tower  of  the  old  Church,  with 
its  flagpost  on  the  top.  These  details  are  never  so  carefully  marked 
as  when  one  is  anxious,  and  fully  absorbed  in  things  of  great  im- 
portance. Perhaps  Arnold  had  crossed  the  bridge  a  hundred  times 
before,  but  to-day,  for  the  first  time,  he  noticed  the  common  things 
of  the  river.  One  may  be  an  artist,  and  yet  may  miss  the  treasures 
that  lie  at  the  very  feet.  This  is  a  remark  which  occurs  to  one  with 
each  new  Academy  Show.  With  every  tide  the  boats  go  up  and  down 
with  their  brown  sails,  and  always  the  tower  of  Chelsea  Church 
rises  above  the  trees,  and  the  broad  river  never  forgets  to  sparkle 
and  to  glow  in  the  sunshine  when  it  gets  the  chance.  Such  common 
things  are  for  the  most  part  unheeded,  but,  when  the  mind  is  anxious 
and  full,  they  force  themselves  upon  one.  Arnold  watched  boats 
and  river,  and  sunshine  on  the  sails,  with  a  strange  interest  and 
wonder,  as  one  sees  visions  in  a  dream.  He  had  seen  all  these  things 
before,  yet  now  he  noticed  them  for  the  first  time,  and  all  the  while 
he  was  thinking  what  he  should  say  to  Iris,  and  how  he  should 
approach  the  subject.  I  know  not  whether  Iris,  like  him,  saw  one 
thing  and  noticed  another.  The  thoughts  of  a  maiden,  as  Lala  Roy 
said,  are  secret  thoughts.  She  looked  upon  the  river  from  the  bridge 
with  Arnold.  When  he  turned,  she  turned  with  him,  and  neither 
spoke. 

They  left  the  bridge,  and  passed  through  the  wooden  gate  at  the 
Battersea  end  of  it,  and  across  the  corner  where  the  stone  columns 
lie,  like  an  imitation  of  Tadmor  in  the  Desert,  and  so  to  the  broad 
Terrace  overlooking  the  river. 

There  is  not,  anywhere,  a  more  beautiful  Terrace  than  this  of 
Battersea  Park,  especially  when  the  tide  is  high.  Before  it  lies  the 
splendid  river,  with  the  barges  which  Arnold  had  seen  from  the 
bridge.  They  are  broad,  and  flat,  and  sometimes  squat,  and  some- 
times black  with  coal,  and  sometimes  they  go  up  and  down  sideways, 
in  lubberly  Dutch  fashion,  but  they  are  always  picturesque  ;  and  be- 
yond the  river  is  the  Embankment,  with  its  young  trees,  which  will 
before  many  years  be  tall  and  stately  trees  ;  and  behind  the  trees 
are  the  new  red  palaces  ;  and  above  the  houses,  at  this  time  of  the 
year  and  day,  are  the  flying  clouds,  already  coloured  with  the  light 
of  the  sinking  sun.  Behind  the  Terrace  are  the  trees  and  lawns 
of  the  best-kept  Park  in  London. 

In  the  afternoon  of  a  late  September  day,  there  are  not  many  who 
walk  in  these  gardens.  Arnold  and  Iris  had  the  Terrace  almost  to 
themselves,  save  for  half-a-dozen  girls  with  children,  and  two  or 


282  IN  L  UCK  A  T  LA  ST. 

three  old  men  making  the  most  of  the  last  summer  they  were  ever 
likely  to  see,  though  it  would  have  been  cruel  to  tell  them  so. 

"  This  is  your  favourite  walk,  Iris,"  said  Arnold  at  last,  breaking 
the  silence. 

"  Yes  ;  I  come  here  very  often.  It  is  my  garden.  Sometimes  in 
the  winter,  and  when  the  east  wind  blows  up  the  river,  I  have  it  all 
to  myself." 

"  A  quiet  life,  Iris,"  he  said,  "  and  a- happy  life." 

"  Yes  ;  a  happy  life." 

"  Iris,  will  you  change  it  for  a  life  which  will  not  be  so  quiet  ?" 
He  took  her  hand,  but  she  made  no  reply.  "  I  must  tell  you,  Iris, 
because  I  cannot  keep  it  from  you  any  longer.  I  love  you ! — oh, 
my  dear,  I  cannot  tell  you  how  I  love  you." 

"  Oh,  Arnold  !"  she  whispered.  It  had  come — the  thing  she  feared 
to  hear  ! 

"May  I  go  on  ?  I  have  told  you  now  the  most  important  thing, 
and  the  rest  matters  little.     Oh,  Iris,  may  I  go  on  and  tell  you  all  ?" 

"  Go  on,"  she  said  ;  "  tell  me  all." 

"  As  for  telling  you  everything,"  he  said,  with  a  little  laugh, 
"  that  is  no  new  thing.  I  have  told  you  all  that  is  in  my  mind  for 
a  year  and  more.  It  seems  natural  that  I  should  tell  you  this  too, 
even  if  it  did  not  concern  you  at  all,  but  some  other  girl ;  though 
that  would  be  impossible.  I  love  you,  Iris  ;  I  love  you — I  should 
like  to  say  nothing  more.  But  I  must  tell  you  as  well  that  I  am 
quite  a  poor  man  ;  I  am  an  absolute  pauper  ;  I  have  nothing  at  all 
— no  money,  no  work,  nothing.  My  studio  and  all  must  go  back  to 
her  ;  and  yet,  Iris,  in  spite  of  this,  I  am  so  selfish  as  to  tell  you  that 
I  love  you.  I  would  give  you,  if  I  could,  the  most  delightful 
palace  in  the  world,  and  I  offer  you  a  share  in  the  uncertain  life 
of  an  artist,  who  does  not  know  whether  he  has  any  genius,  or 
whether  he  is  fit  even  to  be  called  an  artist." 

She  gave  him  her  hand  with  the  frankness  which  was  her  chief 
charm,  and  with  a  look  in  her  eyes  so  full  of  trust  and  truth  that  his 
heart  sank  within  him  for  very  fear  lest  he  should  prove  unworthy 
of  so  much  confidence. 

"  Oh,  Arnold,"  she  said,  "  I  think  that  I  have  loved  you  all  along, 
ever  since  you  began  to  write  to  me.  And  yet  I  never  thought  that 
love  would  come  to  me." 

He  led  her  into  that  bosky  grove  set  with  seats  convenient  for 
lovers,  which  lies  romantically  close  to  the  Italian  Kestaurant,  where 
they  sell  the  cocoa  and  the  gingor-beer.  There  was  no  one  in  the 
place  beside  themselves,  and  here,  among  the  falling  leaves,  and 
in  a  solitude  as  profound  as  on  the  top  of  a  Dartmoor  Tor,  Arnold 
told  the  story  of  his  love  again,  and  with  gi  eater  coherence,  and 
even  more  extravagance. 

"Oh,"  said  Iris  again,  "how  could  you  love  me,  Arnold — how 
could  you  love  any  girl  so  ?  It  is  a  shame,  Arnold  ;  we  are  not 
worth  so  much.     Could  any  woman,"  she  thought,  "  be  worth  the 


ON  BATTERSEA  TERRACE.  283 

wealth  of  passion  and  devotion  which  her  lover  poured  out  for 

her  ?" 

"My  tutor,"  he  went  on,  "  if  you  only  knew  what  things  you  have 
taught  me,  a  man  of  experience  !  If  I  admired  you  when  I  thought 
you  must  be  a  man,  and  pictured  an  old  scholar  full  of  books  and 
wisdom,  what  could  I  do  when  I  found  that  a  young  girl  had  written 
those  letters  ?  You  gave  mine  back  to  me  ;  did  you  think  that  I 
would  ever  part  with  yours  ?  And  you  owned— oh,  Iris,  what  would 
not  the  finished  woman  of  the  world  give  to  have  the  secret  of 
your  power  ? — you  owned  that  you  knew  all  my  letters,  every  one, 
by  heart.  And  after  all,  you  will  love  me,  your  disciple  and  pupil, 
and  a  man  who  has  his  way  to  make  from  the  very  beginning  and 
first  round  of  the  ladder.  Think,  Iris,  first.  Is  it  right  to  throw 
away  so  much  upon  a  man  who  is  worth  so  little  ?" 

"  But  I  am  glad  that  you  are  poor.  If  you  were  rich,  I  should 
have  been  afraid — oh,  not  of  you,  Arnold — never  of  you,  but  of 
your  people.  And,  besides,  it  is  so  good — oh,  so  very  good — for 
a  young  man — a  young  man  of  the  best  kind,  not  my  cousin's 
kind — to  be  poor.  Nobody  ought  ever  to  be  allowed  to  become 
rich  before  he  is  fifty  years  of  age  at  the  very  least ;  because  now 
you  will  have  to  work  in  earnest,  and  you  will  become  a  great 
artist — yes,  a  truly  great  artist,  and  we  shall  be  proud  of  you." 

"You  shall  make  of  me  what  you  please,  and  what  you  can. 
For  your  sake,  Iris,  I  wish  I  were  another  Raphael.  You  are  my 
mistress  and  my  queen.  Bid  me  to  die,  and  I  will  dare — Iris,  I 
swear  that  the  words  of  the  extravagant  old  song  are  real  to  me." 

"  Nay,"  she  said,  "  not  your  Queen,  but  your  servant  always. 
Surely  love  cannot  command.  But,  I  think,"  she  added  softly, 
with  a  tender  blush — "  I  think— nay,  I  am  sure  and  certain  that  it 
can  obey." 

He  stooped  and  kissed  her  fingers. 

"  My  love  !"  he  murmured  ;  "  my  love — my  love  !" 

The  shadows  lengthened,  and  the  evening  fell  ;  but  those  two 
foolish  people  sat  side  by  side,  and  hand  in  hand,  and  what  they 
said  further  we  need  not  write  down,  because  to  tell  too  much  of 
what  young  lovers  whisper  to  each  other  is  a  kind  of  sacrilege. 

At  last  Arnold  became  aware  that  the  sun  was  actually  set,  and 
he  sprang  to  his  feet. 

They  walked  home  again  across  the  Suspension  Bridge.  In  the 
western  sky  was  hanging  a  huge  bank  of  cloud  all  bathed  in  purple, 
red,  and  gold  ;  the  river  was  ablaze  ;  the  barges  floated  in  a  golden 
haze  ;  the  light  shone  on  their  faces,  and  made  them  all  glorious, 
like  the  face  of  Moses,  for  they,  too,  had  stood— nay,  they  were 
still  standing — at  the  very  gates  of  Heaven. 

"  See,  Iris,"  said  the  happy  lover,  "  the  day  is  done  ;  your  old 
life  is  finished  ;  it  has  been  a  happy  time,  and  it  sets  in  glory  and 
splendour.  The  red  light  in  the  west  is  a  happy  omen  of  the  day 
to  come." 


284  IN  L VCK  AT  LAST. 

So  he  took  her  by  the  hand  and  led  her  over  the  river,  and  then 
to  his  own  studio  in  Tite  Street.  There,  in  the  solemn  twilight,  he 
held  her  in  his  arms,  and  renewed  the  vows  of  love  with  kisses  and 
fond  caresses. 

"  Iris,  my  dear — my  dear — you  are  mine  and  I  am  yours.  What 
have  I  done  to  deserve  this  happy  fate  ?" 


VIII. 

THE    DISCOVERY. 

At  nine  o'clock  that  evening  Mr.  Emblem  looked  up  from  the 
chess-board. 

"  Where  is  Mr.  Arbuthnot  this  evening,  my  dear  ?"  he  asked. 

It  would  be  significant  in  some  houses  when  a  young  man  is  ex- 
pected every  evening.  Iris  blushed,  and  said  that  perhaps  he  was 
not  coming.  But  be  was,  and  his  step  was  on  the  stair  as  she 
spoke. 

"  You  are  late,  Mr.  Arbuthnot,"  said  Mr.  Emblem  reproachfully; 
"you  are  late,  sir,  and  somehow  we  get  no  music  now  until  you 
come.     Play  us  something,  Iris.     It  is  my  move,  Lala " 

Iris  opened  the  piano,  and  Arnold  sat  down  beside  her,  and 
their  eyes  met.  There  was  in  each  the  consciousness  of  what  had 
passed. 

"I  shall  speak  to  him  to-night,  Iris,"  Arnold  whispered.  "I 
have  already  written  to  my  cousin.  Do  not  be  hurt  if  she  does 
not  call  upon  you." 

"  Nothing  of  that  sort  will  hurt  me,"  Iris  said,  being  ignorant  of 
social  ways,  and  without  the  least  ambition  to  rise  in  the  world. 
"If  your  cousin  does  not  call  upon  me,  I  shall  not  be  disappointed. 
Why  should  she  want  to  know  me  ?  But  I  am  sorry,  Arnold,  that 
she  is  angry  with  you." 

Lala  Roy  just  then  found  himself  in  presence  of  a  most  beauti- 
ful problem — white  to  move  and  checkmate  in  three  moves.  Mr. 
Emblem  found  the  meshes  of  fate  closing  round  him  earlier  than 
usual,  and  both  bent  their  heads  closely  over  the  table. 

"  Checkmate  !"  said  Lala  Roy.  "  My  friend,  you  have  played 
badly  this  evening." 

"  I  have  played  badly,"  Mr.  Emblem  replied,  "  because  to-morrow 
will  be  an  important  day  for  Iris,  and  for  myself — a  day,  Iris,  that 
I  have  been  looking  forward  to  for  eighteen  years,  ever  since  I  got 
your  father's  last  letter,  written  upon  his  death-bed.  It  seems  a 
long  time,  but,  like  a  lifetime,"  said  the  old  man  of  seventy-five, 
'•  it  is  as  nothing  when  it  is  gone.  Eighteen  years — and  you  were 
a  little  thing  of  three,  child  !" 

"  What  is  going  to  happen  to  me,  grandfather,  except  that  I 
shall  be  twenty-one  ?" 


THE  DISCOVERY.  285 

"  We  shall  see  to-morrow.     Patience,  my  dear — patience  !" 

He  spread  out  his  hands  and  laughed.  What  was  going  to 
happen  to  himself  was  a  small  thing  compared  with  the  restoration 
ot  Iris  to  her  own. 

"  Mr.  Emblem,"  said  Arnold,  "  I  also  have  something  of  import- 
ance to  say." 

"  You,  too,  Mr.  Arbuthnot  ?  Cannot  yours  wait  also  until  to- 
morrow ?" 

"  No  ;  it  is  too  important.     It  cannot  wait  an  hour." 

"Well,  sir" — Mr.  Emblem  pushed  up  his  spectacles  and  leaned 
bad:  in  his  chair — "  well,  Mr.  Arbuthnot,  let  us  have  it." 

"I  think  you  may  guess  what  I  have  to  say,  Mr.  Emblem.  I  am 
sure  that  Lala  Roy  has  already  guessed  it." 

The  Philosopher  inclined  his  head  in  assent. 

"It  is  that  I  have  this  afternoon  asked  Iris  to  marry  me,  Mr. 
Emblem  ;  and  she  has  consented." 

"  Have  you  consented,  Iris,  my  dear  ?"  said  her  grandfather. 

She  placed  her  hand  in  Arnold's  for  reply. 

"  Do  you  think  you  know  him  well  enough,  my  dear  ?"  Mr. 
Emblem  asked  gravely,  looking  at  her  lover.  "  Marriage  is  a 
serious  thing  ;  it  is  a  partnership  for  life.  Children,  think  well 
before  you  venture  on  the  happiness  or  ruin  of  your  whole  lives. 
And  you  are  so  young.  What  a  pity — what  a  thousand  pities — 
that  people  were  not  ordained  to  marry  at  seventy  or  so  !" 

"  We  have  thought  well,"  said  Arnold.     "Iris  has  faith  in  me." 

"  Then,  young  man,  I  have  nothing  to  say.  Iris  will  marry  to 
please  herself  ;  and  I  pray  that  she  may  be  happy.  As  for  you,  I 
ike  your  face  and  your  manners  ;  but  I  do  not  know  who  you  are, 
nor  what  your  means  may  be.  Remember  that  I  am  poor  ;  I  am 
so  poor— I  can  tell  you  all  now — that  to-morrow  we  shall — well, 
patience — to-morrow  I  shall  most  likely  have  my  very  stock  seized 
and  sold." 

"Your  stock  sold?  Oh,  grandfather!"  cried  Iris;  "and  you 
did  not  tell  me  !     And  I  have  been  so  happy  !" 

"  Friend,"  said  Lala,  "  was  it  well  to  hide  this  from  me  ?'' 

"  Foolish  people,"  Mr.  Emblem  went  on,  "  have  spread  reports 
that  I  am  rich,  and  have  saved  money  for  Iris.  It  is  not  true, 
Mr.  Arbuthnot.  I  am  not  rich.  Iris  will  come  to  you  empty- 
handed." 

"And  as  for  me,  I  have  nothing,"  said  Arnold,  "except  a  pair  of 
hands  and  all  the  time  there  is.  So  we  have  all  to  gain  and  nothing 
to  lose." 

"You  have  your  prof  ession,"  said  Iris,  "and  I  have  mine.  Grand- 
father, do  not  fear,  even  though  we  shall  all  four  become  poor 
together." 

It  seemed  natural  to  include  Lala  Roy,  who  had  been  included 
with  them  for  twenty  years. 

"  As  for  Iris  being  empty-handed,"  said  Arnold,  "  how  can  that 


286  IN  L UCK  AT  LAST. 

ever  be  ?  Why,  she  carries  in  her  hands  an  inexhaustible  cornu- 
copia,  full  of  precious  things." 

"My  dear,"  said  the  old  man,  holding  out  his  arms  to  her,  "I 
could  not  keep  you  always.  Some  day  I  knew  you  would  leave  me  ; 
it  is  well  that  you  should  leave  me  when  I  am  no  longer  able  to 
keep  a  roof  over  your  head." 

"  But  we  shall  find  a  roof  for  you,  grandfather,  somewhere.  We 
shall  never  part." 

"  The  best  of  girls  always,"  said  Mr.  Emblem  ;  "  the  best  of  girls. 
Mr.  Arbuthnot,  you  are  a  happy  man." 

Then  the  Sage  lifted  up  his  voice  and  said  solemnly : 

"  On  her  tongue  dwelleth  music  ;  the  sweetness  of  honey  floweth 
from  her  lips  ;  humility  is  like  a  crown  of  glory  about  her  head  ; 
her  eye  speaketh  softness  and  love  ;  her  husband  putteth  his  heart 
in  her  bosom  and  findeth  joy." 

"  Oh,  you  are  all  too  good  to  me,"  murmured  Iris. 

"A  friend  of  mine,"  said  Mr.  Emblem,  "now,  like  nearly  all  my 
friends,  beneath  the  sod,  used  to  say  that  a  good  marriage  was  a 
happy  blending  of  the  finest  Wallsend  with  the  most  delicate  Silk- 
stone.  But  he  was  in  the  coal  trade.  For  my  own  part,  I  have 
always  thought  that  it  is  like  the  binding  of  two  scarce  volumes 
into  one." 

"  Oh,  not  second-hand  volumes,  grandfather  !"  said  Iri=. 

"I  don't  know.  Certainly  not  new  ones.  Not  volumes  under 
one-and-twenty,  if  you  please.  Mr.  Arbuthnot,  I  am  glad  ;  you 
will  know  why  very  soon.  I  am  very  glad  that  Iris  made  her  choice 
before  her  twenty-first  birthday.  Whatever  may  happen  now,  no 
o-ne  can  say  that  either  of  you  were  influenced  by  any  expectations. 
You  both  think  yourselves  paupers  ;  well,  I  say  nothing,  because  I 
know  nothing.  But,  children,  if  a  great  thing  happen  to  you,  and 
that  before  four-and-twenty  hours  have  passed,  be  prepared — be 
prepared,  I  say — to  receive  it  with  moderate  rejoicing." 

"To-morrow?"  Iris  asked.  "Why  to-morrow?  Why  not  to- 
night, if  you  have  a  secret  to  tell  us  ?" 

"Your  father  enjoined  in  his  last  letter  to  wait  till  you  were 
twenty-one.  The  eve  of  your  birthday,  however,  is  the  same  thing 
as  your  birthday.  We  will  open  the  papers  to-night.  What  I  have 
to  tell  you,  Iris,  shall  be  told  in  the  presence  of  your  lover,  whatever 
it  is — good  or  bad." 

He  led  the  way  downstairs  into  the  back-shop.  Here  he  lit  the 
gas,  and  began  to  open  his  case,  slowly  and  cautiously. 

" Eighteen  years  ago,  Iris,  my  child,  I  received  your  f  athcrs  last 
letter,  written  on  his  death-bed.  This  I  have  already  told  you.  He 
set  down,  in  that  letter,  several  things  which  surprised  me  very 
much.  We  shall  come  to  these  things  presently.  He  also  laid  down 
certain  instructions  for  your  bringing  up,  my  dear.  I  was,  first  of 
all  to  give  you  as  good  an  education  as  I  could  afford  ;  I  was  to 
keep  you  as  much  as  possible  separated  from  companions  who  might 


THE  DISCOVERY.  287 

not  be  thought  afterwards  fit  to  be  the  friends  of  a  young  lady. 
You  have  had  as  good  an  education  as  Lala  Roy  and  I  could  devise 
between  us.  From  him  you  have  learned  mathematics,  so  as  to 
steady  your  mind  and  make  you  exact ;  and  you  have  learned  the 
science  of  Heraldry  from  me,  so  that  you  may  at  once  step  into 
your  own  place  in  the  polite  world,  where,  no  doubt,  it  is  a  familiar 
and  a  necessary  study.  You  have  also  learned  music,  because  that 
is  an  accomplishment  which  everyone  should  possess.  What  more 
can  any  girl  want  for  any  station  ?  My  dear,  I  am  happy  to  think 
that  a  gentleman  is  your  lover.  Let  him  tell  us,  now — Lala  Boy 
and  me — to  our  very  faces,  if  he  thinks  we  have,  between  us,  made 
you  a  lady." 

Arnold  stooped  and  kissed  her  hand. 

"There  is  no  more  perfect  lady,"  he  said,  "in  all  the  land." 
"  Iris's  father,  Mr.  Arbuthnot,  was  a  gentleman  of  honourable  and 
ancient  family,  and  I  will  tell  you,  presently,  as  soon  as  I  find  it  out 
myself,  his  real  name.    As  for  his  coat-of-arms,  he  bore  Quarterly, 
first  and  fourth,  two  roses  and  a  boar's  head  erect ;  second  and  third, 
gules  and  f esse  between — strange,  now,  that  I  have  forgotten  what 
it  was  between.    Everybody  calls  himself  a  gentleman  nowadays  ; 
even  Mr.  Chalker,  who  is  going  to  sell  me  up,  I  suppose  ;  but  every- 
body, if  you  please,  is  not  armiger.     Iris,  your  father  was  armiger. 
I  suppose  I  am  a  gentleman  on  Sundays,  when  I  go  to  church  with 
Iris,  and  wear  a  black  coat.     But  your  father,  my  dear,  though  he 
married  my  daughter,  was  a  gentleman  by  birth.     And  one  who 
knows  Heraldry  respects  a  gentleman  by  birth."     He  laid  his  hand 
now  on  the  handle  of  the  safe,  as  if  the  time  were  nearly  come  for 
opening  it,  but  not  quite.     "  He  sent  me,  with  this  last  letter,  a 
small  parcel  for  you,  my  dear,  not  to  be  opened  until  you  reached 
the  age  of  twenty-one.    As  for  the  person  who  had  succeeded  to  his 
inheritance,  she  was  to  be  left  in  peaceable  possession  for  a  reason 
which  he  gave — quite  a  romantic  story,  which  I  will  tell  you  pre- 
sently— until  you  came  of  age.     He  was  very  urgent  on  this  point. 
If,  however,  any  disaster  of  sickness  or  misfortune  fell  upon  me,  I 
was  to  act  in  your  interests  at  once,  without  waiting  for  time. 
Children,"  the  old  man  added  solemnly,  "  by  the  blessing  of  Heaven 
—I  cannot  take  it  as  anything  less — I  have  been  spared  in  health 
and  fortune  until  this  day.     Now  let  me  depart  in  peace,  for  my 
trust  is  expired,  and  my  child  is  safe,  her  inheritance  secured,  with 
a  younger  and  a  better  protector."     He  placed  the  key  in  the  door 
of  the  safe.     "I  do  not  know,  mind,"  he  said,  still  hesitating  to  take 
the  final  step — "  I  do  not  know  the  nature  of  the  inheritance ;  it 
may  be  little  or  may  be  great.     The  letter  does  not  inform  me  on 
this  point.     I  do  not  even  know  the  name  of  the  testator,  my  son- 
in-law's  father.    Nor  do  I  know  the  name  of  my  daughter's  husband. 
I  do  not  even  know  your  true  name,  Iris,  my  child.     But  it  is  not 
Aglen." 

"  Then,  have  I  been  going  under  a  false  name  all  my  life  ?" 


288  IN  L UCK  AT  LAST. 

"  It  was  the  name  your  father  chose  to  bear  for  reasons  which 
6eemed  good  and  sufficient  to  him,  and  these  are  part  of  the  story 
which  I  shall  have  to  tell  you.  Will  you  have  this  story  first, 
or  shall  we  first  open  the  safe  and  read  the  contents  of  the 
parcel  ?" 

"  First,"  said  Arnold,  "  let  us  sit  down  and  look  in  each  other's 
faces." 

It  was  a  practical  suggestion,  But,  as  it  proved,  it  was  an  un- 
lucky one,  because  it  deprived  them  of  the  story. 

"  Iris,"  he  said,  while  they  waited,  "  this  is  truly  wonderful !" 

"  Oh,  Arnold  !     What  am  I  to  do  with  an  inheritance  ?" 

"  That  depends  on  what  it  is.  Perhaps  it  is  a  landed  estate  ;  in 
which  case  we  shall  not  be  much  better  off,  and  can  go  on  with  our 
work  ;  perhaps  there  will  be  houses  ;  perhaps  it  will  be  thousands 
of  pounds,  and  perhaps  hundreds.  Shall  we  build  a  castle  in  the 
air  to  suit  our  inheritance  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  let  us  pretend.  Oh,  grandfather,  stop  one  moment ! 
Our  castle,  Arnold,  shall  be,  first  of  all,  the  most  beautiful  studio 
in  the  world  for  you.  You  shall  have  tapestry,  blue  china,  armour, 
lovely  glass,  soft  carpets,  carved  doors  and  painted  panels,  a  tall 
mantelshelf,  old  wooden  cabinets,  silver  cups,  and  everything  else 
that  you  ought  to  like,  and  you  shall  choose  everything  for  your- 
self, and  never  get  tired  of  it.  But  you  must  go  on  painting  ;  you 
must  never  stop  working,  because  we  must  be  proud  of  you  as 
well.  Oh,  but  I  have  not  done  yet.  My  grandfather  is  to  have 
two  rooms  for  himself,  which  he  can  fill  with  the  books  he 
will  spend  his  time  in  collecting  ;  Lala  Roy  will  have  two  more 
rooms,  quite  separate,  where  he  can  sit  by  himself  whenever  he 
does  not  choose  to  sit  with  me ;  I  shall  have  my  own  study  to  my- 
self, where  I  shall  go  on  reading  mathematics;  and  we  shall  all  have, 
between  us,  the  most  beautiful  dining-room  and  drawing-room  that 
you  ever  saw  ;  and  a  garden  and  a  fountain  ;  and — yes — money  to 
give  to  people  who  are  not  so  fortunate  as  ourselves.  Will  that  do, 
Arnold  ?" 

"Yes,  but  you  have  almost  forgotten  yourself,  dear.  There 
must  be  carriages  for  you,  and  jewels,  and  dainty  things  all  your 
own,  and  a  boudoir,  and  nobody  shall  think  of  doing  or  saying 
anything  in  the  house  at  all,  except  for  your  pleasure  ;  will  that 
do,  Iris  ?" 

"  I  suppose  we  shall  have  to  give  parties  of  some  kind,  and  to  go 
to  them.  Perhaps  one  may  get  to  like  society.  You  will  teach 
me  lawn-tennis,  Arnold  ;  and  I  should  like,  I  think,  to  learn 
dancing.  I  suppose  I  must  leave  off  making  my  own  dresses, 
though  I  know  that  I  shall  never  be  so  well  dressed  if  I  do.  And 
about  the  cakes  and  puddings— but,  oh,  there  is  enough  pre- 
tending." 

"  It  is  difficult,"  said  Lala  Roy,  "  to  bear  adversity.  But  to  be 
temperate  in  prosperity  is  the  height  of  wisdom." 


THE  DISCOVERY  289 

"And  now  suppose,  Iris,"  said  Arnold,  "that  the  inheritance, 
instead  of  being  thousands  a  year,  is  only  a  few  hundreds." 

"Ah,  then,  Arnold,  it  will  be  ever  so  much  simpler.  We  shall 
have  something  to  live  upon  until  you  begin  to  make  money  for  us 
all." 

"  Yes  ;  that  is  very  simple.  But  suppose,  again,  that  the  inherit 
ance  is  nothing  but  a  small  sum  of  money." 

"Why,  then,"  said  Iris,  "  we  will  give  it  all  to  grandfather,  who 
will  pay  off  his  creditor,  and  we  will  go  on  as  if  nothing  had 
happened." 

"  Child  !"  said  Mr.  Emblem,  "  do  you  think  that  I  would  take 
your  little  all?" 

"  And  suppose,  again,"  Arnold  went  on,  "  that  the  inheritance 
turns  out  a  delusion,  and  that  there  is  nothing  at  all." 

"  That  cannot  be  supposed,"  said  Mr.  Emblem  quickly  ;  "  that  is 
absurd  !" 

•'  If  it  were,"  said  Iris,  "  we  shall  only  be,  to-morrow,  just  exactly 
what  we  are  to-day.  I  am  a  teacher  by  correspondence,  with  five 
pupils.  Arnold  is  looking  for  art-work  which  will  pay  ;  and  be- 
tween us,  my  dear  grandfather  and  Lala  Roy,  we  are  going  to  see 
that  you  want  nothing." 

Always  Lala  Roy  with  her  grandfather,  as  if  their  interests  were 
identical,  and,  indeed,  he  had  lived  so  long  with  them  that  Iris 
could  not  separate  the  two  old  men. 

"  We  will  all  live  together,"  Iris  continued,  "  and  when  our 
fortune  is  made  we  will  all  live  in  a  palace.  And  now,  grand- 
father, that  we  have  relieved  our  feelings,  shall  we  have  the  story 
and  the  opening  of  the  papers  in  the  safe  ?" 

"  Which  will  you  have  first  ?"  Mr.  Emblem  asked  again. 

"  Oh,  the  safe,"  said  Arnold.  "  The  story  can  wait.  Let  us 
examine  the  contents  of  the  safe." 

"  The  story,"  said  Mr.  Emblem,  "  is  nearly  all  told  in  your 
father's  letter,  my  dear.  But  there  is  a  little  that  I  would  tell  you 
first,  before  I  read  that  letter.  You  know,  Iris,  that  I  have  never 
been  rich  ;  my  shop  has  kept  me  up  till  now,  but  I  have  never  been 
able  to  put  by  money  Well — my  daughter  Alice,  your  poor 
mother,  my  dear,  who  was  as  good  and  clever  as  you  are,  was  deter- 
mined to  earn  her  own  living,  and  so  she  went  out  as  a  governess. 
And  one  day  she  came  home  with  her  husband  ;  she  had  been  mar- 
ried the  day  before,  and  she  told  me  that  they  had  very  little 
money,  and  her  husband  was  a  scholar  and  a  gentleman,  and  wanted 
to  get  work  by  writing.  He  got  some,  but  not  enough,  and  they 
were  always  in  a  poor  way,  until  one  day  he  got  a  letter  from 
America — it  was  while  the  Civil  War  was  raging — from  an  old 
Oxford  friend,  inviting  him  to  emigrate  and  try  his  fortune  as  a 
journalist  out  there.  He  went,  and  his  wife  was  to  join  him. 
But  she  died,  my  dear  ;  your  mother  died,  and  a  year  later  I  had 
your  father's  last  letter,  which  I  am  now  going  to  1  ead  to  you." 

19 


290  Il\  LUCK  AT  LAST. 

"One  moment,  sir,"  said  Arnold.  "Before  you  open  the  safe 
and  take  out  the  papers,  remember  that  Iris  and  I  can  take  nothing 
— nothing  at  all  for  ourselves  until  all  your  troubles  are  tided  over." 

"  Children— children  !"  cried  Mr.  Emblem. 

"  Go,  my  son,  to  the  Desert,"  observed  the  Sage,  standing  solemnly 
upright  like  a  Prophet  of  Israel.  "  Observe  the  young  stork  of  the 
■wild  em  ess,  how  he  beareth  on  his  wings  his  aged  sire  and  supplieth 
him  with  food.  The  piety  of  a  child  is  sweeter  than  the  incense  of 
Persia  offered  to  the  sun  ;  yea,  more  delicious  is  it  than  the  odours 
from  a  field  of  Arabian  spice." 

"  Thank  you,  Lala,"  said  Mr.  Ei  jblem.  "  And  now,  children,  we 
will  discover  the  mystery." 

He  unlocked  the  safe,  and  threw  it  open  with  somewhat  of  a  thea- 
trical air.  "  The  roll  of  papers."  He  took  it  out.  "  '  For  Iris,  to 
be  opened  on  her  twenty-first  birthday.'  And  this  is  the  eve  of  it. 
But  where  is  the  letter  ?  I  tied  the  letter  round  it,  with  a  piece  of 
tape.  Very  strange.  I  am  sure  I  tied  the  letter  with  a  piece  of 
tape.     Perhaps  it  was Where  is  the  letter  ?" 

He  peered  about  in  the  safe  ;  there  was  nothing  else  in  it  except 
a  few  old  account-books  ;  but  he  could  not  find  the  letter  !  Where 
could  it  be  ? 

"  I  remember,"  he  said — "  most  distinctly  I  remember  tying  up 
the  letter  with  the  parcel.     Where  can  it  be  gone  to  ?" 

A  feeling  of  trouble  to  come  seized  him.  He  was  perfectly  sure 
he  had  tied  up  the  letter  with  the  parcel,  and  here  was  the  parcel 
without  the  letter,  and  no  one  had  opened  the  safe  except  himself. 

"  Never  mind  about  the  letter,  grandfather,"  said  Iris  ;  "  we  shall 
find  that  afterwards." 

"Well,  then,  let  us  open  the  parcel." 

It  was  a  packet  about  the  size  of  a  crown-octavo  volume,  in 
brown  paper,  carefully  fastened  up  with  gum,  and  on  the  face  of  it 
was  a  white  label  inscribed,  "  For  Iris,  to  be  opened  on  her  twenty- 
first  birthday."  Everybody  in  turn  took  it,  weighed  it,  so  to  speak, 
looked  at  it  curiously,  and  read  the  legend.  Then  they  returned  it 
to  Mr.  Emblem,  who  laid  it  before  him  and  produced  a  penknife. 
With  this,  as  carefully  and  solemnly  as  if  he  were  offering  up  a 
sacrifice  or  performing  a  religious  function,  he  cut  the  parcel  straight 
througn. 

"After  eighteen  years,"  he  said;  "after  eight  ecu  years.  Tho 
ink  will  be  faded  and  the  papers  yellow.  But  we  shall  see  the 
certificates  of  the  marriage  and  of  your  baptism,  Iris  ;  there  will 
also  be  letters  to  different  people,  and  a  true  account  of  tho  rupturo 
with  his  father,  and  the  cause,  of  which  his  Jetter  spoke.  And  of 
course  we  shall  find  out  what  was  his  real  name  and  what  is  the 
kind  of  inheritance  which  has  been  waiting  for  you  so  long,  my 
dear.     Now  then." 

The  covering  in  case  of  the  packet  was  a  kind  of  stiff  cardboard 
or  millboard,  within  brown  paper.     Mr.  Emblem  laid  it  opeu.     It 


THE  DISCOVERY  291 

was  full  of  folded  papers.  He  took  up  the  first  and  opened  it. 
The  paper  was  blank.  The  next,  it  was  blank  ;  the  third,  it  was 
blank  ;  the  fourth,  and  fifth,  and  sixth,  and  so  on  throughout.  The 
case,  which  had  been  waiting  so  long,  waiting  for  eighteen  years,  to 
be  opened  on  Iris's  twenty-first  birthday,  was  full  of  blank  papers. 
They  were  all  half -sheets  of  note-paper. 

Mr.  Emblem  looked  surprised  at  the  first  two  Or  three  papers  ; 
then  he  turned  pale  ;  then  he  rushed  at  the  rest.  When  he  had 
opened  all,  he  stared  about  him  with  bewilderment. 

"  Where  is  the  letter  ?"  he  asked  again.  Then  he  began  with 
trembling  hands  to  tear  out  the  contents  of  the  safe  and  spread 
them  upon  the  table.     The  letter  was  nowhere. 

"I  am  certain,"  he  said,  for  the  tenth  time,  "  I  am  quite  certain 
that  I  tied  up  the  letter  with  red  tape,  outside  the  packet.  And  no 
one  has  been  at  the  safe  except  me." 

"  Tell  us,"  said  Arnold,  "  the  contents  of  the  letter  as  well  as  you 
remember  them.  Your  son-in-law  was  known  to  you  under  the 
name  of  Aglen,  which  was  not  his  real  name.  Did  he  tell  you  his 
real  name  ?" 

"No." 

"  What  did  he  tell  you  ?    Do  you  remember  the  letter  ?" 

"I  remember  every  word  of  the  letter." 

"  If  you  dictate  it,  I  will  write  it  down.  That  may  be  a 
help." 

Mr.  Emblem  began  quickly,  and  as  if  he  was  afraid  of  forgetting: 

"  '  "When  you  read  these  lines,  I  shall  be  in  the  Silent  Land, 
whither  Alice,  my  wife,  has  gone  before  me." 

Then  Mr.  Emblem  began  to  stammer. 

"  '  In  one  small  thing  we  deceived  you,  Alice  and  I.  My  name  is 
not  Aglen' — is  not  Aglen " 

And  here  a  strange  thing  happened!  His  memory  failed  him  at 
this  point. 

"  Take  time,"  said  Arnold  ;  "  there  is  no  hurry." 

Mr.  Emblem  shook  his  head. 

"  I  shall  remember  the  rest  to-morrow,  perhaps,"  he  said. 

"  Is  there  anything  else  you  have  to  help  us  ?"  asked  Arnold  ; 
"  never  mind  the  letter,  Mr.  Emblem.  No  doubt  that  will  come 
back  presently.  You  see  we  want  to  find  out,  first,  who  Iris's  father 
really  was,  and  what  is  her  real  name.  There  was  his  coat-of-arms. 
That  will  connect  her  with  some  family,  though  it  may  be  a  family 
with  many  branches." 

"  Yes — oh  yes  !  his  coat-of-arms.  I  have  seen  his  signet-ring  a 
dozen  times.  Yes,  his  coat  ;  yes,  first  and  fourth,  two  roses  and  a 
boar's  head  erect  ;  second  and  third — I  forget." 

"  Humph  !  Was  there  anyone  who  knew  him  before  he  was 
married  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes,"  Mr.  Emblem  sat  up  eagerly.  "  Yes,  there  is— there 
jis  ;  he  is  my  oldest  customer.     But  I  forget  his  name.     I  have  for- 


292  IN  L  UCK  AT  LA  ST. 

gotten  everything.  Perhaps  I  shall  get  back  my  memory  to-morrow. 
But  I  am  old.     Perhaps  it  will  never  get  back." 

He  leaned  his  head  upon  his  hands,  aud  stared  about  him  with 
bewildered  eyes. 

"  I  do  not  know,  young  man,"  he  said  presently,  addressing 
Arnold,  "  who  you  are.  If  you  come  from  Mr.  Chalker,  let  me  tell 
you  it  is  a  day  too  soon.  To-morrow  we  will  speak  of  business." 
Then  he  sprang  to  his  feet  suddenly,  struck  with  a  thought  which 
pierced  him  like  a  dagger.  "  To-morrow  !  It  is  the  day  when  they 
will  come  to  sell  me  up.  Oh,  Iris  !  what  did  that  matter  when  you 
were  safe  ?     Now  we  are  all  paupers  together — all  paupers." 

He  fell  back  in  his  chair  white  and  trembling.  Iris  soothed  him; 
kissed  his  cheek  and  pressed  his  hand  ;  but  the  terror  and  despair 
of  bankruptcy  were  upon  him.  This  is  an  awful  spectre,  which  is 
ever  ready  to  appear  before  the  man  who  has  embarked  his  all  in 
one  venture.  A  disastrous  season,  two  or  three  unlucky  ventures, 
a  succession  of  bad  debts,  and  the  grisly  spectre  stands  before  them. 
He  had  no  terror  for  the  old  man  so  long  as  he  thought  that  Iris 
was  safe.     But  now 

"Idle  talk,  Iris — idle  talk,  child,"  he  said,  when  they  tried  to 
comfort  him.  "  How  can  a  girl  make  money  by  teaching  ?  Idle 
talk,  young  man.  How  can  money  be  made  by  painting  ?  It's  as 
bad  a  trade  as  writing.  How  can  money  be  made  anyhow  but  in  an 
honest  shop  ?  And  to-morrow  I  shall  have  no  shop,  and  we  shall 
all  go  into  the  street  together  !" 

Presently,  when  lamentations  had  yielded  to  despair,  they  per- 
suaded him  to  go  to  bed.  It  was  past  midnight.  Iris  went  upstairs 
with  him,  while  Lala  Roy  and  Arnold  waited  down  below.  And 
then  Arnold  made  a  great  discovery.  He  began  to  examine  the 
folded  papers  which  were  in  the  packet.  I  think  he  had  some  kind 
of  vague  idea  that  they  might  contain  secret  and  invisible  writing. 
They  were  all  sheets  of  note-paper  of  the  same  size,  folded  in  the 
same  way — namely,  doubled  as  if  for  a  square  envelope.  On  hold- 
ing one  to  the  light,  he  read  the  water-mark  : 

HIEROGLYPHICA 

A  Vegetable  Vellum 

M.  S.  and  Co. 

They  all  had  the  same  water-mark.  He  showed  the  thing  to  the 
Hindoo,  who  did  not  understand  what  it  meant. 

Then  Iris  came  down  again.  Her  grandfather  was  sleeping.  Like 
a  child,  he  fell  asleep  the  moment  his  head  fell  upon  the  pillow. 

"Iris,"  he  said,  "this  is  no  delusion  of  your  grand  father's.  The 
parcel  has  been  robbed." 

"  How  do  you  know,  Arnold  ?" 

"  The  stupid  fellow  who  stole  and  opened  the  packet  no  doubt 
thought  he  was  wonderfully  clever  to  fill  it  up  again  with  paper. 
But  he  forgot  that  the  packet  has  been  lying  for  eighteen  years  in 


THE  DISCOVERY.  293 

the  safe,  and  that  this  note-paper  was  made  the  day  before  yester- 
day." 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ?" 

"  You  can  tell  by  the  look  and  feel  of  the  paper  ;  they  did  not 
make  paper  like  this  twenty  years  ago  ;  besides,  look  at  the  water- 
mark;" he  held  it  to  the  light,  and  Iris  read  the  mystic  words.  "  That 
is  the  fashion  of  to-day.  One  House  issues  a  new  kind  of  paper, 
with  a  fancy  name,  and  another  imitates  them.  To-morrow  I  will 
ascertain  exactly  when  this  paper  was  made." 

"  But  who  would  steal  it,  Arnold  ?     Who  could  steal  it  ?" 

"  It  would  not  probably  be  of  the  least  use  to  anyone.  But  it 
might  be  stolen  in  order  to  sell  it  back.  We  may  see  an  advertise- 
ment  carefully  worded,  guarded,  or  perhaps Iris,  who  had 

access  to  the  place  whsn  your  grandfather  was  out  ?" 

"  No  one  but  James,  the  shopman.  He  has  been  here  five-and- 
twenty  years.  He  would  not,  surely,  rob  his  old  master.  No  one 
else  comes  here  except  the  customers  and  Cousin  Joe." 

"  Joe  is  not,  I  believe,  quite " 

"  Joe  is  a  very  bad  man.  He  has  done  dreadful  things.  But  then, 
even  if  Joe  were  bad  enough  to  rob  the  safe,  how  could  he  get  at 
it  ?  My  grandfather  never  leaves  it  unlocked.  Oh,  Arnold,  Arnold  ! 
that  all  this  trouble  should  fall  upon  us  on  the  very  day " 

"  My  dear,  is  it  not  better  that  it  should  fall  upon  you  when  I  am 
here,  one  more  added  to  your  advisers  ?  If  you  have  lost  a  fortune, 
I  have  found  one.     Think  that  you  have  given  it  to  me." 

"  Oh,  the  fortune  may  go,"  she  said.  "  The  future  is  ours,  and  we 
are  young.  But  who  shall  console  my  grandfather  in  his  old  age 
for  his  bankruptcy?" 

"  As  the  stream,"  said  Lala  Roy,  "  which  passeth  from  the  moun- 
tains to  the  ocean,  kisseth  every  meadow  on  its  way,  yet  tarries  not 
in  any  place,  so  Fortune  visits  the  sons  of  men  ;  she  is  unstable  as 
the  wind  ;  who  shall  hold  her  ?  Let  not  adversity  tear  off  the 
wings  of  hope." 

They  could  do  nothing  more.  Arnold  replaced  the  paper  in  the 
packet,  and  gave  it  to  Iris  ;  they  put  back  the  ledgers  and  account- 
books  in  the  safe,  and  locked  it  up,  and  then  they  went  upstairs. 

"  You  shall  go  to  bed,  Iris,"  said  Arnold,  "  and  you,  too,  Lala 
Boy.  I  shall  stay  here,  in  case  Mr.  Emblem  should — should  want 
anything." 

He  was,  in  reality,  afraid  that  "  something  would  happen  "  to  the 
old  man.  His  sudden  loss  of  memory,  his  loss  of  self-control  when 
he  spoke  of  his  bankruptcy,  the  confusion  of  his  words,  told  clearly 
of  a  mind  unhinged.  He  could  not  go  away  and  leave  Iris  with  no 
better  protection  than  one  other  weak  old  man. 

He  remained,  but  Iris  sat  with  him,  and  in  the  silent  watches  of 
the  night  they  talked  about  the  future. 

Under  every  roof  are  those  who  talk  about  the  future,  and  those 
who  think  about  the  past ;  so  the  shadow  of  death  is  always  with 


294  IN  L UCK  A T  LAST. 

us  and  the  sunshine  of  life.  Not  without  reason  is  the  Roman 
Catholic  Altar  incomplete  without  a  bone  of  some  dead  man.  As 
for  the  thing  which  had  been  stolen,  that  affected  them  but  little. 
What  does  it  matter— the  loss  of  what  was  promised  but  five 
minutes  since  ? 

It  was  one  o'clock  in  the  morning  when  Lala  Roy  left  them. 
They  sat  at  the  window,  hand-in-hand,  and  talked.  The  street 
below  them  was  very  quiet ;  now  and  then  a  late  cab  broke  the 
silence,  or  the  tramp  of  a  policeman  ;  but  there  were  no  other 
sounds.  They  sat  in  darkness,  because  they  wanted  no  light.  The 
hours  sped  too  swiftly  for  them.     At  five  the  day  began  to  dawn. 

"  Iris,"  said  Arnold,  "leave  me  now,  and  try  to  sleep  a  little. 
Shall  we  ever  forget  this  night  of  sweet  and  tender  talk  ?" 

When  she  was  gone,  he  began  to  be  aware  of  footsteps  overhead 
in  the  old  man's  room.  What  was  he  going  to  do  ?  Arnold  waited 
at  the  door.  Presently  the  door  opened,  and  he  heard  careful  steps 
upon  the  stars.  They  were  the  steps  of  Mr.  Emblem  himself.  He 
was  fully  dressed,  with  his  usual  care  and  neatness,  his  black  silk 
stock  buckled  behind,  and  his  white  hair  brushed. 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Arbuthnot,"  he  said  cheerfully,  "  you  are  early  this 
morning  !"  as  if  it  was  quite  a  usual  thing  for  his  friends  to  look 
in  at  six  in  the  morning. 

"  You  are  going  down  to  the  shop,  Mr.  Emblem  ?" 

"  Yes,  certainly — to  the  shop.    Pray  come  with  me." 

Arnold  followed  him. 

"  I  have  just  remembered,"  said  the  old  man,  "  that  last  night  we 
did  not  look  on  the  floor.  I  will  have  one  more  search  for  the  letter, 
and  then,  if  I  cannot  find  it,  I  will  write  it  all  out — every  word. 
There  is  not  much,  to  be  sure,  but  the  story  is  told  without  the 
names." 

"  Tell  me  the  story,  Mr.  Emblem,  while  you  remember  it." 

"  All  in  good  time,  young  man.     Youth  is  impatient." 

He  drew  up  the  blind  and  let  in  the  morning  light ;  then  he 
began  his  search  for  the  letter  on  the  floor,  going  on  his  hands  and 
knees,  and  peering  under  the  table  and  chairs  with  a  candle.  At 
length  he  desisted. 

"I  tied  it  up,"  he  said,  "with  the  parcel,  with  red  tape.  Very 
well — we  must  do  without  it.  Now,  Mr.  Arbuthnot,  my  plan  is  this. 
First,  I  will  dictate  the  letter.  This  will  give  you  the  outlines  of 
the  story.  Next,  I  will  send  you  to — to  my  old  customer,  who  can 
tell  you  my  son-in-law's  real  name.  And  then  I  will  describe  his 
coat-of-arms.  My  memory  was  never  so  clear  and  good  as  I  feel  it 
to-day.      Strange,  that  last  night  I  seemed,   for  the  moment,    to 

forget  everything  !    Ha,  ha  !    Ridiculous,  wasn't  it  ?     I  suppose 

But  there  is  no  accounting  for  these  queer  things.  Perhaps  I  was 
disappointed  to  find  nothing  in  the  packet.  Do  you  l.i ink,  Mr. 
Arbuthnot,   that  I "     Here   he    began  to  tremble.     "  Do   you 


THE  DISCOVERY  295 

think  that   I  dreamed   it   all  ?     Old   men   think   strange  things. 

Perhaps " 

"  Let  us  try  to  remember  the  letter,  Mr.  Emblem." 

"  Yes,   yes — certainly — the   letter.     Why,   it   went— ahem  !— as 

follows " 

Arnold  laid  down  the  pen  in  despair.  The  poor  old  man  was 
mad.  He  had  poured  out  the  wildest  farrago,  without  sense, 
coherence,  or  story. 

"  So  much  for  the  letter,  Mr.  Arbuthnot."  He  was  mad,  with- 
out doubt,  yet  he  knew  Arnold,  and  knew,  too,  why  he  was  in  the 
house.  "  Ab,  I  knew  it  would  come  back  to  me.  Strange  if  it  did 
not.  Why,  I  read  that  letter  once  every  quarter  or  so  for  eighteen 
years.     It  is  a  part  of  myself.     I  could  not  forget  it." 

"  And  the  name  of  your  son-in-law's  old  friend  ?" 

"  Oh  yes  !  the  name  !" 

He  gave  some  name,  which  might  have  been  the  lost  name  ;  but 
as  Mr.  Emblem  changed  it  the  next  moment,  and  forgot  it  again 
the  moment  after,  it  was  doubtful — certainly  not  much  to  build 
upon. 

"  And  the  coat-of-arms  ?" 

"  We  are  getting  on  famously,  are  we  not  ?  The  coat,  sir,  was 
as  follows." 

He  proceeded  to  describe  an  impossible  coat — a  coat  which  might 
have  been  drawn  by  a  man  absolutely  ignorant  of  science. 

All  this  took  a  couple  of  hours.     It  was  now  eight  o'clock. 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Emblem,"  said  Arnold.  "  I  have  no  doubt 
now  that  we  shall  somehow  bring  Iris  to  her  own  again,  in  spite  of 
your  loss.     Shall  we  go  upstairs  and  have  some  breakfast  ?" 

"  It  is  all  right,  Iris  !"  cried  the  old  man  gleefully  ;  "  it  is  all 
right  !  I  have  remembered  everything  ;  and  Mr.  Arbuthnot  will 
go  out  presently  and  secure  your  inheritance." 

Iris  looked  at  Arnold. 

"Yes,  dear,"  she  said.  "You  shall  have  your  breakfast;  and 
you  shall  tell  me  all  about  it  when  Arnold  goes.  And  you  will 
take  a  holiday,  won't  you — because  I  am  twenty-one  to-day  ?" 

"  Aha !"  He  was  quite  cheerful  and  mirthful,  because  he  had 
recovered  his  memory.  "Aha,  my  clear!  all  is  well!  You  are 
twenty-one,  and  I  am  seventy-five  ;  and  Mr.  Arbuthnot  will  go 
and  bring  home  the — the  inheritance.  And  I  shall  sit  here  all  day 
long.  It  was  a  good  dream  that  came  to  me  this  morning,  was  it 
not  ?  Quite  a  voice  from  Heaven,  which  said,  '  Get  up  and  write 
down  the  letter  while  you  remember  it.'  I  got  up  ;  I  found  by  the 
— by  the  merest  accident  Mr.  Arbuthnot  on  the  stairs,  and  we  have 
arranged  everything  for  you — everything." 


296  IN  L UCK  AT  LAST. 

IX. 

DR.    WASHINGTON. 

Arnold  returned  to  his  studio,  sat  down,  and  fell  fast  asleep. 

He  was  awakened  about  noon  by  bis  cousin  Clara. 

"Oh,  Arnold,"  she  cried,  shaking  him  wrathfully  by  the  arm, 
"  this  is  a  moment  of  the  greatest  excitement  and  importance  to 
me,  and  you  are  my  only  adviser,  and  you  are  asleep  !" 

He  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"  I  am  awake  now,  Clara.  Anxiety  and  trouble  ?  On  account 
of  our  talk  3'esterday  ?" 

He  saw  that  she  had  been  crying.  In  her  hands  she  had  a  packet 
of  letters. 

"  Oh,  no,  no !  it  is  far  more  important  than  that.  As  for  our 
talk " 

"  I  am  engaged  to  her,  Clara." 

"  So  I  expected,"  she  replied  coldly.  "  But  I  am  not  come  here 
about  your  engagement.  And  you  do  not  want  my  congratulations, 
I  suppose  ?" 

"  I  should  like  to  have  your  good  wishes,  Clara." 

"  Oh,  Arnold,  that  is  what  my  poor  Claude  said  when  he  deserted 
me  and  married  the  governess.  You  men  want  to  have  your  own 
way,  and  then  expect  us  to  be  delighted  with  it." 

"  I  expect  nothing,  Clara.     Pray  understand  that." 

"  I  told  Claude,  when  he  wrote  asking  forgiveness,  that  he  had 
my  good  wishes,  whatever  he  chose  to  do,  but  that  I  would  not  on 
any  account  receive  his  wife.  Very  well,  Arnold  ,  that  is  exactly 
what  I  say  to  you." 

"  Very  well,  Clara  ;  I  quite  understand.  As  for  the  studio,  and 
all  the  things  that  you  have  given  me,  they  are,  of  course,  yours 
again.     Let  me  restore  what  I  can  to  you." 

"  No,  Arnold ;  they  are  yours.  Let  me  hear  no  more  about  things 
that  are  your  own.  Of  course  your  business,  as  you  call  it,  is 
exciting.  But  as  for  this  other  thing,  it  is  far  more  important. 
Something  has  happened  ;  something  I  always  expected  ;  some- 
thing that  I  looked  forward  to  for  years  ;  although  it  has  waited 
on  the  way  so  long,  it  has  actually  come  at  last,  when  I  had  almost 
forgotten  to  look  for  it.  So  true  it  is,  Arnold,  that  good  fortune 
and  misfortune  alike  come  when  we  least  expect  them." 

Arnold  sat  down.  lie  knew  his  cousin  too  well  to  interrupt  her. 
She  had  her  own  way  of  telling  a  story,  and  it  was  a  roundabout 
way. 

"  I  cannot  complain,  after  twenty  years,  can  I  ?  I  have  had 
plenty  of  rope,  as  you  would  say.  But  still,  it  has  come  at  last ; 
and,  naturally,  when  it  does  come,  it  is  a  shock." 

"  Is  it  hereditary  gout,  Clara  ?" 


DR.  WASHINGTON.  297 

"  Gout !  Nonsense,  Arnold  !  When  the  "will  was  read,  I  said  to 
myself,  '  Claude  is  certain  to  come  back  and  claim  his  own.  It  is 
his  right,  and  I  hope  he  will  come.  But  for  my  own  part,  I  have 
not  the  least  intention  of  calling  upon  the  governess.'  Then  three 
or  four  years  passed  away,  and  I  heard — I  do  not  remember  how — - 
that  he  was  dead.  And  then  I  waited  for  his  heirs,  his  children,  or 
their  guardians  ;  but  they  did  not  come." 

"  And  now  they  have  really  come  ?  Oh,  Clara,  this  is  indeed  a 
misfortune !" 

"  No,  Arnold  ;  call  it  a  restitution,  not  a  misfortune.  I  have  been 
living  all  these  years  on  the  money  which  belongs  to  Claude's  heir." 

"  There  was  a  son,  then.  And  now  he  has  dropped  upon  us  from 
the  clouds  ?" 

"  It  is  a  daughter,  not  a  son.  But  you  shall  hear.  I  received  a 
letter  this  morning  from  a  person  called  Dr.  Joseph  Washington, 
stating  that  he  wrote  to  me  on  account  of  the  only  child  and  heiress 
of  the  late  Claude  Deseret." 

"Who  is  Dr.  Joseph  Washington  ?" 

"  He  is  a  physician,  he  says,  and  an  American.' 

"Yes  ;  will  you  go  on ?" 

"  I  do  not  mind  it,  Arnold  ;  I  really  do  not.  I  must  give  up  my 
house  and  put  down  my  carriage,  but  it  is  for  Claude's  daughter.  I 
rejoice  to  think  that  he  has  left  some  one  behind  him.  Arnold, 
that  face  upon  your  canvas  really  has  got  eyes  wonderfully  like  his, 
if  it  was  not  a  mere  fancy,  when  I  saw  it  yesterday.  I  am  glad,  I 
say,  to  give  up  everything  to  the  child  of  Claude." 

"  You  think  so  kindly  of  him,  Clara,  who  inflicted  so  much  pain 
on  you." 

"I  can  never  think  bitterly  of  Claude.  We  were  brought  up 
together  ;  we  were  like  brother  and  sister  ;  he  never  loved  me  in 
any  other  way.  Oh,  I  understood  it  all  years  ago.  To  begin  with 
\  was  never  beautiful  ;  and  it  was  his  father's  mistake.  Well  :  this 
American  followed  up  his  letter  by  a  visit.  In  the  letter  he  merely 
said  he  had  come  to  London  with  the  heiress.  But  he  called  an 
hour  ago,  and  brought  me — oh,  Arnold,  he  brought  me  one  more 
letter  from  Claude.  It  has  been  waiting  for  me  for  eighteen  years. 
After  all  that  time,  after  eighteen  years,  my  poor  dead  Claude 
speaks  to  me  again.  My  dear,  when  I  thought  he  was  miserable  on 
account  of  his  marriage,  I  was  wrong.  His  wife  made  him  happy, 
and  he  died  because  she  died."  The  tears  came  into  her  eyes  again. 
"  Poor  boy  !  Poor  Claude  !  The  letter  speaks  of  his  child.  It 
says — ■ — "  She  opened  and  read  the  letter.  "He  says:  'Someday 
my  child  will,  I  hope,  come  to  you,  and  say  :  "  Cousin  Clara,  I  am 
Iris  Deseret." ' " 

"  Iris  ?"  said  Arnold. 

"  It  is  her  name,  Arnold.    It  was  the  child's  grandmother's  name." 

"  A  strange  coincidence,"  he  said.     "  Pray  go  on." 

"'She  will  say:  "Cousin  Clara,  I  am  Iris  Deseret."    Then  you 


«'.< 


298  IN  L  UCK  A  T  LA  ST. 

will  be  kind  to  her,  as  you  would  to  me,  if  I  were  to  come  home 
again.'    I  cannot  read  any  more,  my  dear,  even  to  you." 

"Did  this  American  give  you  any  other  proof  of  what  he 
asserts  ?" 

"  He  gave  me  a  portrait  of  Claude,  taken  years  ago,  when  he  was 
a  boy  of  sixteen,  and  showed  me  the  certificate  of  marriage,  and  the 
child's  certificate  of  baptism,  and  letters  from  his  wife.  I  suppose 
nothing  more  can  be  wanted." 

"  I  dare  say  it  is  all  right,  Clara.  Put  why  was  not  the  child 
brought  over  before  ?" 

"Because — this  is  the  really  romantic  part  of  the  story — when 
her  father  died,  leaving  the  child,  she  was  adopted  by  these  charit- 
able Americans,  and  no  one  ever  thought  of  examining  the  papers, 
which  were  lying  in  a  desk,  until  the  other  day." 
"You  have  not  seen  the  young  lady." 
"No  ;  he  is  to  bring  her  to-morrow." 

"  And  what  sort  of  a  man  is  this  American  ?  Is  he  a  gentleman  ?" 
"  Well,  I  do  not  quite  know.  Perhaps  Americans  are  different 
from  Englishmen.  If  he  was  an  Englishman,  I  should  say  without 
any  hesitation  that  he  is  not  a  gentleman,  as  we  count  good  breed- 
ing and  good  manners.  He  is  a  big  man,  handsome  and  burly,  and 
he  seems  good-tempered.     When  I  told  him  what  was  the  full 

amount  of  Iris's  inheritance " 

"Iris's  inheritance!"  Arnold  repeated.  "I  beg  your  pardon, 
Clara  ;  pray  go  on  ;  but  it  seems  like  a  dream." 

"  He  only  laughed,  and  said  he  was  glad  she  would  have  so  much. 
The  utmost  they  hoped,  he  said,  was  that  it  might  be  a  farm,  or  a 
house  or  two,  or  a  few  hundreds  in  the  stocks.  He  is  to  bring  her 
to-morrow,  and  of  course  I  shall  make  her  stay  with  me.  As  for 
himself,  he  says  that  he  is  only  anxious  to  get  back  home  to  his  wife 
and  his  practice." 

"  He  wants  nothing  for  himself,  then  ?  That  seems  a  good  sign." 
"  I  asked  him  that  question,  and  he  said  that  he  could  not  pos- 
sibly take  money  for  what  he  and  his  family  had  done  for  Iris  ; 
that  is  to  say,  her  education  and  maintenance.  This  was  very 
generous  of  him.  Perhaps  he  is  really  a  gentleman  by  birth,  but 
has  provincial  manners.  He  said,  however,  that  he  had  no  objection 
to  receiving  the  small  amount  of  money  spent  on  the  voyage  and 
on  Iris's  outfit,  because  they  were  not  rich  people,  and  it  was  a 
serious  thing  to  fit  out  a  young  lady  suitably.  So  of  course  I  gave 
him  what  he  suggested,  a  cheque  for  two  hundred  pounds.  No  one, 
he  added  with  true  feeling,  would  grudge  a  single  dollar  that  had 
been  spent  upon  the  education  of  the  dear  girl ;  and  this  went  to 
my  heart." 

"  She  is  well  educated,  then  ?" 

"She  sings  well,"  he  says,  "and  hns  had  a  good  plain  education. 
He  said  I  might  rest  assured  that  she  was  ladylike,  because  she  had 
been  brought  up  among  his  own  friends." 


DR.  WASHINGTON.  299 

"That  is  a  very  safe  guarantee,"  said  Arnold,  laughing.  "I 
wonder  if  she  is  pretty  ?" 

"  I  asked  him  that  question  too,  and  he  replied  very  oddly  that 
she  had  a  most  splendid  figure,  which  fetched  everybody.  Is  not 
that  rather  a  vulgar  expression  ?" 

"  It  is,  in  England.  Perhaps  in  America  it  belongs  to  the  first 
circles,  and  is  a  survivor  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers.  So  you  gave  him 
a  cheque  for  two  hundred  pounds  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  surely  I  was  not  wrong,  Arnold.  Consider  the  circum- 
stances, the  outfit  and  the  voyage,  and  the  man's  reluctance  and 
delicacy  of  feeling." 

"I  dare  say  you  were  quite  right,  but — well,  I  think  I  should 
have  seen  the  young  lady  first.  Remember,  you  have  given  the 
money  to  a  stranger,  on  his  bare  word." 

"  Oh,  Arnold,  this  man  is  perfectly  honest.  I  would  answer  for 
his  truth  and  honesty.  He  has  frank,  honest  eyes.  Besides,  he 
brought  me  all  those  letters.  Well,  dear,  you  are  not  going  to 
desert  me  because  you  are  engaged,  are  you,  Arnold  ?  I  want  you 
to  be  present  when  she  comes  to-morrow  morning." 

"  Certainly  I  will  be  present,  with  the  greatest — no,  not  the 
greatest  pleasure.  But  I  will  be  present — I  will  come  to  luncheon, 
Clara." 

When  she  was  gone  he  thought  again  of  the  strange  coincidence, 
both  of  the  man  and  of  the  inheritance.  Yet  what  had  his  Iris  in 
common  with  a  girl  who  had  been  brought  up  in  America  ?  Be- 
sides, she  had  lost  her  inheritance,  and  this  other  Iris  had  crossed 
the  ocean  to  receive  hers.  Yet  a  very  strange  coincidence.  It  was 
so  strange  that  he  told  it  to  Iris  and  to  Lala  Roy.  Iris  laughed, 
and  said  she  did  not  know  she  had  a  single  namesake.  Lala  did  not 
laugh  ;  but  he  sat  thinking  in  silence.  There  was  no  chess  for 
him  that  night ;  instead  of  playing  his  usual  game,  Mr.  Emblem, 
in  his  chair,  laughed  and  chuckled  in  rather  a  ghastly  way. 


84  IT   IS   MY   COUSIN." 

"  Well,  Joe,"  said  his  wife,  "  and  how  is  it  going  to  finish  ?  It 
looks  to  me  as  if  there  was  a  prison-van  and  a  police-court  at  the 
end.  Don't  you  think  we  had  better  back  out  of  it  while  there  is 
time  ?" 

"  You're  a  fool !"  her  husband'  replied — it  was  the  morning 
after  his  visit  to  Clara  ;  "  you  know  nothing  about  it.  Now 
listen." 

"  I  do  nothing  but  listen  ;  you've  told  me  the  story  till  I  know  it 


300  IN  LUCK  AT  LAST. 

by  heart.    Do  you  think  anybody  in  the  world  will  be  so  green  as 
to  believe  such  a  clumsy  plant  as  that  ?" 

"  Now  look  here,  Lotty  ;  if  there's  another  word  said — mind, 
now — you  shall  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  the  business  at  all. 
I'll  give  it  to  a  girl  I  know — a  clever  girl,  who  will  carry  it  through 
with  flying  colours." 

She  set  her  lips  hard,  and  drummed  her  fingers  on  the  table. 
He  knew  how  to  rule  his  wife. 

"  Go  on,"  she  said,  "  since  we  can't  be  honest." 

"  Be  reasonable,  then  ;  that's  all  I  ask  you.  Honest !  who  is 
honest  ?  Ain't  we  every  one  engaged  in  getting  round  our  neigh- 
bours ?  Isn't  the  whole  game,  all  the  world  over,  lying  and  deceit  ? 
Honest !  you  might  as  well  go  on  the  boards  without  faking  up 
your  face,  as  try  to  live  honest.  Hold  your  tongue,  then."  He 
growled  and  swore,  and  after  his  fashion  called  on  the  Heavens  to 
witness  and  express  their  astonishment. 

The  girl  bent  her  head,  and  made  no  reply  for  a  space.  She  was 
cowed  and  afraid.  Presently  she  looked  up  and  laughed,  but  with 
a  forced  laugh. 

"  Don't  be  cross,  Joe  ;  I'll  do  whatever  you  want  me  to  do,  and 
cheerfully,  too,  if  it  will  do  you  any  good.  What  is  a  woman  good 
for  but  to  help  her  husband  ?     Only  don't  be  cross,  Joe." 

She  knew  what  her  husband  was  by  this  time — a  false  and  un- 
scrupulous man.  Yet  she  loved  him.  The  case  is  not  rare  by  any 
means,  so  that  there  is  hope  for  all  of  us,  from  the  meanest  and 
most  wriggling  worm  among  us  to  the  most  hectoring  ruffian. 

"  Why  there,  Lotty,"  he  said,  "  that  is  what  I  like.  Now  listen. 
The  old  lady  is  a  cake— do  you  understand  ?  She  is  a  sponge,  she 
swallows  everything,  and  is  ready  to  fall  on  your  neck  and  cry  over 
you  for  joy.  As  for  doubt  or  suspicion,  not  a  word.  I  don't  be- 
lieve there  will  be  a  single  question  asked.  No,  it's  all  '  My  poor 
dear  Claude ' — that's  your  father,  Lotty — and  '  My  poor  dear  Iris  ' 
— that's  you,  Lotty." 

"All  right,  Joe;  go  on.  I  am  Iris — I  am  anybody  you  like.  Go 
on." 

"  The  more  I  think  about  it,  the  more  I'm  certain  we  shall  do  the 
trick.  Only  keep  cool  over  the  job,  and  forget  the  Music  Hall. 
You  are  Iris  Deseret,  and  you  are  the  daughter  of  Claude  Deseret, 
deceased.  I  am  Dr.  Washington,  one  of  the  American  family  who 
brought  you  up.  You're  grateful,  mind.  ^Nothing  can  be  more 
lively  than  your  gratitude.  We've  been  brother  and  sister,  you 
and  me,  and  I've  got  a  wife  and  young  family  and  a  rising  practice 
at  home  in  the  State  of  Maine,  and  I  am  only  come  over  here  to 
Bee  you  into  your  rights  at  great  personal  expense.  Paid  a  substi- 
tute. Yes,  actually  paid  a  substitute.  We  only  found  the  papers 
the  other  day,  which  is  the  reason  why  we  did  not  come  over  be- 
fore, and  I  am  going  home  again  directly." 

"  You  are  not  really  going  away,  Joe,  are  you  ?'' 


"IT  IS  MY  COUSIN"  301 

"  No,  I  am  going  to  stay  here  ;  but  I  shall  pretend  to  go  away. 
Now  remember,  we've  got  no  suspicion  ourselves,  and  we  don't  ex- 
pect to  meet  any.  If  there  is  any,  we  ai'e  surprised  and  sorry. 
We  don't  come  to  the  lady  with  a  lawyer  or  a  blunderbuss  ;  we 
come  as  friends,  and  we  shall  arrange  this  little  business  between 
ourselves.  Oh,  never  you  fear,  we  shall  arrange  it  quite  comfort- 
ably, without  lawyers." 

"  How  much  do  you  think  we  shall  get  out  of  it,  Joe  ?" 
"  Listen,   and  open  your  eyes.     There's  nearly  a  hundred  and 
twenty  thousand  pounds  and  a  small  estate  in  the  country.     Don't 
let  us  trouble  about  the  estate  more  than  we  can  help.     Estates 
mean  lawyers.     Money  doesn't." 

He  spoke  as  if  small  sums  like  a  hundred  thousand  pounds  are 
carried  about  in  the  pocket. 

"  Good  gracious  !  And  you've  got  two  hundred  of  it  already, 
haven't  you  ?" 

"  Yes,  but  what  is  two  hundred  out  of  a  hundred  and  twenty 
thousand  ?  A  hundred  and  twenty  thousand  !  There's  spending 
in  it,  isn't  there,  Lotty  ?  Gad,  we'll  make  the  money  spin,  I  calcu- 
late !  It  may  be  a  few  weeks  befdre  the  old  lady  transfers  the 
money — I  don't  quite  know  where  it  is,  but  in  stocks  or  something 
■ — to  your  name.  As  soon  as  it  is  in  your  name  I've  got  a  plan. 
We'll  remember  that  you've  got  a  sweetheart  or  something  in 
America,  and  you'll  break  your  heart  for  wanting  to  see  him.  And 
then  nothing  will  do  but  you  must  run  across  for  a  trip.  Oh,  I'll 
manage,  and  we'll  make  the  money  fly." 

He  was  always  adding  new  details  to  his  story,  finding  some- 
thing to  embellish  it  and  heighten  the  effect;  and  now,  having 
succeeded  in  getting  the  false  Iris  into  the  house,  he  began  already  to 
devise  schemes  to  get  her  out  again. 

"  A  hundred  thousand  pounds !  Why,  Joe,  it  is  a  terrible 
great  sum  of  money.  Good  gracious  !  What  shall  we  do  with  it. 
when  we  get  it  ?" 

"I'll  show  you  what  to  do  with  it,  my  girl." 
"  And  you  said,  Joe — you  declared  that  it  is  your  own  by  rights." 
"  Certainly,  it  is  my  own.     It  would  have  been  bequeathed  to  me 
by  my  own  cousin.    But  she  didn't  know  it.    And  she  died  withouo 
knowing  it,  and  I  am  her  heir." 

Lotty  wondered  vaguely  and  rather  sadly  how  much  of  this 
statement  was  true.  But  she  did  not  dare  to  ask.  She  had 
promised  her  assistance.  Every  night  she  woke  with  a  dreadful 
dream  of  a  policeman  knocking  at  the  door  ;  whenever  she  saw  a 
man  in  blue  she  trembled  ;  and  she  knew  perfectly  well  that,  if 
the  plot  failed,  it  was  she  herself,  in  all  probability,  and  not  her 
husband  at  all,  who  would  be  put  in  the  dock.  She  did  not 
believe  a  word  about  the  cousin  ;  she  knew  she  was  going  to  do 
a  vile  and  dreadful  wickedness,  but  bhe  was  ready  to  go  through 
with  it,  or  with  anything  else,  to  pleasure  a  husband  who  already, 


302  IN  L  UCK  A  T  LA  ST. 

the  honeymoon  hardly  finished,  showed  the  propensities  of  a 
rover. 

"  Very  well,  Lotty ;  we  are  going  there  at  once.  You  need  take 
nothing  with  you  ;  but  you  won't  come  back  here  for  a  good  spell. 
In  fact,  I  think  I  shall  have  to  give  up  these  lodgings,  for  fear  of 
accidents.     I  shall  leave  you  with  your  cousin." 

"  Yes  ;  and  I'm  to  be  quiet,  and  behave  pretty,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  You'll  be  just  as  quiet  and  demure  as  you  used  to  be  when  you 
were  serving  in  the  music-shop.  No  loud  laughing,  no  capers,  no 
comic  songs,  and  no  dancing." 

"  And  am  I  to  begin  at  once  by  asking  for  the  money  to  be — 
what  do  you  call  it — transferred  ?" 

"  No  ;  you  are  not  on  any  account  to  say  a  word  about  the 
money.  You  are  to  go  on  living  there  without  hinting  at  the 
money — without  showing  any  desire  to  discuss  the  subject — per- 
haps for  months,  until  there  can't  be  the  shadow  of  a  doubt  that 
you  are  the  old  woman's  cousin.  You  are  to  make  much  of  her, 
flatter  her,  cocker  her  up,  find  out  all  the  family  secrets,  and  get 
the  length  of  her  foot ;  but  you  are  not  to  say  one  single  word 
about  the  money.  As  for  your  manners,  I'm  not  afraid  of  them, 
because,  when  you  like,  you  can  look  and  talk  like  a  countess." 

"  I  know  now."  She  got  up  and  changed  her  face  so  that  it 
became  at  once  subdued  and  quiet,  like  a  quiet  servant-girl  behind 
a  counter.  "  So  :  is  that  modest  enough,  Joe  ?  And  as  for  sing- 
ing, I  shall  sing  for  her,  but  not  music-hall  trash.  This  kind  of 
thing.     Listen." 

There  was  a  piano  in  the  room,  and  she  sat  down  and  sang  to 
her  own  accompaniment,  with  a  sweet,  low  voice,  one  of  the  soft, 
sad  German  songs. 

"  That'll  do  1"  cried  Joe.  "  Hang  me  !  what  a  clever  girl  you 
are,  Lotty  !  That's  the  kind  of  thing  the  swells  like.  As  for  me, 
give  me  ten  minutes  of  Jolly  Nash.  But  you  know  how  to  pull 
'em  in,  Lotty." 

It  was  approaching  twelve,  the  hour  when  they  were  due.  Lotty 
retired  and  arrayed  herself  in  her  quietest  and  most  sober  dress,  a 
costume  in  some  brown  stuff,  with  a  bonnet  to  match.  She  put  on 
her  best  gloves  and  boots,  having  herself  felt  the  inferiority  of  the 
shop-girl  to  the  lady  in  those  minor  points  ;  and  she  modified  and 
mitigated  her  fringe,  which,  she  knew,  was  rather  more  exaggerated 
than  young  ladies  in  Society  generally  wear. 

"  You're  not  afraid,  Lotty  ?"  said  Joe,  when  at  last  she  was  ready 
to  start. 

"Afraid?  Not  I,  Joe  !  Come  along.  I  couldn't  look  quieter, 
not  if  I  was  to  make  up  as  I  do  in  the  evening  as  a  Quakeress. 
Come  along.  Oh,  Joe,  it  will  be  awful  dull !  Don't  forget  to 
send  word  to  the  Hall  that  I  am  ill.  Afraid?  Not  I!"  She 
laughed,  but  rather  hysterically. 

There  would,  however,  she  secretly  considered,  be  some  excite- 


"IT  IS  31 Y  COUSIN."  303 

merit  when  it  came  to  the  finding  out,  which  would  happen,  she 
was  convinced,  in  a  very  few  hours.  In  fact,  she  had  no  faith  at 
all  in  the  story  being  accepted  and  believed  by  anybody.  To  be 
eure,  she  herself  had  been  trained,  as  ladies  in  shops  generally  are, 
to  mistrust  all  mankind,  and  she  could  not  understand  at  all  the 
kind  of  confidence  which  comes  of  having  the  very  thing  presented 
to  you  which  you  ardently  desire.  When  they  arrived  in  Chester 
Square,  she  found  waiting  for  her  a  lady  who  was  certainly  not 
beautiful,  but  she  had  kind  eyes,  which  looked  eagerly  at  the  strange 
face,  and  with  an  expression  of  disappointment. 

"  It  can't  be  the  fringe,"  thought  Lotty. 

"  Cousin  Clara,"  she  said,  softly  and  sweetly,  as  her  husband  had 
taught  her,  "  I  am  Iris  Deseret,  the  daughter  of  your  old  play- 
fellow, Claude." 

"  Oh,  my  dear  !  my  dear  !"  cried  Clara  with  enthusiasm.  "Come 
to  my  arms  !     Welcome  home  again  !" 

She  kissed  and  embraced  her.  Then  she  held  her  by  both  hands, 
and  looked  at  her  face  again. 

"  My  dear,"  she  said,  "you  have  been  a  long  time  coming.  I  had 
almost  given  up  hoping  that  Claude  had  any  children.  But  you 
are  welcome,  after  all — very  welcome.  You  are  in  your  own  house, 
remember,  my  dear.  This  house  is  yours,  and  the  plate,  and  fur- 
niture, and  everything,  and  I  am  only  your  tenant." 

"  Oh  I"  said  Lotty,  overwhelmed.  Why,  she  had  actually  been 
taken  on  her  word,  or  rather,  the  word  of  Joe  ! 

"  Let  me  kiss  you  again.  Your  face  does  not  remind  me  as  yet, 
in  any  single  feature,  of  your  father's  ;  but  I  dare  say  I  shall  find 
re? emblance  presently ;  and,  indeed,  your  voice  does  remind  me  of 
him  already.     He  had  a  singularly  sweet  and  delicate  voice." 

"  Iris  has  a  remarkably  sweet  and  delicate  voice,"  said  Joe 
softly.  "  No  doubt  she  got  it  from  her  father.  You  will  hear  her 
sing  presently." 

Lotty  hardly  knew  her  husband.  His  face  was  preternaturally 
solemn,  and  he  looked  as  if  he  was  engaged  in  the  most  serious 
business  of  his  life. 

"All  her  father's  ways  were  gentle  and  delicate,"  said  Clara. 

"  Just  like  hers,"  said  Joe.  "  When  all  of  us — American  boys 
and  girls,  pretty  rough  at  times — were  playing  and  larking  about. 
Iris  would  be  just  sittin'  out  like  a  cat  on  a  carpet,  quiet  and 
demure.     I  suppose  she  got  that  way,  too,  from  her  father." 

"  No  doubt ;  and  as  for  your  face,  my  dear,  I  dare  say  I  shall 
find  a  likeness  presently,  but  just  now  I  see  none.  Will  you  take 
off  your  bonnet  ?" 

When  the  girl's  bonnet  was  off,  Clara  looked  at  her  again, 
curiously,  but  kindly. 

"  I  suppose  I  can't  help  looking  for  a  likeness,  my  dear.  But 
you  must  take  after  your  mother,  whom  I  never  saw.  Your 
father's  eyes  were  full  and  limpid  ;  yours  are  large,  and  clear,  and 


304  IN  L UCK  AT  LAST. 

bright — very  good  eyes,  iny  dear,  but  they  are  not  limpid.  His 
mouth  was  flexible  and  mobile,  but  yours  is  firm.  Your  hair,  how- 
ever, reminds  me  somewhat  of  his,  which  was  much  your  light 
shade  of  brown  when  he  was  young.  And  now,  sir " — she  ad- 
dressed Joe — "  now  you  have  brought  this  dear  girl  all  the  way 
across  the  Atlantic,  what  are  you  going  to  do  ?" 

"  Well,  I  don't  exactly  know  that  there's  anything  to  keep  me," 
said  Joe.  "  You  see,  I've  got  my  practice  to  look  after  at  home — 
I  am  a  physician,  as  I  told  you — and  my  wife  and  children  ;  and 
the  sooner  I  get  back  the  better,  now  that  I  can  leave  Iris  with 
her  friends  safe  and  comfortable.  Stay,"  he  added ;  "  there  are 
all  those  papers  which  I  promised  you — the  certificates,  and  the 
rest  of  them.  You  had  better  take  them  all,  miss,  and  keep  them 
for  Iris." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Clara,  touched  by  this  confidence ;  "  Iris  will 
be  safe  with  me.  It  is  very  natural  that  you  should  want  to  go 
home  again.  And  you  will  be  content  to  stay  with  me,  my  dear, 
won't  you  ?  You  need  not  be  afraid,  sir ;  I  assure  you  that  her 
interests  will  not  in  any  way  suffer.  Tell  her  to  write  and  let 
you  know  exactly  what  is  done.  Let  her,  however,  since  she  is  an 
English  girl,  remain  with  English  friends,  and  get  to  know  her 
cousins  and  relations.  You  can  safely  trust  her  with  me,  Dr. 
Washington." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Joe.  "  You  know  that  when  one  has  known 
a  girl  all  her  life,  one  is  naturally  anxious  about  her  happiness.  We 
are  almost  brother  and  sister." 

"  I  know  ;  and  I  am  sure,  Mr.  Washington,  we  ought  to  be  most 
grateful  to  you.  As  for  the  money  you  have  expended  upon  her, 
let  me  once  more  beg  of  you " 

Joe  waved  his  hand  majestically. 

"  As  for  that,"  he  said,  "  the  money  is  spent.  Iris  is  welcome  to 
it,  if  it  were  ten  times  as  much.  Now,  madam,  you  trusted  me,  the 
very  first  day  that  you  saw  me,  with  two  hundred  pounds  sterling. 
Only  an  English  lady  would  have  done  that.  You  trusted  me  with- 
out asking  me  who  or  what  I  was,  or  doubting  my  word.  I  assure 
you,  madam,  I  felt  that  kindness,  and  that  trust,  very  much  indeed ; 
and  in  return,  I  haye  brought  you  Iris  herself.  After  all  expenses 
paid  of  coming  over  and  getting  back,  buying  a  few  things  for  Iris, 
if  I  find  that  there's  anything  over,  I  shall  ask  you  to  take  back  the 
balance.  Madam,  I  thank  you  for  the  money,  but  I  am  sure  I  have 
repaid  you — with  Iris." 

This  was  a  very  clever  speech.  If  there  had  been  a  shadow  of 
doubt  before  it  in  Clara's  heart  (which  there  was  not),  it  would 
vanish  now.  She  cordially  and  joyfully  accepted  her  newly-found 
cousin. 

"  And  now,  Iris,"  he  said,  with  a  manly  tremor  in  his  voice,  "  I 
do  not  know  if  I  shall  see  you  again  before  I  go  away.  If  not,  I 
shall  take  your  fond  love  to  all  of  them  at  home — Tom,  aud  Dick, 


"/r  is  my  cousin:'  305 

and  Harry,  and  Harriet,  and  Prissy,  and  all  of  them  " — Joe  really 
was  carrying  the  thing  through  splendidly — "  and  perhaps,  my  dear, 
when  you  are  a  grand  lady  in  England,  you  will  give  a  thought — a 
thought  now  and  again — to  your  old  friends  across  the  water." 

"  Oh,  Joe !"  cried  Lotty,  really  carried  away  with  admiration, 
and  ashamed  of  her  sceptical  spirit.  "  Oh,"  she  whispered,  "ain't 
you  splendid  !" 

"  But  you  must  not  go,  Dr.  Washington,"  said  Clara,  "  without 
coming  again  to  say  farewell.  Will  you  not  dine  with  us  to-night  ? 
Will  you  stay  and  have  lunch  ?" 

"  No,  madam,  I  thank  you.  It  will  be  best  for  me  to  leave  Iris 
alone  with  you.  The  sooner  she  learns  your  English  ways  and  for- 
gets American  ways,  the  better." 

"  But  you  are  not  going  to  start  away  for  Liverpool  at  once  ? 
You  will  stay  a  day  or  two  in  London " 

The  American  Physician  said  that  perhaps  he  might  stay  a  week 
longer  for  scientific  purposes. 

"Have  you  got  enough  money,  Joe?"  asked  the  new  Iris 
thoughtfully. 

Joe  gave  a  glance  of  infinite  admiration. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  the  fact  is  that  I  should  like  to  buy  a  few  books 
and  things.     Perhaps " 

"  Cousin,"  said  Lotty  eagerly,  "  please  give  him  a  cheque  for  a 
hundred  pounds.  Make  it  a  hundred.  You  said  everything  was 
mine.  No,  Joe,  I  won't  hear  a  word  about  repayment,  as  if  a  little 
thing  like  fifty  pounds,  or  a  hundred  pounds,  should  want  to  be 
repaid  !     As  if  you  and  I  could  ever  talk  about  repayment !" 

Clara  did  as  she  was  asked  readily  and  eagerly.  Then  Joe  de- 
parted, promising  to  call  and  say  farewell  before  he  left  England, 
and  resolving  that  in  his  next  visit — his  last  visit — there  should  be 
another  cheque.  But  he  had  made  one  mistake  :  he  had  parted 
with  the  papers.  No  one  in  any  situation  of  life  shotild  ever  give 
up  the  power  until  he  has  secured  the  substance.  But  it  is  human 
to  err. 

"  And  now,  my  dear,"  said  Clara  warmly,  "  sit  down  and  let  us 
talk.  Arnold  is  coming  to  lunch  with  us,  and  to  make  your 
acquaintance." 

When  Arnold  came  a  few  minutes  later,  he  was  astonished  to  find 
his  cousin  already  on  the  most  affectionate  terms  with  the  newly- 
arrived  Iris  Deseret.  She  was  walking  about  the  room  showing  her 
the  pictures  of  her  grandfather  and  oilier  ancestors,  and  they  were 
hand-in-hand. 

"Arnold,"  said  Clara,  "this  is  Iris,  and  I  hope  you  will  both  be 
great  friends  ;  Iris,  this  is  my  cousin,  but  he  is  not  yours." 

"  I  don't  pretend  to  know  how  that  may  be,"  said  the  young  lady. 
"  But  then  I  am  glad  to  know  all  your  cousins,  whether  they  are 
mine  or  not ;  only  don't  bother  me  with  questions,  because  I  don't 
remember  anything,  and  I  don't  know  anything.     Why,  until  the 

20 


306  IN  L UCK  AT  LAST. 

other  day  I  did  not  even  know  that  I  was  an  English  lady,  not  until 
they  found  those  papers." 

A  strange  accent  for  an  American !  and  she  certainly  said  "laidy" 
for  "  lady,"  and  "  paiper  "  for  "  paper,"  like  a  cockney.  Alas!  This 
comes  of  London  Music  Halls,  even  to  country-bred  damsels  ! 

Arnold  made  a  mental  observation  that  the  new-comer  might  be 
called  anything  in  the  world,  but  could  not  be  called  a  lady.  She 
was  handsome,  certainly,  but  how  could  Claude  Deseret's  daughter 
have  grown  in  so  common  a  type  of  beauty  ?  Where  was  the 
delicacy  of  feature  and  manner  which  Clara  had  never  ceased  to 
commend  in  speaking  of  her  lost  cousin  ? 

"  Iris," said  Clara,  "is  our  little  savage  from  the  American  Forest. 
She  is  Queen  Pocahontas,  who  has  come  over  to  conquer  England 
and  to  win  all  our  hearts.  My  dear,  my  cousin  Arnold  will  help  me 
to  make  you  an  English  girl." 

She  spoke  as  if  the  State  of  Maine  was  still  the  hunting-ground 
of  Sioux  and  Iroquois. 

Arnold  thought  that  a  less  American-looking  girl  he  had  never 
seen  ;  that  she  did  not  speak  or  look  like  a  lady  was  to  be  expected 
perhaps,  if  she  had,  as  was  probable,  been  brought  up  by  rough  and 
unpolished  people.  But  he  had  no  doubt,  any  more  than  Clara  her- 
self, as  to  the  identity  of  the  girl.  Nobody  ever  doubts  a  claimant. 
Every  impostor,  from  Demetrius  downwards,  has  gained  his  sup- 
porters and  partizans  by  simply  living  among  them  and  keeping  up 
the  imposition.  It  is  so  easy,  in  fact,  to  be  a  claimant,  that  it  is 
wonderful  there  are  not  more  of  them. 

Then  luncheon  was  served,  and  the  young  lady  not  only  showed 
a  noble  appetite,  but,  to  Arnold's  astonishment,  confessed  to  an 
ardent  love  for  bottled  stout. 

"  Most  American  ladies,"  he  said  impertinently,  "  only  drink 
water,  do  they  not  ?" 

Lotty  perceived  that  she  had  made  a  mistake. 

"  I  only  drink  stout,"  she  said,  "  when  the  doctor  tells  me.  But 
I  like  it  all  the  same." 

She  certainly  had  no  American  accent.  But  she  would  not  talk 
much  ;  she  was  perhaps  shy.  After  luncheon,  however,  Clara  asked 
her  if  she  would  sing,  and  she  complied,  showing  considerable  skill 
with  her  accompaniment,  and  singing  a  simple  song  in  good  taste 
and  with  a  sweet  voice.  Arnold  observed,  however,  that  there  was 
some  weakness  about  the  letter  "  h,"  less  common  among  Americans 
than  among  the  English.  Presently  he  went  away,  and  the  girl, 
who  had  been  aware  that  he  was  watching  her,  breathed  more 
easily. 

"  Who  is  your  cousin  Arnold  ?"  she  asked. 

"  My  dear,  he  is  my  cousin,  but  not  yours.  You  will  not  see  him 
often,  because  he  is  going  to  be  married,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  and  to 
be  married  beneath  him — oh,  it  is  dreadful  1 — to  some  tradesman's 
girl,  my  dear." 


"IT  IS  MY  COUSIN."  307 

"  Dreadful !"  said  Iris,  -with  a  queer  look  in  her  eyes.  "  Well, 
cousin,  I  don't  want  to  see  much  of  him.  He's  a  good-looking 
chap,  too,  though  rather  too  finicking  for  my  taste.  I  like  a  man 
■who  looks  as  i.:  he  could  knock  another  man  down.  Besides,  he 
looks  at  me  as  if  1  was  a  riddle,  and  he  wanted  to  find  out  the 
answer." 

In  the  evening  Arnold  found  that  no  change  had  come  over  the 
old  man.  He  was,  however,  perfectly  happy,  so  that,  considering 
the  ruin  of  his  worldly  prospects,  it  was,  perhaps,  as  well  that  he 
had  parted  for  a  time,  at  least,  with  his  wits.  Some  worldly  mis- 
fortunes there  are  which  should  always  produce  this  effect. 

';  You  told  me,"  said  Lala  Roy,  "  that  another  Iris  had  just  come 
from  America  to  claim  an  inheritance  of  your  cousin." 

"  Yes  ;  it  is  a  very  strange  coincidence." 

"  Very  strange.  Two  Englishmen  die  in  America  at  the  same 
time,  each  having  a  daughter  named  Iris,  and  each  daughter  en- 
titled to  some  kind  of  inheritance." 

Lala  Roy  spoke  slowly,  and  with  meaning. 

"  Oh  !"  cried  Arnold.  "It  is  more  than  strange.  Do  you  think — 
is  it  possible " 

He  could  not  for  the  moment  clothe  his  thoughts  in  words. 

"  Do  you  know  if  anyone  has  brought  this  girl  to  England  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  she  was  brought  over  by  a  young  American  Physician — 
one  of  the  family  who  adopted  and  brought  her  up." 

'■  What  is  he  like — the  young  American  Physician  ?" 

"  I  have  not  seen  him." 

"  Go,  my  young  friend,  to-morrow  morning,  and  ask  your  cousin 
u  this  photograph  resembles  the  American  Physician." 

It  was  the  photograph  of  a  handsome  young  fellow,  with  strongly 
marked  features,  apparently  tall  and  well  set-up. 

"  Lala,  you  don't  really  suspect  anything— you  don't  think " 

"  Hush  !  I  know  who  has  stolen  the  papers.  Perhaps  the  same 
man  has  produced  the  heiress." 

"And  you  think — you  suspect  that  the  man  who  stole  the  papers 

is  connected  with But   then   those  papers   must   be — oh,    it 

cannot  be  !  For  then  Iris  would  be  Clara's  cousin — Clara's  cousin 
— and  the  other  an  impostor." 

"  Even  so  .,  everything  is  possible.  But,  silence.  Do  not  speak 
a  word,  even  to  Iris.  If  the  papers  are  lost,  they  are  lost.  Say 
nothing  to  her  yet  ;  but  go — go,  and  find  out  if  that  photograph 
resembles  the  American  Physician.  The  river  wanders  here  and 
there,  but  the  sea  swallows  it  at  last. 


308  IN  L UCK  AT  LAST. 

XI. 

ME.   JAMES   MAKES   ATONEMENT. 

James  arrived  as  usual  in  the  morning  at  nine  o'clock,  in  order  to 
take  down  the  shutters.  To  his  astonishment,  he  found  Lala  Roy 
and  Iris  waiting  for  him  in  the  back- shop.  And  they  had  grave 
faces. 

"  James,"  said  Iris,  "  your  master  has  suffered  a  great  shock,  and 
i  not  himself  this  morning.  His  safe  has  been  broken  open  by 
uojne  one,  and  most  important  papers  have  been  taken  out." 

"  Papers,  miss — papers  ?     Out  of  the  safe  ?" 

"  Yes.  They  are  papers  of  no  value  whatever  to  the  thief,  who- 
ever he  may  be.  But  they  are  of  the  very  greatest  importance  to 
us.  Your  master  seems  to  have  lost  his  memory  for  a  while,  and 
cannot  help  us  in  finding  out  who  has  done  this  wicked  thing.  You 
have  been  a'faithful  servant  for  so  long  that  I  am  sure  you  will  do 
what  you  can  for  us.  Think  for  us.  Try  to  remember  if  anybody 
besides  yourself  has  had  access  to  this  room  when  your  master  was 
out  of  it." 

James  sat  down.  He  felt  that  he  must  sit  down,  though  Lala 
Roy  was  looking  at  him  with  eyes  full  of  doubt  and  suspicion. 
The  whole  enormity  of  his  own  guilt,  though  he  had  not  stolen 
anything,  fell  upon  him.  He  had  got  the  key  ;  he  had  given  it  to 
Mr.  Joseph  ;  and  he  had  received  it  back  again.  In  fact,  at  that 
very  moment  it  was  lying  in  his  pocket.  The  worst  that  he  had 
feared  had  happened.     The  safe  was  robbed. 

He  was  struck  with  so  horrible  a  dread,  and  so  fearful  a  looking 
forward  to  judgment  and  condemnation,  that  his  teeth  chattered 
and  his  eye  gave  way. 

"  You  will  think  it  over,  James,"  said  Iris  ;  "think  it  over,  and 
tell  us  presently  if  you  can  remember  anything." 

"Think  it  over,  Mr.  James,"  Lala  Roy  repeated  in  his  deepest 
tone,  and  with  emphatic  gesture  of  his  right  forefinger.  "  Think  it 
over  carefully.  Like  a  lamp  that  is  never  extinguished  are  the  eyes 
of  the  faithful  servant." 

They  left  him,  and  James  fell  back  into  his  chair  with  hollow 
cheek  and  beating  heart. 

"  He  told  me,"  he  murmured — "  oh,  the  villain  ! — he  swore  to  me 
that  he  had  taken  nothing  from  the  safe.  He  said  he  only  looked 
in  it,  and  read  the  contents.  The  scoundrel !  He  has  stolen  the 
papers  !  He  must  have  known  they  were  there.  And  then,  to  save 
himself,  he  put  mo  on  to  the  job.  For  who  would  be  suspected  if 
not — oh,  Lord  ! — if  not  me  V" 

He  grasped  his  paste-brush,  and  attacked  his  work  with  a  feverish 
anxiety  to  find  relief  in  exertion  ;  but  his  heart  was  not  in  it,  and 


MR.  JAMES  MAKES  ATONEMENT.  309 

presently  a  thought  pierced  his  brain,  as  an  arrow  pierceth  the  heart, 
and  under  the  pang  and  agony  of  it,  his  face  turned  ashy  pale,  and 
the  big  drops  stood  upon  his  brow. 

"  For,"  he  thought,  "  suppose  that  the  thing  gets  abroad  ;  suppose 
they  vrere  to  advertise  a  reward  ;  suppose  the  man  who  made  the 
key  were  to  see  the  advertisement  or  to  hear  about  it !  And  he  knows 
my  name,  too,  and  my  business  ;  and  he'll  let  out  for  a  reward — I 
know  he  will — who  it  was  ordered  that  key  of  him." 

Already  he  saw  himself  examined  before  a  magistrate  :  already  he 
saw  in  imagination  that  locksmith's  man  who  made  the  key  kissing 
the  Testament,  and  giving  his  testimony  in  clear  and  distinct  words, 
which  could  not  be  shaken. 

"  Oh,  Lord  !  oh,  Lord!"  he  groaned.  "No  one  will  believe  me, 
even  if  I  do  confess  the  truth  ;  and  as  for  him,  I  know  him  well  ; 
if  I  go  to  him,  he'll  only  laugh  at  me.  But  I  must  go  to  him — I 
must !" 

He  was  so  goaded  by  his  terror  that  he  left  the  shop  unprotected 
— a  thing  he  had  never  thought  to  do — and  ran  as  fast  as  he  could 
to  Joe's  lodgings.  But  he  had  left  them  ;  he  was  no  longer  there  ; 
he  had  not  been  there  for  six  weeks  ;  the  landlady  did  not  know  his 
address,  or  would  not  give  it.  Then  James  felt  sick  and  dizzy,  and 
would  have  sat  down  on  the  doorstep  and  cried,  but  for  the  look  of 
the  thing.  Besides,  he  remembered  the  unprotected  shop.  So  he 
turned  away  sadly  and  walked  back,  well  understanding  now  that 
he  had  fallen  like  a  fool  into  a  trap,  artfully  set  to  fasten  suspicion 
and  guilt  upon  himself. 

When  he  returned  he  found  the  place  full  of  people.  Mr. 
Emblem  was  sitting  in  his  customary  place,  and  he  was  smiling. 
He  did  not  look  in  the  least  like  a  man  who  had  been  robbed.  He 
was  smiling  pleasantly  and  cheerfully.  Mr.  Chalker  was  also  present, 
a  man  with  whom  no  one  ever  smiled,  and  Lala  Roy,  solemn  and 
dignified,  and  a  man — an  unknown  man — who  sat  in  the  outer  shop, 
and  seemed  to  take  no  interest  at  all  in  the  proceedings.  Were 
they  come,  he  asked  himself,  to  arrest  him  on  the  spot  ? 

Apparently  they  were  not,  for  no  one  took  the  least  notice  of 
him,  and  they  were  occupied  with  something  else.  How  could  they 
think  of  anything  else  ?  Yet  Mr.  Chalker,  standing  at  the  table, 
was  making  a  speech,  which  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  robbery. 

"  Here  1  am,  you  see,  Mr.  Emblem,"  he  said  ;  "  I  have  told  you 
already  that  I  don't  want  to  do  anything  to  worry  you.  Let  us  be 
friends  all  round.  This  gentleman,  your  friend  from  India,  will 
advise  you,  I  ain  sure,  for  your  own  good,  not  to  be  obstinate. 
Lord  !  what  is  the  amount,  after  all,  to  a  substantial  man  like  your- 
self ?  A  substantial  man,  I  say."  He  spoke  confidently,  but  he 
gkmced  about  the  shop  with  doubtful  eyes.  "  Granted  that  it  was 
borrowed  to  get  your  grandson  out  of  a  scrape  —  supposing  he 
promised  to  pay  it  back  and  hasn't  done  so  ;  putting  the  case  that  it 
has  grown  and  developed  itself  aa  bills  will  do,  and  can't  help  doing, 


310  IN  LUCK  AT  LAST. 

and  can't  be  stopped  ;  it  isn't  the  fault  of  the  lawyers,  but  the  very 
nature  of  a  bill  to  go  on  growing— it's  like  a  baby  for  growing. 
Why,  after  all,  you  were  your  grandson's  security — you  can't  escape 
that.  And  when  I  would  no  longer  renew,  you  gave  of  your  own 
accord — come  now,  you  can't  deny  that — a  bill  of  sale  on  goods  and 
furniture.  Now,  Mr.  Emblem,  didn't  you  ?  Don't  let  us  have  any 
bitterness  or  quarrelling.  Let's  be  friends,  and  tell  me  I  may  send 
away  the  man." 

Mr.  Emblem  smiled  pleasantly,  but  did  not  reply. 

"  A  bill  of  sale  it  was,  dated  January  the  25th,  1&83,  just  before 
that  cursed  Act  of  Parliament  granted  the  five  days'  notice.  Here 
is  the  bailiff's  man  in  possession.  You  can  pay  the  amount,  which 
is,  with  costs  and  Sheriff's  Poundage,  three  hundred  and  fifty-one 
pounds  thirteen  shillings  and  fourpence,  at  once,  or  you  may  pay  it 
five  days  hence.  Otherwise  the  shop,  and  furniture,  and  all,  will  be 
sold  off  in  seven  days." 

"Oh,"  James  gasped,  listening  with  bewilderment,  "we  can't  be 
going  to  be  sold  up  !     Emblem's  to  be  sold  up  !" 

"Three  hundred  and  fifty  pounds!"  said  Mr.  Emblem.  "My 
friend,  let  us  rather  speak  of  thousands.  This  is  a  truly  happy  day 
for  all  of  us.  Sit  down,  Mr.  Chalker — my  dear  friend,  sit  down. 
Rejoice  with  us.     A  happy  morning." 

"What  the  devil  is  the  matter  with  him?"  asked  the  money- 
lender. 

"  There  was  something,  Mr.  Chalker,"  Mr.  Emblem  went  on 
cheerfully,  "  something  said  about  my  grandson.  Joe  was  always  a 
bad  lot ;  lucky  his  father  and  mother  are  out  of  the  way  in  Australia. 
You  came  to  me  about  that  business,  perhaps  ?  Oh,  on  such  a  joy- 
ful day  as  this  I  forgive  everybody.  Tell  Joe  I  do  not  want  to  see 
him,  but  I  have  forgiven  him." 

"Oh,  he's  mad!"  growled  James;  "he's  gone  stark  staring 
mad  !" 

"  You  don't  seem  quite  yourself  this  morning,  Mr.  Emblem,"  said 
Mr.  Chalker.  "Perhaps  this  gentleman,  your  friend  from  India, 
will  advise  you  when  I  am  gone.  You  don't  understand,  Mister," 
he  addressed  Lala  Roy,  "the  nature  of  a  bill.  Once  you  .--.tart  a 
bill,  and  begin  to  renew  it,  it's  like  planting  a  tree,  for  it  grows  and 
grows  of  its  own  accord,  and  by  Act  of  Parliament,  too,  though  they 
do  try  to  hack  and  cut  it  down  in  the  most  cruel  way.  You  see, 
Mr.  Emblem  is  obstinate.  He's  got  to  pay  off  that  bill,  which  is  a 
bill  of  sale,  and  he  won't  do  it.  Make  him  write  the  cheque  and 
have  done  with  it." 

"This  is  lie  best  day's  work  I  ever  did,"  Mr.  Emblem  went  on. 
"  To  remember  the  letter,  word  for  word,  and  everything !  Mr. 
Arbuthnot  has,  very  likely,  finished  the  whole  business  by  now. 
Thousands — thousands — and  all  for  Iris  !" 

"Look  here,  Mr.  Emblem,"  said  the  lawyer  angrily.  "  You'll  not 
only  be  a  bankrupt  if  you  go  on  like  this,  but  you'll  be  a  fraudulent 


MR.  JAMES  MAKES  ATONEMENT.  311 

bankrupt  as  well.  Is  it  honest,  I  want  to  know,  to  refuse  your  just 
debts  when  you've  put  by  thousands,  as  you  boast — you  actually 
boast — for  your  granddaughter  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  the  old  man,  "  Iris  will  have  thousands." 

"  I  think,  sir,"  said  Lala  Roy,  "  that  you  are  under  an  illusion. 
Mr.  Emblem  does  not  possess  any  such  savings  or  investments  as 
you  imagine." 

"  Then  why  does  he  go  on  talking  about  thousands  ?" 

"  He  has  had  a  shock  ;  he  cannot  quite  understand  what  has 
happened.     You  had  better  leave  him  for  the  present." 

"Leave  him!  And  nothing  hut  these  mouldy  old  books  !  Here, 
you  sir — you — James — you  shopman — come  here  !  What  is  the 
stock  worth  ?" 

"It  depends  upon  whether  you  are  buying  or  selling,"  said  James. 
"  If  you  were  to  sell  it  under  the  hammer,  in  lots,  it  wouldn't  fetch 
a  hundred  pounds." 

"  There,  you  hear — you  hear,  all  of  you  !  Not  a  hundred  pounds, 
and  my  bill  of  sale  is  three-fifty." 

"  Pray,  sir,"  said  Lala  Roy,  "  who  told  you  that  Mr.  Emblem  was 
so  wealthy?" 

"His  grandson." 

"  Then,  sir,  perhaps  it  would  be  well  to  question  the  grandson 
further.     He  may  know  things  of  which  we  have  heard  nothing." 

The  Act  of  1882,  which  came  into  operation  in  the  following 
January,  is  cruel  indeed,  I  am  told,  to  those  who  advanced  money 
on  bills  of  sale  before  that  date,  for  it  allows — it  actually  allows  the 
debtor  five  clear  days  during  which  he  may,  if  he  can,  without  being 
caught,  make  away  with  portions  of  his  furniture  and  belongings — 
the  smaller  and  the  more  precious  portion ;  or  he  may  find  some  one 
eKe  to  lend  him  the  money,  and  so  get  oft  clear  and  save  his  sticks. 
It  i?,  as  the  modern  Shylock  declares,  a  most  wicked  and  iniquitous 
Act,  by  Y.ruich  the  shark  may  be  baulked,  and  many  an  honest 
tradesman,  who  would  otherwise  have  been  most  justly  ruined,  is 
enabled  to  save  his  stock,  and  left  to  worry  along  until  the  times 
become  more  prosperous.  To  a  man  like  Mr.  David  Chalker,  such 
an  Act  of  Parliament  is  most  revolting. 

He  went  away  at  length,  leaving  the  man — the  professional  per- 
son— behind.  Then  Lala  Roy  persuaded  Mr.  Emblem  to  go  up- 
stairs again.  He  did  so  without  any  apparent  consciousness  that 
there  was  a  Man  in  Possession. 

"  James,"  said  Lala  Roy,  "  you  have  heard  that  your  master  has 
been  robbed.  You  are  reflecting  and  meditating  on  this  circum- 
stance. Another  thing  is,  that  a  creditor  has  threatened  to  sell  off 
everything  for  a  debt.  Most  likely  everything  will  be  sold  and  the 
shop  closed.  You  will,  therefore,  lose  the  place  you  have  had  for 
five-and-twenty  years.  That  is  a  very  bad  business  for  you.  You 
are  unfortunate  this  morning — to  lose  your  place,  and  then  this 
robbery.     That  seems  also  a  bad  business," 


312  IN  LUCK  AT  LA  ST. 

"  It  is,"  said  James,  with  a,  hollow  groan  ;  "  it  is,  Mr.  Lala  Roy, 
It  is  a  dreadful  bad  business." 

"  Pray,  Mr.  James,"  continued  this  man,  with  grave,  searching 
eyes,  which  made  sinners  shake  in  their  shoes — "  pray,  why  did 
j'ou  run  away,  and  where  did  you  go,  after  you  opened  the  shop 
this  morning  ?  You  went  to  see  Mr.  Emblem's  grandson,  did  you 
not  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  did,"  said  James. 

''  Why  did  you  go  to  see  him  ?" 

"  I  w — w — went — oh,  Lord  ! — I  went  to  tell  him  what  had  hap- 
pened, because  he  is  master's  grandson,  and  I  thought  he  ought  to 
know,"  said  James. 

"  Did  you  tell  him  ?" 

"  No  ;  he  has  left  his  lodgings.  I  don't  know  where  he  is.  Oh, 
and  he  always  told  me  the  shop  was  his — settled  on  him !"  he 
said. 

"  He  is  the  Father  of  Lies  ;  his  end  will  be  confusion.  Shame 
and  confusion  shall  wait  upon  all  who  have  hearkened  unto  him  or 
worked  with  him,  until  they  repent  and  make  atonement." 

"  Don't,  Mr.  Lala  Roy — don't !  you  frighten  me  !"  said  James. 
"  Oh,  what  a  dreadful  Liar  he  is  !" 

All  that  morning  the  Philosopher  sat  in  the  bookseller's  chair, 
and  James,  in  the  outer  shop,  felt  that  those  deep  eyes  were  rest- 
ing continually  upon  him,  and  knew  that  bit  by  bit  his  secret  would 
be  dragged  from  him.  If  he  could  get  up  and  run  away — if  a 
customer  would  come — if  the  dark  gentleman  would  go  upstairs — 
if  he  could  think  of  something  else !  But  none  of  these  things 
happened,  and  James,  at  his  table  with  the  paste  before  him, 
passed  a  morning  compared  with  which  any  seat  anywhere  in  Pur- 
gatory would  have  been  comfortable.  Presently  a  strange  feeling 
came  over  him,  as  if  some  invisible  force  was  pushing  and  dragging 
him  and  forcing  him  to  leave  his  chair,  and  throw  himself  at  the 
Philosopher's  feet  and  confess  everything.  This  was  the  mesmeric 
effect  of  those  reproachful  eyes  fixed  steadily  upon  him.  And  in 
the  doorway,  like  some  figure  in  a  nightmare — a  figure  incongruous 
and  out  of  place — the  Man  in  Possession  sitting,  passive  and  un- 
concerned, with  one  eye  on  the  street  and  the  other  on  the  shop. 
Upstairs,  Mi*.  Emblem  was  sitting  fast  asleep — joy  had  made  him 
sleepy ;  and  Iris  was  at  work  among  her  pupils'  letters,  compiling 
sums  for  the  Fruiterer,  making  a  paper  on  Conic  Sections  for  the 
Cambridge  man,  and  working  out  Trigonometrical  Equations  for 
the  young  schoolmaster,  and  her  mind  full  of  a  solemn  exultation 
and  glory,  for  she  wan  a  woman  who  was  loved.  The  other  things 
troubled  her  but  little.  Her  grandfather  would  get  back  his  equi- 
librium of  mind  ;  the  shop  might  be  shut  up,  but  that  mattered 
little.  Arnold,  and  Lala  Roy,  and  her  grandfather,  and.  herself, 
would  all  live  together,  and  she  and  Arnold  would  work.  The 
selfishness  of  youth  is  really  astonishing.     Nothing — except,  per- 


MR.  JAMES  MAKES  ATONEMENT.  313 

haps,  toothache— can  make  a  girl  unhappy  who  is  loved  and  newly- 
betrothed.  She  may  say  what  she  pleases,  and  her  face  may  be  a 
yard  long  when  she  speaks  of  the  misfortunes  of  others,  but  all 
the  time  her  heart  is  dancing. 

To  Lala  Eoy  the  situation  presented  a  problem  with  insufficient 
data,  some  of  which  would  have  to  be  guessed.  A  letter,  now  lost, 
said  that  a  certain  case  contained  papers  necessary  to  obtain  an 
unknown  inheritance  for  Iris.  How,  then,  to  ascertain  whether 
anybody  was  expecting  or  looking  for  a  girl  to  claim  an  inherit- 
ance ?  "Then  there  was  half  a  coat-of-arms  ;  and  lastly,  there  was 
a  certain  customer  of  unknown  name,  who  had  been  acquainted 
with  Iris's  father  before  his  marriage.  So  far  for  Iris.  As  for  the 
thief,  Lala  Eoy  had  no  doubt  at  all.  It  was,  he  was  quite  certain, 
the  grandson,  whose  career  he  had  watched  for  some  years  with 
interest  and  curiosity.  Who  else  was  there  who  would  steal  the 
papers  ?  And  who  would  help  him,  and  give  him  access  to  the 
safe  ?  He  did  not  only  suspect— he  was  certain  that  James  was 
in  some  way  cognisant  of  the  deed.  Why  else  did  he  turn  so 
pale  ?  Why  did  he  rush  off  to  Joe's  lodgings  ?  Why  did  he  sit 
trembling  ? 

At  half-past  twelve  Lala  Roy  rose. 

"  It  is  your  dinner-hour,"  he  said  to  James  ;  and  it  seemed  to 
the  unhappy  man  as  if  he  was  saying,  "  I  know  all."  "  It  is  your 
dinner-hour ;  go,  eat,  refresh  the  body.  Whom  should  suspicion 
affright  except  the  guilty  ?" 

James  put  on  his  hat  and  sneaked — he  felt  that  he  was  sneaking 
— out  of  the  shop. 

During  his  dinner-hour,  Joseph  himself  called.  It  was  an  un- 
usual thing  to  see  him  at  any  time  ;  in  fact,  as  he  was  never  wont 
to  call  upon  his  grandfather  unless  he  was  in  a  scrape  and  wanted 
money  :  no  one  ever  made  the  poor  young  man  welcome,  or  begged 
him  to  come  more  often. 

But  this  morning  he  walked  upstairs,  and  appeared  so  cheerful, 
so  entirely  free  from  any  self-reproach  for  past  sins,  and  so  easy 
in  his  mind,  without  the  least  touch  of  the  old  hang-dog  look,  that 
Iris  began  to  reproach  herself  for  thinking  badly  of  her  cousin. 

AVhen  he  was  told  about  the  robbery,  he  expressed  the  greatest 
surprise  that  anyone  in  the  world  could  be  so  wicked  as  to  rob  an 
old  man  like  his  grandfather.  Besides  his  abhorrence  of  crime  in 
the  abstract,  he  affirmed  that  the  robbery  of  a  safe  was  a  species 
of  villainy  for  which  hanging  was  too  mild— much  too  mild  a 
punishment.  He  then  asked  his  grandfather  what  were  the  con- 
tents of  the  packet  stolen ;  and  when  he  received  no  answer  except 
a  pleasant  and  a  cheery  laugh,  he  asked  Iris,  and  learned  to  his 
sorrow  that  the  contents  were  unknown,  and  could  not,  therefore, 
be  identified,  even  if  they  were  found.  This,  he  said,  was  a  thou- 
sand pities,  because  if  they  had  been  known,  a  reward  might  have 
been  offered.     For  his  own  part,   he  would  advise  the  greatest 


314  IN  L  UCK  AT  LA  ST. 

caution.  Nothing  at  all  should  be  done  at  first ;  no  step  should  be 
taken  which  might  awaken  suspicion  ;  they  should  go  on  as  if  the 
papers  were  without  value.  As  for  that,  they  had  no  real  proof 
that  there  was  any  robbery.  Iris  thought  of  telling  him  about 
the  water-mark  of  the  blank  pages,  but  refrained.  Perhaps  there 
was  no  robbery  after  all — who  was  to  prove  what  had  been  inside 
the  packet  ?  But  if  there  had  been  papers,  and  if  they  were 
valueless  except  to  the  rightful  owners,  they  would,  perhaps,  be 
sent  back  voluntarily ;  or  after  a  time,  say  a  year  or  two,  they 
might  be  advertised  for  ;  not  as  if  the  owners  were  very  anxious  to 
get  them,  and  not  revealing  the  nature  of  the  papers,  but  cautiously; 
and  presently,  if  they  had  not  been  destroyed,  the  holders  of  the 
papers  would  answer  the  advertisement,  and  then  a  moderate  reward 
might,  after  a  while,  be  offered  ;  and  so  on,  giving  excellent  advice. 
While  he  was  speaking,  Lala  Roy  entered  the  room  in  his  noiseless 
manner,  and  took  his  accustomed  chair. 

"And  what  do  you  think,  sir  ?"  said  Joseph,  when  he  had  finished. 
"  You  have  heard  my  advice.  You  are  not  an  Englishman,  but  I 
suppose  you've  got  some  intelligence." 

Lala  bowed  and  spread  his  hands,  but  replied  not. 

"  Your  opinion  should  be  asked,"  Joseph  went  on,  "  because,  you 
see,  as  the  only  other  person,  besides  my  grandfather  and  my  cousin, 
in  the  house,  you  might  yourself  be  suspected.  Indeed,"  he  added, 
"  I  have  no  doubt  you  will  be  suspected.  When  I  take  over  the 
conduct  of  the  case,  which  will  be  my  task,  I  suppose,  it  will,  per- 
haps, be  my  duty  to  suspect  you." 

Lala  bowed  again  and  again,  spread  his  hands,  but  did  not  speak. 

In  fact,  Joseph  now  perceived  that  he  was  having  the  conver- 
sation wholly  to  himself.  His  grandfather  sat  passive,  listening  as 
one  who,  in  a  dream,  hears  voices  but  does  not  heed  what  they  are 
saying,  yet  smiling  politely.  Iris  listened,  but  paid  no  heed.  She 
thought  that  a  great  deal  of  fuss  was  being  made  about  pnners, 
which,  perhaps,  were  worth  nothing.  And  as  for  her  inheritance, 
why,  as  she  never  expected  to  get  any,  she  was  not  going  to  mourn 
the  loss  of  what,  perhaps,  was  worth  nothing. 

"  Yery  well,  then,"  said  Joseph,  "  that's  all  I've  got  to  say.  I've 
given  you  the  best  advice  I  can,  and  I  suppose  I  may  go.  Have  you 
lost  your  voice,  Iris  ?" 

"  No  ;  but  I  think  you  had  better  go,  Joseph.  My  grandfather  is 
not  able  to  talk  this  morning,  and  I  dare  say  your  advice  is  very 
good,  but  we  have  other  advisers." 

"As  for  you,  Mr.  Lala  Hoy,  or  whatever  you  call  yourself,"  said 
Joe  roughly,  "  I've  warned  you.  Suspicion  will  certainly  fall  upon 
you,  and  what  I  say  is — take  care.  For  my  own  part,  I  never  did 
believe  in  niggers,  and  I  wouldn't  have  one  in  my  house." 

Lala  Eoy  again  bowed  and  spread  his  fingers. 

Then  Joseph  went  away.  The  door  between  the  shop  and  the 
ball  was  half -open,  and  he  looked  in.    A  strange  man  was  sitting  in 


MR.  JAMES  MAKES  A  TONEMENT.  3  r  5 

the  outer  shop,  a  pipe  in  his  mouth,  and  James  was  leaning  his  head 
upon  his  hands,  with  wild  and  haggard  eyes  gazing  straight  before 
him. 

"  Poor  devil !"  murmured  Joseph.  "  I  feel  for  him,  I  do  indeed. 
He  had  the  key  made — for  himself  ;  he  certainly  let  me  use  it  once, 
but  only  once,  and  who's  to  prove  it  ?  And  he's  had  the  oppor- 
tunity every  day  of  using  it  himself.  That's  very  awkward,  Foxy, 
my  boy.     If  I  were  Foxj-,  I  should  be  in  a  funk,  myself." 

Pie  strolled  away,  thinking  that  all  promised  well.  Lotty  most 
favourably  and  unsuspiciously  received  in  her  new  character  ;  no 
one  knowing  the  contents  of  the  packet;  his  grandfather  gone  silly; 
and  for  himself,  he  had  had  the  opportunity  of  advising  exactly 
what  he  wished  to  be  done — namely,  that  silence  and  inaction  should 
be  observed  for  a  space,  in  order  to  give  the  holders  of  the  property 
a  chance  of  offering  terms.  "What  better  advice  could  he  give  ? 
And  what  line  of  action  would  be  better  or  safer  for  himself  ? 

If  James  had  known  who  was  in  the  house-passage,  the  other  side 
of  the  door,  there  would,  I  think,  have  been  a  collision  of  two 
solid  bodies.  But  he  did  not  know,  and  presently  Lala  Roy  came 
back,  and  the  torture  began  again.  James  took  down  books  and 
put  them  up  again  ;  he  moved  about  feverishly,  doing  nothing,  with 
a  duster  in  his  hand  ;  but  all  the  time  he  felt  those  deep  accusing 
eyes  upon  him  with  a  silence  worse  than  a  thousand  questions.  He 
knew — he  was  perfectly  certain — that  he  should  be  found  out. 
And  all  the  trouble  for  nothing  !  and  the  Bailiff's  man  in  posses- 
sion, and  the  safe  robbed,  and  those  eyes  upon  him,  saying,  as  plain 
as  eyes  could  speak,  "  Thou  art  the  Man  !" 

"  And  Joe  is  the  man,"  said  James  ;  "  not  me  at  all.  What  I  did 
was  wrong, but  I  was  tcmrU.cl.  Oh,  what  a  precious  liar  and  villain 
he  is  !     And  what  a  fool  I've  been  !" 

The  day  passed  more  slowly  than  it  seemed  possible  for  any  day 
to  pass  ;  always  the  man  in  the  shop  ;  always  the  deep  eyes  of  the 
silent  Hindoo  upon  him.  It  was  a  relief  when,  once,  Mr.  Chalker 
looked  in  and  surveyed  the  shelves  with  a  suspicious  air,  and  asked 
if  the  old  man  had  by  this  time  listened  to  reason. 

It  is  the  business  of  him  who  makes  plunder  out  of  other  men's 
distresses — as  the  jackal  feeds  upon  the  offal  and  the  putrid  carcase 
— to  know  as  exactly  as  he  can  how  his  fellow-creatures  are  situated. 
For  this  reason  such  an  one  doth  diligently  inquire,  listen,  pick  up 
secrets,  put  two  and  two  together,  and  pry  curiously  into  everybody's 
affairs,  being  never  so  happy  as  when  he  gels  an  opportunity  of 
going  to  the  rescue  of  a  sinking  man.  Thus  among  those  who  lived 
in  good  repute  about  the  lower  end  of  the  King's  lload,  none  had  a 
better  name  than  Mr.  Emblem,  and  no  one  was  considered  to  have 
made  more  of  his  chances.  And  it  was  with  joy  that  Mr.  Ghalker 
received  Joe  one  evening  and  heard  from  him  the  dismal  story,  that 
if  he  could  not  find  fifty  pounds  within  a  few  hours,  he  was  ruined. 
The  fifty  pounds  was  raised  on  a  bill  bearing  Mr.  Emblem's  name. 


3 1 6  IN  L UCK  AT  LAST. 

When  it  was  presented,  however,  and  the  circumstances  explained 
the  old  gentleman,  who  had  at  first  refused  to  own  the  signature,  ac 
cepted  it  meekly,  and  told  no  one  that  his  grandson  had  written  it 
himself,  and  without  the  polite  formality  of  asking  permission  to 
sign  for  him.  In  other  words,  Joseph  was  a  forger,  and  Mr.  Chalkor 
knew  it,  and  this  made  him  the  more  astonished  when  Mr.  Emblem 
did  not  take  up  the  bill,  but  got  it  renewed  quarter  after  quarter, 
substituting  at  length  a  bill  of  sale,  as  if  he  was  determined  to  pay 
as  much  as  possible  for  his  grandson's  sins. 

"  Where  is  he  ?"  asked  the  money-lender  angrily.  "  Why  doesn't 
he  come  down  and  face  his  creditors  ?" 

"  Master's  upstairs,"  said  James,  "  and  you've  seen  yourself,  Mr. 
Chalker,  that  he  is  off  his  chump.  And  oh,  sir,  who  would  hava 
thought  that  Emblem's  would  have  come  to  ruin  ?" 

"  But  there's  something,  James Come,  think — there  mur-'.  be 

something." 

"  Mr.  Joseph  said  there  were  thousands.  But  he's  a  terrible  liar 
■ — oh,  Mr.  Chalker,  he's  a  terrible  liar  and  villain  !  Why,  he's  even 
deceived  me  !" 

"  What  ?     Has  he  borrowed  your  money  ?" 

"Worse — worse.     Do  you  know  where  I  could  find  him,  sir?" 

"  Well,  I  don't  know "   Mr.  Chalker  was  not  in  the  habit  of 

giving  addresses,  but  in  this  case,  perhaps  Joe  might  be  squeezed 
as  well  as  his  grandfather.  Unfortunately  that  bill  with  the 
signature  had  been  destroyed.  "I  don't  know.  Perhaps  if  I  find 
out  I  may  tell  you.  And,  James,  if  you  can  learn  anything — this 
rubbish  won't  fetch  half  the  money — I'll  make  it  worth  your  while, 
James,  I  will  indeed." 

"  I'll  make  him  take  his  share,"  said  James  to  himself.  "  If  I 
have  to  go  to  prison,  he  shall  go  too.  They  shan't  send  me  with- 
out sending  him." 

He  looked  round.  The  watchful  eyes  were  gone.  The  Hindoo 
had  gone  away  noiselessly.     James  breathed  again. 

"  After  all,"  he  said,  "  how  are  they  to  find  out  ?  How  are  tbey 
to  prove  anything  ?  Mr.  Joseph  took  the  things,  and  I  helped  him 
to  a  key  ;  and  he  isn't  likely  to  split,  and — oh  ,  Lord,  if  they  were 
to  find  it  !"  For  at  that  moment  he  felt  the  duplicate  key  in  his 
waistcoat-pocket.     "  If  they  were  to  find  it !" 

He  took  the  key  out,  and  looked  at  the  bright  and  innocent- 
looking  thing,  as  a  murderer  might  look  at  his  blood-stained 
dagger. 

Just  then,  as  he  gazed  upon  it,  holding  it  just  twelve  inches  in 
front  of  his  nose,  one  hand  was  laid  upon  his  shoulder,  and  another 
took  the  key  from  between  his  fingers. 

He  turned  quickly,  and  his  knees  gave  way,  and  he  sank  upon 
the  floor,  crying  : 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Lala  Roy,  sir,  Mr.  Lala  Roy,  I  am  not  the  thief  !  I 
am  innocent !     I  will  tell  you  all  about  it !     I  will  confess  all  to 


MR.  JAMES  MAKES  ATONEMENT.  317 

you  !  I  will  indeed  !  I  will  make  atonement !  Oh,  what  a  miser- 
able fool  I've  been  !" 

"  Upon  the  heels  of  Folly,"  said  the  Sage,  "  treadeth  Shame.  You 
will  now  be  able  to  understand  the  words  of  wisdom,  which  say  of 
the  wicked  man,  '  The  curse  of  iniquity  pnrsueth  him  ;  he  liveth 
in  continual  fear  ;  the  anxiety  of  his  mind  taketh  vengeance  upon 
him.'     Stand  up  and  speak." 

The  Man  in  Possession  looked  on  as  if  an  incident  of  this  kind 
was  too  common  in  families  for  him  to  take  any  notice  of  it. 
Nothing,  in  fact,  is  able  to  awaken  astonishment  in  the  heart  of  the 
Man  in  Possession,  because  nothing  is  sacred  to  him  except  the 
"  sticks  "  he  has  to  guard.  To  Iris,  the  event  was,  however,  of  im- 
portance, because  it  afforded  Lala  Roy  a  chance  of  giving  Arnold 
that  photograph,  no  other  than  an  early  portrait  of  Mr.  Emblem's 
grandson. 


XII. 

IS  THIS   HIS  PHOTOGRAPH  ? 

The  best  way  to  get  a  talk  with  his  cousin  was  to  dine  with  her. 
Arnold  therefore  went  to  Chester  Square  next  day  with  the  photo- 
graph in  his  pocket.  It  was  half  an  hour  before  dinner  when  he 
arrived,  and  Clara  was  alone. 

"My  dear,"  she  cried  with  enthusiasm,  "I  am  charmed — I  am 
delighted — with  Iris." 

"  I  am  glad,"  said  Arnold  mendaciously. 

"  I  am  delighted  with  her — in  every  way.  She  is  more  and 
better  than  I  could  have  expected — far  more.  A  few  Ameri- 
canisms, of  course " 

"  No  doubt,"  said  Arnold.  "  When  I  saw  her  I  thought  they 
rather  resembled  Anglicisms.  But  you  have  had  opportunities  of 
judging.  You  have  in  your  own  possession,"  he  continued,  "have 
you  not,  all  the  papers  which  establish  her  identity  ?" 

"  Oh  yes  ;  they  are  all  locked  up  in  my  strong-box.  I  shall  be 
very  careful  of  them.  Though,  of  course,  there  is  no  one  who  has 
to  be  satisfied  except  myself.  And  I  am  perfectly  satisfied.  But 
then  I  never  had  any  doubt  from  the  beginning.  How  could  there 
be  any  doubt  ?" 

"  How,  indeed  ?" 

"  Truth,  honour,  loyalty,  and  candour,  as  well  as  gentle  descent, 
are  written  on  that  girl's  noble  brow,  Arnold,  plain,  so  that  all  may 
read.  It  is  truly  wonderful,"  she  went  on,  "  how  the  old  gentle 
blood  shows  itself,  and  will  break  out  under  the  most  unexpected 
conditions.     In  her  face  she  is  not  much  like  her  father  :    that  is 


3 1  !>  IN  L  UCK  A  T  LA  ST. 

true  ;  though  sometimes  I  catch  a  momentary  resemblance,  which 
instantly  disappears  again.  Her  eyes  are  not  in  the  least  like  his, 
nor  has  she  his  manner,  or  carriage,  or  any  of  his  little  tricks  and 
peculiarities — though,  perhaps,  I  shall  observe  traces  of  some  of 
them  in  time.  But  especially  she  resembles  him  in  her  voice.  The 
tone — the  timbre — reminds  me  every  moment  of  my  poor  Claude." 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Arnold,  "that  one  must  inherit  something,  if  it 
is  only  a  voice,  from  one's  father.  Have  you  said  anything  to  her 
yet  about  money  matters,  and  a  settlement  of  her  claims  ?" 

"  No,  not  yet.  I  did  venture,  last  night,  to  approach  the  subject, 
but  she  would  not  hear  of  it.  So  I  dropped  it.  I  call  that  true 
delicacy,  Arnold— native,  instinctive,  hereditary  delicacy." 

"  Have  you  given  any  more  money  to  the  American  gentleman 
who  brought  her  homo  ?" 

"  Iris  made  him  take  a  hundred  pounds,  against  his  will,  to  buy 
books  with,  for  he  is  not  rich.  Poor  fellow  !  It  went  much  against 
the  grain  with  him  to  take  the  money.  But  she  made  him  take  it. 
She  said  he  wanted  books  and  instruments,  and  insisted  on  his 
having  at  least  a  hundred  pounds.  It  was  generous  of  her.  Yes  ; 
she  is — I  am  convinced — a  truly  generous  girl,  and  as  open-handed 
as  the  day.  Now,  would  a  common  girl,  a  girl  of  no  descent, 
have  shown  so  much  delicacy  and  genercsiiy  ?" 

"  By  the  way,  Clara,  here  is  a  photograph.  Does  it  belong  to 
you  ?     I — I  picked  it  up." 

He  showed  the  photograph  which  Labi  Roy  had  given  him. 

"  Oh  yes  ;  it  is  a  likeness  of  Dr.  Washington,  Iris's  adopted 
brother  and  guardian.  She  must  have  dropped  it.  I  should  think 
it  was  taken  a  few  years  back,  but  it  is  still  a  very  good  likeness. 
A  handsome  man,  is  he  not  ?  He  grows  upon  one  rather.  His 
parting  words  with  Iris  yesterday  were  very  dignified  :,nd  touching. ' 

"I  will  give  it  to  her  presently,"  he  replied,  with;u  further 
comment. 

There  was,  then,  no  doubt.  The  woman  was  ,-  mpostor,  and 
the  man  was  the  thief,  and  the  papers  were  the  papcs  whic\  had 
been  stolen  from  the  safe,  and  Iris  Deseret  was  no  other  thai-  his 
own  Iris.     But  he  must  not  show  the  least  sign  of  suspicion. 

"  What  are  you  thinking  about,  Arnold  ?"  asked  Clara.  "  Your 
face  is  as  black  as  thunder.  You  are  not  sorry  that  Iris  has  re- 
turned, are  you  ?" 

"  I  was  thinking  of  my  engagement,  Clara." 

"  Why,  you  are  not  tired  of  it  already  ?  An  engaged  man, 
Arnold,  ought  not  to  look  so  gloomy  as  that." 

"  I  am  not  tired  of  it  yet.  But  I  am  unhappy  as  regards  some 
circumstances  connected  with  it.  Your  disapproval,  Clara,  for  one. 
My  dear  cousin,  I  owe  so  much  to  you,  that  I  want  to  owe  you  more. 
Now,  I  have  a  proposition — a  promise — to  make  to  you.  I  am  now 
so  sure,  so  very  sure  and  certain,  that  you  will  want  me  to  marry 
Miss  Aglen — and  no  one  else — when  you  once  know  her,  that  I  will 


IS  THIS  HIS  PHOTOGRAPH?  319 

engage  solemnly  not  to  marry  her  unless  you  entirely  approve.  Let 
me  owe  my  wife  to  you,  as  well  as  everything  else." 

"  Arnold,  you  are  not  in  earnest  ?" 

"  Quite  in  earnest." 

"  But  I  shall  never  approve.  Never — never— never  !  I  could 
not  bring  myself,  under  any  circumstances  that  I  can  conceive,  to 
approve  of  such  a  connection." 

"  jIv  dear  cousin,  I  am,  on  the  other  hand,  perfectly  certain  that 
you  will  approve.  Why,  if  I  were  not  quite  certain,  do  you  think 
I  should  have  made  this  promise  ?  But  to  return  to  your  newly- 
found  cousin.     Tell  me  more  about  her." 

"  Well,  I  have  discovered  that  she  is  a  really  very  clever  and 
gifted  girl.  She  can  imitate  people  in  the  most  wonderful  way, 
especially  actresses,  though  she  has  only  been  to  a  theatre  once  or 
twice  in  her  life.  At  Liverpool  she  heard  some  one  sing  what  she 
calls  a  Topical  Song,  and  this  she  actually  remembers — she  carried  it 
away  in  her  head,  every  word — and  she  can  sing  it  just  as  they  sing 
it  on  the  stage,  with  all  the  vulgarity  and  gestures  imitated  to  the 
very  life.  Of  course  I  should  not  like  her  to  do  this  before  any- 
body else  ;  but  it  is  really  very  wonderful." 

"  Indeed  !"  said  Arnold.     "  It  must  be  very  clever  and  amusing." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Clara,  with  colossal  ignorance,  "  an  American 
lady  can  hardly  be  expected  to  understand  English  vulgarities.  No 
doubt  there  is  an  American  variety." 

Arnold  thought  that  a  vulgar  song  could  be  judged  at  its  true 
value  by  any  lady,  either  American  or  English  ;  but  he  said 
nothing. 

And  then  the  young  lady  herself  appeared.  She  had  been 
driving  about  with  Clara  among  various  shops,  and  now  bore  upon 
her  person  the  charming  result  of  these  journeys,  in  the  shape  of  a 
garment,  which  was  rich  in  texture,  and  splendid  in  the  making. 
And  she  really  was  a  handsome  girl,  only  with  a  certain  air  of  being 
dressed  for  the  stage.  But  Arnold,  now  more  than  suspicious,  was 
not  dazzled  by  the  gorgeous  raiment,  and  only  considered  how  his 
cousin  could  for  a  moment  imagine  this  person  to  be  a  lady,  and  how 
it  would  be  best  to  break  the  news. 

"  Clara's  cousin,"  she  said,  "I  have  forgotten  your  name;  but  how 
do  you  do,  again  V" 

And  then  they  went  in  to  dinner. 

"  You  have  learned,  I  suppose,"  said  Arnold,  "  something  about 
the  Deseret  family  by  this  time  ?" 

"  Oh  yes  ;  I  have  heard  all  about  the  family- tree.  I  dare  say  I 
shall  get  to  know  it  by  heart  in  time.  But  you  don't  expect  me, 
all  at  once,  to  care  much  for  it." 

"  Little  Eepublican  !"  said  Clara.  "  She  actually  does  not  feel  a 
pride  in  belonging  to  a  good  old  family." 

The  girl  made  a  little  gesture. 

"Your  family  can't  do  much  for  you,  that  I  can  see,  except  to 


320  IN  L UCK  AT  LAST. 

make  you  proud,  and  pretend  not  to  see  other  women  in  the  shop 
That  is  what  the  county  ladies  do." 

"  Why,  my  dear,  what  on  earth  do  you  know  of  the  county 
ladies  ?" 

Lotty  blushed  a  little.  She  had  made  a  mistake.  But  she  quickly 
recovered. 

"  I  only  know  what  I've  read,  cousin,  about  any  kind  of  English 
ladies.     But  that's  enough,  I'm  sure.     Stuck-up  things  !" 

And  again  she  observed,  from  Clara's  pained  expression,  that  she 
had  made  another  mistake. 

If  she:showed  a  liking  for  stout  at  lunch,  she  manifested  a  positive 
passion  for  champagne  at  dinner. 

"  I  do  like  the  English  custom,"  she  said,  "  of  having  two 
Sinners  in  the  day." 

"  Ladies  in  America,  I  suppose,"  said  Clara,  "  dine  in  the  middle 
of  the  day  ?" 

"Always." 

"  But  I  have  visited  many  families  in  New  York  and  Boston  who 
dined  late,"  said  Arnold. 

"  Dare  say,"  she  replied  carelessly;  "  I'm  going  to  have  some  more 
of  that  curry  stuff,  please.  And  don't  ask  any  more  questions,  any- 
body, till  I've  worried  through  with  it.     I'm  a  wolf  at  curry." 

"  She  likes  England,  Arnold,"  said  Clara,  covering  up  this  remark, 
so  to  speak.     "  She  likes  the  country,  she  says,  very  much." 

"  At  all  events,"  said  the  girl,  "  I  like  this  house,  which  is  first- 
class — fine — proper.  And  the  furniture,  and  pictures,  and  all — tip- 
top. But  I'm  afraid  it  is  going  to  be  awful  dull,  except  at  meals, 
and  when  the  Boy  is  going."  Her  own  head  was  just  touched  by 
the  "  Boy,"  and  she  was  a  little  off  her  guard. 

"My  dear  child,"  said  Clara,  "you  have  only  just  come,  and  you 
have  not  yet  learned  to  know  and  love  your  own  home  and  your 
father's  friends.     You  must  take  a  little  time." 

"  Oh,  I'll  take  time.  As  long  as  you  like.  But  I  shall  soon  be 
tired  of  sitting  at  home.  I  want  to  go  about  and  see  things — 
theatres  and  music-halls,  and  all  kinds  of  places." 

"  Ladies  in  England  do  not  go  to  music-halls,"  said  Arnold. 

"  Gentlemen  do.  Why  not  ladies,  then  ?  Answer  me  that.  Why 
can't  ladies  go,  when  gentlemen  go  ?  What  is  proper  for  gentle- 
men is  proper  for  ladies.  Very  well,  then,  I  want  to  go  somewhere 
every  night.  I  want  to  see  everything  there  is  to  see,  and  to  hear 
all  that  there  is  to  hear." 

"We  shall  go,  presently,  a  good  deal  into  society,"  said  Clara 
timidly.  "  Society  will  come  back  to  town  very  soon  now — at  least, 
some  of  it." 

"  Oh  yes,  I  dare  say.  Society  !  No,  thank  you,  with  company 
manners.     I  want  to  laugh,  and  talk,  and  enjoy  myself." 

The  champagne,  in  fact,  had  made  her  forget  the  instructions  of 
her  tutor.     At  all  events,  she  looked  anything  but  "quiet,"  with  her 


IS  THIS  HIS  PHOTOGRAPH?  321 

face  flushed  and  her  eyes  bright.  Suddenly  she  caught  Arnold's 
expression  of  suspicion  and  watchfulness,  and  resolutely  subdued  a 
rising  inclination  to  get  up  from  the  table  and  have  a  walk  round 
with  a  snatch  of  a  Topical  Song. 

"Forgive  me,  Clara,"  she  murmured  in  her  sweetest  tone  ;  "for- 
give me,  cousin.  I  feel  as  if  I  must  break  out  a  bit,  now  and  then. 
Yankee  manners,  you  know.  Let  me  stay  quiet  with  you  for  a 
while.  You  know  the  thought  of  starched  and  stiff  London  society 
quite  frightens  me.  I  am  not  used  to  anything  stiff.  Let  me  stay 
at  home  quiet,  with  you." 

"  Dear  girl !"  cried  Clara,  her  eyes  filling  with  tears  ;  "  she  has  all 
Claude's  affectionate  softness  of  heart." 

"I  believe,"  said  Arnold,  later  on  in  the  evening,  "that  she  must 
have  been  a  circus-rider,  or  something  of  that  sort.  What  on  earth 
does  Clara  mean  by  the  gentle  blood  breaking  out  ?  "We  nearly  had 
a  breaking  out  at  dinner,  but  it  certainly  was  not  due  to  the  gentle 
blood." 

After  dinner,  Arnold  found  her  sitting  on  a  sofa  with  Clara,  who 
was  telling  her  something  about  the  glories  of  the  Deseret  family. 
He  was  half  inclined  to  pity  the  girl,  or  to  laugh — he  was  not 
certain  which — for  the  patience  with  which  she  listened,  in  order  to 
make  amends  for  any  bad  impression  she  might  have  produced  at 
dinner.  He  asked  her,  presently,  if  she  would  play.  She  might  be, 
and  certainly  was,  vulgar  ;  but  she  could  play  well,  and  she  knew 
good  music.  People  generally  think  that  good  music  softens 
manners,  and  does  not  permit  those  who  play  and  practise  it  to  be 
vulgar.  But,  concerning  this  young  person,  so  much  could  not  be 
said  with  any  truth. 

"You  play  very  well.  Where  did  you  learn?  Who  was  your 
master  ?"  Arnold  asked. 

She  began  to  reply,  but  stopped  short.  He  had  very  nearly 
caught  her. 

"  Don't  ask  questions,"  she  said.  "  I  told  you  not  to  ask  questions 
before.  Where  should  I  learn  but  in  America  ?  Do  you  suppose 
no  one  can  play  the  piano  except  in  England?  Look  here,"  she 
glanced  at  her  cousin.  "  Do  you,  Mr.  Arbuthnot,  always  spend  your 
evenings  like  this  ?" 

"  How  like  this  ?" 

"  Why,  going  around  in  a  swallow-tail  to  drawing-rooms  with  the 
women,  like  a  tame  tom-cat  ?  If  you  do,  you  must  be  a  truly  good 
young  man.     If  you  don't,  what  do  you  do  ?" 

"  Very  often,  I  spend  my  evenings  in  a  drawing-room." 

"  Oh,  Lord  !  Do  most  young  Englishmen  carry  on  in  the  same 
proper  way  ?" 

"  Why  not  ?" 

"Don't  they  go  to  music-halls,  please,  and  dancing  cribs,  and 
such  ?" 

21 


322  IN  L UCK  AT  LAST. 

"  Perhaps.  But  what  does  it  concern  us  to  know  what  some  men 
do?" 

"  Oh,  not  much.  Only  if  I  were  a  man  like  you,  I  wouldn't 
consent  to  be  a  tame  tom-cat — that  is  all ;  bat  perhaps  you  like  it." 

She  meant  to  insult  and  offend  him,  so  that  he  should  not  come 
any  more. 

But  she  did  not  succeed.  He  only  laughed,  feeling  that  he  was 
getting  below  the  surface,  and  sat  down  beside  the  piano. 

"You  amuse  me,"  he  said,  "and  you  astonish  me.  You  are,  in 
fact,  the  most  astonishing  person  I  ever  met.  For  instance,  you 
come  from  America,  and  you  talk  pure  London  slang  with  a  cockney 
t,wang.     How  did  it  get  there  ?" 

In  fact,  it  was  not  exactly  London  slang,  but  a  patois  or  dialect, 
leirned  partly  from  her  husband,  partly  from  her  companions,  and 
partly  brought  from  Gloucester. 

"  I  don't  know — I  never  asked.  It  came  wrapped  up  in  brown 
paper,  perhaps,  with  a  string  round  it." 

"  You  have  lived  in  America  all  your  life,  and  you  look  more  like 
an  Englishwoman  than  any  other  girl  I  have  ever  seen." 

"  Do  I  ?     So  much  the  better  for  the  English  girls  ;  they  can't  do 
better  than  take  after  me.     But  perhaps — most  likely,  in  fact — you 
think  that  American  girls  all  squint,  perhaps,  or  have  got  hump 
backs  ?     Anything  else  ?" 

"  You  were  brought  up  in  a  little  American  village,  and  yet  you 
play  in  the  style  of  a  girl  who  has  had  the  best  masters." 

She  did  not  explain — it  was  not  necessary  to  explain — that  her 
master  had  been  her  father,  who  was  a  teacher  of  music. 

"  I  can't  help  it,  can  I  ?"  she  asked  ;  "  I  can't  help  it  if  I  turned 
out  different  to  what  you  expected.  People  sometimes  do,  you 
know.  And  when  you  don't  approve  of  a  girl,  it's  English  manners, 
I  suppose,  to  tell  her  so — kind  of  encourages  her  to  persevere,  and 
pray  for  better  luck  next  time,  doesn't  it  ?  It's  simple,  too,  and 
prevents  any  foolish  errors — no  mistake  afterwards,  you  see.  I  say, 
are  you  going  to  come  here  often  ?  because,  if  you  are,  I  shall  go 
away  back  to  the  States  or  somewhere,  or  stay  upstairs  in  my  own 
room.     You  and  me  won't  get  on  very  well  together,  I  am  afraid." 

"  I  don't  think  you  will  see  me  very  often,"  he  replied.  "  That  is 
improbable  ;  yet  I  dare  say  I  shall  come  here  as  often  as  I  usually 
do." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?"  She  looked  sharply  and  suspi- 
ciously at  him.  He  repeated  his  words,  and  she  perceived  that  there 
was  meaning  in  them,  and  she  felt  uneasy. 

"  I  don't  understand  at  all,"  she  said  ;  "  Clara  tells  me  that  this 
house  is  mine.  Now — don't  you  know — I  don't  intend  to  invite  any 
but  my  own  friends  to  visit  me  in  my  own  house." 

"  That  seems  reasonable.  No  one  can  expect  you  to  invite  people 
who  are  not  your  friends." 

"  Well,  then,  I  ain't  likely  to  call  you  my  friend  " — Arnold  inclined 


IS  THIS  HIS  PHOTOGRAPH?  523 

his  head — "  and  I  am  not  going  to  talk  riddles  any  more.  Is  there 
anything  else  you  want  to  say  ?" 

"  Nothing  more,  I  think,  at  present,  thank  you." 

"  If  there  is,  you  know,  don't  mind  me — have  it  out — I'm  nobody, 
of  course.  I'm  not  expected  to  have  any  manners — I'm  only  a  girl. 
You  can  say  what  you  please  to  me,  and  be  as  rude  as  you  please  ; 
Englishmen  always  are  as  rude  as  they  can  be  to  American  girls — 
I've  always  heard  that." 

Arnold  laughed. 

"  At  all  events,"  he  said,  "  you  have  charmed  Clara,  which  is  the 
only  really  important  thing.     G-ood-night  Miss — Miss  Deseret." 

"Good-night,  old  man,"  she  said,  laughing,  because  she  bore  no 
malice,  and  had  given  him  a  candid  opinion  ;  "  I  dare  say  when  you 
get  rid  of  your  fine  company  manners,  and  put  off  your  swallow- 
tail, you're  not  a  bad  sort,  after  all.  Perhaps,  if  you  would  confess, 
you  are  as  fond  of  a  kick-up  on  your  way  home  as  anybody.  Trust 
you  quiet  chaps !" 

CI  lira  had  not  fortunately  heard  much  of  this  conversation,  which, 
indeed,  was  not  meant  for  her,  because  the  girl  was  playing  all  the 
time  some  waltz  music,  which  enabled  her  to  talk  and  play  without 
being  heard  at  the  other  end  of  the  room. 

Well,  there  was  now  no  doubt.  The  American  Physician  and 
the  subject  of  the  photograph  were  certainly  the  same  man.  And 
this  man  was  also  the  thief  of  the  safe,  and  Iris  Aglen  was  Iris 
Deseret.  Of  that,  Arnold  had  no  longer  any  reasonable  doubt. 
There  was,  however,  one  thing  more.  Before  leaving  Clara's  house, 
he  refreshed  his  memory  as  to  the  Deseret  arms.  The  quarterings 
of  the  shield  were,  so  far,  exactly  what  Mr.  Emblem  recollected. 

"  It  is,"  said  Lala  Roy,  "  what  I  thought.  But,  as  yet,  not  a 
word  to  Iris." 

He  then  proceeded  to  relate  the  repentance,  the  confession,  and 
the  atonement  proposed  by  the  remorseful  James.  But  he  did  not 
tell  quite  all ;  for  the  wise  man  never  tells  all.  What  really  hap- 
pened was  this.  When  James  had  made  a  clean  breast  and  con- 
fessed his  enormous  share  in  the  villainy,  Lala  Roy  bound  him 
over  to  secrecy  under  pain  of  Law — Law  the  Rigorous — pointing 
out  that  although  they  do  not  in  England  exhibit  the  Kourbash,  or 
bastinado  the  soles  of  the  feet,  they  make  the  prisoner  sleep  on  a 
hard  board,  starve  him  on  skilly,  set  him  to  work  which  tears  his 
nails  from  his  fingers,  keep  him  from  conversation,  tobacco,  and 
dm  k.  and  when  he  comes  out,  so  hedge  him  around  with  prejudice 
and  so  clothe  him  with  a  robe  of  shame,  that  no  one  will  ever 
employ  him  again,  and  he  is  therefore  doomed  to  go  back  again  to 
the  English  Hell.  Lala  Roy,  though  a  man  of  few  words,  drew  so 
vivid  a  description  or  the  punishment  which  awaited  his  penitent, 
that  James,  foxy  as  he  was  by  nature,  felt  constrained  to  resolve 
that  henceforth,  happen  what  might,  then  and  for  all  future  time,  he 

21—2 


324  IN  L UCK  AT  LAST. 

would  range  himself  on  the  side  of  virtue,  and  as  a  beginning,  he 
promised  to  do  everything  that  he  could  for  the  confounding  of 
Joseph  and  the  bringing  of  the  guilty  to  justice. 


xin. 

HIS  LAST   CHANCE. 

Theee  days  elapsed,  during  which  nothing  was  done.  That  cause 
is  strongest  which  can  afford  to  wait.  But  in  those  three  days 
several  things  happened. 

First  of  all,  Mr.  David  Chalker,  seeing  that  the  old  man  was 
obdurate,  made  up  his  mind  to  lose  most  of  his  money,  and  cursed 
Joe  continually  for  having  led  him  to  build  upon  his  grandfather's 
supposed  wealth.  Yet  he  ought  to  have  known.  Wealthy  men  do 
not  lock  up  their  savings  in  investments  for  their  grandchildren, 
nor  do  they  borrow  small  sums  at  ruinous  interest  of  money-lend- 
ing solicitors,  nor  do  they  give  Bills  of  Sale.  These  general  rules 
were  probably  known  to  Mr.  Chalker  ;  yet  he  did  not  apply  them 
to  this  particular  case.  The  neglect  of  the  General  Rule,  in  fact, 
may  lead  the  most  astute  of  mankind  into  ways  of  foolishness. 

James,  for  his  part,  stimulated  perpetually  by  fear  of  prison  and 
loss  of  character  and  of  situation — for  who  would  employ  an 
Assistant  who  got  keys  made  to  open  the  safe  ? — showed  himself 
the  most  repentant  of  mortals.  Dr.  Joseph  Washington,  lulled 
into  the  most  perfect  security,  enjoyed  all  those  pleasures  which 
the  sum  of  three  hundred  pounds  could  purchase.  Nobody  knew 
where  he  was,  or  what  he  was  doing.  As  for  Lotty,  she  had  estab- 
lished herself  firmly  in  Chester  Square,  and  Cousin  Clara  daily 
found  out  new  and  additional  proofs  of  the  gentle  blood  breaking 
out! 

On  the  fourth  morning  Lala  Roy  sallied  forth.  He  was  about 
to  make  a  great  Moral  Experiment,  the  nature  of  which  you  will 
immediately  understand.  None  but  a  philosopher  who  had  studied 
Confucius  and  Lao  Kiun  would  have  conceived  so  fine  a  scheme. 

First,  he  paid  a  visit  to  Mr.  Chalker. 

The  office  was  the  ground-floor  front  room  in  cne  of  the  small 
streets  north  of  the  King's  Road.  It  was  not  an  imposing  office, 
nor  did  it  seem  as  if  much  business  was  done  there  ;  and  one  clerk 
of  tender  years  sufficed  for  Mr.  Chalker's  wants. 

"  Oh  !"  he  said  ;  "  it's  our  friend  from  India.  You're  a  lodger  of 
old  Emblem's,  ain't  you  V" 

"  I  have  lived  with  him  for  twenty  years.     I  am  his  friend." 

-  Very  well.    I  dare  say  we  shall  como  to  terms,  if  he's  come 


HIS  LAST  CHANCE.  325 

to  his  senses.  Just  take  a  chair  and  sit  down.  How  is  the  old 
man  ?" 

"  He  has  not  yet  recovered  the  use  of  his  intellect." 

"  Oh  !     Then  how  can  you  act  for  him  if  he's  off  his  head  ?" 

"  I  came  to  ask  an  English  creditor  to  show  mercy." 

"  Mercy  ?  What  is  the  man  talking  about  ?  Mercy  !  I  want 
my  money.     What  has  that  got  to  do  with  mercy  ?" 

"  Nothing,  truly  ;  but  I  will  give  you  your  money.  I  will  give 
you  justice,  and  you  shall  give  me  mercy.  You  lent  Mr.  Emblem 
fifty  pounds.  Will  you  take  your  fifty  pounds,  and  leave  us  in 
peace  ?" 

He  drew  a  bag  out  of  his  pocket — a  brown  banker's  bag — and 
Mr.  Chalker  distinctly  heard  the  rustling  of  notes. 

This  is  a  sound  which  to  some  ears  is  more  delightful  than  the 
finest  music  in  the  world.  It  awakens  all  the  most  pleasurable 
emotions  ;  it  provokes  desire  and  hankering  after  possession  ;  and 
it  fills  the  soul  with  the  imaginary  enjoyment  of  wealth. 

"  Certainly  not,"  said  Mr.  Chalker,  confident  that  better  terms 
than  those  would  be  offered.  "  If  that  is  all  you  have  to  say,  you 
may  go  away  again." 

"  But  the  rest  is  usury.  Think  !  To  give  fifty,  and  ask  three 
hundred  and  fifty,  is  the  part  of  a  usurer." 

"  Call  it  what  you  please.  The  bill  of  sale  is  for  three  hundred 
and  fifty  pounds.  Pay  that  three  hundred  and  fifty,  with  costs 
and  Sheriff's  poundage,  and  I  take  away  my  man.  If  you  don't 
pay  it,  then  the  books  on  the  shelves  and  the  furniture  of  the 
house  go  to  the  hammer." 

"  The  books,  I  am  informed,"  said  Lala  Roy,  "  will  not  bring  as 
much  as  a  hundred  pounds  if  they  are  sold  at  auction.  As  for  the 
furniture,  some  of  it  is  mine,  and  some  belongs  to  Mr.  Emblem's 
granddaughter." 

"  His  granddaughter !  Oh,  it's  a  swindle  !"  said  Mr.  Chalker 
angrily  ;  "  it  is  nothing  more  or  less  than  a  rank  swindle !  The 
old  man  ought  to  be  prosecuted  ;  and,  mind  you,  I'll  prosecute 
him,  and  you  too,  for  conspiring  with  him." 

"  A  prosecution,"  said  the  Hindoo,  "  will  not  hurt  him,  but  it 
might  hurt  you.  For  it  would  show  how  you  lent  him  fifty  pounds 
five  years  ago  ;  how  you  made  him  give  you  a  bill  for  a  hundred  ; 
how  you  did  not  press  him  to  pay  that  bill,  but  you  continually 
offered  to  renew  it  for  him,  increasing  the  amount  on  each  time  of 
renewal  ;  and  at  last  you  made  him  give  you  a  bill  of  sale  for  three 
hundred  and  fifty.  This  is,  I  suppose,  one  of  the  many  ways  in  which 
Englishmen  grow  rich.  There  are  also  usurers  in  India,  but  they 
do  not,  in  my  country,  call  themselves  lawyers.  A  prosecution  ? 
My  friend,  it  is  for  us  to  prosecute.  Shall  we  show  that  you  have 
done  the  same  thing  with  many  others  ?  You  are,  by  this  time, 
well  known  in  the  neighbourhood,  Mr.  Chalker,  and  you  are  so 
much  beloved,  that  there  are  many  who  would  be  delighted  to 


326  IN  LUCK  AT  LAST. 

relate  their  experiences  and  dealings  with  so  clever  a  man.     Have 
you  ever  studied,  one  asks  with  wonder,  the  precepts  of  the  great 
Sage  who  founded  your  religion  ?" 
"  Oh,  come,  don't  let  us  have  any  religious  nonsense  !" 
"  I  assure  you  they  are  worth  studying.     I  am  myself  a  humble 
follower  of  Gautama,  but  I  have  read  those  Precepts  with  profit. 
In  the  kingdom  imagined  by  that  Preacher,  there  is  no  room  for 
uscrers,  Mr.  Chalker.    Where,  then,  will  be  your  kingdom  ?    Every 
man  must  be  somewhere.     You  must  have  a  kingdom  and  a  king." 
"  This  is  tomfoolery  !"  Mr.  Chalker  turned  red,  and  looked  very 
uncomfortable.     "  Stick  to  business.    Payment  in  full.     Those  are 
my  terms." 

"  You  think,  then,  that  the  Precepts  of  your  Sage  are  only  in- 
tended for  men  while  they  sit  in  the  church  ?  Many  Englishmen 
think  so,  I  have  observed." 

"  Payment  in  full,  mister.     That's  what  I  want." 
He  banged  his  fist  on  the  table. 

"  No  abatement  ?  No  mercy  shown  to  an  old  man  on  the  edge 
of  the  grave  ?     Think,  Mr.  Chalker.     You  will  soon  be  as  old  as 

Mr.  Emblem,  your  hair  as  white,  your  reason  as  unsteady " 

"  Payment  in  full,  and  no  more  words." 

"  It  is  well.  Then,  Mr.  Chalker,  I  have  another  proposal  to  make 
to  you." 

"  I  thought  we  should  come  to  something  more.    Out  with  it !" 
"  I  believe  you  are  a  friend  of  Mr.  Emblem's  grandson  ?" 
"  Joe  ?     Oh  yes,  I  know  Joe." 
"  You  know  him  intimately  ?" 
"  Yes,  I  may  say  so." 

"  You  know  that  he  forged  his  grandfather's  name  ;  that  he  is  a 
profligate  and  a  spendthrift,  and  that  he  has  taken  or  borrowed  from 
his  grandfather  whatever  money  he  could  get,  and  that — in  short, 
he  is  a  friend  of  your  own  ?" 

It  was  not  until  after  his  client  had  gone  that  Mr.  Chalker  under- 
stood, and  began  to  resent  this  last  observation. 
"  Go  on,"  he  said,  "  I  know  all  about  Joe." 

"  Good.  Then  if  you  can  tell  me  anything  about  him  which  may 
be  of  use  to  me  I  will  do  this  :  I  will  pay  you  double  the  valuation 
of  Mr.  Emblem's  shop,  in  return  for  a  receipt  in  full.  If  you  can- 
not, you  may  proceed  to  sell  everything  by  auction." 

Mr.  Chalker  hesitated.  A  valuation  would  certainly  give  a  higher 
figure  than  a  forced  sale,  and  then  that  valuation  doubled  ! 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  I  don't  know.  It's  a  cruel  hard  case  to  be  done 
out  of  my  money.  How  am  I  to  find  out  whether  anything  I  tell 
you  would  be  of  use  to  you  or  not  ?  What  kind  of  thing  do  you 
want  ?  How  do  I  know  that  if  you  get  what  you  want,  you  won't 
swear  it  is  of  no  use  to  you  ?" 

'•  You  have  the  word  of  one  who  never  broke  his  word." 
Mr.  Chalker  laughed  derisively 


HIS  LAST  CHANCE.  327 

"  Why,"  lie  said,  "  I  wouldn't  take  the  word  of  an  English  Bishop 
—no,  nor  of  an  Archbishop — where  money  is  concerned.  What  is 
it — what  is  the  kind  of  thing  you  want  to  know  ?" 

"  It  is  concerned  with  a  certain  woman." 

"  Oh,  well,  if  it  is  only  a  woman.  I  thought  it  might  be  some- 
thing about  money.  Joe,  you  see,  like  a  good  many  other  people, 
has  got  his  own  ideas  about  money,  and  perhaps  he  isn't  so  strict  in 
his  dealings  as  he  might  be — few  men  are — and  I  should  not  like  to 
let  out  one  or  two  things  that  only  him  and  me  know."  In  fact, 
Mr.  Chalker  saw,  in  imagination,  the  burly  form  of  Joe  in  his  office, 
brandishing  a  stick,  and  accusing  him  of  friendship's  trust  betrayed. 
"  But  as  it  is  only  a  woman — which  of  'em  is  it  ?" 

"  This  is  a  young  woman,  said  to  be  handsome,  tall,  and  finely- 
made  ;  she  has,  I  am  told,  light  brown  hair  and  large  eyes.  That 
is  the  description  of  her  given  to  me." 

"  I  know  the  girl  you  mean.  Splendid  figure,  and  goes  well  in 
tights  ?" 

"  I  have  not  been  informed  on  that  subject.  Can  you  tell  me  any 
more  about  her  ?" 

"  I  suspect,  mister,"  said  Joe's  friend,  with  cunning  eyes,  "  that 
you've  made  the  acquaintance  of  a  certain  widow  that  was — married 
woman  that  is.  I  remember  now,  I've  seen  Hindoos  about  her 
lodgings,  down  Shadwell  way." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Lala,  "  and  perhaps  not."  His  face  showed  not 
the  least  sign  which  could  be  read.  "  You  can  tell  me  afterwards 
what  you  know  of  the  woman  at  Shadwell." 

"  Well,  then,  Joe  thinks  I  know  nothing  about  it.  Else  I 
wouldn't  tell  you.  Because  I  don't  want  a  fight  with  Joe.  Is 
this  any  use  to  you  ?  He  is  married  to  the  girl  as  well  as  to  the 
widow." 

"  He  is  married  to  the  girl  as  well  as  to  the  widow.  He  has,  then, 
two  wives.  It  is  against  the  English  custom,  and  breaks  the  English 
law.  The  young  wife  who  is  beautiful,  and  the  old  wife  who  has 
the  lodging-house.  Very  good.  What  is  the  address  of  this 
woman  V" 

Mr.  Chalker  looked  puzzled. 

"  Don't  you  know  it,  then  ?    What  are  you  driving  at  ?" 

"  What  is  the  name  and  address  of  this  Shadwell  woman  ?" 

"Well,  then"— he  wrote  an  address  and  handed  it  over — "you 
may  be  as  close  as  you  like.  I  don't  care.  It  isn't  my  business. 
But  you  won't  make  me  believe  you  don't  know  all  about  her. 
Look  here,  whatever  happens,  don't  say  I  told  you." 

"  It  shall  be  a  secret,"  said  Lala,  taking  out  the  bag  of  notes. 
"Let  us  complete  the  busines?  at  once,  Mr.  Chalker.  Here  is 
another  offer.  I  will  give  you  two  hundred  pounds  in  discharge  of 
your  whole  claim,  or  you  shall  have  a  valuation  made,  if  you  prefer 
it,  and  I  will  double  the  amount." 

Mr.  Chalker  chose  the  former  promptly,  and  in  a  few  moments 


328  IN  L UCK  AT  LAST. 

handed  over  the  necessary  receipts,  and  sent  his  clerk  to  recall  the 
Man  in  Possession. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  Joe  ?"  he  asked.  "  No  good 
turn,  I'll  swear.  And  a  more  unforgiving  face  than  yours  I  never 
set  eyes  on.  It  isn't  my  business,  but  I'll  give  you  one  warning. 
If  you  make  Joe  desperate,  he'll  turn  on  you  ;  and  Lord  help  your 
slender  ribs  if  Joe  once  begins.  Don't  make  him  desperate.  And 
now  I'll  tell  you  another  thing.  First,  the  woman  at  Shadwell  is 
horribly  jealous.  She'll  make  a  row.  Next,  the  young  one,  who 
sings  at  a  Music  Hall,  she's  desperately  in  love  with  her  husband — 
more  than  he  is  with  her — and  if  a  woman's  in  love  with  a  man, 
there's  one  thing  she  never  forgives.  You  understand  what  that  is. 
Between  the  pair,  Joe's  likely  to  have  a  rough  time." 

"  I  do.     I  have  had  many  wives  myself." 

"  Oh,  Lord,  he  says  he's  had  many  wives  !    How  many  ?" 

Lala  Roy  read  the  receipt,  and  put  it  in  his  pocket.  Then  he 
rose  and  remarked,  with  a  smile  of  supreme  superiority  : 

"  It  is  a  pleasure  to  give  money  to  you,  and  to  such  as  you,  Mr. 
Chalker." 

"  Is  it  ?"  he  replied  with  a  grin.     "  Give  me  some  more,  then." 

"  You  are  one  of  those  who,  the  richer  they  become,  the  less  harm 
they  do.  Many  Englishmen  are  of  this  disposition.  When  they 
are  poor  they  are  jackals,  hyasnas,  wolves,  and  man-eating  tigers  ; 
when  they  are  rich  they  are  benevolent  and  charitable,  and  show 
mercy  unto  the  wretched  and  the  poor.  So  that,  in  their  case,  the 
words  of  the  Wise  Man  are  naught,  when  he  says  that  the  earth  is 
barren  of  good  things  where  she  hoardeth  treasure  ;  and  that  where 
gold  is  in  her  bowels  no  herb  groweth.  Pray,  Mr.  Chalker,  pray 
earnestly  for  gold,  in  order  that  you  may  become  virtuous." 

Mr.  Chalker  grinned,  but  looked  uncomfortable. 

"  I  will,  mister,"  he  said,  "  I  will  pray  with  all  my  might." 

Nevertheless,  he  remained  for  the  space  of  the  whole  morning  in 
uneasiness.  The  words  of  the  Philosopher  troubled  him.  I  do 
not  go  so  far  as  to  say  that  his  mind  went  back  to  the  days  when 
he  was  young  and  innocent,  because  he  was  still  young,  and  he 
never  had  been  innocent ;  nor  do  I  say  that  a  tear  rose  to  his 
eyes  and  trickled  down  his  cheek,  because  nothing  brought  tears 
into  his  eyes  except  a  speck  of  dust ;  or  that  he  resolved  to  confine 
himself  for  the  future  to  legitimate  lawyer's  work,  because  he  would 
then  have  starved.  I  only  say  that  he  felt  uncomfortable  and 
humiliated,  and  chiefly  so  because  an  old  man  with  white  hair  and 
a  brown  skin — hang  it  !  a  common  nigger — had  been  able  to  bring 
discord  into  the  sweet  harmony  of  his  thoughts. 

Lala  Roy  then  betook  himself  to  Joe's  former  lodgings,  and 
asked  for  that  gentleman's  present  address. 

The  landlady  professed  to  know  nothing. 

"  You  do  know,  however,"  he  persisted,  reading  knowledge  in  her 
eyes. 


HIS  LAST  CHANCE.  329 

"  Is  it  trouble  you  mean  for  him  ?"  asked  the  woman,  "  and  him 
such  a  fine,  well-set-up  young  man,  too  !  Is  it  trouble  ?  Oh,  dear, 
I  always  thought  he  got  his  money  on  the  cross.  Look  here.  I 
ain't  going  to  round  on  him,  though  he  has  gone  away  and  left  a 
comfortable  room.     So  there  !     And  you  may  go." 

Lala  Roy  opened  his  hand.  There  were  at  least  five  golden 
sovereigns  glorifying  his  dingy  palm. 

"Can  gold,"  the  Moralist  asked,  "ever  increase  the  virtue  of 
man  ?     Woman,  how  much  ?" 

"  Is  it  trouble  ?"  she  repeated,  looking  greedily  at  the  money. 
"Will  the  young  man  get  copped  ?" 

Lala  understood  no  London  slang.  But  he  showed  his  hand 
again. 

"  How  much  ?  Whoso  is  covetous  let  him  know  that  his  heart 
is  poor.     How  much  ?" 

"  Poor  young  man  !  I'll  take  them  all,  please,  sir.  What's  he 
done  ?" 

"  Where  does  he  live  ?" 

"  I  know  where  he  lives,"  she  said,  "  because  our  Bill  rode  away 
with  him  at  the  back  of  his  cab,  and  saw  where  he  got  out.  He's 
married  now,  and  his  wife  sings  at  the  Music  Hall,  and  he  lives  on 
her  earnings.  Quite  the  gentleman  he  is  now,  and  smokes  cigars 
all  day  long.  There's  his  address,  and  thank  you  for  the  money. 
Oh  !"  she  said  with  a  gasp.  "  To  think  that  people  can  earn  five 
pounds  so  easy  !" 

"May  the  gold  procure  you  happiness — such  happiness  as  you 
desire  !"  said  Lala  Eoy. 

"  It  will  nearly  pay  the  quarter's  rent.  And  that's  about  happi- 
ness enough  for  one  morning." 

Joe  was  sitting  in  his  room  alone,  half  asleep.  In  fact,  he  had  a 
head  upon  him.  He  sprang  to  his  feet,  however,  when  he  saw  Lala 
Roy. 

"  Hallo !"  he  cried.  "  You  here,  Nig  ?  How  the  devil  did  you 
find  out  my  address  ?" 

There  was  not  only  astonishment,  but  some  alarm  upon  his 
countenance. 

"  Never  mind.    I  want  a  little  conversation  with  you,  Mr.  Joseph." 

"Well,  sit  down  and  let  us  have  it  out.  I  say,  have  you  come  to 
tell  me  that  you  did  sneak  those  papers,  after  all  ?  What  did  you 
get  for  them  ?" 

"  I  have  not  come  to  tell  you  that.  I  dare  say,  however,  we  shall 
be  able,  some  day,  to  tell  you  who  did  steal  the  papers — if  any  were 
stolen,  that  is." 

"Quite  so,  my  jolly  mariner.  If  any  were  stolen.  Ho,  ho! 
you've  got  to  prove  that  first,  haven't  you  ?     How's  the  old  man  ?" 

"  He  is  ill ;  he  is  feeble  with  age  ;  he  is  weighed  down  with  mis- 
fortune.    I  am  come,  Mr.  Joseph,  to  ask  your  help  for  him." 

"  My  help  for  him  ?    Why,  can't  he  help  himself  ?" 


330  IN  L UCK  AT  LAST. 

"  Four  or  five  years  ago  he  incurred  a  debt  for  one  who  forged 
his  name.  He  needed  not  to  have  paid  that  money,  but  he  saved  a 
man  from  prison." 

"  Who  was  that  ?    "Who  forged  his  name  ?" 

"  I  do  not  name  that  man,  whose  end  will  be  confusion,  unless  he 
repent  and  make  amends.  This  debt  has  grown  until  it  is  too  large 
for  him  to  pay  it.  Unless  it  is  paid  his  whole  property,  his  very 
means  of  living,  will  be  sold  by  the  creditor." 

"  How  can  I  pay  him  back  ?  It  is  three  hundred  and  fifty  pounds 
now,"  said  Joseph. 

"  Man,  thou  bast  named  thyself." 

Joseph  stammered,  but  blustered  still. 

"Well  —  then  —  what  the  devil  do  you  mean  —  you  and  your 
forgery  ?" 

"  Forgery  is  one  crime  ;  you  have  since  committed,  perhaps, 
others.  Think.  You  have  been  saved  once  from  prison.  Will 
anyone  save  you  a  second  time  ?  How  have  you  shown  your  grati- 
tude ?     Will  you  now  do  something  for  your  benefactor  ?" 

"  What  do  you  mean,  I  say  ?  What  do  you  mean  with  your 
forgery  and  prison  ?  Hang  me,  if  I  oughtn't  to  kick  you  out  of  the 
room  !  I  would,  too,  if  you  were  ten  years  younger.  Do  you  know, 
sir,  that  you  are  addressing  an  officer  and  a  gentleman  ?" 

"  There  is  sometimes,  even  at  the  very  end,  a  door  opened  for 
repentance.  The  door  is  open  now.  Young  man,  once  more,  con- 
sider.   Your  grandfather  is  old  and  destitute.    Will  you  help  him  ?" 

Joseph  hesitated. 

"  I  don't  believe  he  is  poor.  He  has  saved  up  all  his  money  for 
the  girl ;  let  her  help  him." 

"You  are  wrong.  He  has  saved  nothing.  His  granddaughter 
maintains  herself  by  teaching.  He  has  not  a  penny.  You  have  got 
from  him,  and  you  have  spent,  all  the  money  he  had." 

"  He  ought  to  have  saved." 

"  He  could,  at  least,  have  lived  by  his  calling  but  for  you  and  for 
this  debt  which  was  incurred  for  you.  He  is  ruined  by  it.  What 
will  you  do  for  him  ?" 

"I  am  not  going  to  do  anything  for  him,"  said  Joseph.  "Is  it 
likely  ?     Did  he  ever  have  anything  but  a  scowl  for  me  ?" 

"  He  who  injures  another  is  always  in  the  wrong.  You  will, 
then,  do  nothing  ?  Think.  It  is  the  open  door.  He  is  your 
grandfather  ;  he  has  kept  you  from  starvation  when  you  were 
turned  out  of  office  for  drink  and  dishonesty.  I  hear  that  you  now 
have  money.  I  have  been  told  that  you  have  been  seen  to  show  a 
large  sum  of  money.     Will  you  give  him  some  ?" 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Joe  had  been,  the  night  before,  having  a 
festive  evening  at  the  Music  Hall,  from  which  his  wife  was  absent, 
owing  to  temporary  indisposition.  While  there,  he  took  so  much 
Scotch  whisky  and  water  that  his  tongue  was  loosened  and  he  be- 
came boastful ;  and  that  to  so  foolish  an  extent  that  he  actually 


HIS  LAST  CHANCE.  331 

brandished  in  the  eyes  of  the  multitude  a  whole  handful  of  bank- 
notes. He  renumbered  this,  and  was  greatly  struck  by  the  curious 
fact  that  Lala  Roy  should  seem  to  know  it. 

"I  haven't  got  any  money.  It  was  all  brag  last  night.  I 
couldn't  beip  my  grandfather  if  I  wanted  to." 

"  You  have  what  is  left  of  three  hundred  pounds,"  said  Lala  Eoy. 

"  If  I  said  that  last  night,"  replied  Joe,  "  I  must  have  been 
drunker  than  I  thought.  You  old  fool  !  the  flimsies  were  duffers. 
Where  do  you  think  I  could  raise  three  hundred  pounds  ?  No,  no 
— I'm  sorry  for  the  old  man,  but  I  can't  help  him.  I'm  going  to 
sea  again  in  a  day  or  two.  We  jolly  sailors  don't  make  much 
money,  but  if  a  pound  or  two,  when  I  come  home,  will  be  of  any 
use  to  him,  he's  only  got  to  say  the  word.  After  all,  I  believe  it's 
a  kid,  got  up  between  you.  The  old  man  must  have  saved  some- 
thing." 

"  You  will  suffer  him,  then,  even  to  be  taken  to  the  workhouse  ?" 

"  Why,  I  can't  help  it,  and  I  suppose  you'll  have  to  go  there  too. 
Ho,  ho!  I  say,  Nig!"  He  began  to  laugh.  "Ho,  ho!  They 
won't  let  you  wear  that  old  fez  of  yours  at  the  workhouse.  How 
beautiful  you'll  look  in  the  workhouse  uniform,  won't  you  ?  I'll 
come  home,  and  bring  you  some  baccy.  Now  you  can  cheese  it, 
old   un." 

"  I  will  go,  if  that  is  what  you  mean.  It  is  the  last  time  that 
you  will  be  asked  to  help  your  grandfather.  The  door  is  closed. 
You  have  had  one  more  chance,  and  you  have  thrown  it  away." 

So  he  departed,  and  Joe,  who  was  of  a  self-reliant  and  sanguine 
disposition,  thought  nothing  of  the  warning,  which  was  therefore 
thrown  away  and  wasted. 

As  for  Lala,  he  called  a  cab,  and  drove  to  Shadwell.  And  if  any 
man  ever  felt  that  he  was  an  instrument  set  apart  to  carry  out  a 
Scheme  of  Vengeance,  that  Hindoo  Philosopher  felt  like  one.  The 
Count  of  Monte  Cristo  himself  was  not  more  filled  with  the 
Faith  and  Conviction  of  his  Divine  obligation. 

In  the  afternoon  he  returned  to  Chelsea,  and  perhaps  one  who 
knew  him  might  have  remarked  upon  his  face  something  like  a 
gleam  of  satisfaction.     He  had  done  his  duty. 

It  was  now  five  days  since  the  fatal  discovery.  Mr.  Emblem  still 
remained  upstairs  in  his  chair  ;  but  he  was  slowly  recovering.  He 
clearly  remembered  that  he  had  been  robbed,  and  the  principal 
sign  of  the  shock  was  his  firm  conviction  that  by  his  own  exercise 
of  memory  Iris  had  been  enabled  to  enter  into  possession  of  her  own. 

As  regards  the  Bill  of  Sale,  he  had  clean  forgotten  it.  Now,  in 
the  morning,  there  happened  a  thing  which  surprised  James  very 
much.  The  Man  in  Possession  was  recalled.  He  went  away.  So 
that  the  money  must  have  been  paid.  James  was  so  astonished 
that  he  ran  upstairs  to  tell  Iris. 

"  Then,"  said  the  girl,  "  we  shall  not  be  turned  out  after  all. 
But  who  has  paid  the  money  ?" 


33*  in  L UCK  AT  LAST. 

It  could  have  been  no  other  than  Arnold.  Yet  when,  later  in  the 
day,  he  was  taxed  with  having  committed  the  good  action,  Arnold 
stoutly  denied  it.  He  had  not  so  much  money  in  the  world,  he 
said  ;  in  fact,  he  had  no  money  at  all. 

"  The  good  man,"  said  the  Philosopher,  "  has  friends  of  whom  he 
knoweth  not.  As  the  river  returns  its  waters  to  the  sea,  so  the 
heart  rejoiceth  in  returning  benefits  received." 

"  Oh,  Lala,"  said  Iris.  "  Bat  on  whom  have  we  conferred  anv 
benefits  ?"  J 

"  The  moon  shines  upon  all  alike,"  said  Lala,  "  and  knows  not 
what  she  illumines." 

"Lala  Roy,''  said  Arnold,  suddenly  getting  a  gleam  of  in- 
telligence, "  it  is  you  who  have  paid  this  money." 

"You,  Lala?" 

"  No  one  else  could  have  paid  it,"  said  Arnold. 

"But  I  thought— I  thought "  said  Iris. 

"  You  thought  I  had  no  money  at  all.  Children,  I  have  some. 
One  may  live  without  money  in  Hindostan,  but  in  England  even 
the  Philosopher  cannot  meditate  unless  he  can  pay  for  food  and 
shelter.  I  have  money,  Iris,  and  I  have  paid  the  usurer  enough  to 
satisfy  him.     Let  us  say  no  more." 

"  Oh,  Lala !"  The  tears  came  to  Iris's  eyes.  "  And  now  we 
shall  go  on  living  as  before." 

"I  think  not,"  he  replied.  "In  the  generations  of  Man,  the 
seasons  continue  side  by  side  ;  but  spring  does  not  always  continue 
with  winter." 

"  I  know  now,"  interrupted  Mr.  Emblem,  suddenly  waking  into 
life  and  recollection  ;  "  I  could  not  remember  at  first.  Now  I 
know  very  well,  but  I  cannot  tell  how,  that  the  man  who  stole  my 
papers  is  my  own  grandson.  James  would  not  steal.  James  is 
curious  ;  he  wants  to  read  over  my  shoulder  what  I  am  writing. 
He  would  pry  and  find  out.  But  he  would  not  steal.  It  doesn't 
matter  much — does  it  ? — since  I  was  able  to  repair  the  loss — I 
always  had  a  most  excellent  memory — and  Iris  has  now  received 
her  inheritance  ;  but  it  is  my  grandson  Joe  who  has  stolen  the 
papers.  My  daughter's  son  came  home  from  Australia  when — but 
this  I  learned  afterwards — he  had  already  disgraced  himself  there. 
He  ran  into  debt,  and  I  paid  his  debts  :  he  forged  my  name,  and  I 
accepted  the  Bill  ;  he  took  all  the  money  I  could  let  him  have, 
and  still  he  asked  for  more.  There  is  no  one  in  the  world  who 
would  rob  me  of  those  papers  except  Joseph." 

Now,  the  door  was  open  to  the  staircase,  and  the  door  of 
communication  between  the  shop  and  the  house-passage  was  also 
open.  This  seems  a  detail  hardly  worth  noting  ;  yet  it  proved  of 
the  greatest  importance.  From  such  small  trifles  follow  great 
events.  Observe  that  as  yet  no  positive  proof  was  in  the  hands  of 
the  two  conspirators  which  would  actually  connect  Iris  with 
Claude  Deseret.      The  proofs  were    iu    the    stolen  papers,  and 


HIS  LAST  CHANCE.  333 

though  Clara  had  those  papers,  who  was  to  show  that  these  papers 
were  actually  those  in  the  sealed  packet  ? 

When  Mr.  Emblem  finished  speaking,  no  one  replied,  because 
Arnold  and  Lala  knew  the  facts  already,  but  did  not  wish  to  spread 
them  abroad  ;  and  next,  because  to  Iris  it  was  nothing  new  that  her 
cousin  was  a  bad  man,  and  because  she  thought  now  that  the  Man 
in  Possession  was  gone,  they  might  just  as  well  forget  the  papers, 
and  go  on  as  if  all  this  fuss  had  not  happened. 

In  the  silence  that  followed  this  speech,  they  heard  the  voice  of 
James  downstairs,  saying  : 

"lam  sorry  to  say,  sir,  that  Mr.  Emblem  is  ill  upstairs,  and  you 
can't  see  him  to-day." 

"  111,  is  he  ?  I  am  very  sorry.  Take  him  my  compliments, 
James.     Mr.  Frank  Farrar's  compliments,  and  tell  him " 

And  then  Mr.  Emblem  sprang  to  his  feet,  crying  : 

"  Stop  him  !  stop  him  !  Go  downstairs  some  one,  and  stop  him  ! 
I  don't  know  where  he  lives.     Stop  him  !  stop  him  !" 

Arnold  rushed  down  the  stairs.  He  found  in  the  shop  an  elderly 
gentleman,  carrying  a  bundle  of  books.  It  was,  in  fact,  Mr.  Farrar, 
come  to  negotiate  the  sale  of  another  work  from  his  library. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  Arnold.  "Mr.  Emblem  is  most 
anxious  to  see  you.     Would  you  step  upstairs  ?" 

"  Quick,  Mr.  Farrar — quick,"  the  old  man  held  him  tight  by  the 
hand.  "  Tell  me  before  my  memory  runs  away  with  me  again — 
tell  me.    Listen,  Iris!     Yet  it  doesn't  matter,  b' cause  you  have 

already Tell  me He  seemed  about  to  wander  again,  but 

he  pulled  himself  together  with  a  great  effort.     "  You  knew  my 
son-in-law  before  his  marriage." 

"  Surely,  Mr.  Emblem  ;  I  knew  your  son-in-law,  and  his  father, 
and  all  his  people." 

"  And  his  name  was  not  Aglen  at  all  ?"  asked  Arnold. 

"  No  ;  he  took  the  name  of  Aglen  from  a  fancied  feeling  of 
pride  when  he  quarrelled  with  his  father  about— well,  it  was  about 
his  marriage,  as  you  know,  Mr.  Emblem  ;  he  came  to  London,  and 
tried  to  make  his  way  by  writing,  and  thought  to  do  it,  and  either 
to  hide  a  failure  or  brighten  a  success,  by  using  a  pseudonym. 
People  were  more  jealous  about  their  names  in  those  days.  He 
had  better,"  added  the  unsuccessful  veteran  of  letters,  "he  had  far 
better  have  made  his  living  as  a— as  a — "  he  looked  about  him  for  a 
fitting  simile — "  as  a  bookseller." 

"  Then,  sir,"  said  Arnold,  "  what  was  his  real  name  ?" 

"  His  name  was  Claude  Deseret,  of  course." 

"Iris,"  said  Arnold,  taking  her  hand,  "this  is  the  last  proof. 
We  have  known  it  for  four  or  five  days,  but  we  wanted  the  final 
proof,  and  now  we  have  it.  My  dear,  you  are  the  cousin  of  Clara 
Holland,  and  all  her  fortune,  by  her  grandfather's  will,  is  yours 
This  is  the  secret  of  the  safe.  This  was  what  the  stolen  papers 
told  you.  *   r 


334  IN  L  UCK  A  T  LA  ST. 

XIV. 

THE    HAND    OF   FATE. 

At  the  first  stroke  of  noon  next  day,  Arnold  arrived  at  his  eon- ;  V- 
house  in  Chester  Square.  He  was  accompanied  by  Iris,  by  Lai  ■■ 
Roy,  and  by  Mr.  Frank  Farrar. 

"  Pray,  Arnold,  what  is  meant  by  all  this  mystery  ?"  asked 
Clara,  receiving  him  and  his  party. with  considerable  surprise. 

"  I  will  explain  all  in  a  few  minutes,  my  dear  Clara.  Meanwhile, 
have  you  done  what  you  promised  ?" 

"  Yes.  I  wrote  to  Dr.  Washington.  He  will  be  here,  I  expect, 
in  a  few  minutes." 

"You  wrote  exactly  in  the  form  of  words  you  promised  me  ?" 

"Yes,  exactly.  I  asked  him  to  meet  me  here  this  morning  at  a 
quarter  past  twelve,  in  order  to  discuss  a  few  points  connected  with 
Iris's  future  arrangements,  before  he  left  for  America,  and  I  wrote 
on  the  envelope,  '  Immediate  and  important.' " 

"  Very  well.  He  will  be  sure  to  come,  I  think.  Perhaps  your 
cousin  will  insist  upon  another  cheque  for  fifty  pounds  being  given 
to  him." 

"  Arnold,  you  are  extremely  suspicious  and  most  ungenerous 
about  Dr.  Washington,  on  whose  truth  and  disinterested  honesty  I 
thoroughly  rely." 

"  We  shall  see.  Meanwhile,  Clara,  I  desire  to  present  to  yon  a 
young  lady  of  whom  we  have  already  spoken.  This  is  Miss  Aglen, 
who  is,  I  need  hardly  say,  deeply  anxious  to  win  your  good  opinion. 
And  this  is  Lala  Roy,  an  Indian  gentleman  who  knew  her  father, 
and  has  lived  in  the  same  house  with  her  for  twenty  years.  Our 
debt — I  shall  soon  be  able  to  say  your  debt— of  gratitude  to  this 
gentleman  for  his  long  kindness  to  Miss  Aglcu — is  one  which  can 
never  be  repaid." 

Clara  gave  the  most  frigid  bow  to  both  Iris  and  Lala  Roy. 

"Really,  Arnold,  you  are  talking  in  enigmas  this  morning. 
What  am  I  to  understand  ?  What  has  this  gentleman  to  do  with 
my  appointment  with  Dr.  Washington  ?" 

"My  dear  cousin,  I  am  so  happy  this  morning  that  I  wonder  I 
do  not  talk  in  conundrums,  or  rondeaux,  or  terza  riina.  It  is  a 
mere  chance,  I  assure  you.  Perhaps  I  may  break  out  in  rhymes 
presently.  This  evening  we  will  havo  fireworks  in  the  square, 
roast  a  whole  ox,  invite  the  neighbours,  and  dance  about  a  maypole. 
You  shall  lead  off  the  dance,  Ciara." 

"Pray  go  on,  Arnold.     All  this  is  very  inexplicable." 

•'This  gentleman,  however,  is  a  very  old  friend  of  yours,  Clara. 
Do  you  not  recognise  Mr.  Frank  Farrar,  who  iwed  to  stay  at  the 
Hall  in  the  old  days  ?" 


THE  HAND  OF  FATE.  335 

"  I  remember  Mr.  Farrar  very  well."  Clara  gave  him  her  hand. 
"  But  I  should  not  have  known  him.  Why  have  we  never  met  in 
society  during  all  these  years,  Mr.  Farrar  ?" 

"  I  suppose  because  I  have  been  out  of  society,  Miss  Holland," 
said  the  scholar.  "  When  a  man  marries,  and  has  a  large  family, 
and  a  small  income,  and  grows  old,  and  has  to  see  the  young  fellows 
shoving  him  out  at  every  point,  he  doesn't  care  much  about  society. 
I  hope  you  are  well  and  happy." 

"  I  am  very  well,  and  I  ought  to  be  happy,  because  I  have 
recovered  Claude's  lost  heiress,  my  cousin,  Iris  Deseret,  and  she  is 
the  best  and  most  delightful  of  girls,  with  the  warmest  heart  and 
the  sweetest  instincts  of  a  lady  by  descent  and  birth." 

She  looked  severely  at  Arnold,  who  said  nothing,  but  smiled 
incredulously. 

Mr.  Farrar  looked  from  Iris  to  Miss  Holland,  bewildered. 

"  And  why  do  you  come  to  see  me  to-day,  Mr.  Farrar — and  with 
Arnold?" 

"  Because  I  have  undertaken  to  answer  one  question  presently, 
which  Mr.  Arbuthnot  is  to  ask  me.  That  is  why  I  am  here.  Not 
but  what  it  gives  me  the  greatest  pleasure  to  see  you  again,  Miss 
Holland,  after  so  many  years." 

"  Our  poor  Claude  died  in  America,  you  know,  Mr.  Farrar." 

"  So  I  have  recently  heard." 

"  And  left  one  daughter." 

"  That  also  I  have  learned."     He  looked  at  Iris. 

"  She  is  with  me,  here  in  this  house,  and  has  been  with  me  for  a 
week.  You  may  understand,  Mr.  Farrar,  the  happiness  I  feel  in 
having  with  me  Claude's  only  daughter." 

Mr.  Farrar  looked  from  her  to  Arnold  with  increasing  amazement. 
But  he  said  nothing. 

"  I  have  appointed  this  morning,  at  Arnold's  request,"  Clara  went 
on,  "to  have  an  interview,  perhaps  the  last,  with  the  gentleman 
who  brought  my  dear  Iris  from  America.  I  say,  at  Arnold's 
request,  because  he  asked  me  to  do  this,  and  I  have  always  trusted 
him  implicitly,  and  I  hope  he  is  not  going  to  bring  trouble  upon  us 
now,  although  I  do  not,  I  confess,  understand  the  presence  of  his 
friends  or  their  connection  with  my  cousin." 

"My  dear  Clara,"  said  Arnold  again,  "I  ask  for  nothing  but 
patience.  And  that  only  for  a  few  moments.  As  for  the  papers 
you  have  them  all  in  your  possession  ?"  ' 

"Yes  ;  they  are  locked  up  in  my  strong-box." 

"  Do  not,  on  any  account,  give  them  to  anybody.  However  after 
this  morning,  you  will  not  be  asked.  Have  you  taken  as  yet  any 
steps  at  all  for  the  transference  of  your  property  to— to  the  rightful 
heir?"  ° 

"  Not  yet." 

"  Thank  goodness  !  And  now,  Clara,  I  will  ask  you,  as  soon  as 
Dr.  Washington  and-your  cousin— are  in  the  drawing-room   to 


336  IN  L UCK  AT  LAST. 

ring  the  bell.  You  need  not  explain  why.  We  will  answer  the 
summons,  and  we  will  give  all  the  explanations  that  may  be 
required." 

"  I  will  not  have  my  cousin  vexed,  Arnold." 

"You  shall  not.  Your  cousin  shall  never  be  vexed  by  me  as 
long  as  I  live." 

"And  Dr.  Washington  must  not  be  in  any  way  offended. 
Consider  the  feelings  of  an  American  gentleman,  Arnold.  He  is 
my  guest." 

"You  may  thoroughly  rely  upon  my  consideration  for  the 
feelings  of  an  American  gentleman.  Go  ;  there  is  a  knock  at  the 
door.  Go  to  receive  him,  and,  when  both  are  in  the  room,  ring 
the  bell." 

Joe  was  in  excellent  spirits  that  morning.  His  interview  with 
Lala  Roy  convinced  him  that  nothing  whatever  was  known  of  the 
papers,  therefore  nothing  could  be  suspected.  What  a  fool,  he 
thought,  must  be  his  grandfather,  to  have  had  these  papers  in  his 
hands  for  eighteen  years,  and  never  to  have  opened  the  packet,  in 
obedience  to  the  injunction  of  a  dead  man.  Had  it  been  his  own 
case,  he  would  have  opened  the  papers  without  the  least  delay, 
mastered  the  contents,  and  instantly  claimed  the  property.  He 
would  have  gone  on  to  use  it  for  his  own  purposes  and  private  gain, 
and  with  an  uninterrupted  run  of  eighteen  years,  he  would  most 
certainly  have  made  a  very  pretty  thing  out  of  it. 

However,  everything  works  well  for  him  who  greatly  dares. 
His  wife  would  manage  for  him  better  than  he  could  do  it  for 
himself.  Yet  a  few  weeks,  and  the  great  fortune  would  fall  into 
his  hands.  He  walked  all  the  way  to  Chester  Square,  considering 
how  he  should  spend  the  money.  There  are  some  forms  of 
foolishness,  such  as,  say,  those  connected  with  art,  literature, 
charity,  and  work  for  others,  which  attract  some  rich  men,  but 
which  he  was  not  at  all  tempted  to  commit.  There  were  others, 
however,  connected  with  horses,  races,  betting,  and  gambling,  which 
tempted  him  strongly.  In  fact,  Joseph  contemplated  spending  this 
money  wholly  on  his  own  pleasures.  Probably  it  would  be  a  part 
of  his  pleasure  to  toss  a  few  crumbs  to  his  wife. 

It  is  sad  to  record  that  Lotty,  finding  herself  received  with  so 
much  enthusiasm,  had  already  begun  to  fall  off  in  her  behaviour. 
Even  Clara,  who  thought  she  discovered  every  hour  some  new  point 
of  resemblance  in  the  girl  to  her  father,  was  fain  to  admit  that  the 
"  Americanisms  "  were  much  too  pronounced  for  general  society. 

Her  laugh  was  louder  and  more  frequent  ;  her  jests  were  rough 
and  common  ;  she  used  slang  words  freely  ;  her  gestures  were 
extravagant,  and  she  walked  in  the  streets  as  if  she  wished  everyone 
to  notice  her.  It  is  the  walk  of  the  Music  Hall  stage,  and  the  trick 
of  it  consists  chiefly  in  giving,  so  to  speak,  prominence  to  the 
shoulders  and  oscillation  to  the  skirts.    Iu  fact,  she  was  one  of 


The  hand  of  fate.  337 

those  ladies  who  ardently  desire  that  all  the  world  should  notice 

Further,  in  her  conversation  she  showed  an  acquaintance  with 
certain  phases  of  the  English  lower  life  which  was  astonishing  in 
an  American  girl.  But  Clara  had  no  suspicion— none  whatever. 
One  thing  the  girl  did  which  pleased  her  mightily. 
She  was  never  tired  of  hearing  about  her  father,  and  his  way  of 
looking,  standing,  walking,  folding  his  hands,  and  holding  himself. 
And  constantly  more  and  more  Clara  detected  these  little  tricks  in 
his  daughter.    Perhaps  she  learned  them. 

"My  dear,"  she  said,  "to  think  that  I  ever  thought  you  unlike 
your  dear  father !" 

So  that  it  made  her  extremely  uncomfortable  to  detect  a  certain 
reserve  in  Arnold  towards  the  girl,  and  then  a  dislike  of  Arnold  in 
the  girl  herself.  However,  she  was  accustomed  to  act  by  Arnold's 
advice,  and  consented,  when  he  asked  her,  to  arrange  so  that  Arnold 
might  meet  Dr.  Washington.  As  if  anything  that  so  much  as 
looked  like  suspicion  could  be  thought  of  for  a  moment ! 

But  the  bell  rang,  and  Arnold,  followed  by  his  party,  led  the 
way  from  the  morning-room  to  the  drawing-room.  Dr.  Joseph 
Washington  was  standing  with  his  back  to  the  door.  The  girl  was 
dressed  as  if  she  had  just  come  from  a  walk,  and  was  holding 
Clara's  hand. 

"  Yes,  madam,"  he  was  saying  softly,  "  I  return  to-morrow  to 
America,  and  my  wife  and  my  children.  I  leave  our  dear  girl  in 
the  greatest  confidence  in  your  hands.  I  only  venture  to  advise 
that,  to  avoid  lawyers'  expenses,  you  should  simply  instruct 
somebody — the  right  person — to  transfer  the  property  from  your 
name  to  the  name  of  Iris.  Then  you  will  be  saved  troubles  and 
formalities  of  every  kind.    As  for  me,  my  home  is  in  America " 

"No,  Joseph,"  said  Lala  Roy  gently  ;  "it  is  in  Shadwell." 

"  It  is  a  lie  !"  he  cried,  starting  ;  "it  is  an  infernal  lie  !" 

"Iris,"  said  Arnold,  "lift  your  veil,  my  dear.  Mr.  Farrar,  who 
is  this  young  lady  ?    Look  upon  this  face,  Clara." 

"This  is  the  daughter  of  Claude  Deseret,"  said  Mr.  Farrar,  "if 
she  is  the  daughter  of  the  man  who  married  Alice  Emblem,  and 
went  by  the  name  of  Aglen." 

Clara  turned  a  terrified  face  to  Arnold. 

"  Arnold,  help  me  !" 

"  Whose  face  is  this  ?"  he  repeated. 

''It  is — good  heavens! — it  is  the  face  of  your  portrait.     It  is 

Claude's  face  again.     They  are  his  very  eyes "     She  covered 

her  face  with  her  hands.     "  Oh,  Arnold,  what  is  it  ?     Who  is  this 
other?" 

"  This  other  lady,  Clara,  is  a  Music  Hall  Singer,  who  calls  herself 
Carlotta  Claradine,  wife  of  this  man,  who  is  not  an  American  at  all, 
but  the  grandson  of  Mr.  Emblem,  the  bookseller,  and  therefore 
cousin  of  Iris.    It  is  he  who  robbed  bis  grandfather  of  the  papers 

22 


338  IN  L  UCK  A  T  LA  ST. 

which  you  have  in  your  possession,  Clara.  And  this  is  an  aud  ciouf 
conspiracy,  which  we  have  been  so  fortunate  as  to  uneartd  and 
detect,  step  by  step." 

"  Oh,  can  such  wickedness  be  ?"  said  Clara  ;  "  and  in  my  house, 
too  ?  " 

"  Joe,"  said  Lotty,  "  the  game  is  up.     I  knew  it  wouldn't  last." 

"  Let  them  prove  it,"  said  Joe  ;  "  let  them  prove  it.  I  defy  you 
to  prove  it!" 

"  Don't  be  a  fool,  Joe,"  said  his  wife.  "  Remember,"  she  whis- 
pered, "  you've  got  a  pocketful  of  money.     Let  us  go  peaceably." 

"As  for  you,  Nigger,"  said  Joe,  "  I'll  break  every  bone  in  your 
body." 

"  Not  here,"  said  Arnold  ;  "  there  will  be  no  breaking  of  bones 
in  this  house." 

Lotty  began  to  laugh. 

"  The  gentle  blood  always  shows  itself,  doesn't  it  ?"  she  said. 
"  I've  got  the  real  instincts  of  a  lady,  haven't  I  ?  Oh,  it  was 
beautiful  while  it  lasted.  And  every  day  more  and  more  like  my 
father." 

"  Arnold,"  cried  poor  Clara,  crushed,  "help  me  !" 

"  Come,"  said  Arnold,  "  you  had  better  go  at  once." 

"I  won't  laugh  at  you,"  said  Lotty.  " It's  a  shame,  and  you're'a 
good  old  thing.  But  it  did  me  good,  it  really  did,  to  hear  all  about 
the  gentle  blood.     Come,  Joe.    Let  us  go  away  quietly." 

She  took  her  husband's  arm.  Joe  was  standing  su  len  and  des- 
perate. Mr.  Chalker  was  right.  It  wanted  very  little  to  prevent 
him  from  falling  upon  the  whole  party,  and  going  off  with  a  fight. 

"  Young  woman,"  said  Lala  Roy,  "  you  had  better  not  go  outside 
the  house  with  the  man.  It  will  be  well  for  you  to  wait  until  he 
has  gone." 

"  Why  ?  He  is  my  husband,  whatever  we  have  done,  and  I'm 
not  ashamed  of  him." 

"  Is  he  your  husband  ?  Ask  him  what  I  meant  when  I  said  his 
home  was  at  Shadwell." 

"Come,  Lotty,"  said  Joe,  with  a  curious  change  of  manner. 
"Let  us  go  at  once." 

"Wait,"  Lala  repeated.  "Wait,  young  woman  ;  let  him  go  first 
Pray — pray  let  him  go  first." 

"  Why  should  I  wait  ?     I  go  with  my  husband." 

"  I  thought  to  save  you  from  shame.  But  if  you  will  go  with 
him,  ask  him  again  why  his  home  is  at  Shadwell,  and  why  he  left 
his  wife." 

Lotty  sprang  upon  her  husband,  and  caught  his  wrists  with  both 
hands. 

"  Joe,  what  does  he  mean  ?     Tell  me  he  is  a  liar." 

"  That  would  be  useless,"  said  Lala  Roy.  "  Because  a  very  few 
minutes  will  prove  the  contrary.  Better,  however,  that  he  should 
go  to  prison  for  marrying  two  wives  than  for  robbing  his  grand- 
father's safe." 


THE  HAND  OF  FATE.  339 

"It's  a  lie!"  Joe  repeated,  looking  as  dangerous  as  a  wild  boar 
brought  to  bay. 

"There  was  a  Joseph  Gallop,  formerly  assistant  _  purser  m  the 
service  of  the  Peninsular  and  Oriental  Steam  Navigation  Company," 
continued  the  man  of  Fate,  "who  married,  nine  months  ago,  a 
certain  widow  at  Shadwell.  He  was  turned  out  of  the  service,  and 
he  married  her  because  she  had  a  prosperous  lodging-house." 

"Oh— h!"  cried  Lotty.  "You  villain!  You  thought  to  live 
upon  my  earnings,  did  you?  You  put  me  up  to  pretend  to  be 
somebody  else.  Miss  Holland"— she  fell  upon  her  knees,  literally 
and  simply,  and  without  any  theatrical  pretence  at  all — "forgive 
me  !  I  am  properly  punished.  Oh,  he  is  made  of  lies !  He  told 
me  that  the  real  Iris  was  dead  and  buried,  and  be  was  the  rightful 
heir  ;  and  as  for  you" — she  sprang  to  her  feet  and  turned  upon  her 
husband — "I  know  it  is  true.  I  know  it  is  true — I  can  see  it 
within  your  guilty  eyes." 

"If  you  have  any  doubt,"  said  Lala,  "here  is  a  copy  of  the 
marriage-certificate." 

She  took  it,  read  it,  and  put  it  in  her  pocket.  Then  she  went  out 
of  the  room  without  another  word,  but  with  rage  and  revenge  in 
her  eyes. 

Joseph  followed  her,  saying  no  more.  He  had  lost  more  than  he 
thought  to  lose.  But  there  was  still  time  to  escape,  and  he  had  most 
of  the  money  in  his  pocket. 

But  another  surprise  awaited  him. 

The  lady  from  Shadwell,  in  fact,  was  waiting  for  him  outside  the 
door.  With  her  were  a  few  Shadwell  friends,  of  the  seafaring 
profession,  come  to  see  fair  play.  It  was  a  disgraceful  episode  in 
the  history  of  Chester  Square.  After  five  minutes  or  so,  during 
which  no  welsher  on  a  race-course  was  ever  more  hardly  used,  two 
policemen  interfered  to  rescue  the  man  of  two  wives,  and  there  was 
a  procession  all  the  way  to  the  police-court,  where,  after  several 
charges  of  assault  had  been  preferred  and  proved  against  half- 
a-dozen  mariners,  Joseph  was  himself  charged  with  bigamy,  both 
wives  giving  evidence,  and  committed  for  trial. 

His  old  friend,  Mr.  David  Chalker,  one  is  sorry  to  add,  refused 
to  give  bail,  so  that  he  remained  in  custody,  and  will  now  endure 
hardness  for  a  somewhat  lengthened  period. 

"  Clara,"  said  Arnold,  "  Iris  will  stay  with  you,  if  you  ask  her. 
We  shall  not  marry,  my  dear,  without  your  permission.  I  have 
promised  that  already,  have  I  not  ?" 


THE  END. 


BILLING   AUD   SONS,    PRINTERS,    GUII,DFOKI>. 


IMPORTANT   TO    ALL   LEAVING 
HOME  FOR  A  CHANGE. 

"Among  the  most  useful  medi- 
cines that  have  been  introduced 
within  the  last  century  is  ENO'S 
'FRUIT  SALT.'  There  is  no 
doubt  that  where  it  has  been  taken 
in  the  earliest  stage  of  a  disease, 
it  has,  in  many  instances,  pre- 
vented what  would  otherwise  have 
been  a  severe  illness.  The  effect 
of  ENO'S  'FRUIT  SALT' 
upon  a  disordered  and  feverish 
condition  of  the  system  is  marvel- 
lous. As  a  nursery  medicine  the 
'  FRUIT  SALT  '  is  invaluable  ; 
instead  of  children  disliking  it, 
they  look  upon  it  rather  in  the 
light  of  a  luxury.  As  a  gentle 
aperient  and  a  corrective  in  cases 
of  any  sort  of  over-indulgence  in 
eating  or  drinking,  ENO'S 
'FRUIT  SALT'  is  all  that  is 
needful  to  restore  freshness  and 
vigour.  In  cases  of  Nervous  Headache  and  Debility  it  is  especially  useful, 
and  should  be  taken  in  all  cases  where  persons  suffer  from  a  sluggish  condition 
of  the  Liver."—  Young  Ladies'  Journal. 

Disordered  Stomach  and  Bilious 
Attacks. 

A  gentleman  writes  :— "  Dec.  27,  1887.  After  twelve  months'  ex- 
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in  bilious  attacks ;  their  action  is  so  gentle,  and  yet  so  effective,  that  nothing 
equals  them  in  my  opinion.  They  have  never  failed  to  give  the  wished-for 
relief.  I  take  them  at  any  hour,  and  frequently  in  conjunction  with  a  small 
glass  of  Eno's  'Fruit  Salt.' — Yours  gratefully,  One  who  Knows." 

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Price  Is.  ljd.  ;  post  free,  Is.  3d. 


ENO'S   "FRUIT  SALT"    WORKS,   LONDON,  S.E. 


[December,  x888. 


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BY    MORTIMER   COLLINS. 
Sweet  Anne  Page.) Transmigration 
From  Midnight  to  Midnight. 


Library  Editions,  many  Illustrated, 
extra,  3s.  6d.  each. 

MORTIMER  &  FRANCES  COLLINS. 
Blacksmith  and  Scholar. 
The  Village  Comedy. 
You  Play  me  False. 

BY   WILKIE  COLLINS. 


The  Frozen  Deep. 
The  Law  and  the 

Lady. 
TheTwo  Destinies 
Haunted   Hotel 
The  Fallen  Leaves 
Jezebel'sDaughter 
The   Black   Robe. 
Heart  and  Science 
"  I  Say  No." 
Little  Novels. 
The  Evil  Genius. 


Antonina. 
Basil. 

Hide  and  Seek. 
The  Dead  Secret 
Queen  of  Hearts 
My   Miscellanies. 
Woman  in  White 
The  Moonstone. 
Man  and  Wife. 
Poor  Miss  Finch. 
Miss  or  Mrs  ? 
New  Magdalen. 

BY  DUTTON    COOK, 
Paul  Foster's  Daughter. 

BY    WILLIAM   CYPLES, 
Hearts  of  Gold. 

BY  ALPHONSE  DAUDET. 
The  Evangelist;  or,  Port  Salvation, 

BY  JAMES  DE  MILLE. 
A  Castle  in  Spain. 

BY  J.   LEITH   DERWENT. 
Our  Lady  of  Tears. 
Circe's  LoverB, 

BY  M.  BETHAM-EDWARDS. 
Felicia. 

BY  MRS.  ANNIE  EDWARDEI. 
Archie  Lovell. 

BY  PERCY  FITZGERALD 
Fatal  Zero. 

BY  R.  E.  FRANCILLOM. 
Queen  Cophetua. 
One  by  One. 
A  Real  Queen. 
King  or  Knave? 

Prefaced  by  Sir  BARTLE  FRERE. 
Pandurang  Hari. 

BY  EDWARD  GARRETT. 
The  Capel  Girls. 


28 


BOOKS  PUBLISHED  BY 


Piccadilly  Novels,  continued — 
BY  CHARLES  GIBBON. 
Robin  Gray. 

What  will  the  World  Say? 
In  Honour  Bound. 
Queen  of  the  Meadow 
The  Flower  of  the  Fore9t. 
A  Heart's  Problem. 
The  Braes  of  Yarrow. 
The  Golden  Shaft. 
Of  High  Degree. 
Loving  a  Dream. 

BY  THOMAS  HARDY. 
Under  the  Greenwood  Tree. 

BY  JULIAN  HAWTHORNE. 
Garth. 

Ellice  Quentln. 
Sebastian  Strome. 
Dust. 

Fortune's  Fool. 
Beatrix  Randolph. 
David  Poindexter's  Dlsappaarance. 
The  Spectre  of  the  Camera. 

BY  SIR  A.  HELFS. 
Ivan  de  Biron. 

BY  MRS.  ALFRED  HUNT 
Thornlcroft'8  Model. 
The  Leaden  Casket. 
Self  Condemned. 
That  other  Person. 

BY  JEAN  INGELOW. 
Fated  to  be  Free. 

BY  R.  ASHE  KING. 
A  Drawn  Game. 
"The  Wearing  of  the  Green." 

BY  HENRY  KINGSLEY. 
Number  Seventeen. 

BY  E.  LYNN  LINTON. 
Patricia  Kemball. 
Atonement  of  Learn  0unda3. 
The  World  Well  Lost. 
Under  which  Lord  P 
"  My  Love  !" 
lone. 
Paston  Carew. 

BY  HENRY  W.  LUCY. 
Gideon  Fleyce. 

by  justin  McCarthy. 

The  Waterdale  Neighbours. 
A  Fair  Saxon. 
Dear  Lady  Disdain. 
Miss  Misanthrope. 
Donna  Quixote. 
The  Comet  of  a  Season. 
Maid  of  Athens. 
Camiola. 

BY  MRS.  MACDONELL. 
Quaker  Cousins. 

BY  FLORENCE  MARRY  AT. 
Open  I  Sesame  I      |    Written  In  Fire. 


Piccadilly  Novels,  continued — 

BY  D.   CHRISTIE  MURRAY. 
Lift's  Atonement.         Coals  of  Fire. 
Joseph's  Coat.  Val  Strange. 

A  Model  Father.  Hearts. 

By  the  Gate  of  the  Sea. 
The  Way  of  the  World. 
A  Bit  of  Human  Nature. 
First  Person  Singular. 
Cynic  Fortune, 

BY  MRS.  OLIPHANT. 
Whlteladles. 

BY  OUIDA. 


Held  in  Bondage. 

Strathmore. 

Chandos. 

Under  Two  Flags. 

Idalia. 

Cecil    Castle- 

maine's  Gage. 
Trlcotrin. 
Puck- 

Folle  Farine. 
ADog  of  Flanders 
Pascarel. 
Signa.  [ine. 

Princess  Naprax- 

BY  MARGARET  A.  PAUL 
Gentle  and  Simple. 

BY  JAMES  PAYN, 


TwoLittleWooden 
Shoes. 

In  a  Winter  City. 

Ariadne. 

Friendship. 

Moths, 

Pipistrello. 

A    Village    Com- 
mune. 

BImbi. 

Wanda. 

Frescoes. 

In  Maremma. 

Othmar. 


A    Grape   from    a 
Thorn. 

Some      Private 
Views.      [Ward. 

The         Canon's 

Talk  of  the  Town. 

Glow-worm  Tales. 

In    Peril    and    Pri- 
vation. 

Holiday  Tasks. 


Lost  Sir  Massing 

berd. 
Walter's  Word. 
Less    Black   than 

We're  Painted. 
By  Proxy. 
High  Spirits. 
Under  One  Roof. 
A     Confidential 

Agent. 
From  Exile. 

BY  E.  C.  PRICE. 
Valentlna.  |    The  Foreigners. 

Mrs.  Lancaster's  Rival. 

BY  CHARLES  READE. 
It  Is  Never  Too  Late  to  Mend. 
Hard  Cash.         |     Peg  Wofflngton. 
Christie  Johnstone. 
Griffith  Gaunt.  |     Foul  Play. 
The  Double  Marriage. 
Love  Me  Little,  Love  Me  Long. 
The  Cloister  and  the  Hearth. 
The  Course  of  True  Love. 
The  Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 
Put  Yourself  In  His  Place. 
A  Terrible  Temptation. 
The  Wandering  Heir.  I  A  Simpleton. 
A  Woman-Hater.  |  Readlana. 

Slngleheart  and  Doubleface. 
The  Jilt 
Good     Stories    of    Men    and    other 

Animals. 

BY  MRS.  J.  H.  RIDDELL. 
Her  Mother's  Darling. 
Prince  of  Wales's  Garden-Party, 
Weird  Stories. 


CHATTO  &>    W INDUS,  PICCADILLY 


29 


Piccadilly  Novels,  continued— 
BY  F.  W.  ROBINSON. 
Women  are  Strange. 
The  Hands  of  Justice. 

BY  JOHN  SAUNDERS, 
Bound  to  the  Wheel. 
Guy  Waterman.        |  Two  Dreamers. 
The  Lion  in  the  Path. 

BY  KATHARINE  SAUNDERS. 
Margaret  and  Elizabeth. 
Gideon's  Rock.       I  Heart  Salvage. 
The  High  Mills.     |  Sebastian. 

BY   T.    W.   SPEIGHT. 
The  Mysteries  of  Heron  Dyke. 

BY  R.  A.  STERNDALB. 
The  Afghan  Knife. 

BY  BERTHA  THOMAS. 
Proud  Maisie.  |  Cresslda. 
The  Violin-Player 

BY  ANTHONY  TROLLOPS. 
The  Way  we  Live  Now. 
Frau  Frohmann.  |  Marion  Fay. 


Piccadilly  Novels,  continued— 
Anthony  Trollope,  continued. 
Kept  in  the  Dark. 
Mr.  Scarborough's  Family. 
The  Land  Leaguers. 

BY  FRANCES  E.  TROLLOPE. 
Like  Ships  upon  the  Sea. 
Anne  Furness. 
Mabel's  Progress. 

BY  IVAN  TURGENIEFF,  S-c. 
Stories  from  Foreign  Novelists. 

BY  SARAH   TYTLER 
What  She  Came  Through. 
The  Bride's  Pass. 
Saint  Mungo's  City 
Beauty  and  the  Beast. 
Noblesse  Oblige 
Citoyenne  Jacqueline. 
The  Huguenot  Family. 
Lady  Bell.  |   Buried  Diamonds. 

BY  C.  C.  FRASEK-TYTLER. 
Mistress  Judith. 


CHEAP   EDITIONS   OF 

Post  8vo,  illustrated 
BY  EDMOND  ABOUT. 
The  Fellah. 

BY  HAMILTON  AIDE. 
Carrof  Carrlyon.  I     Confidences. 

BY  MRS.  ALEXANDER. 
Maid,  Wife,  or  Widow? 
Valerie's  Fate. 

BY  GRANT  ALLEN. 
Strange  Stories. 
Phlllstia. 
Babylon. 
In  all  Shades. 
The  Beckoning  Hand. 
BY  SHELSLEY  BEAUCHAMP. 
Grantley  Grange. 

BY  W.  BESANT  &■  JAMES  RICE. 
Ready-Money  Mortlboy. 
With  Harp  and  Crown. 
This  Son  of  Vulcan.  |  My  Little  Girl 
The  Case  of  Mr.  Lucraft. 
The  Golden  Butterfly 
By  Cella's  Arbour. 
The  Monks  of  Thelema. 
'Twas  in  Trafalgar's  Bay. 
The  Seamy  Side. 
The  Ten  Years'  Tenant. 
The  Chaplain  of  the  Fleet. 

BY  WALTER  BESANT. 
All  Sorts  and  Conditions  of  Men. 
The  Captains'  Room. 
All  In  a  Garden  Fair. 
Dorothy  Forster. 
Uncle  Jack. 
Children  of  Gibeon. 


POPULAR    NOVELS. 

boards,  2s,  each. 

BY  FREDERICK  BOYLE 
Camp  Notes.  |  Savage  Life. 
Chronicles  of  No-man's  Land. 

BY  BRET  HARTE. 
An  Heiress  of  Red  Dog. 
The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp. 
Caiifornian  Stories. 
Gabriel  Conroy.  |  Flip 

Maruja.    |    A  Phyllis  of  the  Sierras. 
BY   ROBERT   BUCHANAN. 


The     Martyrdom 

of  Madeline. 
Annan  Water. 
The  New  Abelard. 
Matt. 


The    Shadow    of 

the  Sword. 
A  Child  of  Nature. 
God  and  the  Man. 
Love  Me  for  Ever. 
Foxglove  Manor. 
The  Master  of  the  Mine. 

BY  MRS.  BURNETT 
Surly  Tim. 

BY  HALL  CAINE. 
The  Shadow  of  a  Crime. 
A  Son  of  Hagar. 

BY  COMMANDER  CAMERON 
The  Cruise  of  the  "Black  Prince" 
BY  MRS.   LOVETT  CAMERON 
Deceivers  Ever.  |  Juliet's  Guardian 

BY  MACLAREN  COBBAN. 
The  Cure  of  Souls. 

BY  C.   ALLSTON  COLLINS 
The  Bar  Sinister. 

BY   WILKIE   COLLINS. 


Antonlna. 

Basil. 

Hide  and  Seek. 


Queen  of  Hearts 
My  Miscellanies.' 
Woman   in  White 


The  Dead  Secret.  I  The  Moonstone 


30 


BOOKS  PUBLISHED   BY 


Cheap  Popular  Novels,  continued — 
Wilkie  Collins,  continued. 


Man  and  Wife. 
Poor  Miss  Finch. 
Miss  or  Mps. ? 
New  Magdalen. 
The  Frozen  Deep. 
Law  and  the  Lady. 
TheTwo  Destinies 


Haunted  Hotel. 
The  Fallen  Leaves. 
Jezebel'sDaughter 
The  Black  Robe. 
Heart  and  Science 
"  I  Say  No." 
The  Evil  Genius. 


BY   MORTIMER   COLLINS. 
Sweet  Anne  Page.  I  From  Midnight  to 
Transmigration.    |      Midnight. 
A  Fight  with  Fortune. 
MORTIMER  &  FRANCES  COLLINS. 
Sweet  and  Twenty.  |      Frances. 
Blacksmith  and  Scholar. 
The  Village  Comedy. 
You  Play  me  False. 

BY  M.  J.  COLQUHOUN. 
Every  inch  a  Soldier. 

BY  MONCURE  D.  CONWAY. 
Pine  and  Palm. 

BY  DUTTON  COOK. 
Leo.  I  Paul  Foster's  Daughter. 

BY  C.  EGBERT  CRADDOCK. 
The    PropHet   of  the    Great    Smoky 
Mountains. 

BY  WILLIAM  CYPLES. 
Hearts  of  Gold. 

BY  ALPHONSE  DAUDET. 
The  Evangelist;  or,  Port  Salvation. 
BY  JAMES   DE  MILLE. 
Castle  in  Spain. 

BY  J.  LEITH  DERWENT. 
Our  Lady  of  Tears.  |    Circe's  Lovers. 

BY  CHARLES  DICKENS. 
Sketches  by  Boz.  I  Oliver  Twist. 
Pickwick  Papers.   |  Nicholas  Nickleby 

BY  DICK  DONOVAN. 
The  Man-Hunter. 
Caught  at  Last ! 

BY   MRS.   ANNIE   EDWARDES. 
A  Point  of  Honour.  |     Archie  Lovell. 

BY  M.   BETHAM-EDWARDS. 
Felicia.  I  Kitty. 

BY  EDWARD  EGGLESTON. 

0XVBY  PERCY  FITZGERALD. 
Bella  Donna.       |    Never  Forgotten. 
The  Second  Mrs.  Tillotson. 
Polly.  I    Fatal  Zero. 

Seventy-five  Brooke  Street. 
The  Lady  of  Brantome. 
BY  ALBANY  DE  FONBLANQVE. 
Filthy  Lucre. 

BY  R.   E.   FRANCILLON. 
Olympla.  I    Queen  Cophetua. 

One  by  One.  I    A  Real  Queen. 

BY  HAROLD  FREDERIC. 
Seth's  Brother's  Wife. 
Prefaced  by  Sir  H.  BARTLE   FRERE. 
Pandurang  Hari. 

BY  HAIN  FRISWELL. 
One  of  Two. 

BY  EDWARD  GARRETT. 
The  Capel  Girls. 


Cheap  Popular  Novels,  continue.'.— 

BY  CHARLES  GIBBON. 
Robin  Gray.  The  Flower  of  the 

For  Lack  of  Gold.        Forest. 
What     will      the    Braes  of  Yarrow. 
World  Say  P  The  Golden  Shaft. 

In  Honour  Bound.   Of  High  Degree. 
In  Love  and  War.    Fancy  Free. 
For  the  King.  Mead  and  Stream. 

In  PasturesGreen    Loving  a  Dream. 
Queen  of  the  Mea-   A  Hard  Knot. 

dow.  Heart's  Delight. 

A  Heart's  Problem 

BY    WILLIAM   GILBERT. 
Dr.  Austin's  Guests.  |   James  Duke. 
The  Wizard  of  the  Mountain. 

BY  JAMES  GREENWOOD. 
Dick  Temple. 

BY  JOHN  HABBERTON. 
Brueton's  Bayou.  |  Country  Luck. 

BY   ANDREW   HALLWAY 
Every-Day  Papers. 

BY  LADY  DUFFUS  HARDY. 
Paul  Wynter's  Sacrifice. 

BY   THOMAS   HARDY. 
Under  the  Greenwood  Tree. 

BY  J.   BERWICK  HARWOOD. 
The  Tenth  Earl. 

BY  JULIAN  HAWTHORNE. 
Garth.  I  Sebastian  Stroma 

ElliceQuentln.        |  Dust. 
Prince  Saroni's  Wife. 
Fortune's  Fool.      I  Beatrix  Randolph. 
Miss  Cadogna.        |  Love — or  a  Name. 

BY  SIR   ARTHUR   HELPS. 
Ivan  de  Biron. 

BY  MRS.  CASHEL  HOEY. 
The  Lover's  Creed. 

BY   TOM   HOOD. 
A  Golden  Heart. 

BY  MRS.  GEORGE  HOOPER. 
The  House  of  Raby. 

BY   TIGHE   HOPKINS. 
'Twixt  Love  and  Duty. 

BY  MRS.  ALFRED  HUNT. 
Thornicroft's  Model. 
The  Leaden  Casket. 
Self  Condemned. 
That  other  Person. 

BY   JEAN  INGE  LOW. 
Fated  to  be  Free. 

BY  HARRIETT  JAY. 
The  Dark  Colleen. 
The  Queen  of  Connaufiht. 

BY  MARK  KERSHAW 
Colonial  Facts  and  Fictions. 
BY   R.   ASHE   KING 
A  Drawn  Game. 
"The  Wearing  of  the  Green." 
BY  HENRY  KINGS  LEY 
Oakshott  Castle. 

BY  JOHN  LEYS. 
The  Lindsays. 

HV  MARY  LINSKILL. 
In  Exchange  for  a  Soul. 

BY  E.  LYNN  LINTON. 
Patricia  Kemball. 
The  Atonement  of  Learn  Dundas. 


CHATTO  &   WINDUS,  PICCADILLY. 


3i 


Cheap  Popular  Novels,  continued — 

E.  Lynn  Linton,  continued — 
The  World  Well  Lost. 
Under  which  Lord? 
With  a  Silken  Thread. 
The  Rebel  of  the  Family, 
"My  Love."  |      lone, 

BY  HENRY  W.  LUCY, 
Gideon  Fleyce. 

by  justin  McCarthy. 


MissMisanthrope 
Donna  Quixote. 
The   Comet  of   a 

Season. 
Maid  of  Athens. 
Camiola. 


Dear  LadyDisdain 
The   Waterdale 

Neighbours. 
My  Enemy's 
Daughter, 
A  Fair  Saxon. 
Linley  Rochford. 

BY  MRS.  MACDONELL. 
Quaker  Cousins. 

BY  KATHARINE  S.  MACQUOID. 
The  Evil  Eye.  |      Lost  Rose. 

BY   W.  H.  MALLOCK. 
The  New  Republic. 

BY  FLORENCE  MARRYAT. 
Open!  Sesame.         Fighting  the  Air, 
A  Harvest  of  Wild     Written  in  Fire. 
Oats. 

BY  J.  MASTERMAN. 
Half-a-dozen  Daughters. 

BY  BRANDER  MATTHEWS. 
A  Secret  of  the  Sea. 

BY  JEAN  MIDDLEMASS. 
Touch  and  Go.       |      Mr.  Dorillion 

BY  MRS.  MOLESWORTH. 
Hathercourt  Rectory. 

3Y  D.  CHRISTIE  MURRAY. 


Hearts. 

Way  of  the  World. 

A  Bit  of  Human 
Nature. 

First  Person  Sin- 
gular. 

Cynic  Fortune. 


ALife's  atonement 
A  Model  Father. 
Joseph's  Coat. 
Coals  of  Fire. 
BytheGateofthe 

Sea. 
Val  Strange 
Old  Blazer's  Hero. 

BY  ALICE  O'HANLON. 
The  Unforeseen. 

BY  MRS.  OLIPHANT. 
Whiteladies.      |   The  Primrose  Path. 
The  Greatest  Heiress  in  England. 
BY  MRS.  ROBERT  O'REILLY. 
Phoebe's  Fortunes. 

BY  OUIDA. 
Held  In  Bondage.     TwoLittleWooden 


Strath  more. 

Chandos. 

Under  Two  Flags. 

Idalia. 

Cecil     Castle- 

maine's  Gage. 
Tricotrin.  |  Puck. 
Folle   Farine. 
A  Dog  of  Flanders. 
Pascarel. 
Siyna.  [ine. 

Princess   Naprax- 
In  a  Winter  City 


Shoes. 

Ariadne. 

Friendship. 

Moths. 

Piplstrello. 

A    Village  Com- 
mune. 

Bimbi.  I  Wanda. 

Frescoes. 

In  Maremma. 

Othmar. 

Wisdom,  Wit,  and 
Path  03. 


Cheap  Popular  Novels,  continued — 
BY  MARGARET  AGNES  PAUL. 
Gentle  and  Simple. 

BY  JAMES  PAYN. 
Lost  Sir  Massing 


Trea- 


berd 

A    Perfect 
sure. 

Bentinck's  Tutor. 

Murphy's  Master. 

A  County  Family. 

At  Her  Mercy. 

A  Woman's  Ven- 
geance. 

Cecil's  Tryst. 

Clyffards  of  Clyffe 

The  Family  Scape- 
grace. 

Foster  Brothers. 

Found  Dead. 

Best  of  Husbands. 

Walter's  Word. 

Halves. 

Fallen  Fortunes. 

What  He  Cost  Her 

Humorous  Stories 

Gwendoline's  Har- 
vest. 

£200  Reward. 


Like  Father,  Like 

Son. 
Marine  Residence. 
Married    Beneath 

Him. 
Mirk  Abbey.  [Won 
Not     Wooed,     but 
Less    Black    than 

We're  Painted. 
By  Proxy. 
Under  One  Roof. 
High    Spirits. 
Carlyon's  Year. 
A     Confidential 

Agent. 
Some     Private 

Views. 
From  Exile. 
A    Grape    from    a 

Thorn, 
For  Cash  Only. 
Kit:  A  Memory. 
The  Canon's  Ward 
Talk  of  the  Town. 
I  Holiday  Tasks. 


BY  C.  L.  PIRKIS. 
Lady  Lovelace. 

BY  EDGAR  A.  POE. 
The  Mystery  of  Marie  Roget. 

BY  E.  C.  PRICE. 
Valentina.  |    The  Foreigners 

Mrs.  Lancaster's  Rival. 
Gerald. 

BY  CHARLES  READS. 
It  is  Never  Too  Late  to    Mend. 
Hard  Cash.  |    Peg  WofHngton. 

Christie  Johnstone. 
Griffith  Gaunt. 
Put  Yourself  in  His  Place. 
The  Double  Marriage. 
Love  Me  Little,  Love  Me  Lons. 
Foul  Play. 

The  Cloister  and  the  Hearth. 
The  Course  of  True  Love. 
Autobiography  of  a  Thief. 
A  Terrible  Temptation. 
The  Wandering  Heir. 
A  Simpleton.  I      A  Woman-Hater 

Readiana.  |      The  Jilt. 

Singleheart  and  Doubleface. 
Good     Stories     of    Men    and    other 

Animals. 

BY  MRS.  J.  H.  RIDDELL. 

Her  Mother's  Darling. 

Prince  of  Wales's  Garden  Party 

Weird  Stories.     |      Fairy  Water' 

The  Uninhabited  House. 

The  Mystery  in  Palace  Gardens. 
BY  F.   W.  ROBINSON. 

Women  are  Strange. 

The  Hands' of  Justice. 


--2         BOOKS  PUBLISHED   BY  CHATTO  &   WINDUS. 


Cheap  Popular  Novels,  continued— 
BY  JAMES  RUNCIMAN. 
Skippers  and  Shellbacks. 
Grace  Balmaign's  Sweetheart. 
Schools  and  Scholars. 

BY   W.  CLARK  RUSSELL. 
Round  the  Galley  Fire. 
On  the  Fo'k'sle  Head. 
In  the  Middle  Watch. 
A  Voyage  to  the  Cape. 

BY  BAYLE  ST.  JOHN. 
A  Levantine  Family. 
BY  GEORGE  AUGUSTUS  SALA. 
Gaslight  and  Daylight. 

BY  JOHN  SAUNDERS. 
Bound  to  the  Wheel. 
One  Against  the  World. 
Guy  Waterman.   |  Two  Dreamers. 
The  Lion  in  the  Path. 
BY  KATHARINE  SAUNDERS. 
Joan  Merryweather. 
Margaret  and  Elizabeth. 
The  High  Mills. 
Heart  Salvage.    I   Sebastian. 

BY  GEORGE  R.  SIMS. 
Rogues  and  Vagabonds. 
The  Ring  o'  Bells. 
Mary  Jane's  Memoirs. 
Mary  Jane  Married. 

BY  ARTHUR  SKETCHLEY. 
A  Match  In  the  Dark. 

BY  T.  W.  SPEIGHT. 
The  Mysteries  of  Heron  Dyke. 
The  Golden  Hoop. 

BY  R.  A.  STERNDALE. 
The  Afghan  Knife. 

BY  R.  LOUIS  STEVENSON. 
New  Arabian  Nights.    |  PrinceOtto. 

BY  BERTHA  THOMAS. 
Cressida.  |     Proud  Maisle. 

The  Violin-Player. 

BY  W.  MOY  THOMAS. 
A  Fight  for  Life. 

BY  WALTER  THORNBURY. 
Tales  for  the  Marines. 
Old  Stories  Re-told. 
BY  T.  ADOLPHUS  TROLLOPE. 
Diamond  Cut  Diamond. 

BY  ANTHONY  TROLLOPE. 
The  Way  We  Live  Now. 
The  American  Senator. 
Frau  Frohmann.  |  Marion  Fay 
Kept  in  the  Dark. 
Mr.  Scarborough's  Family. 
The  Land-Leaguers. 
The  Golden  Lion  of  Granpere. 
John  Caldlgate.  „,,„„„ 

By  F.   ELEANOR   TROLLOPE. 
Like  Ships  upon  the  Sea. 
Anne  Furness.      I  Mabel's  Progress. 

BY  J.T.  TROWBRIDGE. 
Farnell's  Folly. 

BY  IVAN  TURGENIEFF,  &c. 
Stories  from  Foreign  Novelists. 

BY  MARK  TWAIN. 
Tom  Sawyer.     |    A  Tramp  Abroad. 


Cheap  Popular  Novels,  continued— 
Mark  Twain,  continued. 
A  Pleasure  Trip  on  the  Cont.nent 

of  Europe. 
The  Stolen  White  Elephant. 
Huckleberry  Finn. 
Life  on  the  Mississippi. 
The  Prince  and  the  Pauper. 

BY  C.  C.  FRASER-TYTLER. 
Mistress  Judith. 

BY  SARAH  TYTLER. 
What  She  Came  Through. 
The  Bride's  Pass. 
Saint  Mungo's  City. 
Beauty  and  the  Beast. 
Lady  Bell.      |    Noblesse  Oblige. 
Citoyenne  Jacquiline  |  Disappeared 

BY  J.  S.  WINTER. 
Cavalry  Life.  I  Regimental  Legends. 

BY  H.  F.  WOOD. 
The  Passenger  from  Scotland  Yard. 
BY  LADY  WOOD. 
,      Sabina. 

1  BY  EDMUND  YATES. 

!     Castaway.      |  The  Forlorn  Hope. 
!     Land  at  Last. 
!  ANONYMOUS. 

j     Paul  Ferroll. 

|      Why  Paul  Ferroll  Killed  his  Wife, 
I  POPULAR  SHILLING  BOOKS. 

I      Jeff  Briggs's  Love  Story.     By  Bret 
I         Harte.  [Bret  Harte, 

The  Twins  of  Table  Mountain.  By 
A  Day's  TodV.  By  Percy  Fitzgerald. - 
Mrs.  Gainsborough's  Diamonds.  By 

Julian  Hawthorne. 
A  Dream  and  a  Forgetting.  By  ditto. 
A  Romance  of  the  Queen's  Hounds. 

By  Charles  James. 
Kathleen    Mavourneen.    By  Author 

of  "  That  Lass  o'  Lowrie's." 
Lindsay's  Luck.     By  the  Author  of 

"  That  Lass  o'  Lowrie's." 
Pretty  Polly  Pemberton.  By  the 
Author  of  "That  Lass  o'  Lowrie's." 
Trooping  with  Crows.  ByC.L.  Pirkis 
The  Professor's  Wife.  By  L.  Graham. 
A  Double  Bond.  By  Linda  Villari. 
Esther's  Glove.  By  R.  E.  Francillon. 
The  Garden  that    Paid  the  Rent 

By  Tom  Jerrold. 
Curly.  By  John  Coleman.  Illus- 
trated by  J.  C  Dollman. 
Beyond  the  Gates.  By  E.  S.  Phelps. 
Old  Maid's  Paradise.  By  E.  S.  Phflps. 
Burglars  In  Paradise.  ByE.S. Phelps. 
Jack  the  Fisherman.  ByE.S.  Phelps. 
Doom :     An    Atlantic    Episode.      By 

Justin  H.  McCarthy,  M.P. 
Our    Sensation    Novel.      Edited   by 

Justin  H  McCarthy,  M.P. 
Bible  Characters.  By  Chas.  Reade. 
The  Dagonet  Reciter.  By  G.R.Sims. 
Wife  or  No  Wife  P  By  T.  W.  Speight. 
By  Devious  Ways.  ByT.W.SpnGHT. 
The  Silverado  Squatters.  By  R. 
Louis  Stevenson. 


J.   OGDBN  AND  CO,   LIMITED,   PRINTERS,    GREAT   SAFFRON    HILL(  E.C, 


DO    NOT    LET   YOUR   CHILD   DIE  ! 

G    Fennings'  ChiMren's  Powders  Prevent  Convulsions. 
Z  ABE  COOLING  AND  SOOTHING. 


FENNINGS' 
CHILDREN'S  POWDERS 


CD 
3> 

o 

z 
f> 


Coughs,  Colds,  Bronchitis. 

FENNINGS' 
LUNG  HEALERS. 

The  Best  Remedy  to  Cure  all  __ 

COUGHS,   COLDS,  ASTHMAS,  &c.    — 

_  Sold  in  Boxes,  at  is.  i$d.  and  -zs.  9^.,  H 

,        For  Children  cutting1  their  Teeth,  to  prevent  Con-  rn  with  directions.     Sent  post  free  for  15  *r 
•"  vulsions.     (Do  not  contain  Calomel,  Opium,  Morphia,     ,  stamps.  Direct  to  ALFRED  FENNINGS,  w 

or  anything  injurious  to  a  tender  babe.)  *»  West  Cowes,  I.W. 

>_      Sold  in  Stamped  Boxes,  at  is.  ijo".  and  2s.  yd.  {great  X      The  largest  size   Boxes,   2s.  gd.  (35  f> 
^.  saving-), with  full  directions.  Sent  post  free  for  15  stamps.  _  stamps,  post  free)  contain  three  times  CZ 

Direct  to  ALFRED  FENNINGS,  West  Cowes,  I.W.       _  the  quantity  of  the  small  boxes.  SJ 

<     Read  Fenninga'  Every  Mother's  Book,  which  con-  z      Read  Fennings' Every  body's  Doctor,  m 
ixl  tains  valuable  hints  on  Feeding,  Teething1,  Weaning,  Q  Sent  post  free,  13  stamps.     Direct  A.  O 

Sleeping,   &c.     Ask  your  Chemist  for  a  FREE  copy.       •     FENNINGS,  West  Cowes,  I.W. 
FENNINGS'  EVERY  MOTHER'S  BOOK  sent  post  free  on  application  by  letter  or  post  card. 
Direct  to  ALFRED  FENNINGS,  West  Cowes,  I.W. 

THE        CYCLOSTYLE 

Is  the  latest  and  best  device  by  which  a  great 
number  of  Facsimile  Copies  can  be  taken- 
from  one  Original  in  permanent  ink,  black 
or  any  other  colour.  By  its  means  anyone 
entirely  inexperienced  can  become  his  own 
Lithographer.  Among  successful  users  are 
many  ladies.  Sold  at  most  respectable  Sta- 
tioners' throughout  the  United  Kingdom.  No 
Washing,  no  Damping,  no  Melting,  no  Copy- 
ing Press,  no  Electricity,  no  Chemicals, 
Gelatine,  or  Aniline.    Price  from  31s. 

Chief  London  Depot  : 

-FACSIMILE   APPARATUS   CO., 

79a,  Gracechurch  Street,  E.O. 


K EATINGS 
-POWDER 


,  BUC  S 

■:'F  LEAS  ■'"■"•• 

MOTHS 

IBEETLES 


-■  V?  "';  M^Vrtffii^li^iirii 


Sold  inTirK6M*&  2/6 


KEATING'S 

COUGH 

LOZENGES, 

Absolutely  the  bent-known  remedy  ever 
made  for 

COUGHS,  ASTHMA,  BRONCHITIS 

Strongly  recommended  by  the  most 
eminent  Doctors. 

TINS  ONLY,  1/15  and  2/9. 


Fashion   Note  from   "COURT  JOURNAL." 

'THE    INTRODUCTION    OF 

PRIESTLEY'S 

DRESS  FABRICS  FOR  GENTLEWOMEN 

Into  the  home  market  certainly  marks  a  new  era  for  the  manufacture  of 
British  Dress  goods  ;  they  are  the  PERFECTION  of  Dress  Fabrics." 

To  be  obtained  from  all  leading  Drapers. 

Trade  Mark:   THE   VARNISHED    BOARD. 

[Ouida  itij 


Dr.  BROWNE  discovered  the  Medicine, 


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And  Invented  the  word  "  Chlorodyne  "  in  i8<;6. 


SPECIALITIES 
FOR  ALL 


Sold  by  the  principal  Druggists 
at  Home  and  Abroad. 


THE  YEAR 
ROUND. 


JACKSON'S 

RUSMA. 


For  the  removal  of  Hair  without  a 
Razor,  from  the  Arms,  Neck,  or  Pace, 
as  well  as   Sunburn  or  Tan. 

The  activity  of  this  depilatory  is  nota- 
ble. It  is  easy  and  safe.  It  leaves  a 
Whole  Skin  and  a  Clean  Complexion. 


At  Is. 

By  Post, 

Is.  2d. 


JACKSON'S 

BENZINE 

EECT. 


For  taking  out  Grease,  Oil,  Paint,  &c. 
from  all  absorbent  Fabrics,  Dress,  or 
Drapery;  Gloves,  Slippers,  Books,  and 
Manuscripts,  it  cleans  with  equal  suc- 
cess. It  may  be  freely  used  to  wash  Gilt 
surfaces,  to  which  water  is  destructive. 


At  6d,,  Is., 

and  2s.  6d. 

Parcel  Post, 

3d,  extra. 


JACKSON'S  Chinese  Diamond  CEMENT. 

For  China,  Glass,  and  xvhat  not. 


T.  J.,  in  making  this 
Cement,  has  constantly 
kept  in  view  the  produc- 
tion of  an  article  fit  for 
general  household  pur- 
poses, and  which  would, 
with  average  care,  repair 
damages,  so  that  the 
mended  articles  should  be 

Sold  in  Bottles  at  6d. 


Registered  able  to  do  duty  alongside 
the  sound  ones.  It  sur- 
passes in  neatness,  in 
strength,  in  cheapness, 
and  retains  its  virtues  in 
all  climates.  It  has 
stood  the  test  of  time, 
and  in  all  quarters  of  the 
Trade  Mark.  world. 
and  Is.  each;  by  Inland  Post,  Is.  2d. 


H.R.H. 
PrinceAlbert's 

CACHOUX 


JACKSON'S 

INCENSE 
SPILLS. 


1888. 


Dainty  morsels,  in  the  form  of  tiny  Silver  Bul- 
lets, which  dissolve  in  the  mouth  and  surrender 
to  the  breath  their  hidden  fragrance. 

The  little  Caskets  containing  the  Cachoux  bear 
a  Medallion  of  the  late  Prince  Consort.  They 
are  also  furnished  with  "  The  Albert  Gate  Latch  " 
(registered);  being  Thomas  Jackson's  contri- 
vance for  paying  out  the  Cachoux  singly. 


A  Bparkling  means  of  Incensing  a  Domicile, 

and  of  Exorcising  Evil  Smells. 
An  enchanter's  little  wand,  that,  on  being 
fired,  becomes  to  the  receptive  as  a  Medium 
which  quickens  the  fancy,  be  its  mood  grave  or 
gay,  kindly  leading  the  captive  to  that  ladder 
the  top  of  which  reaches  through  the  clouds  to 
the  borders  of  Fairyland. 


From  the  Laboratory  of 

THOMAS    JACKSON, 

Strangeways,   MANCHESTER. 


At  6d. 
By  Post,  7d, 


At  6d. 
By  Post,  7d, 


POSTAGE 

for  Abroad,  at 

LETTER 

RATE. 


W     mm--  ■■"-•  '■//:€f^