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MY    LITTLE    GIRL. 


BY  THE  AUTHORS  OF   "READY- MONEY  MORTIBOY.' 


BOSTON : 
JAMES   R.   OSGOOD  AND   COMPANY, 

(LATE  TICKNOR  &  FIELDS,  AND  FIELDS,  OSGOOD,  &  co.,) 

124  TREMONT  STREET. 
1873- 


Boston : 
Stereotyped  and  Printed  by  Rand,  A  very,  S>  Co. 


MY    LITTLE    GIRL 


BOOK  I.  —  IN    THE   ISLAND. 


CHAPTER  I. 

IN  the  great  stormy  ocean  —  that  part 
of  it  which  is  bounded  by  the  Bay  of  Ben- 
gal on  the  west,  and  the  coast  of  Mexico 
on  the  east  (or  thereabouts)  —  lies  the  is- 
land which  the  French,  when  they  had  it, 
called  He  des  Palmistes ;  but  which  the 
English,  on  taking  it  at  the  beginning  of 
this  century,  patriotically  named  after  their 
great  and  good  regent,  Prince  George. 
The  geography  books  call  it  Prince  George's 
Island  still;  but  no  one  out  of  England 
knows  it  by  any  other  name  than  the  lie  des 
Palmistes  :  and  all  English  people,  with  the 
exception  of  the  Colonial  Office,  know  it  by 
the  name  of  Palmiste  Island.  It  lies,  in  its 
rounded  and  graceful  curves,  like  a  maiden 
at  rest,  within  a  silver  ring  of  surf,  break- 
ing over  the  coral  reef,  in  latitude  18°  S.,  — 
a  latitude,  which  I  take  to  be  the  most  de- 
lightful in  the  world,  especially  in  a  coun- 
try where  you  can  get  highlands  to  live  in, 
and  a  constant  sea-breeze  to  fan  you.  In 
Palmiste  Island  the  sea-breeze  blows  all  the 
year  round,  sometimes  giving  way  to  a 
warm  west  wind,  which  comes  from  the 
neighboring  continent,  and  sometimes  lash- 
ing itself  to  fury,  no  one  knows  why,  and 
performing  prodigies  as  a  hurricane.  It  is 
bad  at  these  times  to  be  at  sea,  because  all 
the  ships  go  down  :  but  it  is  perhaps  worse 
to  be  on  shore  ;  for  there  the  roads  are 
mere  rushing  rivers,  down  which  the  way- 
farer is  hurried  by  the  flood  to  meet  an  un- 
timely fate.  The  gardens  are  stormy  lakes, 
trees  are  blown  about  like  leaves,  roofs  of 
houses  are  lifted  like  sheets  of  paper,  and 


men,  if  they  are  so  unlucky  as  not  to  get 
shelter,  are  sometimes  take  up  towards 
heaven,  like  Elijah ;  only,  like  the  prophet, 
they  generally  come  down  again  with 
the  breakage  of  a  good  many  legs,  arms, 
ribs,  and  whatever  bones  happen  to  be 
most  easily  fractured.  If  the  hurricane 
lasts  long  enough,  the  people,  shut  in  their 
houses,  are  starved  for  want  of  provisions ; 
and,  while  it  blows,  there  is  no  means  of 
cooking  what  they  have.  It  has  its  advan- 
tages ;  for,  after  it  is  over,  all  the  planters, 
who  were  shaky  before  take  the  earliest  op- 
portunity of  going  through  the  form  of  bank- 
ruptcy, and  excite  universal  commiseration 
for  their  hard  fate,  as  they  enlarge  on  the 
thousands  of  pounds'  worth  of  canes  or 
coffee  that  the  hurricane  has  destroyed. 
Once  clear  of  debt,  they  go  on  again  with 
light  hearts  and  renewed  hope.  By  some 
curious  inversion  of  the  laws  of  political 
and  social  economy,  very  few,  either  debt- 
ors or  creditors,  unless  they  are  English, 
seem  the  worse  for  their  calamities.  I 
have  some  idea,  though  not  in  this  place, 
of  putting  forth  a  treatise  on  this  important 
subject  from  a  novel  and  tropical  point  of 
view.  My  readers  will  perhaps  bear  this 
in  mind,  and  buy  me,  when  I  do  appear,  on 
"  The  Northern  and  Temperate  Zone  Sys- 
tem." 

After  the  hurricane,  the  papers  —  there 
are  six  daily  organs  of  opinion  in  the  is- 
land, two  on  straw  paper,  two  on  a  peculiar 
fabric  something  stiffer  than  tissue,  and 
something  coarser  than  homespun,  and  two 
on  real  paper  —  live  for  a  fortnight  at  least 
on  the  correspondence  which  pours  in. 
An  "  Occasional  Correspondent  "  writes  to 
detail  the  effects  in  his  town,  an  important 
centre  of  at  least  three  hundred  people  ;  a 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


"  Special "  narrates  the  effects  in  the  .id- 
joining  haiuk-t,  half  a  mile  removed; 
"  Our  Own  "  writes  from  tin;  other  end  of 
the  island,  fully  thirty  miles  away  :  they  all 
si'j.n  their  names,  and  run  up  to  town  the 
next  day  to  receive  the  congratulations  of 
their  friends.  They  arrive  with  folded 
arms  and  brows  knit.  This  illustrates  the, 
majesty  of  literature,  since  even  these  small 
da  livings  with  the  muse  produce  such 
mii/lity  throes  of  the  mental  system.  And 
in  a  month  all  is  repaired  :  the  fields  move 
again  with  the  yellow-green  canes,  the  dark 
coffee  bushes  blacken  the  hillsides,  the 
roof's  are  all  put  on  brand-new,  the  bank- 
rupts have  got  fresh  estates,  or  retain  their 
old  ones  through  the  clemency  of  their 
creditors,  and  all  is  as  it  was.  And  in  the 
lie  des  Palmistes  nothing  changes  but  the 
men. 

These  are  a  heterogeneous  race.  They 
lie  like  a  parti-colored  pyramid,  the  single 
stone  at  the  top  representing  his  Excellen- 
cy the  Governor.  The  lowest  stratum  is 
composed  of  Coolies.  These  excellent 
beasts  of  burden  supply  the  place  of  the  old 
slaves.  I  do  not  think  they  are  exactly 
kidnapped  ;  but  I  believe  it  is  demonstrable 
that  very  few  of  them  have  distinct  ideas 
of  their  future  when  they  embark  on  board 
the  emigrant  ship  off  Calcutta  or  Madras. 
On  the  other  hand,  their  condition  is  cer- 
tainly improved  by  the  step.  They  get 
better  wages  and  a  larger  access  to  drink  ; 
they  do  not  work  very  hard ;  they  are  well 
fed  ;  and,  if  they  are  beaten  with  sticks,  they 
may,  if  they  like,  have  up  their  employer 
for  assault.  To  be  beaten  with  sticks  car- 
ries, however,  no  sense  of  personal  degrada- 
tion with  it,  and  generally  hurts  little,  much 
less  than  the  docking  of  wages,  which  is 
the  only  alternative.  Consequently,  despite 
laws  and  fines,  Old  Father  Stick,  the  first 
lawgiver,  still  retains  a  certain  amount  of 
authority.  Then,  again,  their  children  can 
go  to  school,  if  there  happens  to  be  a  school 
near ;  and,  when  they  are  taught  to  write, 
come  in  handy  at  forging  leaves  of  absence, 
passes,  and  such-like  small  helps  to  making 
life  pleasant.  At  least  once  in  six  months, 
too,  a  missionary  comes  their  way,  and  be- 
guiles the  time  for  half  an  hour  after  sun- 
down by  telling  them  they  are  going;  to  that 
place  where  they  will  find  all  their  good 
resolutions.  This  raises  an  animated  dis- 
cussion for  the  evening,  and  helps  to  fill  up 
the  missionary's  trimestrial  letter.  He  writes 
this  the  next  morning,  after  a  comfortable 
dinner  at  the  planter's  house,  with  half  a 
dozen  cigars,  and  two  or  three  goes  of  bran- 
dy and  soda.  The  English  collector  of 
those  stray  shillings  which  go  to  make  up 
the  million  a  year  spent  in  this  noble  work 
may  read  the  half-hour  described  as  follows  : 


"  Tuesday.  Rose  half  an  hour  before 
dawn.  Thought  of  Zech.  li.  32.  Rode,  on 
my  journeying,  through  the  gigantic  forest 
to  the  estate  of  Fontainebleau.  Having 
obtained  permission  to  preach  the  Word, 
spent  a  long  time  in  deeply  interesting  con- 
versation with  the  laborers  in  the  village. 
All  were  eager  to  learn.  Alamoodee,  an 
aged  Tamu  1  man  of  sixty-five,  was  particu- 
larly anxious  to  hear  the  good  tidings. 
And  I  was  greatly  pleased  with  the  intelli- 
gent look  of  Mounia  and  Cassis,  two  young 
Indian  women  of  about  sixteen.  I  left  them 
a  few  tracts,  and  they  laughed,  putting  their 
fingers  in  their  mouths  in  the  artless  Indian 
manner.  They  cannot  read,  but  others  can 
read  to  them.  In  the  evening  news  came 
that  the  husband  of  Mounia  was  beating 
her  for  some  alleged  misconduct.  How" 
sweet  it  is  to  sow  the  seed  !  Alamoodee, 
poor  fellow,  was  brought  in  next  morning 
on  a  charge  of  drunkenness,  but  dismissed 
with  a  fine  and  caution.  I  have  reason  to 
believe  it  was  a  conspiracy.  The  hard  toils 
of  the  humble  missionary  have,  often  no  re- 
ward but  hope." 

The  next  stratum  on  our  pyramid  is 
coal-black.  This  is  composed  of  all  the 
negroes  now  left  alive.  Thirty  six  years 
ago  they  were  emancipated,  —  a  hundred 
thousand,  of  all  ages.  There  are  now 
about  ten  thousand.  For  receiving  their 
freedom  with  a  joy  which  argued  well  for 
the  future,  as  their  admirers  said,  they  pro- 
ceeded to  make  a  solemn  covenant  and 
agreement ;  not  on  paper,  for  they  had 
none,  and  could  not  write ;  nor  by  special 
Parliament,  for  they  never  met;  nor  by 
mutual  exhortation,  for  they  never  talked 
about  it,  —  but  by  that  more  certain  method, 
the  silent  consent  of  the  nation,  the  inar- 
ticulate vox  populi.  They  agreed,  one  with 
the  other,  that  they  would  never  do  any 
more  work  at  all.  And  they  never  have 
done  any.  They  have  kept  this  resolution 
with  the  unbending  obstinacy  of  the  medi- 
cal student  who  promised  his  aunt  that  he 
would  lay  aside  his  studies  on  the  sabbath. 
It  "has  been  a  pleasant  time  with  them,  but 
somehow  they  have  not  prospered.  They 
are  dying  out.  They  live  in  little  patches 
of  garden,  where  they  plant  potatoes  and 
lettuces,  bananas,  beans,  and  such  things 
as  grow  by  themselves,  and  cost  little  trou- 
ble. What  they  cannot  eat  themselves, 
they  sell  for  rice  and  rum.  When  they  de- 
sire to  make  a  feast,  the  nearest  planter's 
poultry-yard  supplies  the  materials.  They 
smoke  their  pipes  in  great  peace,  while  the 
vertical  sun  strikes  upon  their  roofless  hats, 
and  penetrates  pleasantly  through  the 
woolly  protection  of  nature  ;  they  talk  but 
little,  and  then  of  soothing  subjects,  such  as 
the  cheapness  of  rum,  the  excellence  of 


MY   LITTLE  GIRL. 


5 


their  bananas,  and  their  own  amazing  sa- 
gacity ;  and  they  laugh  on  small  provoca- 
tion, seeing  great  jokes  and  effects  of  hu- 
mor when  graver  men  look  on  with  a  smile. 
Sometimes  they  call  themselves  —  all  out 
of  the  eayety  of  their  hearts  —  carpenters  ; 
and,  if  you  trust  them,  will  build  you  a 
house  whose  windows  are  of  unequal  height 
and  differing  dimensions.  They  laugh 
when  you  point  out  this  incongruity  of 
things  ;  and,  if  you  foolishly  get  into  a  rage, 
they  only  laugh  the  more  —  but  at  a  dis- 
tance. When  they  marry,  they  buy  a  large 
mosquito  curtain  as  a  proof  of  respectabil- 
ity ;  and  their  highest  ambition  is  to  have 
a  piano. 

Their  wives  and  daughters  love  to  go  to 
church  in  white  kid  gloves  and  a  parasol. 
Their  husbands  follow,  walking  behind  in 
bare  feet,  battered  straw  hats,  and  blue 
stuff  coats.  Or,  if  they  are  richer,  they 
have  a  black  coat  and  blue*  stuff  trousers. 
The  ladies  are  mightily  devout,' and  go 
through  the  external  part  of  religion  with 
great  fervency.  The  men  kneel  down,  and 
continue  kneeling,  with  what  is  called  the 
?weet,  sad  intelligence  of  the  African  race. 
till  they  catch  the  eye  of  a  friend ;  then 
you  may  see  two  frames  convulsed  with  a 
'mighty  struggle.  Finally,  quite  overcome, 
they  go  out  into  the  churchyard,  and  laugh 
on  a  tombstone  till  the  service  is  over; 
taking  turns  to  laugh  at  each  other,  like  an 
Aristophanic  chorus. 

By  degrees  they  get  old  :  their  wool  be- 
comes gray ;  the  fine  calf  which  once 
adorned  that  part  of  the  leg  with  us  called 
shin,  shrinks  and  shrivels ;  the  heel  pro- 
jects another  two  inches  or  so  behind,  the 
frame  gets  bent,  but  the  man  is  the  same. 
He  does  not  know  that  he  is  old  ;  he  does 
not  knoiy  how  long  he  has  lived,  or  how 
long  men  usually  live.  Presently,  to  his 
utter  amazement,  he  positively  dies  ;  and 
thinks  himself  cut  off  prematurely,  although 
he  has  numbered  eighty  summers.  Cer- 
tainly he  has  had  no  winters,  because  there 
is  no  winter  there. 

The  best  of  them  go  fishing,  and  are  very 
handy  with  their  boats.  Some  few  have 
been  pushed  on  in  the  world ;  but  their 
patrons  generally  drop  them,  on  account 
of  defects  which  make  them  a  little  lower 
than  those  angels  we  English  once  took  the 
race  to  be.  The  half-educated  fellows  are 
very  bad  specimens  indeed.  A  hog  in 
black  clothes,  a  monkey  with  a  book  before 
him,  would  be  fair  types  of  their  morals  and 
philosophy.  As  a  rule,  they  drink  them- 
selves to  death  ;  and  as  there  are,  fortu- 
nately, but  few  of  them,  they  hardly  count. 

Let  us  get  a  step  higher.  The  next 
stratum  is  the  oddest  of  all :  it  is  the  Chi- 
nese layer.  I  have  the  greatest  liking  for 


this  folk.  There  is  a  profundity,  coupled 
with  cynicism,  in  their  look,  that  few  Eng- 
lish philosophers  possess.  They  seldom 
laugh,  they  despise  all  people  but  them- 
selves, they  make  money  diligently,  live 
laboriously,  fare  badly,  drink  little,  are 
clever  artisans,  can  be  relied  upon  in  mat- 
ters of  work  ;  and,  with  all  these  virtues, 
are  so  clogged  and  burdened  with  vice  that 
they  cannot  rise.  To  smoke  opium,  to 
gamble  all  day,  and  to  do  one  or  two  other 
things  that  Western  civilization  denounces, 
form  their  ideal  heaven.  They  are  conviv- 
ial too.  Their  gravity  is  the  result  of  ed- 
ucation, not  of  nature ;  it  is  grafted,  not 
indigenous.  Witness  the  air  of  suppressed 
fun,  inseparable  from  the  nature  of  the  ac- 
tion, with  which  two  of  them  carry  a  pig 
between  them  on  a  pole,  or  attend  a  pork- 
devouring  religious  ceremony,  or  let  off 
crackers  at  the  funeral  of  a  friend,  or  sell 
you  a  box  of  sardines.  And  more  remark- 
able still,  they  are  all  alike.  I  do  not  know 
how  they  get  over  the  possible  complica- 
tionsHhat  might  be  caused  by  this  circum- 
stance. I  suppose  care  is  taken  so  far  as 
the  rights  of  property  and  the  domestic  re- 
lations are  concerned.  At  least,  I  never 
heard  but  once  of  any  case  in  which  the 
national  likeness  was  taken  advantage  of. 
This  was  when  Ah-Kang  —  I  knew  him 
well ;  a  good  fellow,  but  deficient  in  the 
finer  shades  of  moral  principle  —  going 
into  the  shop  of  Kong-Fow,  found  his  poor 
friend  lying  dead  behind  his  own  counter. 
Pie  thereupon  conceived  the  brilliant  no- 
tion of  burying  him  in  the  garden,  and 
taking  his  place.  This  plan  he  carried 
into  effect,  and  for  three  months  drove  a 
good  trade,  his  friend's  name  and  titles, 
painted  by  an  imperfectly  educated  Creole, 
being  all  the  time  on  the  door-post  as  fol- 
lows :  — 

MR  KONGFOW  ESQTT 

IRE    LlCENSD  DEE 
LER    IN    TOBAC 

co  RETAILER 
OF  SPIRRUTS 

N.B.  —  DAY  AND  MARTIN'S  BEST 
BLACKING. 

Then  he  was  found  out.     I  forget  how. 

Another  step.  We  are  among  the  rnu- 
lattoes.  I  suppose  this  is  the  most  intelli- 
gent class  in  the  community,  because  they 
are  always  saying  so.  For  the  same  rea- 
son, they  are  the  most  truthful,  the  least 
addicted  to  the  ordinary  frailties  and  back- 
slidings  of  human  nature,  the  most  religious, 
the  most  trustworthy,  the  most  enterpris- 
ing, the  most  polished,  and  the  bravest. 

That  no  one  else  says  so  is  a  clear  proof 
of  the  malignity  of  other  people.  Scandal 


G 


MY  LITTLE   GIRL. 


hints  that  they  hate  their  fathers  for  being 
white,  and  despise  their  mothers  for  being 
black:  their  enemies  maintain  that  they 
have  the  vices  of  both  races,  and  the  vir- 
tues of  neither  :  and.  though  they  have 
barristers,  physicians,  and  lawyers  of  their 
own,  a-scrr  that  their  science  is  worthless. 
their  eloquence  froth,  and  their  law  chican- 
ery. \Ylien  all  is  told,  I  dare  say.  if  they 
could  forget  their  black  blood,  they  would 
not  be  a  bad  set.  The  thing  that  rankles 
in  their  bosoms,  the  injustice  that  sets  their 
blood  aglow,  is  that  white  people,  who 
shake  hands  with  them  on  the  Exchange, 
and  meet  them  on  terms  of  equality  in  the 
courts  of  law,  will  neither  enter  their 
houses,  nor  sit  at  meat  with  them,  nor  intro- 
duce them  to  their  wives.  The  law,  which 
formerly  forbade  them  to  wear  boots,  has 
given  them  all  the  rights  of  civic  equality  ; 
but  no  law  can  remove  the  prejudices  of 
caste.  Are  they  worse  off  than  we  in  Eu- 
rope? Are  there  not  houses  where  we, 
who  grace  the  district  of  W.C.,  enter  only 
on  a  kind  of  sufferance?  Does  not  the 
Faubourg  St.  Germain  still  exist,  eighty 
years  after  the  Revolution  ?  Would'  the 
Duke  of  St.  Smithfield,  whose  grandfather 
began  life  as  a  journeyman  baker,  and  end- 
ed as  an  earl,  sully  his  blue  blood  by  let- 
ting his  fair  daughter  marry  me  — .me,  the 
author?  And  are  we,  therefore,  dear  in- 
habitants of  Bloomsbury,  to  eat  out  our 
hearts  in  malice  ? 

Our  pyramid  narrows.  Next  we  come 
to  the  planters  and  the  merchants,  the 
English  and  the  French.  With  the  mer- 
chants we  have  nothing  to  do.  Let  me  try 
to  show  you  a  planter's  house.  ;  But  first, 
for  1  am  tired  of  my  pyramid,  let  me  clear 
it  off  and  have  done  'with  it.  The  next 
stratum  is  the  governing  body,  —  the  offi- 
cers sent  out  by  England.  Palmiste  Island 
is  a  Crown  colony.  Therefore,  the  officers 
are  generally  men  of  good  family,  if  of 
small  means.  Their  posts  do  not  enable 
them,  as  a  rule,  to  save  much,  but  they 
save  a  little ;  and,  when  the  time  comes  for 
retiring,  they  have  something  more  than 
their  pension  to  fall  back  upon.  They  are 
not  usually  a  remarkably  brilliant  set  of 
men  ;  but  they  are  generally  well-bred,  and 
possessed  of  tact.  The  Government  cart 
goes  on  smoothly  enough.  There  are  few 
real  grievances,  and  there  would  be  no  im- 
aginary ones  were  it  not  for  the  daily 
papers.  The  judges  are  just;  the  Crown 
law-officers  have  sufficient  ability;  the 
bishop  is  pious  and  bland;  the  Colonial 
Secretary  is  cautious:  things  get  put  by 
for  a  more  favorable  opportunity*,  and  then 
right  themselves.  And  the  top  story,  the 
apex,  the  crown  of  the  building,  his  Excel- 
lency the  Governor-General  of  Prince 


frcorire's  Island  and  its  dependencies,  gives 
dinners  to  the  elite,  balls  to  society  in  gen- 
eral, receives  whom  the  Colonial  Secretary 
sends  to  him.  and  composes  long  despatches 
recommending  reforms  which  will  make  the 
colony  a  paradise.  He  is  obliged  to  write 
them,  to  show  his  zeal,  though  it  must 
be  a  fearful  bore.  And,  when  they  come 
home,  some  young  clerk  in  the  Colonial 
Office,  who  knows  as  much  of  Palmiste 
as  of  Timbuctoo,  annotates  the  labored 
thoughts  of  the  experienced  statesman, 
and  snubs  him.  This  done,  according  to 
rule,  the  despatches  are  put  in  a  book,  and 
carefully  bound  up  to  be  preserved  forever. 
There  are  now  so  many  of  these  hapless 
children  of  thought,  smothered  as  soon  as 
born,  and  kept  as  calf-bound  mummies  in 
Downing  Street,  that  a  few  years  since  they 
were  compelled  to  move  them  all  to  the 
cellars.  Their  weight  was  pressing  out 
and  crushing  down  the  walls  ;  and  it  was 
feared  that  their  presence,  longer  contin- 
ued, might  possibly  result  in  the  demolition 
of  the  whole  fabric.  Shades  of  departed 
governors,  pensionless  wanderers  by  Brigh- 
ton sands,  consider  with  gratitude  the 
Nemesis  that  waits  on  the  contempt  of 
your  labors  I 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  estate  I  am  going  to  take  you  to  is 
called  Fontainebleau.  All  the  estates  in 
the  He  des  Palmistes  have  these  pretty 
French  names.  One  is  called  Mon  Songe, 
another  Mon  Reve.  There  is  a  Trianon, 
a  St.  Cloud,  a  Soreze,  an  Amboise,  a  Che- 
nonceux :  there  are  Beau  Plan,  Belle  Vue, 
Riche  en  Eaux,  Belle  Riviere,  Savanne; 
there  are  Lucie,  Eugenie,  'Adrienne,  and 
Louise.  All  the  poetry  in  the  heart  of  the 
owner  is  lavished  on  the  name  of  his  es- 
tate. "All  the  same,"  as  a  wandering 
jockey  once  observed  to  me,  "  as  the  owner? 
of  the  'orses  in  the  Derby,"  — a  remark 
which  seems  to  throw  a  new  and  very  pret- 
ty light  upon  horse-racing. 

Fontainebleau  layvon  the  confines  of  the 
great  forest  that  filled  the  centre  of  the 
island.  On  one  side  rose  hills  —  not  the 
round,  indolent  hills  of  England ;  but  sharp, 
eager,  ambitious  little  mountains,  scarped 
with  precipices  fifty  and  a  hundred  feet 
hiSh>  Jagge<l  with  peaks,  and  cut  with 
passes,  for  all  the  world  like  a  row  of  Alps. 
These  pretentious  elevations  tower  upwards 
at  least  five  hundred  feet,  and  are  covered 
with  wood,  except  in  small  spaces  cleared 
for  coffee.  They  look  down  upon  the  broad 
fields  of  Fontainebleau.  Planted  with 
canes,  the  acres  stretch  down  the  sloping 


MY   LITTLE  GIRL. 


land  towards  the  sea,  kindly  mother  earth 
rounding,  as  it  were,  into  a  breast  of  fertil- 
ity. As  the  sun  takes  his  swift,  long  course 
midway  in  the  heavens,  the  yellow-green 
crops  wear  a  thousand  different  shades  of 
light :  now  as  the  wind  turns  up  the  dark 
hidden  side  of  the  leaf,  —  now  as  it  flutters 
out  the  bright  upper  part ;  now  when  the 
cane  is  in  flower,  when  it  blows  about  the 
feathery  beauty  like  the  trappings  of  a  hel- 
met ;  or  now,  when  the  clouds  fly  here  and 
there  in  dark  shadows  along  the  glorious 
colors;  and  always  the  sea-breeze  raises 
the  gentle  waves  of  the  field,  like  the  sweet 
unrest  of  a  sea  which  never  knows  a  storm. 

An  English  corn-field,  when  the  sun 
shines  upon  it,  is  a  sight  to  admire ;  but  an 
estate  planted  with  canes,  in  all  their  rich- 
ness of  color  and  beauty  of  form,  is  one  to 
fill  the  eye  with  those  tears  which  rise  at 
the  contemplation  of  nature  at  its  best,  — 
tears  from  no  divine  despair,  but  perhaps 
from  a  sense  of  the  unfitness  of  man  for 
the  earth.  In  the  cities,  it  is  not  felt ;  but 
in  the  lonely  corners  of  the  world,  in  those 
tiny  spots  of  the  ocean  where  God's  finger 
seems  to  have  lingered  longest,  delicately 
shaping  sweet  river-courses,  shady  glens, 
ravines,  cascades,  and  quaint  mountain 
tops,  where  nature  is  most  productive  and 
man  most  out  of  sight,  the  heart  is  sadden- 
ed, the  eyes  dimmed. 

Fontainebleau  was  a  very  quiet  place, 
and  a  lonely.  To  north  and  east  lay  the 
great  silent  forest.  To  south  only,  it  open- 
ed out ;  and,  standing  in  the  road,  one  could 
see  ten  miles  of  land  —  ten  miles,  rather, 
of  waving  canes  — before  the  ocean  seemed 
to  rise  up  like  a  wall,  and  bar  the  prospect. 
Looking  over  the  sailless  sea  —  for  no  ships 
ever  came  that  way  —  the  misanthrope 
might  derive  a  sense  of  freedom  from  feel- 
ing, that,  far  and  wide,  no  land  interposed 
between  the  headland  beneath  him  and  the 
barren  peaks  of  the  Antarctic  shores,  far 
to  the  south ;  but  the  broad  fields  looked 
hot,  thirsty,  and  parched.  It  was  better  to 
turn  northwards,  and,  climbing  over  the 
wall  which  kept  out  the  deer,  and  was  a 
nightly  gymnasium  for  the  monkeys,  dive 
into  the  glades  and  recesses  of  the  forest. 

I  suppose  it  would  have  been  difficult  to 
lose  one's  self  in  it.  One  might,  perhaps, 
wander  about  in  it  for  a  few  days  ;  but 
sooner  or  later  the  end  of  it  must  have  been 
reached.  It  is  not  very  large,  —  ten  miles 
one  way,  by  perhaps  thirty  another.  There 
are  few  paths  in  it ;  but  a  man  has  only  to 
keep  going  by  the  sun  to  arrive  somewhere 
near  hi*destination.  And  then  there  are 
no  perils  in  it.  Nothing  more  harmful  lurks 
in  its  recesses  than  the  monkey,  —  a  gigantic 
beast,  —  species,  say,  ourang-outang  —  of 
at-  least  a  foot  and  a  half  hio-h.  There  are 


also  deer,  the  little  bristly  jungle  pig,  and 
perhaps  a  wild  cat  or  two,  — that  is,  a  tame 
cat  gone  wild ;  not  a  panther  or  a  leopard, 
or  any  thing  of  that  nature,  understand. 
There  was  a  tiger.  He  got  away  from  a 
menagerie,  and  betook  himself  to  the  woods. 
Of  his  end  there  are  two  legends.  For 
some  maintain  that  he  died  of  indigestion, 
having  eaten  an  old  negro  who  disagreed 
with  him  ;  others,  with  greater  plausibility, 
affirm  that  his  nature  has  been  changed.  — 
animum  cum  ca3lo,  mutavit,  —  that  he  has 
been  distinctly  visible  in  the  gray  of  the 
morning,  filing  his  teeth  in  bowlders,  and 
that  he  lives  retired  in  the  mountains,  —  a 
vegetarian,  shunning  the  sight  of  man. 
And  this  they  allege  as  a  proof  of  the  mild- 
ness and  placability  induced  by  the  climate 
of  Palmiste  Island.  There  was  once,  also, 
a  crocodile.  He,  too,  escaped,  being  yet 
quite  young,  and  unfortunately  mistook  a 
water-pipe  for  a  cavern  or  retreat  made 
specially  for  his  behoof.  There,  many 
weeks  afterwards,  he  was  discovered, 
choked,  —  a  gruesome  body  ;  and  English- 
men must  needs  take  consecutive  sodas  and 
b.'s  as  a  corrective  and  preservative  against 
any  small  matter  of  putrefaction  that  may 
have  entered  their  bodies  through  incau- 
tiously drinking  the  water  unmixed, — .a 
thing  quite  improbable  on  the  face  of  it,  and 
entirely  contrary  to  their  known  habits. 
Lastly,  there  was  once  found  —  as  the 
ballads  say,  I  do  not  lie  —  half  a  snake,  the 
tail  half.  How  it  got  there,  where  the  other 
half  was,  whether  he  had  a  sister  or  a 
brother,  a  father  or  a  mother,  or  a  dearer 
and  nearer  one  still,  in  the  jungle,  was 
never  ascertained.  And  in  all  the  annals 
of  Palmiste,  no  other  snake,  crocodile,  or 
tiger  was  ever  found  in  the  whole  island. 

As  a  set-off  against  this  immunity  from 
danger,  the  forest  is  almost  silent  and  inex- 
pressibly dreary.  Save  here  and  there  the 
faint  chatter  of  a  monkey,  or  the  occasion- 
al cry  of  a  coq-de-bois,  the  silence  is  pro- 
found and  oppressive.  Few  birds  are  there 
in  Palmiste ,  —  very  few  in  the  forest. 
They  have  two  natural  enemies,  —  monkeys 
and  hurricanes.  The  former  take  down 
their  nests,  and  destroy  their  eggs,  —  all 
out  of  pure  mischief;  and  the  latter 
blow  their  nests  and  eggs  and  all  into  the 
sea. 

But  besides  the  mournfulness  of  its  silence, 
the  mere  aspect  of  the  forest  saddens  if  you 
stay  in  it  too  long.  For  a  bright,  cheery, 
glorious  wood,  where  you  may  picnic,  wan- 
der, or  build  castles  of  future  greatness,  I 
prefer  the  New  Forest  ;  for  a  poetical, 
dreamy  place,  where  you  may  make  poetry 
and  chansons  de  geste  that  of  Fontainebleau 
—  in  France,  I  mean  ;  for  a  sweet-smelling, 
sentimental  wood,  a  place  where  one  can 


8 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


walk  with  one's  love,  and  fall  into  tender 
talk  of  eternity  and  heaven,  and  all  sweet 
hopes  and  confiding  trusts,  I  prefer  a  pine 
forest  on  the  lower  slopes  of  a  Tyrolese  Alp. 
But  for  a  place  where  death  and  decay  stare 
you  in  the  face,  —  where  if  you  stay  your 
steps,  you  fall  presently  to  musing  on  a  mis- 
spent life,  & o  to  the  forest  in  the  centre  of 
Palmiste.  There,  when  you  mark  the  giant 
•;•  crushing  the  life  out  of  some  great 
monarch  of  the  wood,  curling  round  him 
like  the  prieve,  with  its  countless,  arms, 
think  of  evil  habits,  and  remind  yourself 
how  man  never  shakes  them  off,  and  how 
the  soul  is  choked  with  them  Then  re- 
member your  own,  and  abandon  hope.  Or 
when  you  see  the  dense  mass  of  trees,  — -  so 
thick  that  they  press  against  one  another, 
so  close  together  that  they  never  dream  of 
su«h  a  thing  as  leaves  till  they  are  thirty 
or  forty  feet  high,  —  think  of  men  in  great 
cities,  how  thick  they  are,  and  how  they 
fight  for  life,  and  give  up  all  prospect  of 
aught  but  toil  and  labor  and  oblivion,  till 
the  end  comes.  Presently  you  will  come  — 
it  lies  in  your  path  —  upon  a  large  pillow- 
like  mass  of  green,  soft  moss ;  put  your 
foot  upon  it  —  it  sinks  through  to  the  hip. 
This  was  once  a  great  tree.  It  lies  where 
it  has  fallen  ;  its  wood  is  rotten  and  wasted ; 
no  one  ever  noticed  its  beauty,  and  it 
served  no  purpose  in  life  or  in  death.  Then 
draw  your  moral,  sitting  in  the  shade. 

I  extract  most  of  this  description  from  a 
discourse  I  once  pronounced  in  my  friend 
Venn's  rooms.  He  maintains  that  such  a 
forest  as  I  have  described  would  affect  him 
with  a  lively  joy;  and  points  out  how  all 
that  I  have  named  would  but  serve  to  raise 
his  spirits,  and  fill  him  with  gratitude  and 
hope.  Nature  can  be  read  in  two  ways.  In 
all  her  moods  there  are  joy  and  hope,  and 
in  all  there  are  mockery  and  despair.  I  tell 
of  the  forest  as  it  affected  me. 

There  are  two  or  three  little  water-cour- 
ses running  out  of  the  forest  through  the 
estate,  which  the  'simple  islanders  call 
rivers.  These  bubbling  streams  speedily 
cut  out  little  ravines  for  themselves,  and  go 
brawling  about  among  the  bowlders  at  the 
bottom  as  if  most  important  business,  not  to 
fiTcd  a  moment,  hurried  them  down. 
Here  and  there  they  disappear,  and  you 
may  lu-ar  them  grumbling  below.  When 
they  emerge,  it  is  to  make  a  great  leap,  as 
if  tor  joy,  into  a  basin  where  the  water 
runs  roii ut  1  and  round  in  a  mighty  hurry 
auay.  These  ravines  are  dark  and 
narrow  :  the  steep,  sloping  banks  crowded 
with  trees  and  brambles.  Rich  and  rare 
ferns  lurk  under  the  shadows,  orchids  almost 
leu  are  found  in  the  branches  ;  and 
you  never  by  any  chance  meet  any  one  if 
you  care  to  wander  down  the  ravines  ex- 


cept perhaps  a  bevy  of  Indian  damsels  with 
their  hair  down,  performing  their  ablutions, 
like  Bathsheba  of  old,  in  the  open. 

By  one  of  these  rivers  stands  the  residence 
of  Fontainebleau.  It  is  a  large,  deeply- 
veranded  wooden  house,  with  wooden 
tiles  for  roofs,  all  on  one  floor.  All  the 
rooms  open  into  each  other,  and  on  the 
veranda.  They  are  furnished  with  a 
curious  mixture  of  things  costly  and  things 
rude.  There  is  a  rough,  common  table  side 
by  side  with  chairs  that  might  do  duty  in 
Belgravia.  A  piano-forte  which  has  never 
been  tuned,  and  never  been  opened  for  no 
one  knows  how  many  years,  is  in  one 
corner,  littered  with  powder-flasks  and 
shooting  gear ;  a  tall  bookcase,  filled  with 
volumes  whose  bindings  have  once  been 
splendid;  but  which  are  now  dropping  off 
the  books  from  damp ;  a  few  pictures,  a 
great  pile  of  newspapers,  and  a  general  air 
of  comfort  and  negligence,  —  mark  a  draw- 
ing-room where  there  has  been  no  lady  for 
many  years.  The  dining-room  is  behind  : 
it  has  *a  great  table  and  a  side-board,  both 
of  which  were  once,  it  may  be  presumed, 
new,  but  which  are  now  mere  monuments 
of  neglected  mahogany.  It  has  no  other 
furniture,  because  the  chairs  of  the  house 
have  generally  succumbed  to  time  the  de- 
stroyer; and  now  at  dinner-time  they  take 
them  out  of  the  drawing-room,  and  bring 
them  back  after  dinner.  Not  that  they  are 
ever  wanted ;  for  easy  chairs  stand  on  the 
veranda,  and  cigars  are  best  smoked  in 
the  cool  night  air. 

At  the  back  of  the  house,  outside,  stands 
the  kitchen  of  the  Indian  cook,  —  a  place 
whence  come  savory  things,  but,  within 
which  no  one  was  ever  known  to  penetrate, 
except  one  man.  He  came  out  with  pale 
face  and  trembling  limbs.  They  gave  him 
brandy.  Presently  he  recovered ;  but  he 
never  afterwards  was  known  to  touch  pud- 
ding in  Pahniste.  I  believe  too,  that  he 
died  young.  And  the  bedrooms,  each  fur- 
nished with  gay  little  iron  bedsteads  and 
mosquito  curtains,  are,  like  the  sitting- 
rooms,  made  to  open  on  the  veranda. 
There  are  not  many  of  these  inhabited 
now ;  for  the  gay  days  of  Fontainebleau  are 
over,  and  the  gray-haired  man  who  lives 
there  now  ha.s  little  companionship  save 
that  of  his  son  and  his  nephew.  The  soci- 
ety of  the  town  twenty-five  miles  away  has 
nothing  to  do  with  him.  He  is  out  of  it 
now,  and  forgotten ;  save  once  or  twice  a 
year,  when  at  some  great  hunting  party  in 
the  forest,  he  appears  pale  and  melancholy, 
and  old  men  whisper  that  poor  George 
Durnford  is  the  ghost  of  himself.  Time 
was,  they  tell  you,  when  George  was  the 
soul  of  the  island.  The  ex-calvary  officer, 
who  got  into  such  a  devil  of  a,  mess  with 


MY   LITTLE  GIKL. 


9 


his  colonel,  and  had  to  sell  out ;  who  came 
to  Palmiste  twenty  years  ago,  and  bought 
Fontainebleau  ;  who  married  Adrienne  — 
la  belle  Adrienne  —  niece  and  ward  of 
Henri  de  Rosnay ;  who  led  the  life  of  the 
place,  and  was  foremost  in  every  thing 
social  and  genial,  —  can  it  be  the  same  per- 
son? 

More  of  him  hereafter.  Let  me  finish 
with  the  house. 

About  the  veranda,  or  in  the  dining- 
room,  or  about  the  kitchen,  are  the  boys  — 
Indians  —  who  belong  to  the  service  of  the 
house.  There  are  some  half-dozen  of  them, 
dressed  in  a  sort  of  tight  cotton  jacket, 
with  little  caps,  looking,  as  they  are,  full  of 
intelligence  and  life.  These,  with  the 
bright,  fearless  look  in  the  eyes,  and  the 
slender  grace  of  the  limbs,  vanish  when 
the  boy  passes  the  threshold  of  manhood ; 
and  he  becomes  heavy,  sluggish,  and  sen- 
sual. At  present,  however,  the  boys  are 
from  eigfyt  to  twelve  years  old,  and  make 
the  best  servants  in  the  world.  Mendacious 
they  are,  it  is  true,  and  as  destructive  as 
monkeys  ;  but,  if  one  is  going  to  be  thrashed 
for  breaking  a  glass,  it  is  just  as  well  to  say 
that  another  did  it.  You  get  no  more  if 
you  are  found  out.  Logically,  and  with 
respect  to  immediate  results,  they  are  quite 
right.  It  has  not  yet  entered  into  the 
heads  of  the  residents  of  Palmiste  that 
they  might  Christianize  their  servants. 
Certainly  the  specimens  turned  out  by  the 
missionaries  are  not  encouraging.  The 
converted  Hindoo  is,  in  most  cases,  pre- 
cisely the  kind  of  man  that  no  one  will  em- 
ploy ;  and  though  things  may  be  better 
in  those  districts  of  Southern  India  which 
have  been  largely  Christianized,  I  think 
that  the  least  said  about  missionary  labor 
among  the  Indians  the  better. 

At  the  side  of  the  house  stretches  its 
great  garden,  filled  with  all  sorts  of  English 
vegetables,  and  all  kinds  of  tropical  fruits. 
Here  are  rows  of  pines  which  Covent 
Garden  cannot  hope  to  equal.  There  are 
too  many  for  eating,  and  they  are  rotting  on 
stalk.  Here  is  an  orchard  of  Letchi  trees, 
the  fruit  that  Warren  Hastings  tried  to 
acclimatize  in  England,  but  failed.  I  would 
he  had  succeeded.  Here  are  mangoes,  with 
vanilla  trained  upon  the  trees.  Here  are 
custard  apples,  oranges,  citrons,  and  gua- 
vas.  Here,  too,  are  strawberries,  peaches, 
mulberries,  and  grapes.  You  may  look, 
however,  in  vain  ibr  apples,  pears,  and 
such  things.  These  ^row  not  in  Palmiste ; 
and  Englishmen,  eating  fruits  more  deli- 
cious far  than  these,  grumble  that  they  can- 
not get  a  pear,  and  would  almost  go  back 
to  England  to  get  a  plum. 


In  front  of  the  house  lies  its  lawn,  —  a 
broad,  rolling  piece  of  ground,  set  with 
flower-beds,  mostly  neglected,  and  planted 
round  with  rose-trees.  Side  by  side  with 
English  flowers  are  others  which  remind 
you  of  greenhouses,  Kevv  Gardens,  and 
the  Crystal  Palace.  They  are  not,  however, 
so  sweet  as  our  own ;  and  yonder  bed  of 
mignionette  fills  the  air  with  a  perfume  far 
more  delicate  than  any  of  the  heavy-laden 
tropical  plants.  Here  is  a  sensitive  plant. 
Touch  it :  all  the  leaflets  near  your  iinjvr 
close,  and  shrink  together  in  a  kind  of  fear. 
Here  is  a  gorgeous  dracaena.  You  remem- 
ber one  like  it  in  the  Palm  House.  Here 
is  a  honeysuckle  climbing  up  the  wall  of  the 
house ;  and  here,  in  heavy  masses  over  the 
veranda,  are  creepers,  which,  if  left  un- 
checked, would  climb  over  and  embrace 
the  whole  house,  and  tear  all  down  to- 
gether. 

My  picture  of  still  life  must  finish. 
Throw  into  the  background  a  row  of  slen- 
der palms ;  put  in,  if  you  can,  that  glimpse 
to  the  right  of  a  miniature  gorge,  some  fifty 
feet  deep  ;  mark  its  tree  i'erns,  tall  and  sym- 
metrical, with  their  circled  glory  of  leaves ; 
throw  in  for  light,  the  soft,  white  rays  of  a 
sun  that  wants  yet  half  an  hour  of  setting; 
let  your  air  be  warm  and  mild  ;  let  a  breeze, 
cool  and  crisp,  from  the  south-east,  blow 
through  the  branches  ;  while,  from  the  camp 
of  the  Indians,  not  far  away,  imagine  —  ibr 
you  cannot  paint  it  —  a  confused  murmur 
of  tongues,  cries  of  children,  an  occasional 
quarrel  among  the  women,  the  monotonous 
beat  of  the  tumtum,  and  the  drone  of  the 
Indian  story-teller.  Then  try  to  fancy 
that  you  have  lived  in  all  this  so  long  that 
Europe  with  its  noisy  politics,  and  England 
with  its  fierce  battle  for  life,  and  London 
with  its  fevered  pleasures  and  bitter  sor- 
rows, seem  all  dreams  of  a  former  existence  : 
that  the  soft  lassitude  of  the  climate  has 
eaten  into  your  very  marrow  ;  and  that  you 
no  longer  care  to  think,  or  to  work,  or  to 
do  any  thing  violent  or  in  a  hurry  ;  that 
your  chief  pleasure  is  to  sit  at  early  dawn 
on  the  veranda,  with  a  cigar,  and  see  the 
day  rise  over  the  hills ;  or,  at  evening, 
watching  the  southern  cross,  and  letting 
your  thoughts  roam  here  and  there  un- 
checked ;  your  chief  hope,  —  save  at  mo- 
ments when  a  sickness  for  home  comes  on 
you,  and  a  yearning  for  the  life  and  vigor 
of  England,  —  always  to  go  on  like  this  :  to 
have  no  sickness,  to  feel  no  sorrows,  to  be 
tormented  by  no  sympathy,  to  make  no  al- 
teration or  improvement,  to  dream  lite 
away,  to  eat  the  lotus  day  by  day,  in 
a  land  where  it  is,  indeed,  always  after- 
noon. 


10 


MY  LITTLE   GIRL. 


CHAPTER  III. 

COME  back  with  me.  ten  years  before  my 
tale  begins.  We  an-  still  at  Fontainebleau. 
It  i-  a  dark,  dreary  night  in  January, — 
cold,  though  it  is  tlie  middle  of  the  hot  sea- 
son. A  fierce  <j;ale,  to  which  the  wind 
blowing  about  the  trees  is  a  sort  of  fringe 
or  outside  robe,  is  raging  somewhere  at  sea. 
The  rain  Hills  at  intervals  in  a  continuous 
sheet  of  water ;  doors  and  windows  are 
•i  :  and  (leorge  Durnford  is  sitting 
ah  me  in  his  dining-room,  with  an  untasted 
bottle  of  claret  before  him,  and  a  bitter  sor- 
row at  his  heart.  That  morning  he  had 
followed  to  the  grave  the  wife  who  but  two 
days  ago  was  alive  and  well.  From  a  room 
close  by  comes  the  prattle  of  two  children, 
in  bed,  but  not  yet  asleep.  To  them  the 
dismal  ceremony  of  the  morning  was  a  pa- 
geant which  conveyed  no  meaning.  One 
of  them  has  lost  his  mother ;  and  he  sits 
now  on  his  little  white  bed,  a  great-eyed, 
fair-haired,  solemn  boy  of  two,  with  an  un- 
easy sense  of  something  wrong,  and  a  grow- 
ing wonder  that  the  familiar  hands  do  not 
come  to  smooth  his  sheets,  and  the  famil- 
iar lips  to  kiss  his  good-night.  The  other, 
—  a  year  or  two  older,  witb  blacker  hair 
and  darker  complexion,  —  in  the  opposite 
bed,  is  singing  and  laughing,  regardless  of 
the  nurse's  injunction  to  make  no  noise  and 
go  to  sleep.  He  is  Cousin  Phil,  and  the 
little  two-year-old  is  Arthur  Durnford. 

The  baby  voices  do  not  rouse  the  lonely 
mourner  in  the  room  outside  them.  He 
sits  musing  on  his  brief  three  years  of  love 
and  happiness  ;  on  the  dreary  scene  of  the 
stormy  morning's  funeral ;  of  death  and  of 
sorrows  that  come  to  mar  the  brightest 
promise.  He  thinks  of  the  day  when  he 
brought  home  his  young  bride,  flushed  with 
joy  and  hope  ;  and  of  her  cold  waxen  fea- 
tures when  he  took  the  last  look  at  the  fair 
face  that  had  nestled  at  his  heart.  The 
hope  and  vigor  of  his  life  seem  suddenly 
taken  out  of  him  ;  and  he  shudders  as  he 
remembers  the  long  years  to  come,  —  per- 
haps thirty  or  forty,  —  alone  in  misery. 
For  all  sorrow  seems  to  be  endless  when  it 
begins ;  and,  when  the  pain  dies  away  into 
a  sad  regret,  its  very  poignancy  is  remem- 
bered as  a  kind  of  evil  dream. 

The  storm  outside  increases.  Roused 
by  the  crash  of  thunder,  he  raises  his  head  ; 
and  then,  for  the  first  time,  he  sees  that  he 
is  not  alone. 

How  long  she  has  been  sitting  there, 
when  she  came  in,  and  how,  be  knows  not. 

She  is  a  young  mulatto  woman,  not 
darker  than  many  a  black-haired  woman 
of  Provence,  apparently  about  twenty  years 
of  age.  Her  jet  black  hair  is  rolled  up  in 


a  wavy  mass.  She  holds  her  hat  in  her 
hand.  "  Her  dress  is  wet  and  draggled,  but 
her  hands  are  not  rough.  In  her  face,  as 
she  gazes  steadfastly  on  Durnford,  there  is 
a  look  of  mingled  triumph  and  pity. 

He  starts  with  surprise. 

'•  Marie !  why  do  you  come  here  ?  I 
thought  you  were  in  England." 

She  does  not  answer  for  a  while,  and 
then  begins  in  a  sort  of  slow,  measured  way 
—  speaking  English  fluently,  but  with 
something  of  a  foreign  accent. 

"  Why  do  I  come  to-night,  George  Durn- 
ford ?  I  think  I  came  to  triumph  over  your 
sorrow,  because  I  heard  about  it  in  the 
town  when  I  landed  yesterday  ;  but  I  heard 
things  when  I  came  along  which  forbid  me 
to  triumph  any  longer.  Why  should  I 
triumph  ?  You,  who  loved  me  once,  would 
love  me  again  if  I  chose.  You,  who  de- 
serted me  for  that  good,  dead  girl  —  you 
see,  George,  I  can  be  just  —  would,  if  I 
chose,  take  me  again  to  be  your  plaything." 

"  Never,"  said  Durnford.  "  Woman,  can 
you  not  understand  that  a  man  can  cease 
to  do  evil  V  " 

"  But,"  she  went  on,  as  if  he  had  not 
spoken,  "  I  do  not  choose.  I  will  be  no 
man's  plaything.  You  taught  me  some- 
thing, George.  You  taught  me  that  a 
woman,  to  be  what  a  woman  should  be, 
must  learn  many  things.  We,  the  daugh- 
ters' of  a  despised  race,  are  good  enough  to 
be  the  mistress  of  an  hour,  but  not  good 
enough  to  be  the  companions  of  a  life. 
We  have  our  year  of  fondness,  and  think, 
poor  fools,  it  will  last  forever.  We  have 
but  one  thing  to  give  you,  —  our  love.  You 
take  it,  and  trample  on  it.  We  have  noth- 
ing but  ourselves.  That  is  yours ;  and 
when  you  are  tired  of  the  toy,  you  throw  it 
away  in  the  dirt.  As  I  am  only  one  of 
the  many,  —  only  a  mulatto  girl,  —  I  ought 
not  to  complain.  It  has  been  my  fate,  and 
I  accept  it.  Besides,  you  are  a  gentleman. 
Not  every  girl  gets  an  Englishman  for  a 
lover.  You  were  kind  to  me;  you  put 
ideas  into  my  head  ;  you  taught  me  things  ; 
you  made  me  feel,  without  meaning  it,  how 
great  a  gulf  there  is  between  your  race  and 
mine  ;  and  you  showed  me  how  to  pass  the 
gulf.  You  did  more,  not  as  a  salve  for 
your  own  conscience,  because  I  suppose 
your  conscience  never  pricked  you  about 
it ;  nor  as  a  bribe  for  me  to  go  away  and 
never  trouble  you  again  —  you  gave  me 
money  on  that  day  —  the  day  before  you 
married  —  when  you  bade  me  farewell.  I 
used  the  money  well,  George.  Even  you 
will  confess  I  used  it  well.  I  have  been  to 
your  great  city,  — your  big,  cold,  dreary 
London.  I  put  myself  to  school  there. 
I  have  learned  all  that  a  woman  should 
learn,  and  more.  Shall  I  play  to  you? 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


11 


Shall  I  sing  to  you  ?  Shall  I  prove  to  you 
that  even  your  cast-off  mistress  can  be,  if 
she  pleases,  as  perfect  a  lady  as  —  No, 
George,  I  will  make  no  comparison.  Adri- 
enne, my  mistress  —  my  poor  darling  — 
whom  I  played  with  and  loved,  I  shall  never 
be  like  you  !  " 

Durnfbrd  made  an  impatient  gesture. 
"•  I  must  say  what  1  have  to  say.  I  want 
to  say  a  good  deal.  Besides,  it  pleases  me 
to  talk.  I  have  talked  to  no  one  since  I 
left  England,  and  you  must  listen.  Don't 
think,  to  begin  with,  that  I  love  you  any 
more.  The  poor,  ignorant  creature  that 
trusted  you,  and  thought  herself  honored 
by  having  your  arm  about  her,  is  gone. 
George,  she  is  dead.  All  that  is  left  of  her 
and  her  life  is  a  memory  and  an  experience, 
I  remember,  and  I  know.  She  could  have 
done  neither.  She  would  have  gone  away, 
back  to  her  own  cousins,  —  the  swine  who 
live  in  the  huts  by  the  seaside,  and  scramble 
once  a  week  for  the  wretched  fish  that  will 
keep  them  till  another  week.  She  would 
have  married  some  black  clown,  as  ignorant 
as  herself,  and  far  more  brutal,  and  would 
have  brought  her  children  up  like  their 
father.  George,  where  is  my  boy  ?  " 
Durnford  pointed  to  the  bedroom  door. 
She  snatched  a  light,  and  came  back 
directly  with  little  Phil,  still  asleep,  in  her 
arms  —  kissing  and  crying  over  him  like  a 
madwoman. 

"  O  Phil,  Phil  !  my  darling,  my  dar- 
ling !  Could  I  leave  you  all  alone  ? 
Speak  to  your  mother,  my  son  —  my  son  ! 
Will  you  never  know  her  ?  Will  you  never 
be  proud  of  her,  and  cling  to  her,  and  be 
good  to  her  ?  " 

The  child  opened  his  eyes,  looked  up 
sleepily,  and  then  heavily  turned  his  face 
from  her,  and  was  asleep  again  in  a  mo- 
ment. 

She  took  him  back,  and  placed  him 
again  in  his  cot,  and  took  the  light,  and 
looked  long  and  steadfastly  at  the  other 
She  returned,  and  sat  down  again,  sighing 
deeply. 

"  Your  child  is  mine,  Marie,"  said  Durn- 
ford. "  What  I  swore  to  you  then,  I  swear 
to  you  now.  He  will  be  brought  up  like 
the  other,  educated  with  him,  and  shal" 
share  with  him." 

"  Will  he  never  know  the  story  of  his 
birth  ?  "  asked  the  girl. 

"  it  is  my  hope  that  he  never  will.     H 
will  be  called  —  he  is  already  called  —  my 
nephew.     I  told  all  to  my  wife.     She  had 
forgiven." 

"  When  you  die,  will  he,  or  will  th 
other,  have  this  estate  ?  " 

Duntbrd  hesitated.  At  last  he  lookec 
steadily  at  her, -and  said,  — 

"  My  lawful  son  will  be  my  heir.     Wha 


vealth  I  have  shall  be  his.  Your  son  will 
aave  a  competence ;  but  I  will  not  —  I  can- 
lot  Marie  —  defraud  my  heir  of  what  is 
His." 

Marie  sat  silent  for  a  time. 

Then  she  began  to  walk  about  the  room. 

"I  am  not  myself  to-night,  George.  I 
was  angry  as  I  walked  here  through  the 
brest.  1  am  only  repentant  now.  The 
ove  for  my  poor  Adrienne  drowns  the 
^esentment  that  filled  my  heart  an  hour 
\go.  I  came  to  upbraid  you  —  I  cannot, 
tier  spirit  is  in  this  house.  I  felt  her 
jreath  as  I  leaned  over  the  face  of  her  boy. 
[  saw  her  face  as  I  came  in  at  the  door. 
I  feel  her  here  now,  George.  If  I  think 
more  of  her,  I  shall  see  her.  I  do  see  her  ! 
She  is  here  —  before  me.  Adrienne,"  — 
she  bent  forward  with  streaming  eyes  and 
supplicating  hands  —  "  forgive  me.  For- 
give the  poor,  passionate  girl  that  never 
did  you  any  harm,  but  whose  heart  has 

een  filled  with  bitterness  against  you.  You 
did  not  wrong  me,  my  poor  dear ;  and  as 
for  him  who  did  —  here,  in  your  presence, 
I  forgive  him.  George,  for  three  long 
years,  far  away  from  here,  among  strangers, 
I  have  had  but  one  prayer  every  night,  I 
have  prayed  that  misery  might  fall  on  you 
and  yours.  Adrienne,  Adrienne,  speak 
to  me  if  you  can.  Give  me  some  sign 
that  my  prayer  was  not  answered.  Let  me 
go  away  at  least  forgiven." 

As  she  spoke,  the  hurricane  swept  with 
all  its  fury  against  the  house.  The  wind 
howled  like  an  accusing  spirit.  George 
rose  from  his  chair,  pale  and  trembling. 
"  Woman,"  he  cried, "  you  are  answered." 
But  as  suddenly  the  wind  dropped,  and 
with  one  last  effort  blew  back  the  shutter 
of  the  window.  Durnford  hurried  to  re- 
place it ;  and,  with  the  driving  rain  that 
came  in,  like  tears  of  wild  repentance,  a 
poor  dying  dove  was  blown  through  the 
window,  straight  to  Marie's  bosom. 

"  I  am  answered,"  she  said,  folding  the 
creature  in  her  hands. 

Neither  spoke.  Presently  Marie  fell  on 
her  knees,  with  the  dove  in  her  hand,  and 
prayed  aloud.  Great  tears  rolled  down 
Durnford's  face.  When  she  had  finished, 
he  lifted  up  his  voice  and  wept,  saying,  — 
"  God  have  mercy  upon  me  a  sinner." 

It  was  midnight.  Marie  rose  from  her 
knees,  another  Magdalene. 

"  I  must  go,"  she  said ;  "  but  first,  George, 
aid  me  to  carry  out  my  plan  of  life.  I 
am  goin^  back  to  London.  I  have  got  a 
great  voice,  —  a  splendid  voice,  George,  — 
a  voice  that  will  bring  me,  they  say,  more 
money  than  I  can  spend.  I  shall  save  it 
for  the  boy.  To  make  it  useful,  I  must 
study  and  work.  Let  ine  have  some  more 


12 


MY   LITTLE   GIKL. 


money.     I  don't  think  it  degrades  me  to 
ask  it  of  you,  does  it?     My  real  degrada- 

tion no  one  knows  over  there.     You  must 
"ivr  m-  money,  Georjv." 

II,-  j,,!,l  hr'r  h  ;w  lie  would  help  her  in 
:md    give    lu-r    what    he    had. 
very  quirt  and  subdued. 
you,'.'   she    said,  "and  I 


were  both 


lliey 

"I   have   seen   w      ,. 

have  not  cursed  you.  But,  ah  !  my  heart 
missives  me.  I  eame  through  the  lonely 
li.iv-t  to-night,  and  heard  sounds  that  mean 
misfortune. 

"  Marie,  it  is  superstition." 
<;  Perhaps.  I  cannot  help  it.  It  is  in 
my  blood.  And  a  voice  whispered  in  my 
eaY.  as  I  came  along,  that  I  should  have  no 
joy  with  my  boy ;  and  that  you  would 
have  no  more  pleasure  in  life ;  that  my  for- 
tune was  to  come,  but  my  misery  and  pun- 
ishment  with  it.  George,  was  it  no  bad 
omen  that  ray  child  turned  away  his  face 
from  me  ?  Is  it  good  to  come  to  a  house 
of  sudden  death  and  mourning  ?  Shall  I 
IM-JU  the  world  afresh  with  a  brighter 
spirit  for  this  night  of  tears  and  repent- 
ance ?  " 

"  You  are  shaken.  Stay  to-night.  Take 
the  child  to  sleep  with  you.  In  the  morn- 
in-  \<>u  can  go,  if  you  will." 

••  No  —  now,  now,"  she  said.     "  I  cannot 
stay   here.     Take  care  of  him,  George  — 
take  care  of  him.     Some  day,  perhaps  "  — 
"  You  cannot  go  through  the  forest  to- 
night." 

"I  must  —  I  cannot  stay  here.  Fare- 
well, George.  I  think  I  shall  never  see 
YOU  again.  Pray  God  to  forgive  us  both. 
1  will  pray  every  day.  They  say  GoJ 
hears  it  you  go  on  praying.  And  write  to 
me  sometimes  to  tell  me  of  the  boy." 

They  stood  one  moment,  face  to  face 
George  took  her  hand ;  and  then  their 
faces  met.  There  was  no  passion  now,  in 
that  last  embrace.  The  memory  of  the 
wife  came  between  them  like  a  spirit 
They  kissed  each  other,  like  children,  ir 
token  of  forgiveness  and  in  self-abase 
ment;  and  then,  lifting  the  latch,  Marie 
went  out  into  the  darkness,  and  disap- 
peared. 

George  Durnford,  lighting  a  cigar  me 
chanically,  went  outsiide  to  the  veranda 
The  Indian  guardian,  whose  duty  it  was  tc 
make  the  rounds,  and  keep  off  nocturna 
thieves,  was  coiled  up  in  a  corner,  fas 
asleep.  The  storm  had  died  away.  A 
pure  sky,  bright  with  the  southern  constel 
lations  and  with  a  clear  half-moon,  wa 
overhead.  George's  eye  fell  on  the  cros 
of  the  south,  —  that  heavenly  sign  that  one 
filled  the  sailors  with  hope.  He  felt  tin 
•warm,  soft  air  of  the  summer  night.  Sit 
ting  down,  he  presently  fell  asleep.  Whei 
he  awoke  the^  day  was  breaking ;  the  mil 


lighted  up ;  the  day's  work'  was  begun ; 
nd  be  pondered  in  his  mind  whether  he 
ad  not  dreamt  it  all. 

Little  Philip,  coining  to  him  at  six 
'clock,  began  to  ask  who  had  taken  him 
ut  of  bed.°  And  lying  on  the  floor  George 
Durnford  found  a'  handkerchief  with  the 
,ame  of  Marie  on  it.  Then  he  knew  that 
ie  had  not  dreamed  this  thing.  And  he 
tept  it  in  his  heart. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

MR.  ALEXANDER  MAC!NTYRE  used  to 
describe  himself,  as  a  dingy  card  on  Mr. 
)urnford's  table  testified,  as  Professor  of 
he  Classics  and  Mathematics,  Instructor 
u  Foreign  Languages,  Fencing,  Fortifica- 
ion,  Hindustani,  and  the  Fine  Arts.  He 
svas  a  most  accomplished  man.  With  the 
exception  of  the  last-named  department  of 
earning,  —  which  I  fancy  he  inserted  rath- 
er with  a  view  to  the  effect  and  roundness 
of  the  sentence  than  with  any  intention  of 
nstructing  in  the  Fine  Arts, — he  really 
uiew,  and  could  teach,  the  things  he  pro- 
essed.  He  was  not  a  Person  in  Greek, 
but  he  made  boys  fairly  good  in  Greek 
scholarship.  He  would  not  have  become 
senior  wrangler,  but  he  knew  a  good  lot  of 
school  mathematics.  He  could  really 
ence ;  he  could  talk  Italian  or  French  or 
German  with  equal  fluency ;  and  he  could 
and  did  swear  horribly  in  Hindustani. 
Finally,  on  occasion,  he  talked  about  forti- 
fication as  glibly  as  Capt.  Shandy. 

This  great  luminary  of  science  was  en- 
gaged lor  some  years  as  private  tutor  to 
the  two  boys  at  Fontainebleau.  He  used 
to  ride  over  on  a  little  pony  from  his  house, 
some  two  miles  off,  and  ride  back  again  in 
the  evening.  Sometimes  when  he  staid 
to  dinner,  Mr.  Durnford  would  leave  him 
on  the  veranda,  smoking  and  sitting  in 
friendly  proximity  to  the  brandy  bottle. 
Then  it  was  the  delight  of  the  two  boys  — 
for  Mr.  Durnford  had  got  into  a  habit,  of 
late  years,  of  going' to  his  own  room  about 
nine  o'clock  —  to  observe  their  revered  in- 
structor drink  tumbler  after  tumbler  of 
brandy  and  water,  getting  more"  thirsty 
after  each,  and  more  rapid  in  his  despatch 
of  the  next.  At  the  opportune  moment,  — 
that  is  to  say,  when  he  was  not  too  far  gone, 
—  they  would  emerge  upon  the  scene,  and 
engage  him  in  talk.  He  would  then  make 
a  laudable  effort  to  give  the  conversation  a 
philosophical  and  improving  turn.  Getting 
into  difficulties,  he  would  try  to  help  him- 
self out  by  another  pull  at  the  brandy ; 
and  when,  as  always  happened,  he  got  into 
fresh  complications,  he  would  fall  back 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


13 


in  his  chair,  and  make  use  of  a  regular  and 
invariable  formula.  He  would  say,  quite 
clearly  and  distinctly,  "  I  am  a  Master 
of  Arts  of  the  University  of  Aberdeen- — 
I'm  the  Maclntyre  !  "  Then  he  would 
become  speechless  ;  and  the  boys,  with  a 
huge  delight,  would  carry  him  neck  and 
heels  to  bed.  In  the  morning  he  would 
rise  at  six,  and  emerge  with  uncloud«d 
brow.  Perhaps,  in  the  course  of  the  day, 
he  would  find  occasion  for  a  few  remarks 
on  temperance,  with  an  excursus  on  his 
own  moderation  in  spirituous  liquors. 

He  was  a  small,  spare  man,  in  glasses, 
with  sandy  hair,  a  pale  face,  and  a  red  nose. 
He  lived  by  himself,  in  a  little  house  of 
three  rooms,  two  miles  down  the  road.  He 
had  no  pupils  except  the  two  Durnfords ; 
and,  at  odd  moments,  an  uneasy  conscious- 
ness would  seize  him,  that,  when  these  went, 
he  would  starve.  Nor  had  he  any  friends 
to  help  him.  The  voice  of  rumor,  which 
aggravates  a  man's  vices  and  subtracts 
from  his  virtues,  said  that  he  went  drunk 
to  bed  every  night.  As  to  his  antecedents, 
there  were  many  reports.  Some  said  that 
he  had  been  in  the  army,  but  was  cashiered 
for  embezzlement  while  he  was  adjutant ; 
others,  that  he  had  been  a  courier,  a  bil- 
liard-maker, all  sorts  of  things.  Rumor 
lied,  of  course.  He  had  been  none  of 
those  things.  He  had,  after  a  laborious 
and  meritorious  career  at  Aberdeen,  "  gone 
in  "  for  Scotch  mission-work  in  Constanti- 
nople. Here  he  preached  the  gospel  to 
the  Jews,  till  he  preached  his  belief  away. 
This  becoming  known  to  his  employers,  he 
was  turned  out  with  ignominy.  Then  he 
wandered  about  the  Levant,  living  no  one 
knew  how.  After  a  few  years,  he  turned 
up  again  in  England,  and  became  a  lec- 
turer to  some  society.  Difficulties  about 
the  money  ensued,  and  Mr.  Maclntyre  once 
more  left  his  native  shores.  This  time  he 
came  to  Palmiste,  with  a  letter  to  Mr. 
Durnford,  and  set  up  as  a  public  teacher 
of  every  thing  in  the  principal  town.  Trou- 
bles of  all  sorts  fell  upon  him,  and  he  re- 
moved to  the  other  end  of  the  island, 
partly  to  escape  them,  and  partly  to  coach 
Mr.  Durnford's  boys.  He  had  a  way  of 
introducing  remarks  —  which  at  first  ap- 
peared to  be  of  the  profoundest  wisdom, 
and  took  in  the  unwary  —  with  a  magiste- 
rial and  Aberdonian  "  obsairve."  He  was 
sententious  and  deferent.  He  had  no 
morals,  no  principles,  no  self-will,  no  self- 
control.  All  his  better  qualities  were 
wrecked  on  the  quicksand  of  drink ;  and, 
of  the  hard-working,  hopeful  days  of  Aber- 
deen, nothing  was  left  but  the  knowledge 
he  had  acquired,  and  a  habit  of  industry 
which  never  deserted  him.  He  was  not, 
it  must  be  confessed,  the  best  tutor  possi- 


ble for  boys ;  but  education  in  Palmiste  is 
difficult. 

Mr.  Durnford  liked  to  keep  his  boys  at 
home.  There  was  less  harm  to  be  learned 
there,  at  all'  events,  than  in  the  hot,  un- 
healthy town  where  the  college  stood. 
And  even  Mr.  Maclntyre  could  teach  them 
mere  book  learning.  So  they  staid  at 
home,  and  grew  in  years  and  stature. 

In  appearance  they  were  as  different  as 
in  manners :  for  Philip,  the  elder,  was 
strong,  sturdy,  and  overbearing ;  Arthur 
was  slight,  delicate,  and  yielding.  If 
Philip  wanted  any  thing,  he  always  had  it. 
Philip,  too,  wanted  every  thing.  The  best 
pony  was  his,  the  best  dogs,  the  best  gun. 
He  was  the  cleverer,  —  the  favorite  with 
Mr.  Maclntyre,  sharp  of  tongue,  and  cool 
of  temperament ;  but  he  was  not  popular. 
Arthur  was.  By  his  soft,  feminine  ways  ; 
by  the  gentle  sympathy  which  he  showed 
for  all  alike;  by  the  kindly  grace  of  his 
manner,  which  he  inherited  from  his 
mother, —  he  won  affection  where  his  cousin 
only  gained  fear.  The  children  ran  after 
him  when  he  walked  through  the  village ; 
the  women  came  to  him  to  adjust  their 
differences ;  the  Indians,  when  they  had  a 
petition  to  offer  or  a  point  to  gain,  which 
was  nearly  every  day,  waited  till  they 
could  get  hold  of  the  chota  sahib,  —  the 
little  master.  Philip,  though  he  pretended 
to  despise  this  popularity,  was  secretly  an- 
noyed at  it.  It  rankled  in  his  heart  that 
he,  for  his  part,  commanded  no  man's  af- 
fection. By  degrees,  too,  as  he  grew  up, 
he  began  to  ask  questions  about  himself. 
These  his  uncle  put  aside,  quietly  but 
firmly.  And  gradually  a  sort  of  feeling  of 
inferiority  took  possession  of  him.  There 
was  something  —  what,  he  never  guessed 

—  that  was  not  to  be  told  him  something 
that  had  better  not  be  spoken  of,  something 
that  made  him  different  from  his  cousin. 
It  was  the  germ  of  what  was  to  grow  into 
a  great  tree,  —  a  tree  whose  fruit  was  poi- 
son, and  whose  very  shade  was  noxious. 
But  at  this  time  it  only  stimulated  him. 
It  made  him   more  eager  to   surpass   his 
cousin  ;  threw  him  with  fresh  vigor  into 
his   studies ;   and   urged  him   to  practise 
more  and  more  the  arts  which  he  thought 
would  lead  to  success  in  life.     These  —  for 
the  boy's  knowledge  of  life  was  very  small 

—  he  imagined  to  be  chiefly  skill  at  shoot- 
ing and  riding.     He  did  both  splendidly. 
Arthur  did  both  indifferently. 

Mr.  Durnford  seemed  to  take  but  little 
notice  of  their  progress.  Still,  from  a  word 
here  and  there,  they  knew  that  he  watched 
them.  Nor  could  Philip  complain,  when 
his  uncle  gave  him  the  best  horse  and  the 
costliest  gun  that  could  be  got  in  the  island, 
that  he  was  overlooked.  There  were  few 


14 


MY   LITTLE   GIKL. 


times  when  the  grave  man  conversed  much 
with  them.  Sometimes,  at  hreaklhst,  — 
•th;it  ,  meal  which  means,  in  a  planter's  house, 
an  curly  dinner  at  halt-past  eleven,  when 
the  work  of  the  day,  which  has  gone  on 
li>r  five  or  six  hours,  is  more  than  half  over, 
which  is  followed  by  two  or  three  hours  of 
and  la/y  talk,  —  he  would  relax,  and 
tell  them  long  stories  of  English  life  and 
youthful  adventure,  at  which  their  faces 
were,  set  aglow,  and  their  hearts  beating 
with  excitement.  Or  he  would  set  forth 
tin-  perils  of  a  young  man's  course ;  hiding 
little;  letting  them  know,  some  of  the 
temptations  that  lie  in  the  way  of  life; 
telling  them  something  of  the  battle  that 
lay  before  them;  and  —  for  George  Durn- 
i;>rd  was  now  a  religious  man  —  backing 
up  his  pictures  with  a  homily  on  duty. 
Surely  there  is  but  one  thing  needful  to 
teach  boys,  —  to  do  their  duty  ;  and  one 
thing  above  all  to  train  in  them,  —  the 
power  of  will  that  will  help  them  to  do  it. 
On  Sunday  mornings  they  would  read  the 
service  of  the  Church,  the  three  together, 

—  Phil  taking  the  first  lesson,  and  Arthur 
the   second.     By   this    arrangement,   the 
younger  boy  seemed  to  get  all  the  teach- 
ing of  Christ,  and  the  elder  all  the  passion 
and  rebellious  self-will  of  the  Israelites. 

Once  a  week  or  so  they  generally  rode, 
the  two  boys  together,  but  sometimes  Mr. 
Durnford  with  them,  to  see  Madeleine. 

Madeleine,  some  three  years  older  than 
Arthur,  was  the  one  thing  that  kept  the 
boys  alive  to  a  sense  of  the  social  side  of 
life.  She,  like  them,  was  motherless ;  and, 
like  them,  lived  with  her  father,  M.  De 
Villeroy,  on  a  sugar  estate,  his  property. 
She  was  everybody's  pet  and  plaything, 

—  a    bright    little     black-haired    beauty, 
whose   laughter   kept  the  house  gay.  and 
whose  wilful  ways  were  law.     M.  de  Ville- 
roy was  one  of  those  grand  Frenchmen  — 
some  day  we  shall  see  them  all   in  their 
proper  place  again  —  whose  manners  are 
the  perfection  of  courtesy,  and  whose  ideas 
chieily  date  from  a  time  when  Louis  the 
Sixteenth   was  king,   or,  to   speak    more 
truly,  from  a  time  when  Francis  the  First 
was  king.     Not  that  his  own  birth  dated 
from  either  of  those  reigns.     He  and  his 
were   colonists   in   Palmiste  Island,  from 
very  early  in  the  last  century.     The  Mar- 
shal de  Villeroy  he  spoke  of  as  his  cousin. 
He   had   the  right,  if  he  wished,  to  call 
himself  marquis.     He  had  a  profound  con- 
tempt for  roturiers,  and  held  that  gentle- 
man was  a  name  that  belonged  to  him  by 
divine  right;    but  he  held,  too,  that  the 
name   involved   duties,  and  truth,   honor, 
and  bravery,  were  the  three  points  of  his 
creed.     For  Christianity,  I  fear,  that,  like 
too  many  of  his  countrymen,  he  considered 


it  as  an  admirable  method  of  imparting  no- 
tions of  order  to  the  vulgar ;  and,  though 
he  would  not  openly  scoff  at  it,  yet,  when 
alone  with  his  friend  Durnford,  he  would 
let  fall  such  slight  indications  of  a  con- 
temptuous toleration  as  almost  justified  the 
priests  in  calling  him  a  Voltairean.  Vol- 
taire—or M.  Arouet,  as  he  preferred  to 
call  him  —  he  always  declared  to  be  a  man 
who  had  done  an  infinite  amount  of  mis- 
chief; and  he  held  all  men  of  genius  in 
equal  dislike,  from  a  persuasion  that  their 
mission  in  life  was  to  prematurely  popu- 
larize the  ideas  of  the  nobility.  The 
Revolution,  he  would  explain,  was  the 
work  of  men  of  genius.  The  ideas  which 
they  propagated  had  long  been  current 
among  the  more  cultivated  of  the  nobility. 
These,  however,  forbore  to  carry  to  their 
bitter  end  the  logical  consequences  of  their 
convictions.  Nothing  in  social  and  political 
economy  could  be  logical.  All  must  be 
compromise.  But  what  the  Revolution 
took  thirty  years  to  achieve  would,  he 
maintained,  have  been  accomplished  by 
the  liberality  of  the  divinely  appointed 
rulers  of  things  in  ten,  without  bloodshed. 

"  Obsairve,"  said  Mr.  Maclntyre, "  Mira- 
beau  was  a  gentleman." 

To  which  M.  de  Villeroy  replied,  that 
Mirabeau's  life  was  fatal  to  any  kind  of 
purity  of  action ;  "and  that,  despite  any  al- 
leged instances  to  the  contrary,  great 
things  could  only  be  done  by  men  of  pure 
life. 

We  must  not,  however,  waste  time  on 
M.  de  Villeroy.  He  disappears  directly 
out  of  the  story.  But  he  was  one  of  the 
few  influences  brought  to  bear  upon  the 
boys'  daily  life.  Mr.  Durnford,  with  his 
high  standard  of  duty  and  Christian  hon- 
or ;  M.  de  Villeroy,  with  his  standard  of 
a  gentleman's  ideal ;  Mr.  Maclntyre,  alter- 
nately presenting  the  example  of  a  scholar 
—  various,  if  not  profound  —  and  the 
drunken,  helpless  helot ;  the  ignorant, 
childish  mass  of  Indians  and  blacks  on 
the  estate  ;  and  pretty  little  Madeleine,  to 
keep  them  gentle,  and  give  them  that  deli- 
cacy of  feeling  which  only  contact  with  the 
other  sex  can  impart.  Let  us  bear  these 
things  in  mind,  and  remember,  in  the  story 
to  come,  how  ever  so  little  an  accident 
may  mar  the  growth  of  the  most  promising 
tree. 

The  accident  happened  thus.  Phil  was 
now  about  fifteen,  —  a  strong,  handsome 
boy,  whose  dark,  wavy  hair,  and  slightly 
olive  skin,  were  set  off  by  a  pair  of  bright 
black  eyes  and  regular  features,  closely 
resembling  those  of  Mr.  Durnford.  It  was 
some  little  time,  he  could  not  himself  say 
how  it  began,  since  the  feeling  had  sprung 
up,  that  I  have  alluded  to,  of  his  own  in- 


MY  LITTLE  GIEL. 


15 


feriority.  As  yet  it  was  but  an  uneasy 
thought,  sometimes  dyin^  away  altogether, 
sometimes  springing  again  full-grown  into 
his  brain.  But  it  was  there.  He  awoke 
this  particular  morning  with  it,  and  went 
out  in  the  early  dawn  morose  and  sullen. 
Presently,  when  Arthur  joined  him,  and 
they  walked  about  with  their  arms  round 
each  other's  necks  in  boyish  fashion,  the 
ghost  vanished,  and  Phil  became  himself 
again.  They  got  their  ponies  saddled, 
drank  their  coffee,  and  rode  off  to  meet 
the  tutor. 

Presently  they  came  upon  him,  plodding 
slowly  up  hill,  on  his  broken-kneed  Pegu 
pony,  with  his  huge  straw  hat  on,  and  his 
cigar  in  his  mouth. 

"  Obsairve,"  observed  the  philosopher, 
as  they  turned  to  go  back  with  him, 
"  man's  just  the  creature  of  habit." 

He  pronounced  it  "  hahbit." 

"  So  he  is,"  said  Phil,  who  immediately 
guessed  that  his  instructor  had  been  more 
than  usually  drunk  the  night  before. 
"  Somebody  else  has  made  that  remark  be- 
fore you,  Mr.  Maclntyre." 

"  Don't  take  the  word  out  o'  the  mouth 
o'  the  prophet  of  the  —  I  mean  your  tutor, 
young  man,"  said  Mr.  Maclntyre.  "  Man 
as  I  said,  is  the  creature  of  habit." 

They  rode  on  in  silence  for  a  while, 
waiting  further  light  from  the  sage. 

This  presently  came. 

"  Of  all  habits  that  flesh  is  heir  to,"  he 
went  on,  "  let  me  caution  you  against  in- 
temperance. Whiskey,  in  my  country,  may 
be  taken  in  moderation ;  brandy,  never. 
You  will  obsairve  that  it  furs  the  tongue, 
confuses  the  brain,  and  prevents  that 
orderly  sequence  of  thought  inseparable 
from  metapheesical  study.  Take  the  ad- 
vice of  one  who  has  seen  the  world,  young 
men  ;  and,  when  you  go  into  it,  be  careful 
to  stop  at  the  fourth  or  fifth  tumbler. 
What  is  taken  after  that  gives  headache." 

"  Have  you  a  headache  this  mornin^, 
sir?" 

"  Philip,  your  question  pains  me.  It  is 
true  that  I  have  headache,  the  result  of 
eating  imperfectly  cooked  steak  last  night. 
But  your  question,  in  connection  with  my 
warning  and  advice,  might  seem  —  I  only 
say  seem  —  to  imply  suspicion  that  I  had 
been  drinking  last  night." 

«  Not  at  all,  sir,"  said  Phil.  "  Steak  is 
indigestible.  Let  me  bring  you  a  bottle  of 
soda  when  we  get  in." 

"  Ye're  a  good  lad,"  answered  Macln- 
tyre, "  and  I  think  I'll  take  it." 

He  took  it,  and  they  presently  fell  to 
their  studies  till  breakfast.  The  day 
passed  as  usual  till  the  afternoon,  when 
the  clatter  of  hoofs  told  the  approach  of 
visitors.  They  were  Madeleine  and  her 


father.  The  boys  ran  to  help  her  off  her 
pony,  and  they  all  three  went  off  to  the 
garden  together. 

Madeleine's  favorite  was  Arthur ;  but 
Philip^  as  usual,  wanted  to  appropriate  her. 
Already  the  girl  was  conscious  of  herself. 
She  took  the  usual  feminine  delight  in  be- 
ing petted  and  caressed ;  and  expected 
the  homage  of  the  boys  with  the  air  that 
seems  to  come  naturally  to  beautiful  women. 
She  was  born  to  be*  admired.  Women 
who  have  that  destiny  accept  it  without 
any  murmuring,  and  with  no  surprise. 

Philip  to-day,  however,  was  cross-grained. 
He  did  not  want  her  to  talk  to  Arthur  :  he 
wanted  to  have  her  all  to  himself.  Then 
they  began  to  quarrel.  It  was  a  children's 
quarrel,  that  might  have  been  ended  di- 
rectly but  for  a  luckless  remark  of  Philip's. 

"  Never  mind,  Madeleine,"  he  said.  "  You 
can  play  with  Arthur  if  you  like  ;  but  when 
we  grow  up  you'll  marry  me." 

"  Indeed  I  shall  not,"  she  said.  "  I  am 
going  to  marry  Arthur,"  and  went  and  held 
up  her  face  to  be  kissed  by  that  blushing 
youth. 

"Arthur!"  said  Philip  with  great  con- 
tempt. "  Why,  I  can  turn  him  over  as 
easy  as  —  See." 

He  caught  his  cousin  by  the  shoulder,  and 
turned  him  round,  throwing  him  off,  so  that 
he  tripped  and  fell  with  his  face  to  the  ground. 
Arthur,  however,  rose  to  the  occasion  ;  and, 
springing  up,  struck  him  smartly  in  the 
face. 

The  battle  lasted  for  a  moment  only,  and 
Philip  stood  victorious.  Madelerae  ran  to 
the  rescue  of  her  prostrate  lover. 

"  Go  away,"  she  cried.  "  I  believe  what 
people  say  of  you.  I  will  never  speak  to 
you  again." 

"  And,  pray,  what  do  people  say  ?  "  asked 
Philip. 

"  They  say  that  you  are  cruel  and  self- 
ish :  that  you  tease  Arthur  and  vex  him ; 
and  that  you  want  to  get  every  thing  for 
yourself.  Go  away." 

Philip  went  away.  It  was  the  first  time 
the  boys  had  struck  each  other.  He  was 
angry  with  himself,  angry  with  Arthur, 
angry  with  Madeleine  ;  and  in  this  mood  he 
strolled  along  till  he  found  himself  at  the 
stables.  Then  he  thought  he  would  have 
a  ride.  Going  into  his  own  pony's  box,  he 
found  the  syce  had  not  rubbed  him  down, 
or  even  touched  him  since  the  morning,  and 
was  now  sitting  —  a  tall,  gaunt  Indian  of 
six  feet  —  eating  rice  in  perfect  content. 
Phil's  temper  boiled  over.  He  Hew  at  the 
man  in  a  fury  of  rase,  kicking,  striking, 
and  cursing  him.  The  poor  groom  was 
first  appalled ;  and,  standing  up  sideways  to 
the  wall,  he  lifted  his  leg,  and  covered  his 
face  with  his  arms,  as  some  small  pro  tec- 


16 


MY  LITTLE  GIBL. 


tion  against  the  blows.  At  last  they  be- 
came Utsapportablc  ;  and,  in  self-defence, 
IK-  took  the  buy  l.y  the  shoulders,  and  held 
him  at  arm's  length. 

Hindustani  is  Billed,  above  all  languages, 
with  a  capacity  of  swearing.  The  power  of 
insult  is  in  no  other  language  so  great.  Our 
own  noble  vernacular,  when  judiciously 
usi-d,  sav,  by  the  mate  of  an  American 
sailing-ship,  or  an  able  seaman  in  our  mer- 
chant service,  can  do  a  good  deal ;  but  its 
resources  are  miserable  indeed  compared 
with  the  strength  and  vivacity  possessed 
by  its  sister  branch  of  the  Aryan  family. 

Phil  had  picked  up  this  knowledge.  He 
used  it  now,  pouring  out  great  volleys  of 
insult  —  words  which  he  had  often  heard, 
but  never  used  before ;  terms  which  con- 
veyed reproaches  he  did  not  understand  — 
on  the  head  of  the  offending  groom.  He, 
ibr  his  part,  only  looked  scared ;  until,  stung 
beyond  all  end'urance,  he  pushed  the  boy 
back  into  the  straw,  seized  the  great  wood- 
en bar  of  the  loose  box,  and  brandished  it 
over  him,  crying,  — 

"  Bastard,  I'll  kill  you  ! " 

Phil  looked  at  him,  bewildered.  Then, 
suddenly,  he  seemed  to  take  in  the  whole 
force  of  the  word ;  and  instead  of  offering  any 
resistance,  or  making  any  retort,  he  seemed 
to  be  suddenly  crushed,  and  covered  his 
face  with  his  hands. 

The  groom  put  down  the  bar,  and  began 
to  tremble.  Then  he  furtively  —  something 
after  the  manner  of  a  burglar  on  the  stage 
—  stole  out  of  the  stables.  Between  the 
stables  and  the  nearest  canes  there  was  an 
open  space,  cleared  for  some  purpose  or 
other,  of  a  quarter  of  a  mile.  Across  this 
he  sped,  half  doubled  up,  in  long  strides, 
and  was  lost  in  the  canes. 

Three  weeks  elapsed  before  he  showed 
up  again ;  then  he  was  brought  back,  a  mon- 
ument of  emaciation.  He  had  been  hiding 
in  the  forest,  making  predatory  excursions 
at  night  to  the  nearest  canes,  and  on  these 
he  had  lived.  The  watchman  apprehended 
him,  and  marched  him  in  at  daybreak, 
brandishing  his  long  stick  with  an  air  of 
great  importance  and  grandeur ;  the  miser- 
able prisoner,  who  was  about  two  feet  tall- 
er than  his  captor,  slouching  along  after 
him.  And  when  he  came  to  the  house,  see- 
ing Phil  alone  on  the  veranda,  he  fell,  a 
mere  mass  of  terror  and  despair,  and  grov- 
elled before  him.  Phil  kicked  him  up,  and 
ordered  loftily  that  he  should  be  sent  back 
to  the  stables. 

But  when  he  was  left  alone,  he  was,  for 
the  moment,  stunned.  Suddenly  it  all 
burst  upon  him.  Without  other  evidence 
than  the  mere  insult  of  the  Hindoo,  he  knew 
it  was  true.  The  position  he  held  in  the 
house ;  the  superior  consideration  in  which 


Arthur  was  held  ;  the  silence  of  his  uncle 
about  his  own  father,  —  all  were  proofs  to 
him.  He  rose  and  came  into  the  open  air, 
as  miserable  as  boy  could  well  be. 

Suddenly,  however,  another  thought 
struck  him. 

Imagine  that  you  have  been  brought  up 
to  believe  —  not  by  being  taught  in  so 
many  words,  but  by  power  of  association  — 
that  there  are  two  distinct  races  of  man- 
kind ;  that  God  has  made  one  for  mastery, 
and  the  other  for  subjection ;  that  while  it 
is  your  duty,  as  a  sovereign,  to  rule  wisely 
and  mildly,  you  cannot  but  feel  a  certain 
amount  of  contempt  —  proportioned,  of 
course,  to  your  wisdom  and  mildness  —  for 
the  governed  race.  Suppose  you  have 
gone  on,  being  neither  very  wise  nor  very 
mild,  till  your  contempt  has  become  over- 
weening, and  your  pride  of  race  excessive. 
Then  suppose,  in  the  height  of  your  arro- 
gance, you  hear  suddenly  that  you  are  an 
impostor ;  that  you  belong  to  the  race  you 
despise ;  that  you  are  nothing  more  nor  less 
than  one  of  the  humblest  of  them.  This 
was  Phil's  thought.  Like  tHe  first,  it  was 
not  a  conjecture,  but  a  certainty.  Little  as 
he  knew  of  the  wickedness  of  the  jvorld, 
he  knew  well  enough  that  illegitimacy  im- 
plied black  blood :  nothing  else  was  possi- 
ble in  Palmiste.  He  thought,  too,  of  his 
black  wavy  hair,  his  pale  olive  skin  ;  and 
he  moaned  in  his  agony. 

There  was  one  more  test.  He  looked  at 
his  nails.  Beneath  them  was  the  blue  stain 
that  the  African  blood  always  leaves ;  and 
he  gave  up  all  hope. 

Then  he  sat  down  and  sobbed.  It  all 
seemed  so  cruel ;  it  was  so  strange  and  so 
dreadful.  The  pride  of  life  was  gone. 
Nothing  was  left  but  shame  and  degrada- 
tion. .He  crouched  among  the  trees,  and 
would  have  cried  for  death,  had  death  oc- 
curred to  him  as  even  a  remote  possibility. 
He  sat  motionless,  while  the  weight  of  his 
grief  bent  down  his  young  shoulders. 

As  he  sat  there,  the  sun  got  lower.  Pres- 
ently it  disappeared  behind  the  hills.  Long 
fingers  of  light  came  out,  vibrating  a  sort 
of  good-night  to  the  world ;  and  then  it  be- 
came dark.  The  darkness  weighed  upon 
him.  He  got  up,  and  wandered  out,  think- 
ing how  he  should  go  into  the  house,  and 
found  himself  near  the  stables.  There  he 
saw  some  one  with  a  lamp.  It  seemed  as 
if  the  la*np  was  unsteady,  shifting  about 
like  a  light  at  a  masthead. 

After  studying  this  phenomenon  for  a 
time,  he  went  to  discover  its  cause.  I 
regret  to  say  that  he  found  his  preceptor, 
Mr.  Maclntyre,  very  drunk  indeed,  making 
shots  at  the  stable  door,  with  the  view  of 
getting  out  his  pony  and  riding  home  to 
dinner. 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


17 


He  had  been  left  alone  all  the  afternoon, 
and  finding  a  brandy  bottle  in  the  immedi- 
ate neighborhood,  had  finished  it,  with 
these  disastrous  results. 

Phil  helped  him  to  open  the  stable-door, 
and  saddled  his  pony  for  him. 

"  Obsairve,"  said  Mr.  Maclntyre,  "  the 
mind  of  man,  as  you  will  find  from  a  study 
of  the  Philosophy  of  the  Condeetioned,  has 
a  tendency  to  — to  "  — 

Here  he  fell  over  the  bar  that  the  groom 
had  left  behind  him. 

"  Mr.  Maclntyre,"  said  Philip,  "  you're 
drunk  again." 

"  Young  man,  no  —  no,  young  man.  The 
curry  at  breakfast  was  prawn  cu  —  curry. 
It  always  makes  me  so." 

A  thought  struck  the  boy. 

"  Mr.  Maclntyre,"  he  said,  "  did  you 
know  my  father  ?  " 

"  Your  father  ?  "  repeated  the  drunken 
scamp.  "  Of  course  I  know  your  father. 
Misther  Durnford's  your  father,  and  Marie's 
your  mother  —  pretty  little  Marie."  Then 
he  began  maundering  on  —  "  Pretty-  little 
Marie,  pretty  little  girl  —  wouldn't  speak 
to  me." 

"  Marie  —  what  Marie  ?  " 

"Marie  —  never  had  'nother  name. 
Went  away  — went  away  to  England  — 
died." 

Philip  turned  away  and  left  him ;  and 
presently  he  heard  the  pony,  who  knew-his 
way  better  than  his  master,  go  clattering 
down  the  road. 

He  went  in,  washed  and  brushed  him- 
self, and  appeared  at  dinner,  pale  and  quiet. 
Madeleine  and  Arthur  had  it  all  their  own 
way  for  once,  for  he  never  even  contradict- 
ed them. 


CHAPTER  V. 

TIME  passed  on.  Philip  said  nothing 
of  his  discovery,  only  he  became  quieter. 
The  boy  of  fifteen  in  a  year  changed  into  a 
tall,  resolute  young  man,  who  might  have 
been  taken  for  two  and  twenty.  The  light 
mustache  on  his  upper  lip  proclaimed  his 
manhood.  Boyhood  grows  more  rapidly 
into  adolescence  under  the  hot  sun  of  Pal- 
miste  ;  and  his  firm  step  and  upright  car- 
riage announced  one  who,  at  any  rate, 
seemed  ready  to  make  a  fight  for  it.  <* 

He  never,  but  once,  alluded  to  his  con- 
versation with  Mr.  Maclntyre.  But  one 
day,  after  a  long  silence,  Arthur  being 
out  of  the  way,  he  reminded  the  tutor  of 
what  he  had  told  him.  Poor  Mr.  Mac- 
lntyre was  thunderstruck.  He  remember- 
ed absolutely  nothing  of  it. 

"  Tell  me,"  he  gasped,  his  face  becoming 

2 


fearfully  red,  — -  "  tell  me  exactly  what  I 
said,  Phil.  Ahl  Loard,  what  an  evil 
spirit  brandy  is  !  " 

Phil  told  him. 

"  I  suppose  it  was  true,"  he  added  care- 
lessly. 

Mr.  Maclntyre  rose,  and  went  out  on 
the  veranda,  looking  round  every  corner 
to  see  if  there  were  any  listeners  about. 
Then  he  opened  every  door,  —  there  were 
seven  in  the  room,  —  and  looked  in  each 
chamber.  No  one  was  at  hand,  save  in 
the  dining-room.  Here  there  were  two  of 
the  Indian  boys  amusing  themselves  with  a 
rude  dramatic  performance  ;  for  one  had 
put  on  a  pair  of  spectacles,  and,  with  an 
empty  bottle  in  his  hand,  was  staggering 
up  and  down,  like  one  who  was  well  drunk- 
en, while  the  other  looked  on  and  applaud- 
ed. Mr.  Maclntyre  himself  wore  glasses. 
He  could  not,  of  course,  imagine  that  the 
representation  was  a  description  of  him- 
self; but,  as  a  friend  of  discipline,  he  felt 
bound  to  inflict  chastisement,  and  accord- 
ingly horsewhipped  the  one  he  caught,  who 
had  been  doing  nothing,  and  then  he  came 
back  flushed  with  the  exercise. 

Sitting  down  again,  and  pouring  out  a 
glass  of  brandy  and  water,  he  sighed 
out, — 

"  Yes,  Phil,  it  is  true  —  more's  the  pity, 
my  poor  bairn !  It's  just  awfu',  the  wick- 
edness of  the  world.  We  fight  against  it, 
we  philosophers ;  but  we  do  awfu'  little. 
It's  quite  true  ;  but,  Phil,  no  one  knows 
it.  I  know  it,  because  I  brought  you  here, 
a  wee  bit  thing  of  eighteen  months,  and 
told  the  folks  you  were  Mr.  Durnford's 
nephew ;  and  Mrs.  Durnford  knew  it,  for 
her  husband  told  her.  Eh,  she  was  good. 
There  must  be  a  heaven,  boy,  for  some 
people,  —  if  there's  an  after-life  at  all,  which 
I  vara  much  doot.  We,  who  have  had  our 
backslidings,  would  not  be  comfortable  in 
the  same  place  with  her  and  her  life. 
They  would  have  their  own  apairtments. 
I  sometimes  think,  Phil,  I  should  be  hap- 
pier down  below,  near  the  bar." 

"  And  no  one  suspects  ?  " 

"  I  sometimes  think  M.  de  Villeroy  sus- 
pects. He's  just  a  devil,  that  man.  He 
finds  out  every  thing.  Last  week  he  came 
to  me,  and  told  me  that  he'd  found  out  how 
I  had"  — 

"  Well  ?  "  for  the  good  man  stopped. 

"I  think  I'll  take  another  glass,  Phil. 
Yes,  thank  you.  You  were  saying  "  — 

"  What  became  of  my  mother,  then  ?  " 

"I  don't  know  Phil.  I  can't  tell  you. 
She  went  away.  Your  father  told  me  she 
went  to  England.  Afterwards  he  said 
that  she  was  dead.  She  was  lady's  maid, 
companion,  humble  friend,  whatever  you 
call  it,  to  Mrs.  Durnford  before  her  mar- 


18 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


riage;  and  remember,  Phil,  that  she  was 
the°  handsomest  woman  in  the  island. 
Hardly  a  touch  of"  — 

"  Stop  !  "  shouted  Philip,  crimson  — 
"  stop,  I  won't  hear  it  1  " 

The  tutor  stopped,  and  presently  went 
away,  seeing  no  further  opportunity  for 
philosophy  or  drink. 

And  for  good  reasons  of  his  own,  he 
fbrebore  to  inform  Mr.  Durnford  of  what 
had  passed  between  himself  and  Phil. 

But,  one  evening,  Philip  had  a  little  con- 
versation with  his  uncle,  as  he  still  called 
him. 

"  If  you  can  spare  five  minutes,  sir,"  he 
said  one  evening  when  Mr.  Durnford  had 
smoked  his  cigar,  anil  was  showing  the 
usual  signs  of  departure  to  his  own  quar- 
ters. 

"  Certainly,  Philip  what  is  it  ?  " 
He  sat  down  to   listen.     Then    Bhilip 
began,  with  considerable   trepidation,  but 
with  a  certain  dignity  of  manner,  to  ex- 
plain himself. 

"  You  know,  sir,  that  I  am  past  sixteen  V  " 
Mr.  Durnford  nodded.  "  And  I  think  you 
will  allow  me  to  ask  you  if  my  father,  of 
whom  you  have  told  me  nothing,  gave  me 
at  his  death  any  means  of  entering  life. 
I  have  seen,  sir,  for  some  time,  that  there 
are  points  connected  with  our  family  his- 
tory that  you  do  not  wish  known  to  me. 
I  shall  never  ask  for  information.  My 
father,  as  'you  have  told  me,  was  in  the 
army.  I  ask  for  nothing  more.  He  was 
a  gentleman,  because  you  are  a  gentleman. 
That  he  did  nothing  to  disgrace  himself  in 
the  eyes  of  the  world,  I  am  sure." 

"  In  the  eyes  of  the  world  ?  No,"  said 
Mr.  Durnford. 

"  That  is  all  I  wanted  to  have  from  your 
lips.  Now,  sir,  am  I  a  beggar  ?  —  that  is, 
am  I  wholly  dependent  on  you  ?  " 

Mr.  Durnford  did  not  answer  for  a  few 
moments. 

"  I  am  glad,  Phil,  that  this  talk  has  been 
held  between  us.  It  must  have  come 
sooner  or  later." 

"  Why  should  it  not  come,  sir  ?  " 
"  No  reason  at  all  —  none ;  only  fam- 
ily business  is  always  disagreeable.  Let 
me  tell  you,  once  for  all,  that  your  father's 
money  was  placed  wholly  and  unreservedly 
in  my  hands,  for  your  benefit.  I  have  done 
for  your  benefit  what  I  could  for  you. 
You  will  be,  at  the  age  of  twenty-one,  the 
master  of  four  or  five  hundred  pounds  a 
year.  It  is  not  much  ;  but,  with  a  profes- 
sion, it  is  plenty." 

"It  will  do,  sir,"  said  Philip.  "I  am 
glad  it  is  so  much." 

"But  what  profession  will  you  take? 
You  are  not  a  bookworm.  The  law  would 
do  little  for  you.  The  church  ?  " 


"  Impossible ! " 

"  Quite  so,  as  I  was  about  to  remark. 
Then,  what  are  we  to  do  with  you  ?  " 

"  J  shall  go  into  the  army,  sir.  At  least, 
I  can  carry  a  sword." 

"  And  use  it,  too,  Phil,  I  think.  We 
will  talk  about  this  afterwards."  But  they 
never  did. 

Early  that  year,  while  the  hot  rains  of 
January  were  still  soaking  into  the  steam- 
ing earth,  and  the  sun  was  vertical  at  noon- 
day, there  was  brought  a  rumor  —  vague 
at  first,  but  too  soon  confirmed — that 
cholera  had  appeared  in  the  principal 
town.  Up  to  that  day,  cholera  had  been 
unknown.  No  scourge  of  pestilence  had 
ever  fallen  on  the  island  that  insurance 
companies  ranked  rather  higher  than  Eng- 
land, and  on  which  they  put  a  tropical  per- 
centage out  of  mere  fun,  and  with  the 
cheerfulness  of  men  who  are  certain  to 
make  their  money.  Nobody  ever  died 
young,  except  from  drink.  Nobody  read 
the  lessons  about  the  uncertainty  of  lite  as 
applying,  even  indirectly,  to  himself;  and 
the  very  parsons  had  forgotten  that  life 
was  ever  any  thing  but  threescore  years 
and  ten  —  fully  told.  So  that,  when  men 
first  heard  that  the  cholera  was  come, 
they  laughed. 

There  were  various  rumors  as  to  its 
origin.  One  said  that  a  captain  of  a  coolie 
ship  had  put  ashore,  being  then  in  quaran- 
tine, and,  having  spent  the  evening  with 
four  friends,  had  gone  back  at  night  to  his 
ship  :  but  the  four  friends  died  next  day ; 
and  there  was  no  one  to  tell  whether  the 
captain  had  left  the  ship  or  not,  for  all  his 
sailors  died. 

Others  said  that  it  was  produced  by  the 
shameful  excesses  of  the  Chinamen  in  pork. 
This  was  disproved  by  the  fact  that  no 
Chinaman  died  of  cholera  at  all.  They 
went  about  in  great  glee,  with  mighty  up- 
lifting and  pride  of  heart,  rubbing  their 
hands  when  they  came  upon  some  poor 
negro  doubled  up  by  the  enemy  that 
seized  him  so  suddenly  and  killed  him  so 
easily. 

Others,  again,  attributed  it  to  the  British 
Government.  That  malignant  power  — 
conscious  for  many  years  of  the  foe  that 
threatened  the  island  —  deliberately,  and 
with  malice  prepense,  had  left  unguarded 
all  the  avenues  by  which  it  might  enter. 
The  editor  of  the  most  respectable  paper, 
daring  to  say  that  the  enforcement  of  the 
quarantine  laws  had  been  more  rigid  than 
usual  of  late  years,  was  set  upon,  one  star- 
ry evening,  by  a  dozen  public-spirited  mu- 
lattoes,  and  horsewhipped.  That  is,  they 
began  to  horsewhip  him ;  but  a  soldier 
happening  to  come  round  the  corner,  slung 
his  belt  and  dispersed  them,  devious,  rapid- 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


19 


ly  flying.  An  account  of  the  affair  ap- 
peared in  both  the  straw-paper  organs  next 
day,  in  which  the  brave  assailants  were 
held  up  to  public  admiration  as  patriots  of 
the  deepest  dye.  They  were  compared  to 
Timoleon,  to  Brutus,  to  Harmodius,  to 
Mirabeau,  to  Soulouque,  to  Oliver  Crom- 
well, to  Wilbertbrce,  and  to  Toussaint 
L'Ouverture.  They  were  to  have  been 
brought  before  the  magistrate  for  assault.; 
but  he  and  all  the  officials  of  his  court 
died  of  cholera,  and  the  affair  dropped. 
And,  as  the  pestilence  grew  worse,  men's 
hearts  failed  them  lor  fear.  The  town  of 
St.  Denys  had  a  population  of  some  sixty 
thousand.  These  were  dying  at  the  rate 
of  three  hundred  a  day.  All  day  long, 
and  all  night,  the  prisoners  were  kept  at 
work  digging  graves,  —  not  single  graves, 
but  long  common  fosses,  fifty  feet  long  and 
eight  feet  deep.  There  was  no  time  to 
make  coffins.  As  fast  as  the  bodies  were 
brought,  the  upper  part  of  the  shell  in 
which  they  were  laid  was  slipped  out,  and 
the  sand  covered  them  up.  The  priests  — 
is  there  any  fearlessness  like  that  of  a 
Catholic  priest?  —  stood  all  day  by  the 
grave,  chanting  the  monotonous  funeral 
service,  burials  going  on  all  the  time.  Now 
and  then  one  of  the  grave-diggers  would  be 
struck  down,  and  carried  off,  shrieking  and 
crying,  to  a  hospital.  For  if  a  black  is 
once  taken  to  a  hospital,  he  abandons 
hope;  and,  should  he  come  out  again,  is 
received  by  his  friends  —  not  with  the  re- 
joicing that  would  await  one  risen  from  the 
dead,  but  rather  with  such  disappointment 
as  greeted  Martin  Chuzzlewit  when  he 
came  back  from  Eden. 

The  shops  were  closed  ;  the  wharves  de- 
serted ;  the  streets  empty,  save  for  the  fre- 
quent bearers  of  the  dead.  Most  mourn- 
ful of  all  was  the  '  absence  of  mourners. 
You  might  see  a  little  procession  slowly 
moving  down  the  street  —  one  big  coffin 
and  three  little  ones.  Following  them,  not 
some  young  and  stalwart  mourner,  not 
one  whose  life  was  still  before  him,  but  a 
poor  old  down-bent  black,  the  grandfather 
of  the  little  coffins,  the  father  of  the  big 
one,  hobbling  sideways  after  the  dead. 
Or  if  it  was  one  who  had  lived  long  and 
in  high  esteem,  his  coffin  would  be  followed 
by  two  or  three  out  of  the  hundreds  who 
counted  him  friend,  and  who,  in  better 
times,  would  have  followed  him  to  the 
grave,  and  pronounced  a  funeral  oration 
over  him. 

Sometimes  the  closed  shops  never  opened 
again  at  all ;  and  then,  long  after  the 
cholera  had  gone,  the  police  would  go  at 
dead  of  night,  or  in  the  early  morning,  and 
execute  their  dreadful  task. 

Englishmen  got  together  —  they  always 


do  in  time  of  danger.  I  was  once  in  a 
French  ship  with  some  half-dozen  English, 
passengers.  One  was  the  most  foul- 
nouthed,  blasphemous  man  I  ever  met  — 
abaft  the  fb'c'sle,  that  is.  We  had  very 
bad  weather  for  a  week.  For  one  whole 
day  we  thought  we  should  go  down.  In- 
voluntarily we  of  Great  Britain  found 
ourselves  grouped  together  by  the  davits, 
holding  on.  Quoth  the  blasphemer,  — 

u  Since  we  are  to  go  down,  we  English 
will  stick  together,  and  let  the  damned 
Frenchmen  drown  by  themselves.  Is  there 
any  fellow  here  that  can  say  a  short  pray- 
er V  " 

It  was  a  dreadful  punishment  to  him  for 
his  evil  life,  that  he  couldn't  remember 
even  the  shortest  in  the  whole  Church  Ser- 
vice ;  and  I  am-  quite  sure,  so  stanch  an 
Anglican  was  he,  that  he  would  far  rather 
have  gone  to  the  bottom  with  no  prayer  at 
all,  than  with  any  thing  extemporaneous  or 
irregular.  Even  the  petition  for  rain  would 
have  comforted  him. 

However,  in  St.  Denys,  the  English  mer- 
chants sat  together  in  each  other's  offices. 
They  drank  a  good  deal  of  brandy  in 
those  days,  in  little  occasional  nips,  that 
touched  up  the  liver  if  they  did  not  keep 
off  the  cholera.  No  business  was  done  of 
any  kind,  nor  was  there  any  pretence  at  it. 
No  clerks  came  :  these  were  mostly  mu- 
lattoes,  and  kept  themselves  at  home,  with 
the  shutters  half-closed,  sitting  in  a  horri- 
ble circle  in  the  dark,  and  with  a  fearsome 
fluttering  at  their  hearts.  If  they  per- 
ceived an  internal  rumbling,  they  took  a 
dose  of  cholera  mixture.  If  any  one  said 
he  felt  unwell,  the  rest  sidled  from  him; 
and  if  one  was  actually  seized,  they  gener- 
ally all  ran  away.  The  doctor  in  charge 
of  the  hospital  —  he  wa.s  not  a  Frenchman, 
nor  was  he  English,  and  it  would  be  in- 
vidious to  proclaim  his  race  —  ran  away 
from  his  post.  He  had  a  struggle  of  some 
days  between  fear  and  honor.  At  last,  as 
the  sick  were  brought  in  more  thickly, 
honor  lost  ground.  He  fled  :  "  L'exist- 
ence,"  he  said,  "avant  tout."  It  was  an 
honest  confession,  and  proved  a  sort  of 
martyr's  creed ;  for  when  he  came  back, 
after  the  thing  was  all  over,  and  the  hospi- 
tal swept  up  again,  clean  and  neat,  he  was 
astonished  to  find  that  the  Government  — 
British,  of  course  —  was  taking  a  harsh 
view  of  the  matter,  and  that  he  was  kicked 
out  in  disgrace.  The  straw-paper  organs 
made  capital  out  of  the  event.  The  writer 
of  one  crushing  article  crammed  for  it,  like 
Mr.  Pott's  young  man.  John  Huss,  the 
early  saints  of  the  Church,  Savonarola, 
Cranmer,  Sir  Thomas  More,  and  Louis  the 
Sixteenth  furnished  illustrations  for  this 
admirable  treatise. 


20 


MY   LITTLE   GIRL. 


Nostrums  came  into  great  use.  Men,  at 
other  times  supposed  to  be  of  sound  mind, 
went  about  peppering  their  noses  with  cam- 
phor powder.  Some  swathed  their  bodies 
with  llunnel,  and  some  wore  as  little  as 
they  possibly  could.  Some  would,  at  in- 
tervals, apply  cold  ice  to  the  backbone  ; 
others,  warm  water.  Others,  again,  would 
breakfast  oiF  bitter  beer  and  boiled  eggs, 
and  dine  on  brandy  and  water  and  soup. 
One  man  wrote  to  the  paper,  calling  atten- 
tion to  the  fact  that  few  Englishmen  died 
of  cholera;  and  that,  as  he  had  recently 
discovered,  the  English  colonists  always 
washed,  every  morning,  all  over.  This  he 
recommended  to  his  own  countrymen,  as  a 
thing  not,  indeed,  suddenly  to  be  adopted, 
but  to  receive  that  serious  attention  and 
thought  which  the  gravity  of  the  step  de- 
manded. For  himself,  he  confessed  he 
sometimes  washed  his  feet,  but  rarely. 

One  poor  Briton  nearly  came  to  terrible 
grief,  lie  was  a  mariner ;  and  one  even- 
ing, finding  himself  some  miles  from  St. 
Denys,  overcome  with  liquor,  he  fell  down 
by  the  wayside  and  slumbered.  Native 
policemen,  coming  by  with  a  cart,  gathered 
him  up  as  one  dead ;  and  a  grave  being 
already  prepared,  they  laid  him  in  it,  for- 
tunately removing  the  shell.  The  English 
clergyman  read  the  service,  with  sorrow  for 
the  poor  fellow  cut  off  so  suddenly,  whose 
very  name  was  unknown,  and  who  lay 
there,  perhaps,  to  be  looked  for,  many  a 
weary  day,  by  wife  and  children.  He  had 
finished,  and  they  began  heaving  in  the 
earth.  As  soon  as  it  fell  upon  his  face,  the 
shock  awakened  him.  Starting  up,  still 
unsteady,  he  began  to  bawl  out,  "  Ahoy 
there  1  —  ahoy !  "  The  aborigines  fled, 
howling  in  terror ;  nor  would  they  ever 
accept  any  other  version  of  the  story  than 
that  it  was  a  veritable  post-mortem  appear- 
ance, a  spectre,  that  greeted  them.  And 
the  churchyard  is  haunted  by  it  to  this  day. 

As  for  the  sailor,  he  was  taken  home  by 
the  clergyman,  and  took  the  pledge,  which 
he  kept  till  he  got  to  the  next  port.  But 
he  always  swore  he  would  never  get  drunk 
again  in  Palmiste. 

They  were  not  all  cowards.  Brave 
deeds  were  done.  Foremost  of  all,  the 
brave  deeds  of  the  divine  Sisters  of  Mercy. 
If  I  die  poor  and  alone,  forlorn  and  desert- 
ed, may  one  of  these  ministering  angels 
come  to  me  with  her  sweet,  unlovely  face, 
and  passionless  tenderness  of  heart! 
Then  may  she  make  me  a  Catholic,  or  a 
Ritualist,  or  any  thing  she  like,  —  all  for 
dear  memory  of  the  things  I  have  known 
her  Motors  do.  For  to  them  all  duties  are 
equally  holy  and  equally  divine.  To  them 
is  nothing  loathsome,  nothing  revolting; 
no  form  of  disease  or  suffering  too  ter- 


rible to  help  ;  no  accumulations  of  misery 
and  poverty,  no  development  of  sickness, 
sufficient  to  keep  them  away. 

Is  it  fair,  without  mentioning  a  living 
man's  name,  to  mention  his  deeds  ?  Per- 
haps he  will  never  see  it  in  print.  This  is 
what  he  did.  In  the  height  of  the  cholera, 
two  coolie  ships  put  into  port,  both  with 
cholera  raging  on  board.  They  were 
promptly  sent  off  to  quarantine  off  an  islet 
—  a  mere  rock,  half  a  mile  across  —  twenty 
miles  away. 

Thence,  after  some  time,  news  came 
somehow  to  Palmiste  that  their  apotheca- 
ry was  dead,  and  the  captain,  and  all  the 
Enolish  sailors  but  a  few.  And  all  the 
cooiies.  were  dying  with  cholera.  Who 
would  go  there?  One  young  army  sur- 
geon stepped  out,  so  to  speak,  from  the 
ranks.  To  go  there  was  to  go  to  certain 
death.  It  was  a  forlorn  hope.  There 
would  be  no  one  to  help  him,  no  one  to 
talk  to  even  ;  no  one  to  attend  him  if  he 
was  seized.  He  went.  For  weeks  he 
struggled  with  the  pestilence,  saving  some 
from  the  jaws  of  death,  and  burying  others. 
The  place,  which  was  a  mere  charnel-house, 
he  turned  into  a  hospital,  —  a  Hotel  Dieu. 

The  poor,  terror-stricken  Indians  slowly 
regained  hope,  and  therefore  health ;  and, 
when  the  evil  time  died  away,  he  was  able 
to  bring  back  half  at  least  of  his  flock,  res- 
cued from  death. 

It  is  a  heroism  that  is  beyond  the  power 
of  any  Victoria  Cross  to  reward ;  and 
when  it  fires  the  blood,  and  sets  the  heart 
aglow  of  him  that  reads  it,  the  doer  of  the 
geste  has  his  fittest  crown  of  glory,  though 
he  never  hear  of  it. 

In  the  country,  away  down  at  Fontaine- 
bleau,  they  were  comparatively  safe.  Few 
cases  happened  on  the  estate  in  the  earlier 
stage  ;  but  when  it  began  to  leave  town  it 
broke  out  in  the  country.  Mr.  Durnford 
took  no  precautions.  In  these  matters  he 
thought  it  was  like  a  battle-field.  You 
could  not,  he  said,  devise  any  armor 
against  a  cannon-ball. 

"  Obsairve,"  said  Mr.  Maclntyre,  taking 
a  nip  of  brandy,  "  some  men  are  killed  by 
a  bayonet  thrust." 

But  one  evening,  when  Phil  and  Arthur 
crme  home  from  a  stroll  with  their  guns, 
they  found  Maclntyre  in  a  state  of  wild 
alarm  on  the  veranda.  Mr.  Durnford  had 
been  seized.  No  doctor  had  been  sent  for, 
because  none  was  within  twenty  miles. 
They  had  no  medicine,  except  brandy. 
Mr.  Maclntyre  had  been  giving  him  copi- 
ous draughts.  He  had  taken  a  bottle  and 
a  half  without  the  smallest  effect ;  and  now 
Mr.  Maclntyre,  seeing  the  boys  go  into 
the  bedroom,  retreated  to  the  other  side 
of  the  house,  and  began  to  drink  the  rest 


MY  LITTLE  GIEL. 


21 


of  the  bottle,  glad  to  be  relieved  of  his 
charge. 

There  was  very  little  hope.  They  sent 
off  a  dozen  messengers  for  as  many  doc- 
tors ;  but,  with  the  utmost  speed,  no  doc- 
tor could  arrive  before  morning. 

All  night  long  they  watched  and  tended 
him.  Mr.  Maclntyre  by  this  time,  what 
with  terror  and  brandy,  was  helpless. 
They  could  do  literally  nothing.  But  in 
the  morning  came  collapse,  and  compara- 
tive ease.  The  dying  man  lay  stretched 
on  his  back,  breathing  painfully,  but  con- 
scious. Philip  bent  over  him,  and  whis- 
pered, with  dry  eyes  and  hard  voice,  while 
Arthur  was  sobbing  on  his  knees, — 

"  Father,  tell  me  of  my  mother." 

Mr.  Durnford  turnd  his  head  and  looked. 
He  would  have  spoken  ;  but  a  trembling 
seized  his  limbs,  and  his  eyes  closed  in 
death. 

He  was  buried  the  next  morning.  All 
the  people  on  the  estate  went  to  the  fune- 
ral. But  Mr.  Maclntyre  was  absent.  For 
in  the  night  a  thought  struck  him.  It 
was  but  a  week  since  he  had  received,  in 
hard  cash,  the  half  year's  salary  due  to 
him.  Now  he  saw  his  occupation  gone. 
Without  any  chance  of  finding  employ- 
ment in  the  island,  he  would  be  left  strand- 
ed. He  was  staggered  at  first.  Then  he 
reflected  that  no  one  knew  of  the  payment 
except  his  late  employer.  How  if  he  could 
get  the  receipt  ?  So,  when  the  funeral 
procession  started,  Mr.  Maclntyre  staid 
behind,  —  no  one  noticing  his  absence. 

The  house  clear,  he  stole  into  the  dead 
man's  room.  His  desk  was  open,  just  as  he 
had  left  it.  Here  was  a  chance  which  it 
was  impossible  to  resist. 

"  It  makes  my  heart  bleed  to  wrong  the 
lads,"  said  Maclntyre,  wiping  his  eyes ;  u  but 
one  must  consider  one's  self." 

Then  he  looked  out  the  receipt  from 
the  file,  and  put  it  into  his  pocket.  That 
done,  he  searched  for  the  private  account 
book,  which  also  fell  into  his  coat-tail  pock- 
et. Then  it  occurred  to  him  that  it 
would  be  an  admirable  thing  to  get  a  whole 
year's  salary  instead  of  a  haltj  and  he  began 
to  hunt  for  the  previous  receipt.  This  he 
could  not  find,  though  he  searched  every- 
where. But  he  found  something  which  in- 
terested him  ;  and  he  wrapped  it  in  brown 
paper,  and  took  it  also  away  with  him.  It 
was  a  big,  fat  book,  with  clasps  and  a  small 
letter  padlock,  marked  "  Private."  He 
went  down  to  his  cottage,  and  cutting  open 
the  clasps,  he  read  it  from  end  to  end. 

It  was  a  sort  of  irregular  journal,  begin- 
ning sixteen  years  before.  It  opened  with 
a  confession  of  passion  for  Marie. 

"  If  this  girl  were  but  a  lady,  —  if  only, 


even,  she  were  not  colored  —  I  would  lake 
icr  away  and  marry  her.  Why  should  I  not 
narry  her  ?  What  difference  does  it  make 
to  me  whether  people  approved  of  it  or 
not? 


"  I  saw  Marie  to-day.  She  met  me  in 
the  garden  behind  her  mistress's  house. 
How  pretty  the  child  looked,  with  a  rose  in 
her  black  hair !  She  will  meet  me  again 
this  evening." 

And  so  on,  all  in  the  same  strain. 

In  the  leaves  of  the  book  were  three  short 
notes,  kept  for  some  unknown  reason,  ad- 
dressed to  his  wife  ;  but  without  date. 

Mr.  Maclntyre,  in  a  fit  of  abstraction,  took 
pen  and  ink,  and  added  a  date  —  that  of 
Philip's  birth.  There  was  another  paper  in 
the  journal :  the  certificate  of  marriage  of 
George  Durnford  and  Adrienne  de  Rosnay. 
He  took  this  out;  and,  shutting  up  the 
journal,  began  to  reflect. 

In  the  afternoon,  when  the  sun  grew  low, 
he  went  to  the  little  Catholic  church  whicli 
lies  hidden  away  among  the  trees,  about 
three  miles  from  Fontainbleau. 

Just  then  it  was  shut  up.  For  Father 
O'Leary,  the  jolly  Irish  priest,  who  held 
this  easiest  of  benefices  for  so  many  years, 
had  only  lately  succumbed  to  age ;  and,  in 
the  disturbed  state  of  the  colony,  no  priest 
had  yet  been  sent  down.  The  presbytere 
was  closed,  the  shutters  up,  and  the  church 
door  locked. 

The  tutor  went  to  the  back  of  the  house; 
forced  his  way  in  with  no  difficulty,  by  the 
simple  process  of  removing  a  rotten  shutter 
from  the  hinges. 

Hanging  on  the  wall  were  the  church 
keys.  "He  took  these,  and  stepped  across 
the  green  to  the  vestry  door,  which  he 
opened,  and  went  in  shutting  it  after  him, 
whistling  very  softly  to  himself. 

Then  he  opened  the  cupboard,  and  took 
down  the  two  duplicate  church  registers  of 
marriage.  They  were  rarely  used  ;  be- 
cause in  that  little  place  there  were  few 
people  to  get  married  except  the  Indians, 
who  always  went  before  the  registrar. 
Turning  over  the  leaves,  which  were  stick- 
ing together  with  damp,  —  Father  O'Leary 
was  always  the  most  careless  of  men, —  he 
came  to  a  place  where  one  double  page  had 
been  passed  over.  The  marriage  immedi- 
ately before  it  was  dated  twenty  years 
since  ;  that  after  it  sixteen.  He  looked  at 
the  duplicate  register.  No  such  omission 
of  a  page  had  occurred. 

Whistling  softly,  he  filled  up  the  form  be- 
tween Marie  —  no  other  name  —  and 
George  Durnford,  gentleman,  for  a  date 


22 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


about  a  year  before  Philip's  birth.  Then 
he  attested  it  himself,  —  "  Alexander  Mac- 
Intyre,"  —  in  a  fine  bold,  hand  ;  forged  the 
signatures  of  the  others ;  and  added,  as  a 
second  witness,  the  mark  of  one  Adolphe. 
Then  he  rubbed  his  hands,  and  began  to 
consider  farther. 

After  this,  he  got  the  forms  of  marriage 
ct-rtilicates,  and  filled  one  up  in  due  form, 
again  signing  it  with  the  name  of  the  de- 
ceased Father  O'Leary.  Then  he  re- 
placed that  one  of  the  two  books  in  which 
he  had  written  the  forgery,  put  the  forged 
certificate  in  his  pocket,  and  the  other  re- 
gister under  his  arm  ;  then  locked  up  the 
cupboard. 

When  he  had  finished  his  forgeries  he 
looked  into  the  church.  The  setting  sun 
was  shining  through  the  west  window  full 
upon  the  altar,  set  about  with  its  twopenny 
gewgaw  ornaments.  He  shook  his  head. 

"  A  blind  superstition,"  he  murmured. 
"  We  who  live  under  the  light  of  a  fuller 
gospel  have  vara  much  to  be  thankful  for." 

He  went  back  to  the  presbytere,  replaced 
the  keys,  and  walked  home  with  his  regis- 
ter in  his  hands. 

He  had  no  servant,  and  was  accustomed, 
•when  be  did  not  dine  at  Fontainebleau,  to 
send  an  Indian  boy  to  the  nearest  shop  to 
buy  some  steak,  which  he  curried  himself. 
He  went  into  the  kitchen,  —  a  little  stone 
hut  built  at  the  back  of  the  cottage,  —  lit  a 
fire  of  sticks,  and  proceeded  to  burn  the 
register  and  Mr.  Durnford's  private  jour- 
nal. 

The  book  would  not  burn  at  all,  being 
damp  and  mouldy. 

"At  this  rate  of  progression,"  he  re- 
marked, "  I  shall  be  a  twaPmonth  getting 
through  them.  Let  us  bury  them." 

He  dug  a  hole  in  a  corner  close  to  his 
house,  buried  his  books,  piled  the  earth  over 
them,  and  cooked  his  dinner  with  a  cheer- 
ful heart. 

"A  good  day's  work,"  he  murmured. 
"  Half  a  year's  salary  gained,  and  the  pros- 
pect of  a  pretty  haul,  if  good  luck  serves. 
Marie  dead,  O'Leary  dead,  one  register 
gone,  the  certificates  in  my  possession. 
Master  Phil,  my  boy,  the  time  will  perhaps 
come  when  you  will  be  glad  to  buy  my 
papers  of  me." 

Mr.  Durnford's  death  showed  that  he  had 
become  a  riqh  man.  All  his  property  went 
by  will  to  "my  son,"  while  of,  Philip  no 
notice  whatever  was  taken.  Only  the  law- 
yer wrote  him  a  letter,  stating  that  by  a 
special  deed  of  gift,  dated  some  years  back, 
a  sum  of  money  was  made  over  to  him, 
which  had  been  accumulating  at  compound 
interest,  and  had  now  amounted  to  five 
thousand  pounds.  This,  at  Palmiste  inter- 
est, was  five  hundred  pounds  a  year.  As 


iis  father  had  told  him,  it  was  his  sole  pro- 
vision. 

Philip's  heart  was  stung  with  a  sense  of 
wrong.  That  no  mention  was  made  of  him  ; 
hat,  through  all  his  life,  he  had  not  received 
one  word  of  acknowledgment  or  affection ; 
that  he  had  been  evidently  regarded  as  a 
nere  encumbrance  and  a  debt,  —  rankled 
in  his  bosom.  He  said  nothing,  not  even 
to  Mr.  Maclntyre,  who,  now  that  he  had 
no  longer  any  further  prospect  of  employ- 
ment, began  to  turn  his  thoughts  to  other 
pastures  :  but  he  brooded  over  his  wrongs ; 
and  now  only  one  thought  possessed  him, — 
to  escape  from  a  place  which  was  haunted 
by  shame. 

Arthur,  too,  wanted  to  go ;  and  their 
lawyer  and  adviser  took  passages  for  the 
boys,  and  gave  them  proper  letters  to  those 
who  were  to  take  care  of  them  in  England, 
till  they  were  of  age. 

Mr.  Maclntyre,  the  day  before  they  start- 
ed, came  to  say  farewell.  He  had  an ,  in- 
terview with  each  of  his  pupils  separately. 
To  Arthur,  by  way  of  a  parting  gift,  he 
propounded  a  set  of  maxims  for  future  guid- 
ance, including  a  rule  of  conduct  for  morals, 
which  he  recommended  on  the  ground  of 
having  always  adhered  to  it  himself;  and 
he  left  his  late  pupil  with  a  heavier  purse, 
and  consequently  a  lighter  heart.  Mr. 
Maclntyre,  in  all  of  his  troublesj  had  never 
yet  wanted  money.  As  a  Scotchman,  he 
never  spent  when  he  could  avoid  spending. 

His  conversation  with  Philip  was  of 
greater  importance.  With  much  hesitation, 
and  an  amount  of  nervousness  that  one 
would  hardly  have  expected  of  him,  he 
hinted  that  he  was  possessed  of  certain  in- 
formation, but  that  the  time  was  not  yet 
arrived  to  make  use  of  it.  And  then,  bit- 
ing his  nails,  he  gave  the  young  man  to 
understand,  that,  if  he  ever  did  use  it,  he 
should  expect  to  be  paid. 

"  But  what  is  your  knowledge  ?  "  asked 
Philip  ;  "  and  if  you  have  any,  why,  in  the 
Devil's  name,  don't  you  let  it  out  at  once  ? 
And  how  much  money  do  you  want  ?  " 

Mr.  Maclntyre  leaned  forward,  and  whis- 
pered in  his  ear. 

"  Suppose  my  information  proved  your 
mother's  marriage  ?  Suppose  that  a  man 
—  I'm  not  for  saying  that  I  should  be  the 
man  —  brought  all  this  to  li^ht  ?  " 

"  Poor  Arthur  !  "  said  Philip. 

"  That's  not  the  point,"  urged  the  other. 
"_  To  be  plain.  What  would  that  informa- 
tion be  worth  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  Should  we  say  five  thousand  pounds?" 

"  You  mean,  that  I  am  to  give  you  five 
thousand  pounds  for  giving  information 
which  you  ought  to  give  for  nothing  ?  Mac- 
lntyre you're  a  scoundrel  ?  "  .' 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


23 


"  Eh  !  mon,"  replied  the  moralist. 

"  Can  you  give  me  these  proofs  ?  "  cried 
Philip,  his  voice  rising. 

"  No,  I  cannot —  not  yet.  And  perhaps 
I  never  shall  be  able  to  do  so.  Whether  I 
do  or  not,  depends  upon  yourself.  And 
don't  be  violent,  Mr.  Philip  Durnford.  Re- 
member," he  added,  with  a  touch  of  pa- 
thetic dignity,  "  that  you  are  addressing 
your  old  tutor,  and  a  Master  of  Arts  of  the 
Univairsity  of  Aberdeen." 

"  Go  to  the  devil ! "  said  Philip,  "  and  get 
out  of  this.  Go,  I  say  !  " 

I  am  grieved  to  say  that  Arthur,  who 
was  sitting  outside,  was  startled  by  the  fear- 
ful spectacle  of  his  reverend  tutor  emer- 
ging with  Philip's  hand  in  his  collar,  and 
Philip's  right  foot  accelerating  his  move- 
ments. 

•  It  was  all  done  in  a  moment.  Mr.  Mac- 
Intyre  vanished  round  the  corner,  and  his 
pony's  hoofs  were  speedily  heard  clattering 
down  the  road. 

Arthur  looked  up  for  explanation. 

"Never  mind,  old  boy,"  said  Philip. 
"  The  man's  a  scoundrel.  He's  a  liar,  too, 
I  believe.  Arthur,  give  me  your  hand.  I 
have  been  worried  lately  a  good  deal ;  but 
I  won't  wrong  you ;  remember  that.  What- 
ever happens  —  you  shall  not  be  wronged." 

The  next  night  they  were  steaming  gal- 
lantly away.  The  headlands  of  Palmiste 
lay  low  on  the  horizon  as  the  sun  set,  and 
touched  them  with  his  magic  painter's 
brush. 

Arthur  took  off  his  cap,  and  waved  it. 

"  When  shall  we  see  the  dear  old  place 
again,  Phil  ?  "  he  said,  with  a  sob  in  his 
throat. 

"  Never,  I  hope,"  said  Philip.  "  It  will 
be  to  me  a  memory  of  sickly  sorrow  and 
disappointment.  Never.  And  now,  old 
boy,  hurrah  for  England  and  my  commis- 
sion !  I  am  going  to  forget  it  all." 

He  stood  there  with  the  bright  look  of 
hope  and  fearlessness  that  so  soon  goes  out 
of  the  eyes  of  youth,  and  the  sea-breeze 
lilting  his  long  black  hair,  a  possible  — 
nay,  a  certain  hero.  It  is  something  in 
every  man's  life  for  once  to  have  been  at 
peace  with  God,  — for  once  to  have  thrilled 
with  the  warm  impulse  of  true  nobility. 


BOOK  II.  — AT  HOME. 


CHAPTER  I. 

HOME  in  England.  It  is  ten  years  later 
on.  We  are  in  Gray's  Inn,  on  a  certain 
Saturday  evening  early  in  the  year.  The 
chambers  where  we  are  met,  like  most  of 


those  in  that  ancient  hostelry,  have  the  ap- 
pearance of  untidiness.  Unlike  most,  they 
are  clean  and  carefully  dusted.  The  fur- 
niture is  well  worn,  but  comfortable,  —  easy 
chairs  with  bits  of  the  padding  sticking  out 
here  and  there,  and  the  leather  gone  in 
parts.  The  books  are  those  of  a  man  who 
regards  binding  less  from  an  artistic  than 
from  a  useful  point  of  view,  and  is  not  care- 
ful to  preserve  their  beauty,  —  in  other 
words,  the  books  are  greatly  battered. 
There  is  one  table  littered  with  papers: 
among  them  may  be  seen  some  in  a  girl's 
handwriting.  One  of  the  bookcases  is  fill- 
ed altogether  with  books  not  often  found  in 
a  bachelor's  room,  —  children's  books,  books 
a  little  more  grown  up,  and- books  of  edu- 
cation. In  the  window-seat  is  a  work-bas- 
ket. On  the  mantle-shelf  stands  a  glass 
full  of  violets.  There  are  antimacassars 
on  the  worn  old  chairs  and  sofas ;  and 
amid  the  general  air  of  bachelordom,  pipes, 
and  lazy  ease,  there  is,  one  feels,  a  suspi- 
cion of  some  younger  element,  the  handi- 
work of  a  girl,  — •  the  breath  of  youth  and 
grace,  —  in  these  rooms  whose  walls  are  so 
dingy,  whose  ceilings  are  so  black,  whose 
furniture  is  so  battered. 

The  tenant  of  this  room  is  Mr.  Hartley 
Venn,  who  is  now  standing  on  the  hearth- 
rug in  the  act  of  receiving  his  visitors. 
Of  these,  one  is  his  old  friend  Lynn,  of  the 
Inner  Temple,  —  a  grave  man,  who  seldom 
speaks  and  never  laughs.  He  is  sitting  by 
the  fire  with  a  pipe  in  his  hand,  not  yet 
lighted,  stroking  his  heavy  mustache. 
The  other  is  our  old  friend  Arthur  Durn- 
ford, —  a  tall  man  now,  of  four  or  five  and 
twenty,  not  long  come  up  to  town  from  Ox- 
ford :  a  man  of  slight  proportions,  and 
somewhat  stooping  shoulders.  He  wears 
his  fair  hair  rather  longer  than  most  men, 
and  a  light  fringe  adorns  his  upper  lip.  A 
face  of  more  sweetness  than  power ;  a  face 
which  may  command  love  and  respect,  but 
scarcely  fear;  a  face  at  which  women 
glance  twice  in  the  street,  because  there 
are  in  it  such  vast  possibilities  of  tender- 
ness. He  has  not  been  a  successful  stu- 
dent, if  you  measure  success  by  the 
schools.  A  second  class  rewarded  his 
labors,  it  is  true ;  and  Arthur  retired  con- 
tent, if  not  greatly  pleased,  at  the  result. 
Success  he  did  not  greatly  care  for;  and 
he  was  too  rich  and  too  lazy  to  descend 
into  the  arena,  and  fight  with  other  men. 
Poverty  has  its  rights  as  well  as  its  duties  ; 
and  among  these  is  a  prescriptive  law,  — 
often  enough  violated, — that  the  rich  should 
keep  out  of  the  battle.  Remember  this,  if 
you  please,  Messieurs  the  Archbishops, 
Prime  and  other  ministers,  Deans  and  dig- 
nitaries ;  and  next  time  you  condescend  to 
forward  your  invaluable,  if  prosy,  contribu- 


24 


MY  LITTLE  GIKL. 


tions  to  current  literature,  reflect  that  they 
are  taken — and  would  be  taken,  it'  they 
were  bud  enough  to  corrupt  the  taste  of  a 
whole  generation  —  lor  the  name  that  they 
bear.  Then,  be  humble;  or,  better  still, 
don't  send  the  rubbish  at  all,  —  I  mean  the 
words  of  wisdom,  —  and  let  some  poor  pen- 
nv-a-liner  get  the  guineas.  But  Arthur 
Durnl'ord's  disposition  led  him  rather  to 
seclude  himself,  and  to  forget  that,  with  all 
but  a  chosen  few,  life  is  a  conflict,  lie  was 
born  for  but  one  object,  dilettante  litera- 
ture, —  the  investigation  of  the  useless,  the 
recovery  of  lost  worthlessness,  the  archae- 
ological investigation  of  forgotten  lumber  ; 
but  of  this,  his  high  mission,  he  is  yet  all 
unaware,  and  is  at  present  starting  quite 
unconsciously  in  that  road  which  will 
eventually  lead  him  to  distinction.  For 
the  rest,  a  heart  as  innocent  and  a  life  as 
blameless  as  any  girl's,  and,  like  that  of 
most  girls,  a  life  as  devoid  of  any  active 
interest  or  any  benefit  to  other  people. 
{Some  men  are  born  for  this  kind  of  passive 
life.  Their  years  float  along  in  a  kind  of 
dream,  or  among  occupations  which  inter- 
est without  exciting,  and  occupy  without 
wearying.  Well  for  them  if,  as  with  Ar- 
thur, accident  has  given  them  the  means 
to  gratify  their  inclinations. 

Venn  is  the  son  of  his  father's  old  tutor, 
and  therefore,  he  explains,  a  kind  of  uncle 
to  him.  And  to-night  is  the  first  time  they 
have  met.  Venn  found  out  Arthur  himself, 
from  some  Oxford  friend  and  "  information 
received." 

^"  Durnford,"  he  explains,  introducing 
him  to  Lynn,  "  is  my  educational  nephew. 
I  am  his  tutorial  uncle.  That  is,  his  father 
was  a  private  pupil  at  the  rectory,  when  I 
was  six  years  old.'  Your  father  afterwards 
went  to  Palmiste  Island,  I  believe  ;  yes, 
and  made  a  fortune  there  —  by  —  by  — 
doing  those  things  and  practising  those 
arts  by  which  •  fortunes  are  made,  did  he 
not  ?  " 

Arthur  laughed,  and  said  such  was  the 
case. 

"Palmiste  Island  is  of  a  more  simple  na- 
ture than  London,  Lynn ;  that  is  the  rea- 
son why  you  and  I,  in  spite  of  our  merit, 
have  not  got  money.  Now  that  you  know 
Mr.  Arthur  Durnford,  we  will  proceed  to 
elect  him,  if  you  please,  an  honorary  mem- 
ber of  the  Chorus." 

The  ceremony  of  election  gone  through, 
Arthur  took  an  easy  chair,  and  Venn  pro- 
ceeded to  put  bottles  and  glasses  on  the 
table.  Then  he  took  up  a  position  on  the 
hearth-rug,  and,  with  his  coat-tails  under 
his  arm,  turned  to  Lynn. 

"  The  preliminary  oration,  Lynn  ?  " 

"  You  make  it,"  said  Lynn,  who  had  by 
this  time  lighted  his  pipe. 


Venn  bowed  solemnly,  and  put  on  an 
air  of  great  meditation,  stroking  his  mus- 
tache. Presently  he  began,  — 

"  It  is  customary,  at  the  election  of  a 
new  member  into  this  society,  to  instruct 
him  in  the  nature  of  the  duties  and  respon- 
sibilities he  is  about  to  undertake.  In  the 
mysteries  of  the  Cabeiri  "  — 

"Pass  two  thousand  years,"  growled 
Lynn. 

Venn  bowed  gravely. 

"  In  deference  to  the  opinion  of  my 
learned  brother,  I  pass  to  modern  times. 
In  the  mysteries  of  Freemasonry,  it  is  pop- 
ularly supposed  that  the  candidate  for 
admission  is  put  to  bodily  pain  before  re- 
ceiving the  terms  of  an  oath  so  tremendous 
that  the  secrets  of  the  craft  have  remained 
undisclosed  from  the  time  of  Solomon,  and 
Hiram,  King  of  Tyre,  to  the  present  mo- 
ment. The  fraternity  of  the  Chorus  heats 
no  poker,  and  administers  no  oath  ;  and 
one  penalty  only  awaits  the  offender,  —  we 
expel  him." 

"  Was  any  one  ever  expelled  ?  "  asked 
Durnford. 

"  One,  sir,  was  only  last  week  expelled 
for  levity.  His  name  was  Jones.  Jones, 
at  least,  will  never  more  be  privileged  to 
sit  in  the  Chorus." 

Here  a  loud  knock  was  heard  at  the 
door.  Lynn  opened  it.  It  was  Jones. 

The  orator,  no  way  disconcerted,  shook 
hands  with  the  new  arrival  with  a  greater 
show  of  delight  than  his  words  absolutely 
warranted,  saying,  as  he  pushed  him  into  a 
chair,  — 

"  Why  do  you  come  &ere,  man  void  of 
shame  ?  Did  you  not  distinctly  under- 
stand that  you  were  never  to  appear  again 
on  Chorus  nights  ?  " 

The  new-comer,  who  was  a  smooth-faced, 
bright-eyed  little  man  in  glasses,  sat  down, 
and  immediately  began  to  twinkle. 

"  I  come  as  a  simple  spectator,"  he  said. 
"  I  cannot  keep  away. 

'  From  sport  to  sport,  concealment's  guile 

Preys  on  this  heart  of  mine; 
And,  when  the  worm  provokes  a  smile, 
I  drown  the  grief  in  wine.'  " 

|4Why,"  said  Venn,  "he  is  positively 
doing  it  again  !  Miserable  man !  was  it 
not  for  this  we  expelled  you  ?  " 

"  It  was,"  said  Jones  with  a  groan.  "  It 
is  chronic.  I  am  truly  wretched." 

"  Silence,  then  ;  and  you,  young  candi- 
date, listen.  The  Chorus  was  established 
ten  years  ago  as  a  refuge  for  the  unsuccess- 
ful. It  was  intended  to  answer  the  purposes, 
in  a  small  degree,  of  a  literary  and  artistic 
club,  —  admitting,  however,  only  those  pro- 
fessional unfortunates  who  can  achieve  no 
success.  It  is  a  club  of  the  unfortunate. 


MY   LITTLE  GIRL. 


25 


When  fortune  comes  to  on^  of  us,  he  shakes 
his  wings,  and  goes.  We  who  remain  wrap 
ourselves  in  the  cloak  of  poverty  and  neg- 
lect, and  meet  mischance  with  smiles.  Of 
the  original  twelve  who  formed  the  first 
brotherhood,  there  remain  but  Lynn  and 
myself.  We  do  not  care  now  greatly  to 
enlarge  the  circle.  Jones,  here,  was  ad- 
mitted five  years  ago.  He  is  but  a  chick- 
en in  disappointment,  and  has  only  just 
begun  to  wait.  I  have  already  told  you 
that  he  was  expelled,  and  why." 
"  Not,"  said  Jones  solemnly  — 

"  '  Not  for  a  crime  he'did,  nor  'cause 
He  broke  their  own  or  nature's  laws; 
But  for  a  simple  trick  he  had 
Of  quoting  what  lie  learned  and  read.'  " 

Arthur  began  to  feel  as  if  he  were  stand- 
ing on  his  head.  The  other  two  took  no 
notice  of  the  interruption. 

"  Society  takes  no  heed  of  these  unfortu- 
nates. They  are  legion.  They  occupy 
that  middle  ground  which  is  above  a  small 
success,  and  cannot  achieve  a  great  one. 
Lynn,  here,  would  scorn  to  be  an  Old 
Bailey  barrister.  Yet  he  could  do  it  ad- 
mirably. He  goes  in  for  Equity,  sir,  and 
gets  no  cases,  nor  ever  will.  Jones,  I  am 
sorry  that  you  must  be  excluded.  Jones, 
amongst  other  things,  makes  plays.  No 
manager  has  yet  put  one  on  the  stage." 

"  The  manager  of  the  Lyceum  is  read- 
ing my  last  play  now,"  said  Jones. 

"  He  always  is,"  said  Yenn.  "  I  am,  for 
my  own  part,  a  writer.  I  write  a  great 
deal.  Some  evening,  when  Jones  is  not 
here,  I  will  read  *you  a  portion  of  my 
works." 

"  Pray,"  said  Jones,  "  why  not  when  I 
am  here  ?  " 

"  Because,"  said  Venn,  "  the  last  time  I 
read  you  an  essay  you  fell  fast  asleep." 

"  I  did,"  said  Jones  ;  "  so  did  everybody." 

"  I  have,  at  times,  offered  my  productions 
to  editors.  They  invariably  refuse  them. 
Under  these  circumstances,  I  retire  into 
myself,  and  put  together  the  Opuscula 
which  will  one  day  be  eagerly  bought  by  an 
admiring  public.  On  that  day  Lynn  will 
be  made  Lord  Chancellor,  Jones  will  get  a 
play  acted  which  will  run  for  three  hun- 
dred nights,  and  the  Chorus  will  dissolve. 

"  You  are  to  understand,  then  "  —  after 
a  pause,  during  which  Jones  pulled  out  his 
handkerchief,  and  wiped  his  eyes  in  grief 
at  the  prospect  of  dissolution  — "that  we 
meet  here  weekly  between  the  1st  of  Oc- 
tober and  the  1st  of  April.  During  the 
week  and  in  the  summer  vacation,  we  make 
observations  which  are  afterwards  commu- 
nicated to  the  Chorus.  Thus  we  form  a 
running  commentary  on  passing  events, 
which  will  contain,  when  published,  an 


admirable  collection  of  maxims  calculated 
both  to  inform  and  instruct.  They  are 
chiefly  of  a  moral  tendency.  Excluded  by 
our  misfortunes  from  taking  an  active  part 
in  the  •  drama  of  life,  we  stand  by  and 
remark.  We  are  mostly  resigned  to  our 
position.  Some,  however,  aspire.  Dolphin, 
for  instance  —  you  remember  Dolphin, 
Lynn  ?  " 

He  grunted. 

"  Observe  the  dissatisfied  air  with  which 
Lynn  receives  that  name.  Dolphin  aspired. 
He  now  edits  *  The  Daily  Gazette,'  and  pays 
a  fabulous  income  tax.  Of  all  the  excel- 
lent remarks  that  have  been  made  in  this 
room,  Dolphin's  were  the  poorest.  Water- 
ford,  too,  another  instance.  He  now  leads 
a  circuit.  Jones,  what  are  you  pursing  up 
your  lips  about  ?  If  you  have  any  thing 
to  say,  get  rid  of  it." 

"  I  was  thinking  of  Tennyson's  lines," 
said  Jones,  with  great  softness  of  manner. 

*' '  Prate  not  of  chance  —  the  name  of  luck 
Is  blown  the  windy  ways  about ; 
And  yet  I  hold,  without  a  doubt, 
He  prospers  most  who  has  most  pluck.'  " 

"  Are  those  Tennyson's  words  ?  "  asked 
Durnford,  taken  off  his  guard. 

"  You  will  find  them  in  the  two  hundred 
and  fortieth  page  of  '  In  Memoriam,' "  said 
Jones  readily.  "  The  stanza  begins  with 
the  well-known  lines, — 

'Balloon,  that,  through  the  fleecy  rings 
Of  bosomed  cloud  and  mottled  sky, 
Floatest  athwart  the  wondering  eye, 
A  wingod  eagle  without  wings.'  " 

"  And  this  creature,"  said  Venn,  "'as- 
pires to  be  a  dramatist.  Let  me  finish. 
The  one  unfailing  rule,  which  is  alone  in- 
capable of  being  rescinded,  is  the  rule  of  suc- 
cess. Any  man  who  succeeds  is  turned 
out.  Ipso  facto,  he  ceases  to  be  a  mem- 
ber of  the  association.  Success  is  of  all 
kinds,  and  we  admit  of  no  excuse  or  pallia- 
tion —  the  offender  goes." 

"  How  if  he  write  a  book  which  does  not 
sell,  but  is  yet  praised  ?  " 

"  He  may,  when  his  failure  is  quite  es- 
tablished, remain  with  us.  More — we 
allow  him  to  be  damned  any  number  of 
times.  Jones's  works,  for  instance :  his 
novel "  — 

Here  Jones  visibly  blushed. 

"  It  was  really  very  bad,  and  no  one  took 
the  least  notice  of  it  —  not  even  the  review- 
ers. Did  any  one  buy  a  copy,  Jones  ?  " 

"  I  believe,"  he  said, "  that  there  are  still 
a  few  copies  on  the  publishers'  helves. 
These  can  be  had  now  at  a  reduction. 
The  published  price  was  thirty-one  shil- 
lings and  sixpence." 

;'  Your  poems,  Jones  ?  " 


26 


MY  LITTLE  GIKL. 


'•  My  poems,"  said  the  bard,  "  were  no 
meant"  to  be  sold  :  J  give  them  to  my  coun 
try." 

"  It  is  very  liberal  of  you.  I  will  pres 
ently  detail  my  own  experiences  of  failure 
Suflice  it  now  to  remark  that  I  have  nevei 
Mirivtdfd  in  anything.  You  will  find  ii 
me.  MI-,  as  my  friends  have  already  foun 
in  me,  a  very  Tupper  in  posse.  I  am  UK 
representative  man  of  mediocrity  —  am  3 
not.  Lynn  ?  " 

The*  grave  Lynn  nodded. 

'•  You  say  so." 

"  I  will  now  give  you  —  as  Jones  is  not 
wholly  acquainted  with  my  fortunes,  as 
Lynn  is  a  good  listener,  as'  you  ought  to 
know  something  about  me,  and  as  it  gives 
a  sort  of  early  Bulwer-Lytton,  or  even  a 
Smollett-like  air  to  the  evening's  talk  —  a 
brief  sketch  of  the  career  of  an  unsuccess- 
ful man.  Jones,  will  you  kindly  undertake 
the  bottle  and  jug  department?  Lynn,  be 
so  good  as  to  put  the  kettle  on.  Durnfbrd, 
my  dear  boy,  take  tobacco,  and  help  your- 
self to  drink.  Claret  is  there,  which  I  do 
not  recommend.  That  bottle  of  champagne 
is  remarkable  for  its  age.  It  is  coeval  with 
the  Chorus.  Ten  years  have  passed  since 
it  left  its  native  public.  It  is  not  to  be 
opened,  but  stands  there  for  respectability's 
sake.  There  is  port,  if  you  like  :  it  is  not 
good.  Sherry  is  in  the  middle  bottle. 
You  can  open  it,  if  you  please  ;  but  I  should 
not  advise  you  to  do  so.  The  bottled 
beer  I  can  strongly  recommend,  and  the 
Irish  whiskey  is  undeniable.  Jones,  you 
rhyming  wretch,  what  will  you  take? 
Lynn,  I  have  your  permission  to  talk  to- 
night." 

"  Stop  !  "  said  Jones.  "  Have  you  got 
any  thing  to  say  before  he  begins,  Lynn  ? 
Have  you,  Durnford  ?  This  is  your  only 
chance.  For  my  own  part,  I  can  only  say, 
-with  the  poet  Wordsworth,  — 

•Not  the  whole  warbling  grove  in  concert  heard, 
So  gladdens  me  as  this  loquacious  bird.' " 

"Proceed,  Venn,"  said  Lynn,  "and 
quickly;  for  Jones  is  bubbling  with  another 
quotation." 

'•  I  will  try  not  to  be  tedious.  I  be^an 
life  rather  well,  for  I  got  into  Eton  as  a 
colleger,  and  actually  gained  a  considerable 
quantity  of  prizes.  I  also  learned  to  wear 
my  hat  at  the  back  of  my  head,  to  despise 
trade,  to  run  bills,  to  make  Latin  verses,  to 
regard  science  and  mathematics  with  a 
proper  and  reasonable  contempt,  and  to 
consider  Eton  as  the  apex  of  civilization, 
ancient  and  modern.  So  far,  I  resembled 
other  boys.  Occasionally  I  was  flowed. 
And  I  very  early  formed  the  germ  ofThat 
grand  idea  which  I  have  since  made  the 
subject  of  an  admirable  essay." 


Jones  wagged  his  head  solemnly ;  wheth- 
er from  admiration,  envy,  sympathy,  ap- 
proval, or  some  other  emotion,  was  never 
known. 

"  It  is  that  all  the  mischiefs  of  the  world 
are  due  to  the  insufficient  manner  in  which 
boys  are  flogged.  Some,  sir,  I  am  ashamed 
to  say,  are  never  flogged  at  all.  Jones,  you 
were  never  flogged." 

"  I  was  not,"  said  Jones.  "  If  it  is  any 
extenuation  of  my  master's  crime,  I  may 
mention  that  he  often  caned  me." 

"  I  knew  it,"  Venn  returned,  with  an  air 
of  triumph.  "  There  are  subtle  influences 
about  the  older  and  more  classical  instru- 
ment. It  produces  an  effect  which,  in  after 
life,  is  only  to  be  detected  by  those  who 
have  made  an  early  acquaintance  with  it. 
Caning  is  merely  a  brutal  mode  of  inflict- 
ing fear  and  pain.  The  poetry  of  punish- 
ment is  in  the  birch.  The  actual  perform- 
ance, I  admit  —  the  mere  physical  process, 
either  active  or  passive  —  affords  little  food 
for  reflection;  but  when  I  think  of  the 
effects  upon  the  sufferer,  I  am  carried  away, 
gentlemen,  efferor.  There  is  the  anticipa- 
tion, so  full  of  tumultuous  fears  and  hopes, 
with  its  certainties  as  to  the  future  fact, 
and  its  uncertainties  as  to  vigor  and  dura- 
tion ;  its  bracing  influence  of  the  volition, 
its  stimulating  effect  on  the  fortitude,  its 
cultivation  of  patient  endurance.  All  this, 
my  friends,  is  truly  poetical.  Consider, 
next,  the  after-glow.  The  after-glow  is, 
indeed,  a  magnificent  combination  of  sen- 
sations. Nothing  that  I  can  remember  to 
have  experienced  comes  near  it.  It  lingers 
like  the  twilight ;  and,  like  the  summer  twi- 
light, it  lasts  all  night.  It  warms  like  the 
memory  of  a  good  action,  or  the  blush  of 
conscious  virtue.  It  is  as  soothing  as  the 
absolution  of  a  bishop.  It  removes°as  many 
cares  as  a  confession,  and  it  wipes  off  sins 
like  a  pilgrimage." 

He  paused  for  a  moment,  and  looked 
round.  There  was  a  murmur  of  applause, 
Jones  rubbing  his  leg  with  a  painful  air  of 
sympathetic  abstraction.  « 

"  Let  us  go  back  to  Eton.  I  was  in  the 
sixth,  and  stood  well  to  get  into  King's. 
Unfortunately,  the  vacancy  that  should 
lave  been  mine  came  too  late  by  half  an 
lour.  I  had  till  twelve  on  my  last  day, 
and  a  messenger  bringing  news  of  a  va- 
cancy arrived,  having  loitured  on  the  way, 
at  half-past  twelve.  The  man,  gentlemen, 
died  young.  I  say  nothing  about  Nemesis 
—  I  merely  ask  you  to  observe  that  he  died 
:oung.  So  I  went  to  St.  Alphege.  You, 
L,ynn,  were  at  the  same  time  at  Trinity. 
At  St.  Alphege's,  which  is  not  a  large  col- 
ege,  we  passed  our  time  in  intellectual  pur- 
uits  which  were  not  among  those  encour- 
iged  by  the  Senate.  This  body,  Durnford, 


MY  LITTLE  GIEL. 


27 


which  resembles  a  similar  institution  at 
Oxford,  having,  after  long  consideration, 
found  out  the  most  useless  branch  of  sci- 
ence and  the  least  useful  method  of  study- 
ing classical  literature,  has  fixed  upon  these 
as  the  only  means  of  arriving  at  any  of  the 
University  distinctions,  i  could  not  do 
mathematics,  as  I  have  said  ;  and,  as  they 
would  not  let  me  take  classical  honors  with- 
out knowing  how  to  graduate  the  common 
steelyard,  and  such  useful  scraps  of  knowl- 
edge, I  was  fain  to  go  out  in  the  Poll.  Sir, 
if  it  had  not  been  for  the  invention  of  that 
infernal  steelyard  —  an  instrument  which 
I  have  never  seen,  and  never  had  the  least 
necessity  or  desire  to  graduate,  —  I  should 
this  day  have  been  a  Fellow  of  St.  Al- 
phege's. 

"Having  failed  here,  I  returned  home. 
I  found  my  family  in  some  little  confusion. 
My  brother  Bob,  —  you  have  met  Bob, 
Lynn  ?  " 

Lynn  nodded. 

"  An  excellent  fellow,  Lynn,  —  most  good- 
hearted  man,  though  he  had  his  faults,"  — 
here  Venn  rubbed  his  nose  meditatively. 
"  Bob  had  just  taken  a  stand.  He  an- 
nounced resolutely,  and  without  any  chance 
of  misunderstanding,  that  he  was  never  go- 
ing to  do  any  more  work.  The  line  he  took 
was  this.  He  said, '  I  am  not  clever  enough 
to  get  money.  I  am  clever  enough  to  look 
at  other  people  getting  money.  Perhaps  a 
life  of  contemplation,  for  which  I  am  evi- 
dently intended,  will  lead  to  greater  results 
than  a  life  of  work.  I  simply,  therefore, 
say  to  the  world  in  general,  and  my  family 
in  particular,  Keep  me.  Give  me  a  suffi- 
ciency to  eat  and  drink.' " 

"  And  how  did  the  world  receive  this 
demand  ?  " 

"  That  very  small  portion  of  the  exter- 
nal world  that  ever  heard  it  declined  to 
interfere.  But  out  of  my  father  —  who, 
though  quite  unable  to  see  Bob's  logical 
position,  could  not  let  him  starve,  —  he 
got  a  sufficiency  to  eat,  and  more  than  a 
sufficiency  to  drink.  However,  Bob  hav- 
ing taken  this  unexpected  line,  I  had  to 
keep  myself;  and  did,  after  a  fashion,  till 
Bob  and  m)r  father  died.  Poor  Bob !  You 
remember  liim,  Lynn,  coming  out  of  the 
Crown,  with  his  elbows  squared,  quite 
drunk,  and  arguing  with  the  policeman  V 
Admirable  traits  of  character  were  in  that 
man.  His  wife  allowed  him  a  shilling  a 
day,  and  his  whole  study  latterly  was  how 
to  'make  the  most  of  the  money.  It  went 
in  six  drinks  ;  and  each  drink  involved  a 
pipe  and  an  animated  discussion  in  the 
tap-room.  Bob,  you  see,  miscalculated  his 
forces.  He  had  not  the  physique  to  stand 
up  against  a  long  course  of  leisure,  and  he 
succumbed.  When  he  died,  at  the  early 


age  of  thirty-five,  he  sent  for  me,  and 
made  over  to  me,  with  his  usual  kindness 
and  thoughtfulness  ol  heart,  all  he  had  to 
give  me, —  the  care  of  his  wife  and 
boy. 

"  At  this  time,  I  was  working  for  a  liv- 
ing, —  never  mind  how,  —  I  got  it,  but 
only  just  got  it.  Every  attempt  that  I 
made  to  do  any  thing  better  for  myself 
failed.  I  had  no  energy,  they  said  ;  or  else 
no  perseverance,  or  no  luck,  or  no  deter- 
mination, and  so  on  :  you  know  the  kind 
of  talk.  The  fruits  of  life  turned,  when  I 
touched  them,  to  Dead- Sea  apples.  Then 
I  complicated  matters  by  falling  in  love." 

"  Did  you  ?  "  said  Lynn.  "  1  never  knew 
that  before." 

"  Yes,  I  was  in  love.  Oh,  yes  !  for  some 
months  before  I  ventured  to  speak,  and  for 
some  months  after." 

"  What  did  she  say  ?  " 

"  She  said,  '  No,'  in  a  very  decided  and 
resolute  manner.  I  did  not  so  much  mind 
that,  as  I  did  the  way  in  which  she  be- 
haved afterwards.  I  made  then  the  dis- 
covery that  there  is  nothing  in  the  world 
which  more  puffs  out  and  inflates  a  woman 
with  pride,  than  the  fact,  that  she  has  had 
the  heroism  to  refuse  a  man.  For  at  least 
three  months  after  my  rejection,  there  was 
the  mightiest  feminine  clucking  ever  heard 
about  it.  Her  strength  was  overtasked, 
they  said ;  and  all  the  family  went  to  Ma- 
deira with  her.  No  one  asked  after  my 
strength;  and  I  staid  in  London,  and 
was  regarded  as  a  sort  of  involuntary  mur- 
derer." 

"  Did  she  die,  then  ?  "  asked  Lynn. 

"  Oh,  no  !  —  not  at  all.  She  came  back, 
very  fat.  She  is  in  London  now  ;  still  un- 
married, and  likely  to  continue  so.  It  may 
sound  uncharitable  ;  but,  in  the  interests 
of  husbands,  I  do  hope  that  such  a  model 
of  womanly  heroic  virtue  may  never  be 
married." 

"  I  also."  said  Jones,  "  have  had  my 
share  of  blighted  affections." 

"  Have  you,  too,  been  in  love  ?  "  asked 
Lynn. 

"  I  have,"  sighed  Jones.  "  A  most  un- 
fortunate attachment,  —  an  impossible  at- 
tachment. Yet  the  dream  was  pleasant 
while  it  lasted." 

He  held  his  head  down,  blushing  mod- 
estly, and  went  on,  in  a  broken  voice,  — 

"  As  a  boy  —  slopes  —  Windsor  —  one 
of  the  princesses.  Not  my  fault  original- 
ly —  mine  to  nurse  the  passion." 

"  Which  was  it  ?  " 

"  The  prettiest,  sir." 

"  But  how,  when,  where  could  you  speak 
with  the  princess  ?  " 

"  We  never  interchanged  words  ;  but  the 
eye  spoke  —  at  seventy  yards.  Poor 


28 


MY   LITTLE   GIRL. 


tiling  !  flic's  married  now.     I  hope  she  go 
over  it.     I  did  utter  a  time." 

Venn,  bearing  the  interruption  Avith  a 
air  of  sufferanee,  resumed  his  history. 

"  Getting  over  my  love  difficulties,  I  re 
solved  to  fall  into  love  no  more,  and  wen 
out  of  society.  I  have  kept  out  ever  since 
and,  on  the  whole,  I  prefer  being  out 
Then  I  bewail  to  write;  and  the  real  storj 
of  my  failure  begins.  You  see,  I  was  no 
absolutely  obliged  to  do  any  thing  whei 
niv  lather  died,  but  I  fondly  hoped  to  mak 
literature  a  staff.  It  has  never  been  to  m 
even  a  reed.  I  had,  of  course,  faint  glim- 
merings of  success,  gleams  of  hope.  Everj 
time  Tantalus  stoops  to  the  water,  he  fan- 
cies that  this  time,  at  least,  he  will  read 
it;  and  I  think  that  every  now  and  then 
he  gets  a  iew  drops — not  enough  to 
quench  his  thirst,  but  enough  to  revive 
hope.  My  gleams  of  success  were  like 
that  poor  convict's  drops  of  water.  They 
led  to  nothing  more.  I  fancy  every  editor 
in  London  knows  me  now.  They  say,  '  Oh  I 
here's  Hartley  Venn  again  ; '  and  I  go  into 
the  rejected  pigeon-holes.  So  complete  is 
my  failure,  that  even  my  own  people  have 
ceased  to  believe  in  me,  —  so  complete,  that 
I  have  ceased  to  believe  in  myself." 

He  paused  ;  and,  mixing  a  glass  of  whiskey 
and  water,  drank  half  of  it  off. 

"You  will  remark — proceeding  on  the 
inductive  method  —  those  whom  God  des- 
tines to  fail,  he  endows  with  excellent 
spirits.  Jones  is  a  case  in  point  "  — 

"  Why  should  sorrow  o'er  this  forehead 

Draw  the  veil  of  black  despair  ? 
Let  her,  if  she  will,  on  your  head  ; 
Mine,  at  least,  she  still  will  spare." 

This  was  Jones's  interruption. 

"  I  am,  also,  myself  a  case  in  point. 
Lynn  is  not,  which  is  one  reason  why  I 
fear  he  will  some  day  desert  me.  My  own 
equable  temper  is  not,  however,  wholly  due 
to  birth  — partly  to  circumstances.  You 
will  understand  me,  Lynn,  when  I  explain 
that  when  quite  a  little  boy  I  used  to  sleep 
in  the  same  bed  with  my  brother  Bob." 

"  Not  the  least  in  the  world,"  observed 
Lynn. 

"  Dear  me  !  The  way  was  this.  We 
had  a  wooden  bed  against  the  wall.  Bob 
gave  me  the  inside,  and  insisted  on.  my  ly- 
ing quite  straight  on  the  edge,  while  he 
rolled  up  in  the  middle.  By  this  arrange- 
ment, I  got  the  wood  to  sleep  on,  and,  the 
wall  to  keep  my  back  warm,  with  such 
small  corners  of  blanket  as  I  could  wrest 
from  Bob  as  soon  ag  he  went  to  sleep.  If 
immediate  effects  led  to  open  repining,  I 
incurred  punishment  at  once.  I  learned  a 
lesson  from  Bob,  for  which  I  have  never 
ceased  to  thank  him,  in  resignation  — 


cheerful,  if  possible  —  to  the  inevitable. 
Whenever,  as  happened  to  me  this  morn- 
in'j;,  1  get  a  MS.  sent  back,  I  say  to  myself, 
'For  this  were  you  prepared  in  early 
life  by  the  wood  and  the  wall.'  " 

Quoth  Jones  readily,  — 

"You  remember,  of  course,  those  lines 
in  Bunyan,  quoted,  I  think,  by  Lord  Will- 
bewill  V  Observe  the  Bunyanesque  turn 
of  the  second  line,  with  its  subtlety  of 
thought : — 

'  He  that  is  down  may  fear  no  fall  ; 

The  monk  may  wear  his  hood  : 
Give  me,  for  moral  warmth,  th&  wall  ; 

For  moral  bed,  the  wood.' 

It  was  the  answer  to  a  riddle  asked  by  the 
prince  at  the  banquet  given  when  Man- 
soul  was  taken,  and  Diabolus  evicted.  It 
follows  the  conundrum  of  the  Red  Cow, 
and  is  omitted  in  some  editions." 

"  Thank  you  very  much,"  said  Venn, 
not  smiling.  "  I  have  only  one  or  two  more 
observations  to  make.  The  curious  in  the 
matter  of  unsuccess  may  consult,  if  they 
think  fit,  my  unpublished  Opuscula.  They 
will  find  there,  clearly  set  forth,  the  true 
symptoms  of  an  unsuccessful  man.  Thus, 
tie  may  be  known — not  to  be  tedious  — 
first,  by  his  good  spirits,  as  I  have  said  ; 
secondly,  by  his  universal  sympathy  ;  third- 
"y,  his  extraordinary  flow  of  ideas  ;  fourthly, 
3y  a  certain  power  of  seeing  analogies ; 
and  fifthly,  by  his  constantly  being  in  op- 
position. At  all  times  he  is  a  heretic.  The 
mere  fact  of  a  thing  being  constituted  by 
authority  is  sufficient  to  make  him  see,  in 
more  than  their  true  force,  the  arguments 
on  the  opposite  side." 

"  You  remember,*'  interrupted  Jones, 
with  a  sweet  smile,  "the  lines  of"  — 

k  Stop,  Jones,"  cried  Venn,  "  I  will  not 
endure  it.  Lynn,  I  have  finished.  We 
vill  now,  gentlemen,  talk  of  general  top- 
es." 

They  talked,  as   usual,  till  late   in  the 
night.    It  was  past  three  o'clock  when  Venn 
aid,  — 

"  This  reminds  me  of  a  passage  in  my 
ssay  on  '  The  Art  of  Success.'     I  will  read 
t  you.     The  night  is  yet  young.     Where 
are  the  Opuscula  ?  " 

They  looked  at  each  other  in  dismay. 
Venn  searched  for  the  essay  everywhere  ; 
ot  finding  it,  he  remembered  that  he  had 
aken  it  to  bed  with  him  the  night  before, 
ind  went  into  the  next  room  to  o-et  it. 
rVhen  he  returned,  with  his  precious°paper 
n  his  hand,  the  room  was  empty,  and  there 
rere  sounds  of  rapidly  retreating  footsteps 
n  the  stairs ;  for  all  had  fled.  He  shook  his 
.ead  in  sorrow  rather  than  in  anger,  and, 
ooking  at  his  watch,  murmured,  — 

"  A  general  exodus.     They  have  left  the 


MY  LITTLE  GIEL. 


29 


Desert  of  the  Exodus.  Past  three  o'clock  ! 
An  hours  sleep  before  daybreak  is  worth 
three  after  it.  Shall  I  have  my  beauty 
sleep?  No:  the  cultivation  of  the  intel- 
lect before  all.  Hartley  Venn,  my  dear 
boy,  had  you  always  borne  that  in  mind 
you  would  not  now  be  the  wreck  you 
are." 

He  sat  down  and  read,  with  an  admiring 
air,  the  whole  of  his  long  paper  from  be- 
ginning to  end.  Then  he  gave  a  sigh  of 
contentment  and  weariness,  and  went  to 
bed  as  the  first  gray  of  the  spring  morning 
was  lighting  up  the  sky. 


CHAPTER  II. 

HARTLEY  VP:NN  —  whose  account  of 
himself  to  Arthur  was,  on  the  whole,  cor- 
rect—  is  at  this  time,  a  man  of  eight  and 
thirty.  In  the  course  of  his  life  he  has 
tried  a  good  many  things,  and  failed  in 
every  one.  He  possesses  a  little  income  of 
between  three  and  four  hundred  a  year, 
comfortably  housed  in  consols,  where  he 
allows  his  capital  to  lie  undisturbed,  being 
as  free  as  any  man  in  the  world  from  the 
desire  to  get  rich.  He  is  by  actual  pro- 
fession a  barrister,  having  been  called 
twelve  years  ago,  at  Lincoln's  Inn.  But 
as  he  has  never  opened  a  law-book  in  his 
life,  or  been  inside  a  court  of  justice,  it 
may  safely  be  asserted  that  he  would  have 
great  difficulties  to  encounter  in  the  con- 
duct of  any  case  with  which  a  too  credu- 
lous solicitor  might  intrust  him.  Friends 
anxious  to  see  him  "  get  on,"  once  per- 
suaded him  to  buy  a  partnership  in  an 
army  coaching  establishment,  the  previous 
proprietor  retiring  with  a  large  fortune. 
All  went  well  for  a  year  or  two,  when, 
owing  to  some  of  their  pupils  never  passing, 
and  both  himself  and  his  partner  being 
hopelessly  bad  men  of  business,  they  found 
themselves,  at  the  beginning  of  one  term, 
with  two  pupils  to  teach.  Naturally  the 
affairs  of  the  institution  got  wound  up  after 
this,  Hartley  being  the  loser  of  the  fifteen 
hundred  or  so  which  he  had  invested  for 
his  share.  Then  it  was  that  he  retired  to 
Gray's  Inn,  and  took  those  chambers  where 
we  now  find  him.  He  then  became,  as  he 
was  fond  of  calling  himself,  a  literary  man, 
that  is,  he  began  that  long  series  of 
Opuscula,  of  which  mention  has  already 
been  made.  They  were  never  published, 
because  editors  invariably  declined  to  ac- 
cept them  :  no  doubt  they  were  quite  right. 
He  was  full  of  reading  and  scholarship,  — 
full  of  ideas ;  but  he  never  acquired  that 
way  of  putting  things  which  the  British 
public  desires. 


He  disliked  revision,  too,  which  bored 
him ;  and  he  had  a  habit  of  reading  his 
own  things  over  and  over  again  till  he  got 
to  know  them  all  by  heart,  and  their  very 
faults  appeared  beauties.  To  some  men  a 
censor  is  absolutely  necessary.  I  have 
often  thought  of  setting  myself  up  as  a  pro- 
fessed literary  adviser,  ready  to  read,  cor- 
rect, suggest,  and  cut  down,  at  so  much  per 
page,  —  say  ten  pounds,  lie  had  a  sort  of 
uneasy  consciousness  that  life  would  pass 
away  with  him  without  bringing  any  sort 
of  kudos  to  him  ;  and  though,  from  force  of 
habit,  he  still  kept  note-books,  and  covered 
acres  of  paper  yearly,  he  had  begun  to  look 
upon  his  works  as  precious  private  proper- 
ty, written  for  his  own  recreation  and  in- 
struction, —  a  treasure-house  of  wisdom  for 
those  years  of  old  age  when  his  ideas  would 
begin  to  fail  him.  There  are  hundreds  of 
men  like  him.  Reader,  thou  who  hast  nev- 
er looked  over  a  proof-sheet,  are  there  not 
within  thy  desk  collections  of  verses,  sheets 
of  essays,  bundles  of  tales,  which  it  is  thy 
secret  pleasure  to  read  and  read,  and  thy 
secret  hope  to  publish  ?  Deny  it  not.  We, 
too,  have  had  this  time ;  and  there  is  no 
such  delight  in  reading  the  printed  page  — 
especially  when  the  world  has  received  it 
coldly  —  as  in  gloating  over  the  glorious 
possibilities  of  the  manuscript.  What  is 
the  miser's  joy,  as  he  runs  his  fingers 
through  tiie  gold,  to  the  young  writer's,  as 
he  sits,  door  locked,  pen  in  hand,  as  modest 
over  the  tender  fancies  of  his  brain  as  any 
young  girl  at  her  toilette  over  her 
charms  ? 

Venn  is  a  smooth-faced  man,  with  a 
bright,  fresh  cheek,  —  in  spite  of  late  hours. 
—  and  a  light  mustache.  His  hair  is  per- 
fectly straight;  and  he  shows  no  signs  of 
getting  gray  like  Lynn,  or  bald  like  Jones. 
His  face  is  long,  with  a  somewhat  retreat- 
ing chin,  —  sign  of  weakness,  —  and  a  long 
drooping  nose,  —  the  melancholy  and  reflec- 
tive nose.  He  is  not  a  tall  man,  and  his 
shoulders  stoop  somewhat.  He  has  still  an 
air  of  youth  ;  which  I  think  will  never  leave 
him,  even  when  his  hair  is  silvery  white. 
And  his  expression  is  one  of  very  great 
sweetness :  for  he  is  one  who  has  sympa- 
thies for  all.  They  talk  of  him  still  at  the 
butteries  of  his  old  college,  where,  in  his 
hot  youth,  he  played  many  a  harmless 
frolic  in  his  cups,  and  where  he  endeared 
himself  to  all  the  servants.  Indeed,  it  was 
no  other  than  Hartley  Venn  who  bearded 
the  great  Master  of  Trinity  himself  on  that 
memorable  night  when,  returning  unstead- 
ily from  a  wine,  he  accosted  the  doctor 
leaving  the  lodge,  and  there  and  then  chal- 
lenged him  to  a  discussion  on  the  nature 
of  Jupiter's  satellites.  It  was  he,  too,  — 
but  why  recall  the  old  stories  ?  Are  they 


30 


MY  LITTLE  GIKL. 


not  chronicled  at  the  freshman's  dinner- 
table,  handed  down  to  posterity  like  the 
Ir-ends  of  King  Arthur V  The  waiters  at 

his   f.lVorile   phi*':*  of   IVSOFt    IVgai'd   him     US 

a  personal  friend.  They  whisper  secrets 
as  to  the  best  things  up  ;  hide  away  papers 
for  him  ;  tell  him  even  of  their  family  af- 
:  and  sometimes  consult  him  on  mat- 
ters of  purely  personal  importance.  It  was 
through  Hartley,  indeed,  that  I  first  con- 
ceived the  idea  th.it  waiters  are  human 
bein'_rs,  with  instincts,  appetites,  and  am- 
bitions like  the  rest  of  us.  It  is  really  the 
case.  And  at  the  British  Museum,  such 
was  the  esteem  with  which  the  attendants 
—  he  knew  all  their  names,  and  would  ask 
after  their  wives  and  families  —  regarded 
him,  that  he  used  never  to  have  to  wait 
more  than  an  hour  to  get  his  books.  And 
this,  as  every  one  who  uses  the  reading- 
room  knows,  is  the  height  of  civility  and 
attention. 

An  indolent,  harmless,  good-hearted 
man,  who  could  not  run  in  harness ;  who 
could  do  no  work  that  was  not  self-imposed, 
and  who  did  no  work  well  except  the  self- 
imposed  task  at  which  he  had  been  labor- 
ing for  twelve  years,  —  the  education  of  his 
little  girl. 

Everybody  in  the  inn  —  that  is  every- 
body connected  with  the  administration 
of  the  place  —  knew  Laura  Collingwood. 
Everybody,  too,  felt  that  the  production  of 
so  admirable  a  specimen  of  the  English 
maiden  reflected  the  greatest  credit  on  all 
parties  concerned,  —  on  the  benchers,  the 
barristers,  the  students,  the  porters,  and  the 
laundresses  ;  but  especially  on  Mr.  Venn. 

It  was  about  twelve  years  before  this 
time,  when  Venn  first  took  his  chambers, 
and  in  the  very  week  when  Mrs.  Peck,  his 
laundress,  began  her  long  career  of  useful- 
ness with  him,  that  he  found  one  morning, 
on  returning  from  the  Museum,  a  little 
child,  with  long  light  hair,  and  large  blue 
eyes,  sitting  on  the  steps  in  the  doorway 
of  his  staircase,  crying  with  terror  at  an 
evil-eyed,  solemn  old  Tom  cat,  who  was 
gazing  at  her  in  a  threatening  manner  be- 
hind the  railings.  Unwashed,  dirty,  badly 
dressed,  this  little  rosy-cheeked  damsel  of 
six  touched  Venn's  soft  heart  with  pity, 
and  he  proposed  at  first  to  purchase  apples/ 
a  proposition  which  he  carried  into  effect ; 
and  leaving  her  with  a  handful  of  good 
things,  proceeded  up  stairs  with  a  view  to 
commit  to  paper  some,  of  those  invaluable 
thoughts  which  were  seething  in  his  brain. 
Presently,  to  his  astonishment,  the  child 
followed  him  up  like  a  little  terrier,  and, 
sitting  down  gravely  upon  the  hearth-rug, 
began  to  talk  to  him  with  perfect  confi- 
dence. Thereupon  he  perceived  that  here 
was  a  new  friend  for  him. 


"What  is  your  name,  absurd  little  ani- 
mal V  "  he  asked. 

"  Lollie  Collingwood." 

"And  who  are  your  amiable  parents, 
Miss  Lollie  Collingwood,  and  what  may  be 
their  rank  in  life  ?  Where's  your  mother, 
little  one  ?  " 

"  Mother's  dead." 

"Father  too?" 

"  Got  no  father.  Grandmother  told  me 
to  sit  still  on  the  steps.  Only  the  cat 
came.  Here's  grandmother." 

Grandmother  was  no  other  than  Mrs. 
Peck  herself.  Later  on,  she  explained  to 
Venn  that  her  daughter,  who  had  left  her 
to  go  into  service,  and  was  a  "  likely  sort 
o'  gal  "  to  look  at,  had  come  back  to  her 
the  year  before  with  the  child. 

"  Said  her  name  was  Mrs.  Collingwood. 
Said  her  husband  was  dead.  Oh  !*dear-a- 
dear-a-me !  Said  he  was  a  gentleman. 
And  here  was  the  baby,  —  great  girl  •  al- 
ready. And  then  she  pined  away  and 
died.  And  never  a  word  about  her  hus- 
band's relations ;  and  the  child  for  me  to 
keep,  and  all.  And  bread's  rose  awful." 

Hartley  took  the  child  on  his  knees,  and 
looked  at  it  more  closely.  As  he  looked, 
thinking  what  a  sad  lot  hers  would  be,  the 
little  girl  turned  up  her  face  to  him,  and 
laughed,  putting  up  her  lips  to  be  kissed 
with  such  a  winning  grace  that  Hartley's 
eyes  ran  over. 

"I'll  help  you  with  the  child,  Mrs. 
Peck,"  he  said ;  "  don't  be  afraid  about  it. 
Will  you  be  my  little  girl,  Lollie  ?  " 

"  I'se  your  little  girl  now,"  said  the  child. 
And  they  gave  each  other  the  first  of  many 
thousand  kisses. 

"  Now,  wait  here  with  grandmother, 
while  I  go  to  get  some  things  for  you." 

He  set  her  down,  and  went  to  the  estab- 
lishment of  a  young  lady,  with  whom  he 
had  a  nodding  acquaintance,  devoted  to 
the  dressmaking  mystery.  The  lady,  by 
great  good  luck,  had  a  complete  set  of 
clothes  for  sale,  —  property  of  somebody 
else's  little  girl,  deceased,  and,  by  invita- 
tion of  Venn,  went  round  to  his  chambers, 
where,  first  by  the  aid  of  warm  water  and/ 
soap,  Dame  Nature's  handiwork  was  made 
to  look  clean  and  white ;  and  then,  with 
needle  and  thread  and  scissors,  the  child 
was  arrayed  in  what  to  her  was  unspeaka- 
ble grandeur. 

"  That's  my  little  girl,  Miss  Nobbs,"  said 
Hartley  looking  at  the  result  with  beaming 
eyes. 

"  Well,  I'm  sure,  Mr.  Venn  !  You  might 
have  the  good  taste  not  to  throw  your  child 
in  my  teeth,  I  do  think." 

"My  good  soul,  I  didn't.  Are  your 
teeth  broken.  Let  me  look  at  them." 

Venn,  you  see,  was  younger  then. 


MY  LITTLE  GIKL. 


31 


"Ha*  done  now,  Mr.  Venn.  You  and 
your  little  girls,  indeed  !  " 

"  My  dear  Miss  Nobbs,  you  and  I,  I  am 
sure,  have  the  greatest  possible  respect  ibr 
each  other.  Do  not  let  me  be  lowered 
in  vour  eyes.  The  child  is  the  grand- 
daughter of  my  laundress,  the  aged  but 
still  industrious  Mrs.  Peck." 

"  Snuffy  old  woman  she  is !  I  can't  think 
how  you  can  have  her  about  you.  And 
that  is  her  grand-daughter  ?  " 

"  This  is  her  grand-daughter  —  Miss 
Laura  Collingwood.  I  propose,  Miss 
Nobbs,  to  devote  a  portion  of  my  leisure 
moments  to  the  cultivation  in  this  child  of 
those  mental  accomplishments  and  graces 
which  have  made  you  the  admiration  of 
the  quarter." 

"  Good  gracious,  Mr.  Venn  !  —  you'd 
talk  a  donkey's  hind  leg  off.  Don't  be  ri- 
diculous !  " 

"  And,  secondly,  Miss  Nobbs,  I  propose 
to  ask  your  assistance  in  providing  her  with 
a  set  of  suitable  clothes." 

"  Now  you  talk  sense.  Let's  see  —  she'll 
want  six  pr'  of  socks,  two  pr'  of  boots, 
three  new  pettikuts,  four  pr'  of  —  yes,  four 
pr'of"  — 

"  Let  us  not  go  into  all  the  details."  said 
Venn.  "  I  need  hardly  say,  Miss  Nobbs, 
that  in  selecting  you  out  of  the  many 
talented  and  tasteful  costumieres  in  our 
aristocratic  and  select  neighborhood,  I 
rely  entirely  on  tlaat  professional  skill 
which  "  — 

"  Lord,  lord  !  "  said  Miss  Nobbs,  "  if  all 
the  gentlemen  talked  like  you,  where 
should  we  all  be,  I  wonder  ?  You  let  the 
child  come  to  me  to-morrow,  and  then  I'll 
do  all  I  can  for  her.  You're  a  good  man. 
I  do  believe,  Mr.  Venn,  though  you  are  so 
full  of  talk." 

"  Take  a  glass  of  wine,  Miss  Nobbs,  and 
drink  the  health  of  Lollie." 

This  was  the  beginning  of  it  all.  Next 
day  the  child  was  brought  round,  solemnly 
arrayed  in  her  new  splendor,  to  be  looked 
at.  Hartley  kept  her  with  him  all  the 
afternoon,  and  gave  her  the  first  glimpse 
of  the  alphabet.  This  he  found  so  amus- 
ing, that  he  repeated  it  every  day  until  he 
had  taught  the  child,  who  was  wonderfully 
quick  and  intelligent,  to  read.  Then  he 
laid  in  an  immense  stock  of  picture-books, 
and  gave  them  to  his  little  girl  as  fast  as 
she  could  read  them ;  and  then  he  taught 
her  to  write. 

Three  or  four  years  passed  on  in  this 
way.  The  afternoon  lessons  had  never 
been  interrupted,  save  when  Venn  went 
away  for  a  fortnight  or  so  in  the  autumn. 
They  had  gradually  lengthened  out,  so  as 
to  take  up  nearly  the  whole  day.  Lollie 
came  now  between  eleven  and  twelve,  and 


did  not  go  home  till  six,  arrangements 
owing  made  with  a  neighboring  purveyor 
to  send  up  luncheon  to  Mr.  Venn  every 
day  at  two,  which  was  Lollie's  dinner. 
She  was  then  ten  or  eleven  years  old,  —  a 
child  with  long  fair  curls  hanging  down 
her  back,  knuckly  elbows,  and 'long  legs, 
such  as  most  young  ladies  of  her  age  may 
show.  Only  her  face  is  much  the  same  as 
when  Venn  picked  her  up  on  the  doorstep, 
with  a  soft,  confiding  expression.  She 
promises  well  —  little  Lollie  —  to  grow  up 
into  a  beautiful  woman. 


CHAPTER  IH. 

THE  most  perfect  love  and  confidence 
existed  between  Hartley  and  the  child. 
They  were  a  strangely  assorted  pair.  He 
told  Lollie,  almost  as  soon  as  she  could  un- 
derstand any  thing,  all  his  projects,  all 
his  disappointments.  She  learned  to  know 
him  with  that  perfect  knowledge  which 
comes  of  always  reading  one  mind.  She 
knew  what  he  would  think,  what  he  would 
say,  what  he  liked.  Her  whole  life  was  in 
him,  and  all  her  thoughts  borrowed  from 
his ;  for  him,  the  girl  had  become  a  neces- 
sary part  of  his  existence.'  Her  education 
was  his  pleasure  ;  talking  to  her  the  only 
society  he  had ;  she  the  only  person  in  the 
world  who  seemed  to  care  about  what  he 
did  and  how  he  did  it. 

When  she  was  ten  or  eleven,  the  child 
had  a  fever.  Then  Hartley  kept  her  in  his 
own  chambers  till  she  was  well  again.  Her 
grandmother  came,  too,  —  deeply  resentful 
at  being  put  out,  but  afraid  to  murmur. 
When  she  hovered  between  life  and  death, 
and  prattled,  when  delirious,  of  green  fields, 
it  was  Hartley  who  sat  up  night  after  night, 
watching  her  with  anxious  eyes,  while  the 
old  woman  slumbered  in  the  easy-chair ; 
and  when  she  got  better, —  for  it  was  bright 
spring  weather,  —  he  took  her  away  up  the 
river  for  a  fortnight,  where  they  rowed,  and 
walked,  and  talked,  and  the  roses  came 
back  to  little  Lollie's  cheeks. 
.  There  was  no  question  of  affection  be- 
tween them,  because  there  was  no  doubt. 
Do  you  think  Adam  was  always  bothering 
to  know  whether  Eve  loved  him  ?  Rub- 
bish !  He  knew  she  did.  As  for  Hartley, 
what  had  he  to  think  about  but  the  girl  ? 
What  had  the  girl  to  think  about  but  Hart- 
ley ?  Whom  had  she  to  love  except  him  ? 
What  grace  of  life,  what  sweetness,  what 
joy,  what  hope,  but  in  him,  —  her  guardian, 
her  teacher,  her  protector  ? 

The  fortnight  up  the  river  was  the  first 
break  Lollie  had  known  from  her  town  life. 
Henceforth  it  was  her  dream,  her  ideal  of 


32 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


all  that  constitutes  real  and  solid  pleasure. 
She  h:id,  before  the  story  begins,  one  more 
break  in  a  month  by  the  sea;  but  this  was 
not  the  same  thing,  because  there  was  a 
third  person  with  them.  This  was  how  it 
came  about. 

It  was  autumn,  and  Hartley  was  meditat- 
ing his  usual  brief  flight  to  the  seaside. 
The  girl  was  sitting  in~  her  usual  place  in 
the  window-seat,  with  her  feet  up,  a  book 
in  her  lap,  and  in  her  hands  some  little 
work. 

"  Lollie,"  said  Hartley, "  how  should  you 
like  to  go  to  the  seaside  with  me  ?  " 

She  jumped  off  the  seat  with  a  cry  of 
deli-lit, 

"  I  am  not  quite  certain  whether  I  can 
manage  it ;  but  I  am  going  to  try.  I  s-hall 
ask  my  sister  to  take  you/' 

Her  face  fell. 

"  But  that  won't  be  going  with  you." 

"  I  shall  go  too.  Listen,  Lollie.  I  want 
you,  as  you  grow  up,  to  grow  up  a  lady.  I  am 
teaching  you  the  things  that  ladies  are  sup- 
posed to  learn  at  schools ;  but  there  are 
some  things  which  I  cannot  teach  you. 
These  you  can  only  learn  from  a  lady.  I 
refer,  my  child,  not  to  those  little  dialectic 
peculiarities,  if  I -may  call  them  so,  of  our 
neighborhood"  — 

« O  Mr.  Venn  !  don't  say  I  talk  like  a 
little  street-girl." 

"  Not  to  those  idioms,"  he  went  on,  as  if 
obliged  to  get  rid  of  one  sentence  before  he 
could  frame  another  —  "  invaluable  as  they 
are  to  the  philologist,  bui  to  the  minor  de- 
tails of  deportment." 

She  sat  pouting. 

"I'm  sure  you  always  said  I  behaved 
very  well." 

*'  So  you  do,  Lollie,  my  child  ;  and  you 
have  always  been  the  best  of  little  girls. 
That  is  the  reason  why  you  are  going  to  be 
on  your  best  behavior  now.  Put  on  your 
hat,  and  walk  part  of  the  way  with  me  to 
"Woburn  Place,  where  Sukey  lives." 

Sukey  _  was  Miss  Venn.  Her  real  name 
was  Lavinia  ;  but  her  brothers  —  Hartley 
and  the  unfortunate  Bob  already  mentioned 
—  agreed  early  in  life  that  so  ridiculous  a 
name  should  be  suppressed,  and  changed  it, 
without  her  consent,  to  the  homely  name  by 
which  she  was  ever  after  known.  She,  too, 
inherited  a  little  money,  with  a  house,  from 
her  father,  on  which  she  lived  in  consider- 
able comfort,  with  the  old  family  servant 
Anne,  and  a  subordinate  maid.  She  was 
a  fat,  comfortable  sort  of  person,  now  ap- 
proaching perilously  near  to  forty.  She 
had  given  up  all  ideas  of  matrimony,  and 
chiefly  occupied  herself  with  her  different 
curates,  —  because  she  never  could  quite 
make  up  her  mind  between  Low  and  Hio-h 
Church,  —  and  with  the  little  things  to  eat. 


Hartley  used  to  go  and  see  her  once  in 
three  months  or  so,  every  now  and  then 
asking  her  to  come  and  breakfast  with  him. 
On  these  occasions  he  would  provide  kid- 
neys,—  "to  keep  up  the  faouly  tie,'*  he 
used  to  say. 

Sukey  received  him  with  her  usual  cor- 
diality, and  rang  the  bell  for  Anne  to  come 
up  and  shake  hands  with  him. 

"  I  am  going  to  the  seaside  for  three 
weeks,  Sukey,"  said  he ;  "  and  I  want  you 
to  come  with  me." 

It  was  the  very  first  time  in  his  life  that 
Hartley  had  expressed  any  desire  whatever 
lor  his  sister's  company ;  and  she  was,  for  the 
moment,  taken  all  aback.  It  took  a  consid- 
erable time  to  get  her  to  make  up  her  mind 
that  it  would  do  her  good ;  and  it  was  not 
till  Anne  herself  interfered  despotically 
that  she  gave  way. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Hartley ;  "  then  that's 
settled.  We'll  go  the  day  after  to-morrow. 
Oh !  I  forgot  to  say  that  I  am  taking  my 
little  girl  with  me." 

His  sister  changed  color. 

"  It  is  for  your  sake,  my  dear  Sukey,"  he 
said  persuasively,  —  "  for  your  sake  en- 
tirely. Far  away  from  Anne,  from  your  — 
your  pill-box  and  your  little  comforts,  sup- 
pose you  were  taken  ill  V  So  Lollie  is  to 
go  with  us  to  look  after  you,  and  be  your 
companion  in  hours  of  solitude." 

Sukey  fairly  burst  out  laughing. 

"  My  hours  of  solitude,  indeed  !  Hartley, 
you  are  the  greatest  humbug  I  ever  knew. 
I  am  to  go  with  you  because  you  want  the 
child  taught  to  be  a  lady.  Oh,  don't  tell 
me !  A  lady,  indeed  —  the  daughter  of  a 
laundress ! " 

"  Pardon  me,  dear  Sukey.  Her  grand- 
mamma occupies  that  position.  Her  father 
was  a  gentleman.  Our  grandfather,  my 
sister  "  — 

"  Was  a  bishop,  Hartley.  Don't  forget 
that,  if  you  please." 

"  We  had  two,  dear.  It  may  be  un- 
common ;  but  such  is  the  fact.  In  our 
family  we  had  two  grandfathers.  One  of 
them  was,  if  I  may  remind  you,  not 
wholly  unconnected  with  the  wholesale 
glue  and  "  — 

"Don't  be  provoking  1  Well,  Hartley, 
though  I  must  say  your  taking  up  with  the 
child  at  all  is  the  most  ridiculous  thing ; 
and  what  you  are  going  to  do  with  her  I 
don't  know.  Yet "  — 

"  Yet  you'll  go  the  day  after  to-morrow, 
my  dear  Sukey.  Come  and  breakfast  to- 
morrow at  ten.  That  will  not  be  too  late 
for  you.  At  this  season,  sister,  kidneys  at- 
tain to  a  size  and  flavor  unknown  as  the 
year  advances." 

And  this  was  •  the  way  in  which  Lollie 
got  her  education. 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


33 


Time  passes  on  his  way ;  and,  as  is  his 
wont,  takes  from  one  to  give  to  another. 
Little  Lollie  grew  from  a  rosy-faced  child 
to  a  woman,  — not  so  rosy,  not  so  brimful 
of  mirth  and  glee  ;  but  bright,  happy,  intel- 
ligent, and  beautiful.  Do  you  know  the 
time  —  it  may  be  a  year,  it  may  be  a 
month,  it  may  be  a  day  or  an  hour,  accord- 
ing to  circumstances  —  which  separates  the 
child  from  the  woman  ?  It  is  a  curious 
time.  Watch  the  young  maiden  of  seven- 
teen. You  will  find  her  fitful,  fanciful,  in- 
clined to  long  reveries ;  sometimes  impa- 
tient and  petulant.  The  old  habits  of 
thought  are  passing  away  from  her,  and  the 
new  ones  are  as  yet  strange  and  awkward. 
It  is  a  time  of  transition.  It  lasts  but  a 
little  while ;  for  soon  the  sweet  spring 
breezes  blow,  the  buds  of  thought  and  fan- 
cy open  into  blossom,  and  your  child  is  a 
maiden,  tempestiva  viro, —  fit  for  love. 

It  is  at  this  time  that  Venn's  little  girl 
has  arrived.  Hartley  is  conscious,  dimly 
conscious,  of  a  change  in  her.  At  times 
an  uneasy  feeling  crosses  him  that  the  old, 
childish  customs  must  be,  some  time  or 
other,  modified.  Then  he  puts  the  thought 
from  him,  glad  to  get  rid  of  an  unpleasant 
subject ;  and  things  go  on  the  same  as  be- 
fore. Not  that  Lollie  thinks  any  change 
will  ever  come.  To  her,  life  means  read- 
ing, playing,  working,  in  the  old  chambers  ; 
and  pleasure  means  going  up  the  river  in 
the  summer,  or  to  the  theatre  in  the  win- 
ter, with  her  guardian. 

It  is  a  Sunday  in  early  spring  ;  one  of 
those  which  come  in  April,  as  warm  as  a 
July  day,  and  make  the  foolish  blossoms 
open  out  wide  in  a  credulous  confidence, 
which  no  experience  can  shake,  that  the 
east  wind  is  dead,  and  has  been  comfortably 
buried.  "  Courage,"  they  say,  like  Charles 
Reade's  Burgundian  soldier,  "  courage, 
camarades  !  le  diable  est  mort."  Taking 
advantage  of  the  weather,  Mr.  Venn  has 
brought  his  little  girl  to  Richmond ;  and 
they  are  floating  on  the  river,  basking  in 
the  sun,  —  Lollie  holding  the  strings,  Venn 
occasionally  dipping  his  sculls  in  the  water 
to  keep  a  little  way  on  the  boat. 

"  I've  been  thinking,  Lollie,"  he  begins, 
after  half  an  hour's  silence. 

"  Don't  let  us  think  noAV.  Look  at  the 
flecks  of  sunlight  on  the  water,"  she  replies, 
"  and  how  the  trees  are  green  already. 
Can  vou  not  write  a  poem  on  the  river, 
Mr.  Venn?" 

"  What  are  we  to  do  with  each  other  ?  " 
he  went  on,  without  noticing  her  interrup- 
tion. "  AVe  can't  go  on  forever  like  this, 
child." 

"  Don't,  Mr.  Venn.  Let  us  be  happy 
while  we  can.  Listen !  there  are  the 
church  bells  !  the  church  bells !  "  she  went 


on.  "Why  have  you  never  taken  me  to 
church,  Mr.  Venn?  Why  do  we  not  go 
like  other  people  ?  " 

"  There  are  various  reasons  why  they  go, 
none  of  which  seem  applicable  to  us,  Lollie. 
They  go  because  it  is  respectable  :  we  are 
not  respectable.  Poor,  we  are,  it  is  true, 
and  scrupulously  clean,  but  persons  of  no 
occupation,  and  certainly  not  respectable. 
Then  a  good  many  worthy  people  go  be- 
cause it  is  the  custom  :  it  is  not  our  custom. 
Because  they  want  to  wear  their  best 
clothes  :  we,  my  dear,  have  no  best  clothes 
at  all.  Because  they  want  a  little  variety 
and  excitement :  you  and  I  take  our  plea- 
sure less  sadly.  •  And  some  go  out  of  reli- 
gion and  devotion,  which  we  do  not  feel  at 
present." 

She  was  silent.  Somehow,  perhaps,  she 
felt  that  there  was  a  sort  of  separation  be- 
tween her  and  that  respectable  world  of 
which  she  could  only  know  the  outside. 

"  But  when  we  do  feel  religious,  we  shall 
go,  shall  we  not  ?  "  she  asked. 

Venn  nodded.  He  was  full  of  thought 
on  this  new  question  of  the  girl's  future. 

"  Here  is  a  water-lily  for  you,  Lollie, — 
sit  steady,  —  the  first  of  the  season.  .  .  . 
Let  us  number  up  your  accomplishments, 
child.  You  can  play  the  piano ;  that  is 
something.  You  can  sing  a  little,  —  not 
much,  it  is  true ;  your  voice  being,  as  Su- 
key  would  say,  what  Providence  made  it. 
Very  odd  that  they  put  all  the  failures  on 
to  Providence !  You  can  read,  and  talk, 
and  write,  French.  You  know  Latin ; 
though  why  I  taught  you  Latin,  I  don't 
know." 

"If  it  was  only  to  read  Horace  with 
you,"  said  the  girl,  half  pouting,  "  I  really 
think  you  might  have  taught  me  something 
else.  With  his  wine,  and  his  lyre,  and  his 
eternal  egotism  !  " 

"  He  should  have  been  here  to-day,  ly- 
ing at  your  feet,  Lollie,  crowned  with 
myrtle,  playing  on  his  lyre,  and*  singing,  as 
he  floated  down  the  sunny  river,  to  the 
spring,  — 

'  Diffugere  nives,  redeunt  jam  gramina  campis, 
Arboribusque  comaa.' " 

"Which  you  translated,  the  other  day, 
when  we  read  it,  — 

'  The    year,  for  her  reasons,  keeps    changing  her 

seasons. 
Now  the  leaves  to  the  terrace  return,  and  the  crocus 

to  Kew. 
Earth  puts  off  her  seal-skin;  and,  clad  in  her  real 

skin, 
Smiles  bright  through  her  blossoms  at  spring  with 

its  sunshine  and  dew.' " 

Venn  laughed. 

"  Yes,  child ;  that  is,  I  believe,  how 
Horace  might  have  written  had  he  lived  in 


34 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


these  latter  day?.  You  know  how  to  touch 
the  tender  plaiv  in  my  heart.  If  we  have 
any  pride,  it  is  in  certain  portions,  unpub- 
lished, of  tin'  Opuscula,  where  an  imita- 
tion touches  —  we  only  say  touches  —  the 
original.  But  we  were  talking  about  Hor- 
ace. I  introduced  him  to  you,  you  know. 
Surely  you  would  like  him  —  the  fat  little 
man,  melancholy  because  he  is  getting 
older —  to  be  with  us  now  1 " 

"  Yes,  pretty  well ;  only  I  suppose  he 
would  have  tired  of  us  very  soon.  We  are 
not  grand  enough  for  him,  you  know. 
Ovid  would  have  been  better.  He  would 
have  told  us  stories,  like  those  we  read  to- 
gether in  the  '  Metamorphoses,'  about 
Cephalus  and  Procris,  for  instance.  But 
no :  I  think  I  don't  care  much  for  your  old 
poets.  I  tell  you  what  we  will  do  when 
the  summer  comes,  Mr.  Venn:  we  will 
come  here  with  Alfred  de  Musset,  and 
read  '  La  Nuit  de  J)ecembre,'  for  contrast, 
while  the  sun  is  high  over  our  heads,  in  the 
shade  of  a  willow,  —  shall  we 't  1  some- 
times think  "  —  here  she  stopped. 

"  What  do  you  think,  Lollie  c> " 

A  child,  you  see,  can  tell  you  all ;  but,  in 
the  transition  state,  the  thoughts  grow  con- 
fused ;  for  then  the  mind  is  like  a  gallery 
of  pictures  lit  up  with  cross  lights,  so  that 
none  can  be  properly  seen.  She  half 
blushed. 

"  Go  on  with  my  accomplishments,  Mr. 
Venn." 

"  Well,  we  left  off  at  the  Latin.  As  for 
Greek  "  — 

"  No,  I  will  not  learn  Greek.  You  may 
translate  things  to  me,  if  you  like." 

"  At  the  new  College  for  Ladies,  I  be- 
lieve they  make  the  damsels  learn  Greek. 
That  shows  your  prejudice  to  be  un- 
founded." 

"Never  mind  :  I  won't  learn  Greek." 

"  Well,  then,  I  believe  you  have  come  to 
the  length  of  your  knowledge.  Stay !  it 
is  not  every  girl  of  eighteen  who  has  read 
Hallam,  or  who  knows  the  literature  of  her 
country  half  so  well  as  you.  Upon  my 
word,  Lollie,  I  be^in  to  think  that  our  sys- 
tem of  education  is  t  success.  You  are  a 
very  learned  little  person  :  a  few  ologies  and 
we  should  be  perfect.  Unfortunately,  I 
don't  know  any,  not  one  —  not  even  the 
ology  of  describing  nasty  things  in  ponds. 
How  long  is  it  since  the  education  began  '! 
Twelve  years.  You  are  eighteen,  child : 
we  must  think  about "  —  he  stopped  for  a 
moment — "  about  sending  you  to  the  new 
college,  to  carry  off  the  prizes,"  he  went  on. 

She  shook  her  head,  and  he  rowed  on, 
Lollie  thoughtfully  dipping  her  gloveless 
finger  in  the  bright  water,  as  the  boat 
floated  along  under  the  bank. 

"  Could  we  not  come  always  and  live  in 


the  country,  Mr.  Venn  f  Why  do  people 
choose  to  spend  their  lives  in  a  great  town? 
See,  now :  we  could  have  a  cottage,  my 
grandmother  and  I ;  and  you  should  have  a 
IKHISU  like  that  one,  only  smaller,  with 
willows  over  the  river,  and  a  sloping  lawn. 
We  would  sit  out  in  the  air  all  day,  and 
read  and  talk." 

"And  never  get  tired,  —  never  want  a 
change  ? " 

"  No,  never.  Why  should  we  ?  I  have 
such  a  lot  of  things,  sometimes,  .coming 
into  my  head,  —  questions,  thoughts.  I 
should  like  to  put  them  all  down  as  they 
come  tome  ;  and  then  bring  them  to  you." 

"  Why  don't  you  put  them  down,  my  lit- 
tle girl  ? "  said  Hartley,  looking  in  her 
face  with  his  kindly  eyes.  "  Why  not  come 
to  me  ?  And  if  I  can't  answer  them,  we 
will  try  to  find  somebody  who  can.  Tell 
me  some  of  them." 

"  I  hardly  remember.  Only  the  con- 
trast of  the  quiet  and  beauty  out  here  with 
London  makes  me  sad  sometimes,  when  I 
ought  to  be  happy.  Do  you  think  I  am 
grateful,  Mr.  Venn  ?  " 

"  It  is  I  who  am  not  grateful,  Lollie.  Do 
you  know  all  you  have  done  for  me  ?  " 

4i  No.  I  am  selfish.  I  am  always  think- 
ing of  what  you  have  done  for  me.  WThat 
have  I  done  ?  " 

"  I  can  hardly  tell  you  all,  Lollie.  I  will 
tell  you  something.  It  is  about  twelve 
years  now  since  I  made  out,  quite  clearly 
and  unmistakably,  what  fate  had  in  store 
for  me.  The  prophetic  voice  said  to  me, 
'  Hartley  Venn,  you  are  no  good.  You  are 
a  person  without  common-sense,  without 
energy,  without  courage.  You  must  there- 
fore make  up  your  mind  to  obscurity. 
You  will  not  be  able  to  marry  —  you  must 
not  fall  in  love.  You  had  better  resign 
yourself  to  live  in  your  chambers  until  you 
require  a  nurse.'  I  said, '  Very  well,  my  ven- 
erable sisters  of  the  fatal  spinning-machine. 
I  would  have  asked  a  few  questions  ;  'but 
perhaps,  as  it  is  easier  to  ask  than  get  an 
answer,  I  had  better  hold  my  tongue.  I 
accept  the  position,  ladies,  with  a  general 
protest  against  the  inequality  of  things.  I 
accept  the  position.  Perhaps,'  I  went  on 
to  say,  with  withering  irony,  '  I  may  not  be 
so  proud  of  your  handiwork  as  to  wish  for 
a  continuance  of  my  kind.  You  may  break 
up  my  mould,  if  you  please,  and  as  soon  as 
you  please.  It  won't  be  wanted  again.' 
They  hadn't  a  word  to  say  in  reply." 

"  I  don't  understand,"  said  Lollie ; 
"  that  is,  I  only  half  understand.  You  mean, 
that  you  had  not  enough  money  for  mar- 
riage ?  " 

"  Exactly  so.;  and  that  I  did  not  see  my 
way  to  getting  any.  The  prospect  was  not 
alluring.  But  then,  you  see,  that  com- 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


35 


per.sating  power  in  nature,  whom,  I  think, 
the  Romans  should  have  made  a  goddess, 
one  who  would  go  about  administering 
compensatory  gifts,  gave  me  —  you,  child  ; 
and  I  have  been  happy  ever  since,  watch- 
ing you  grow,  and  become  wiser  and  bet- 
ter ;  trying  to  show  me  what  a  lady  ought 
to  be,  and  getting  younger  myself  in  catch- 
ing the  enthusiasm  of  your  youth.  My  lit- 
tle girl,  you  have  been  the  sunshine  of  my 
life ! " 

The  tears  came  into  Lollie's  eyes. 

"  You  are  too  good  to  me,  Mr.  Venn. 
I  will  try  and  remember  what  you  have 
said  to-day.  But  don't  say  it  again.  Nev- 
er say  it  again,  please.'' 

"Why  not,  my  child?" 

"  I  don't  know.  When  you  said  that  I 
was  your  sunshine  —  ah  !  what,  then,  is  my 
sunshine  ?  A  cloud  crossed  the  river,  and 
it  seemed  as  if  your  sunshine  was  suddenly 
taken  away.  It  is  foolish  —  foolish  —  fool- 
ish !  "  she  repeated,  laughing ;  "  but  please 
don't  say  it  again." 

Venn  was  resting  on  his  sculls,  and  look- 
ing in  her  eyes  with  a  vague  sort  of  anxiety. 
Her  cheeks  were  flushed,  and  her  lips  trem- 
bled. She  held  out  her  hand  to  him,  and 
smiled. 

"Forgive  me.  I  am  your  little  girl  — 
your  daughter  —  your  ward  —  and  you  are 
my  "  — 

"  Not  your  father,  child,"  returned  Venn 
hastily.  "  Here  is  Teddington,  Lollie. 
Let  us  have  no  more  confessions.  Tell  me 
some  of  your  thoughts  while  we  go  back, 
and  keep  a  look-out.  Remember  that  day 
when  you  ran  me  into  a  tree  at  Clieveden 
Woods." 

"  Oh,  what  fun  it  was !  "  she  laughed  ; 
"  and  it  took  us  half  an  hour  to  get  the 
boat  out  again.  Now,  then,  we  shall  be 
back  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  What  shall 
I  tell  you  —  some  of  my  old  thoughts  V  I 
used  to  think  that  if  I  was  rich  —  very  rich, 
you  know  —  what  a  different  world  I  would 
make  it.  Every  poor  man's  house  should 
be  clean,  every  poor  man  should  be  taught 
not  to  drink,  there*  should  be  no  cruel  want 
in  the  winter,  bread  and  coals  should  never 
*  go  up,'  and  the  world  should  not  know 
what  was  meant  by  the  word  hunger. 
Those  were  doll's  thoughts,  you  know. 
Then  I  used  to  think,  when  I  got  a  little 
older,  how  that  one  person  —  tolerably  rich 
—  might  make  a  little  street  his  own,  and 
by  force  of  example  show  people  how  they 
ought  to  live.  Then  I  got  older  still ;  and 
now  I  think  what  one  person  could  do,  if 
he  had  the  strength  and  the  will,  without 
any  money  at  all." 

"  How  would  he  do  it,  and  what  would 
he  do  ?  " 

"  He  might  live  among  poor  people,  and 


find  out  the  way  to  help  them  without  mak- 
ing them  dependent.  A  man  could  do 
it,  if  he  was  not  always  trying  to  make  peo- 
ple go  to  church.  A  clergyman  might  do 
it,  if  he  was  not  like  those  I  see  about. 
But  nobody  will  do  it ;  and  the  people  are 
getting  worse  and  worse." 

"  Don't  think  too  much  of  the  people, 
Lollie." 

"  But  I  must  think  of  them,  Mr.  Venn. 
Do  I  not  belong  to  them  ?  Do  I  not  live 
among  them  V  They  are  all  good  to  me ; 
and  it  goes  to  my  heart  that  I  have  been 
taught  so  many  things,  and  can  do  so  little. 
Well,  then,  you  see,  I  think  about  other 
things,  —  myself  and  my  lessons,  and  you, 
and  the  dear  old  chambers,  with  the  chairs 
dropping  to  pieces.  If  I  were  rich,  I  should 
cover  the  chairs,  and  get  a  new  carpet,  and 
buy  you  a  new  dressing-gown,  and  have  the 
wails  painted  over  again,  and  make  them 
so  fine  that  we  should  hardly  know  each 
other  again." 

"  They  do  for  us,  Lollie." 

"  Ah,  yes  —  they  are  delightful  old  cham- 
bers. Do  you  know,  Mr.  Venn,"  she  went 
on  with  a  sigh,  "I  should  like  to  know- 
some  young  ladies.  I  don't  mean  like  Miss 
Venn,  but  quite  young  girls  like  myself. 
I  see  them  walking  in  the  squares  with 
each  other  and  their  governesses.  I  won- 
der what  they  talk  about.  Do  you 
know  ?  " 

*'  I  knew  a  young  lady  once,"  answered 
Venn  meditatively.  "  She  used  to  ask 
everybody  if  they  liked  *  In  Memoriam,' 
and  she  used  to  talk  about  dress  a  food 
deal." 

"  I  suppose  in  those  houses  about  Tavis- 
tock  and  Russell  Squares,  they  have  every 
thing  they  want.  Plenty  of  amusement, 
with  all  nice  people,  —  ladies  and  gentle- 
men. They  make  all  their  interest  in 
study,  don't  you  think  ?  With  their  op- 
portunities, you  know,  they  ought  to. 
They  are  always  trying  to  do  good  to  each 
other.  They  never  have  bad  tempers,  or 
say  unkind  words  to  each  other,  like  poor 
people.  They  don't  talk  scandal,  like 
poor  people  ;  and  they  are  not  always  talk- 
ing of  finery,  like  poor  girls — not  always 
craving  for  excitement,  like  my  class.  It 
must  be  a  delicious  thing  to  be  a  young 
lady.  '  Manners  makyth  ye  man,'  as  I 
read  the  other  day.  Isn't  it  a  funny  thing 
to  say?  But  I  should  like  to  see  how 
manners  makyth  ye  woman.  I  imagine 
the  life  of  one  of  these  young  ladies. 
Wrhen  I  see  one  Walking  along,  looking  so 
quiet  and  thoughtful  and  proud,  I  say, 
'  My  dear,  you  are  very  happy  ;  you  have 
no  frivolous  or  foolish  tastes,  because  you 
are  so  well  educated.  You  have  read  all 
the  best  books,  you  know  how  to  dress 


36 


MY  LITTLE  GIEL. 


tastefully,  you  do  not  spend  more  than  half 
an  hour  a  day  over  your  things,  you  are 
full  of  schemes  for  doing  good,  you  are  not 
always  thiuking  about  sweethearts,  but 
some  time  or  other  your  lover  will  come 
to  you,  and  take  you  away.'  Every  wo- 
man must  think  of  love  a  little,  you  know. 
AVe  :ire  happy  so,  —  isn't  that  the  reason, 
Mr.  Venn?  Then,  I  see  them  going  to 
church.  It  must  be  a  beautiful  thing  going 
to  church, —  all  kneeling  together,  without 
a  thought  except  of  goodness  and  religion. 
You  can  teach  me,  Mr.  Venn,  and  edu- 
cate me  to  all  sorts  of  things  ;  but  you  can 
never  make  me  like  one  of  the  young  ladies 
I  see  as  I  walk  about." 

"  I  don't  want  to,  Lollie.  I  like  you  best 
as  you  are.  Let  me  pull  her  in.  Now, 
then,  child,  take  care  how  you  step." 

They  went  back  by  tram  and  dined  to- 
gether at  seven;  then  up  to  Venn's  cham- 
bers, where  Lollie,  who  was  very  quiet  and 
thoughtful,  made  tea.  After  tea,  she  play- 
ed for  him  one  or  two  of  his  favorite 
"  Lieder  ohne  Worte,"  while  he  smoked  a 
pipe  by  the  fireside,  and  looked  at  his  little 
girl. 

She  was  a  tall  girl  now, — not  little  at 
all.  Her  light  hair  had  darkened  into 
brown,  her  blue  eyes  were  of  a  deeper  color. 
She  had  a  perfectly  oval  face ;  her  mouth 
was  small,  and  her  lips  perhaps  a  little 
too  thin,  tremulous ;  her  nose  straight  and 
clear  cut,  her  chin  slightly,  very  slightly, 
projecting — just  enough  to  show  possible 
strength  of  will.  Her  wealth  of  hair 
wanted  no  artificial  pads  to  set  it  up  and 
throw  it  off  as  it  lay,  like  an  Apocalytic 
crown  of  virtue,  upon  her  head.  She  was 
dressed  in  a  blue  alpaca,  simple  and  tasteful. 
She  had  thrown  off  the  jacket  and  hat  she 
had  worn  all  day;  and  her  little  fingers 
rambled  up  and  down  the  keys  of  the  old 
piano  as  if  they  knew,  without  any  telling, 
where  the  music  lay.  As  she  played,  by 
the  upturned  eye,  by  the  trembling  lip, 
by  the  fixed  gaze,  you  knew  that  her 
soul  was  in  the  music,  far  away. 

Venn  looked  at  her  long  and  earnestly. 
What  was  he  to  do  with  this  treasure,  — 
this  pearl  of  maidens,  that  he  had  picked 
out  of  the  very  gutter,  and  made  a  princess  ? 
IJid  you  ever  mark,  in  some  rough,  squalid 
field,  rank  with  coarse  grass,  foul  with 
potsherds  and  rubbish,  some  sweet  wild 
flower,  blossoming  all  by  itself, — the  one 
single  pretty  thing  in  the  compound? 
Nature  is  always  providing  such  wild  flow- 
ers. Over  the  ruinous  wall  she  trains  the 
ivy,  on  the  broken-down  ramparts  she  plants 
the  wall-flower :  she  will  not  that  any  thing 
should  go  on  without  some  touch  of  beauty 
to  redeem  the  rest.  On  the  seas  are  the 
loveliest  sunsets,  in  the  desert  the  Child- 


ren of  Israel  had  their  mirage.  So  you 
have  seen,  in  some  coarse,  rough  place  in 
London,  in  some  reeking  manufacturing 
town,  among  faces  blotched,  faces  smirched, 
faces  besotted,  faces  sharp  with  the  gold 
hunger,  faces  heavy  with  the  remembrance 
of  crime,  faces  vulgarized  by  common  and 
stupid  vices,  faces  low,  bad,  base,  some  one 
face  in  a  crowd  so  bright,  so  pure,  so  beau- 
tiful, so  lofty,  that  it  seemed  to  redeem  the 
ugliness  of  all  the  rest,  —  and  such  was  the 
face  of  Lollie. 

Venn  put  down  his  pipe,  and  stood  be- 
hind her  as  she  played.  She  looked  up  in 
his  face  without  stopping. 

"  You  are  happy,  child  ? "  he  asked, 
taking  her  face  in  his  hands,  and  kissing 
her  forehead  in  his  paternal  way. 

"  As  if  I  am  not  always  happy  here !  " 

A  cold  chill  passed  through  Venn's 
heart ;  for  he  then,  for  the  first  time,  per- 
ceived that  there  was  another  side  to  this 
picture. 


CHAPTER    IV.' 

ANOTHER  side  to  the  picture  !  Yes  : 
for  twelve  long  years  the  girl  had  been 
growing  at  his  feet,  coming  to  him  daily, 
sitting  beside  him  as  he  unfolded  the  treas- 
ures of  knowledge  to  her,  and  taught  her, 
within  the  bounds  of  innocence,  all  he  knew 
himself.  She  came  in  the  morning;  she 
left  him  about  six :  for  eight  hours  or  so 
she  was  his  constant  companion.  Then 
she  went  away,  out  of  his  thoughts,  ac- 
cording to  his  habit;  and  he  went  to  his 
club,  to  his  restaurant,  to  his  half-dozen 
friends,  talked,  smoked,  drank  brandy  and 
water,  and  came  home  again. 

And  what  did  she  do  ? 

She  went  home  —  what  she  called  home 
—  to  Puddock's  Row. 

There  was  once,  in  the  old  times,  an  un- 
fortunate young  person  whose  fate  it  was 
to  be  half  her  life  an  animal,  —  I  believe  a 
cat  if  my  memory,  a  treacherous  one  at 
best,  does  not  play  me  false;  the  other  half 
she  might  spend  in  the  ordinary  delight- 
ful figure  of  the  girl  of  the  period.  So,  too, 
Melusine,  daughter  of  Pressine  of  Avalon, 
and  wife  of  the  Knight  Raimondin,  who 
was  obliged  to  forbid  her  husband  ever  to 
look  upon  her  on  Saturdays,  when  she  put 
on,  from  waist  downwards,  the  scales  and 
skin  of  a  serpent.  Little  Lollie,  very 
early  in  life,  realized  that  her  life  was  to  be 
something  like  one  of  these  ladies,  —  of 
whom,  however,  she  had  never  heard.  From 
ten  to  six,  or  thereabouts,  —  Sundays  as 
well  as  week  days,  —  civilization, 'light, 


MY   LITTLE  GIRL. 


37 


ease,  cleanliness,  comfort,  culture ;  all  the 
pleasures  that  can  be  had  in  talking, 
learning,  writing,  and  music ;  a  life  of 
aifection,  thoughtfulncss,  and  care ;  a  time 
spent  with  a  man  so  much  older  than 
herself,  that  even  now  that  she  was 
grown  up  she  looked  upon  him  as  almost 
her  father,  and  loved  him  as  much  as  any 
father  could  be  loved.  From  ten  to  six, 
a  sweet  innocence  of  trust,  the  growth  of 
twelve  years'  intercourse,  of  the  outpour- 
ing of  confidence  which  she  could  give  to 
no  other  person  in  the  world.  From  ten 
to  six  the  modest  pride  that  the  girl  had 
in  being  the  object  of  all  this  grace  and 
tenderness  in  her  Bohemian  protector. 

But  from  six  to  ten,  Puddock's  Row. 

To  know  Puddock's  Row  aright,  you  must 
visit  it  at  least  every  night  in  the  week,  at 
each  successive  season.  As  the  progress 
of  my  story  might  be  hindered  in  the  de- 
scription of  eight  and  twenty  nights,  let  us 
only  give  a  few  general  details.  Lollie's 
grandmamma  occupied  a  first  floor, —  four 
and  sixpence  the  two  rooms.  —  in  the  row, 
and  was  considered  a  rich  and  fortunate 
woman.  She  had  only  one  set  of  rooms  to 
attend,  and  Venn  only  gave  her  six  and  six- 
pence a  week  for  all  her  motherly  care ;  and 
Lollie  did  not  know  that  her  own  pension 
money,  weekly  administered,  in  addition  to 
this,  by  Venn,  was  all  they  had  to  live  upon. 
The  inhabitants  of  the  row  looked  upon  the 
girl  with  respectful  admiration.  Of  her 
virtue  there  could  be  but  one  opinion,  and 
but  one  of  her  beauty.  She  was  the  pat- 
tern of  the  court ;  and  moralizing  mothers, 
when  they  were  sober  enough  to  point  the 
moral  and  improve  the  tale,  were  apt  to 
fix  her  success  as  a  theme,  and  narrate  her 
story  to  envying  daughters  as  that  of  one 
who  had  risen  by  her  own  merits. 

They  were  a  kindly,  dissolute,  improvi- 
dent race,  — always  sinning,  always  repent- 
ant, always  sick  and  sorry.  There  was  the 
old  lady  at  the  end  of  the  court,  who 
worked  hard  all  the  week,  and  got  drunk 
every  Saturday  night,  and  was  wont  to 
come  out  at  twelve,  with  her  hand  to  her 
head,  crying  aloud  unto  the  four  winds, 
"  O  Lord,  how  bad  I  be  ! "  There  were 
the  family  of  five  brothers  at  No.  2,  who 
fought  most  nights  in  pairs,  the  other  three 
looking  on.  There  were  two  or  three  laun- 
dresses of  the  Inn,  who  were  even  worse,  as 
regards  personal  habits  and  appearance, 
than  poor  old  Mrs.  Peck,  and  envious  of  her 
superior  fortune.  There  was  a  swarming 
population  all  day  and  all  night ;  there  was 
no  peace,  no  quietness,  no  chance  for  any 
thing  but  endurance. 

And,  in  the  midst  of  all  this,  the  poor  girl 
had  to  spend  her  evenings  and  her  nights. 
Sometimes  she  would  cry  aloud  for  shame 


and  misery.  Sometimes,  when  she  was  left 
alone,  the  squalor  of  her  surrounding  cir- 
cumstances would  appear  so  dreadful,  so 
intolerable,  so  miserable,  that  she  would  re- 
solve to  beg  and  implore  Mr.  Venn  to  take 
her  out  of  them.  Sometimes  she  would  shut 
out  the  world  around  her  by  building  cas- 
tles in  the  air,  and  so  forget  things.  Only, 
as  time  went  on,  and  things  did  not  change 
but  for  the  worse,  she  found  it  becoming 
daily  more  difficult  to  keep  up  the  illusions 
of  hope,  and  persuade  herself  that  all  this 
would  have  an  end. 

The  poor  grandmother  was  a  trial.  I  am 
afraid  the  wicked  old  woman  purloined  half 
the  money  that  Venn  gave  her  for  his  ward, 
and  put  it  into  a  stocking.  She  was  not  a  nice 
old  woman  to  look  at.  She  had  disagree- 
able habits.  She  was  not  reticent  of  speech.' 
She  was  interested  mainly  in  the  price  of 
the  commoner  kinds  of  provisions,  such  as 
the  bloater  of  Leather  Lane.  And  when  she 
was  in  a  bad  temper,  which  was  often,  she 
was  a  nagster.  From  habit,  Lollie  always 
let  her  go  on  till  it  was  bed-time.  Then,  at 
least,  she  was  free ;  for  the  little  room  at  the 
back  belonged  to  her.  She  could  have 
comparative  quiet  there,  at  any  rate.  The 
old  woman  preferred  sleeping  among  her 
pots  and  pans,  as  she  had  been  brought  up 
to  do,  in  the  front  room.  Besides,  she  was 
afraid  of  her  grand-daughter,  and  yet  proud 
and  fond  of  her.  She  felt  more  comforta- 
ble when  the  child  was  gone  to  bed,  and 
she  could  nag  all  to  herself,  —  audibly,  it 
is  true,  and  with  the  assistance  of  a  little 
bottle  containing  some  of  Mr.  Venn's  bran- 
dy. On  the  whole,  she  was  well  pleased 
that  she  had  but  little  of  the  girl's  society. 
For  like  will  to  like  ;  and  many  were  the 
cheerful  gatherings,  not  unenlivened  with 
gin,  which  took  place  on  that  first  floor, 
what  time  Lollie  was  gone  to  the  theatre 
with  Mr.  Venn,  with  ancient  contempora- 
ries of  this  dear  old  woman. 

I  think  I  see  her  now.  "  Tout  ce  qu'il  y 
a  du  plus  affreux."  An  antique  "  front," 
always  twisted  awry  over  a  brow,  —  mar- 
bled, indeed,  but  not  with  thought.  A  coun- 
tenance in  which  deep  lines  were  marked 
with  a  deeper  black  than  covered  the  rest. 
Small,  cunning  eyes :  if  you  lead  a  small, 
cunning  life,  your  eyes  do  most  inevita- 
bly become  small  and  cunning  of  aspect. 
Fat  lips,  such  as  might  come  from  always 
eating  roast  pork,  —  the  greatest  luxury 
with  which  Mrs.  Peck  was  acquainted.  A 
bonnet  never  removed  day  or  night.  A 
dress,  —  but,  no,  let  us  stop.  Is  there  not  a 
sort  of  sacrilege  in  describing,  only  to  mock 
at  her,  a  poor  old  creature  who  was  what 
the  conditions  of  life  made  her  ?  Let  us 
bring  honor  and  reverence  to  old  age.  For 
Mrs.  Peck  no  more  shall  be  said.  To  her 


38 


MY  LITTLE   GIRL. 


virtues  very  kind,  Hartley  Venn  was  to  all 
h«-r  faults  very  blind.  She  cribbed  every 
thiirj;.  She  never  cleaned  any  thing.  She 
bed  e^ery  tiling.  She  cheated.  But 
sin-  \v;is  Lollie's  grandmother. 

Lollie's  education  we  have  sufficiently  de- 
scribed. It  had,  as  we  have  hinted,  one  cap- 
ital defect.  There  was  not  one  word  of  re- 
ligion about  it.  Venn — not  because  he 
waa  an  infidel,  which  he  was  not;  nor  be- 
cau.-e  he  wished  to  make  an  experiment, 
which  was  not  the  case  ;  but  simply  out  of 
pure  carelessness  and  indifference,  and  be- 
•  cause  he  never  went  to  church  himself — 
taught  his  little  girl  no  religion  whatever. 
She  knew,  from  reading,  something,  —  the 
something  being  the  most  curious  medley 

Eassible,  from  a  mixture  of  every  kind  of 
atin,  French,  and  English  authors.  Venn 
respected  maidenly  innocence  so  far  as  to 
keep  harmful  books,  as  he  thought  them,  — 
that  is,  directly  harmful,  —  out  of  her  way  ; 
but  he  gave  the  child,  first  a  literary  taste, 
and  then  access  to  writers  whose  ideas  of 
religion  were  more  "  mixed,"  than  would 
have  been  good  for  the  most  masculine  in- 
tellect. The  Bible  she  had  never  seen ;  for 
the  only  copy  in  Venn's  possession  had, 
many  years  before,  tumbled  behind  the  book- 
case, and  was  thus  lost  to  view.  And  of 
ladies  she  knew  but  one,  Miss  Venn,  who 
still  asked  her  to  tea  once  or  twice  a  year, 
treated  her  with  exemplary  politeness,  and 
sent  her  away  with  a  frigid  kiss.  Miss 
Venn,  you  see,  was  suspicious.  She  always 
fancied  her  brother  was  going  to  marry  the 
girl ;  and  therefore  made  it  her  business  to 
try  and  make  her  understand  the  great 
gulf  which  comparative  rank  establishes  be- 
tween people, —  grandchildren  of  bishops 
for  instance,  and  grandchildren  of  laun- 
dresses. She  had  two  lovers,  —  past  and 
rejected,  bien  enfendu.  One  was  a  gallant 
young  lawyer's  clerk  in  the  Inn,  about  her 
own  age,  who  accosted  her  one  morning 
with  a  letter,  which  she  handed,  unopened, 
to  Venn.  It  contained  honorable  proposals. 
Venn  descended  to  the  court,  where  the 
aspirant  was  waiting  for  an  answer,  and 
there  and  then  administered  a  light  chas- 
tisement  with  a  walking-cane;  the  police- 
man, —  he  of  the  big  beard  and  the  twin- 
kling eyes,  not  the  thin  one,  looking  on  with 
a  grim  but  decided  approval. 

Then  there  was  Sims  the  baker.  A  quite 
genteel  young  man  of  a  Sunday,  if  you  see 
him  got  up  in  his  best  blue  tie  and  flower 
in  his  button-hole,  with  a  cane.  He  at- 
. tacked  the  fortress  through  the  grandmoth- 
er, and  persuaded  her  to  accept  the  first 
offerings  of  love,  in  the  shape  of  certain 
fancy  ones,  which  greatly  pleased  the  old 
lady.  To  her  astonishment,  the  child  threw 
the  gifts  out  of  the  window ;  and  Mr.  Venn 


went  round  the  next  day,  and  had  a  serious 
talk  with  the  young  man.  He  put  on 
mourning  the  next  Sunday,  and  walked  up 
and  down  the  Gray's  Inn  road  all  day  in  the 
disguise  of  a  mute.  But  Lollie  never  saw 
him  ;  so  his  silent  sorrow  was  thrown  away, 
and  he  returned  to  his  Sally  Lunns. 

And  this  is  all  her  story  up  to  the  point 
when  we  left  her  in  Venn's  chamber,  play- 
ing to  him. 

It  was  between  nine  and  ten  o'clock  that 
she  left  Gray's  Inn  for  home,  —  not  five 
minutes'  walk,  and  one  she  always  took 
alone.  Here  she  had  a  little  adventure ; 
for,  as  she  was  striding  fast  along  the 
pavement  of  Holborn,  she  became  aware  of 
a  "  gentleman "  walking  beside  her,  and 
gazing  into  her  face.  It  was  one  of  those 
moral  cobras,  common  enough  in  London 
streets,  —  venomous  but  cowardly,  and 
certain  to  recoil  harmless  before  a  little 
exhibition  of  daring.  He  coughed  twice. 
Lollie  looked  straight  before  her.  Then  he 
took  off  his  hat,  and  spoke  something  to  her. 
Then,  finding  she  took  no  notice  of  him,  he 
took  her  hand,  and  tried  to  pass  it  ujider  his 
arm. 

"  We  are  old  friends,  my  dear,"  he  said, 
with  an  engaging  smile. 

She  shook  him  off  with  terror,  crying  out. 

There  were  a  few  people  passing  at  the 
time  who  were  astonished  to  see  one  gentle- 
man take  another  gentleman  by  the  coat- 
collar,  and  kick  that  gentleman'  into  the 
gutter. 

"  Insulted  a  lady,"  said  the  champion  to 
the  by-standers,  and  going  back  to  Lollie. 

"  Yah  !  "  cried  the  mob,  closing  round 
him,  for  he  was  down  ;  and,  when  Lothario 
emerged  from  that  circle,  his  hat  was  bat- 
tered in,  and  probably  a  whole  quarter's 
salary  of  mischief  done  to  his  wardrobe. 
The  moral  of  this  shows  how  prudent  it  is 
not  to  be  taken  at  a  disadvantage  ;  also  that 
it  is  best  to  get  up  at  once,  if  you  are  kicked 
into  the  gutter,  and  to  cross  the  road ;  and 
thirdly,  that,  as  the  mob  is  sure  to  join  the 
winning  side,  it  is  best  to  be  the  victor  in  all 
street  encounters.  Some  historians  give  no 
moral  at  all  to  their  incidents ;  for  my  part, 
my  morals  are  my  strong  point.  When  I  do 
not  give  one,  it  is  only  because  the  moral 
may  be  read  in  so  many  ways  that  even 
three  volumes  cannot  stretch  so  far. 

"  Permit  me  to  see  you  safely  part  of 
your  way  at  least,"  said  Lollie's  knight. 

He  was  a  gentleman,  though  apparently 
of  a  different  kind  to  Mr.  Venn,  being  very 
carefully  and  elaborately  dressed.  His  face 
she  hardly  noticed,  except  that  he  had  a 
small  and  very  black  mustache;  but  she 
was  so  frightened  that  she  was  not  thinking 
of  faces. 

"  I  live  close  by/'  she  said.  "  Permit  me  to 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


39 


thank  you,  sir,  for  your  brave  interference  : 
I  have  never  been  insulted  before.  You 
have  done  me  a  great  service.  Good-night." 

She  held  out  her  hand,  with  a  pretty 
grace.  He  took  it  lightly,  raised  his  hat, 
saying,  — 

"I  am  very  happy.  Perhaps  we  may 
meet  again  under  more  fortunate 'circum- 
stances. Au  revoir,  mademoiselle ;  sans 
dire  adieu."  » 

She  smiled,  and  turned  into  Gray's-inn 
Road.  She  looked  round  once.  No  :  her 
champion  was  a  gentleman  ;  he  was  not 
following  her.  Why  did  he  speak  in 
French  V  — "  Au  revoir,  sans  dire  adieu." 
She  found  herself  saying  the  words  over 
and  over  again.  Nonsense  !  —  of  course  she 
would  never  see  him  again  j  and,  if  she 
should,  he  was  only  a  stranger  to  her. 

She  told  Venn  in  the  morning,  who  flew 
into  a  great  rage,  and  promised  always  to 
take  her  home  himself  when  she  left  his 
rooms  later  than  six.  In  the  course  of  the 
day  he  calmed  down,  and  delivered  an  ora- 
tion, —  I  am  sorry  I  have  no  space  for  it 
here,  —  on  the  nature  and  properties  of  the 
common  or  street  snob. 


CHAPTER  V. 

PYTHAGORAS  once  compared  life  to  the 
letter  Y.  This  letter,  starting  with  a 
trunk,  presently  diverges  into  two  branch- 
es, which  represent  respectively  the  two 
lines  of  life:  the  good  and  consequently 
happy, —  that  is  the  thin  line  to  the  right ; 
and  the  bad  and  consequently  miserable,  — 
the  thick  black  one  to  the  left.  It  is  an 
elementary  comparison,  and  hardly  shows 
the  sage  at  his  best.  For  as  to  happiness 
and  misery,  they  seem  to  me  somehow  de- 
pendent on  public  opinion  and  the  length 
of  a  man's  purse.  A  man  with  a  hundred 
thousand  a  year  may  really  do  any  thing  ; 
not  only  without  incurring  ignominy,  but 
even  with  a  certain  amount  of  applause. 
He  will  not,  of  course,  practise  murder  as 
one  of  the  fine  arts,  nor  will  he  cheat  at 
whist ;  and  he  will  have  little  difficulty  in 
resisting  the  ordinary  temptation  to  com- 
mit burglary.  But,  for  the  poor  man,  public 
opinion  is  a  mighty  engine  of  repression. 
Virtue  is  his  stern,  and  often  bitter,  por- 
tion. Public  opinion  exacts  from  him  a  life 
strictly  moral  and  rigidly  virtuous.  In  all 
places  except  London,  it  forces  him  to  go 
to  church :  in  a  manner,  it  drives  him 
heavenwards  with  a  thick  stick.  The  rich 
man,  in  whose  favor  any  good  point  — 
even  the  most  rudimentary  —  is  scored, 
may  be  as  bad  as  he  pleases  ;  the  poor  man, 
against  whom  we  score  all  we  can,  is  just 


as*  bad  as  he  dares  to  be.  This  is  one  ob- 
ection  to  the  Pythagorean  comparison. 
Another  is,  that  young  men  never  set  off 
deliberately  down  the  thick  line.  It  is,  I 
admit,  a  more  crowded  line  than  the  other ; 
but  then  there  are  constant  passings  and 
re-passings  to  and  fro,  and  I  have  seen 
many  an  honest  fellow,  once  a  roysterer, 
trudging  painfully,  in  after  years,  along  the 
narrow  and  prickly  path,  dragged  on  by 
wife  and  children  —  though  casting,  may 
be,  longing  looks  at  the  gallant  and  care- 
less men  he  has  left. 

"  I  knew  that  fellow,  Philip  Durnford," 
an  old  friend  of  his  told  me,  "  when  first  he 
joined.  He  was  shy  at  first,  and  seemed 
to  be  feeling  his  way.  AVe  found  out  after 
a  while  that  he  could  do  things  rather  better 
than  most  men,  and  more  of  them.  If  you 
cared  about  music,  Durnford  had  a  piano, 
and  could  play  and  sing,  after  a  fashion. 
He  could  fence  pretty  well  too ;  played 
billiards,  and  made  a  little  pot  at  pool : 
altogether,  an  accomplished  man.  He  was 
free-handed  with  his  money ;  never  seemed 
to  care  what  he  spent,  or  how  he  spent  it. 
Queer  thing  about  him,  that  he  was  a 
smart  officer,  and  knew  his  drill.  I  think 
he  liked  the  routine  of  the  regimental 
work.  Somehow,  though,  he  wasn't  popular. 
Something  grated.  He  was  not  quite  like 
other  men ;  and  I  don't  suppose  that,  dur- 
ing the  whole  six  years  he  was  in  the  regi- 
ment, he  made  a  single  good  friend  in  it. 
Perhaps  he  was  always  trying  to  be  better 
than  anybody  else,  and  he  used  to  flourish 
his  confounded  reading  in  your  face ;  so 
that  some  of  the  fellows  were  afraid  to 
open  their  lips.  We  didn't  seem  to  care 
—  eh  ?  about  John  Stuart  Mill.  Then,  he 
wouldn't  take  a  line.  The  fast  man  we 
can  understand,  and  the  man  who  preaches 
on  a  tub  and  distributes  tracts,  and  the 
army  prig  we  know,  and  the  reading  man  ; 
but  hang  me  if  we  could  make  out  a  man, 
who  wanted  to  be  every  thing  all  at  once, 
and  the  best  man  in  every  line.  I  can  as- 
sure you  we  were  all  glad  when  we  heard 
that  Durnford  was  sending  in  his  papers." 

That  was  the  state  of  the  case.  Phil 
Durnford  started  heroically  down  the  thin 
line.  When  we  meet  him  again,  he  is  in 
the  thick,  the  left-handed  one,  with  the 
mob.  This  is  very  sad  ;  because  we  shall 
have  to  see  more  than  enough  of  him. 
You  see,  he  wanted  patience.  He  would 
gladly  have  won  the  Victoria  Cross,  but 
there  was  nothing  in  that  way  going 
just  then.  He  would  have  liked  to  climb 
quickly  up  the  tree  of  honor;  but  this  is 
a  tree  which  can  be  only  attempted  under 
certain  conditions.  Had  he  been  a  drum- 
mer in  the  French  army,  about  the  year 
1790,  he  might  have  died  Marshal  of  the 


40 


MY  LITTLE  GIKL. 


French  Empire.  But  he  fell  not  upon  the 
piping  times  of  war.  So  he  went  in  for 
being  a  dashing  young  officer  :  rode  —  only 
he  did  not  ride  so  well  as  some  others; 
gambled —  only  not  with  the"  recklessness 
that  brought  glory  to  others;  and  was  a 
fast  man,  but  without  high  spirits.  In 
personal  appearance  he  was  handsome, 
particularly  in  uniform.  His  cheek  showed 
—  what  is  common  enough  in  men  of  the 
mixed  breed  —  no  signs  of  that  black 
blood  which  always  filled  his  heart  with 
rage  whenever  he  thought  of  it.  His  hair 
was  black  and  curling,  his  features  clear 
and  regular.  Perhaps  he  might  have  been 
an  inch  or  two  taller  with  advantage ; 
while  his  chin  was  weak,  and  his  forehead 
too  receding. 

Always  weak  of  will,  his  heroic  element 
has  now,  though  he  is  only  six  and  twenty, 
almost  gone  out  of  him.  He  looks  for 
little  beyond  physical  enjoyment  of  life  : 
he  has  no  high  aims,  no  purposes,  no  hopes. 
Worse  than  all,  he  has  no  friends  or  be- 
longings. So  his  heart  is  covered  with  an 
incrustation,  growing  daily  harder  and 
deeper,  of  selfishness,  cynicism,  and  un- 
belief. When  the  Devil  wanted  to  tempt 
him  to  do  something  worse  than  usual,  it 
was  his  wont  to  show  him  his  finger-nails, 
where  lay  that  fatal  spot  of  blue  which 
never  leaves  the  man  of  African  descent, 
though  his  blood  be  crossed  with  ours  for  a 
dozen  generations.  Then  he  waxed  fierce 
and  reckless,  and  was  ready  for  any  thing. 
If  the  consciousness  of  descent  from  a 
long  line,  which  has  sometimes  done  well 
and  never  done  disgracefully,  be  an  incen- 
tive to  a  noble  life,  surely  the  descent 
from  a  lower  and  inferior  race  must  be  a 
hinderance. 

He  thought  nobody  knew  it,  and  trem- 
bled lest  the  secret  should  be  discovered. 
Everybody  knew  it.  The  colonel  and  the 
major  had  been  in  Palmiste,  and  knew 
more.  They  knew  that  George  Durnfbrd, 
late  of  the  1  Oth  Hussars,  had  only  one  son 
by  his  marriage,  and  never  had  any  broth- 
ers at  all.  Then  they  put  things  together, 
and  formed  a  conclusion,  and  said  nothing 
about  it,  being  gentlemen  and  good  M- 
lows. 

No  brandishing  of  the  sword  in  front  of 
a  wavering  line  of  red  ;  no  leading  of  for- 
lorn hopes,  —  nothing  but  garrison  life  and 
camp  life :  what  should  a  young  man  do  V 
Here  my  former  informant  comes  ao-ain  to 
my  assistance. 

"  Durnfbrd,"  he  said,  «  used  to  be  always 
trying  to  out-pace  some  other  fellow. 
Don't  you  know  that  a  hunchback  always 
makes  himself  out  a  devil  of  a  lady-killer  ; 
and  a  parvenu  is  always  the  most  exclu- 
sive ;  and  a  fellow  with  a  nose  like  a  door- 


knocker aiways  thinks  himself  the  hand- 
.somest  dog  in  the  regiment  ?  Well,  you 
see,  Durnfbrd  was  a  mulatto,  an  octoroon, 
or  a  sixteenth-oroon,  or  something.  He'd 
read  in  a  book,  I  suppose,  that  mulattoes 
were  an  inferior  race  ;  so  nothing  would  do 
for  himjbut  showing  himself  an  exception 
to  the  rule  by  proving  himself  our  superior, 
—  all  the  same  as  making  himself  out  a 
bird  by  trying  to  fly.  He  muddled  away 
his  money ;  but,  bless  you !  he  couldn't 
really  chuck.  Chucking  is  a  grand  gift  of 
nature,  cultivated  by  a  course  of  public 
school,  army  coach,  and  garrison  life. 
Durnford  did  not  understand  the  art. 
Now,  young  Blythe  of  ours,  when  he 
heard  of  the  step  vacant,  wrote  to  his  gov- 
ernor about  it.  Well,  the  governor  actual- 
ly sent  him  the  money,  instead  of  paying 
it  into  Cox's.  The  young  beggar  screamed 
with  delight.  4O  Lord!'  he  said,  'look 
what  the  governor's  done  ! '  And  chucked 
it  all  in  a  fortnight,  without  purchasing  the 
step  at  all.  Durnford  could  never  come 
up  to  that,  you  know.  He  didn't  drink 
much ;  but  there  was  one  thing  men  liked 
in  him.  If  loo  was  on,  Durnford  never 
played  sober  against  men  screwed.  Al- 
ways reputed  the  soul  of  honor  in  that  re- 
spect. But  he  wanted  too  much.  He 
would  have  liked  to  be  popular  among  all 
classes,  and  he  was  popular  among  none." 

My  friend,  upon  this,  took  to  philosophiz- 
ing upon  the  nature  and  basis  of  popular- 
ity. 

"  I  believe,"  he  said,  with  some  plausi- 
bility, "  that  a  fellow  is  popular  if  he  is  be- 
lieved to  be  better  than  he  seems.  One 
man,  A.,  is  a  frightful  villain,  but  he  loves 
and  respects  B.,  another  tremendous  scoun- 
drel and  ruffian,  because  he  thinks  him 
possessed  of  some  noble  and  elevating  qual- 
ities wanting  in  himself.  He  once  saw  B. 
toss  a  halfpenny  to  a  beggar,  and  say, 
*  Poor  devil.'  Now,  that  showed  a  fine  vein 
of  native  generosity.  You  don't  like  a  man 
you  think  to  be  worse  than  yourself j  be- 
cause he  must  belong  to  such  a  devilish  bad  / 
lot ;  and  the  formula  of  A  ,  the  big  rascal, 
is  always  that  he  '  may  not  be  a  religious 
man,  by  gad ! '  but  there  are  some  things 
which  he  would  not  do.  ...  Well,  you  see, 
that  poor  beggar  Durnfbrd  was  believed  to 
be  worse  than  he  really  was.  He  did  it 
himself.  Used  to  scoff  at  religion  :  which 
is  bad  form,  in  my  opinion,  —  religion  be- 
ing the  business  of  the  chaplain  ;  and  I'd 
just  as  soon  scoff  at  the  adjutant  or  the 
sergeant-major.  That  did  him  harm  ;  and 
in  spite  of  his  riding  and  fencing,  and  all 
the  rest,  he  really  had  very  little  strength 
in  his  body.  Fellows  said  he  padded." 

When  we  pick  up  Philip,  which  is  on  the 
evening  when  he  — for  it  was  he  —  gal- 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


41 


lantly  came  to  the  rescue,  lie  has  not  yet 
sold  out,  but  is  enjoying  the  beginning  of  a 
long  furlough  from  Malta.  His  affairs  are 
not  yet  desperate,  though  •  he  has  got 
through  a  considerable  portion  of  his  for- 
tune ;  having  less  than  half  of  it  left,  and  a 
good  pile  of  debts,  whenever  it  shall  suit 
him  to  pay  them.  I  fear  that  the  account 
his  old  brother  officer  gave  of  him  was,  on 
the  whole,  correct.  Certainly  Philip 
Durnfbrd,  having  had  a  six  years'  run  of 
"  pleasure "  and  dissipation,  knew  most 
things  that  are  to  be  learned  in  that  time, 
and  was  almost  beginning  to  think  that  the 
years  had  been  purchased  by  too  great  an 
expenditure  of  youth,  health,  and  capital. 

When  the  girl  left  him,  he  staid  for  a 
moment  looking  after  her,  as  she  tripped 
up  the  street  with  her  light  and  buoyant 
step,  and,  turning  on  his  heel  with  a  sigh, 
strode  off  westward.  He  went  to  Arthur's 
club.  Not  finding  him  there,  he  went  to 
his  lodgings,  and  caught  him  reading  in  his 
usual  purposeless,  studious  way. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do,  Arthur," 
asked  Philip,  lighting  a  cigar,  and  taking  the 
best  easy-chair,  "  with  all  your  reading  ?  " 

"  Spare  me,"  said  Arthur.  "  I  am  one 
of  the  men  who  are  always  going  to  do 
every  thing.  Frankly,  it  is  useless.  I 
want  some  one  to  pull  me  out  of  my  own 
habits  ;  but  you,  Phil,  have  got  energy  for 
all  the  family." 

"  I've  used  some  of  it  to-night,"  said 
Phil,  laughing,  and  telling  his  story.  *«  Such 
a  pretty  girl,  Arthur !  Oh  !  such  a  beauti- 
ful girl,  —  tall,  sir,  and  as  straight  as  an 
arrow !  I  should  like  to  meet  her  again. 
I  don't  believe  too  much  in  the  sex ;  but  I 
do  believe  in  the  possibility  of  my  making 
a  fool  of  myself  over  one,  at  least ;  and,  by 
Jove  !  it  would  be  this  one." 

"  Take  care,  Phil." 

"Were  you  never  in  lave,  Arthur? 
Come,  now,  gentle  hermit,  confess.  Was 
there  not  some  barmaid  in  Oxford  ?  Was 
there  never  a  neat-handed  Phillis  —  ne  sit 
ancilla3  tibi  amor  pudori  —  at  the  college 
buttery  ?  " 

"I  have  not  been  in  love,  Phil,"  said 
Arthur,  lifting  his  fair,  serious  face,  "  since 
we  left  Palmiste ;  and  then  I  was  in  love 
with  Madeleine." 

"  Poor  little  Madeleine  !  So  was  I,  I  be- 
lieve. And  where  is  she  now  ?  " 

"  She  was  sent  to  Switzerland,  after  her 
father's  death,  to  be  educated." 

"  The  education  ought  to  be  finished  by 
this  time.  Why  don't  you  go,  old  fellow, 
and  search  about  the  playground  of  Eu- 
rope ?  You  might  meet  on  the  summit  of 
the  Matterhorn.  '  Amanda '  he,  and 
*  Amandus  '  she ;  and  all  would  be  gas  and 
fireworks." 


Then  they  began  to  talk  about  old  times 
and  boyish  freaks  ;  and  Philip's  better  na- 
ture came  back  to  him,  for  a  time  at  least. 
He  saw  little  of  Arthur.  They  had  not 
much  in  common.  When  they  did  meet, 
it  was  in  great  friendship  and  kindliness  ; 
but  they  were  almost  strangers ;  and  it  was 
only  now  —  Philip  being  home  on  furlough, 
and  Arthur  just  come  up  to  London  —  that 
they  had  come  together  at  all  since  the  old 
days  in  Palmiste. 

I  forgot  to  mention  one  curious  thing  in 
Philip's  life.  On  the  first  day  of  the  year, 
some  unknown  person  always  paid  into  his 
account  at  Cox's  the  sum  of  two  hundred 
pounds.  This  came  with  a  recurrence  so 
regular  that  Phil  looked  for  it,  and  counted 
on  it.  He  put  it  down  to  a  freak  of  Ar- 
thur's. Certainly  Arthur  had  a  good  deal 
more  of  his  own  than  he  at  all  knew  what 
to  do  with  ;  but  it  was  not  Arthur,  —  who, 
living  so  simply  himself,  did  not  understand 
that  his  cousin  might  sometimes  be  in  want 
of  money.  Philip  took  the  money,  spent 
it,  and  wished  it  had  been  more ;  and  he 
said  nothing  about  it  to  Arthur.  The  foun- 
tain of  benevolence,  you  see,  is  a  source 
which  may  possibly  be  muddled  and  spoiled 
by  the  uncalled-for  tears  of  gratitude. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

So,  about  this  time,  Hartley  Venn  began 
to  be  seriously  troubled  about  the  future  of 
his  protegee.  He  realized,  for  the  first 
time,  that  she  was  now  a  woman  ;  and  yet 
he  was  loth  to  change  any '  of  the  little 
customs  which  had  gone  on  so  long.  For 
instance,  that  kiss  at  arrival  and  departure. 
A  man  of  thirty-eight  is  certainly  old 
enough  to  be  the  papa  of  a  girl  of  eighteen. 

On  the  other  hand,  many  men  of  thirty- 
eight  are  not  too  old  to  be  the  lovers  of 
girls  of  eighteen.  He  could  not  put  a  stop 
to  that  tender  little  caress.  And  yet,  of 
late  days,  he  caught  himself  blushing,  and 
his  pulse  quickened,  when  his  lips  touched 
her  forehead,  and  her  lips  touched  his  cheek. 
Only  quite  lately  this  feeling  of  constraint 
had  sprung  up.  Not  on  her  part :  the  last 
thing  the  girl  thought  of  was  love  on  the 
part  of  her  guardian.  There  was  no  con- 
straint with  her,  —  only  that  hesitation  and 
doubt  which  came  from  the  birth  of  new 
ideas  within  her.  The  germ  of  many  a 
thought  and  aspiration  is  sown  in  child- 
hood, lying  concealed  in  the  brain  till  the 
time  of  adolescence  makes  it  appear,  and 
brighten  into  life. 

Then  Hartley,  putting  the  question  of 
love  out  of  sight,  resolutely  refusing  to  ad- 
mit it  at  all  into  his  mind,  set  himself  to 


42 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


work  out,  as  he  called  it,  a  practical  prob 
lem.  As  he  was  the  most  unpractical  ( 
men,  the  result  did  not  appear  likely  o 
"  come  out." 

He  appealed,  in  his  distress,  to  his  siste 
Sukcy. 

"  You've  educated  that  child,"  said  hi 
r,  "  till  she  can  laugh  at  young  ladies 
You've  put  your  notions  into  her  head,  til 
she  is  as  full  of  queer  thoughts  as  you  arc 
yourself.  She  talks  about  nothing  bu 
philanthropy  and  history  and  what  not 
She  is  like  no  other  girl  under  the  sun 
And  then  you  come  and  ask  me  what  yoi 
are  to  do  with  her.  Do  you  want  to  ge 
rid  of  her  ?  " 

"  Get  rid  of  her !  Why,  Sukey,  you 
must  be  mad  to  think  of  such  a  thing.  No 
I  want  to  put  her  in  some  way  "  — 

"  Of  earning  a  livelihood.  Quite  prop- 
er. And  time  she  did  it.  By  rights  she 
should  be  a  kitchen-maid.  Not  that  I  am 
unkind  to  her,  dear  Hartley,"  she  added 
as  her  brother  flashed  a  warning  look  at 
her  —  "not  at  all.  And  she  is,  as  I  be- 
lieve, a  very  good  girl  —  spoiled,  of  course 
What  do  you  say,  now,  to  the  bonnet-mak- 
ing ?  " 

Hartley  shook  his  head. 
"  She  shall  not  work  for  her  bread,  Su- 
key. I  have  taken  a  decisive  step.  I've 
made  my  \vill,  Sukey.  You  don't  want 
any  more  money.  Bob's  boy  is  looked 
after  by  his  mother's  people.  And,  besides, 
you  can  leave  him  your  money,  you  know." 
"I  always  intended  to,"  said  his  sister. 
"  You  needn't  go  on.  You  have  left  all 
yours  to  Laura.  Well,  of  course  it's  a 
shame,  and  all  that.  But  you  can  do  as 
you  like  with  your  own,  What  do  you 
want  my  advice'  about  ?  " 

"  That  is  just  the  difficulty.  I  want, 
somehow,  to  do  something  for  her  that  will 
take  her  into  a  brighter  atmosphere,  out  of 
the  dingy  surroundings  of  her  life." 

"  She  lives  with  her  grandmother,  does 
she  not?  At  least,  I  have  always  under- 
stood that  this  was  the  very  proper  ar- 
rangement." 

"  Yes :  where  her  grandmother  lives  I 
have  never  thought  about  till  the  other 
day.  Sukey,  my  dear,  I  am  a  selfish  animal. 
It  was  all  to  please  myself  that  I  made  a 
toy  of  the  child.  <  To  please  myself,  I 
watched  her  intelligence  grow  under  my 
hands;  only  to  please  myself,  I  put  into 
her  head  ideas  and  knowledge.  In  my 
own  selfish  gratification,  I  have°  made  her 
ten  times  as  well  taught  as  young  ladyhood 
is  apt  to  be.  I  have  never  thought  'about 
what  was  to  come  of  it  —  or  of  me.  And 

now  —  now  —  she  is  a  woman  —  and  I  " 

Sukey  laughed. 

"  My  poor  dear  Hartley,  and  you  ?  — 


you  are  in  love  with  her  !  I  knew  it  was 
coming,  all  along.  Of  course  it  is  a  blow. 
Aitcr  all  your  brilliant  prospects,  and  the 
grandson  of  a  bishop,  and  a  Master  of  Arts, 
and  a  barrister-at-law,  and  a  scholar,  and 
all  —  and  —  oh  1  dear,  dear  !  But  I  always 
expected  it,  and  always  said  it.  If  you 
will  kindly  ring  the  bell  and  call  Anne, 
she  will  tell  you  that  I  have  prophesied  it 
any  time  this  last  six  years." 

When  the  misfortune  comes  upon  you, 
it  is,  at  least,  a  consolation  to  your  friends 
to  have  foretold  it ;  but  Hartley  was 
walking  up  and  down  the  room,  not  listen- 
ing. 

"  In  love  with  her  ?  I  in  love  with  Lol- 
lie  ?  I  have  loved  her  ever  since  she 
looked  up  in  my  face,  the  very  first  day  I 
saw  her,  and  put  up  her  lips  to  be  kissed. 
In  love  with  her  ?  I  have  never  thought 
of  it.  Upon  my  word,  Sukey,  I  have  never 
even  thought  of  it  till  the  last  few  days. 
It  is  nonsense  —  it  is  absurd.  I  am  twenty 
years  older  than  Lollie.  She  looks  on  me 
as  her  father :  told  me  so  last  Sunday. 
Love  !  Am  I  to  think  of  love,  at  my  age  ? 
[  thought  it  was  all  put  away  and  done 
with.  Sukey,  forget  what  you  have  said. 
Don't  raise  up  before  me  the  vision  of  a 
ife  with  such  love  as  that.  Let  me  go  on 
laving  the  child's  childish  affection  and 
:rust.  It  is  all  I  am  fit  for.  It  is  more 
than  I  deserve." 

Hartley  was  not  a  demonstrative  man. 
Tt  was  rare,  indeed,  that  the  outer  crust  of 
L  good-natured  cynicism  was  broken,  and 
he  inner  possibilities  laid  open. 
"  Ask  her,  Hartley,  if  she  can  love  you." 
"No,  no  ;  and  lose  all  that  I  have  !  " 
"  Shall  I  ask  her,  then  ?  " 
"  You,   my   dear  sister  ? "    he   replied, 
aughing.     "  He  that  cannot  woo  for  him- 
elf  is  not  worth   being   woed   for.     No. 
^et  things  be  as  they  are.     Only  I  should 
ike  to  see  a  way  "  — 

;  At  any  rate,  there  is  no   such   great 

hurry." 

If    she    had   any    creative   power,    it 

might  be  worth  while  to  make  her  a  novel- 

st.     But  she  hasn't.     She  only   imitates, 

ke  most  of  her  sex  —  imitative  animals. 

Ian,    you   see,   originates.      Woman   re- 

eives,    assimilates,   and    imparts.      In    a 

igher  state  of  civilization,  women  will  be 

jachers  in  all  the  schools,  from  Eton  dovvn- 

rards.     Flogging,  I  sunpose,  will  then  "  — 

"  Hartley,  do  be  consecutive." 

"  I've  tried  her  at  writing,  and  she  really 

makes    very    creditable    English    verses. 

ler  Latin  verses  are  a  failure,  principally 

ecause  she  will  not  study  the  accuracies 

f  language." 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  you  have  taught 

T       .     (>  „  J   J  o 

r  Latin  t 


MY   LITTLE   GIRL. 


43 


« Why  not  ?  Of  course  I  have.  We 
read  together  portions  of  Horace,  Ovid, 
Virgil,  and  other  poets.  Lollie  is  a  very 
fair  Latin  scholar,  I  assure  ycu.  Well,  ] 
suggested  that  she  should  write  a  novel ; 
and,  after  a  great  deal  of  trouble,  we  con- 
cocted a  plot.  That  was  last  year.  We 
went  up  the  river,  and  elaborated  it  all  one 
summer's  afternoon.  It  was  a  capital  plot. 
Three  murders  which  all  turned  out  to.be 
no  murders,  a  bigamy,  and  the  discovery 
of  a  will  in  a  bandbox,  formed  the  main  in- 
cidents. Unfortunately  we  couldn't  string 
it  together.  The  result  was  not  satisfacto- 
ry ;  and  we  took  it  out  one  day,  tied  a 
great  stone  to  it,  and  buried  it  solemnly 
above  Teddington  Lock.  It  lies  there  still, 
in  a  waterproof  oilskin  ;  so  that  when  the 
river  is  dredged  for  treasure  in  a  thousand 
years'  time  it  may  be  found,  and  published 
as  a  rare  and  precious  relic  of  antiquity. 
There  we  are,  you  see.  We  can't  be  liter- 
ary or  musical ;  our  gifts  and  graces  are  so 
wholly  receptive,  that  we  cannot  even  be- 
come a  strong-minded  woman.  What  are 
we  to  do  ?  " 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  I  only  half 
understand  what  it  all  means." 

"  It  means,  Sukey,  plainly,  that  the  time  is 
staring  me  in  the  face  when  I  must  do  some- 
thing for  the  child  which  will  bring  her 
into  the  world,  and  —  and  —  away  from 
my  old  chambers,  where  the  atmosphere, 
very  good  for  children,  may  prove  delete- 
rious for  a  young  woman." 

"  If  she  could  be  honorably  married," 
said  Sukey. 

"  I  suppose,"  murmured  her  brother, 
"  that  would  be  the  best  thing."  Then  he 
shook  himself  together,  and  brightened 
up.  "  My  dear  sister,  I  never  come  here 
—  it  is  wonderful  to  me  why  I  come  so 
seldom  —  without  getting  the  solution  of 
some  of  those  problems  which,  as  I  am  not 
a  mathematical  man,  do  sometimes  so 
sorely  worry  me.  Married,  of  course ! 
She  shall  be  married  next  week." 

"  But  to  whom,  Hartley  ?  Do  not  laugh 
at  evary  thing." 

"  Eh  V  "  His  face  fell.  "  To  be  sure. 
I  never  thought  of  that.  There  is  Jones  — 
but  he  has  no  money ;  and,  besides,  I 
should  certainly  not  let  her  marry  Jones. 
And  Lynn  —  but  he  is  poorer  than  Jones, 
and  I  should  not  let  him  have  my  little  girl. 
Then  there  is  —  Sukey,  you  have  floored 
one  problem  only  to  raise  another  and  a 
worse  one.  To  whom  shall  I  marry  her  V  " 

He  put  on  his  hat,  shook  his  head  mourn- 
fully, and  went  away.  Next  day  he  pro- 
pounded some  of  his  difficulties  to  Lollie. 

"  And  so,  after  a  long  talk  with  my  sis- 
ter, the  most  sensible  woman  that  at  pres- 
ent adorns  the  earth,  she  gave  me,  Lollie, 


the  answer  to  the  question  I  have  been 
troubling  myself  with  for  so  long.  She 
says,  my  child,  that  there  is  only  one  way  : 
you  must  be  comfortably  and  honorably 
married.  Her  very  words." 

"  I,  Mr.  Venn  ?  "  The  girl  looked  up 
and  laughed  in  his  face,  with  those  merry 
blue  eyes  of  hers.  "  What  have  I  done, 
that  I  must  be  married  V  " 

"  Don't  raise  difficulties,  Lollie,"  he  said, 
in  a  feeble  way.  "  After  all  the  trouble 
we  had  in  getting  Sukey  to  give  us  the 
right  answer  too." 

She  laughed  again. 

"  I  suppose  I  am  not  to  be  married  un- 
less I  like  ?  " 

"  Why,  no  —  I  suppose  not.  No.  Oh, 
certainly  not !  but  you  will  like,  won't 
you  ?  " 

"  And  who  am  I  to  marry  ?  " 

"  Why,  you  see,  Lollie  "  —  He  grew 
confidential.  "  The  fact  is,  I  don't  know. 
Jones  won't  do." 

"  Oh,  dear,  no !     He  is  too  —  too  —  un- 


"Mr.  Lynn?" 

"  Certainly  not.  Is  there  any  one 
else?" 

"  Not  at  present,  my  child  ;  but  we  shall 
see.  Let  us  look  around  us.  London  is  a 
great  place.  If  London  won't  do,  there  is 
all  England ;  besides  the  rest  of  Great 
Britain,  Berwick-upon-Tweed,  and  the 
colonies." 

"  What  does  it  all  mean,  Mr.  Venn  ?  " 
she  asked,  sitting  at  his  feet  on  the  foot- 
stool. "  Last  Sunday  you  were  talking  in 
the  same  strain.  You  are  not  going  away, 
or  any  thing,  are  you?  " 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  I  have  not  offended  you,  have  I  ?  " 

He  patted  her  cheek,  and  shook  his 
bead  again. 

"  And  you  love  me  as  much  as  always, 
don't  you  ?  " 

"  More,  Lollie,  more,"  he  said,  in  a 
queer,  constrained  voice.  But  she  under- 
stood nothing. 

;'  Then,  what  is  it  ?  Do  you  think  I  am 
not  grateful  to  you  ?  " 

"  Don't,  child  — don't  talk  of  gratitude." 

"  Do  you  think  I  do  not  love  you  enough? 
O  Mr.  Venn  !  you  know  I  do." 

Perhaps  it  would  have  been  well  if  he 
lad  spoken,  then,  the  words  which  rose  to 
lis  lips.  — 

"  It  is  that  I  think  you  can  never  love 
me  as  I  love  you  —  no  longer  as  your  guar- 
dian, but  your  lover ;  no  longer  as  a  child, 
Dut  with  the  hungry  passion  of  a  man  who 
las  never  known  a  woman's  love,  and 
earns  for  your  love." 

But  he  was  sileut,  only  patting  her 
cheek  in  a  grave  and  silent  way. 


41 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


"  Would  you  really  like  me  to  be  mar- 
ried, Mr.  Vi-mi?" 

He  left  her,  and  be?;an  walking  about; 
for  the  spectre  which  he  had  deliberately 
refused  to  see  stood  before  him  now,  lace 
to  face,  —  the  spectre  of  another  feeling. 
nev.vr,  sweeter,  altogether  lovely;  but  he 
faced  it  still. 

«  Can  there  be  a  better  thing  for  a  girl 
than  to  be  married,  Lollie  ?  I  wish  what 
is  best  for  you." 

••  \Vould  it  be  best  for  me  to  give  up 
coming  here  every  day?  " 

'*  No,  child,  no,"  he  replied  passionately. 

"  Then  why  want  me  to  ?  " 

^  It  would  break  my  heart  not  to  see 
you  here  every  day,"  he  went  on,  not  dar- 
ing to  look  her  in  the  face.  "  But  —  but 
—  "there  are  other  things.  Lollie,  I  want 
you  to  be  happy  during  those  long  hours 
when  you  are  not  with  me." 

She  turned  red,  and  the  tears  came  into 
her  eyes. 

"  I  have  been,  as  usual,  a  selfish  beast," 
he  said.  "  I  have  only,  since  Sunday,  real- 
ized in  a  small  degree  what  a  difference 
there  is,  of  my  making,  between  you,  and 
the  people  in  whose  midst  you  live.  Lollie, 
you  are  a  lady.  Believe  me,  there  is  no 
girl  in  all  England  better  educated  than 
yourself.  I  think,  too,  there  is  no  girl  so 
beautiful." 

She  looked  at  him  with  surprise.  He 
had  never  before  even  hinted  at  the  possi- 
bility of  her  being  beautiful. 

"  Am  I  pretty  ?  O  Mr.  Venn  !  I  am  so 
glad." 

"  Mind,"  he  went  on,  careful  to  guard 
against  possible  error,  "  I  only  think  so. 
I've  got  no  experience  in  these  things,  you 
know." 

"  Ah  !  "  she  replied,  "  and  very  likely 
you  are  mistaken.  I  suppose  all  girls  like 
to  be  beautiful,  do  they  not?  And  you 
are  not  in  such  a  very  great  hurry  to  see 
me  away,  married,  or  any  thing  else,  are 
you  ?  " 

He  smiled  in  his  queer  way.  Hartley 
Venn's  smile  was  peculiar  to  himself;  at 
least,  I  never  met  anybody  else  with  it. 
There  was  always  a  sort  of  sadness  in  the 
curve  -of  his  sensitive  lips.  He  smiled  with 
his  eyes  first,  too,  like  the  damsel  in 
Chaucer. 


"  ITir  even  greyc  and  glad  also, 
That  luuirheden  ay  in  hire  semblaunt, 
First  or  the  mouth  by  covenant." 

"  Not  in  a  hurry  at  all.  Lollie  —  only  I 
thought  we  would  talk  things  over  some 
day.  Now  let  us  do  something.  It  is  six 
o'clock.  We  will  dine  together,  and  go 
to  the  theatre.  Shall  we  ?  Enough  of  sen- 


timent, and  of  confidences   enough.     We 
will  rejoice.     What  does  Horace  say  ?  — 

« Hie  dies  vere  mihi  festus ' "  — 

"  That  is  delightful,"  said  Lollie,  clap- 
ping her  hands.  "  When  you  begin  to 
quote,  I  know  you  are  happy  again.  Let 
us  have  no  more  talk  of  marrying,  Mr. 
Venn.  One  thing,  you  know,"  she  said, 
placing  her  hand  on  his  arm  —  "I  could 
never  marry  anybody  but  a  gentleman  ; 
and  as  no  gentleman  will  ever  love  me, 
why  I  shall  never  marry  anybody  at  all ; 
and  we  shall  go  on  being  happy  together, 
you  and  I,  — 

•'  II  n'y  a  que  moi  qui  ai  ses  idoes  la. 
Gai  la  riette  —  gai,  lira,  lire.' " 

And  so,  singing  and  dancing,  she  put  on 
her  hat  and  gloves,  and  taking  Hartley's 
arm,  went  out  to  the  restaurant  which 
knew  them  well.  As  she  passed  through 
the  portals  of  the  dingy  old  Inn,  with  her 
springing  step  and  the  laughing  light  of 
her  happy  face,  the  old  porter  rubbed  his 
eyes,  the  policeman  assumed  an  attitude 
of  respectful  attention,  and  the  cads  who 
loafed  about  for  odd  jobs  became  conscious 
of  something  in  the  world  superior  to  beer 
and  a  dry  skittle-ground.  Whenever  I 
meet  a  maiden  happy  in  her  beauty,  me- 
tliinks,  in  my  mind's  eye,  I  see  again  Aph- 
rodite springing  up  anew  from  the  ocean. 
Happy  Aphrodite  !  She  reigns  by  no  vir- 
tue of  her  own  ;  she  is  not  wise,  or  strong, 
or  prescient ;  she  does  not  hold  the  thread 
of  destiny  ;  she  is  unconnected  with  the 
electric  department;  she  has  no  control 
over  the  weather ;  she  is  not  consulted  in 
the  distribution  of  wealth  or  honors ;  and 
yet  she  is  Queen  among  goddesses,  Empress 
over  gods  —  Regina  Cseli. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE  days  passed  on,  and  Lollie  thought 
no  more  of  her  champion ;  but  Philip 
thought  of  her ;  and,  when  he  took  his 
walks  abroad,  more  often  than  not  bent 
his  steps  down  Oxford  Street  and  Holborn, 
praying  silently  that  he  might  chance  upon 
her  again.  He  might  have  walked  up  and 
down  Holborn  forever  on  the  chance  of 
seeing  her  again,  and  yet  missed  her  alto- 
gether. But  one  day,  thinking  of  some- 
thing else,  he  was  walking  round  a  square 
in  Bloomsbury,  when,  raising  his  eyes  from 
the  ground,  —  I  believe  he  was  thinking  of 
his  bets,  —  he  saw  the  maiden  of  his  exploit 
tripping  along  a  few  yards  before  him. 
There  was  no  mistaking  her.  She  came 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


45 


along,  with  a  light,  elastic  step,  full  of 
youth  and  health,  with  her  frank,  sweet 
face,  her  deep  blue  eyes,  and  her  tall,  lithe 
figure  :  only  by  day  she  looked  ten  times 
as  well  as  by  night. 

She,  too,  saw  him,  and  blushed. 

Philip  took  off  his  hat.  She  hesitated  a 
moment,  and  held  out  her  hand. 

"I  ought  to  thank  you  properly,"  she 
said.  "  I  was  very  much  frightened." 

Philip  took  her  hand,  and  turned.  The 
girl  went  on,  and  he  went  with  her.  You 
see,  it  was  one  of  the  radical  defects  of  her 
education  that  she  positively  did  not  know 
the  dreadful  "  wrongness  "  of  letting  a  man, 
not  properly  introduced,  speak  to  her,  and 
walk  with  her. 

"  I  shall  tell  Mr.  Venn  I  met  you,"  she 
said.  "  He  will  be  glad.  Come  and  see 
him  yourself,  for  him  to  thank  you." 

"  May  I  ask  —  excuse  me,  but  I  do  not 
know  Mr.  Venn." 

"  He  is  my  guardian.  I  am  going  to 
him  now.  He  lives  in  Gray's  Inn." 

It  seemed  strange  to  the  girl  that  all  the 
world  did  not  know  Mr.  Venn. 

Philip  did  not  know  what  to  say.  As 
he  walked  along  by  her  side,  he  turned 
furtive  glances  at  her,  drinking  in  the  lines 
of  beauty  of  her  face  and  form. 

"  Do  you  live  near  here  V  " 

"  No,  I  am  here  by  accident.  I  am 
living  in  St.  James  Street,  in  lodgings.  I 
am  on  leave  from  my  regiment. 

"  I  don't  think,""  said  Lollie,  "  that  I 
should  much  like  to  be  an  officer."  She 
always  took  the  male  point  of  view,  from 
habit.  "  I  should  like  best  to  be  a  writer, 
a  dramatist,  or  perhaps  a  barrister.  But  I 
should  like  to  wear  the  uniform.  Once  I 
saw  a  splendid  review  at  Windsor,  when 
the  Viceroy  of  Egypt  was  here.  Are  you 
in  the  cavalry  ?  " 

"  No.     I  am  in  the  line." 

"  Why  do  you  not  go  into  the  cavalry  ? 
It  must  be  delightful  to  charge,  with  all  the 
horses  thundering  over  the  ground.  Do 
you  like  your  profession  ?  " 

"  Ye?,  I  suppose  so  —  as  well  as  any 
thing." 

"  You  know,"  said  the  girl,  "  it  is  absurd 
for  a  man  to  take  up  with  a  thing,  and 
then  take  no  interest  in  it.  I  should  like 
something  I  could  throw  my  whole  heart 
into." 

"  I  could  only  throw  my  whole  heart 
away  upon  one  thing,"  Philip  replied 
softly,  and  with  a  halt-blush ;  for  he  was 
afraid  he  was  making  a  foolish  observa- 
tion. 

"  What  is  that  ?  If  I  were  you,  I  should 
take  it  up  at  once." 

"  I  could  only  throw  my  whole  heart 
away  —  upon  a  woman." 


Laura  received  the  remark  as  one  of 
profound  philosophical  importance. 

"  That  is  a  very  curious  thing.  Not  a 
right  thing  at  all.  I  should  think  it  would 
be  so  much  better  to  put  your  heart  into 
work." 

"  Tell  me,"  said  Philip,  in  a  half-whisper, 
"  Do  you  not  think  love  a  worthy  object 
of  a  man's  life?  " 

"  I  really  do  not  think  any  thing  about 
it,"  said  the  girl.  "  And  now  I  must  leave 
you,  because  I  am  going  down  here,  and 
so  to  the  Inn.  Won't  you  come  in  and  be 
thanked  by  Mr.  Venn  ?  " 

"  No,  it  is  enough  to  be  thanked  by  you. 
May  I  —  anil  impertinent  in  asking  you 
—  will  you  tell  me  your  name  ?  " 

"  I  am  called  Laura  Col  lihg  wood,"  she 
answered  freely  and  frankly.  "  What  is 
yours  ?  " 

"  Philip  Durnford." 

"Philip  Durnford  —  I  like  the  name. 
Mr.  Venn  has  a  friend  of  your  name,  but  I 
have  not  met  him  yet.  Good-by,  Mr. 
Durnford." 

"  One  moment.  Shall  we  never  meet 
again  ?  " 

He  looked  so  sentimental  tiiat  Laura 
burst  out  laughing. 

"  You  look  as  if  you  were  going  to  cry. 
I  think  we  shall  very  likely  never  meet 
again." 

Phil  grew  desperate.  His  hot  Southern 
blood  rose  at  once. 

"  I  must  speak  —  laugh  at  me  if  you  like. ' 
I  have  been  hanging  about  Oxford  Street 
in  hopes  of  meeting  you,  and  for  no  other 
reason.  I  think  you  are  the  sweetest-look- 
ing girl  I  ever  saw,  and  —  and  —  I  am  a 
fool  to  say  it,  when  I  have  only  spoken 
twice  — I  love  you." 

She  looked  at  him  without  a  blush  on 
her  face  —  quite  coldly,  quite  openly,  as  if 
it  were  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world 
for  a  man  to  tell  her  this  at  the  second 
meeting. 

"  Do  you  mean,  you  want  to  marry  me  ?  " 

The^  question,  so  abruptly  and  boldly 
stated,  took  Philip  by  surprise. 

"  Of  course  I  do,"  he  cried  hastily  — 
"of  course  I  do." 

"  Oh  !  "  she  replied  slowly, "  I  don't  know. 
You  see,  I've  no  experience  in  marriage 
matters.  I  must  ask  Mr.  Venn  what  he 
thinks  about  it.  He  told  me  the  other  day 
he  should  like  to  see  me  married.  I  shall 
see  what  he  says  about  it  first.  We  must 
never  do  serious  things  in  a  hurry,  you 
know." 

Surely  the  quaintest  answer  that,  ever 
man  had  to  a  proposal.  Philip  felt  as  if  he 
were  in  a  dream. 

"  Won't  you  come  and  see  him  yourself?  " 
she  asked. 


46 


MY  LITTLE   GIRL. 


He  hesitated. 

"  I  have  been  too  hasty,"  he  said.  "  Tar- 
don  me.  I  am  rude  and  uncouth.  Miss 
Colliug\vood,  I  ask  your  forgiveness." 

"  I  wonder  what  for  ?  "  thought  Lollie ; 
Imt  r-he  said  nothing. 

«  Let  us  wait,"  he  said.  "  Marriage  is  a 
very  serious  thing,  as  you  say.  I  am  worse 
than  a  fool.  Believe  only  that  I  love  you, 
as  I  said;  and  meet  me  again.  Let  me 
learn  to  love  you  more,  and  try  and  teach 
you  to  love  me." 

"  I  will  ask  Mr.  Venn." 

"  No,"  said  Philip,  with  a  sharp  pang  of 
conscience,  "  do  not  ask  him.  Wait.  Meet 
me  once  more  first,  and  let  me  speak  to 
you  again.  Then  you  shall  tell  him.  Will 
you  promise  me  so  much  ?  Meet  me  to- 
morrow." 

"  I  promise,"  said  Laura.     "  But "  — 

"  Thanks  —  a  thousand  thanks.  You 
will  meet  me  to-morrow,  and  you  will  keep 
the  secret." 

He  took  off  his  hat,  lightly  touched  her 
fingers,  and  walked  away. 

Lollie  went  in  to  Mr. Venn.  It  was  four 
in  the  afternoon,  and  the  sage  was  hard  at 
work  on  his  last  essay. 

"  I  thought  you  would  never  come,  child. 
What  did  Sukey  say  ?  " 

"  Miss  Venn  is  better,  and  much  obliged 
for  the  papers ;  and,  O  Mr.  Venn  !  I've 
had  an  adventure,  and  I've  got  a  secret !  " 

"  What  is  the  adventure,  Lollie  ?  " 

"  That  is  the  secret.  I  will  tell  it  you  as 
soon  as  I  can.  Tell  me,  Mr.  Venn,  is  it 
wrong  to  have  a  secret  V  " 

"  That  is  a  wide  question,  involving  a 
profound  study  of  all  casuistry  and  debated 
points  ftom  Thales  to  Mill.  I  would  rather 
refer  you  to  their  works  generally." 

"  Well,  then,  may  I  have  a  secret,  ?  " 

"  Fifty,  my  dear,  if  you  will.  You  look 
a  great  deal  better  to-day,  Lollie  ;  and,  if 
this  east  wind  would  be  good  enough  to  go 
away,  —  where  would  it  go  to,  and  what 
becomes  of  all  the  other  winds  when  they 
are  off  duty  ?  " 

"  Eurus  keeps  them  in  a  bag,  you  know." 
.  "  So  he  does  —  so  he  does.  Well,  in 
spite  of  the  east  wind,  let  us  go  and  look  at 
the  shops,  Lollie." 

They  did ;  and  at  ten,  after  a  little  music 
and  talk,  the  girl  went  home  as  usual,  but 
feeling  strangely  excited. 

Let  us  follow  her  newly-found  lover,  and 
tell  how  his  evening  was  spent. 

Just  now  this  part  of  the  day  was  usu- 
ally devoted  to  the  billiard -room  of  the  very 
respectable  club  to  which  he  had  been 
elected  on  his  arrival  in  England.  He  was 
an  indifferently  good  player,  —  nowhere  in 
good  company,  but  could  hold  his  own  in 


bad.  He  had  no  scientific  knowledge  of 
the  angles  of  the  table  ;  he  handled  his  cue 
clumsily  ;  and  was  not  within  thirty-five 
points  in  a  hundred  of  the  best  players  at 
his  club.  Besides,  he  was  not  really  fond 
of  the  game :  it  was  the  money  element 
that  made  him  play  at  all  ;  and  he  never 
cared  to  play  without  having  from  a  half  a 
crown  to  a  sovereign  on  his  game.  Philip 
was  that  very  common  animal,  a  born 
gambler.  Now,  pool  always  presented  the 
attraction  of  chance  ;  so  Mr.  Phil  played 
much  more  at  this  than  he  did  at  billiards. 
He  generally  got  put  out  of  the  game 
among  the  first.  Still,  there  is  always  a 
large  element  of  luck  about  it ;  and,  though 
you  are  knocked  out,  there  is  a  chance  of 
a  bet  or  two  on  the  lives  left  in.  It  was  a 
mild  enough  affair,  —  three-shilling  pool 
and  shilling  lives,  just  enough  to  keep  the 
spark  of  gambling  alive.  At  the  pool-  „ 
table,  as  a  matter  of  course,  Philip  picked 
up  a  few  friends —  Capts.  Shairp  and 
Smythe,  late  of  the — th,  in  which  regi- 
ment they  had  lost  all  their  money,  and 
perhaps  a  little  of  their  honor ;  living  now, 
it  is  whispered,  largely  on  their  wits.  Gen- 
tlemen such  as  these  play  well  at  most 
games,  whether  of  chance  or  skill.  They 
have  a  habit  of  making  friends  with  new 
members  of  the  club,  though  it  is  observed 
that  these  friendships  seldom  last  long ; 
and  yet  Smythe  and  Shairp  were  two  of 
the  most  agreeable,  polite,  open-hearted 
fellows  it  is  possible  to  conceive.  No  men 
corrected  the  marker's  mistakes  so  softly : 
no  men  called  to  the  waiters  for  a  drink  in 
•so  jolly  and  affable  a  tone.  Yet  nobody 
cared  for  their  society.  Perhaps  the  cap- 
tains were  to  blame  for  this.  Who  knows. 
On  the  other  hand,  people  might  be  wrong 
in  whispering  away  their  fair  fame.  The 
fact  is  indisputable,  —  they  had  the  misfor- 
tune to  be  disliked. 

Philip  Durnford  knew  nothing  of  all  this 
when  he  joined  his  club  ;  and  so,  in  two 
days'  time,  he  nodded  to  the  captains  a^ 
they  chalked  their  cues  for  business,  chat- 
ted in  a  week,  and  was  a  friend  in  a  fort- 
night. Perhaps,  if  Smythe  and  Shairp 
had  known  the  exact  amount  of  Mr.  Philip  s 
balance  at  his  agent's,  they  might  not  have 
been  so  free  and  open-handed  in  the  matter 
of  cigars. 

It  was  on  the  evening  of  this,  his  second 
meeting  with  Laura,  that  Philip  dined  at 
his  club,  and  went  quietly  into  the  billiard- 
room  after  dinner :  intending  to  play  till 
nine,  and  then  go  the  French  play,  where 
he  had  a  stall  —  centre  of  the  second  row. 
The  evening  proved  a  sort  of  turning-point 
in  his  career;  for,  unluckily,  he  never  went 
to  the  French  play  at  all.  His  two  friends 
had  also  two  friends  with  them  —  very 


MY  LITTLE   GIRL. 


47 


young  fellows,  with  the  air  of  wealth  about 
them.  In  a  word,  pigeons  being  plucked. 
Two  or  three  other  men  were  playing  in 
the  pool  with  them  :  among  these  was 
young  My  lies,  cornet  in  the  Hussars,  the 
most  amiable  and  the  silliest  young  gander 
in  the  club,  a  little  looked  down  upon, 
because  his  father  had  been  connected 
with  the  soap-boiling  interest.  Said  Shairp, 
when  Phil  proposed  to  put  down  his  cue 
and  go,  —  * 

"  If  you  would  stay,  we  could  make  up 
two  rubbers.  Pray  don't  go,  —  that  is,  if 
you  can  stay." 

It  poured  in  torrents.  Phil  looked  out 
into  the  wet  street,  hesitated,  and  was  lost. 

The  card-room  was.  cosey  enough,  bright 
and  warm  ;  though  the  rain  pelted  hard 
against  the  windows,  and  came  spitting 
down  the  chimney  into  the  fire.  Over  the 
fireplace  hung  the  usual  rules  against 
heavy  bets  and  games  of  chance, — a  fact 
which  did  not  restrain  the  astute  Shairp. 
He  said,  after  a  rubber,  — 

"  By  Jove  !  Whist  is  a  very  fine  game, 
and  a  very  noble  game,  and  all  that ;  but 
at  the  risk  of  being  thought  an  ass,  I  must 
say  it  is  not  exciting  enough  to  please  me." 

Capt.  Smythe  concurred. 

So  did  Phil.  He  hated  whist  with  all 
his  heart.  He  was  a  bad  player. 

"  I  really  think,  now,  if  you  will  excuse 
me,  I  shall  go  to  the  play.  It  is  past  ten 
already,  and  I  want  to  see  Mdlle.  Dufont." 

"  But  you  can't  go  out  in  this  rain,  you 
know.  It's  absurd  to  have  a  cab  to  cross 
the  street  in.  Wait  a  bit." 

Phil  waited.  Another  rubber  was  played 
through.  Smythe  walked  to  the  window, 
threw  up  his  arms  over  his  head,  and 
yawned  loudly. 

"  Smythe's  tired,"  said  Shairp. 

«  So  arn  I,"  said  Phil. 

"  We  might  have  a  little  something  else 
for  a  change,  eh  ?  " 

"  Ah,"  said  Smythe,  "  we  might.  Con- 
found it,  though,  we  can't  play  here,  and  " 
—  pulling  out  his  watch  —  "  I've  got  a  most 
particular  appointment  at  eleven." 

"  I  haven't  had  a  hand  at  loo  for  —  let 
me  see  —  six  months,  I  know,  if  it's  a  day," 
said  Shairp. 

His  friend  had  ten  objections  —  over- 
ruled in  ten  seconds. 

One  of  the  party  never  played  at  loo, 
and  left  them.  The  younger  pigeon,  who 
had  just  got  into  newly  furnished  chambers, 
said, — 

"  It  paws  so  with  wain,  or  we  might  go 
to  my  diggings.  What  a  baw  it  is  !  One's 
boots  would  be  sopped  thrwough  before  one 
could  get  into  a  hansom." 

So  they  played  at  the  club. 


"Just  ten  minutes,  you  know,"  said 
Shairp  and  Smythe. 

The  ten  minutes  grew  into  an  hour  and 
a  half.  The  strikes  were  doubled  twice, 
and  the  game  was  <k  guinea  unlimited," 
when  the  pigeons  were  so  thirsty  that  they 
risked  ringing  the  bell. 

"  Brandy  and  soda,  waiter." 

The  drinks  arrived,  and  with  them  a 
hint  that  they  were  breaking  the  rules  of 
the  club. 

Phil  was  the  heaviest  loser,  and  with  his 
money  helost  what  is  of  much  more  value 
at  games  of  chance,  —  his  temper.  He  an- 
swered the  polite  message  of  the  servant 
with  an  oath.  Two  minutes  afterwards  the 
steward  came.  '  Civilly  he  pointed  to  the 
rules  hanging  over  the  fireplace,  and  asked 
the  gentlemen  to  desist. 

Shairp  and  Smythe  said  he  was  quite 
right,  and  mentally  calculated  what  they 
had  won  by  handling  the  money  in  their 
pockets.  ' 

But  Philip  acted  differently.  He 
said, — 

"  It's  an  infernal  silly  rule,  that's  all  I've 
got  to  say." 

"  It  is  the  rule,  sir,"  said  the  nettled  ser- 
vant. 

"  Then  d  —  n  the  rule,  and  you  too." 
And  he  tore  the  cardboard  from  the  nail  it 
hung  on,  and  tore  it  into  a  dozen  pieces. 
Some  fell  in  the  fender,  some  in  the  fire. 

"  I  say,  Durnford,"  said  Shairp,  "  I  think 
that's  rather  strong." 

Phil  laughed.  The  man  said  he  must 
report  the  act  to  the  secretary,  and  left  the 
room. 

They  played  till  there  was  a  single. 
Then  everybody  but  Philip  and  one  of  the 
two  pigeons  had  had  enough.  They  were 
either  winners  on  the  night,  or  had  not  lost. 
So  the  pigeon,  backed  by  Phil,  insisted 
that  they  could  not  leave  olF  yet ;  and  the 
party  of  seven  adjourned  in  two  four-wheel- 
er's to  the  pigeon's  chambers. 

Here,  when  the  fire  was  lighted,  and  they 
had  tried  the  quality  of  their  host's  liquors, 
the  game  went  on.  A  fresh  place,  new 
cards. 

"  My  luck  wilt  change,  you'll  see,"  said 
Phil.  '  But  it  did  not;  and,  as  all  his  ready 
money  was  gone,  he  put  in  I  O  Us,  written 
on  scraps  of  paper,  and  signed  P.  D.,  with 
an  apology. 

"  A  man  can't  carry  the  Bank  of  Eng- 
land about  with  him,"  he  said. 

"I  suppose  he  is  good,"  whispered 
Shairp. 

"  Right  as  the  mail,"  replied  Smythe. 

So  they  went  on,  and  the  two  friends 
took  Phil's  paper  as  readily  as  their  young 
pigeon's  notes. 

'The  game  waxed    warm.     The    stakes 


43 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL, 


got  high.  Their  host  emptied  two  gold- 
topped  scent  bottles  filled  with  sovereigns 
out  of  his  dressing-case  on  to  the  claret 
cloth  of  his  card-table,  and  they  were  gone 


in  three  rounds. 

too. 

".My     usual     luck," 
"  Looed  again." 


The  bottles  held  fifty  a- 
growled     Philip. 


"  I  never  saw  any  thing  like  it,"  said 
Sinythe.  "  It  must  turn,  though,  and  we 
JUT-!  not  hurry." 

"  Oh,  no  —  play  forever,  if  you  like,  he- 
ah,"  said  their  host.  He  was  getting  rath- 
ei1  tipsy. 

But 'Shairp  and  Smythe,  who  had  earn'- 
ed  their  money,,  got  fidgety,  and  began  to 
feel  very  sleepy. 

Shairp  nodded  in  his  chair.  Smythe 
looked  at  his  watch  every  few  minutes,  al- 
though there  were  three  French  clocks  in 
the  rooms,  chiming  the  quarters,  and  his 
own  watch  had  stopped  at  half-past  three. 

Phil's  luck  had  not  turned,  a"nd  he  was 
very  much  excited.  His  head  ached,  his 
eyes  ached,  the  brandy  he  had  drunk  had 
made  his  legs  feel  queer,  and  his  temper 
was  what  a  gentleman's  is  when  luck  has 
been  against  him  all  night. 

There  were  frequent  squabbles  as  to  the 
amount  of  the  pool,  the  division  of  it  into 
tricks,  as  to  who  was  looed  and  who  was 
not ;  but  oftenest  about  who  had  not  put 
his  money  in. 

Little  silly,  honest  Mylles  was  now  the 
soberest  of  the  party  —  always  excepting 
the  two  confederates  —  and  he  was  only 
kept  out  of  his  bed  in  his  father's  house  in 
Eaton  Square  by  the  feeling  that  he  ought 
not  to  be  the  first  to  run  away,  as  he  had 
not  lost  much. 

Phil  was  inaccurate,  and  Mylles  correct- 
ed him  more  than  once.  The  others  sup- 
ported Mylles's  view,  and  this  riled  Phil. 
At  last,  when  Phil  exclaimed,  — 

"  Somebody  has  not  put  in  again,"  he 
looked  pointedly  across  the  table. 

"  I  put  in,"  said  Shairp,  wide  awake.  "  I 
know  mine.  It  was  a  two  half  sovs  and  a 
shilling." 

"  I  saw  you,"  said  Smythe,  quite  careless 


"  If  you  mean  those  words,  I  must  leave 
the  room." 

"  Consider  them  repeated,"  said  Philip, 
in  a  fury. 

'•  I  must  go,"  said  Mylles,  rising. 

"  Go,  then  ;  and  be  d — d  to  you." 

To  two  persons  present  it  did  not  matter. 
Their  end  was  served  —  for  the  night.  The 
three  gentlemen  who  heard  it  were  shock- 
ed, and  ran  after  Mylles ;  but  he  could  not 
be  prevailed  on  to  come  back.  * 

When  they  returned  without  him,  Phil 
was  laughing  immoderately,  with  laughter 
half  real,  half  affected. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  I'm  laughing  at,"  he 
said.  '•  I  was  thinking  what  a  scene 
Thackeray  would  have  made  out  of  all 
this." 

w  Thackeray,  at  least,  would  never  have 
behaved  so  to  anybody,"  said  the  soberest 
of  the  men. 

Phil  laughed,  feeling  a  good  deal  ashamed, 
and  the  party  separated.  Phil,  with  a  note 
of  the  amount  of  the  I  O  Us,  —  a  good 
deal  heavier  than  he  at  all  expected,  and 
a  promise  to  send  checks  the  next  morn- 
ing, —  went  home  to  bed. 

It  was  broad  daylight,  and  therefore  tol- 
erably late. 

As  he  felt  for  the  latch-key,  he  found  the 
ticket  for  the  stall  in  his  pocket. 

"  Wish  I'd  gone  there,"  he  sighed. 

Morning  brought  repentance.  He  sent 
his  checks;  he  sent  in  his  resignation  to 
the  club ;  he  sought  out  Mylles  and  apolo- 
gized ;  and  then  —  most  fatal  act  —  he  met 
Smythe,  and  accepted  a  proposal  of  that 
gallant  officer  to  put  his  name  down  at 
the  Burleio-h  Club. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

IF  you  want  to  see  Marguerite  waiting 
for  Faust,  as  .likely  a  spot  as  any  to  find 
her  is  the  left-hand  walk,  below  the  bridge, 
in  St.  James's  Park,  —  that  part  of  the 
walk  which  is  opposite  to  the  Foreign  Of- 
fice,  and  has  an  umbrageous  protection  of 


,  .x  ------------- 

•tion  possessed  the  merit  leaves  and  branches.  I  am  told  that  the 
British  Museum  is  another  likely  place; 
Certainly  it  has  never  yet  been  satisfacto-* 


of  truth  or  not. 

Cognatis  maculia  similis  fera." 


"I  know  I  put  in,"  said  Shairp  and  every- 


body. 


*|  Then  it's  put  on  to  me  again,"  said 


Phil  snappishly. 

"You  did  not  put  in, 


I  know,"  said 


Mylles  quietly.  «  I  saw  who  put  in." 
"  That  be  d—  d,"  said  Philip,  his 

tures  swelling,  and  his  lips  twitching 
The  cornet  turned  a  little  pale.  C 


fea- 


rily explained  why  so  many  pretty  girls  go 
there.  South  Kensington*  is  greatly  fre- 
quented by  young  ladies  who  delight  in 
those  innocent  dal lyings  with  a  serious  pas- 
sion which  we  call  a  flirtation.  According 
to  some  authorities,  the  Crystal  Palace  is 
the  most  likely  place  of  all ;  but  my  own 
experience  leds  me  to  select  St.  James's 
Park.  There,  between  the  hours  of  ten 
and  one,  or  between  three  and  five  —  be- 
cause Marguerite  dines  with  her  family  at 


MY   LITTLE   GIRL. 


49 


one  —  you  may  always  see  some  pretty 
rosy-cheeked  damsel  strolling,  apparently 
with  no  purpose  except  that  of  gentle  ex- 
ercise, up  and  down  the  shady  walks. 
Sometimes  she  stops  at  the  water's  edge. 
and  contemplates  the  ducks  which  adorn 
the  lake,  or  impatiently  pushes  the  gravel 
into  the  water  with  the  point  of  her  para- 
sol. Sometimes  she  makes  great  play  with 
her  book;  but  always  she  is  there  first; 
for  very  fear,  poor  child,  that  she  may  miss 
him.  And  he  always  comes  late. 

On  this  particular  morning,  —  a  fresh, 
bright  morning  in  May,  —  the  east  winds 
having  gone  away  earlier  than  usual,  and 
the  leaves  really  beginning  to  feel  tolerably 
safe  in  coming  out,  a  young  girl  of  eighteen 
is  loitering  up  and  down,  with  an  anxious  and 
rather  careworn  look.  Big  Ben  chimes  the 
quarters,  and  people  come  and  go  ;  but  she 
remains,  twisting  her  glove,  and  biting  her 
lips  with  vexation.  The  appointed  time 
was  half-past  ten.  She  was  there  at  a  quar- 
ter before  ten.  It  is  now  eleven. 

"  And  he  said  he  would  be  there  punctu- 
ally," she  murmurs. 

Presently  she  leaves  off  tapping  the 
ground  impatiently.  Her  cheek  flushes. 
Her  eyes  begin  to  soften.  She  hesitates. 
She  turns  into  the  shadiest  part  of  the 
walk,  while  a  manly  heel  comes  crunching 
the  gravel  behind  her.  There  is  no  one  in 
the  walk  but  a  policeman.  He  —  good, 
easy  man  —  as  one  used  to  the  ways  of 
young  people,  and  as  experienced  as  the 
moon  herself,  turns  away,  and  slowly  leaves 
them  alone. 

"  Laura,"  whispers  the  new-comer,  taking 
both  her  hands. 

She  makes  a  pretence  of  being  angry. 

"  Philip  !  And  you  promised  to  be  here 
at  half-past  ten." 

"  I  could  not  help  it,  child.  Regimental 
duties  detained  me." 

"  But  your  regiment  is  at  Malta." 

"  That  is  it.  Correspondence.  Letters 
which  had  to  be  answered." 

Lovelace  himself  never  told  a  greater  fib. 

And  presently  they  sit  down  and  talk. 

"  See  what  I  have  brought  for  you,  Lau- 
ra," says  the  lover,  lugging  out  a  pair  of 
earrings,  in  the  child's  eyes  worthy  to  be 
worn  by  a  duchess.  "  Will  you  wear  them, 
and  will  you  think  of  me  every  time  you 
put  them  on  ?  " 

Laura  takes  the  earrings,  and  looks  up 
at  him  in  a  grave  and  serious  way.  She 
has  none  of  the  little  coquettish  ways  of 
girls  who  'want  to  play  and  sport  with  their 
lovers,  like  an  angler  with  a  fish.  That 
was  because  she  had  never  associated  with 
girls  of  her  own  age  at  all.  Straightfor- 
ward, and  perfectly  truthful,  she  answered 
him  now  with  another  question. 
4 


'  Will  you  tell  me  again  what  you  told 
me  when  we  met  last,  —  the  second  time  we 
ver  met  ?  " 

"  I  told  you  that  I  loved  you,  and  I  asked 
you  to  marry  me.  Tell  me~in  return  that 
you  love  me  a  very  little.  If  you  give  me 
back  a  tenth  part  of  my  love  for  you,  Lau- 
ra, I  should  be  rich,  indeed,  in  love." 

;<  I  don't  know,"  she  answered,  looking 
him  full  in  the  face.  "  I  like  you.  You 
are  a  gentleman,  and  —  and  handsome,  and 
you  are  pleasant.  Then  you  fall  in  love 
with  me,  which,  I  am  sure,  must  be  a  silly 
thing  to  do.  That's  against  you,  you 
know  ;  but  how  am  I  to  know  that  I  love 
you  V  " 

"  Do  you  want  to  see  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  frankly ;  "  else  I 
should  not  be  here  now." 

"  Do  you  love  anybody  else  ?  " 

«  Oh,  no  I " 

"  Do  you  think  of  me  ?  " 

"  Why,  of  course.  I've  been  thinking  of 
nothing  else.  It  is  all  so  strange.  I've 
been  dreaming  of  you,  even,"  she  added, 
laughing. 

"•  And  you  have  said  nothing  to  Mr.  — 
what  is  his  name,  your  guardian  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Venn  ?  No  —  nothing.  I  only  told 
him  I  had  a  secret  and  wanted  to  keep  it 
for  the  present. 

"Good  child." 

"  Then  I  told  him  yesterday  that  I  was 
coming  here  —  all  part  of  my  secret  —  at 
half-past  ten." 

"  You  told  him  you  were  coming  here  ?  " 
said  Philip,  starting  up.  "  Then  he  is  quite 
sure  to  come  too." 

"  Mr.  Venn  is  a  gentleman,  Mr.  Durn- 
ford,"  said  Laura,  with  great  dignity.  "  He 
trusts  people  altogether,  or  not  at  all." 

"  By  Jove  !  "  murmured  Phil,  "  he  must 
be  a  very  remarkable  man." 

"  Mr.  Venn  told  me  to  keep  my  secret  as 
long  as  ever  I  pleased.  So  that  is  all  right. 
And  now  I  must  tell  you  two  or  three 
things  about  myself;  and  we  will  talk  about 
love  and  all  that  afterwards,  if  you  like." 

"  No  :  let  us  talk  about  love  now.  Never 
mind  the  two  or  three  things." 

"  But  we  must,  you  know.  Now,  listen. 
Who  do  you  think  I  am  ?  Tell  me  honest- 
ly, because  I  want  to  know.  Quite  honest- 
ly, mind.  Don't  think  you  will  offend 
me." 

"Well,  honestly,  I  do  not  know  and 
cannot  guess.  You  dress  like  all  young 
ladies,  but  you  are  somehow  different." 

"  Ah,"  replied  Laura,  "  I  never  shall  be 
like  them." 

"  But,  child,  you  are  a  great  deal  better.. 
You  don't  prete'nd  to  blush,  and  put  on  all 
sorts  of  little  affectations  ;  and  you  haven't 
learned  all  their  tricks." 


50 


MY   LITTLE   GIRL. 


"  What  affectations,  —  what  tricks  ?  " 

"  And  I  like  you  all  the  better  for  it. 
Now  tell  me  vrho  you  are,  and  all  about 
yourself." 

"  My  mother  was  a  poor  girl.  My  father 
was  a  gentleman  —  I  am  glad  to  know 
that.  He  died  before  I  was  born.  My 
grandmother  is  a  poor  old  woman,  who 
gets  her  living  by  being  a  laundress  in 
Gray's  Inn.  And  if  it  had  not  been  for 
Mr.  Venn,  I  should  have  been — I  don't 
know  —  any  thing.  He  took  me  when  I 
was  five  years  old,  and  has  been  educating 
me  ever  since.  I  never  spoke  to  any  lady 
in  my  life,  except  Miss  Venn,  bis  sister. 
I  never  go  anywhere,  except  with  Mr. 
Venn ;  and  I  never  spoke  to  any  gentle- 
man, except  Mr.  Venn's  most  intimate 
friends,  until  I  met  you.  I  have  no  re- 
lations, no  friends,  no  connections.  I  belong 
to  the  very  lowest  stratum  of  London  life. 
Now,  Mr.  Durnford,  you  have  all  my  story. 
What  do  you  think  of  it  ?  " 

His  face  wore  a  puzzled  expression. 

"  Tell  me  more.  Have  vou  no  broth- 
ers?" 

"  No,  none." 

"  That's  a  good  thing.  I  mean,  of  course, 
it  is  always  best  to  be  without  brothers  and 
cousins.  Don't  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  It  must  be  nice  to  have 
one  brother  all  to  yourself,  you  know. 
There's  a  large  family  of  brothers,  grown- 
up brothers,  living  next  door  to  my  grand- 
mother's. They  get  tipsy  every  Saturday 
evening,  and  fight.  I  should  not  like 
brothers  like  them.  To  be  sure,  they  are 
stone-masons." 

"  And  now  tell  me  more  about  your  guar- 
dian, Mr.  Venn.  I  suppose  he  is  a  fidgety  old 
gentleman,  —  likes  to  have  you  about  him 
to  nurse  him,  and  all  that  ?  " 

Lollie  burst  out  laughing. 

"  Mr.  Venn  is  not  an  old  gentleman  at 
all.  Older  than  you,  of  course,  ever  so 
much.  He  must  be  thirty-seven,  at 
least." 

"  Oh  ! "  Philip's  face  lengthened.  "  And 
does  Mr.  Venn  never  —  never  make  love 
to  you  on  .his  own  account  ?  " 

She  laughed  the  louder. 

"Oh,  what  nonsense  1 "  she  cried  :  "  Mr. 
Venn  making  love  to  me  !  He  has  told 
me  twice  .that  he  wants  me  to  marry  a 
gentleman.  That  is  why  I  agreed  to 
meet  you  again." 

"So  there  was  no  love  for  me  at  all,' 
said,  Philip. 

".I  wish  .you  wouldn't  talk  like  that,"  re- 
plied the  girl.  "I've  told  you  already 
What  more- can  I  say?  You  asked  me  if 
I  loved  anybody  else.  Of  course  I  do 
not.  Then  you  asked  me  if  I  liked  you 
Of  course  I  do.  And  if  i  have  been  think- 


ng  about  you.     Of  course  I  have.     Now, 
sir^  what  more  do  you  want  V  " 

"  Laura,  if  you  loved  me,  you  would 
ong  to  see  me  again;  your  pulse  would 
Deat,  and  your  face  would  flush,  when  you 
met  me ;  but  you  are,  cold  and  passion- 
ess.  You  know" — his  own  face  flushing 
—  "  that  I  think  of  no  one  but  you.  You 
enow  that  —  that  there  is  nothing  in  the 
world  I  would  not  give  to  win  you.  And 
you  play  with  me  as  if  I  were  a  statue 
of  marble." 

She  looked  at  him  in  a  kind  of  surprise. 

"  I  don't  understand  you  at  all.  What 
am  I  to  say  ?  You  tell  me  you  love  me. 
That  makes  me  very  proud,  because  it  is  a 
great  tiling  to  be  loved  by  a  gentleman. 
[  am  grateful.  What  more  do  you  want  ? 
My  pulse  doesn't  beat  any  faster  when  I 
see  you  coming  along  the  walk  —  not  a  bit. 
If  it  did  I  would  tell  you.  Tell  me  what 
t  is  you  want  me  to  do,  and  I  will  do  it. 
But  of  course  you  would  not  like  me  to 
tell  you  any  thing  but  the  truth." 

She  looked  at  him  with  her  full,  earnest 
eyes.  His  fell  before  them.  They  were 
so  reproachful  in  their  innocence  and 
purity. 

"  I  want  nothing,  Laura,"  he  said,  in  a 
husky  voice  —  "  nothing.  Only  I  love  you, 
child,  and  you  must  be  mine." 

"  Oh !  "  she  replied,  clapping  her  hands. 

Then  I  will  tell  Mr.  Venn  at  once.  He 
will  be  glad.  And  you  shall  come  up  with 
me  to  see  him." 

•l  I  am  afraid  that  will  hardly  do,"  said 
her  lover  feebly.  "No.  Listen,  Laura, 
dear.  Mr.  Venn  knows  you  have  a  secret, 
and  has  given  you  permission  to  keep  it, 
hasn't  he  ?  " 

«  Yes." 

"  Then  we  will  keep  it.  We  will  keep 
it  till  the  day  we  are  married  ;  and  then  we 
will  go  together  to  his  chambers,  you  and  I, 
and  you  shall  say,  — 

"'Mr.  Venn,  I  have  done  what  you 
wanted  me  to  do.  I  have  married  a  man 
who  loves  me  —  who  is  a  gentleman  ;  and 
I  have  done  it,  first,  because  you  will  be 
pleased,  and,  secondly,  because  I  love  him 
too." ' 

She  pondered  a  little. 

"  I  wonder  if  that  is  right.  Don't  you 
think  I  ought  to  tell  him  at  once  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no !  certainly  not  yet.     Not   till 
we  are  actually  married.     Think  how  grat- 
ified Mr.  Venn  will  be." 
She  was  not  yet  satisfied. 

"  I  will  think  it  over,"  she  said.  "  Mr. 
Venn  always  says  that  going  to  bed  is  the 
best  thing  for  bringing  your  opinion  right. 
Whenever  he  is  troubled  with  any  thing, 
he  poes  to  bed  early  ;  and,  in  the  morning, 
he  is  always  as  happy  as  ever.  I  am  quite 


MY   LITTLE   GIRL. 


51 


sure  he  would  be  very  glad  to  be  told  al 
about  it  at  once.  Some  day,  how  prout 
and  happy  we  shall  all  be  to  have  known 
him." 

"  Very  likely ;  and  meanwhile,  Laura 
nothing  will  be  said  to  him." 

"  No  :  I  will  go  on  keeping  the  secret 
But,  Philip,  it  will  be  so  delightful  when 
we  can  all  three  go  together  up  the  river 
Do  you  know  the  Bells  of  Ouseley  ?  We 
often  go  there  in  the  summer,  row  down 
the  river,  you  know,  have  dinner,  and  row 
back  again  in  the  evening  for  the  last 
train.  There  is  nothing  in  the  world  so 
delightful." 

"  But,  if  we  are  married,  you  may  not  be 
able  to  be  so  much  with  M/.  Venn." 

Pier  face  fell. 

"  Tell  me,"  she  said.  "  Marriage  does 
not  mean  that  1  am  to  be  separated  from 
Mr.  Venn,  does  it  ?  Because,  if  it  does,  I 
would  never  marry  any  one.  No,  not  if 
he  loved  me  —  as  much  as"  you  say  you 
do." 

"  Marriage,  my  little  innocent  pet,"  said 
Philip,  laughing,  "  means,  sometimes,  that 
two  people  are  so  fond  of  each  other  that 
they  never  want  anybody  else's  society  at 
all ;  but  with  you  and  me,  it  will  mean 
that  we  shall  be  so  proud  of  each  other,  so 
pleased  with  each  other's  society,  that  we 
shall  be  glad  to  get  Mr.  Venn,  whom  you 
are  so  fond  of,  to  share  it  with  us.  He 
.shall  be  with  us  all  day  if  you  like,  as 
many  hours  in  the  day  as  you  spend  with 
him  now  ;  but  all  the  rest  of  the  day  you 
will  spend  with  me$  and  my  life  will  be 
given  up  to  make  you  happy." 

She  looked  at  him  again  with  wonder- 
ing eyes,  softened  in  expression. 

"  That  sounds  very  pleasant  and  sweet. 
I  think  you  must  be  a  good  man.  Are  you 
as  good  as  IV^r.  Venn  V  " 

"  I  don't  know  how  good  Mr.  Venn  is." 

"  I  could  tell  you  lots  of  things  about 
Mr.  Venn's  goodness.  There  was  poor 
Mary.  That  is  four  years  ago  now,  and  I 
was  a  very  little  girl.  I  don't  know  what 
she  did ;  but  her  father  turned  her  away 
from  his  doors,  and  she  was  starving.  I 
told  Mr.  Venn,  and  he  helped  her  to  get  a 
place  in  a  theatre,  where  she  works  now/ 
Poor  Mary  !  I  met  her  the  other  day  ;  and, 
when  she  asked  after  Mr.  Venn,  she 
burst  out  crying.  Then  once,  when  old 
Mrs.  Weeks's  son  Joe  fell  off  the  ladder,  — 
it  was  a  terrible  thing  for  them,  you  know, 
because  he  broke,  his  leg,  and  was  laid  up 
for  weeks,  and  nothing  for  his  mother 
while  he  was  in  the, hospital,  —  Mr.  Venn 
heard  of  it,  and  kept  the  old  woman  till 
Joe  came  out  of  the  hospital  again.  I  saw 
lam,  one  Sunday,  carrying  a  leg  of  mutton 
himself,  wrapped  up  in  4  The  Observer.'  to 


Mrs.  Weeks's  lodging.     And  I  think  Joe 
would  cut  off  his  head  to  do  good  to  Mr. 

TT  »« 

Venn. 

Big  Ben  struck  twelve. 

"  There's  twelve  o'clock ;  and  he  will  be 
waiting  for  me.  Good-by,  Philip.  I  must 
make  haste  back." 

"  Keep  our  secret,  Laura." 

"  Yes  :  he  said  I  might.     Good-by." 

"  Meet  me  here  next  Monday.  To-day 
is  Friday.  I  will  be  here  at  ten.  Will 
you  ?  " 

She  took  his  .hand  in  her  frank  and  hon- 
est way,  and  tripped  away.     Presently,  she 
ame  running  back. 

"  Please,  Mr.  Durnford,"  she  said,  "  give 
me  some  money  for  a  cab.  I  cannot  Dear 
that  he  should  wait  for  me." 

"  He."  Always  Mr.  Venn  first  in  her 
thoughts. 

She  took  a  florin  from  the  silver  Philip 
held  out  to  her,  and  ran  out  of  the  park. 

He  lit  a  cigar,  and,  strolling  round  the 
ornamental  water,  began  to  think. 

What  did  he  mean  to  do  about  the  girl  ? 

At  this  point  he  hardly  knew  himself, 
except  that  he  was  madly  in  love  with  her. 
[t  was  but  the  third  time  they  had  met. 
Ele  loved  her.  The  passion  in  his  heart 
was  born  a  full  flower,  almost  at  first  sight. 
He  seemed  now  no  longer  .master  of  him- 
self, so  great  and  overwhelming  was  his 
desire  to  get  this  girl  for  himself;  but 
low  ?  He  knew  very  well  that  there  was 
ittle  enough  left  of  the  original  five  thou- 
sand. How  could  he  marry  on  a  subaltern's 
>ay  ?  How  could  he  take  this  young  lady, 
with  her  very  remarkable  education  and 
listory,  her  quaint  and  unconventional 
deas,  and  her  ignorance  of  the  world,  into 
lis  regiment?  And  lastly,  how  about  Mr. 
Venn  ?  There  was  another  thing.  When 
he  accepted  him  —  which  she  did,  as  we 
tnow,  after  a  fashion  quite  unknown  to  fic- 
ion  and  little  practised  in  real  life  —  when 
he  listened  to  his  tale  of  love,  it  was  all  in 
•eference  to  Mr.  Venn.  The  very  frankness 
vith  which  the  innocent  girl  had  received 
lis  suit  was  galling  to  a  man's  pride,  es- 
)ecially  if  it  happen  to  be  a  man  with  a 
trong  sense  of  personal  superiority.  Had 
e  been  a  hunchback,  had  his  legs  been 
bowed  and  his  back  double,  had  he  been  an 
diot  and  a  cretin,  she  could  not  well  have 
)een  colder  or  less  encouraging.  She  did 
lot  love  him,  that  was  clear ;  but  was  he 
ure  that  all  this  innocence  was  real? 
"ould  a  London  girl  be  so  brought  up  as  to 
lave  no  sense  of  the  realities  of  life  ? 
Would  it  be  possible  that  a  girl  would  ac- 
ept  a  man,  promise  to  marry  him  on  the 
rery  first  offer,  solely  because  her  guardian 
wanted  her  to  marry  a  gentleman  ? 

Some  men's  passions  are  like  a  furnace, 


52 


MY   LITTLE   GIRL. 


not  only  because  they  are  so  hot  and  burning, 
but  also  because  they  are  only  fanned  by 
cold  air.  Had  Laura  met  her  lover's  fond 
vows  by  any  corresponding  affection,  he 
•would  h:ivi5  tired  of  her  in  u  week;  but  she 
did  not,  as  we  have,  seen.  Met  him  with  a 
cold  look  of  astonishment.  "  Love  you  ? 
Oh,  dear,  no  !  I  cannot  even  tell  what  you 
mean  by  love.  Yes,  I  love  Mr.  Venn." 
Amaryllis,  pursued  by  Corydon,  laughs  in 
his  face,  and  tells  him  that  «he  will  marry 
him  because  she  loves  Alexis,  and  Alexis 
wants  her  to  marry  somebody.  And  yet 
poor  Corydon  loves  her  still. 

Corydon,  meditating  these  things,  and  try- 
ing—to  do  him  justice —  to  repel  and  si- 
lence certain  wicked  voices  of  suspicion  and 
evil  prompting  which  were  buzzing  in  his 
ears,  slowly  walked  round  the  ornamental 
water,  and  emerged  into  Pall  Mall.  On 
either  shoulder  was  seated  a  little  devil,  one 
of  the  kind  chiefly  employed  for  West-end 
W0rk  —  young,  but  highly  promising,  and 
well-informed. 

"  You  love  her,"  said  one.  "  She  is 
young  and  innocent,  unsuspecting  and  cred- 
ulous." 

"  She  does  not  love  you,"  said  the  other  ; 
"  she  only  wants  to  please  the  man  she 
really  loves." 

And  so  on,  amusing  themselves  as  such 
little  imps  are  wont,  while  he  sauntered 
along  the  "  sweet  shady  side,"  a  prey  to  all 
kinds  of  imaginings  and  doubts.  Perhaps, 
after  all,  the  imaginings  came  from  the  depths 
of  his  own  brain,  and  not  from  any  little 
imps  at  all ;  and,  certainly,  the  existence  of 
these  animals  does  present  enormous  diffi- 
culties to  the  speculative  philosopher,  and 
since  the  times  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Barham 
they  have  not  been  prominently  before  the 
public.  If  they  have  any  functions  to  per- 
form in  this  generation,  I  should  think  they 
are  used  chiefly  to  influence  men  like  our 
poor  Philip  —  whose  strength  of  will  has 
been  corrupted  by  evil  habit,  by  vanity,  by 
false  shame  —  to  draw  a  veil  over  what  is 
good,  to  represent  the  bad  as  fatal,  inevita- 
ble, and  not  really  so  bad  as  has  been  made 
out. 

Now,  as  he  turned  the  corner  of  Water- 
loo Place,  a  thing  befell  him  which  must 
really  have  been  the  special  work  of  the 
chief  of  the  Metropolitan  Secret  Iniquity 
Force.  I  may  seem  harsh  in  my  judgment, 
but  the  event  will  perhaps  justify  me. 

There  came  beating  across  the  street, 
from  the  corner  of  Cockspur  Street  to  the 
far  corner  of  Waterloo  Place,  with  intent  to 
go  down  Pall  Mall,  a  team  of  animated 
sandwiches.  With  that  keen  sense  of  the 
fitness  of  things  which  always  distinguishes 
the  profession,  they  had  selected  this'as  the 
fittest  place  to  advertise  a  spectacle  at  the 


Victoria  Theatre.  The  ways  of  this  curi- 
ous and  little-studied  folk  afford,  some- 
times, food  for  profound  reflection.  I 
have  seen  the  bsarer  of  a  sandwich, 
on  one  side  of  which  was  inscribed 
the  legend,  "  Silence,  tremble !  "  and,  on 
the  other,  words  more  sacred  than  may 
here  be  lightly  written,  heavily  drunk 
outside  a  public,  while  a  friend,  engaged  in 
making  known  the  Coal  Hole  and  the 
Poses  Plastiques,  was  expostulating  with 
him  on  his  immorality.  The  perfunctory 
preacher  had  not  taken  his  own  text  to 
heart.  The  principle  is  exactly  the  same 
as  that  by  which  the  Cambridge  undergrad- 
uate from  far  Cathay,  who  confesses  that 
there  is  but  one  God,  and  Mohammed  is  his 
prophet,  passes  that  barrier  to  distinction 
called  the  Little  Go,  wherein  he  has  to 
master  Paley's  "  Evidences  of  Christianity," 
and  goes  back  to  his  native  land  and  to 
Islam. 

This  particular  procession  consisted  of 
thirteen  men.  On  the  proud  shield  which 
each  bore  in  front  and  behind  was  blazoned 
a  scene  of  almost  impossible  splendor  and 
magnificence,  while  a  single  letter  on 
each  enabled  the  whole  to  be  read  by 
the  curious,  as  the  pageant  streamed  past, 
as  "Titania's  Haunt."  "  Streaming  past" 
is  poetical,  but  scarcely  correct.  It 
rather  shuffled  past.  Most  of  the  knights, 
or  esquires,  —  scutiferi,  —  were  lined  with 
men  well-stricken  in  years,  their  faces  lined 
with  thought,  or  it  may  have  been  ex- 
perience. After  some  five  or  six  had 
passed  along,  one  experienced  a  feeling  as 
of  red  noses.  Their  dress  was  shabby  and 
dirty ;  their  looks  were  hopeless  and  blank  ; 
some  of  them  seemed  to  have  once  been 
gentlemen ;  and  the  spectator,  looking  at 
the  men  who  carried  rather  than  the  thing 
they  bore,  was  touched  with  a  sense  of  pity 
and  fear. 

Poor  helots  of  our  great  London.  You 
are  paraded,  I  suspect,  by  the  philanthro- 
pists, —  perhaps  it  is  the  great,  secret,  un- 
suspected work  of  the  Society  for  the  Sup- 
pression of  Vice,  —  who  make  you  carry  a 
shield  to  hide  their  intentions  and  spare 
you  unnecessary  shame.  They  spend  their 
money  upon  you,  —  not  too  much,  it  is  true, 
—  that  we  may  have  before  our  eyes  a 
constant  example  of  the  effects  of  drink. 
March  !  Bands  of  Hope,  with  colors  flying, 
and  music  playing,  sing  "  Sursum,  corda/' 
and  strengthen  resolution  by  speeches  and 
hymns;  but,  on  your  way  home,  look  at 
this  poor  creature  of  sixty,  who  was  once 
delicately  nurtured  and  carefully  brought 
up,  —  a  scholar  and  a  gentleman,  —  and 
tremble  lest  you  give  way  ;  for  the  sand- 
wich men  mean  drink,  drink,  drink.  Bet- 
ter to  have  these  woe-begone  faces  before  us 


MY    LITTLE   GIRL. 


53 


as  we  walk  down  the  street  than  the  La- 
cedaemonian helot  staggering  foolishly  in 
front. 

Phil  stood  and  watched  them  dodging  the 
cabs.  One  by  one  they  got  across  that  dif- 
ficult and  dangerous  corner  where  there 
ought  to  be  an  island  every  three  yards  to 
protect  us.  Presently  the  bearer  of  the 
letter  I  arrived  on  the  curb,  and  fell  into  line. 
Philip  dropped  his  cigar,  and  started.  The 
man  was  looking  straight  before  him.  His 
face  was  perfectly  white  and  pale,  and  with- 
out hair.  His  locks  were  of  a  silvery 
white,  although  he  could  hardly  have  been 
much  more  than  fifty.  His  nose  —  a  fat, 
prominent  organ  —  was  deeply  tinged  with 
red  ;  his  mouth  was  tremulous  ;  crow's-feet 
lay  under  his  eyes,  which  were  small, 
bright,  and  cunning,  set-beneath  light  brown 
or  reddish  eyebrows.  The  aspect  of  the 
man,  with  his  white  hair,  smooth  face,  and 
bushy  eyebrows,  was  so  remarkable  that 
many  people  turned  to  look  at  him  as  they 
passed. 

Philip  walked  with  the  procession,  keep- 
ing behind  him. 

A  tall  hat,  well  battered  by  the  storms  of 
life,  a  thick  pea-jacket,  and  a  thin  pair  of 
Tweed  trousers,  seemed  to  make  all  his 
dress. 

Presently  Philip  touched  him  on  the 
shoulder. 

The  man  turned  upon  him  with  a  glare 
of  terror,  which,  to  a  policeman,  would  have 
spoken  volumes. 

Philip  looked  at  him  still,  but  said  noth- 
ing. He  shuffled  along  with  the  rest, 
trembling  in  every  limb.  Then  Philip 
touched  him  on  the  shoulder  again,  and 
said  in  a  low  voice,  — 

"  Obsairve,  Mr.  Alexander  Maclntyre." 

The  ex-tutor  looked  at  him  in  a  stupid 
way. 

"  I  know  you,  man,"  said  Philip.  "  Come 
out  of  this,  and  talk." 

They  were  at  the  corner  of  Jermyn  Street. 
To  the  surprise  of  his  fellows,  letter  I  sud- 
denly left  the  line,  and  dived  down  Jermyn 
Street.  They  waited  a  little.  He  was 
joined  by  a  gentleman ;  and,  after  a  few 
moments,  he  slipped  his  head  through  the 
boards,  and,  leaving  them  on  the  pavement, 
hurried  away. 

This  was  what  passed. 

"  You  will  remember  me  presently,"  said 
Philip.  "  I  am  Philip  Durnford.  There 
is  my  card.  Get  food,  clothes,  not  too  much 
drink,  and  come  to  my  lodgings  at  eight 
o'clock  this  evening.  Here  is  a  sovereign 
for  you." 

Mr.  Maclntyre  spoke  not  a  word,  but 
took  the  coin,  and  watched  his  patron  go 
striding  away.  Then  he  bit  the  sovereign 
to  see  if  it  was  good,  a  dreadful  proof  of 


his  late  misfortunes.  Then  he  laughed  in 
a  queer  way,  and  looked  back  at  his  boards, 
After  that  of  course,  he  went  round  the 
corner ;  gentlemen  down  in  the  world  al- 
ways do.  There  was  a  public-house  round 
the  corner.  He  felt  in  his  packet,  where 
jingled  three-pence,  his  little  all,  and  dived 
into  the  hostelry.  A  moment  after  he  carne 
out,  his  eyes  bright,  his  mouth  firm,  his  head 
erect,  and  walked  brisjkly  away. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

IN  the  evening,  about  nine  o'clock,  Mr. 
Maclntyre  presented  himself  at  Philip's, 
lodgings.  He  was  greatly  changed  for  the 
better.  With  much  prudence  he  had  spent 
the  whole  of  the  sovereign  in  effecting  an 
alteration  in  his  outward  appearance,  cal- 
culating that  his  old  pupil  would  be  at  least 
good  for  two  three  more  golden  tokens  of 
esteem.  He  was  now,  looked  at  from  be- 
hind, a  gentleman  of  reduced  means ;  every- 
thing, from  his  black  coat  to  his  boots,  hav- 
ing a  second-hand  and  "  reach-me-down  " 
look,  and  nothing  attaining  to  what  might 
be  called  a  perfect  fit.  The  coat  was  ob- 
tained by  exchange  or  barter,  the  old  pea- 
jacket  having  been  accepted  in  lieu  of  pay- 
ment; while  the  other  articles  were  the 
result  of  long  haggling  and  beating  down. 
He  looked,  however,  complacently  on  his 
new  garb,  as  indicating  a  partial  return  to 
respectability. 

Philip  greeted  him  with  a  friendly  shake 
of  the  hand. 

"  Why,  man,  do  you  mean  to  say  that  a 
sovereign  has  done  all  that  ?  " 

"  All,"  said  his  tutor.  "  I'll  just  tell  you 
how  I  did  it.  First,  the  trousers.  Sax- 
pence  the  man  allowed  for  the  old  ones, 
which  I  left  with  him.  They're  just  drop- 
ping to  pieces  with  fatigue.  Eh,  they've 
had  a  hard  time  of  it  for  many  years.  Then 
I  got  a  second-hand  flannel  shirt.  He 
wouldn't  give  me  any  thing  for  the  old  one. 
Then  I  got  the  coat  for  my  pea-jacket, 
which,  though  a  most  comfortable  garment, 
was  hardly,  you'll  obsairve,  the  coat  for  a 
Master  of  Arts  of  an  old  and  respectable 
univairsity." 

"  Weil  —  well.  Did  you  get  any  thing 
to  eat  ?  " 

"  Dinner,  ten-pence.  I'm  no  saying  that 
I'm  not  hungry." 

Philip  rang  the  bell,  and  ordered  some 
supper,  which  his  guest  devoured  ravenous- 
ly. 

"  Short  commons  of  late,  I  am  afraid  ?  " 

"  Vera  short,  vera  short !  I'll  trouble  you 
for  two,  three,  more  slices  of  that  beef. 
Ah,  Phil,  what  an  animal  is  the  common  ox  1 


54 


i 

el  it 


MY   LITTLE   GIRL. 


You  feel  it  when  yon  come  to  be  a  stranger 
to  him.  And  bottled  stout.  When  —  eh, 
man  V  " 

He  took  a  pull  which  finished  the  bottle, 
and  proceeded  to  eat  ;  talking,  at  intervals, 
quite  in  his  old  style. 

••  ()!)sairve.  The  development  of  the 
grateful  feeling,  commonly  supposed  to  be 
wanting,  —  thank  ye,  Phil,  one  more  slice, 
with  some  of  the  fat  and  a  bit  of  the  brown 
—  wanting  to  the  savage  races,  must  be 
mainly  due  to  the  practice  of  a  higher  order 
of  eating.  My  supper  has  lately  been  the 
penny  bloater,  with  a  baked  potato.  No, 
I  really  cannot  eat  any  more.  The  spirit 
is  willing,  tor  I  am  still  hungry,  Phil ;  but 
the  capacity  of  the  stomach  is  limited. 
I  fear  I  have  already  injudiciously  crowded 
the  space.  Is  that  brandy,  Phil,  on  the 
sideboard  ?  " 

Philip  rose,  and  brought  the  bottle,  with  a 
tumbler  and  cold  water,  and  placed  it  before 
him. 

"  Brandy,"  he  murmured.  "  It  has  been 
my  dream  for  four  long  months.  I  have 
managed,  sometimes,  a  glass  of  gin  ;  but 
brandy !  —  oh,  blessed  consoler  of  human 
suffering  1  Brandy  !  "  He  was  clutching 
the  bottle,  and  standing  over  it  with  greedy 
eyes.  "  Brandy  !  —  water  of  life  !  —  no, 
•water  that  droons  the  sense  of  life  —  that 
brings  us  forgetfulness  of  every  thing,  and 
restores  the  fire  of  youth  —  stays  the  gnaw- 
ings  of  hunger.  Brandy  I  And  they  say 
we  musn't  drink!  Oh,  Phil,  my  favorite 
pupil,  for  those  who  have  memories,  brandy 
is  your  only  medicine." 

He  filled  a  tumbler  half  full  of  spirit, 
added  a  little  water,  and  drank  it  off  at  a 
draught.  Then  he  looked  round,  sighed, 
sat  down,  and,  to  Philip's  astonishment, 
burst  into  violent  sobbing.  This  phe- 
nomenon was  quite  unprecedented  in  the 
history,  so  far  as  Philip  knew,  of  his  late 
tutor. 

"  Nay,"  he  said  kindly,  "  we  shall  man- 
age to  mend  matters  somehow.  Cheer  up, 
man.  Have  another  glass." 

Mr.  Maclntyre  gave  a  profound  sniff,  and 
looked  up  through  his  tears. 

*|  Give  me  a  pocket-handkerchief  first, 
Phil.  I  want  to  blow  ray  nose.  I  pawned 
my  last  —  it  was  a  silk  one  —  for  ten-pence 
ha'penny." 

Philip  brought  him  one  from  his  bed- 
room, and  he  began  to  mop  up. 

Then  he  took  another  glass  of  brandy  and 
water. 

"  Tears,  —  it  is  indeed  a  relief  to  have  an 
old  friend  to  talk;  to,  —  tears  are  produced 
from  many  causes.  There  are  tears  of 
gratitude,  of  joy,  of  sorrow,  even  of  repent- 
ance, if  you  think  you  are  going  to  be  found 
out.  Mine  are  none  of  these.  They  rise 


from  that  revulsion  o*  feeling  projuiced  by  a 
sudden  and  strong  contrast.  Obsairve.  The 
man  unexpectedly  or  violently  removed  from 
a  state  of  hopeless  destitution  to  the  prospect 
of  affluence  must  either  cry  or  laugh  ;  and 
not  even  a  philosopher  can  always  choose 
which.  I  have  got  decent  clothes,  an  old 
friend  ;  and  my  brains  —  a  little  damaged 
by  a  hard  life  perhaps  —  are  still  greatly 
superior  to  the  average." 

"  And  you  have  been  really  destitute  ?  " 

"  For  four  months  I  have  been  a  walking 
advertisement.  Part  of  the  time  I  was  get- 
ting eighteen-pence  a  day  as  one  of  the  As- 
sociated Boardmen.  Eh,  Philip  Durnford, 
think  of  your  old  tutor  becoming  an  Associ- 
ated Boardman  !  Then  I  got  dru —  I  mean 
I  took  too  much  one  day  ;  and  they  turned 
me  out  in  the  cold.  I  starved  a  day  or  two, 
and  then  got  employment  at  one  and  three- 
pence, which  I  have  had,  off  and  on,  ever 
since.  It  is  not  a  difficult  employment. 
There  is  little  responsibility.  No  sense  of 
dignity  or  self-respect  is  required.  On  the 
Sunday,  there  is  no  work  to  be  done  ;  con- 
sequently, for  four  months  I  have  cursed  the 
sawbath,  —  the  Lord  forgive  me !  Don't 
ask  me  too  much,  Philip :  it  has  been  a  sad 
time  —  a  terrible  time.  I  am  half-starved. 
I  have  had  to  associate  with  men  of  no  edu- 
cation and  disagreeable  habits.  A  bad  time, 
—  a  bad  time."  He  passed  his  hand  across 
his  forehead,  and  paused  a  moment.  "  A 
time  of  bad  dreams.  I  shall  never  forget  it, 
never.  It  will  haunt  me  to  my  grave,  — 
poison  my  nights,  and  take  the  pleasure  out 
of  my  days.  Don't  ask  me  about  it.  Let  me 
forget  it.'' 

"  Tell  me  only  what  you  like,"  said  Philip. 

"  The  passions,  I  have  discovered,  the  fol- 
lies, and  the  ambitions,  of  man  depend  a'to- 
gither  on  the  stomach.  The  hungry  man, 
who  has  been  hungry  for  three  months,  can 
only  hope  for  a  good  meal.  That  is  the 
boundary  of  his  thoughts.  He  envies  none 
but  the  fat.  He  has  no  eyes  for  beauty. 
Helen  would  pass  unnoticed  by  a  sandwich 
man,  only  for  plumpness.  He  has  no  per- 
ception of  the  beauties  of  nature,  save  in  the 
streakiness  of  beef;  none  for  those  of  art, 
save  in  the  cookshops.  He  has  no  hatred 
in  his  heart,  nor  any  love.  And  of  course 
he  has  no  conscience.  Obsairve,  my  pupil, 
that  religion  is  a  matter  for  those  who  are 
assured  of  this  world's  goods.  It  vanishes 
at  the  first  appearance  of  want.  Hence  a 
clause  in  the  Lord's  Prayer." 

"  You  —  I  mean  your  companions  between 
the  boards  —  are  honest,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Ah,  well  —  that's  as  it  may  be.  It  is 
one  of  the  advantages  of  the  profession  that 
you  must  be  honest,  because  you  can't  run 
if  you  do  steal  any  thing,  No  line  of  life 
presents  fewer  opportunities  for  turning  a 


MY   LITTLE  GIRL. 


\ 


55 


dishonest  penny.  Otherwise  —  you  see  — 
stomach  is  king  at  all  times ;  and  if  not 
satisfied,  my  young  friend,  stomach  becomes 
God." 

"  Tell  me,  if  you  can,  how  you  came  to 
fall  into  these  straits.' 

"  Infaridum  jubes  renovare  dolorem.  Eh  ! 
—  the  Latin  tags  and  commonplaces,  how 
they  stick.  It  is  a  kind  of  consolation  to 
quote  them.  When  you  saw  me  last  was 
on  that  unfortunate  occasion  when  you 
treated  your  old  tutor  with  unwarrantable 
harshness.  I  have  long  lamented  the  mis- 
conception which  led  you  to  that  line  of  con- 
duct. Verbal  reproach  alone  would  have 
been  ill-fitting  to  your  lips ;  but  actual  per- 
sonal violence  !  Ah,  Phil !  But  all  is  for- 
given and  forgotten.  You  went  away.  I  ap- 
plied to  M.  de  Villeroy  for  a  testimonial.  I 
still  preserve  the  document  he  was  good 
enough  to  send  me.  It  is  here." 

He  produced  a  paper  from  a  bundle  which 
he  carried  in  an  old  battered  pocket-book. 

"  There  are  papers  here,  Phil,  that  will 
interest  you  some  day,  when  you  have 
learned  to  trust  me.  Now  listen.  This  is 
what  your  poor  father's  old  friend  said  of 
your  old  tutor." 

He  shook  his  head  in  sorrow,  and  read,  — 

"  I  have  been  asked  to  speak  of  Mr.  Mac- 
Intyre's  fitness  for  the  post  of  an  instructor 
of  youth.  I  can  assert  with  truth  that  I 
have  on  several  occasions  seen  him  sober ; 
that  Mr.  Durnford,  his  late  employer,  never 
detected  him  in  any  dishonesty ;  that  his 
morality,  in  this  neighborhood,  has  been 
believed  in  by  no  one ;  and  that,  in  his 
temperate  intervals,  he  is  sometimes  indus- 
trious." 

"  There,  Philip.     Think  of  that." 

"  You  do  not  show  that  testimonial  much 
I  suppose  V  "  said  Philip. 

"  No,"  replied  the  philosopher.  "  I  keep 
it  as  a  proof  of  the  judeecial  blindness  which 
sometimes  afflicts  men  of  good  sense.  M.  d( 
Villeroy  is  dead,  and  so  it  matters  little  now 
Do  you  know  where  Miss  Madeleine  is  ?  " 

"  No.     In  Palmiste,  I  suppose." 

"  There  ye're  wrong.  She's  in  London 
I  saw  her  yesterday  with  an  old  lady  in 
Regent  Street,  and  followed  her  home 
She's  bonny,  vera  bonny,  with  her  black 
hair  and  big  eyes.  Oh,  she's  bonny,  bu 
uplifted  with  pride,  I  misdoubt.  VVh; 
don't  you  marry  her,  Philip?  She's  go 
plenty  of  money.  Arthur  will  marry  he 
if  you  don't.  Give  me  Arthur's  address." 

"  You  want  to  borrow  money  of  him, 
suppose  ?  " 

"  No.  I  want  just  to  ask  him  to  give  m 
money.  Ye're  not  over-rich,  I'm  afrai 
Philip,  yourself,  iny  laddie." 


Philip  laughed. 

"  My  father  gave  me  five  thousand  pounds. 
L!!  that  is  left  of  it  is  in  our  old  agent's 
ands  in  Palmiste.  I  get  ten  per  cent  for 
;.  As  I  only  got  a  hundred  and  fifty  last 
February,  a  good  lot  of  it  must  be  gone ; 
nd  I've  had  another  little  dig  into  the  pile 
ince  then." 

"  Ah,  ay  ?  —  that's  bad  ;  that's  vera  bad. 
3ut  perhaps  a  time  will  come  for  you  as 
veil  as  the  rest  of  the  world." 

•"  Arthur  can  help  you,  and  I  dare  say 
will ;  but  you  must  not  tell  him  too  much." 

"  I  do  not  intend  to  tell  him  any  thing," 
aid  the  man  of  experience  loftily,  "  ex- 
;ept  lies." 

"  Tell  me  something,  however,"  said 
Philip.  "  Tell  me  how  you  got  into  such  a 
ole." 

"  I  went  to  Australia  from  Palmiste. 
Spent  all  my  money  in  Melbourne,  trying 
,o  get  something  to  do,  and  at  last  I  got 
)ut  into  the  school  of  a  little  township  up 
country,  where  my  chief  work  was  to  cane 
he  brats.  Such  an  awfu'  set  of  devils ! 
That  lasted  a  year.  Then  there  came  a 
;errible  day." 

He  stopped  and  sighed. 

"  I  shall  never  forget  that  day.  It  was  a 
Saturday,  I  remember.  The  boys  were 
more  mutinous  than  usual,  and  I  caned 
them  all  —  there  were  thirty-five.  And 
when  one  was  caned,  the  others  all  shouted 
and  laughed.  At  twelve,  I  read  the  pray- 
ers prescribed  by  the  authorities,  with  my 
usual  warmth  and  unction.  Then  1  dis- 
missed the  boys.  Nobody  moved.  There 
was  a  dead  silence,  and  I  confess  I  felt 
alarmed.  Presently  the  five  biggest  boys 
got  up,  and  approached  my  desk  with  de- 
termined faces.  I  had  a  presentiment  of 
vhat  would  happen,  and  I  turned  to  flee. 
It  was  too  late." 

"  What  did  they  do  to  you*?  " 

"  They  tied  me  up,  sir.  They  tied  me 
up  to  my  own  desk,  and  then  they  laid  on. 
They  gave  their  reverend  dominie  the  most 
awful  flogging  that  ever  schoolboy  had. 
None  too  small,  sir,  to  have  a  cut  in.  None 
so  forgiving  as  to  shirk  his  turn.  Not  one, 
Philip,  relented  at  the  last  moment,  and 
spared  some  of  his  biceps.  Pairfect  silence 
reigned  ;  and  when  it  was  over,  they  placed 
me  back  in  my  chair,  with  my  cane  in  my 
hand ;  and  then  the  school  dispersed. 
What  I  felt,  Philip,  more  than  the  igno- 
miny, was  the  intense  pain.  A  red-hot  iron 
might  projuice  a  similar,  but  not  a  greater, 
agony,  if  applied  repeatedly  on  every 
square  inch  over  a  certain  area  of  the 
body.  A  thirty-handed  Briareus,  if  he 
turned  schoolmaster,  could  alone  rival  the 
magnitude  of  that  prodeejious  cowhiding. 
"  Next  day  I  left  the  town.  It  was  dur- 


56 


MY   LITTLE  GIRL. 


in£  church-time  ;  but  the  boys  were  wait- 
ing tor  me  ;  and.  as  I  stole  out  with  my 
bundle  in  my  hand,  they  ran  me  down  the 
street  on  a  rail,  sin-in-- '  Drunken  Sawnie  1 ' 
That  was  a  very  bad  time  1  had  then. 

u  I  tried  Sydney  after  that,  and  got  on 
pretty  well  in  business  —  till  I  failed  ;  and 
then  "the  judge  wanted  to  refuse  my  certifi- 
cate, because,  he  said,  the  books  were  fraud- 
ulently kept.  That  wasn't  true,  for  they 
were  not  kept  at  all.  So  I  came  away,  and 
got  to  the  Cape.  A  poor  place,  Phil  — 
very  poor,  and  dull ;  but  the  drink  is  good, 
and  the  food  is  cheap.  I  learned  to  speak 
Dutch,  and  was  very  near  marrying  the 
daughter  of  a  Dutch  farmer,  well  to  do, 
only  for  an  unlucky  accident.  Just  before 
the  wedding,  my  cruel  fate  caused  me  to 
be  arrested  on  a  ridiculous  charge  of  em- 
bezzlement. Of  course  I  was  acquitted ; 
but  the  judge  —  who  ought  to  be  prose- 
cuted for  defamation  of  character  —  ruined 
me  by  stating  that  I  only  got  off  by  the 
skin  of  my  teeth,  because  the  jury  under- 
stood English  imperfectly.  I  came  back  to 
England,  and  went  down  to  see  my  rela- 
tions. My  cousin,  only  four  times  removed 
—  the  baillie  of  Auchnatoddy  —  ordered 
me  out  of  his  house,  and  wadna  give  me 
bite  nor  sup.  Then  I  came  up  to  town, 
and  here  I  am  ever  since.  Ye  won't  do 
me  an  ill  turn  by  telling  Arthur  my  story, 
will  you,  Philip  V  " 

"  Not  I ;  particularly  as  you  have  only 
told  me  half  of  it." 

"  May  be  —  may  be.  The  other  half  I 
keep  to  myself." 

It  was  as  well  he  did,  for  among  the  sec- 
ond half  were  one  or  two  experiences  of 
prison  life, which  might  not  have  added  to 
his  old  pupil's  respect  for  him.  These 
other  adventures  he  omitted,  partly,  per- 
haps, out  of  modesty,  and  partly  out  of  a 
fear  that  their  importance  might  be  exag- 
gerated. 

The  astonishing  thing  was,  the  way  in 
which  he  emerged  from  all  his  troubles. 
They  seemed  to  be  without,  any  effect  upon 
his  energies  or  spirits.  Utterly  careless 
about  loss  of  character,  perfectly  devoid 
of  moral  principle,  he  came  up,  after  each 
disaster,  seemingly  refreshed  by  the  fall. 
Mother  Earth  revived  him ;  and  he  started 
anew,  generally  with  a  few  pounds  in  his 
pocket,  and  always  some  new  scheme  in 
his  head,  to  prey  upon  the  credulity  of  good 
and  simple  men.  That  he  had  not  yet 
succeeded  argued,  he  considered,  want  of 
luck  rather  than  absence  of  merit. 

His  projects  were  not  of  very  extraordi- 
nary cleverness.  But  he  was  unscrupulous 
enough  to  succeed.  Cleverness  and  free- 
dom from  scruples  do  somehow  seem  the 
two  main  requisites  to  produce  the  success 


of  wealth.  The  cleverest  rogue  becomes 
the  richest  man,  often  the  most  revered. 
He  has  been  known,  for  instance,  to  get 
into  the  House  of  Lords.  Mr.  Gladstone 
will  always,  if  he  spends  £20,000  on  the 
cause,  make  him  a  baronet.  But  quite 
lately  a  new  feeling  had  corne  over  Mr. 
Maclntyre.  He  was  beginning  to  doubt 
himself.  For  four  months  he  had  lived  on 
about  three  halt-crowns  a  week  ;  and  as  the 
days  went  on,  and  he  saw  no  chance  of  es- 
cape, he  grew  more  and  more  despondent. 
It  was  a  new  sensation,  this,  of  privation. 
He  suffered,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life. 
And  also,  for  the  first  time,  he  saw  no  way 
to  better  things,  —  no  single  spot  of  blue 
in  all  the  horizon.  Rheumatic  twinges 
pinched  him  in  the  shoulders.  He  was 
fifty-three  years  of  age.  He  had  not  a 
penny  saved,  nor  a  friend  to  give  him 
one.  In  the  evening  he  crept  back  to  his 
miserable  lodging,  brooding  over  his  fate  ; 
and  in  the  morning  he  crept  out  again 
to  his  miserable  work,  brooding  still. 

But  now  a  change,  unexpected  and  sud- 
den. Hinc  illa3  lacrimas.  Hence  those 
tears  of  the  tutor,  wrung  from  a  heart 
whose  power  of  philosophy  was  undermined 
by  a  long-continued  emptiness  of  stomach. 
That  night  he  slept  on  Philip's  sofa;  and 
the  next  day,  after  taking  a  few  necessities 
—  such  as  a  shirt,  a  waistcoat,  collar,  and 
so  on  —  from  his  benefactor's  wardrobe, 
making  philosophical  reflections  all  the 
while,  he  devoured  a  breakfast  of  enormous 
dimensions,  and  proceeded  to  call  upon 
Arthur. 

"  Ye'll  remember,  Mr.  Philip  Durnford," 
he  said,  putting  on  his  hat ;  "  by  the  way, 
lend  me  two  or  three  pounds,  which  I  shall 
repay  from  what  I  get  from  Arthur  :  I  must 
have  a  better  hat  —  ye'll  remember  to  for- 
get the  little  confidential  narrative  I  im- 
parted to  you  last  night.  It  is  not  always 
possible  to  preserve  the  prudence  of  a  phi- 
losopuer,  and  to  know  what  things  should 
be  said  and  what  concealed,  —  quse  di- 
cenda,  que  celanda  sint.  I  told  you  more 
than  I  should  ;  but  I  trust  to  your  promise." 

He  found  Arthur  at  work  in  his  usual 
purposeless  way.  That  is,  he  was  sur- 
rounded by  a  great  pile  of  books,  and  had 
a  pen  in  his  hand.  Arthur  was  not  happy 
unless  he  was  following  up  some  theory  or 
investigating  some  •'  point,"  and  had  a  Syb- 
aritish  way  of  study  which  led  to  no  re- 
sults, and  seemed  to  promise  nothing  :  a 
kind  of  work  which  very  often  lands  the 
student  among  the  antiquarians  and  arch  ge- 
ologists ;  but  there  was  a  tone  about  Ar- 
thur which  impressed  Mr.  Maclntyre  with 
a  sense  of  constraint  and  awkwardness. 
Philip  he  somehow  felt  to  belong  to  his  own 
stratum  of  humanity.  With  Philip  he  was 


MY   LITTLE   GIRL. 


57 


at  ease,  and  could  talk  familiarly.  Ar- 
thur belonged  to  that  higher  and  colder 
level  where  self-respect  was  essential,  and 
any  confidences,  of  the  criminal  Christian 
would  be  out  of  place.  Philip,  for  instance, 
had  insisted  upon  his  fortifying  his  stomach 
against  the  rawness  of  the  morning  air  with 
a  glass  of  brandy  before  going  out.  Ar- 
thur, on  the  other  hand,  offered  him  noth- 
ing ;  but,  giving  him  a  chair,  stood  lean- 
ing against  the  mantle-shelf,  and  contem- 
plating his  visitor  from  his  height  of  six  feet. 

"I  hope  you  are  doing  well,  Mr.  Macln- 
tyre," he  began. 

"  I  am  not  doing  well,"  replied  the 
Scotchman.  "  I'm  doing  very  badly." 

"  I  do  not  ask  your  history  since  I  saw 
you  last." 

"  Mr.  Arthur  Durnford,  you  are  my  old 
pupil,  —  I  may  add,  my  favorite  pupil,  — 
and  you  are*  privileged  to  say  what  you 
please.  My  life  is  open  to  any  question 
you  may  like  to  ask.  The  failure  of  a 
school  in  Australia,  through  my  —  my  firm- 
ness in  maintaining  discipline;  that  of  a 
prosperous  place  of  business  in  Sydney, 
through  an  unexpected  rise  in  the  bank- 
rate  ;  and  the  breakdown  of  my  plans  in 
Cape  Town,  brought  me  home  in  a  condi- 
tion of  extreme  penury.  From  this  I  was 
rescued  by  the  generosity  of  Lieut.  Philip 
Durnford,  who  has  most  liberally  assisted 
me  out  of  his  very  slender  means,  — 
his  very  slender  means.  Ask  me  any 
questions  you  like,  Mr.  Durnford;  but  do 
not,  if  you  please,  insinuate  that  I  have 
any  thing  to  conceal." 

He  smote  his  chest,  and  assumed  an  air 
of  Spartan  virtue. 

"Well,  well.  Only,  the  fact  is,  Mr. 
Maclntyre,  I  remember  that  the  last  time  I 
saw  you,  you  were  receiving  punishment 
from  Philip's  hands  for  some  disgraceful 
proposals." 

"  Pardon  me  —  Mr.  Philip  was  under  a 
mistake.  This,  I  believe,  he  will  now  ac- 
knowledge. I  have  forgiven  him." 

"  I  hope  he  wa's  mistaken.  Anyhow,  my 
opinion  of  you,  formed  as  a  boy,  could  not 
possibly  be  favorable." 

"  At  the  time  you  speak  of,  I  was  suffer- 
ing from  deepsornania.  I  am  now  re- 
covered, thanks  to  having  taken  the  pledge 
for  a  term  of  years,  now  expired." 

"  What  are'  you  doing  now  V  " 

"  Nothing." 

"  What  have  you  been  doing  ?  " 

"  Starving." 

"  What  do  you  want  to  do  ?  " 

"  I  want  you  to  find  me  some  money.  I 
cannot  promise  to  pay  it  back,  because  I 
am  too  poor  to  promise  any  thing ;  but  if  you 
will  advance  me  fii'ty  pounds,  I  think  I  can 
do  something  with  it." 


Arthur  took  his  check-book,  and  sat 
down  thoughtfully. 

"  I  will  do  this  for  you.  I  will  lend  you 
fifty  pounds,  which,  as  you  are  a  thrifty 
man,  ought  to  last  you  six  months.  You 
will  spend  that  time  in  looking  about  you, 
and  trying  to  get  work.  At  the  end  of  six 
months,  if  you  want  it,  I  will  lend  you  an- 
other fifty  ;  but  that  is  all  I  will  do  for  you. 
And  I  shall  specially  ask  Philip  not  to  give 
you  money." 

Mr.  Maclntyre  was  not  profuse  in  his 
thanks.  He  took  the  check,  examined  it 
carefully,  folded  it,  and  put  it  in  his  pocket. 

''I  knew  you'd  help  me,"  he  said.  "I 
told  Philip  so  this  morning.  Can  I  for- 
ward you  in  your  studies  now  ?  The  phee- 
losophical  system  of  Hamilton,  for  instance." 

"  Yes ;  never  mind  my  studies,  if  you 
please.  Is  there  any  thino-  else  I  can  do 
tor  you  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  ca'  to  mind  that  there  is.  I'll 
look  in  again  when  there  is.  Have  you 
seen  Miss  Madeleine,  Mr.  Durnford,  since 
she  came  to  London  V  " 

"  Madeleine  ?  No.  Is  she  in  London  ? 
What  is  her  address  V  —  how  long  has  she 
been  here  ?  " 

"  I  dare  say  I  could  find  out  her  address  ; 
but  it  might  cost  money." 

He  looked  so  cunning  as  he  said  this, 
that  Arthur  burst  out  laughing. 

"  You  are  a  cool  hand,  Mr.  Maclntyre. 
How  much  would  it  cost  ?  —  five  pounds  V  " 

*•  Now,  really,  Mr.  Arthur,  to  suppose 
that  a  man  can  run  all  over  London  for  five 
pounds  !  And  that  to  find  the  address  of 
your  oldest  friend." 

"  Well,  twenty  pounds  V  — thirty  pounds  ? 
Hang  it,  man,  I  must  know." 

"  I  should  think,"  said  the  philosopher, 
meditating,  "  it  might  be  found  for  forty 
pounds,  if  the  money  was  paid  at  once." 

Arthur  wrote  another  check,  which 
Maclntyre  put  into  his  pocket-book  as  be- 
fore. 

"  This  does  not  prejudice  the  fifty  pounds 
in  six  months'  time  ?  "  he  said.  "  Very 
well.  I  remember  now  that  I  have  her  ad- 
dress in  my  pocket.  I  followed  her  home, 
and  asked  a  servant.  Here  it  is,  —  No.  31 
Hatherley  Street,  Eaton  Square." 

"  Did  you  speak  to  her  ?  " 

"Is  it  likely?"  replied  Mr.  Maclntyre, 
thinking  of  his  boards. 

"  Confess  that  you  have  done  a  good 
stroke  of  business  this  morning,"  said  Ar- 
thur. "Ninety  pounds  is  not  bad.  You 
can't  always  sell  an  address  for  forty 
pounds." 

"  Sell  an  address  ?  My  dear  sir,  you 
mistake  me  altogether.  Do  not,  if  you 
please,  imagine  that  I  am  one  of  those  who 
sell  such  little  information  as  I  possess. 


58 


MY  LITTLE   GIRL. 


Remember,  if  you  please,  that  you  are  ad- 
dressing a  Master  of  Arts  of  an  ancient"  — 

"  You  are  quite  yourself  again,  Mr. 
Maelntviv."  said  Arthur.  "  Good-morn- 
ing, now.  Keep  away  from  drink,  and"  — 

u  Sir,  I  have  already  reminded  you 
that  "  — 

"  Good-morning,  Mr.  Maclntyre." 

He  went  away,  cashed  both  his  checks, 
and,  taking  lodgings,  proceeded  to  buy  such 
small  belongings  as  the  simplest  civiliza- 
tion demands,  such  as  a  hair-brush,  linen, 
and  a  two-gallon  cask  of  whiskey.  Then 
he  ordered  the  servant  to  keep  a  kettle  al- 
ways on  the  hob ;  sat  dewn,  rubbed  his 
hands,  lit  a  pipe,  and  began  to  meditate. 


CHAPTER  X. 

IT  was  quite   true.     Madeleine  was  in 
England. 

Eight  years  since,  Madeleine,  before 
leaving  her  native  island,  had  ridden  over 
to  Fontainebleau  to  take  farewell  of  a 
place  where  she  had  spent  so  many  happy 
days.  The  house  was  uninhabited  and 
shut  up ;  but  the  manager  of  the  estates  was 
careful  to  keep  it  in  repair.  It  all  looked 
as  it  used  to.  The  canes,  clean  and  well 
kept,  waving  in  the  sunlight,  in  green  and 
yellow  and  gray ;  the  mill  busier  than 
ever,  with  its  whir  of  grinding  wheels ; 
the  sweet,  rich  smell  of  the  sugar ;  the 
huge  vats  of  seething,  foaming  juice,  and 
the  whirling  turbines.  But  the  old  veran- 
da was  no  longer  strewn  with  its  cane  mats 
and  chairs;  and,  when  the  doors  were 
opened  for  her,  the  house  felt  chill  and 
damp.  She  lifted  the  piano-lid,  and  touch- 
ed the  keys,  shrinking  back  with  a  cry  of 
fright.  It  was  like  a  voice  from  the  dead, 
—  so  cracked  and  thin  and  strident  was 
the  sound.  In  the  boys'  study  were  their 
old  school-books  lying  about,  just  as  they 
had  left  them ;  in  a  drawer  which  she 
opened,  some  paper  scribbled  with  boyish 
sketches.  One  of  these  represented  a 
gentleman,  whose  features  were  of  an 
exaggerated  Scotch  type,  endeavoring  to 
mount  his  pony.  The  animal  was  turning 
upon  him  with  an  air  of  reproach,  as  one 
saying,  "  Sir,  you  are  drunk  again."  This 
was  inscribed  at  the  back,  "  Philippus 
fecit."  Then  there  was  another  and  more 
finished  effort,  signed  Arthur,  of  a  girl's 
head  in  chalk.  Perhaps  the  merit  of  this 
picture  was  slender ;  but  Madeleine  blushed 
when  she  looked  at  it,  and  took  both  pic 
tures  away  with  her. 

There  was  no  other  souvenir  that  she 
cared  to  have  ;  and,  leaving  the  house,  she 
paid  a  visit  to  the  garden.  Oh,  the  ga 


len !  Where  once  had  been  pine-apples 
,vere  pumpkins ;  where  had  been  straw- 
)erries  were  pumpkins  ;  where  there  hud 
nee  been  flower-beds,  vegetables,  or  shrubs, 
vere  pumpkins.  Pumpkin  was  king.  He 
ay  there  —  green,  black,  or  golden  — 
basking  in  the  sun.  He  had  devoured  all, 
ind  spread  himself  over  all. 

So  Madeleine  came  away ;  and,  under 
he  maternal  wing  of  the  Bishopess,  — 
vhose  right  reverend  husband,  as  happens 
jnce  in  two  years  to  all  colonial  bishops, 
lad  business  connected  with  his  diocese 
which  brought  him  to  England,  —  was  duly 
shipped  to  Southampton,  and  presently 
brvvarded  to  Switzerland. 

Education.  Her  guardian  was  a  French- 
man by  descent,  a  Swiss  by  choice.  He 
lad  enlarged  views,  and  brought  up  the 
yirl  as  a  liberal  Protestant.  He  had  her 
:aught  the  proper  amount  of  accomplish* 
inents.  He  made  her  talk  English,  though 
with  a  slight  foreign  accent,  as  well  as 
French ;  and,  what  was  much  more  im- 
portant, gave  her  ideas  as  to  independence 
and  unconventionality  which  sank  deep, 
and  moulded  her  whole  character.  Inso- 
much that  one  day  she  announced  her  in- 
tention of  going  away  and  setting  up  for 
herself. 

;t  I  am  of  age,"  she  said,  "  I  want  to 
see  the  world  a  little.  I  want  to  make  up 
my  mind  what  to  do  with  myself." 

Old  M.  Lajardie  chuckled. 

"  See  what  it  is,"  he  observed,  "  to  bring 
up  a  girl  as  she  ought  to  be  brought  up. 
My  dear,  if  it  had  not  been  for  me,  you 
would  at  this  moment  be  wanting  to  go 
into  a  convent." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  I  know  the  sex,  child.  You  belong  to 
the  class  which  takes  to  religion  like  a  duck 
to  water.  This  being  denied  you,  you  will 
take  to  philanthropy,  usefulness,  all  sorts 
of  things.  That  is  why  I  taught  you  Eng- 
lish, because  England  is  the  only  country 
possible  for  a  full  exercise  of  these  virtues. 
Then  you  are  of  a  temperament  which 
would  have  induced  blind  submission  in  a 
man,  and  makes  a  delightful  obstinacy  in  a 
free  woman." 

"  Upon  my  word,  my  dear  guardian  "  — 

"And  then,  my  child,  there  is  another 
quality  in  you,  which  would  have  made 
you  the  most  rapturous  of  sisters,  which 
will  make  you  the  best  and  most  devoted 
of  wives.  You  will  marry,  Madeleine." 

"  It  is  possible,"  she  said.  "  It  may 
come  in  my  way,  as  it  does  in  most  people's 
lives;  but  I  do  not  count  upon  marriage 
as  a  part  of  my  life." 

"  You  are  rich,  Madeleine.  lrou  have  — 
well,  more  than  your  fair  share  of  beauty. 
Black  hair  and  black  eyes  are  common  ; 


MY   LITTLE  GIRL. 


59 


but  not  such  splendid  hair  as  yours,  or 
eyes  as  bright.  There  are  girls  as  tall  as 
you,  but  few  with  so  good  a  figure." 

"Don't,  guardian,"  said  Madeleine,  with 
a  little  moue  and  a  half-blush.  "  I  would 
rather  you  told  me  of  my  faults." 

"  I  know  the  sex,  I  tell  you,"  repeated 
the  old  man.  "  When  I  was  young  —  ah, 
what  a  thing  it  is  to  be  young! —  I  made  a 
profound  study  of  the  sex.  It  is  quite 
true,  Madeleine,  though  I  am  only  an  old 
man  who  says  it,  that  even  Madame  Reca- 
mier  herself,  in  her  best  days,  had  not  a 
more  finished  style  than  yours.  You  will 
succeed,  my  child  :  you  will  be  able  to  mar- 
ry any  one  —  any  one  you  please." 

"  You  do  not  imagine,  I  suppose,  that  I 
am  to  fall  in  love  with  the  first  rich  young 
man  who  tells  me  that  he  loves  me  ?  As 
if  there  was  nothing  in  the  world  for  wo- 
man to  think  of  but  love." 

"  Most  women,"  went  on  her  critic, u  like 
to  be  married  to  a  lord  and  master.  I 

Erophecy  for  you,  Madeleine,  that  your 
usband  will  be  content  to  obey  rather 
than  to  command.  So,  child,  you  shall  see 
the  world.  Let  me  only  just  write  to  our 
friend,  Mrs.  Longworthy,  who  will  act  as 
your  chaperon.  You  will  find  yourself 
richer  than  you  think  perhaps.  All  your 
money  is  in  the  English  funds,  and  the  in- 
terest has  been  used  to  buy  fresh  stock. 
Go  now,  my  ward  —  I  will  think  over  what 
is  best  to  be  done." 

The  old  man  attended  her  to  the  door, 
and,  shutting  it  after  her,  went  through  a 
little  pantomime  of  satisfaction.  That 
done,  he  took  down  a  volume  of  Voltaire's 
"  Philosophical  Dictionary,"  and  wagged 
his  head  over  the  wisdom  that  he  found 
therein. 

"  Independent,"  he  murmured  ;  "  rich, 
self-reliant,  able  to  think,  not  superstitious, 
not  infected  with. insular  prejudices,  phil- 
anthropic, beautiful.  She  will  do.  Elle 
ira  loin,  mon  ami,"  he  said,  tapping  his  own 
forehead.  "  You  have  done  well.  When 
revolutions  come,  and  lines  of  thought  are 
changed,  it  is  good  to  have  such  women  at 
hand,  to  steady  the  men.  France  rules  the 
world,  and  the  women  rule  France.  Hein  V 
it  sounds  epigrammatic.  Has  it  been  said 
be!  ore?" 

So  to  England  Madeleine  came.  A  chap- 
eron was  found  for  her  in  the  widow  of 
an  old  friend  of  M.  Lajardie,  —  a  certain 
Mrs.  Longwortliy,  who  was  willing  —  and 
more  than  that*  able  —  to  take  her  into 
society.  They  took  one  of  those  extremely 
comfortable  little  houses  —  the  rent  of 
which  is  so  absurdly  out  of  proportion  to 
their  size  —  close  to  Eaton  Square  :  a  house 
with  its  two  little  drawing-rooms  and 
greenhouse  at  the  back,  —  a  little  narrow 


as  regards  dining-room  accommodation,  but 
broad  enough,  as  Mrs.  Longworthy  put  it, 
for  two  lone  women. 

Madeleine's  chaperon  was  only  remarka- 
ble ibr  hur  extraordinary  coseyness  and  love 
of  comfort.  A  cushiony  old  lady,  —  one 
who  sat  by  the  fireside  and  purred ;  and, 
when  things  went  badly  with  her,  went  to 
bed,  and  staid  there  till  they  came  round 
again.  An  old  lady  who  went  to  church 
every  Sunday,  and,  like  the  late  lamented 
Duke  of  Sussex,  murmured  after  each  com- 
mandment, "  Never  did  that :  never  did 
that."  So  that  the  rules  of  prohibition  did 
not  affect  her  own  conscience.  For  all  the 
rest,  she  entirely  trusted  and  admired  Mad- 
eleine, and  never  even  ventured  on  a  re- 
monstrance with  her. 

Madeleine  was  what  her  guardian  de- 
scribed her.  In  her  presence  most  men  felt 
themselves  above  their  own  stratum.  There 
was  a  sort  of  gulf;  'and  yet,  with  all  the 
men's  experience,  the  clear  light  of  her 
eyes  seemed  to  read  so  far  beyond  their 
actual  ken.  If  she  liked  you,  and  talked  to 
you,  you  came  away  from  her  strengthened 
and  braced  up.  Beautiful  she  certainly 
was,  in  a  way  of  her  own  :  striking,  the 
women  called  her,  —  a  word  which  the  sex 
generally  employ  when  they  feel  envious 
of  power  and  physique  beyond  their  own. 
Rolls  of  black  hair ;  a  pale  and  colorless 
cheek  ;  a  small  and  firm  mouth  ;  clear  and 
sharply-defined  nostrils  ;  eyes  that  were 
habitually  limpid  and  soft,  which  yet  might 
flash  to  sudden  outbreaks  of  storm  ;  and  a 
figure  beyond  all  expression  gracieuse.  A 
woman  who  could  talk  ;  one  whom  young 
warriors,  having  to  take  her  in  to  dinner, 
speedily  felt  beyond  them  altogether ;  one 
who  lifted  a  man  up,  and  made  him  breathe 
a  purer  air.  This  is,  I  take  it,  the  highest 
function  of  woman.  We  cannot,  as  a  rule, 
run  comfortably  in  signal  harness,  but  are 
bound  by  the  laws  of  our  being  to  have  a 
mate  of  some  kind.  It  is  surely  best  for  us 
to  find  one  whose  sense  of  duty  is  stronger 
than  our  own,  and  whose  standard  is  higher. 
We  may  have  to  do  all  the  work  ;  but  we 
want  a  fellow  in  the  harness  to  show  us  that 
the  work  is  good,  and  that  it  behooves  us  to 
do  well. 

Madeleine  was  not,  it  is  certain,  one  of  the 
girls  whom  a  certain  class  of  small  poets 
love  to  style  "  Darling,"  "  Pet  Amoret," 
"  sweet  little  lily."  Not  for  any  man's  toy ; 
no  animated  doll  to  please  for  a  while,  and 
then  drop  out  of  life ;  nor  yet  that 
dreadful  creature,  a  "  woman's  rights," 
woman.  Perhaps  she  was  not  clever 
enough. 

Arthur  Durnford  called  upon  her  the 
same  day  on  which  he  got  the  address.  He 
was  a  little  prepared  to  gush,  remembering 


60 


MY   LITTLE   GIRL. 


the  little  sylph  with  whom  he  used  to  play 
twelve  ycjirs  ago  ;  but  there  was  no  oppor- 
tunity ibr  gushing.  The  stately  damsel  who 
rn-.r.';ui<l  i:n-e;ed  him  with  almost  as  much 
coldness  ;is  if  they  had  parted  the  day  before, 
silenced,  ii'she  did  not  disconcert  him. 

"  I  knew  that  we  should  meet  again  some 
time,"  she  said  ;  "  and  I  had  already  writ- 
ten to  Palmiste  for  your  address.  Mrs. 
Lorfgworthy,  this  is  my  old  friend,  Arthur 
Durnford,  of  whom  I  have  so  often  told 
you." 

He  saw  a  little,  fat  old  lady,  with  a  face 
like  a  winter  apple,  crinkled  and  ruddy, 
sitting  muffled  up  by  the  fireside. 

"  Come  and  shake  hands  with  me,  Arthur 
Durnford,"  she  cried,  in  the  pleasantest 
voice  he  had  ever  heard.  "  I  knew  your 
father  when  he  was  a  wild  young  fellow  in 
the  Hussars.  Let  me  look  at  you.  Yes,  you 
are  like  him ;  but  he  had  black  hair,  and 
yours  is  brown.  And  you  stoop,  —  I  sup- 
pose because  you  read  books  all  day.  Fie 
upon  the  young  men  of  the  present  1  They 
all  read.  In  my  time  there  was  not  so 
much  reading,  I  can  tell  you,  but  a  great 
deal  more  love-making  and  merriment. 
Now,  sit  down,  and  talk  to  Madeleine." 

She  lay  back  on  her  cushions,  and  pres- 
ently fell  fast  asleep,  while  the  two  talked. 

They  talked  of  Palmiste  and  the  old 
days ;  and  then  a  sort  of  constraint  came 
upon  them,  because  the  new  days  of  either 
were  unknown. 

"Tell  me  about,  yourself,  Arthur,"  said 
Madeleine.  "  I  am  going  to  call  you  Arthur, 
and  you  shall  call  me  Madeleine,  just  as  we 
used  to.  Mrs.  Longworthy,  —  oh  !  she  is 
asleep." 

"  No,  my  dear,  —  only  dozing.  Wake 
me  up  by  telling  me  something  pleasant." 

"  I  was  going  to  tell  Arthur  that  I  am 
sure  you  would  like  him  to  come  here  a 
great  deal,  —  I  should." 

"  That  ought  to  be  enough,  Mr.  Durnford. 
But  I  should  too.  We  are  a  pair  of 
women  ;  and  we  sometimes  sit,  and  nag  at 
each  other.  Don't  look  at  me  so,  Maddy  ! 
—  if  we  don't  actually  do  it,  we  sometimes 
want  to.  Come  a  great  deal,  Mr.  Durnford. 
Come  as  nearly  every  day  as  you  can  man- 
age. It  is  very  good  for  young  men  to  have 
ladies'  society.  We  shall  civilize  you." 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  Arthur  began. 

"  But  I  must  say  one  thing.  l)o  not 
come  early  in  the  morning.  I  consider 
that  the  day  ought  to  be  a  grand  procession- 
al triumph  of  temper.  That  is  why  I 
always  take  my  breakfast  in  bed.  Handle 
me  delicately  in  the  morning,  and  a  child 
may  lead  me  all  day.  Come,  if  you  want 
to  see  me,  in  time  for  luncheon,  at  two  ;.  if 
you  want  to  see  Madeleine,  at  any  time  she 
tells  you." 


"  And  how  i?  Philip  1  "  asked  Madeleine. 

"  Who  is  Philip  V  "  said  Mrs.  Longworthy. 

".My  cousin,  the  son  of  my  father's 
brother." 

"  Your  father,  my  dear  boy,  never  had 
any  brothers." 

"  Pardon  me,  Mrs.  Longworthy." 

She  shook  her  head,  and  lay  back  again. 

"  And  what  is  your  profession,  Arthur  V  " 

"  I  have  none." 

"  What  do  you  do  with  yourself  1  " 

"  I  waste  time  in  the  best  way  I  can.  I 
read,  write  a  little,  make  plans  ;  and  the 
days  slip  by." 

"  That  seems  very  bad.  Come  and  help 
me  in  my  profession." 

"  What  is  your  profession  1  " 

"  Come  some  morning  at  ten,  and  I  will 
tell  you.  Send  Philip  to  call  upon  me." 

As  Arthur  went  out  of  the  room,  he 
heard  Mrs.  Longworthy  saying, — 

"  I  am  not  wrong  :  I  am  quite  right. 
George  Durnford  was  an  only  son ;  and 
so  was  his  father.  The  De  Melhuyns, 
quite  new  people,  told  me  all  about  it." 

A  sudden  light  flashed  upon  Arthur's 
minJ.  He  knew,  in  that  way  in  which 
knowledge  of  this  sort  soVnetimes  comes, 
that  Philip  was  his  half-brother.  He  was 
certain  of  it.  He  reasoned  with  himself; 
set  up  all  the  objections;  proved  to  him- 
self that  the  preponderance  of  chances  was 
against  it;  marshalled  all  the  opposite  evi- 
dence ;  and  remained  absolutely  certain  of 
the  truth  of  his  conviction. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

BUT  Arthur  went  round,  the  same  even- 
ing, to  Philip's  lodgings. 

"  How  much  did  Maclntyre  charge  you 
for  Madeleine's  address  1 "  asked  the  man 
of  larger  experience. 

Arthur  colored,  — 

"Well,  we  did  drive  a  bargain.  Why 
did  you  not  send  it  to  me  'I  " 

"  First,  because  I  did  not  possess  it ; 
secondly,  because,  if  I  had,  Maclntyre  was 
so  entirely  frank  with  me  as  to  what  he  in- 
tended, that  it  would  have  gone  to  my 
heart  to  spoil  his  little  game.  Tell  me  how 
Madeleine  is  looking." 

"  Here  is  the  address.  Go  and  see  her 
yourself." 

"  Is  she  milk  and  water  1  But  of 
course  "  — 

"  Go  and  see  her  yourself." 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  shall,  Arthur.  We 
are  different,  you  and  I.  You  are  an  eligi- 
ble parti:  I  am  only  a  detrimental." 

"  But,  my  dear  fellow,  there  is  no  ques- 


MY   LITTLE   GIRL. 


61 


tion  of  that  sort  of  thing.  Madeleine  is  not 
like  the  ordinary  girls  you  meet." 

"  Oh !  "  said  Philip,  "  is  she  not  ?  I  don't 
go  into  society  much  myself,  because  I  ieel 
out  of  my  element  in  that  rank  of  life  in 
which  my  fortunes  allow  me  to  circulate. 
The  domestic  business,  with  the  conven- 
tional young  woman,  lacquered  with  accom- 
plishments which  get  rubbed  off  when  the 
babies  come  ;  the  piano  for  the  last  new 
piece,  and  the  song  for  the  dear  creature 
who  breathes  hard,  and  thinks  she  sings  ; 
the  mind  without  an  idea  outside  the  nar- 
row circle  in  which  it  has  been  trained  — 
I  do  not  think,  Arthur,  that  my  idea  of 
happiness  is  quite  this." 

"  Weil,  well ;  but  all  women  are  not  so. 
Madeleine  is  not." 

"  Give  me,"  he  went  on,  —  "  give  me 
some  girl  brought  up  out  of  ladies'  circles 
and  women's  ways,  brought  up  by  a  man  ; 
full  of  ideas,  thoughts,  and  quaint  fancies; 
pretty,  in  a  way  that  the  Tyburnian  misses 
are  not  pretty  ;  able  to  talk,  able  to  amuse 
you,  able  to  please  you,  when  the  little 
stock  of  accomplishments  is  all  run 
through." 

He  was  thinking  of  Lollie. 

"  A  lady,  and  not  brought  up  by  ladies  ?  " 
said  Arthur. 

"  I  was  in  (  society '  the  other  day  :  five 
and  twenty  young  ladies,  whispering  bitter 
things  of  each  other,  bursting  with  envy 
and  malice.  I  want  a  girl  who  does  not 
look  on  all  other  girls  as  rivals  and  ene- 
mies. I  talked  to  one  of  them." 

"•You  did  not  expect  the  poor  girl  to 
pour  out  her  soul  at  the  first  interview." 

u  She  had  very  little  to  pour.  That 
little  was  poured.  I  came  away  early." 

"  That  is  not  society.  Come  with  me  to 
see  Madeleine." 

The  other,  who  was  in  his  bitterest  mood, 
sneered  in  reply,  — 

"  They  are  all  alike.  Every  woman 
wants  to  be  admired  more  than  other 
women  in  the  room.  That  is  the  first  thing. 
Without  that,  there  is  no  real  happiness. 
Then  they  want  to  be  rich :  not  because 
they  may  live  well,  for  they  do  not  under- 
stand eating  and  drinking  ;  not  for  the  sake 
of  art,  because  they  only  know  the  art 
chatter.  If  they  felt  art,  do  you  think  they 
would  dress  as  they  do  V  No,  sir :  they 
want  money  in  order  to  make  their  ac- 
quaintance envious.  For  themselves,  what 
a  woman  desires  and  likes  most  in  the 
world  is  to  be  kept  warm.  Give  the  squaw 
her  blanket,  or  the  lady  her  cushion,  and 
she  is  happy.  Warmth,  wealth,  admira- 
tion :  those  are  the  three  things  she  desires. 
What  can  we  expect  ?  Read  the  literature 
about  women,  from  Anacreon  to  the  comic 
papers.  We  have  conspired  together 


against  the  sex.  We  have  agreed  to  keep 
them  foolish  and  vain,  —  to  limit  their  as- 
pirations to  dress ;  and  deuced  well  we 
have  succeeded." 

Arthur  laughed. 

"Take  the  Newgate  Calendar,  Phil,  to 
represent  manhood,  if  you  like.  Just  as 
well  exaggerate  the  faults  of  women,  and 
make  them  represent  womanhood.  Women 
love  admiration  because  it  is  an  instinct. 
Their  influence  is  through  their  beauty.  It 
is  a  net  spread  by  nature  to  entrap  and 
catch  men,  in  order  that  they  may  be  led 
heavenwards.  Wild  beasts,  like  you,  who 
prefer  the  woods,  full  of  pitfalls  and  snares, 
to  the  soft  green  glades  "  — 

"•Rubbish,"  said  Philip. 

"  Not  rubbish  at  all.  Don't  despise 
women,  —  don't  cry  them  down.  Go  in 
for  marrying,  and  try  the  domestic  happi- 
ness you  declaim  against." 

"  All  which  means  that  you  are  epris 
with  Madeleine  yourself,  I  suppose.  It  is, 
perhaps,  the  best  thing  you  can  do.  But 
look  at  the  other  side  of  the  picture.  Sup- 
pose that  what  we  call  the  highest  kind  of 
life  —  by  which  you  mean,  I  take  it,  the 
calm  cultivation  of  all  that  is  artistic,  un- 
biassed by  passion  and  undisturbed  by  re- 
grets —  is  out  of  your  reach,  because  you 
can't  afford  it,  don't  you  think  it  prudent 
to  say,  '  Young  man,  you  are  not  intended 
to  marry.  Do  not  be  an  accomplice  in  the 
production  of  a  generation  of  paupers. 
On  the  other  hand,  get  as  much  as  you  can 
out  of  life  with  the  resources  at  your  dis- 
posal.' " 

"  Every  man  may  lead  the  higher  life." 

"  Perhaps,  if  he  remains  unman  led. 
What  kind  of  higher  life  is  that  in  which 
one  trembles  at  the  butcher's  bill,  and  eats 
out  his  heart  thinking  of  the  children's 
future  ?  And,  besides,  your  higher  lite,  — 
what  is  it  ?  Bah !  Wine,  love,  song ! 
Get  what  you  can,  and  leave  the  gods  the 
rest.  It  is  their  care,  I  suppose, — this 
'  rest,'  whatever  it  is." 

But  he  did  call  on  Madeleine.  Went  to 
see  her  the  very  next  day.  Madeleine  was 
alone,  as  it  was  one  of  Mrs.  Longworthy's 
sick  days,  or,  as  she  put  it,  one  of  those 
days  when  temper  got  the  better  of 
her. 

Madeleine  was  not  so  unconstrained  with 
him  as  with  Arthur.  Perhaps  it  was 
something  in  his  look,  —  perhaps  the  mem- 
ory of  old  childish  quarrels.  People  very 
seldom  take  kindly  in  after-life  to  those 
who  have  teased  them  as  children.  She 
was  colder  than  to  Arthur,  —  asked  but  few 
questions  of  him,  and  turned  the  conversa- 
tion on  things  general.  Philip,  in  his 
unhappy  way,  chafed  at  his  reception, 
because  he  knew  how  Arthur  had  been 


MY   LITTLE   GIRL. 


welcomed,  —  putting  it  down  as  doe  to  that 
fatal  taint  of  b 

-  D  j  you  like  the  army  as  a  profession  ?  " 
asked  Madeleine. 

ere  is  not  much  to  like  or  dislike  in 
it,"  he  replied  carelessly.  "It  does  to 
carry  one  along.* 

"To  carry  one  along,  —  yes,  but  not  as 
the  highest  object  of  on-  ;ppose 

you  mean  ?  " 

-  I  certainly  did  not  mean  that,"  replied 
Philip.     ••  I  know  nothing   about  highest 
objects  in  life.     My  life  consists  in  getting 
as  much  enjoyment  as  my  income  will  ad- 
mit.     Very   low  aims,    indeed,    are   they 
not?" 

••  Yes." 

"  At  the  same  time,  suppose  I  was  to  go 
in  for  the  higher  kind,  —  very  odd  thing, 
Arthur  is  always  talking  about  the  higher 
life,  —  I  suppose  I  should  do  it  because  I 
enjoyed  it  best.  Do  you  not  think  so  ?  " 

••  Yes.  But  one  ought  not  to  be  think- 
ing about  enjoyment." 

-  Pardon  me,  —  I  only  said  that  one  does 
think  about  enjoyment." 

-  There  is  duty,  at  least,"  said  Made- 
leine. 

••  Yes,  —  my  duties  are  light  and  easily 
fulfilled.  When  I  have  got  through  those, 
theiv  is  nothing  left  but  to  fill  up  the  time, 
as  I  said,  with  as  much  amusement,  enjoy- 
ment, frivolity,  whatever  you  like,  as  my 
money  will  cover.  As  we  are  old  acquaint- 
ances. Madeleine,  it  is  just  as  well  that  I 
should  not  pretend  to  any  thing  but  what  I 
am.  Now,  tell  me,  if  I  may  be  imperti- 
nent, what  you  think  I  ou?ht  to  do  ?  " 

~  I  don't  know,"  she  said.  "  Life  is  so 
terrible  a  thing  at  best,  so  full  of  responsi- 
bilities, of  evils  that  must  be  faced,  and 
dreadful  things  that  cannot  be  suppressed, 
that  I  don't  know  what  to  say.  It  seems 
to  me  as  if  the  whole  duty  of  the  rich 
man"  — 

"  I  am  not  a  rich  man." 

"  The  man  of  leisure,  the  man  of  cul- 
ture, were  to  throw  himself  among  the  peo- 
ple, and  try  to  raise  them  "  — 

u  You  would  make  us  all  philanthropists, 
then  ?  " 

'•I  hardly  know.     If  only  —  without  so- 

-  and    organizations  —  people  would 

go  among  the  poor  and  teach  them,  —  help, 

without  money,  you  know.     But  one  can 

only  do  one's  self  what  one  feels  right." 

Here,  at  least,  was  a  woman  different 
from  the  type  he  had  set  up  the  preceding 
night,  —  different,  too,  from  Laura. 

"  You  are  talking  to  a  mere  man  of  the 
world,"  said  Philip,  rising.  "  We  have  no 
ideas  of  duty,  you  know,  only  a  lew  ele- 
mentary rules  of  rizht  and  wron?,  which 
we  call  the  laws  of  honor.  My  friends,  for 


instance,  always  pay  up  after  each  event. 
On  the  other  hand,  it  is  danjerous  to  have 
to  do  with  them  in  the  matter  of  horses ; 
and  they  will  take  any  advantage  that  fair- 
rs  in  the  way  of  a  bet.  We  like 
gathering  in  club  smoking-rooms,  drinking 
good  wine,  smoking  good  cigars.  We  like 
to  be  well  dressed,  to  do  certain  things  well, 
such  as  riding,  billiard-playing,  and  so 
forth  "  — 

"But,  Philip,  does  not  this  life  tire 
you  ?  " 

••  I  assure  you,  not  in  the  least  Greatly 
as  I  must  fall  in  your  eyes  by  the  confession. 
I  declare  that  I  do  not  care  one  straw  for 
my  fellow-man.  You  tell  me  the  people 
are  starving.  I  say.  there  are  poor-rates, 
rich  men,  and  our  luxurious  staff  of  par- 
sons, beadles,  and  relieving  officers,  to  help 
them.  You  say  they  are  badly  taught. 
Where,  then,  are  the  schools  ?  I  meet  with 
the  poor  man  in  the  street,  and  read  of 
him  in  the  paper.  He  has,  it  appears  to 
me,  two  phases  in  his  character.  He  either 
fawns  or  bullies.  He  begs  or  tries  to  rob. 
I  am  told  that  he  gets  large  wa^es  in  the 
summer,  which  he  spends  in  drink,  and  has 
nothing  left  for  the  winter.  If  I  were  a 
poor  man,  and  knew  that  I  should  be  pitied 
by  charitable  people  directly  I  was  hard 
up,  I  should  do  just  the  same  tiling.  What 
is  the  poor  man  to  me  ?  I  owe  him  noth- 
ing. I  do  not  employ  him.  I  do  not  get 
rich  by  his  labor.  Therefore,  you  see,  I 
am  quite  indifferent  to  his  sufferings,  quite 
awake  to  his  vices,  and  quite  careless  about 
his  virtues." 

Madeleine  looked  at  him  with  astonish- 
ment. 

"  You  are  frank,  indeed,"  she  said  ;  "  but 
believe  me,  you  are  quite  wrong.  I  must 
teach  you  that  the  poor,  whom  you  despise, 
are  not  worse  than  ourselves,  — "  better  than 
your  friends,  if  I  may  say  so,  because  they 
hel  p  each  other,  and  have"  sympathy.  Why 
are  you  so  frank  ?  Why  have  you  told  me 
so  much  about  yourself?  " 

"  Because  I  aui  anxious  that  you  should 
know  me  as  I  am,"  replied  Philip. 

"  But  I  am  sorry  you  told  me  what  you 
are.  After  all,  you  have  exaggerated.  I 
shall  wait  for  a  woman's  love  to  soften 
you." 

A  wondrously  softened  look  did  pass  over 
Philip's  eyes.  He  was  thinking  of  the  girl 
whom  he  was  to  meet  the  next  day. 

**  Love,"  he  said,  "  the  old  story.  If  I 
am  to  be  reformed,  I  would  rather  meet  my 
fate  that  way  than  any  other.  Forgive  my 
bluntness,  Madeleine.  You  see,  I  do  not 
belong  to  your  world." 

"  But  do  belong  to  my  world.  It  really 
is  a  better  one  than  yours.  Of  course,  we 
have  our  little  faults';  and  we  may  be  slow 


MY  LITTLE   GTKL. 


63 


for  yon,  and  sometimes — wliat  is  it.  tha* 
quality  for  which  the  French  have  no  word, 
because  they  never  understand  it  ?  —  what 
is  it  that  people  are  when  they  not  only  do 
their  duty  but  overdo  it  V  " 

"  You  mean  your  world  is  sometimes 
priggish," 

*r  That  is  the  word,  —  not  a  lady's  word, 
I  know;  but  Mrs.  Longworthy  tells  me 
•when  I  make  mistakes..  And  this  word 
does  so  beautifully  fit  its  meaning.  Yes. 
priggish.  Only  English  and  Germans  are 
that,  I  cannot  tell  why.  But  come  into  my 
world." 

Philip  shook  his  head. 

"  You  are  on  one  side  of  the  stream,  and 
I  am  on  the  other ;  and  the  stream  is  widen- 
ing. Arthur  is  on  your  side  too.  We  can 
still  talk.  The  time  may  come  when  the 
river  will  be  so  wide  that  we  cannot  even 
do  that." 

"I  think  I  know  what  you  mean,"  she 
replied.  "  Cross  at  once,  and  stay  with  u? 

—  with  those  who  —  who  love  yon,  in  mem- 
ory of  old  days." 

trYou  cannot  cross  a  river,"  he  said, 
smiling,  *:  without  a  bridge  or  a  boat.  Just 
at  present  1  see  none.  The  bridges  are  all 
higher  up,  behind  me ;  and  so  are  the  boats. 
And  the  two  paths  are  getting  farther  and 
farther  apart  Good-by,  Madeleine," 

He  left  her  with  these  words.  Very 
oddly,  they  recall  my  illustration  from  the 
works  of  Pythagoras  a  iew  chapters  back. 
That  must  be  because  *•  les  esprits  forts  se 
rencontrent" 

*4  Tell  me,"  said  Mrs.  Longworthy,  at 
dinner,  u  what  kind  of  man  is  this  Mr. 
Philip  Durnford." 

4-  He  is  not  so  tall  as  Arthur,  has  black 
hair,  a  black  mustache,  and  large,  soft  eyes. 

—  almond-shaped  eyes." 

"  Oh !  Did  you  ever  see  eyes  like  his 
anywhere  else-?" 

'•  Yes  :  they  are  like  the  eyes  of  the  mu- 
lattoes  in  Palmiste.'' 

'•  Humph  !  "  said  Mrs.  Longworthy. 

'•  He  dresses  very  well,  nnd  he  talks  very 
well.  Only,  my  dear -Mrs.  Longworthy. 
you  know  what  I  told  you  about  the  gar- 
den at  Fontainebleau,  when  I  saw  it  last." 

4>  Yes." 

"  Well,  Philip  Durnford's  mind  is  like 
that  garden, — all  overgrown  -with  pump- 
kins." 


CHAPTER  XII. 

LET  us  have."  said  Venn,  trimming  the 
lamps  on  Chorus  night,  *•  a  cheerful  even- 
ing. What  fresh  disappointment  has  any 
one  to  communicate  V  " 


«  A   lawyer."  said    Lynm,  «*&» 
hare  sent  me  *• 
with  other  people's  money.      That  is  AD. 
tb*t  lu«  lusppened  to  me."' 

<;  He    m; 

Jones,     *•  My  manager,  who  h^ 
my  play,  is  a  ba: 
who  tr  _ 

vent  the   :  g    out.    I  memm  fir 

him. 


'He  -wag 

He  -was 
His  loveliness  I  never  i. 

TJmil  he  smiled  on  me.'  "* 


"  As  an  honorary  member  of  the  Chorus," 
said  Arthur,  **  I  can  hardly  be  expected  to 
have  any  misfortunes,  —  consequent!  v,  I 
have  none."  • 

«*  This,"  said  Venn,  with  a  beaming  face, 
*  is  quite  like  old  times.  I,  too,  have  liad 
my  disappointment.  I  had  spent  the  last 
twelve  motaths  in  revising  and  polishing  tie 
Opuscula..  They  are  now  as  complete  as  a 
Greek  statue.  I  proposed  them  to  a  pub- 
lisher. He  kept  my  letter  for  a  month,  and 
then  sent  me  a  refusal.  It  ?s  his  loss  pecu- 
niarily, the  world's  loss  intellectually.'" 

**  It  is  very  sad,*"  sympathized*  Jones, 
u  And  yet,  I  dare  say.  yon  would  not  ex- 
change vour  literary  fame  for  my  dramatic 
gW?" 

A-  One  great  compensation  of  affliction," 
Venn  observed.  **  is  the  law  of  setf-t  - 
No  man,  whatever  his  drawbacks,  would 
change  with  any  other  man.  We  Admire 
ourselves  for  our  very  afflictions.  We  lie 
on  our  bed  of  torture  till  even  the  red-hot 
gridiron  becomes  a  sort  of  spring  mattress  ; 
and  then  we  pity  the  poor  devils  grilling 
next  to  us.  Following  out  this  idea,  as  I 
intend  to  do,  I  shall  write  a  life  of  that  Jew 
whose  teeth  King  John  pulled  out  day  by 
day.  I  shall  show  that  he  rather  enjoyed 
it  as  he  got  oil,  and  looked  for  it  every 
moming,  till  the  teeth  were  all  gone.  Then 
he  talked  about  it  for  the  rest  of  his  life. 
So,  too,  the  old  woman,  who  hugs  her  rheu- 
matism to  her  heart." 

«*  Ourselves  are  too  ranch  with  us  :  late  and  soon, 
>     l  at  the  mirror  do  w*  waste  <sor  powers  ; 
Little  we-  soo  in  Xaxuro  that  i«  OWB. 
We  give  ourselves  OUT  praise,  —  a  sordid  "boon," 

Jones  made  the  Above  remark,  which  fell 
unnoticed. 

"  Another  compensation,"  snys  Lynn, 
4-  may  be  got  from  the  magnitude  of  mis- 
fortunos.  To  have  had  more  ijunerals  than 
anybody  else  confers  a  distinction  on  *ny 
woman.  To  have  had  more  MSS.  rejedpMl 
than  anybody  else  confers  a  distinction  upon 
you,  my  dear  Venn." 

"  Let  us  change  the  subjecu"  Venn  re- 


64 


MY  LITTLE   GIRL. 


plied,  with  a  blush,  showing  that  he  felt  the 
delicacv  of  the  compliment.  "  I  have  now 
to  submit  to  the  Chorus  a  scheme  by  which 
all  our  fortunes  may  be  made." 

II*-  drew  forth  a  bulky  manuscript,  tied 
with  tape.  They  all  rose,  and  began  to 
look  ibr  their  hats,  with  one  accord. 

Venn  replaced  the  roll  in  the  drawer  with 
a.  sigh. 

"  You  may  sit  down  again,"  he  said. 
"  You  will  be  sorry,  some  time,  not  to  have 
heard  the  prolegomena  to  the  scheme.  But 
I  will  only  read  the  prospectus.  You  are 
aware,  perhaps,  that  a  million  a  year  is  col- 
lected lor  the  conversion  of  the  blacks." 

"  It  is  a  fact  over  which,  in  penniless  mo- 
ments, J  have  often  brooded,"  said  Jones. 

"Then,"  said  Venn  triumphantly,  "  let 
us  raise  the  same  sum  for  converting  the 
•whites." 

"  What  are  we  to  covert  them  to  ?  " 

"  I  shall  give  nothing  for  converting  any- 
body," Lynn  growled. 

"Don't  talk  like  an  atheist,  Lynn;  be- 
cause this  is  a  philanthropic  scheme,  and, 
besides,  one  out  of  which  money  may  be 
made.  We  shall  Christianize  the  world. 
We  shall  teach  the  people  that  their  re- 
ligion needs  not  consist  in  going  to  church 
every  Sunday,  and  sometimes  reading  a 
'  chapter.'  We  shall  begin  with  the  House 
of  Lords.  There  is  a  great  field  open  among 
the  peers  and  their  families.  The  House  of 
Commons, — which  comes  next  upon  my 
list  —  will,  after  a  few  years'  labor  among 
them,  be  so  changed  that  the  constituents 
won't  know  their  own  members  again.  No 
more  putting  into  office  because  a  man  makes 
himself  disagreeable  out  of  it;  no  more  bol- 
stering a  measure  because  it  is  brought  for- 
ward by  a  minister ;  no  more  legislating  for 
class  interests ;  no  more  putting  off  for  a 
better  day.  And,  above  all,  a  stern  sense 
of  Christian  duty  which  will  limit  every 
speaker  to  ten  minutes,  like  a  Wesleyan 
preacher  at  a  field-meeting.  Next  to  the 
House  of  Commons,  we  shall  take  the  Inns 
of  Court.  Oh,  my  readers  !  "  — 

"  You  are  quite  sure  that  you  are  not  quot- 
ing from  the  prolegomena  V  "  said  Jones. 

"Pardon  me,  —  I  was  about  to  delight 
you  with  perhaps  as  fine  a  piece  of  declama- 
tion as  you  have  ever  heard.  Now  you  shall 
not  have  it.  The  Inns  of  Court  will  be  taken 
by  a  series  of  door-to-door  visitations  ;  and 
the  missionaries,  who  will  not  be  highly  paid, 
will  receive  special  allowances  for  repairs  to 
that  part  of  their  dress  most  likely  to  be  in- 
jured. If  one  converts  a  barrister,  he  shall 
be  promoted  to  the  conversion  of  the  bench. 
If  one  converts  a  judge,  he  shall  be  still  fur- 
ther promoted  to  the  conversion  of  certain 
ex-Lord  Chancellors.  In  the  army,  after  a 
few  months  of  our  work,  you  will  find  so 


great  a  change  that  the  officer  will  actually 
work  at  his  profession  ;  the  same  rules  will 
be  maintained  lor  officers  as  1'or  men,  —  those 
about  getting  drunk,  and  so^fbrth.  And  in 
the  navy,  similar  good  effects  will  be  pro- 
duced. The  best  results  will  be  obtained 
in  the  trading-classes.  For  then  the  grocer 
will  no  more  sand  his  sugar  and  mix  his  tea ; 
the  publican  will  sell  honest  drink ;  and  all 
shall  be  contented  with  a  modest  profit." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Lynn,  "  the  missionaries 
will  behave  in  exactly  the  same  way  as  if 
they  were  at  Jubbulpore  or  Timbuctoo,  —  go 
in  and  out,  uninvited  ;  and,  like  district  visit- 
ors, they  will  make  any  impertinent  obser- 
vations they  please  ?  " 

"  Of  course ;  and  the  consequences  will  be 
part  of  the  day's  work." 

"  I  quite  approve  of  the  scheme,"  said 
Jones.  "  Only,  I  don't  see  my  own  share 
in  it." 

"  You  are  to  be  secretary,  Jones.  It  is 
your  name  that  we  shall  put  forward." 

"  Then  I  retire." 

"  Do  not,  Jones,  let  a  promising  scheme 
be  ruined  at  the  very  outset  by  an  obstinate 
selfishness.  What  matters  it  if  the  world 
does  scoff?  " 

But  Jones  was  obdurate. 

"  Then,  Jones,  you  shall  have  nothing, 
while  Lynn  and  I  will  divide  all  the  profits. 
I  go  on  to  a  second  theme.  This  will  not 
be  so  lucrative,  but  still  safe.  It  is  nothing 
less,  gentlemen,  than  the  establishment  of  a 
Royal  Literary  College,  —  a  college  de- 
voted to  the  art  and  mystery  of  writing,  — 
not,  understand,  for  the  old  and  worn-out 
purposes  of  conveying  thought,  but  for  the 
modern  purpose  of  conveying  amusement." 

"  It  sounds  well,"  said  Jones.  "  Of  course, 
as  it  is  the  project  of  the  Chorus,  it  will  fail. 

'  Fair  pledges  of  a  fruitful  tree, 
Why  do  ye  fall  so  fast?  '  " 

"  And  now  listen  to  the  prospectus,  which 
you  will  find  to  be  drawn  up  with  great  care. 

"'ROYAL  LITERARY  COLLEGE. 

"  '  The  promoters  of  this  institution,  bear- 
ing in  mind  the  enormous  increase  in  the 
population,  the  consequent  increase  in  the 
number  of  readers,  and  the  necessity  of 
providing  for  their  daily,  weekly,  and 
monthly  requirements,  propose  to  estab- 
lish a  college  expressly  for  the  training  of 
popular  mediocrity.  They  have  observed 
with  pain,  that,  in  spite  of  the  efforts  of  able 
editors,  a  great  deal  of  time  is  still  spent  in 
providing  papers  containing  thought.  And 
though  a  large  number  of  these  leaders  of 
popular  amusement  care  nothing  for  the 
merits  of  a  paper,  provided  it  be  written  by 
a  well-known  man,  there  are  yet  a  few  who 


MY  LITTLE  GIEL. 


65 


study  to  present  their  readers  with  what 
they  require  least,  —  food  for  reflection. 
Among  other  objects,  it  is  proposed  to  pre- 
vent this  lamentable  waste  of  time  and 
energy  ;  and,  in  doing  so,  to  anticipate  the 
tastes  of  the  age  and  the  wants  of  the  read- 
ing public.  Literature,  in  fact,  is  to  be  re- 
duced to  a  science.  The  increased  demand 
for  literary  men  by  no  means  represents  an 
increased  supply  of  genius.  On  the  con- 
trary, the  promoters  are  of  serious  opinion 
that  genius  was  never  at  so  low  an  ebb  as 
at  present,  and  the  art  of  writing  upon 
nothing,  although  it  has  not  yet  been 
systematically  taught,  never  at  so  high  a 
pitch.  In  order  to  convince  themselves  of 
this,  the  promoters,  by  means  of  a  sub-com- 
mittee, have  carefully  studied  the  whole 
popular  literature  of  the  last  twelve  months. 
They  are  happy  in  being  able  to  report  that 
there  has  not  been,  so  far  as  their  labors 
have  permitted  them  to  discover,  a  single 
new  truth  introduced  to  the  British  public, 
not  a  single  good  thing  said,  nothing  old 
newly  set,  and  not  one  good  poem  by  a  new 
man.  This  they  consider  highly  satisfactory 
and  gratifying.  And  it  is  in  the  hope  of 
perpetuating,  improving,  and  extending 
this  state  of  things,  that  they  desire  to 
found  the  Royal  Literary  College. 

"  *  In  the  ordinary  course  of  events,  it 
cannot  be  but  that  an  occasional  genius  will 
arise.  Should  such  appear  by  any  acci- 
dent among  the  students  of  the  college,  he 
will  be  promptly  and  firmly  expelled.  But 
the  college  will  gladly  welcome  any  one,  of 
either  sex,  who,  having  a  quick  memory 
and  a  facile  pen,  is  quite  justified  in  con- 
sidering himself  a  genius  ;  and  every  allow- 
ance will  be  made  for  the  weaknesses  of 
humanity,  should  any  student  give  himself, 
or  herself,  the  airs  of  genius. 

"  <  As  students  of  both  sexes  will  be  ad- 
mitted within  the  college,  the  promoters, 
considering  how  great  a  stimulus  poverty 
is  to  work,  will  encourage,  by  every  means 
in  their  power,  early  marriages.  In  case 
of  husband  and  wife  being  both  students, 
arrangements  will  be  made  to  enable  them 
to  starve  together,  with  their  innocent  pro- 
geny, outside  the  college  walls.  No  chap- 
lain will  be  appointed,  as  the  promoters 
desire  to  consider  the  college  quite  unde- 
nominational. In  deference,  however,  to 
popular  opinion,  a  chapel  will  be  built,  in 
which  service  will  be  held  on  Sundays,  in 
as  many  Christian  denominations  as  time 
permits.  The  hall  will  be  set  apart  for  the 
more  advanced  thinkers,  who  will  not,  how- 
ever, be  allowed  to  smoke  during  the  deliv- 
ery of  orations. 

"  «  The  great  festivals  of  the  college  will 
be  Commemoration  Day,  Old  Dramatist 
Day,  Old  Chronicle  Day,  Scandalous 


Chronicle  and  Memoirs  Day,  Horace  Wai' 
pole  Day,  Boswell  Day,  and  French  Play 
Day.  On  these  days  will  be  celebrated  the 
names  of  those  great  men  who,  by  their 
writings,  have  furnished  models  for  copy- 
ing, or  provided  storehouses  for  plagiarists. 
Every  student  will  be  expected  to  produce 
a  panegyric  in  his  own  line.  Those  which, 
in  the  opinion  of  the  examiners,  have  most 
merit  —  from  the  Literary  College  point  of 
view  —  will  be  printed  and  kept  for  one 
month.  The  successful  students  will  read 
them  out  in  the  college  hall ;  but  no  one 
will  be  compelled  to  listen. 

"  '  There  will  be  no  holidays  or  vacations. 
Every  student  will  absent  himself  as  often 
as  he  pleases.  On  Sundays,  conveyances 
will  be  provided  for  intending  excursion- 
ists. 

" '  The  college  library  will  not,  on  any 
account,  receive  the  works  of  the  college 
students. 

"  *  In  the  examinations  for  scholarships 
and  degrees,  if  any  composition,  in  the  eyes 
of  the  examiners,  should  be  found  to  par- 
take of  the  nature  of  philosophy,  research, 
or  erudition  ;  or  should  the  reading  of  any 
composition  demand  the  exercise  of  thought; 
or  should  any  reflect  on  the  glory  and  dig- 
nity of  light  literature,  the  offender  shall 
be  publicly  reprimanded,  and,  on  a  repeti- 
tion of  the  offence,  shall  be  disgracefully 
expelled.  No  objection  will  be  made  to  the 
offering  up  of  prayers  for  any  erring  student. 

"  '  The  college  will  be  divided  into  sev- 
eral sections'.  These,  which  are  not  yet 
quite  settled,  will  be  somewhat  as  fol- 
lows :  — 

"'I.  POETRY.  —  Students  will  be  rec- 
ommended to  take  a  year's  course  at  this, 
after  the  regular  three  years  at  any  of  the 
other  branches.  Several  gentlemen  will  be 
invited  to  lecture  from  time  to  time.  Mr. 
Browning  on  the  Art  of  Obscurity  and  Ap- 
parent Depth ;  also  on  the  Art  of  going  on 
Forever.  Mr.  Swinburne  on  the  Attrac- 
tiveness of  the  Forbidden,  and  on  the 
Melody  of  the  English  Language.  Mr. 
Tupper  on  Catching  a  Weasel  Asleep,  ap- 
plied to  the  British  public.  Mr.  Buchanan 
on  the  Art  of  Self-laudation.  Mr.  Rossetti 
on  the  Mystery  of  Mediaeval  Mummeries ; 
also  on  the  Fleshly  School  and  on  the  Art 
of  Poetical  Pretension.  Mr.  Tennyson  on 
quite  a  new  subject :  The  Yawning  of  Ar- 
thur ;  or,  Guinevere  Played  Out. 

"  «  The  students  will  be  required  to  read 
the  mortal  and  perishable  works  of  some  of 
these  poets.  They  will  also  be  examined 
in  the  poems  of  Southey,  Cowper,  the  imi- 
tations of  Pope,  and  the  magazine  poetry 
of  the  day,  particularly  that  which  decorates 
the  monthlies. 


MY   LITTLE   GIRL. 


"'II.  The  second  branch  will  be  the 
writing  of  essays.  It  is,  of  course,  super- 
fluous to  say  that  A.  K.  H.  B.  will  be  invit- 
ed to  undertake  the  department  of  Com- 
monplace and  Glorified  Twaddle.  He  will 
be  assisted,  provided  their  services  can  be 
secured,  by  the  authors  of  the  monthly 
magazine  essays.  A  large  number  of 
clergymen,  including  the  Master  of  the 
Temple  and  several  of  the  bench  of  bishops, 
will  be  asked  to  instruct  in  reeling  off 
'goody'  talk  by  the  foot  or  yard,  as  re- 
quired, for  religious  papers. 

"  '  Certain  essay  writers  will  be  excluded 
altogether,  —  among  them  will  be  Emerson 
and  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes ;  while  but  a 
sparing  use  will  be  allowed  of  Sir  Arthur 
Helps. 

"  '  The  authors  from  whom  cribbing  will 
be  recommended  are  Steele,  Addison,  Gold- 
smith, and  Johnson.  Montaigne  will  also 
be  largely  used. 

" '  III.  HISTORICAL  ARTICLES.  —  This 
department  is  exceedingly  difficult  to  ar- 
range. It  is  hoped  that  Canon  Kingsley 
may  be  induced  to  give  a  lecture  on  the 
Historical  Forgiveness  of  Sins,  based  on 
that  celebrated  essay  of  his  where  he  has 
shown  that  Raleigh's  sins  were  forgiven  be- 
cause a  baby  was  born  unto  him.  He  may 
also  be  asked  to  give  over  again  his  Cam- 
bridge course.  The  gentleman  who  writes 
the  weekly  articles  in"  The  Saturday, "abus- 
ing Mr.  Froude,  will  be  invited  to  illustrate 
the  method  of  establishing  a  raw,  and  al- 
ways pegging  at  it.  He  will  also  be  asked 
to  give  a  lecture  on  Mr.  Freeman,  called 
"  Moi  et  Moimeme."  But  the  arrangements 
for  the  historical  course  are  not  yet  com- 
pleted, and  the  promoters  beg  for  further 
time. 

" '  IV.  We  come  next  to  leading  articles. 
On  this  head  it  will  only  be  observed  here 
that  the  paper  which  has  the  largest  circu- 
lation, whatever  that  may  be,  will  be 
chosen  as  the  model.  "  The  Saturday,'' 
"  The  Spectator,"  "  The  Examiner,"  and  a 
few  other  papers  which  occasionally  ad- 
dress the  intellect,  will  be  excluded  from 
consideration. 

«* '  V.  The  department  of  novels  will  re- 
ceive the  most  careful  attention  and  the 
most  profound  study.  All  the  students, 
without  any  exception,  will  be  required  to 
pass  through  it;  and  no  student  shall  re- 
ceive a  degree,  a  diploma,  or  any  certificate 
of  honor,  until  he  has  produced  a  three- 
volume  novel,  complete,  finished,  and  ready 
for  the  publisher.  The  professor  of  the 
branch  should  be,  if  he  will  undertake  the 
duties,  Mr.  Anthony  Trollope.  There  will 


be  lecturers  to  point  oat  the  secrets  of  man- 
ufacture in  all  the  sub-divisions  :  the  prin- 
cipal of  these  will  be  tjie  religious  novel,  in 
which  the  works  of  Miss  Yonge  and  Miss 
Wetherell  will,  of  course,  form  the  most 
useful  guides  to  th«j  student.  Lord  Lytton 
will  serve  for  the  student  of  the  sentimental, 
the  political,  and  the  highly -colored  unreal. 
There  will  be  several  forms  of  the  muscular 
novel,  including  the  rollicking,  the  Chris- 
tian hero,  the  sentimental,  the  pint-pewter 
crushing,  and  the  remorseful.  Ouida,  Miss 
Broughton,  Charles  and  Henry  Kingsley, 
and  Mr.  Lawrence,  will  be  the  chosen  mod- 
els for  this  sub-division. 

"  '  For  the  sensational,  there  can  be  but 
one  model.  , 

"  '  For  the  plain  work  of  the  department, 
the  mere  story-telling,  with  puppets  for 
characters,  of  course  Mr.  Wilkie  Collins 
will  be  the  guide. 

" '  If  there  should  be  any  student  who 
would  rashly  propose  to  make  a  picture  of 
real  life,  he  will  bs  set  to  study  Charles 
Reade ;  but  not  in  the  college,  from  which 
Mr.  Reade's  works  will  be  excluded. 

"  '  The  promoters  will  have  great  pleas- 
ure in  receiving  tenders  and  designs  for  a 
building.  Names  of  candidates  will  be  re- 
ceived at  once  by  the  secretary,  Mr.  Hart- 
ley Venn,  M. A.'" 

"  There  !  "  said  Venn,  "  what  do  you 
think  of  that  ?  "  He  sat  down,  and  wiped 
his  forehead.  "  I  have  thought  of  you 
both.  You,  Lynn,  shall  be  the  standing 
counsel,  with  a  large  retaining  fee.  You, 
Jones,  shall  be  professor  of  the  dramatic 
art.  You  will  observe,  that,  out  of  regard 
to  your  feelings,  I  abstained  from  mention- 
ing this  department.  I  myself  shall  be  the 
first  warden,  with  a  salary  of  £2,000  a 
year." 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

MADELEINE'S  world  and  the  two  worlds 
of  the  "  boys,"  as  she  called  them,  were  all 
three  wide  enough  apart.  Woman-like, 
she  tried  to  bring  them  into  .her  own 
groove,  and  began  by  asking  them  to  din- 
ner. Arthur  went  with  a  sort  of  enthusi- 
asm. The  queenly  beauty  and  the  impe- 
riousness  of  the  young  lady  —  so  great  a 
contrast  to  his  own  shrinking  indecision  — 
fired  his  imagination.  In  her  he  saw  some- 
thing of  what  he  himself  might  have  been 
but  for  his  fatal  shyness.  Philip  went  too, 
at  first  unwillingly,  but  presently  with  a 
pleasure  which  astonished  him.  His  pas- 
time seemed  to  be  to  rouse  the  spirit  of  an- 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


67 


tagonism  in  Madeleine ;  and  he  delighted 
to  rouse  her  to  wrath  by  opposing  to  her 
enthusiasm  the  cold  barrier  of  cynical  self- 
ishness. 

"  If  it  were  not,"  she  said  one  night,  — 
"If  it  were  not  that  I  know  you  exaggerate 
your  opinions,  I  should  hate  you." 

"  Do  not  hate  me,"  Philip  answered ; 
"  because  hatred  is  an  active  passion.  I 
dislike  a  lot  of  people  ;  but  I  never  take 
the  trouble  to  hate  anybody,  —  not  even  a 
bore." 

"  Then,  do  not  talk  as  if  self  was  the  only 
thing  in  the  world." 

.  v  "  I  must,  Madeleine,  if  I  talk  at  all.  Yon 
would  not  have  silence  at  your  table,  would 
you  ?  And  Arthur  never  says  any  tiling. 
Arthur  has  made  a  wonderful  discovery, 
which  is  going  to.  cover  him  with  glory. 
Has  he  told  you  ?  " 

"  No.     What  is  it,  Arthur  ?  " 

Arthur  blushed  vividly. 

"  It  is  only  a  point  of  archa3ological  in- 
terest," he  said.  "  There  has  been  a  dis- 
pute in  the  Archaeological  Institute  for 
years  about  the  number  of  buttons  that 
went  to  the  shirt  of  mail,  and  I  have  at  last 
been  enabled  to  settle  the  question." 

"  There,"  said  Philip  triumphantly, 
"what  did  I  tell  you?" 

Madeleine  sighed.  It  seemed  to  her  so 
sad  that  one  of  the  boys  should  openly 
worship  self,  and  the  other  should  fritter 
away  his  time  in  the  pursuit  of  useless 
knowledge. 

In  the  course  of  the  evening  she  delivered 
an  animated  oration  on  the  subject,  while 
Mrs.  Long  worthy  slumbered  by  the  fire. 
The  boys  stood  before  her,  each  in  his  turn 
receiving  punishment;  Philip  enjoying  it 
above  all  things,  and  Arthur,  because  he 
saw  that  she  was  in  earnest,  with  blushes 
and  shame. 

"  It  is  all  true,  Madeleine,  every  word," 
he  said. 

"  So  it  is,"  said  Philip.  "  We  are  a  dis- 
graceful pair." 

"  You  are  the  worse,  Philip,  by  far,"  went 
on  the  fair  preacher,  "  when  I  look  at  you, 
and  think  what  you  might  be  doing  "  — 

"  See,  now,  Madeleine,"  Philip  said : 
"  tell  us  exactly  what  we  can  do,  and  we 
will  have  a  try  at  it.  The  care  of  other 
people  may  possibly  have  a  charm  in  it 
which  is  unknown  to  us  at  present.  Who 
knows?  I  may  yet  be  preaching  on  a  tub, 
while  Arthur  collects  half-pence  in  his  hat. 
I  fancy  I  see  him  now." 

"  You  turn  every  thing  serious  into  ridi- 
cule." 

"  Seriously,"  Arthur  said,  "  my  life  is 
wasted.  I  suppose  antiquarian  research  is 
useless  to  the  world.  I  am  afraid,  however, 
I  shall  never  quite  give  it  up.  What  can 


I  do  ?  Do  you  want  any  money  for  your 
objects,  Madeleine  ?  " 

"  No  —  no  —  no,"  she  replied  impa- 
tiently. "  How  often  am  I  to  tell  you  that 
the  real  work  of  charity  is  done  without 
money  ?  Now,  listen,  and  I  will  tell  you 
what  a  man  of  leisure  should  do.  It  is  the 
interest  of  everybody  that  the  condition  of 
the  poor  should  be  raised,  —  by  schools, 
by  giving  them  instruction  in  the  arts  of 
life,  by  giving  them  sufficient  wages  for 
good  work,  by  maintaining  their  self-re- 
spect." 

Philip  began  to  groan  softly. 

"  I  will  come  to  what  I  mean  most."  She 
blushed  a  little,  and  went  on  :  "I  have 
got  a  friend,  a  middle-aged  woman,  who 
gives  all  her  life  to  the  care  of  a  certain 
house,  where  she  receives  and  finds  work 
for  women.  We  give  them  as  much  work 
as  they  can  do,  at  a  fair  price.  Wre  ask  no 
questions,  —  we  form  no  society.  Some  of 
them  live  in  the  house,  others  in  the  neigh- 
borhood. We  do  not  let  them  work  °all 
day,  and  we  give  them  instruction  in  house- 
work, in  medicine,  and  all  sorts  of  things 
that  may  be  useful  to  them  when  they 
marry,  as  most  of  them  do." 

"  1  suppose,"  said  Philip  the  irrepress- 
ible, "they  are  driven  to  church  three 
times  every  Sunday." 

"  Not  at  all.  We  never  interfere  with 
their  religion.  Some  of  them  are  pious ; 
some,  I  suppose,  are  not.  We  have  one 
broad  principle,  —  that  our  work  shall  not 
be  mixed  up  with  religion  in  any  way." 

"  Good." 

"  And  what  do  you  do  with  their  work  ?  " 

"  It  goes  to  a  shop  which  belongs  to  us. 
We  can  sell  as  cheaply  as  any  other,  in 
spite  of  our  high  wages  ;  because,  you  see, 
there  is  no  middle-man." 

"  Madeleine,  you  are  a  radical." 

"  I  know  nothing  about  that.  I  am  de- 
termined to  do  what  I  can  to  have  women 
properly  paid.  All  that  come  to  me  shall 
get  work,  even  if  we  lose,  —  though  I  think 
we  shall  not  lose  by  it,  —  so  long  as  I  have 
any  money  left.  Now,  you  two  can  help 
me." 

"  I  have  never  learned  to  sew,"  said 
Philip,  looking  at  his  fingers. 

"  The  girls  and  women  have  got  brothers 
and  sons.  We  cannot  find  work  for  them, 
too,  but  we  want  to  get  up  a  night-school. 
Will  you  come  down  and  teach  ?  " 

They  looked  at  each  other  with  alarm. 

"  Of  course  we  will."  said  Arthur,  "  if 
you  wish  it." 

"  Then  come  to-morrow." 

They  'went. 

It  wp,s  in  Westminster  that  Madeleine's 
"  house  "  stood  ;  properly  speaking,  three 
or  four  small  nouses  knocked  into  one. 


68 


MY  LITTLE  GIKL. 


They  went  with  her  at  seven  o'clock,  both 
feeling  horribly  ill  at  ease. 

She  took  them  up  stairs  into  a  room 
made  out  of  two,  by  taking  down  the  wall 
between,  where  a  dozen  boys  were  assem- 
bled, under  the  care  of  a  young  man  whose 
pale -cheeks  and  thin  figure  concealed  a 
vast  amount  of  courage  and  enthusiasm. 
With  him,  —  a  young  martyr  to  the  cause 
which  yearly  kills  its  soldiers,  —  we  have 
here  nothing  to  do. 

'  This  is  our  school,"  said  Madeleine. 
"Mr.  Hughes,  these  two  gentlemen  will 
try  to  do  something  for  us,  if  you  will  put 
them  in  the  way." 

Mr.  Hughes  bowed,  but  looked  suspici- 
ously at  his  two  new  assistants. 

"  Come,  gentlemen,"  he  said,  "  there  are 
your  pupils,  —  the  more  advanced  boys. 
Mine  are  down  below." 

He  divided  the  boys  into  two  sets,  one  at 
either  end ;  giving  Philip  care  of  one,  and 
Arthur  that  of  the  other. 

"  You  will  be  firm,  gentlemen,"  he  whis- 
pered. "  Don't  let  any  single  step  be  taken 
to  destroy  discipline.  We  have  to  be  very 
careful  here.  Here  are  books  for  you." 

He  gave  Philip  a  geography,  and  Arthur 
a  little  book  containing  hints  or  lectures 
on  all  sorts  of  elementary  subjects,  chiefly 
connected  with  laws  of  health,  rules  of  life, 
and  of  simple  chemical  laws.  Arthur  sat 
down  mechanically,  and  turned  pale  when 
he  opened  the  book  ;  for  of  science  he  was 
as  ignorant  as  the  pope  himself.  In  a  few 
moments  Philip  came  over  to  him. 

"What  have  you  got,  Arthur  ?  " 

"  Here's  science,  —  what  am  I  to  do 
with  it  ?  " 

"I  don't  know.      I've  got 
What  am  I  to  do  with  that  ?  " 

"  Draw  a  map  on  a  board,  and  tell  them 
something  about  a  country.  Any  thing 
will  do." 

Philip  went  back  and  faced  his  class. 
They  were  a  sturdy,  dirty-faced  lot  of  young 
gamins,  all  whispering  together,  and  evi- 
dently intent  on  as  much  mischief  as  could  be 
got  out  of  the  new  teacher.  Behind  him 
was  a  -blackboard  and  a  piece  of  chalk. 

"  AVhat  country  shall  we  take,  boys  ?  " 
he  asked,  with  an  air  of  confidence,  as  if 
all  were  alike  to  him. 

"  Please,  sir,  yesterday  we  had  Central 
Africa,  and  Mr.  Hughes  told  us  a  lot  about 
travellers  there.      Let's  have 
about  Livingstone." 

Philip  was  not  posted  up  in  Livingstone. 
He  shook  his  head,  and  tried  to  think  of  a 
country  he  knew  something  about.  Sud- 
denly a  bright  thought  struck  him. 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  of  Palmiste  Island, 
boys  V  " 

They  never  had. 


some  more 


"  By  Jove,"  thought  Philip,  "  I  shall  get 
on  splendidly  now." 

As  he  was  drawing  his  map  of  the  island, 
he  heard  Arthur,  in  a  hesitating  voice, 
beginning  to  describe  the  glory  of  the 
heavens  ;  and  nearly  choked,  because  he  was 
certain  that  five  minutes  would  bring  him 
to  grief. 

lie  began  to  talk  as  he  drew  his  map, 
describing  the  discovery  of  the  island,  the 
first  settlers,  and  their  hardships ;  and 
then,  warming  to  his  subject,  he  told  all 
about  sugar-making  and  coffee-planting. 
From  time  to  time  Arthur's  voice  fell  up- 
on his  ear ;  but  he  was  too  busy  drawing 
his  map,  and  decorating  the  corners  of  the 
board  with  fancy  sketches,  illustrating  the 
appearance  of  the  people,  niggers'  heads, 
Chinese  carrying  pigs,  —  for  Pliil  sketched 
very  fairly,  —  and  he  did  not  look  up. 
Presently  he  turned  round.  All  Arthur's 
boys  had  deserted  their  instructor,  and 
come  over  to  him,  while  their  unhappy 
lecturer,  in  silence,  sat  helpless  in  his 
chair,  book  in  hand.  As  for  his  own  boys, 
they  were  all  on  the  broad  grin,  enjoying 
the  lesson  highly. 

Philip  stopped. 

"  I  say,"  he  said,  "  this  won't  do,  you 
know.  Go  back,  you  boys,  to  your  own 
end." 

"  He  ain't  no  good,  that  teacher,"  said 
one  of  the  boys,  with  a  derisive  grin. 

Arthur  shook  his  head  mournfully. 
There  was  something  touching  in  his  atti- 
tude, sitting  all  alone,  with  his  book  in  his 
hand.  Perhaps  Arthur  had  never  felt  so 
humiliated  in  his  life  before.  It  was  per- 
fectly true  :  he  was  no  good.  In  the  brief 
five  minutes  during  which  he  lectured,  he 
made  more  mistakes  in  astronomical  sci- 
ence than  generally  falls  to  the  lot  of  man 
to  make  in  a  lifetime.  Some  of  the  boys, 
who  had  been  to  national  schools,  found 
him  out  in  a  moment,  and  openly  expressed 
their  contempt  before  seceding  to  the  other 
end  of  the  room. 

"  He  ain't  no  good,  that  teacher,"  said 
the  boy.  "  You  go  on  with  your  patter. 
We're  a-listenin'  to  you.  Draw  us  some 
more  pictures.  Make  a  white  man  latherin' 
a  nigger." 

"  Obsairve,"  as  a  friend  of  ours  would 
say,  the  instinctive  superiority  of  race. 

"  Boys,"  said  another,  rising  solemnly, 
"  this  one  ain't  no  good  neither.  He's  a- 
gammonin'  of  us.  There  ain't  no  such 
place.  I  sha'n't  stay  here  to  be  gammoned 
on." 

He  was  about  four  feet  nothing  in  his 
boots,  this  young  Hampden.  Phil,  cut  to 
the  heart  by  the  ignominy  of  the  thing, 
caught  him  a  box  of  the  ears  that  laid  him 
sprawling.  The  urchin  raised  a  howl,  and, 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


69 


falling  back  upon  his  friends,  pulled  the 
form  over  with  him,  so  that  the  whole  row 
of  a  dozen  fell  together.  The  yells  were 
terrific  for  a  moment ;  and  then,  seized  by 
a  common  impulse,  the  boys  grasped  their 
caps,  and  fled  down  the  stairs  like  one  boy. 

"  Arthur  !  "  said  Philip. 

"  Philip  !  "  said  Arthur. 

"  You  never  experienced  any  thing  like 
this  before,  I  suppose  ? ' 

"  Never." 

Just  then  Madeleine  herself  appeared, 
followed  by  Mr.  Hughes.  All  the  forms  lay 
on  the  floor  ;  for,  in  the  brief  moment  of  tu- 
mult, every  boy  had  seized  the  opportunity 
of  contributing  something  to  the  noise;  and 
at  either  end  of  the  room  stood  one  of  her 
new  allies.  Arthur,  with  his  arms  help- 
lessly dangling,  holding  the  unlucky  book 
of  science,  Philip  trying  with  his  pocket- 
handkerchief  to  rub  out  some  of  the  pic- 
lures. 

Madeleine  looked  from  one  to  the  other. 

"  Take  this  wretched  book,  somebody," 
said  Arthur,  as  if  the  volume  chained  him 
to  the  spot.  "  Do  take  the  book." 

Mr.  Hughes  took  the  book,  and  Arthur 
turned  to  Madeleine. 

"  It's  a  failure,  Madeleine,"  he  said,  with 
a  sad  sigh.  "  They  only  laughed  at  me." 

"  And  what  have  you  been  doing, 
Philip  ?  " 

u  I've  been  getting  on  capitally,"  he  said, 
trying  to  efface  the  pig  and  the  Chinaman. 
"  I've  been  giving  a  lesson  on  geography." 

"  Illustrated,"  said  Mr.  Hughes  quietly, 
pointing  to  the  pig. 

"  Yes,  illustrated.  I've  been  telling  the 
boys  about  Palmiste,  Madeleine  ;  and  they 
actually  refused  to  believe  there  is  any  such 
place." 

"  Is  much  mischief  done,  Mr.  Hughes  ?  " 
asked  Madeleine. 

The  question  was  like  a  box  on  the  ear 
to  both.  They  looked  at  each  other,  and 
Philip  began  to  laugh. 

"  Honestly,  Madeleine,"  he  said,  "  I  am 
very  sorry.  We  have  done  our  best.  I 
thought  we  should  have  to  give  a  lesson, 
and  was  not  prepared  to  give  a  lecture." 

"  Never  mind,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Hughes. 
"  I  dare  say  we  shall  soon  mend  matters  ; 
and  perhaps  your  pictures  amused  the  chil- 
dren." 

"  You  may  take  me  home,  both  of  you," 
said  Madeleine. 

She  said  no  more,  though  she  was  greatly 
disappointed  at  the  failure  of  her  scheme. 

"Madeleine,"  said  Philip  in  the  car- 
riage, "  I  am  inclined  to  think,  that,  on  the 
whole,  I  can  serve  my  fellow-creatures  best 
by  not  teaching  them." 

"  Try  me  again,  Madeleine,"  Arthur 
whispered. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

SETTLING  down  in  most  respectable 
lodgings,  in  Keppel  Street,  Russell  Square, 
with  a  clear  six  months  before  him  of  no 
anxiety  for  the  next  day's  dinner,  Mr.  Mac- 
Intyre  felt  at  first  more  elation  than  be- 
comes a  philosopher.  We  must  excuse  him. 
When  a  man  has  had  seven  years  of  shifts, 
hardly  knowing  one  day  what  the  next 
would  be  like,  racking  his  brain  for  con- 
trivances to  keep  the  wolf  from  the  door, 
busy  with  never-ending  combinations  for 
the  transference  of  cash  from  other  people's 
pockets  to  his  own,  a  clear  holiday  of  six 
months  seems  almost  like  an  eternity. 

After  a  few  days  of  seclusion  and  whiskey 
toddy,  Mr.  Maclntyre  awoke  to  the  conclu- 
sion that  something  would  have  to  be  done. 
Reason  once  more  asserted  her  sway.  His 
first  idea  was  to  take  pupils  ;  and  accord- 
ingly he  invested  a  small  sum  in  second- 
hand books,  another  in  reports  and  exami- 
nations, and  another  sum  in  advertisements. 
No  pupils  came  at  all.  Another  thing  he 
did  was  to  go  to  a  lawyer,  and  instruct  him 
to  write  a  certain  letter  to  a  firm  of  lawyers 
in  Palmiste.  They  were  directed  to  search 
the  register  of  marriages  at  the  Church  of 
St.  Joseph  for  that  of  George  Durnford 
with  Marie  ;  to  make  a  formal  and  attested 
copy  of  it,  and  to  send  it  to  London,  —  the 
whole  being  strictly  secret  and  confiden- 
tial. 

And  then,  this  being  fairly  put  into  hand, 
as  he  found  he  had  a  good  deal  of  time  upon 
his  hands,  he  began  to  spend  it  chiefly  in 
the  society  of  Philip,  watching  him  closely, 
getting  his  secrets  out  of  him,  communicat- 
ing his  opinions,  trying  to  get  a  real  influ- 
ence over  him. 

"  Obsairve,"  said  the  philosopher  one 
night  to  Philip  himself,  "  there  are  some 
kinds  of  men  who  go  uphill  or  downhill, 
according  as  they  are  shoved.  They  have 
no  deliberate  choice  in  the  matter ;  because, 
if  they  had,  they  would  prefer  the  better 
path.  While  they  are  hesitating,  some  one 
comes  and  gives  them  a  gentle  shove  down- 
wards." 

"  What  is  the  meaning  of  all  this, 
Maclntyre  ?  "  asked  Philip,  ignorant  of  the 
application. 

"  Ay,  ay  —  the  wise  man  talks  in  para- 
bles, and  is  understood  not.  Ye've  heard 
of  Mr.  Baxter,  and  his  *  Shove  to  Heavy 
Christians,'  Phil?  He  was  a  sagacious 
man.  There  may  as  well  be  shovers  up  as 
shovers  down.  I  do  what  I  can,  but  it's 
era  little,  —  vera  little,  indeed.  In  me,  my 
pupil,  you  behold  an  up-shover ;  in  your- 
self, —  one  who  is  shoved  upwards." 

In  his  easy  way,  having  very  few  frieuda 


70 


MY  LITTLE   GIKL. 


and  long  leave,  Philip  fell  back  a  good  deal 
on  Maclntyre.  First,  the  man  amused 
him  ;  then  he  took  pleasure  in  his  company, 
because  he  fluttered  him;  thirdly,  he  fell 
into  the  snares  of  a  will  stronger  than  his 
own,  and  confided  every  thing  to  him 
Mar  I  nt  \  re,  not  by  any  means  a  deep,  de- 
M_rning  villain,  had  yet  a  game  of  his  own 
to  play.  He  read  the  character  of  his  ex- 
pupil,  and  began  to  consider  his  own  plan 
almost  as  good  as  carried,  out. 

••  See,"  he  seemed  to  say,  while  he  and 
Philip  sat  opposite  each  other  in  the  even- 
ing, smoking  and  talking,  —  "see  how 
goodly  are  the  fruits  in  the  neighborhood 
of  the  Dead  Sea.  Let  me  give  you  a 
friendly  shove  in  that  direction.  Obsairve, 
how  sickly  is  the  perfume  —  how  faint  the 
odor  of  the  Jericho  rose.  Truly,  the  apples 
of  the  plain  are  better  than  the  grapes  of 
Eshcol.  I  have  been  myself,  all  my  life,  in 
search  of  these  fruits ;  unsuccessfully,  I  ad- 
mit, through  no  fault  of  mine  ;  for  I  had  no 
scruples.  I  fought  for  my  own  hand.  I 
was  a  beggar  born  ;  and,  because  circum- 
stances were  too  strong  for  me,  I  am  a  beg- 
gar now,  at  fifty-three.  But  mine  is  the 
true  road,  and  your  philosopher  knows  no 
scruples." 

Phil's  secrets  were  simple.  The  young 
fellow  was  in  debt,  of  course,  but  not  badly. 
More  than  half  of  his  little  fortune  was 
gone.  He  always  had  a  heavy  balance 
against  him  in  his  speculative  transactions.- 
Worse  than  this,  he  was  in  love. 

All  these  things  considered  together,  Mr. 
Maclntyre  was,  perhaps,  justified  in  rub- 
bing his  hands  at  night.  What  did  he  do , 
though,  with  those  two  or  three  bits  of 
yellow  paper  which  he  was  always  reading, 
holding  to  the  light  and  examining,  before 
he  put  them  up  again  in  the  dirty  old  pock- 
et-book which  he  carried  inside  his  waist- 
coat? 

"  I  think,"  he  murmurs,  "  that  in  three 
months,  or  six  at  most,  it  may  be  done.  It 
shall  be  done.  The  pear  will  be  ripe. 
Bah  !  it  must  drop  into  my  hands." 

He  talked  over  the  love  matter.  That 
was  the  most  pressing  business. 

"  Ye  cannot  do  it,  Phil,"  he  said :  "  it's 
beneath  yourself." 

"Nonsense,"  said  Philip,  coloring  «I 
can  make  no  mesalliance." 

"  Pardon  me,  you  can.  And  if  you  knew 
all  —  Obsairve,  young  man,  he  who  " 

"  I  know,  I  know.  Do  not  philosophize. 
I  suppose  you  cannot  imagine  such  a  thino- 
as  love,  Maclntyre  V  " 

"No,  I  think  not.  I've  been  married, 
though ;  so  I  know  very  well  what  is  not 
love." 


"  I  believe  you  have  been  every  thing," 
said  Philip. 

"  Most  things  I  certainly  have ;  and  most 
things* I  have  made  notes  of.  As,  for  in- 
stance, that  the  British  officer,  does  not, 
as  a  rule,  marry  the  girl  of  inferior  position 
whom  "  — 

"  Maclntyre,  stop !  "  cried  Philip.  "  Do 
not  try  me  too  far.  I  have  been  a  gambler, 
if  you  like  —  a  profligate  —  any  thing  you 
like  to  call  me  ;  but  I  swear  that  I  never 
had  that  sin  laid  to  my  conscience." 

"  Aweel,  aweel,"  said  Maclntyre.  "  Was 
I  tempting  you  ?  You  apply  a  general 
proposition  to  a  particular  case.  A  most 
illogical  race  the  English  always  were." 

He  changed  the  subject,  but  kept  on  re- 
curring to  it,  night  after  night ;  while 
Philip,  meeting  Laura  but  once  a  week  or 
so,  was  daily  growing  more  and  more  pas- 
sionately in  love  with  the  girl. 

"  A  marriage  beneath  your  station, 
Philip,"  he  said  one  night  .enigmatically, 
"  would  be  madness  to  you,  just  now." 

"  And  why  just  now  V  " 

"Because  you  will  have  to  take  your 
proper  place ;  give  up  the  soldiering,  and 
become  a  country  gentleman ;  that  is,  as 
soon  as  you  like  to  hold  out  your  hand  and 
ask." 

"  What  is  the  man  talking  about  ?  " 

"  Never  mind  —  we  can  wait.  Mind,  I 
say  nothing  about  the  young  leddy." 

"  She  is  too  good  for  me." 

"  Na  doot,  na  doot.  They  always  are. 
She's  all  that  you  imagine,  of  course,  and 
more  behind  it ;  but  after  a  month,  ye'd 
wish  ye  hadn't  done  it.  Eh,  what  a  pity 
that  there  is  nothing  short  of  marriage! 
Hand-fasting  would  be  something." 

It  was  the  second  time  he  had  thrown 
out  this  hint.  This  time  Philip  did  not 
spring  from  his  chair.  He  only  looked  at 
him  thoughtfully,  and  shook  his  head. 

"  I  must  have  her,  Maclntyre  —  I  must 
have  her.  Only  this  morning  I  saw  her. 
See,  here  is  a  lock  of  her  pretty  hair.  How 
soft  it  is,  the  dear  little  lock  that  I  cut  off 
with  her  own  scissors  !  and  here  is  her  face 
in  my  locket.  Look  at  it,  —  you,  with  your 
fifty  years  of  cold  philosophy,  —  and  warm 
your  blood  for  a  moment.  Think  of  what 
you  would  have  been,  if  you  had  met  her 
when  you  were  young,  when  you  were  five 
and  twenty  !  Eh,  Mephistopheles  ?  Did 
you  ever  have  any  youth  ?  " 

"  I'll  tell  you  about  my  youth  some  other 
lay,"  returned  the  preceptor,  —  "  not  now. 
Well,  it's  a  bonny  face,  a  bonny  face ;  and 
a  good  face  too." 

"By  Heaven,  sir,"  Philip  went  on, 
"  there's  no  woman  like  her,  —  not  one. 

'  There  is  none  like  her,  none, 
Nor  shall  be  till  our  summers  have  deceased.1 


MY  LITTLE  QIKL. 


71 


You  know,  you  know  — 

•  Her  sweet  voice  ringing  up  to  the  sunny  sky, 
Till  I  well  could  weep  for  myself,  so    wretched 

and  mean, 
And  a  lover  so  sordid  and  base.' 

It  isn't  quite  right :  but  never  mind.  I 
feel  the  touch  of  her  fingers  in  mine  this 
moment,  man  of  the  icy  veins.  I  tell  you 
that  I  feel  the  warm  blush  on  her  cheek 
when  I  kissed  her ;  I  hear  the  sweet  tones 
of  her  voice,  —  the  loveliest  and  sweetest 
you  ever  heard.  And  she  trusts  me,"  he 
went  on,  with  a  sort  of  sob,  —  "  she  trusts 
me,  and  thinks  I  am  good.  Good  I  She 
is  not  happy  with  the  secret,  poor  child. 
She  longs  to  tell  Mr.  Venn,  who  is  a  friend 
of  Arthur's,  all  about  it." 

"  And  has  she  told  Mr.  Venn  ?  "  cried 
Maclntyre,  greatly  excited. 

"  Why,  no.     I  tell  her  not  to." 

"  Don't  let  her,  Phil.  Keep  it  secret. 
Whatever  you  do,  don't  let  Mr.  Venn 
know." 

Phil  was  in  a  hot  fit  that  night,  and 
Maclntyre  let  him  down  with  his  simple 
remonstrance. 

Next  day  he  was  despondent,  because 
things  looked  badly  for  a  horse  he  had 
backed.  He  began  again.  Philip  answered 
surily,  — 

"  I  am  going  to  marry  her,  pillar  of  Pres- 
byterian scrupulosity.  My  mind  is  made 
up." 

"  I  knew  a  man  once,"  said  Maclntyre, 
filling  his  tumbler  with  brandy  and  water, 
"  much  in  your  predicament.  He  was  in 
love  with  a  girl  beneath  him." 

"  Now  you  are  going  to  invent  some 
lies  of  your  own,"  said  Philip. 

Maclntyre  half  rose. 

"  Sir,  do  not  insult  your  own  guest. 
If  it  was  not  for  — for  this  full  glass  of 
grog,  I'd  go  at  once." 

"  No,  no,  —  I  beg  your  pardon.  Go  on 
with  your  parable." 

"  It  is  no  parable.  Truth,  sir,  —  plain, 
unvarnished  truth,  will  always  be  found 
better  than  parable.  This,  sir,"  tapping 
his  breast,  "  is  a  wholesale  depot  of  truth. 
I  knew  the  man  of  whom  I  am  telling  you 
well.  A  friend  of  his  had  been  once'  an 
ordained  Presbyterian  minister.  He  said 
to  him,  '  I  will  marry  you  privately.  The 
marriage  is  pairfectly  good  north  of  the 
Tweed.  What  it  is  south,  I  do  not  know. 
It  will  be  time  to  raise  the  question  after 
the  ceremony  is  completed.'  Well,  Philip, 
they  were  married.  My  friend  performed 
the  service  in  his  own  house.  The  ques- 
tion has  never  been  raised,  and  never 
will  be  raised,  because  the  marriage  turned 
out  happily  —  in  consequence  of  the  de- 
mise of  the  leddy." 


"  Is  that  true  ?  "  Philip  asked. 

"  Quite  true.  I  was  the  man  who  mar- 
ried them." 

Mr.  Maclntyre's  powers  of  fiction  are 
already  too  well  known  for  me  to  waste 
any  time  in  comment  upon  this  speech. 
No  tear,  I  have  reason  to  believe,  blotted 
that  falsehood  from  the  paper  where  it  was 
taken  down. 

"I  was  the  man,"  said  Alexander  the 
Great  without  a  blush. 

"Were  you  ever  in  orders,  —  you?" 
asked  Phil. 

"  I,  —  why  not  ?  I  was  ordained,  called, 
set  aside,  whatever  you  call  it.  It  is  true 
that  I  was  young  and  inxperienced." 

"  Good  Lord,  what  a  man  it  is !  " 

"I  began  by  preaching  in  Edinburgh; 
but  I  failed  in  my  very  first  appearance. 
They  said  I  wanted  unction.  I  don't  know 
what  I  wanted.  I  had  learned  my  dis- 
course by  heart  the  day  before.  Unfor- 
tunately, I  took  too  much  on  the  Saturday 
night ;  and  in  the  morning,  what  with  the 
whiskey  and  what  with  the  position,  and 
the  sermon  half  forgotten,  I  fear  I  made 
but  a  poor  appearance  in  the  pulpit,  a 
sort  o'  stickit  minister.  I  never  preached 
there  again." 

«  What  did  you  do  next?  " 

"  They  wanted  a  missionary  for  the  Jews 
in  Constantinople.  I  went  there.  I  staid 
seven  years.  I  converted  three  Jews,  who, 
as  I  afterwards  found,  had  been  convert- 
ed by  all  my  predecessors  in  turn.  They 
did  not  cost  much;  and,  as  their  names 
wera  always  changed,  they  helped  to  make 
up  the  quarterly  report.  However,  I  had 
to  give  that  work  up;  and  I  believe  my 
three  converts  all  relapsed.  Eh !  the 
hundreds  of  pounds  those  three  rascals 
cost  our  country.  I  say  nothing,  Phil ; 
but  you  will  think  over  my  parable,  as  you 
please  to  call  it.  Mind,  I  believe  the  mar- 
riage was  pairfectly  legal.  You  may  find 
out  afterwards,  whatever  you  please.  Re- 
member, the  Church  of  Scotland  is  not  yet 
disestablished.  It  is  as  respectable  as  your 
own  church." 

"  Truly,"  said  Philip,  saluting  him. 

"  I  say,  sir,"  repeated  the  reverend  di- 
vine, "  it  is  as  respectable  as  yours.  Other- 
wise, I  should  not  be  in  it." 

"Quite  so,"  said  Philip,  —  "quite  so." 

"  My  friend,  you  see,"  he  went  on,  "  ar- 
gued thus,  by  my  advice :  '  If  I  choose,  I 
can  at  any  time  investigate  the  question  of 
legality.  On  the  other  hand,  my  wife  will 
always  believe  herself  married.  There 
will  be  no  question  of  a  very  ugly  word, 
because  the  Church  will  have  done  her 
part.  A  blessed  thing  it  is,  Philip,  that 
there  is  a  church  to  protect  the  world." 

He  stopped  for  a  moment,  and  took  a 


72 


MY  LITTLE  GIKL. 


sip  of  half  a  pint  or  so  of  brandy  and 
water.  Then  his  speech  became  suddenly 
thick. 

«*  A  real-a-tooll-a  'lessed  'spensation  of 
Providence.  What  that  friend  of  mine,  in 
love  and  all  with  most  beautiful  creech', 
would  have  done  withou'  th'  Church,  im- 
possible to  say."  He  steadied  himself 
with  an  effort.  "  Phil,  my  dear  boy,  bran- 
dy always  makes  me  ill.  Gi'  me  a  ma'  hat, 
ye  blettherin'  deevil,  telling  your  stories, 
and  keeping  your  old  tutor  out  of  bed, 
Gi'  me  ma  hat,  and  le'  me  go.  I'll  tell  ye 
the  rest  to-morrow." 

Philip,  left  alone,  began  to  meditate. 
The  evil  suggestion  of  his  tempter  lay  at 
his  heart  like  a  seedling  waiting  to  put 
forth  its  leaves.  There  was,  over  and 
above  the  other  difficulties  of  the  position, 
that  of  living  if  he  were  to  marry.  A  very 
considerable  slice  of  the  five  thousand  was 
gone,  that  was  quite  clear.  About  the  rest 
he  was  not  quite  clear,  but  there  could 
not  be  much. 

"  What  matters  ?  "  he  murmured.  "  I 
will  sell  out,  and  we  will  do  something,  — 
love  like  the  birds,  by  gad.  But  I  must 
and  will  have  the  girl." 

He  took  out  the  locket  again,  and  look- 
ed at  the  face  which  lay  in  it,  with  its 
bright,  innocent  smile.  As  he  looked,  hia 
face  softened. 

"  It  is  a  shame,"  he  said,  "  a  shame ! 
That  scoundrel,  Maclntyre.  No,  child,  no, 
I  will  never  wrong  you." 


CHAPTER  XV. 

PHIL,  you  see,  was  born  for  better  things. 
His  heart  was  open  to  all  noble  impulses. 
as  his  eye  and  his  ear  were  attuned  to  all 
harmonies  of  color  and  sound.  He  had  a 
quick  appreciation,  could  take  a  broad 
view  of  things.  He  knew  his  own  powers  ; 
for  men  no  more  really  deceive  themselves 
on  the  score  of  intellect  than  women  on 
that  of  beauty.  If  a  man  has  brains,  he 
knows  it.  I  reserve  the  rights  of  those 
that  are  not  clever  and  know  it,  and  pre- 
tend to  be,  and  are  proud  of  their  preten- 
sions. These  are  the  men  who  go  about 
the  world  with  all  the  letters  of  the  alpha- 
bet after  their  names,  imposing  more  upon 
themselves  than  on  the  credulous  public. 
There  is  yet  another  difference  to  be  made. 
Some  few  men  are  proud  of  the  evepyeia, 
and  many  men  are  proud  of  the  6vva^. 
The  pride  of  potentiality  lingers  long  after 
the  power  of  real  work  has  altogether  gone, 
long  after  the  regret  that  tinges  the°nrst 
twenty  years  of  an  idle  man's  life.  You 
may  see,  at  Oxford  and  Cambridge,  old 


men  who  walk  erect  and  proud,  still  flushed 
with  the  triumphs  they  achieved  as  boys, 
and  proud  still  as  men ;  though  their 
strength  has  been  measured  against  no 
other  competitors,  and  in  no  larger  battle- 
field, and  though  the  men  they  once  de- 
feated have  long  since  conquered  in  far 
greater  struggles,  while  they  have  grown 
rusty  over  the  combination  port. 

Philip  was  now  at  the  age  when  regret 
is  strongest.  At  no  time  do  the  possi- 
bilities of  life  appear  so  splendid  as  at 
twenty-five,  or  is  the  conscience  quicker  to 
reproach  us  for  wasted  opportunities.  But, 
after  all,  what  was  he  to  do  ?  Life  is  but 
a  vague  thing  to  a  young  subaltern  of  dis- 
tinct ambitions,  not  clearly  seeing  what 
glorious  path  to  take  up.  Often  enough 
it  becomes  a  merely  ignoble  thing,  mean- 
ing billiards,  betting,  brandy  and  soda,  et 
talia.  In  Phil's  case,  the  life  he  led  was 
telling  on  his  face,  broadening  his  feat- 
ures, giving  them  a  coarse  expression. 
Our  lives  are  stamped  upon  our  faces. 
Does  there  not  come  a  time  in  every  good 
man's  life  when  the  hardest  and  unloveliest 
of  faces  softens  into  beauty  by  reason  of 
the  victory  within  ?  Do  not  buy  a  "  nose 
machine,"  unlovely  reader.  Have  patience, 
and  aim  at  the  highest  things;  and  one 
day  your  face,  too,  shall  be  beautiful.  As 
for  Adonis,  if  he  had  lived  the  life  of  men 
about  town,  his  face  would  have  been 
coarse  as  theirs  before  the  age  of  thirty. 

The  colored  blood  had  something  to  do 
with  it.  It  helped  to  make  Philip  at  once 
sensitive,  eager  of  distinction,  and  vain. 
But  not  every  thing.  Fain  would  I  put  it 
all  down  to  color.  Mighty  comforting 
thing  as  it  is  to  us  white  men  to  reflect  on 
our  superiority,  we  must  be  careful  about 
the  theory.  We  may  be  the  aristocracy 
of  Nature.  To  be  sure,  the  creature  who 
walks  about  in  the  similitude  of  man,  with 
the  leg  in  the  middle  of  the  foot ;  whose 
calf  is  in  front,  and  shin  behind ;  whose 
lips  are  thick  ;  whose  hair  is  woolly ;  whose 
nose  is  flat;  whose  brain  is  small  in  front 
and  big  behind ;  who  has  had  every  chance, 
and  has  clearly  shown  that  he  can  do  noth- 
ing so  well  as  the  white  man, — the  full- 
blooded  negro,  I  say,  must  be  regarded  as 
a  distant  cousin,  a  poor  relation  of  human- 
ity, and  not  a  "  brudder  "  at  all.  But  as 
for  the  mulatto  class,  I  don't  know.  Take 
a  good  quadroon  mother,  and  a  good  white 
father,  and  I  really  cannot  see  why  the 
resulting  octoroon  is  a  whit  inferior  to  our 
noble  selves,  —  the  aristocrats  by  color. 

But  the  influence  of  color  is  always  bad. 
It  helped  to  make  Philip  inferior  to  himself. 
Let  it  be  remembered  about  our  Phil,  the 
backslider,  that,  till  he  was  twelve  years 
old  and  more,  he  had  been  accustomed  to 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


73 


look  on  color  as  the  outward  mark  of  a 
degraded  race. 

It  is  all  part  of  the  same  question.  Take 
the  heir  of  all  the  Talbots  —  I  mean  noth- 
ing personal  to  the  heir  of  this  distinguished 
house.  Rear  him  in  pride  of  birth,  in  con- 
tempt for  low-born  people,  in  ideas  of  the 
responsibilities  and  dignities  of  rank,  you 
will  turn  out  a  creature  whom  the  whole 
world  cannot  match  for  pride,  self-respect 
self-reliance,  and  the  virtues  of  courage 
pluck,  and  endurance,  which  depend  on 
these. 

But  take  the  little  Echo  boy.  Suppose 
he  had  been  subjected  from  infancy  to  the 
same  teaching  and  treatment,  would  there 
have  been  any  difference  ? 

Mr.  Maclntyre  would  have  replied, 
vera  much  doot  it." 

"  The  future  of  a  boy,  sir,"  Venn  said 
one  evening,  "  may  be  entirely  prophesied 
from  an  observation  of  his  early  habits  and 
prejudices.  I  have  gathered,  for  instance, 
a  few  particulars  from  the  boyhood  of  great 
men,  which  throw  a  wonderful  light  upon 
their  after-career.  When  I  tell  you,  for 
example,  that  Mr.  John  Stuart  Mill,  early 
in  life,  had  to  submit  his  nails  to  a  disfig- 
uring course  of  bitter  almonds  to  cure  him 
of  biting  them,  you  feel  at  once  that  you 
understand  the  whole  of  the  philosopher's 
works." 

"  I  do  not.  for  one,"  said  Jones. 
"  I  have  also  heard,"  he  went  on,  "  that 
Mr.  Gladstone  was  birched  more  than  once 
for  cutting  Sunday  chapel  at  Eton.  Re- 
mark that  the  years  pass  over  his  head, 
and  presently  he  disestablishes  the  Irish 
Church.  And  I  believe  it  is  a  fact  that 
Mr.  Disraeli,  as  a  boy,  was  wont  to  sit  on 
a  rail,  and  suck  sweets.  The  analogies 
between  these  small  circumstances  and  the 
after-lives  of  these  men  are  subtle  perhaps, 
but,  once  pointed  out,  ought  to  be  clear 
even  to  Jones." 

It  was  on  another  occasion  that  Venn 
showed  how  an  apology  might  be  made  for 
a  criminal  on  higher  ground  than  that 
reached  by  the  evidence.  He  delivered 
his  "  Oratio  pro  Peccatore  "  one  night  in 
wig  and  gown.  The  following  is  a  por- 
tion :  — 

"  Circumstances,  my  lud,  have  been 
against  my  unhappy  client.  Brought  up 
under  the  contempt,  or  fancied  contempt, 
of  society,  he  early  manifested  his  superi- 
ority to  the  ordinary  trammels  imposed  on 
the  thick-headed  by  becoming  a  prig.  I 
do  not  mean  assistant  masters  of  Rugby  or 
Marlborough,  who  are  all  prigs,  but  the 
common  prig  of  the  London  streets.  From 
a  prig  of  Holborn,  the  transition  was  easy 
to  being  a  prig  on  a  larger  scale  and  in  a 
more  extended  sphere.  Step  by  step,  my 


lud,  and  gentlemen  of  the  jury,  you  may 
trace  every  thing  back,  not  to  the  want  of 
education,  because  my  client  was  taught  in 
a  National  School,  and  possesses  even  now 
a  knowledge  of  the  Kings  of  Israel,  but  to 
the  fact,  that,  in  the  circles  .wherein  he 
should  have  moved,  his  parentage  was  de- 
spised, —  his  father,  gentlemen  of  the  jury, 
having  been  a  barrister  at  law,  and  his 
mother  at  one  time  a  lady  of  the  ballet." 

And  with  this  as  a  preface,  he  would 
go  on  to  defend  his  client. 

You  may  leave  out  the  preceding,  if  you 
like  ;  but  I  would  rather  you  read  it. 
Meantime,  it  is  the  month  of  May,  — 

"  Ce  fut  en  tres  doux  tenz  de  Mai, 

Quo  di  cuer  gai, 
Vout  cis  oiseilion  chantant," 

as  the  old  French  song  has  it.  Laura  has 
met  Philip  in  all  about  six  or  seven  times 
—  always  with  another  promise  of  secrecy. 
She  is  to  marry  Philip.  That  is  agreed 
upon  between  them.  It  will  please  Mr. 
Venn.  Meantime,  she  "is  trying  to  under- 
stand her  lover.  He  is  kind  to  her,  but 
not  with  the  tenderness  of  her  guardian  to 
whom  she  compares  him.  He  is  not  gen- 
tle with  her  ;  but  passionate,  fitful,  uncer- 
tain of  temper,  being,  indeed,  in  constant 
conflict  with  himself.  Then  he  was  suspi- 
cious and  jealous.  Worse  than  all,  he  was 
always  asking  her  if  she  loved  him  more, 
if  she  loved  him  at  all,  if  she -ever  could 
love  him.  It  wearied  and  teased  her,  — 
this  talk  of  love.  "  What  did  it  mean  ?  " 
she  asked  herself  over  and  over  again,  but 
could  find  no  answer. 

"  I  don't  know,  Philip,"  she  said.  «  What 
is  the  use  of  always  asking  ?  " 

"You  must  know  if  you  love  me, 
Laura." 

"  How  am  I  to  know  ?  " 

"  Do  you  love  Mr.  Venn  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes  !  "  —  her  face  lit  up  at  once ; 

but  I  don't  feel  at  all  like  that  —  oh,  not 
in  the  least  bit !  If  that  is  love,  why  I  sup- 
pose I  do  not  love  you." 

Philip  ground  his  teeth. 

"  Always  Mr.  Venn,"  he  growled.  "  Tell 
me,  Laura,  do  you  like  to  be  with  me  V  " 

"  Yes,  it  is  pleasant —  so.  long  as  you  are 
in  a  good  temper  —  to  talk  to  you.  I  like 
ou  a  great  deal  better  than  when  I  saw 
first.  I  don't  think  you  are  such  a 
good  man  as  you  ought  to  be,  because  I 
lave  heard  you  swear,  which  is  vulgar." 

"  You  shall  make  me  good,  when  we  are 
narried." 

'  And  when  will  that  be  ?  "  she  asked 
suddenly.  "Because,  you  see,  I  will  not 
on  having  secrets  from  Mr.  Venn ;  and 
[  must  tell  him  soon." 


74 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


"  Then,  you  will  give  me  up,"  said 
Philip  gloomily. 

"  Very  well,"  she  returned  calmly ; 
'•  that  will  be  better  than  deceiving  Mr. 
Venn.  To  be  sure,  I  am  only  deceiving 
him  with  the  idea  of  pleasing  him.  Of 
course  he  will  be  pleased."  She  sighed. 
'•  If  only  I  felt  quite  sure  !  But  he  told 
me  so  distinctly  that  I  was  to  marry  a 
gentleman.  Oh,  he  will  be  pleased!  and 
I  am  sure  he  will  like  you." 

"  Only  wait  a  little  longer,  my  dear." 

"  No,  'Philip,  I  will  not  wait  any  longer. 
We  must  be  married  at  once,  or  I  will  tell 
Mr.  Venn  all  about  it.  I  cannot  bear  to 
have  secrets  from  him.  I  believe,  after  all, 
you  are  only  laughing  at  me,  because  I  am 
not  a  lady." 

The  tears  of  vexation  came  into  her 
eyes. 

Philip's  face  was  very  gloomy.  It  was 
in  his  moments  of  anger  that  the  cloud 
fell  upon  his  face  which  altered  his  expres- 
sion, and  changed  him  almost  to  a  negro. 
It  was  then  that  his  nostrils  seemed  to 
broaden,  his  lips  to  project,  his  cheeks  to 
darken. 

"  Tell  him,  then,"  he  returned ;  "  and 
good-by." 

He  turned  on  his  heel :  it  was  under 
the  trees  in  Kensington  Gardens.  She 
sat  down,  and  looked  at  him.  There  was 
no  anger  in  her  breast  for  the  spreKz  inju- 
ria  formes  :  none  at  the  loss  of  a  love,  none 
at  the  destruction  of  an  idol;  for  she  had 
no  love.  Philip  Durnford  had  never 
touched  her  heart.  To  please  Mr.  Venn  — 
let  us  say  it  again  and  again  —  to  please 
Mr.  Venn,  who  wanted  to  see  her  married 
to  a  gentleman,  and  because  she  was  wholly, 
utterly  ignorant  of  the  world  and  innocent 
of  its  ways,  she  listened  to  Philip's  plead- 
ing, and  almost  offered  herself  to  him  in 
marriage.  What  did  marriage  mean  V  She 
knew  nothing.  How  was  she  to  know? 
She  spoke  to  no  one  but  Hartley  Venn. 
She  never  read  novels  or  love-poetry.  Her 
lii'e  was  as  secluded  as  that  of  any  nun. 

Her  lover  was  three  or  four  yards  off, 
when  his  expression  changed  as  suddenly 
to  his  old  one.  He  wavered,  and  half 
turned. 

'•  Philip,"  cried  Laura,  "  come  here." 

He  turned,  and  stood  before  her. 

"  I  think  I  have  made  a  great  mistake. 
Perhaps  Mr.  Venn  would  not  be  pleased. 
Let  us  say  good-by,  and  go  away  from  each 
other  forever.  You  will  soon  forget  me  ; 
and,  before  I  listen  to  any  one  again,  I  will 
take.  Mr.  Venn's  advice." 

She  spoke  in  a  businesslike  tone,  as  if 
the  whole  thing  was  a  mere  matter  of  expe- 
diency ;  and  shook  her  head  with  an  air  of 
the  most  owl-like  wisdom,  and  looked  more 


beautiful  than  ever.  It  was  one  of  the 
characteristics  of  this  young  lady  that  she 
had  as  many  different  faces  as  there  are 
thoughts  in  the  brain  ;  for  she  changed  with 
each.  I  think  her  best  was  when  she  was 
playing  in  the  evening  —  far  away,  in  im- 
agination, in  some  paradise  of  her  own  — 
alone  with  Mr.  Venn. 

Philip's  blood  leaped  up  in  his  veins. 
All  the  love  and  desire  he  had  ever  enter- 
tained for  her  seemed  multiplied  tenfold. 
He  seized  her  hand,  and  held  it  fast. 

"  My  Laura  !  "  he  cried,  "  my  little  bird, 
my  pet !  Do  you  think  I  will  let  you  go  ? 
At  least,  not  till  I  have  had  another  chance. 
It  is  all  finished,  —  all  the  waiting  and  hop- 
ing. I  am  ready  to  marry  you  whenever 
you  like.  You  shall  name  your  own  day, 
and  you  shall  tell  Mr.  Venn  after  we  are 
married.  Only  keep  the  secret  till  then." 

*'  How  long  am  I  to  wait  ?  "  asked  the 
girl. 

"  A  week,  —  ten  days,  not  more.  We 
must  make  our  preparations.  I  must  get 
you  all  sorts  of  things,  darling.  I  love  you 
too  well  to  let  you  go  in  a  fit  of  passion. 
If  I  have  been  ill-tempered  at  times,  it  is 
because  I  am  sometimes  troubled  with 
many  things  of  which  you  know  nothing. 
Make  a  little  allowance  for  me.  You,  at 
least,  shall  never  be  troubled,  Laura,  my 
pet.  My  happiness  is  in  your  hands. 
Give  it  back  to  me  ;  and,  in  return,  all  my 
life  shall  be  spent  in  trying  to  please  you." 

"  You  frighten  me,"  she  said.  "  You  are 
so  passionate.  Why  do  you  hold  my  hand 
so  hard  ?  Look  here,  Philip  —  I  will  do 
this.  To-day  is  Wednesday.  I  will  meet 
you  and  marry  you  next  Wednesday,  if 
you  like.  If  you  do  not  marry  me  then, 
you  shall  not  marry  me  at  all.  And  now, 
good-by  till  Wednesday  morning." 

She  tripped  away,  without  "her  heart 
beating  a  single  pulsation  faster ;  while  he 
was  left  trembling  in  every  limb. 

;<  Wednesday  !  "  He  began  to  reflect 
how  people  were  married.  "  Wednesday. 
A  week.  And  there  is  every  thing  to  be 
got  ready." 

He  went  to  the  city,  to  his  agent's,  and 
drew  five  hundred  pounds. 

"It  is  my  duty,  Mr.  Durnford,"  said  the 
agent,  "  to  remind  you  that  you  have  only 
a  thousand  pounds  left.  Although  it  is 
invested  at  ten  per  cent,  a  hundred  a  year 
is  not  a  large  income." 

;'  You  are  quite  right,"  said  Philip.  "  It 
is  not,  indeed,  —  too  small  to  be  considered, 
almost.  But  I  must  have  the  five  hun- 
dred." 

He  lodged  it  at  Cox's  ;  and  then  went 
to  a  milliner's  shop,  and  ordered  a  com- 
plete trousseau,  to  be  ready  packed  in  a 
few  days.  They  wanted  to  try  things  on  ; 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


75 


but  he  picked  out  a  young  lady  in  the  shop 
of  about  Laura's  dimensions,  and  told  them 
to  try  the  things  on  her. 

After  that,  he  began  to  investigate  the 
great  marriage  question,  being  as  yet  little 
conversant  with  legal  procedure  of  any 
kind.  He  knew  that  you  might  go  to 
church,  or  that  you  might  go  to  a  registrar's 
office ;  so  he  found  out  the  office  of  a  regis- 
trar, and  asked  what  he  had  to  do. 

It  appeared  to  be  very  simple.  You 
must  reside  for  a  space  of  three  weeks  in 
a  parish,  —  that  had  already  been  done  ; 
but,  which  made  it  impossible,  he  must 
have  the  names  posted  up  in  the  office  for 
a  fortnight.  And  so  he  went  and  bought 
a  special  license. 

He  went  home  radiant  with  hope  and 
happiness,  and  spent  a  quiet  evening  alone 
communing  with  the  future. 

The  next  day  he  went  to  see  how  the 
trousseau  was  getting  on,  and  bought  a 
wedding-ring.  Then  he  ordered  several 
new  suits  of  clothes  to  be  made  at  once, 
and  a  large  stock  of  linen,  with  an  unde- 
fined feeling  that  married  life  meant  every 
thing  new. 

That  was  Thursday's  work. 

Then  came  Friday,  and,  with  Friday,  a 
visit  from  Mr.  Maclntyre. 

"  You  will  not  spend  many  more  even- 
ings with  me,"  said  Phil  ;  "  so  sit  down, 
and  make  yourself  comfortable." 

"  And  wherefore  not  V  "  asked  his  tutor. 

"  Because  I'm  going  to  be  married  next 
Wednesday." 

"  Gude  guide  us  ! "  The  good  man  turned 
quite  pale.  "  Next  Wednesday  ?  Is  all 
settled  ?  It  is  Laura,  of  course  —  I  mean 
Miss  Collingwood." 

"  Of  course  it  is  Laura." 

"  And  how  are  you  to  be  married  ?  " 

"  By  special  license." 

Mr.  Maclntyre  looked  as  if  he  would  ask 
another  question,  but  refrained  ;  and  pres- 
ently went  his  way. 

On  Tuesday  evening,  Mr.  Maclntyre 
looked  up  quietly,  and  asked, -r— 

"  What  church  are  you  going  to  be  mar- 
ried in  ?  " 

Phil  turned  pale. 

"  Idiot  that  I  am  !  I  never  thought  about 
the  church  at  all." 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

"  UNDER  ordinary  circumstances,  Lollie," 
said  Venn,  on  Tuesday  morning,  when  the 
child  came  round, —  "  under  ordinary  cir- 
cumstances, the  middle-aged  man  awakes 
in  the  morning  with  the  weary  feeling  of  a 
day's  work  before  him."  He  always  spoke 


as  if  he  was  oppressed  with  the  duties  of 
labor.  "By  some  unlucky  accident,  I  feel 
this  morning  as  if  the  innocent  mirth  of 
childhood  was  back  again.  I  fear  nothing. 
I  hope  every  thing.  Two  courses  are 
therefore  open  to  us." 

"  What  two  courses  ?  "  asked  the  girl, 
always  watchful  of  Venn's  words,  and  nev- 
er quite  able  to  follow  the  conclusions  to 
which  they  led  him. 

"  I  ought,  I  suppose,  to  take  advantage 
of  this  unusual  flow  of  spirits,  and  write 
something  with  the  real  glow  of  joy  upon 
it.  My  works  are,  perhaps,  too  uniformly 
meditative.  I  dare  say  you  have  remarked 
it." 

"  I  think  they  are  beautiful,  all  of  them," 
replied  the.  flatterer. 

"  Ah,  Lollie,  I  ought  to  be  a  happy  man. 
I  have  an  audience  —  limited  at  present,  to 
be  sure  —  which  appreciates  me.  Moham- 
med had  his  Cadijah.  But  there  is  anoth- 
er course  open  to  us.  See  the  sun  upon 
*the  leaves  of  the  two  trees  in  the  court. 
Listen  to  the  sparrows  chirping  with  re- 
newed vigor.  They  know  that  the  hilari-  , 
ous  worm  will  be  tempted  forth' to  enjoy 
the  sun.  The  purring  of  the  basking  cat 
is  almost  audible  if  you  open  the  window. 
The  paper-boy  whistles  across  the  square. 
The  policemen  move  on  with  a  lighter 
step.  The  postman  bounds  as  he  walks. 
The  laundresses  put  off  their  shawls. 
Lollie,  what  do  these  things  mean  ?  " 

"They  mean  going  into  the  country, 
do  ihey  not?"  she  replied,  catching  his 
meaning. 

"  They  do,  child.  They  mean  Epping 
Forest.  We  will  take  the  train  to  Lough- 
ton,  and  walk  to  Epping.  They  mean  a 
little  dinner  at  the  Cock,  and  a  pint  of 
Moselle.  They  mean  strolling  through  the 
wood  to  Theydon  Bois,  and  coming  home 
in  the  evening  with  roses  in  our  cheeks." 

Another  time,  Lollie  would  have  jumped 
for  joy.  Now  she  only  looked  up,  and 
smiled. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  my  little  girl  ?  " 
asked  Hartley,  taking  her  face  in  his 
hands.  "  For  a  fortnight  past  you  have 
not  been  in  your  usual  spirits.  To-day 
you  are  pale  and  worn.  Are  you  ill, 
Lollie  V  " 

"  No,"  she  cried,  bursting  into  tears,  "  I 
am  not  ill ;  only  —  only  —  you  are  so  good 
to  me." 

His 'own  eyes  filled  as  he  stooped  and 
kissed  her  forehead. 

"  You  are  rfervous  this  morning,  little 
one:  you  must  go  to  Epping,  that  is 
clear." 

"  It  is  not  only  that :  it  is  something 
else." 

"  What  else,  Lollie  ?    You  can  tell  ine." 


76 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


"It  is  my  secret,  Mr.  Venn." 

"  Well,  then,  Lollie,  if  that  is  all,  I  can 
wait  for  this  precious  secret.  So  be  happy 
again." 

"  It  is  a  secret  that  concerns  you.  I 
think  it  will  make  you  happier  —  you  said 
once  that  it  would.  Oh  !  I  wish  I  might 
tell  you — I  wish  you  would  let  me." 

"  Little  Impatience  !  And  what  sort  of 
a  secret  would  that  be  which  I  know  al- 
ready ?  Do  you  remember  the  man  who 
whispered  his  to  the  winds  ?  Never  tell  a 
secret,  child  ;  because  the  birds  of  the  air 
may  carry  it  about." 

"  I  have  been  so  unhappy  about  it,"  the 
girl  went  on,  through  her  tears.  "  I  can't 
sleep  for  thinking  of  it.  Oh,  you  will  be 
pleased  I  know  you  will  1  But  I  wish  I 
could  tell  you.  I  will  —  I  don't  care  who 
is  offended.  Mr.  Venn,  I  am  going  "  — 

"  Stop,  Lollie,"  he  replied,  putting  his 
finger  to  her  lips  —  "Don't  tell  me.  See, 
I  give  you  perfect  control  over  your  secret^ 
till  to-morrow.  I  refuse  to  listen  —  I  am' 
deaf.  If  you  try  to  tell  me  I  shall  begin 
to  sing,  and  then  the  nearest  cows  will  fall 
ill,  and  the  calves  will  lie  down  and  ex- 
pire." 

She  sighed,  and  was  silent.  Alas!  if 
only  she  had  spoken.  Fate  was  against 
her. 

They  went  to  Loughton,  and  took  that 
walk  through  the  forest  which  only  the 
East-end  cockneys  love.  In  the  long 
glades  which  stretch  right  and  left  the 
hawthorn  was  in  full  blossom  ;  the  tender 
green  of  the  new  leaves,  freshly  colored, 
and  all  of  different  hues,  the  soft  breath  of 
the  young  summer,  the  silence  and  repose, 
fell  on  the  girl's  spirit,  and  soothed  her. 
For  the  moment  she  forgot  the  secret,  and 
almost  felt  happy.  And  yet  it  lay  at  her 
heart.  Her  life — she  knew  so  much  — 
was  going  to  be  changed ;  how  much  she 
could  not  tell.  The  'life  of  two  would  be, 
she  thought,  a  life  of  three.  It  was  what 
Mr.  Venn  had  wished  for  her ;  and  yet  — 
and  yet  —  there  was  the  shade  of  a  danger 
upon  her,  a  foreboding  of  calamity,  which 
she  tried  in  vain  to  throw  off.  Venn  pour- 
ed out  his  treasures  of  fancy,  —  those  half- 
thought-out  ideas  and  half-seen  analogies 
which  filled  his  brain,  and  evaded  him  when 
he  tried  to  put  them  on  paper.  But  they 
fell,  for  once,  on  unfruitful  ground.  She 
caught  some  of  them  or  only  half  caught 
them;  and  then  talk -grew  languid. 

"  My  spirits  of  this  morning  seem  to  have 
failed  me,"  he  cried  impatiently :  — 

'  Not  seldom,  clad  in  radiant  hue, 
Deceitfully  goes  forth  the  morn.' 

A  spiritual  shower  has  fallen,  and  we  have 
no  umbrella.    What  is  it,  child  ?  "  he  asked 


impatiently.  "  Why  are  we  so  silent  and 
sad  to-day  ?  Let  us  be  happy.  Are  we 
drenched  with  the  shower  ?  " 

Lollie  half  laughed,  and  they  walked  on. 

Presently  they  came  upon  a  woman, 
toiling  along  with  a  baby  in  her  arms,  and 
two  children  toddling  after  them.  As  they 
came  up  to  her,  the  woman  turned,  and 
struck  one  of  them  sharply,  for  lagging. 

"  Don't  do  that,  my  good  creature,"  said 
Venn.  "  Perhaps  the  little  one  is  tired." 

"  He's  tired  and  hungry  too,  sir,"  she 
replied  ;  "  but  I've  got  to  get  him  to  Epp- 
ing,  for  all  that,  and  walk  he  must." 

"  Poor  little  man  ! "  said  Venn.  "  Say, 
are  you  very  tired  ?  " 

The  child  was  evidently  worn  out. 

"  We  are  going  the  same  way,"  he  said. 
"  I  will  carry  him  for  you." 

"  You,  sir  ?  —  and  a  gentleman,  and  all !  " 

"  Why  not  ?     Come,  my  boy." 

He  lifted  the  little  one  in  his  arms. 

"  Lollie,  I  am  not  going  to  let  you  carry 
the  other.  He  is  big  enough  to  walk." 

"  Ah,  yes,  miss, —  don't  ee  now,"  said  the 
woman.  "  He's  strong  enough  —  ain't  you, 
Jackey?" 

Then  they  all  walked  away  together,— 
Venn  talking  to  the  woman,  and  she  tell- 
ing her  little  story  ;  how  her  husband  had 
got  work  at  Epping,  and  she  was  walking 
all  the  way  from  town  with  her  babies. 

"  I  had  a  comfortable  place,  sir,"  she 
said,  "  six  years  ago ;  and  little  I  thought 
then  of  the  hardships  I  should  have  to 
undergo.  God  knows  we've  been  half 
starving  sometimes." 

"  And  are  you  sorry  you  married  ? " 
asked  Lollie. 

"  Nay,  miss,  a  woman  is  never  sorry  she 
married,"  replied  the  poor  wife.  "My 
man  is  a  real  good  sort,  unless  now  and 
then  when  it's  the  drink  tempts  him.  And 
then  I've  the  children,  you  see.  Ah  !  well, 
sir, —  God  gives  us  the  good  and  the  bad 
together.  But  never  you  think,  miss,  that 
a  woman  is  sorry  she  married." 

"  Truly,"  said  Venn,  "  marriage  is  a  con- 
tinual sacrament." 

"  Are  you  married  yourself,  sir  ?  " 

"  I  am  not,"  he  replied  gravely.  "  So 
far  I  am  only  half  a  man  ;  and  now  I  shall 
never  marry,  I  fear." 

Lollie  looked  up  in  his  face,  over  whi<:h 
lay  that  light  cloud  of  melancholy  which 
alternated  in  Venn  with  the  sweet  smile 
of  his  mobile  lips.  She  walked  on,  ponder- 
ing. "No  woman  ever  sorry  for  being 
married."  There  was  comfort ! 

"  You  are  happy  when  you  are  with  your 
husband  ?  "  she  asked  presently. 

The  woman  turned  sharply  upon  her. 

"Of  course  I  am  happy  with  my'  Ben," 
she  said.  "  Happiness  with  us  is  not  made 


MY  LITTLE   GIRL. 


77 


of  the  same  sort  of  stuff  as  with  you  rich 
folks." 

"  I  am  not  a  rich  folk,"  said  the  girl, 
smiling. 

"  Well,  well,  —  never  mind  my  sharpness, 
miss.  You're  one  of  the  kind  folks,  and 
that's  all  I  care  about." 

She  trudged  on,  talking  to  herself,  as 
such  women  do,  between  her  lips.  Venn 
was  behind  them  now,  talking  to  the  boy 
in  his  arms  ;  and  so  they  reached  Epping. 
At  the  outskirts  of  the  long  town,  where 
the  cottages  begin,  the  woman  insisted  on 
the  boy  being  put  down,  and  began  to  thank 
them.  Venn  gave  her  a  little  present  of  a 
few  shillings,  and  left  her  trudging  along 
with  the  children. 

"  There  goes  our  Moselle,  Lollie,"  he 
said  with  a  sigh.  "  Always  some  fresh  dis- 
appointment. I  had  set  my  heart  on  that 
Moselle  for  you." 

"  Mr.  Venn  !  As  if  I  should  be  so 
selfish." 

"  All  the  same,"  he  grumbled.  "  It  was 
a  stroke  of  my  usual  bad  luck,  meeting  that 
woman." 

The  bottle  of  Moselle  made  its  appearance 
in  spite  of  her  ;  but  even  the  sparkle  of  the 
wine  failed  to  raise  Lollie's  spirits  to  their 
usual  level.  The  girl  was  profoundly  de- 
jected. Venn  tried  the  wildest  talk,  told 
her  the  wildest  stories  ;  but  in  vain.  It 
grew  close  to  the  hour  of  the  last  train,  — 
the  Great  Eastern,  with  its  usual  liberality, 
having  fixed  the  last  train  at  eight,  so  as  to 
prevent  everybody  from  enjoying  the  even- 
ing in  the  Forest.  They  walked  together  to 
the  station,  —  silent,  dejected,  and  unhappy. 

"  I  wish  —  oh,  I  wish  to-morrow  was 
over  !  "  the  girl  sighed,  when  they  were 
alone  in  the  railway  carriage. 

"  Does  that  secret  worry  you,  Lollie  ?  Is 
that  the  wretched  cause  of  your  depression  ? 
Forget  it,  —  put  it  out  of  your  mind." 

"Let  me  tell  it  you." 

"  Nonsense,  child,"  he  laughed  :  "  as  if  I 
wanted  to  know.  Think  of  Midas,  as  I  told 
you  this  morning.  You  shall  not  tell  me 
now." 

"  Tell  me  once  more,"  she  said,  "  what 
you  would  like  me  most  of  all  to  do." 

He  hesitated.  Had  he  followed  the 
promptings  of  his  own  heart,  he  would  have 
said,  — 

"  To  marry  me,  Lollie  :  to  go  away  with 
me  from  London  ;  to  live  together,  never 
to  get  tired,  in  some  country  place,  —  the 
•world  forgetting,  by  the  world  forgot.' ' 

If  he  had  but  said  so !  —  for  it  was  not 
vet  too  late,  and  the  girl  was  yearning  to  tell 
him  all. 

"  I  think,  child,"  he  said  slowly,  after  a 
pause,  "  there  is  but  one  thing  I  really  want 
you  to  do.  I  should  like,  before  all  else,  to 


see  you  married  happily.  Sukey  settled 
that  for  us,  you  know.  I  haven't  seen  Su- 
key now  for  two  months.  Let  us  go  there 
to-morrow." 

"  Not  to-morrow,"  said  Lollie.  "  Do  you 
really  mean,  —  really  and  truly  mean  what 
you  say  ?  You  would  like  to  see  me  mar- 
ried ?  " 

Heavens,  how  blind  the  man  is  !  He  does 
not  see  that  the  girl's  whole  heart  is  his ; 
that  after  all  those  years  her  nature  is  re- 
sponsive to  his  own  ;  that  she  has  but  one 
thought,  one  affection,  one  passion,  — 
though  she  knows  it  not,  —  the  love  of 
Hartley  Venn. 

"Mean  it?"  he  says,  with  his  tender 
smile.  "  Of  course  I  mean  it.  Recollect 
what  the  woman  said  to-day.  You  have 
seen  how  love  may  survive  poverty,  hunger, 
misery,  and  rise  triumphant  over  all. 
Think  what  love  may  be  when  there  is  no 
misery  to  beat  it  down." 

"Love — yes,  love.  They  are  always 
talking  about  love.  I  mean  marriage." 

"  They  go  together,  Lollie." 

"  Does,"  —  she  checked  the  name  that 
rose  to  her  lips —  "do  people,  when  they 
talk  of  marriage,  always  mean  love." 

"  They  are  supposed  to  do  so,  Lollie.  On 
the  other  hand,  when  they  talk  of  love, 
they  do  not  always  —  Ah,  here  is  Fen- 
church  Street." 

No  more  was  said  that  night.  The  girl 
went  up  to  his  room,  and  made  him  tea  ;  and 
at  half-past  nine,  she  put  on  her  hat. 

"  To-morrow,  Mr.  Venn  —  ah !  to-mor- 
row —  I  shall  tell  you  my  secret." 

"  Sleep  soundly,  little  bird,  and  forget 
your  secret.  What  time  am  I  to  know  it  ?  " 

"  I  don't  quite  know.  I  should  think,  in 
the  afternoon." 

"  Very  well,  then ;  I  shall  stay  in  from 
one  till  four,  and  if  you  do  not  come  then  I 
shall  suppose  the  secret  is  not  ready.  Will 
that  do  ?  Good-night,  Lollie  dear." 

He  stooped  to  kiss  her  forehead' ;  but  she 
took  his  face  in  her  hands,  and  kissed  his 
lips  almost  passionately. 

"  Always  believe,"  she  said,  "  even  if  you 
are  not  pleased,  that  I  love  jou,  and  am  so 
grateful  to  you  that  nothing  can  tell  it. 
Always  believe  I  love  you,  and  hope  to 
please  you." 

And  so  slipped  away,  and  was  gone. 
Did  Hartley  have  no  suspicion  ?  —  None 
—  none  —  none.  He  was  not,  you  see,  a 
man  "  about  town."  He  did  not  think  or 
suspect  evil.  Least  of  all  could  he  suspect 
evil  in  the  case  of  his  little  girl.  And  that 
she  should  take  his  words  so  literally  as  to 
marry  a  man  in  order  to  please  him  would 
have  struck  him  as  beyond  all  belief. 

And  yet  it  was  exactly  what  she  was  go- 
ing to  do. 


78 


MY   LITTLE   GIRL. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

IT  is  the  morning  of  Lollie's  wedding-day. 
As  the  girl  dresses  in  her  little  room,  she  is 
crying  silently  ;  for  a  great  fear  has  fallen 
upon  her, — the  fear  that  what  she  is  going  to 
do  will  not  meet  with  that  approval  and 
praise  which  she  at  first  anticipated.  It 
had  been  growing  in  her  brain  ;  and  when, 
only  yesterday,  she  first  gave  it  expression, 
it  assumed  a  clear  and  definite  form.  She 
dressed  quickly,  trying  to  soothe  her  own 
excitement,  drank  a  cup  of  tea,  and  slipped 
out  at  ten  o'clock  to  meet  her  lover.  No 
thought,  you  will  remark,  of  her  grand- 
mother. On  the  whole,  I  hardly  see  how 
any  could  be  expected.  The  girl  did  not 
belong  to  the  old  woman.  She  owed  noth- 
ing to  her,  she  had  not  a  thought  in  common 
with  her,  she  hardly  ever  spoke  to  her  ;  and, 
save  that  they  slept  under  one  roof,  they 
had  nothing  to  do  with  each  other.  Cer- 
tainly, the  idea  that  the  old  woman  might 
be  made  unhappy  by  conduct  of  hers  never 
occurred  to  her.  It  was  a  lovely  morning 
in  June,  one  of  those  days  when  London 
puts  on  its  brightest  aspect,  and  looks  —  as 
it  always  would,  were  Heaven  pleased  to 
improve  our  climate — the  empress  of 
cities.  Through  the  crowded  streets,  down 
Oxford  Street -and  Regent  Street,  without 
stopping  to  look  at  the  gratuitous  exhibi- 
tions in  the  shop-windows,  Lollie  tripped 
along,  with  heightened  color  and  quick- 
beating  pulse. 

Going  to  be  married,  —  going  to  marry  a 
gentleman  1  What  would  be  Mr  Venn's  sur- 
prise and  delight  when  she  went  to  him  in 
the  evening ! 

For  once,  Philip  was  first  at  their  tryst- 
ing-place  in  the  park. 

Going  to  be  married,  going  to  plight 
her  troth,  —  for  better  for  worse  too.  A 
girl,  who,  in  the  absolute  innocence  of  her 
heart,  gives  herself  to  him  for  no  love  that 
she  bears  him,  but  only  to  please,  as  she 
thinks,  another  man.  Going  to  be  a  bride- 
groom ?  He  does  not  look  it,  as  he  paces 
up  and  down  the  gravel,  driving  down  his 
heels,  with  a  pale  face  and  a  troubled  look. 
Surely  a  bridegroom  should  look  in  better 
spirits  ;  and  when  he  sees  the  girl  approach- 
ing, his  own  betrothed,  soon  to  be  his  bride 
why  do  his  knees  tremble  beneath  him,  so 
that  he  must  fain  sit  down  on  a  J^nch  ? 

Then  she  holds  out  her  uand,  and  he 
takes  it  undauntedly. 

"  Remember  what  I  said,  Philip,"  she  be- 
gan directly.  "  Unless  you  marry  me  to- 
day I  shall  not  marry  you  at  all ;  and  I  shal" 
tell  Mr.  Venn  every  thing." 

"  Is  that  the  only  love- vow  you  have  t< 
give  me  ?  "  asked  the  bridegroom. 


;  0  Philip!  do  not  talk  like  that. 
Always  of  love,  and  love-vows  !  I  tell  you 
igain,  I  do  not  understand  it.  What  should 
'.  say,  if  not  the  truth  ?  " 

Philip  sighed.  There  was  yet  time  to 
ave  himself.  The  girl  did  not  love  him  ; 
>ut,  then,  he  loved  the  girl.  He  had  that 
jassionate  longing  for  this  sweet,  fair- 
aired  maiden,  —  so  bright,  so  clever,  so 

w,  —  which,  I  think,  can  never  come  to  a 
man  more  than  once  in  his  life.  God  has 
made  us  so  that  not  more  than  one  woman 
can  be  an  angel  to  us.  Her  excepted,  — 
ve  know  the  sex.  We  grovel  to  her ;  we 
tand  upright  before  the  rest,  conscious  of 
he  head  and  a  half  difference  between 
he  man  and  the  woman.  Lollie  was 
Philip's  angel.  And  —  alas  !  the  pity  of  it 
—  there  are  so  many  men  who  cannot  hold 
heir  one  woman  an  angel  for  longer  than 
he  honeymoon  ;  and  must  needs  cry  shame 
ind  folly  to  themselves  for  the  sweet  infat- 
uation which  alone  makes  life  tolerable  to 
is. 

"  Come,  Laura,"  said  Philip,  "  I  have  the 
icense  in  my  pocket,  —  a  special  license. 
See  here."  He  pulled  out  the  document. 
'  The  Archbishop' of  Canterbury  has  given 
lis  consent,  you  see ;  so  that  is  all  right. 
~  thought  you  would  best  like  a  private 
marriage." 

'  Oh,  yes  !  "  cried  Lollie,  —  "  much  best." 

'  And  as  we  shall  have  no  wedding- 
breakfast,  no  carriage,  and  nothing  but  our 
own  two  selves,  I  "have  arranged  with  a 
very  excellent  clergyman  —  a  Scotch  cler- 
gyman —  to  perform  the  ceremony  for  us 
which  will  make  you  my  wife.  Will  that 
do  for  you  ?  " 

He  had  fallen,  then,  into  the  pit  digged 
for  him. 

"  Surely,  Philip,"  she  said,  "  it  shall  all  be 
as  you  think  best  for  us  ;  and  then  I  shall 
tell  Mr.  Venn." 

He  had  been  out  of  the  park  into  the 
Strand,  and  took  a  Hansom  cab  to  Keppel 
Street. 

Mr.  Maclntyre  was  himself  standing  at 
the  window  in  the  ground-floor  front,  and 
came  to  open  the  door.  Then  he  led  them 
in,  and  shut  the  door  carefully.  That  done, 
he  stared  hard  at  the  bride. 

"  Come  into  the  other  room  a  moment," 
said  Philip  in  a  hoarse  voice.  "  I  want  to 
say  a  word." 

The  other  room  was  Mr.  Maclntyre's 
bedroom,  opening  from  the  first  by  folding- 
doors.  Lollie,  left  alone,  looked  out  of  the 
window  and  waited.  As  she  looked,  a  fu- 
neral procession  came  from  an  opposite 
house,  and  the  dismal  cortege  passed  down 
the  street.  Then,  too,  the  sky  was  clouded 
over,  and  big  drops  of  rain' were  falling. 
Her  heart  sank  within  her.  Truly,  an 


MY  LITTLE  GIEL. 


79 


omen  of  the  worst.  She  turned  from  the 
window,  and  looked  round  the  room.  A 
curious  fragrance,  unknown  to  her,  was 
lingering  about  the  corners.  It  was  due 
to  toddy.  A  small  fire  was  burning  in  the 
grate,  though  the  morning  was  warm ;  and 
a  kettle  was  singing  on  the  hob.  Two  or 
three  pipes  lay  on  the  mantle-shelf;  and  a 
few  books,  chiefly  of  the  Latin  grammar 
class,  bought  when  Mr.  Maclntyre  medi- 
tated taking  pupils,  stood  upon  the  shelves. 
Tho  furniture  was  hard  and  uncomfortable. 
And  her  spirits  fell  lower  and  lower. 

In  the  other  room  she  heard  voices.  If 
she  had  heard  what  was  said,  she  might 
even  then  have  escaped ;  but  she  only  heard 
the  murmur. 

Philip,  when  the  door  was  shut,  turned 
upon  his  companion,  with  lips  and  cheeks 
perfectly  white,  and,  seizing  Mr.  Macln- 
tyre by  the  shoulders,  shook  the  little  man 
backwards  and  forwards  as  if  he  had  been 
a  reed. 

"  Villain  !  "  he  groaned, —  "  black-heart- 
ed, calculating  scoundrel." 

"  When  you've  done  shaking  your  best 
friend,"  returned  his  tutor,  "  and  calling 
bad  names,  perhaps  you  will  listen  for  a 
few  moments  to  the  voice  of  reason." 
"  Go  on,  then." 

Philip  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed. 
"  I  can't  do  it,  Maclntyre,  I  can't  do 
it,"  he  murmured.  "It  is  the  blackest 
villany.  Poor  Laura  !  poor  darling  1  Oh 
what  scoundrels  we  are  !  And  I,  who  was 
once  an  honorable  man  !  " 

"  Hoots,  toots,"  said  the  philosopher. 
But  Philip  was  lying  with  his  face  in  his 
hands,  shaking  with  emotion. 

Maclntyre  contemplated  his  old  pupil 
for  a  few  moments  with  a  puzzled  expres- 
sion ;  then  —  for  he  felt  unequal  to  the  or- 
deal without  support  —  he  went  to  the 
cupboard,  and  very  silently  poured  out 
just  half  a  glass  of  raw  spirit,  which  he 
swallowed  hastily.  Then  he  addressed 
himself  to  business,  and  tried,  but  with 
small  effect,  to  assume  a  sympathetic  air. 
"  Ma  puir  laddie,"  he  said  "  You  surely 
never  thought  that  I,  Alexander  Macln- 
tyre, the  releegious  guide  of  your  infancy, 
was  going  to  counsel  you  to  take  a  dishon- 
orable step.  Phil,  ye  11  be  as  legally  tied 
up  as  if  the  archbishop  did  it.  Believe 
me,  a  regularly  ordained  minister  of  the 
established  kirk  o'  Scotland.  If  a  prince 
was  going  to  be  married,  this  would  be  the 
right  shop  to  come  to.  And  you,  with  a 
license,  special  and  most  expensive,  and 
all." 

Philip  sat  up  again. 
"Is   it   true,   Maclntyre?     Is   it  realty 
true,  what  you  say  ?  " 

"  True,  my  Phil,  every  word  true.    Shal 


swear  to  it?  Now  brush  your  hair,  and 
ook  bright,  and  let  us  go  back  to  the  las- 
le.  Hech !  man  —  there's  a  thunder-clap. 
3ome  along,  or  she  will  be  frightened." 

He  pushed  him  back,  and,  sitting  down 
at  the  table,  laid  open  a  Bible,  borrowed 
or  the  occasion  from  the  unsuspecting 
andlady. 

'  Sit  down,  both  of  you,"  he  began  im- 
periously. 

They  sat  down  opposite  him. 

"  Have  ye  got  a  license,  Mr.  Durn- 
ford  ?  "  he  asked.  "  Good.  A  special 
icense,  granting  you  permission  to  be  mar- 
ked in  any  parish  ?  Good.  At  any  time  ? 
Good.  In  any  place  of  worship  ?  Vera 
good.  And  by  any  clergyman  ?  Vera 
rood  indeed.  Young  leddy,  your  name, 
f  you  please.  You  may  write  it  here." 

He  had  prepared  two  slips  of  paper  to 
mitate  a  marriage  certificate.  And  Philip 
noticed  now,  for  the  first  time,  that  he  was 
dressed  "  for  the  character,  in  complete 
black,  with  a  white  neckcloth  that  would 
not  have  disgraced  a  banjo  man,  and 
which,  with  his  red  nose,  gave  him  quite 
the  appearance  of  a  superior  mute.  And, 
the  signatures  obtained,  when  he  turned 
over  the  leaves  of  the  Bible  a  cheerful 
piety  became  diffused  over  his  face,  quite 
lew  to  his  friends,  and  very  remarkable  to 
witness.  Lollie  looked  at  the  clergyman 
who  was  marrying  her  with  an  instinctive 
feeling  of  aversion.  The  ill-fitting  black 
clothes,  the  voluminous  necktie,  the  red 
nose  and  pale  cheeks,  the  shaking  hand, 
all  told  her,  as  plain  as  words  could  speak, 
that  the  man  was  one  of  the  great  Stiggins's 
tribe  of  whom  Hartley  Venn  had  told  her. 
Nevertheless,  she  was  in  Philip's  hands ; 
and,  like  the  birds  on  the  solitary's  island, 
she  had  not  yet  learned  to  distrust  man- 
kind, because  she  only  knew  one  man. 

It  does  not  befit  this  page  to  describe 
with  greater  detail  the  mockery  of  mar- 
riage which  Mr.  Maclntyre 'solemnly  went 
through.  Suffice  it  to  say,  that,  after  read- 
ing a  chapter  of  the  Bible,  he  prayed. 
And,  after  his  prayer,  making  the  two 
stand  up,  he  joined  their  hands,  pro- 
nounced them  man  and  wife,  and  conclud- 
ed by  an  exhortation  mainly  made  up  of 
what  he  still  recollected  of  the  Shorter 
Catechism.  What  it  wanted  in  unction  it 
gained  in  doctrine ;  and,  though  there  was 
little  in  the  discourse  calculated  to  assist 
the  bride  in  her  duties  of  married  life, 
there  was  plenty  which  might  have  been 
used  as  a  rod  and  staff  by  the  Calvin- 
istic  Christian.  Lollie  stood  frightened 
and  bewildered ;  for  all  through  the  "  ser- 
vice," the  thunder  had  been  rolling  and 
crashing,  and  the  lightning  seemed  to 
play  over  the  very  house  where  this  great 


80 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


wickedness  was.  being  committed.  Even 
Mr.  Maclntyre  was  moved  by  it.  It  was 
one  of  those  great  thunderstorms  which 
sometimes  break  over  London,  striking 
terror  to  all  hearts,  such  as  those  which  fell 
upon  us  last  year — I  mean  the  year  of 
grace  1872,  —  a  fierce,  roaring,  angry, 
thunderstorm.  And  as  the  lightning 
flashed  across  his  eyes,  and  the  thunder 
pealed  in  his  ears,  the  minister  fairly 
stopped  in  his  discourse,  and  murmuring, 
"  Hech !  sirs,  this  is  awfu' ! ' '  waited  for  the 
anger  of  the  elements  to  subside. 

But  he  ended  at  last,  and,  congratulating 
the  bride,  offered  Philip  one  of  the  slips  of 
paper,  keeping  the  other  for  himself.  Then 
he  rubbed  his  hands  and  laughed,  —  a  joy- 
less cackle.  And  then  he  produced  a  black 
bottle  and  a  small  cake,  and  poured  out 
three  glasses  of  wine.  He  drank  off  his 
own  at  a  gulp,  refilled  it,  and  sat  down  rub- 
bing his  hands  again. 

This  was  Lollie's  wedding-breakfast. 

Outside,  the  hail  pattered  against  the 
windows,  the  thunder  rolled,  and  the  warm 
spring  air  seemed  chilled  again  to  winter. 

Philip  said  nothing.  A  look  was  in  his 
face  such  as  neither  Maclntyre  nor  Lollie 
had  ever  seen  before, — a  sort  of  wild,  ter- 
rified look ;  such  a  look  as  might  be  ima- 
gined in  the  face  of  a  man  who,  after  long 
planning,  has  at  last  committed  a  great  and 
terrible  crime ;  such  a  look  as  one  would 
have  if  he  heard  the  voice  of  God  accusing 
him,  —  the  voice  Philip  heard  in  the  storm. 
Men  are  so.  That  unlucky  Jew  whom 
the  thunder-storm  rebuked  for  eating  pork 
was  not  the.  first,  nor  will  he  be  the  last,  to 
connect  natural  phenomena  with  his  own 
misdoings.  In  the  storm  outside,  Philip, 
with  the  superstition  of  a  Creole,  heard  the 
anger  of  Heaven.  It  only  echoed  the  re- 
morse in  his  own  heart.  A  second  time  he 
seized  Maclntyre  by  the  arm,  and  led  him 
to  the  bedroom. 

"  Once  again,"  he  said,  "  I  must  speak  to 
you.  Tell  me  whether  it  is  true  —  is  it 
true  —  are  we  married  ?  Speak  the  truth, 
or  I  will  kill  you  1 " 

"You  are  married,  Phil,"  returned  the 
other.  "  No  question  can  ever  arise  on  the 
legality  of  the  marriage  until  —  until "  — 

"  Until  when  V  " 

"  Until  you  come  into  your  property. 
And  now,  listen.  There  is,  perhaps,  —  I 
only  say  perhaps, —  a  little  irregularity. 
If  you  want  to  remove  that,  remember  to 
take  your  wife  into  Scotland,  whenever  you 
please,  and  live  with  her  as  your  wife 
openly.  Then  you  need  fear  nothing.  I 
say  this  to  make  you  quite  certain ;  but  I 
do  not  believe  there  can  be  any  legal 
doubt." 

Philip  looked  at  him  with  a   surprised 


air.  Then,  with  great  relief,  he  walked 
into  the  other  room,  where  Lollie  was  stand- 
ing, waiting  and  puzzled. 

"  Laura,  my  darling,"  he  cried,  kissing 
her  passionately.  "My  wife,  my  bride! 
we  are  married  at  last.  If  ever  I  desert 
you,  may  God  desert  me !  " 

She  drew  herself  from  his  arms,  not 
blushing,  not  coy,  not  ashamed ;  but  only 
cold. 

"  We  are  really  married  ?  "  she  cried, 
clapping  her  hands.  "  I  wasn't  certain. 
And  now  we  will  go  straight  to  Mr.  Venn, 
and  tell  him." 

The  two  men  looked  at  each  other. 

"  My  child,"  said  Philip,  changing  color, 
"  we  must  be  married  like  everybody  else, 
must  we  not  ?  " 

"  But  we  are,  Philip,  are  we  not  ?  " 

"  Yes,  dear ;  but  married  people  always 
go  away  for  a  journey  together.  You  and 
I  are  going  to  France  for  a  month.  When 
we  come  back,  we  shall  call  at  Mr.  Venn's 
chambers," 

She  stamped  her  foot. 

"  I  shall  go  to-day.  You  said  I  was  to 
tell  him  to-day.  I  will  tell  him.  Philip,  if 
you  do  not  go  with  me,  I  will  go  by  myself." 

"  Make  her  write,"  whispered  the  man 
of  experience. 

"  You  certainly  cannot  go,  Laura,"  said 
her  husband.  "  That  is  impossible  ;  but  I 
tell  you  what  you  shall  do.  You  shall 
write  him  a  letter,  telling  him  all.  Mr. 
Maclntyre  shall  take  it,  and  tell  him  the 
particulars.  We  have  but  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  to  spare,  for  our  train  starts  at  once. 
Now,  dear" — taking  pen  and  paper  — 
"  sit  down  and  write.  It  is  best  so  —  it  is 
indeed." 

She  burst  into  tears.  She  declared  that 
she  had  been  deceived.  She  insisted  on 
going  at  once  to  Gray's  Inn.  If  Philip  had 
not  held  her,  she  would  have  gone. 

Mr.  Maclntyre  said  nothing ;  only,  when 
he  caught  Philip's  eye,  he  pointed  to  the 
pens  and  paper.  Meantime,  it  was  a  crit- 
ical moment ;  and  his  nose,  which  he  con- 
stantly rubbed,  seemed  bigger  and  redder 
than  ever. 

"  Laura,  you  must  not  go  to  Mr.  Venn 
to-day.  It  is  absurd,"  pleaded  Philip. 
"  Sit  down  now.  Write :  no  one  shall 
read  what  you  say.  And  it  shall  be  sent 
at  once ;  but  you  cannot  go  to  Gray's  Inn." 

Lollie  sat  down,  and  tried  to  write  ;  but 
she  burst  into  fresh  tears,  and  was  fain  to 
bury  her  face  in  her  hands. 

"  Women  are  so,"  whispered  the  Scotch- 
man. "  Obsairve.  In  ten  minutes  she 
will  be  laughing  again." 

In  less  than  ten  minutes  she  recovered, 
and  tried  to  write.  Philip  waited  pa- 
tiently, watching  her. 


MY  LITTLE   GIRL. 


81 


She  began  three  or  four  sheets  of  note- 
paper,  and  tore  them  up.  At  last  she  wrote 
hurriedly,  — 

"  DEAREST  MR.  VENN,  —  My  secret 
may  now  be  told.  I  have  done  what  you 
wished  me  so  much  to  do.  I  have  married 
a  gentleman.  I  have  married  Mr.  Philip 
Durnford  ;  and  I  am  always,  and  ever  and 
ever,  your  own  most  grateful  and  most  lov- 
ing little  girl  — 

LOLLIE." 

She  folded  it  up,  addressed  it,  and  gave 
it  to  her  husband. 

"  Maclntyre,"  said  Philip,  "  take  the  note 
round,  will  you,  this  very  day  ?  Tell  Mr. 
Venn  that  my  wife  and  I  are  gone  to 
France  —  probably  to  Normandy  —  for  a 
month  ;  that  we  shall  call  upon  him  directly 
we  return  ;  that  my  greatest  wish  is  to  gain 
his  friendship.  Will  that  do  for  you, 
Laura  ?  " 

"  Philip,"  she  said,  taking  his  hand,  — 
"  now  you  are  really  kind." 

"  That  is  my  own  Laura ;  but  now  we 
must  make  haste.  I  have  got  your  boxes 
at  the  station." 

"  My  boxes  ?  " 

"  Yes.  You  did  not  think  you  were  go- 
ing to  France  with  nothing  but  what  you 
have  on,  did  you  V" 

"  I  never  thought  about  going  to  France 
at  all." 

"  The  tickets  are  taken.  There  will  be 
nothing  to  do  but  to  make  ourselves  happy. 
Now,  Maclntyre,  get  me  a  cab,  will  you  ?  " 

It  seemed  strange  that  so  reverend  a 
gentleman  should  be  ordered  in  this  per- 
emptory way  to  fetch  a  cab  ;  but  Lollie  was 
too  much  surprised  with  every  thing  to  feel 
perplexed  at  this.  The  cab  came. 

"  Now,  my  darling  !  Maclntyre,  good- 
by.  Jump  in,  Laura." 

"  Don't  forget  my  letter,  Mr.  Macln- 
tyre," cried  the  girl.  "  Mind  you  take  it 
to-day." 

And  so  they  drove  off. 

Mr.  Maclntyre  returned  to  his  room. 

u  About  this  letter,  now,"  he  said.  "  Let 
me  read  it." 

By  the  help  of  the  kettle  he  steamed  the 
envelope,  opened,  and  read  the  poor  little 
epistle. 

He  put  it  down  and  meditated. 

"Suppose  I  take  it  round,"  he  said. 
"  Why  should  I  ?  Poor  bonny  little  lassie  ! 
Loves  him  more  than  her  husband — that 
is  clear.  If  I  take  it,  difficulties,  dangers, 
all  sorts  of  things,  may  happen.  If  I  do 
not  take  it,  this  Mr.  Venn  will  never  for- 
give the  girl.  Well,  which  is  it,  —  my  hap- 
piness, or  hers  V  A  man,  or  a  woman  ? 
Myself,  or  another  ?  " 


He  meditated  a  long  time.  Cruelly  self- 
ish and  wicked  as  the  man  was,  he  had 
been  touched  by  the  girl's  beauty  and  in- 
nocence, and  would  willingly  have  spared 
himself  this  additional  wickedness;  but 
then  there  rose  up  before  him  the  vision  of 
a  court  of  justice.  He  saw  himself  tried  by 
a  jury  for  mock  marriage.  He  knew  that 
the  law  had  been  broken.  What  he  did 
not  know  was,  how  far  the  offence  was 
criminal,  or  if  it  was  criminal  at  all.  Then 
a  cold  perspiration  broke  out  upon  him. 

"  Let  us  hide  it,"  he  said,  —  "  let  us  hide 
it.  Perhaps  we  can  devise  some  means  of 
preventing  this  man  Venn  from  knowing  it 
—  at  all  events,  just  yet." 

And  so  saying,  he  pushed  the  letter  into 
the  fireplace,  and  watched  it  burning  into 
ashes. 

"  And  as  for  Master  Phil,"  he  murmured, 
"  why,  I'll  give  him  just  two  months  to 
cure  him  of  this  fancy,  and  bring  him  to  the 
end  of  his  money.  Then,  we  shall  see  — 
we  shall  see.  The  great  card  has  to  be 
played," 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

"  I  AM  ill  at  ease  to-night,"  said  Hartley, 
on  the  Wednesday  evening  when  Jones  and 
Lynn  found  him  at  the  "  Rainbow."  if  I  am 
low-spirited.  Forebodings,  like  the  screech- 
owl's  mew,  oppress  me.  Laura  was  to 
have  told  me  some  grand  piece  of  news  to- 
day, and  has  not  come.  Then  there  was 
the  thunder.  I  am  afraid  of  thunder.  En- 
gineers ought  to  turn  their  attention  to  it. 
Bring  me  some  bitter  beer,  George  —  unless 
the  thunder  has  turned  it  sour." 

"  I  like  this  place,"  he  went  on.  "  It  is- 
quiet.  The  mutton  is  good,  the  beer  is 
good,  and  there  is  an  ecclesiastical  air  about? 
it.  The  head-waiter  resembles  an  elderly: 
verger  without  his  gown.  The  manager 
might  pass  for  a  canon  ;  and  as  for  the  car* 
ver,  I  have  never  known  any  one  beneath 
the  dignity  of  a  prebendary  grow  bald,  in 
that  singular  manner." 

"  Life,  Jones,"  he  continued,  in  the  course 
of  his  dinner,  •'  may  be  compared  to  a  ban- 
quet. You  have,  perhaps,  often  anticipated 
this  comparison." 

"Not  I,"  said  Jones  —  "  not  I,, myself;, 
but  Longfellow  has. 


'  Life  is  but  an  endless  banquet, , 

Where  we  still  expectant  sit ;  » 
Be  not  thou  a  cold,  wet  blanket, 
Damping  all  thy  neighbor's  witi 

Chops  for  one;  and  for  another, 
Turkey  stuffed  with  truffles  gay: 

Only  bread  for  me.    My  brother,." 
Turn  the  carver's  eye  thia  way. 


82 


MY   LITTLE  GIRL. 


Let  us  all  be  up  and  eating, 

With  a  heart  for  any  *iice: 
Beef  grows  cold,  and  life  is  fleeting; 

Pass  the  champagne  and  the  ice.' " 

Venn  repeated  his  first  words,  and  re- 
sumed the  topic. 

"  When  it  comes  to  my  turn  to  be  served, 
the  noble  host,  addressing  me  with  a  coun- 
tenance full  of  benevolence  and  friendship, 
says,  '  Hartley,  my  dear  boy,  take  another 
disappointment'  It  would  be  bad  manners, 
you  know,  to  refuse.  Besides,  I  am  not 
quite  certain  how  a  refusal  would  be  re- 
ceived. So  I  bow  and  smile  :  '  Thank  you, 
my  Lord.  One  more,  if  you  please.  A 
very  little  one,  with  gravy.'  " 

"  Gravy  1     Is  gravy  the  alleviator?" 

"  Gravy,  Jones,  is  the  compensator.  So 
I  get  helped  again,  and  sigh  when  the  plate 
comes  back  to  me.  In  the  distribution  of 
good  things,  no  one  is  consulted  ;  but,  by 
tacit  agreement,  we  show  our  good  breed- 
ing by  pretending  to  have  chosen.  So,  too, 
I  believe,  when  convicts  at  Portland  con- 
verse, it  is  considered  manners  to  take  no 
notice  of  each  other's  chains.  I  might  pre- 
fer, perhaps,  pudding  and  port,  such  as  my 
neighbor  gets  ;  but  I  am  resumed.'' 

He  sighed  heavily,  and  went  on  eating 
his  dinner  with  a  tremendous  appetite. 

"Let  us  have,"  he  said,  when  they  had 
finished,  "  a  Chorus  night.  Arthur  Durn- 
ford  is  coming.  Not  a  regular  Chorus,  but 
a  Chorus  of  emergency.  I  hope  it  will  not 
thunder  any  more." 

"  I  have  been  making  observations  late- 
ly," he  began,  "  on  a  class  of  women  hith- 
erto little  studied.  Speak  up,  Jones." 

"  Nay,"  said  the  dramatist,  "  I  was  but 
thinking  of  the  old  lines  —  I  forget  the  au- 
thor —  about  women,  — 

'  Virtue  and  vice  the  same  bait  have : 

On  either's  hook  the  same  enticements  are. 
Woman  lures  both  the  base  and  brave, 

And  beauty  draws  us  with  a  single  hair.' " 

"  There  is  method  in  his  madness,"  said 
Venn.  "It  is  to  be  regretted  only  that 
Virtue  does  not  always  choose  the  bait  with 
the  same  discrimination  as  Vice.  This, 
however,  is  a  wide  subject.  I  was  about  to 
call  the  attention  of  the  Chorus  to  the 
woman  who  sniffs.  About  a  week  ago, 
having  ^nothing  to  do,  I  got  into  a  favorite 
omnibus  for  an  hour  or  two  of  quiet  thought. 
The  rattle  of  the  omnibus  glasses,  when  the 
wind  is  -westerly,  I  find  conducive  to  medi- 
tation ;•  and  as  the  Favorite  line  runs  from 
Victoria  to  the  extreme  verge  of  civiliza- 
tion at  Highgate,  there  is  ample  time. 
Several  women  got  in,  and  I  noticed  — 
perhaps  it  was  partly  due  to  the  time  of 
year  —  several  sniffs  as  each  sat  down  and 


spread  her  petticoats.  Your  regular  female 
omnibus  passenger  always  takes  up  as  much 
room  as  she  can,  and  begins  by  staring  de- 
fiantly round.  1  was  at  the  fir  end,  whither 
I  had  retired  to  avoid  an  accusation  of 
assault ;  for  they  kick  your  shins  across  the 
narrow  passage,  and  then  give  you  in  charge, 
these  ladies.  So  delicate,  my  friends,  is 
the  virtue  of  the  class  to  which  I  allude, 
that  even  the  suspicion  of  an  attack  is  re- 
sented with  this  celestial  wrath.  Presently, 
however,  I  being  the  only  male,  there  came 
in  a  young  person,  quiet,  modest,  and  retir- 
ing. She  made  her  way  to  the  far  end,  and 
sat  down  next  to  me.  Instantly  there  was 
fired  a  volley  —  a  hostile  salute  —  from 
seven  noses  :  a  simultaneous  sniff  of  pro- 
found meaning.  Versed  in  this  weapon  of 
feminine  warfare,  and  therefore  under- 
standing the  nature  of  the  attack,  the  new- 
comer blushed  deeply,  and  dropped  her 
veil.  It  was  like  the  lowering  of  a  flag.  I 
took  the  earliest  opportunity  of  tendering 
her  respectfully  the  compliments  of  the 
season  ;  and,  in  spite  of  a  second  and  even  a 
fiercer  attack,  we  held  oar  own,  and  con- 
versed all  the  way  to  Highgate.  Coming 
back  by  the  same  omnibus,  I  insensibly 
glided  into  a  vision." 

"  Good,"  said  Jones,  "  let  us  have  the 
vision." 

"  Methought  I  stood  on  an  eminence,  and 
looked  down,  myself  unseen,  upon  an  island 
where  men  and  women  wandered  about,  of 
uncouth  form  and  strange  proportions. 
Some  with  venomous  tongues,  which  lolled 
out  in  perpetual  motion,  yet  saying  noth- 
ing ;  some  with  trumpet-like  noses  ;  some 
with  curiously  detbrme  1  fingers ;  some  with 
large  and  goggle  eyes ;  and  some  with 
heads  of  enormous  dimensions.  This,  my 
cruide — I  had  an  angel  with  me.  of  course 
—  told  me,  was  one  of  the  lesser  islands  of 
Purgatory.  It  appears  that  Dante  was 
quite  wrong  in  his  account  of  that  place, 
which  consists  really  of  a  group  of  contig- 
uous islands,  like  the  Bermudas.  I  dare  say 
I  shall  see  some  more  of  them  before  I  die. 
The  one  I  was  standing  over  was  appropriat- 
ed to  sinners  in  small  things,  —  backbiters, 
envious,  malicious,  mean,  grasping,  selfish 
(these  last  had  enormous  stomachs,  like 
barrels  of  port  wine),  and  attributors  of 
unworthy  and  base  motives  (who  were  gifted 
with  a  corresponding  prominence  behind). 
I  requested  permission  to  inspect  the  com- 
pany more  closely,  and  was  taken  down 
into  their  very  midst.  I  was  astonished  to 
find  that  a  very  large  majority  of  them  were 
women  :  their  dress  and  behavior  showed 
them  to  belong  to  our  own  middle  class. 
They  were  all  English  ;  because,  by  reason 
of  the  great  babble  of  conversation  that 
goes  on  among  this  sort  of  criminals,  it  is 


MY   LITTLE   GIRL. 


83 


found  advisable  to  separate  the   nationali- 
ties. 

"  Looking  more  closely,  I  observed  that 
the  men  chiefly  carried  the  protuberances, 
fore  and  aft,  of  which  I  have  spoken  ;  while 
the  women,  nearly  one  and  all,  had  the 
trumpet-shaped  nose.  The  peculiarity  of 
its  shape  was  that  the  mouth  of  the  trum- 
pet was  outward.  Its  musical  effect  could 
therefore  only  be  produced  by  drawing  the 
air  towards  the  head,  much  in  the  same 
way  as  by  a  sniff.  This  struck  me  as  a 
very  singular  arrangement.  I  was  also  in- 
formed that  most  of  them,  on  their  first  ar- 
rival, had  but  very  small  trumpet  noses  ; 
but  that  these,  by  dint  of  practice,  increased 
daily  and  gradually,  until  they  arrived  at 
the  gigantic  proportions  which  I  saw 
around  me.  They  began  by  being  proud 
of  this  growth ;  but  by  degrees  grew 
alarmed,  and  were  seriously  inconveni- 
enced by  its  great  size.  They  then  began 
to  reduce  its  dimensions,  by  allowing  it  to 
remain,  so  to  speak,  unexercised  ;  and  if, 
as  sometimes  happened,  they  arrived  at  a 
perception  of  its  manifiest  ugliness,  they 
discontinued  its  use  altogether,  when  it 
totally  vanished.  Others  had  the  great 
tongues  of  which  I  have  spoken.  They 
were  too  big  to  use  for  speech ;  but,  as 
their  owners  were  always  wanting  to  com- 
municate some  fresh  piece  of  malicious  gos- 
sip, they  were  perpetually  wagging  and 
bobbing,  though  no  articulate  sound  came 
forth.  The  possessors  of  the  tongues  were 
more  melancholy  of  aspect  than  the  trum- 
pet-nosed sisters,  because  they  were  de- 
barred from  the  use  of  their  instruments 
altogether.  The  tongue  followed  the  same 
laws  as  the  nose,  and  there  were  even 
women  provided  with  both  tongue  and 
nose.  While  I  -was  contemplating  these 
unhappy  victims  of  vice,  my  attention  was 
directed  by  my  guide  to  a  young  lady  of 
about  twenty-five,  whose  nose  had  at  its 
extremity  the  merest  rudimentary  mouth- 
piece, —  so  small  as  to  be  almost  a  beauty 
spot,  —  suggestive  only  of  where  a  trumpet 
had  formerly  been.  My  guide  accosted 
her,  and  requested  her  to  give  a  history  of 
herself.  She  smiled  and  complied. 

"  '  I  was  the  daughter  of  a  professional 
man,  living  in  the  neighborhood  of  Russell 
Square.  We  were  not  rich,  but  we  were 
well  off.  I  was  sent  to  a  boarding-school 
at  Brighton,  where  the  principal  things  we 
were  taught  were  to  dress  well,  to  aspire 
to  a  wealthy  husband,  to  despise  people  of 
lower  "rank,  to  aim  at  getting  as  much 
amusement  out  of  life  as  possible,  to  con- 
sider the  admiration  of  men  as  the  glory 
of  a  woman's  life,  and  to  regard  the  labor 
of  men  as  performed  only  with  one  aim, — 
to  provide  dress  and  a  good  establishment 


for  their  wives.  This  was  the  kind  of  edu- 
cation in  our  fashionable  boarding-school ; 
and  Avhen  my  sister  and  I  came  back  to 
Russell  Square,  we  were  fully  provided 
wit,h  all  the  weapons  for  that  warfare  which 
constitutes  the  life  of  most  women.  I  found, 
wherever  I  went,  nearly  all  girls  the  same 
as  ourselves.  We  were  good,  inasmuch  as 
we  all  went  to  church  regularly,  and  would 
have  done  nothing  wrong.  But  we  filled 
up  our  time  with  frivolity  and  gossiping. 
We  were  petty  in  our  vices,  and,  thereibre, 
you  see,  our  punishment  is  petty.'  She 
pointed  to  her  nose,  whereon  the  least  tip 
of  a  kind  of  button  marked  the  place  where 
the  mouth-piece  had  been  only  five  minutes 
before.  '  The  evil  we  did  was  not  very 
great,  and  so  our  punishment  is  light. 
Even  this  is  generally  removed,  if  we  re- 
pent.' 

"  '  Do  you  repent  ?  '  I  asked. 

"  *  Oh,  yes  ! '  she  said  ;  l  the  lives  of  wo- 
men, which  might  be  so  smooth,  so  happy, 
and  full  of  love,  are  eaten  into  and  poisoned 
by  these  habits  of  malice  and  envy.  You 
men  think  us  angels ;  and  when  you  marry 
us,  and  find  out  that  we  are  full  of  faults, 
you  begin  to  decry  the  whole  sex.  When 
will  some  one  teach  us  that  largeness  of 
heart  and  nobleness  that  so  many  men 
have  ? " 

"  A  most  sensible  young  woman,"  Jones 
interrupted. 

"  At  this  moment  the  button  at  the  end 
of  her  nose  entirely  disappeared,  and  she 
vanished. 

"  *  Where  is  she  gone  ? '  I  asked  my 
guide 

"  There  was  that  in  his  face  which  be- 
tokened temper.  I  fancy  he  must  have 
been  paid  a  percentage  on  the  inhabitants 
of  his  island,  or  taken  them  on  board  by 
contract,  according  to  number;  for  he  re- 
fused to  answer  me,  and  was  on  the  point 
of  ordering  me  to  move  on,  when  I  awoke." 

"  The  young  woman,  you  say,  is  in  the 
Bermudas,"  said  Jones.  "I  would  she 
were  in  the  arms  of  one  who  would  rightly 
appreciate  her. 

'  Where  the  remote  Bermudas  ride, 
A  trumpet-nosed  in  aid  I  espied; 
And,  as  I  looked  her  through  and  through, 
Her  imperfections  thus  she  blew, — 
"  In  Purgatory  still  1  sniff, 
And  I  will  gladly  furnish,  if 
You  wish  it,  such  a  dismal  talc, 
As  well  may  frighten  maidens  all." 

I  leave  out    a  good    many  lines,  which   I 
have  forgotten,  — 

'  80  sang  she  with  the  trumpet  nose ; 
My  own  with  sorrow  at  her  woes, 
I  loudly  blew ;  and  a    she  spoke, 
The  neighboring  sniffs  the  echoes  woke.' 

I  believe  the  lines  were  originally  Andrew 
Murvell's." 


84 


MY  LITTLE   GIRL. 


Tt  was  Jones's  hard  fate  in  the  Chorus, 
that  whatever  he  quoted  nobody  seemed  to 
take  any  notice.  Venn's  face  betrayed  no 
si'ms  of  having  heard  what  he  said  ;  while 
Lynn,  as  usual,  smoked  in  his  chair,  saying 
nothing  at  all.  For  Lynn  was  one  of  those 
men  who  seldom  speak  at  all ;  and  when 
they  do,  speak  with  more  earnestness  and 
energy  than  is  generally  heard. 

Arthur,  however,  laughed  ;  and  the  spec- 
tacles of  Jones  beamed  gratefully  on  him. 

"My  Cousin  Philip,"  said  Arthur, 
"  started  an  infamous  theory  some  little  time 
ago,  that  women  prefer  warmth  to  any 
thing  else  in  the  world." 

"  Well,"  said  Venn,  "  there  may  be  some- 
thing to  be  said  for  it.  I  believe  that  he  is 
partly  right.  Women  live  in  the  house. 
Their  ideas  of  life  are  those  of  the  domestic 
circle.  To  have  every  thing  pleasant,  com- 
fortable, and  elegant  round  them  is  quite  a 
natural  thing  to  desire.  It  is  perhaps  a 
brutal  way  of  putting  it,  to  say  that  they 
like  to  be  warm.  In  the  Chorus,  we  prefer 
a  more  indirect  way  of  approaching  a 
subject." 

"Poor  Phil  takes  direct  views,"  said 
Arthur. 

"  Bring  him  here,  and  we  will  cure  him," 
said  Jones.  "  On  the  subject  of  women, 
there  is  nothing  so  elevated  as  the  views  of 
the  Chorus,  —  the  Sophoclean  Chorus.  We 
are,  if  we  are  nothing  else,  Sophoclean  in 
our  views  of  love. 

'  Love,  the  unconquered,  thou  whose  throne 
Is  on  youth's  fair  and  rounded  cheek, 
Whom  neither  strong  nor  brave  nor  weak 
Can  e'er  escape,  —  thee,  thee  we  own. 

Thou  hy  thy  master  magic's  aid 
Cheatest  keen  eyes  that  else  see  well; 

And  o'er  the  loudest-sniffing  maid 
Pourest  the  glamor  of  thy  spell. 

The  nymph  whose  deepest,  fondest  prayer 

fs  for  a  sheltered  nook  and  warm, 
Glows  with  a  thousand-fancies  rare, 

Lit  with  thy  pyrotechnic  charm.' " 

"  I  suppose  you  will  say  that  Sophocles 
wrote  that  ?  "  growled  Lynn. 

"  A  free  imitation  only.  It  may,  per- 
haps, in  some  points  excel  the  original.  I 
say  nothing." 

"  They  talk  a  great  deal,"  said  Lynn, 
breaking  his  usual  silence,  "  of  educating 
women,  and  making  them  less  frivolous. 
Of  course,  the  immediate  result  is  to  send 
them  to  the  opposite  extreme.  Now,  of  all 
the  odious  women  you  can  meet,  give  me 
the  strong-minded."" 

"  Do  not  give  her  to  me"  said  Jones. 

"  But  it's  all  nonsense.  They  have  made 
a  college  for  them,  and  have  Cambridge 
men  there  to  teach  them.  In  other  words, 
they  are  going  to  make  them  second-rate 
scholars  and  third-rate  mathematicians. 
What  on  earth  is  the  use  of  that  ?  " 


"Is  it,"  asked  Venn,  "the  function  of 
the  Chorus  to  discuss  female  education  ?  " 

•'Why  not?"  returned  Lynn.  "By 
Jove !  I've  a  good  mind  to  have  a  vision 
too." 

"  Do,"  said  Jones.  "  Two  visions  in  the 
same  evening  are  at  least  more  than  we 
could  have  expected." 

Lynn  smoked  meditatively  for  a  few  mo- 
ments. 

"I  dreamed  a  dream,"  he  began.  "I 
thought  that  I  stood  in  the  world  of  the 
future,  —  the  future  of  a  hundred  years. 
Woman  was  emancipated,  as  they  said. 
Every  woman  did,  like  all  men  do  now, 
what  was  right  in  her  own  eyes.  They 
could  preach,  teach,  heal,  practise  law,  live 
alone,  and  be  as  free  as  any  man  can  be 
now." 

'  Well  ? "  asked  Jones,  for  Lynn 
stopped. 

"  Well,  I  can't  be  as  graphic  as  Venn 
was,  because  I  have  not  the  art  of  telling  a 
story.  I  walked  about  the  streets  of  Lon- 
don. I  went  into  the  houses,  into  the 
clubs,  into  the  theatres,  —  everywhere. 
The  first  thing  that  struck  me  was  the  en- 
tire mixture  of  the  sexes.  Women  were 
everywhere.  They  drove  cabs,  they  were 
markers  at  billiard-tables,  they  kept  shops, 
they  plied  trades,  they  were  in  the  public 
offices —  for  every  thing  was  open  to  public 
competition.  I  talked  to  some  of  them.  I 
found  they  were  very  much  changed  from 
what  I  remembered  them.  Not  only  were 
they  coarse  in  appearance  and  manners, 
but  they  seemed  to  have  lost  the  delicacy 
of  woman's  nature.  The  bloom  was  off  the 
youngest  of  them.  Men,  too,  had  lost  all 
their  old  deference  and  respect.  There 
were  none  of  the  courtesies  of  life  left ;  for 
the  women  had  long  since  revolted  against 
being  considered  the  weaker  sex.  A  new 
proverb  had  arisen,  —  '  The  six-shooter 
makes  all  equal.'  Every  woman  carried 
one  ostentatiously  ;  not,  I  fancied,  so  much 
for  self-protection  as  for  purposes  of  attack. 
Their  talk  seemed  loud  and  coarse,  their 
jokes  were  club-jokes,  their  stories  were 
like  those  we  hear  on  circuit  and  in  mess- 
rooms.  Their  dress  was  altered  too.  The 
old  robes  were  discarded  ;  and  short  kilts, 
with  a  tight-fitting  jacket,  seemed  to  be  all 
the  fashion.  I  asked  my  guide,  —  did  I  say 
I  had  a  guide  ?  " 

"  You  did  not,"  said  Jones.  "  Was  he 
an  angel  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  had  an  angel.  I  asked 
him  —  or  her  —  if  they  were  all  married 
women?  Marriage,  she  told  me,  had  been 
abolished  by  a  large  majority  of  women,  as 
contrary  to  the  true  spirit  of  liberty.  This 
was  directly  against  the  wish  of  the  men, 
who,  it  seemed,  desired  to  retain  the  cus- 


MY   LITTLE  GIRL. 


85 


torn.  As,  however,  the  ceremony  is  one 
which  requires  the  consent  of  two.  it  was 
abolished.  Then  the  men  turned  sulky, 
and  formed  a  kind  of  union  or  guild  for  the 
protection  of  the  marriage-laws.  For  a 
time  it  appeared  as  if  the  world  would  be 
depopulated  :  the  statistics  of  the  Registrar 
showed  a  filling- off  in  the  number  of  births, 
which  exciied  the  gravest  apprehensions. 
This  league,  however,  fell  to  the  ground 
from  want  of  strength  in  the  weaker  breth- 
ren. After  that,  all  went  well.  The  laws 
of  property  were  altered,  and  an  old  law, 
belonging  to  an  obscure  Indian  tribe  in  the 
Neilgherry  Hills,  was  introduced.  By  vir- 
tue of  this,  property  descended  only  through 
the  mother.  The  interests  of  freedom  were 
served,  it  is  true ;  but  it  seemed  to  me  as 
if  there  were  some  losses  on  the  other  hand, 
for  all  the  men  seemed  dejected  and  lonely. 
There  were  no  longer  any  high  aims ;  no 
one  looked  for  any  thing  more  than  worldly 
advantage  ;  no  one  dreamed  of  an  impossi- 
ble future,  as  we  do  now ;  there  were  no 
enthusiasts,  no  reformers,  no  religious 
thinkers,  no  great  men.  All  was  a  dead 
level.  I  asked  my  guide  if  there  were  any 
exceptions,  if  what  I  saw  really  repre- 
sented the  actual  world.  She  confessed  it 
did ;  but  she  boasted,  with  pride,  that  the 
world  was  now  reduced  to  a  uniform  medi- 
ocrity. No  one  looked  for  any  thing  better, 
therefore  no  one  tried  for  any  thing  better ; 
no  one  praised  any  thing  good,  therefore  no 
one  tried  to  do  any  thing  good  ;  there  were 
no  prizes  for  excellence,  therefore  no  one 
was  excellent.  But  it  all  seemed  dreary, 
stupid,  and  immoral  as  a  mod«rn  music 
hall ;  and  I  awoke,  glad  to  find  that  it  was, 
after  all,  only  a  dream.  I  forgot  to  tell  you 
that  there  were  no  homes,  —  there  were  no 
families.  Children  were  sent  out  to  be 
nursed,  and  the  necessity  of  labor  on  the 
part  of  the  women  necessitated  the  aboli- 
tion of  the  maternal  instinct." 

"  Is  that  all  ?  "    said  Jones. 

"It  is,"  said  Lynn;  "and,  before  you 
make  a  rhyme  about  it,  —  I  can  see  you 
are  meditating  one ,  —  I  just  wish  to  state 
my  moral.  Women  are  only  what  their 
circle  of  men  make  them.  If  they  are 
frivolous,  it  is  because  the  men  are  frivo- 
lous ;  if  they  are  vain,  it  is  because  the 
men  teach  them  vanity.  But  men  have  al- 
ways to  fall  back  upon  their  one  great 
quality,  —  their  purity.  Deference  to  a 
quality  which  they  so  seldom  possess  seems 
to  me  the  truest  safeguard  ibr  women,  and 
the  thing  most  likely  to  be  a  restraint 
upon  men.  Education,  emancipation,  suf- 
frage, —  it  is  all  infernal  humbug.  We 
confuse  words  We  call  that  education 
which  is  only  instruction  ;  we  call  emanci- 
pation what  is  a  departure  Irom  the  natural 


order;  we  take  woman  from  her  own 
sphere,  and  put  her  into  ours,  and  then 
deplore  the  old  subjection  of  the,  sex. 
Good  God !  sir,  —  man  is  the  nobler  as 
well  as  the  stronger.  His  function  is  to 
work,  —  to  do;  to  drag  the  world  along, 
to  fight  against  and  keep  down  the  great 
surging  sea  of  sin  and  misery  that  grows 
with  our  civilization  and  keeps  pace  with 
our  progress.  But  woman's  function  is  to 
stand  by  and  help  ;  to  train  the  children, 
to  comfort  the  defeated,  and  succor  the 
wounded.  Why,  in  the  name  of  all  the  — 
all  the  saints,  should  she  want  to  leave  her 
own  work  and  take  ours  ?  " 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

ON  that  Wednesday  night,  when  Hart- 
ley Venn  went  to  bed,  it  was  late,  even  for 
him  ;  and  when,  at  six  in  the  morning,  a 
fierce  knocking  came  to  his  bedroom-door, 
it  was  some  fifteen  minutes  or  so  before  he 
could  quite  make  up  his  mind  that  he  was 
not  dreaming.  At  last,  however,  he  rous- 
ed himself  sufficiently  to  be  certain  that  , 
somebody  was  actually  knocking.  Mrs. 
Peck  was,  in  fact,  the  disturber  of  his  rest. 
She  was  beating  on  the  panel  with  a  ham- 
mer, in  despair  of  being  able  to  awaken 
him  in  any  other  way.  He  half  opened  the 
door  cautiously,  and  peered  through  to 
discover  the  cause  of  this  phenonenon. 

"  Mrs.  Peck,"  he  said,  "  we  have  known 
each  other  now  for  a  great  many  years, 
and  I  never  before  remember  you  doing  so 
ridiculous  a  thing  as  to  call  me  at  six,  the 
very  hour  when  civilized  life  is  on  the  point 
of  recovering  its  strength.  Pray,  Mrs. 
Peck,  do  you  take  me  for  the  early 
worm  V  " 

The  old  woman  pushed  the  door  open, 
and  came  into  his  bedroom,  looking  curi- 
ously round.  She  was  not,  taking  her  at 
the  best,  a  pleasant  specimen  of  woman- 
hood to  look  upon ;  but  this  morning  she 
looked  even  less  attractive  than  usual. 
For  her  false  front  was  slipping  off  side- 
ways ;  her  black  stuff  dress  was  covered 
wi'h  mud;  her  wrinkled  old  face  was  be- 
grimed with  dirt,  and  puckered  up  with 
trouble ;  and  Venn,  rubbing  his  eyes, 
gradually  awoke  to  the  consciousness  that 
she  was  staring  at  him  with  frightened 
eyes,  and  that  something  had  happened. 

Realizing  this,  he  stepped  back  and  got 
into  bed,  disposing  the  pillows  so  that  he 
could  give  audience  with  an  air  of  pre- 
paredness. Nothing,  he  used  to  say, 
speaking  after  the  manner  of  Charles  the 
Second's  period,  makes  a  man  look  more 
ridiculous  in  the 'eyes  of  his  mistress  than 


86 


MY   LITTLE   GIRL. 


an  appearance  of  haste ;  and,  whatever 
happens,  it  may  as  well  be  received  with 
dignity,  which  only  costs  a  little  time  for 
reflection.  Now,  there  was  no  possibility, 
short  of  genuis  for  dignity,  of  preserving  a 
dignified  appearance  while  shivering  on  a 
mat  wiih  but  one  garment  on,  and  that 
of  the  thinnest  and  lightest  kind.  There- 
fore he  retreated  to  the  bed,  and,  propped 
up  by  the  pillows,  prepared  to  receive  Airs. 
Peck  with  self-respect.  Not  one  thought 
of  danger  to  himself:  not  one  gleam  of 
suspicion  about  the  girl. 

The  old  woman  came  in,  confused  and 
trembling.  She  looked  about  in  a  dazed 
sort  of  way,  and  then  sank  into  a  chair, 
crying — 

"  O  Mr.  Venn  !  what  have  you  done 
with  her?  What  have  you  done  with 
her?" 

All  Venn's  dignity  vanished.  He  fell 
halfback  on  the  pillow  lor  a  moment,  and 
then  started  up,  and  caught  the  old  woman 
by  the  arm. 

"Done  with  her?  Done  with  her? 
Done  with  her?  Speak,  Mrs.  Peck.  Tell 
me  what  you  mean." 

"  You  know,  sir,"  she  said.  "  You 
know  who  I  mean.  What  have  you  done 
with  her,  I  say  ?  What  have  you  done 
with  the  girl  as  you  pelted  and  made  so 
much  of,  till  she  wasn't  fit  company  for 
her  grandmother?  Oh,  I  ain't  afraid  to 
speak !  Where  is  she,  I  say  ?  Where 
have  you  gone  and  hid  her  away?  But  I'll' 
find  her,  —  if  I  search  all  London  through, 
I'll  find  her.  Oh,  my  fine  grand-daughter, 
that  was  why  he  wanted  you  up  here  every 
day,  and  nothing  too  good  for  you ;  and 
lessons  every  day,  and  grand  clothes. 
And  what  arn  I  to  say  now  to  the  people 
that  cried  out  how  good  she  was  ?  And 
where,  oh  1  where  is  my  'lowance  for 
her?" 

Venn   stared  at  her,  speechless. 

"  Give  her  back  to  me,  Mr.  Venn.  No- 
body knows  nothing.  It  shall  all  be  as  it 
used  to  be.  Only  let  her  come  back,  and 
we  can  make  up  a  story  and  stop  their 
mouths.  Nobody  knows." 

*•  Woman  !  "  cried  the  man,  not  knowing 
what  he  said,  "  woman  !  you  are  mad,  — 
where  is  Lollie  ?  " 

"  And  you,  too,  that  I  thought  the  best 
of  men.  You  made  her  a  little  lady,  so 
that  all  the  people  envied  her.  And  one 
pound  ten  a  week  gone  !  You  made  her 
so  good  that  not  a  creature  could  find  a 
word  to  say  against  her.  But  you  are  all 
wicked  alike.  And  now  it's  you.  And 
after  all  these  years.  And  I'm  to  lose  my 
'lowance,  and  go  into  the  workus." 

Her  voice  changed  into  a  sort  of  wail, 
for  her  feelings  were  divided  between  the 


loss  of  her  grand-daughter  and  the  proba- 
ble loss  of  her  allowance. 

"  Give  her  back  to  me,  Mr.  Venn.  It 
isn't  only  the  loss  of  the  one  pound  ten  a 
week,  paid  regular,. though  the  Lord  knows 
it's  the  parish  I  must  come  on.  Give  her 
back  to  me,  and  I'll  go  on  my  bended  knees 
to  you.  Say  she's  good,  and  I'll  pray  for 
you  all  the  days  of  my  life  ;  and  go  to 
St.  Alban's,  though  I  can't  abide  their 
ways,  a  purpose.  Oh.  give  her  back  to 
me  !  Tell  me  where  you've  put  her." 

She  sat  down  exhausted,  in  the  chair  by 
the  bedside. 

"  It  isn't  the  'lowance  I  mind  so  much ; 
nor  it  isn't  the  girl,  because  we  never  had 
much  to  say  to  each  other,  her  and  me ; 
but  it  is  the  people.  And  they  will  talk. 
And  one  pound  ten  a  week's  an  awful  sum 
to  lose.  And  see,  Mr.  Venn,  —  I  know 
that  gentlemen  will  be  gentlemen ;  and 
though  the  pore  men  curse,  the  pretty  ones 
always  goes  to  the  gentlemen.  That's 
right,  I  suppose!  though  why  it's  right, 
God  only  knows.  But  give  her  back  to 
me  ;  for  I  am  an  old  woman,  and  respected, 
by  reason  of  my  grand-daughter.  Give  her 
back  to  me,  Mr.  Venn.  I  mind  an  old  story 
about  a  man  and  a  ewe  lamb,  and  let  me 
look  the  folk  in  the  face  a^ain,  for  the  love 
of  God !  " 

He  was  standing  before  her  in  his  night 
shirt  all  the  time,  not  knowing  what  to  say, 
feeling  dizzy  and  confused. 

Now  he  took  her  by  the  arm,  and  led  her 
to  the  door. 

"  One  moment,  Mrs.  Peck.  Sit  down  and 
wait  while  I  dress.  I  shall  not  be  long. 
Don't  say  another  word  till  I  come." 

He  dressed  with  feverish  haste,  though 
his  fingers  were  trembling,  and  he  could 
not  find  the  buttons.  Then,  after  ten 
minutes  or  so,  he  came  into  the  sitting- 
room,  and,  pouring  out  a  glass  of  spirits, 
made  the  poor  old  creature  drink  it  down. 
"  Now,  Mrs.  Peck,  let  us  try  and  get  all 
our  courage.  I  have  not  seen  her  —  be- 
lieve me,  my  poor  woman  —  since  Tues- 
day evening." 

"  She  came  home  on  Tuesday  evening  at 
ten  o'clock." 

"  Yes ;  she  was  to  have  come  and  told  me 
something  yesterday." 

"  She  went  out  at  half-past  nine  yester- 
day morning,  and  she  never  came  back.  I 
waited  for  her  till  ten  last  night ;  and,  think- 
ing she  was  with  you,  I  went  sound  asleep,  . 
and  didn't  wake  till  this  morning  at  six. 
And  then  I  looked  in  her  room,  for  the  door 
was  open,  and  she  wasn't  there.  And  the 
workus  is  all  I've  got  to  look  to." 

Venn's  hands  were  trembling  now,  and 
his  face  white. 

"  She  cried  when  she  left  me  on  Tuesday. 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


87 


She  had  her  secret  then.  Mrs.  Peck,  re- 
member, my  little  girl  is  good.  She  has  done 
no  harm,  —  she  can  do  nothing  wrong.  Foo 
that  I  was  when  she  wanted  to  tell  me  her 
secret,  and  I  would  not  hear  it.  Where  is 
she  V  But  she  is  a  good  girl.  Only  wait  — 
wait  —  wait  —  we  shall  see." 

He  spoke  hopefully,  but  his  heart  fell. 
Nothing  wrong  V  Whence,  then,  those 
tears  ?  Why  had  she  been  so  sad  for  two 
or  three  weeks?  Why  had  she  harped 
upon  her  secret  ?  And  yet,  what  could 
she  do  ?  Always  with  him,  —  whose  ac- 
quaintance could  she  make  ? 

"  You're  telling  me  gospel  truth,  sir  ?  " 
cried  his  laundress.  "  Swear  it  —  swear  it 
on  the  Bible." 

"  I  don't  know  where  my  Bible  is,  —  the 
Lord  forgive  me  !  "  he  answered.  "  Do  not 
let  us  be  miserable,"  he  went  on,  with  an 
attempt  at  cheerfulness.  "  I  expect  she  is 
stopping  out  with  some  friends." 

"  She  has  no  friends.  Never  a  soul  has 
she  ever  spoken  to,  for  twelve  years,  but 
you  and  me,  and  Miss  Venn." 

"  Perhaps  she  is  up  there.  I  will  go  and 
see." 

He  tried  to  cheer  up  the  old  woman  ; 
invented  a  thousand  different  ways  in 
which  the  girl  might  have  been  obliged  to 
pass  the  night  away  from  home  ;  and  then, 
because  his  own  heart  was  racked  and  tor- 
tured, he  hurried  off  to  his  sister's. 

Sukey  he  met  on  her  way  to  early  ser- 
vice, —  that  at  half-past  seven.  It  was  one 
of  the  peculiarities  of  that  young  lady  to 
find  a  considerable  amount  of  enjoyment  in 
these  extra-parochial,  so  to  speak,  and  ex- 
traordinary forms  of  religion. 

"  Hartley !  —  you,  of  all  men  in  the  world, 
at  half-past  seven  !  " 

''  Sukey,  have  you  got  Lollie  with  you  ?  " 
"  Laura  ?     I   haven't   seen   her   lor   six 
weeks,  —  not  since  she  had  tea  with   me. 
But,  Hartley,  what  is  the  matter?*' 

He  caught  hold  of  the  railing  which  ran 
round  the  garden  of  the  square,  and  almost 
fell.  For  it  was  his  one  hope  ;  and  his  head 
swam. 

"  God  help  us  all !  "  he  murmured,  — 
"  my  little  girl  is  lost." 
What  could  she  say  ? 
"  She  left  me  on  Tuesday  evening.  She 
told  me  that  yesterday  J  should  Team  a 
secret  which  would  please  me  more  than 
any  thing,  —  she  even  offered  to  tell  it  me. 
She  was  excited  and  nervous  when  she  said 
good-night  to  me  ;  and '  yesterday  evening 
she  never  went  home  at  "all.  Sukey,  don't 
speak  to  me  —  don't  say  any  thing,  because 
I  cannot  bear  Ft.  Come  and  ask  in  a  day  or 
two.  Sukey,  you  believe  in  prayer.  Go  into 
church,  and  pray  as  you  never  prayed 
before.  Throw  all  your  heart  into  your 


prayers  for  the  child.  Pray  for  her  purity, 
—  pray  for  her  restoration,  —  pray  for  my 
forgiveness  ;  or  — -no  —  why  do  men  always 
want  to  push  themselves  to  the  front  V  — 
pray,  Sukey,  that  my  ill-training  may  bear 
no  ill-fruit.  And  yet,  God  knows,  I  meant 
it  all  for  the  best." 

He  turned  away  and  left  her.  She,  poor 
woman,  with  the  tears  in  her  eyes,  went 
back  to  her  own  room  ;  and  there,  not  in 
the  artificial  church,  with  the  cold  and  per- 
functory service,  but  by  her  own  bedside, 
knelt  and  prayed  for  her  brother  and  his 
darling,  while  sobs  choked  her  utterance, 
and  the  tears  coursed  down  her  cheeks. 

Hartley  returned  to  his  chamber,  and 
found  Mrs.  Peck  still  there.  The  effect  of 
the  excitement  upon  her  was  that  she  was 
actually  cleaning  things.  He  tried  to  cheer 
her  up,  and  then  went  to  the  police-station, 
where  they  heard  what  he  had  to  say,  made 
notes,  looked  wise,  and  promised  great 
things,  alter  he  had  given  an  'exact  descrip- 
tion of  her  dress  and  appearance. 

What  next  ? 

"  Had  she  any  friends  ?  " 

"  None,"  Mrs.  Peck  had  replied. 
.«He  knew  of  an  acquaintance,  at  least; 
though  Mrs.  Peck  had  never  heard  of  her. 
There  was  a  certain  Miss  Blanche  Elmsley, 
third-rate  actress,  flgurante,  any  thing  at- 
tached to  the  fortunes  of  Drury  Lane 
Theatre.  Her  papa,  who  rejoiced  in  the 
name  of  Crump,  was  the  proprietor  of  a 
second-hand  furniture  shop  in  Gray's  Inn 
Road.  He  had  not  much  furniture,  but  he 
sold  any  thing,  bought  any  thing ;  and  was 
not  too  proud  to  do  odd  jobs  at  the  rate  of 
a  shilling  an  hour.  Moreover,  Mr.  George 
Augustus  Frederick  Crump,  christened  after 
one  of  the  late  lamented  royal  princes,  was 
a  most  respectable  man,  and  highly  esteemed 
in  his  quartier.  He  was  the  worshipful  mas- 
ter of  a  lodge  of  Ancient  Druids,  and  ac- 
customed to  take  the  vice-chair  at  a  weekly 
larinonic  meeting.  His  daughter  Mary 
was  a  child  to  whom  Venn,  who  knew 
everybody,  had  been  accustomed  to  make 
ittle  presents,  yfears  before.  She  was  about 
ive  or  six  years  older  than  Laura.  When 
she  grew  up  to  woman's  estate  she  obtained 
—  chiefly  through  Venn's  interest —  a  post 
as  assistant  in  the  refreshment  department 
of  one  of  the  leading  railway  stations.  Then 
he  lost  sight  of  her  altogether  till  a  twelve- 
nonth  or  so  later,  when  Lollie  came  to  him 
one  night  with  a  piteous  tale  :  how  that  poor 
Vlary,  for  some  reason  unknown  to  her,  had 
been  turned  from  her  father's  door,  and  was 
penniless  and  houseless.  Then  Hartley 
Venn  —  a  Samaritan  by  legitimate  descent, 
as  much  as  the  present  Sheikh,  Yakoob 
Shellaby  —  went  to  the  rescue ;  the  end 
>eing  that  he  saw  the  poor  girl  through  a 


88 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


Polly  understood  in  a  moment. 
"  Don't    say   that,    Mr.    Venn. 


Don't 


good  deal  of  trouble,  and,  by  dint  of  wonder- 
ful self-sacrifice,  living  on  herbs  and  cold 
water  for  a  quarter  or  so,  managed  to  put 
things  straight  for  her. 

The  Samaritan,  you  know  very  well,  not 
only  bound  up  the  wounds  which  the 
wicked  robbers  had  make,  but  poured  in 
oil.  Not  content  with  that,  he  lifted  the 
poor  man,  all  bleeding  as  he  was,  upon  his 
own  beast,  doubtless  covered  with  a  new 
and  highlv  respectable  saddle-cloth,  trudg- 
ing alongside,  —  and  those  roads  of  Pales- 
tine, unless  it  was  the  Roman  road,  were 
none  of  the  best,  mind  you,  —  until  he  came 
to  the  nearest  Khan,  where  he  bargained 
with  the  landlord  for  a  small  sum.  The  --  „-  , 

priest   and  the   Levite,  I  make  no  doubt,  I  you  can  think  of  anybody  or  any  thing,  — 
would  have  done  exactly  the  same,  but  for  •  remember  that  every  penny  I  have  in  the 


tell  me  that  Lollie,  of  all  girls  in  the 
world"  — 

"  Hush  !  Perhaps  —  perhaps  —  Mary, 
you  know  nothing  of  it?  " 

"  God  forgive  me  !  "  sobbed  Mary.  "  Mr. 
Venn,  I'd  rather  nay  little  boy  died  in  my 
arms ;  and  then,  Heaven  knows,  I'd  lie 
down,  and  die  myself.  Lollie !  Oh,  it 
was  she  who  brought  me  to  you  in  all  my 
trouble.  What  should  I  have  been  with- 
out her  ?  Where  should  1  be  now  ?  " 

"  I  must  go,"  said  Venn,  rising  abruptly. 
"  Think  of  her,  my  girl.  If  you  can  devise 
any  plan  for  looking  after  her,  tell  me.  If 


world   I   will   spend   to   bring    her   back. 
Where  can  I  look  for  her  —  where  V  *' 

He  spread  out  his  hands  in  his  distress, 
and  walked  backwards  and  forwards  in  the 
little  room. 

"  Don't  be  angry  with  me,  Mr.  Venn,  at 
what  I'm  going  to  say.  She  must  have 

priest' making  a  very  fine  point  of  it,  in  his  •  gone   off  with  some   one.     No   doubt   he 
way,  next  sabbath  day's  discourse.    It  would   promised  to  marry  lie   :  they  all  do.    And  if 


the  look  of  the  thing.  It  would  seem  too 
disreputable  for  persons  of  their  respecta- 
bility to  be  seen  tramping  along  the  road 
with  a-  bleeding  man  upon  their  private 
ass,  bedabbling  their  saddle-cloth, 
make  no  doubt  that  their  hearts 
deeplv  touched  ;  and  I  think  I  can  fancy  the 


Yet 
were 


turn  on  the  duty  of  being  prepared. 

Mary's  father  was  the  priest.  So,  with  a 
pang  at  his  heart  and  an  oath  on  his  lips, 
he  told  the  girl  to  go,  and  never  again  to 
darken  his  doors. 

She  went.  His  respectability  was  saved. 
Close  by,  she  met  little  Lollie  on  her  way 
home.  She  knew  her  by  sight,  and  told 
her  some  of  the  story.  The  rest  we  know. 

Venn  was  her  Samaritan. 

Marv   was    sitting   in    her   second-floor 


he  does  it,  you  will  have  her  back  in  a  day 
or  two,  with  her  husband,  asking  for  your 
forgiveness ;  and  if  he  doesn't,  why,  then,  — 
why  then,  Mr.  Venn,  don't  let  us  think,  of 
it.  But  if  she  comes  back,  all  wretched 
and  tearful,  will  you  forgive  her,  Mr.  Venn  ? 
will  you  forgive  her  ?  " 

"Forgive  her?  Is  there  any  thing  my 
child  could  do  that  I  would  not  forgive  ? 
You  don't  understand.  Mary.  She  is  my 
life.  1  have  no  thought  but  for  her.  In 


back,  making  a  dress  for  the  baby,  and  \  all  these  years,  while  she  has  been  growing 
crooning  a  tune  in  as  simple  freshness  of  up  beside  me,  every  hour  in  my  day  seemed 
heart  as  if  she  had  never  sinned  at  all.  to  belong  to  the  child.  What  could  I  not 
The  blessed  'prerogative  of  maternity  is  to  |  do  for  her  ?  Let  her  come  back,  and  all 
heal,  at  least  for  the  time,  all  wounds,  i  shall  be  as  it  was  before;  but,  no!  that, 


Besides,  we  can't  be  always  crying  over 
When  the  sun  shines,  the  birds 


at  least,  cannot  be.     The  fruit  of  the  tree 
of  knowledge,  of  good  and  evil,  prevents 


In  her  child,  Mary  had  forgot-  j  that.     Eden  is  shut  out  from  us.     But  let 


past  sins. 

will  sing. 

ten  her  troubles.     Man  leaves  father  and   her  come  back ;  and   we  may  be  but  as 

mother,  and  cleaves  to  his  wife.     Woman  i  another  Adam  and  Eve,  making  aprons  to 

leaves   father   and   mother,  husband    and   hide  the  memories  of  our  souls." 

"  Perhaps  they  were  happy,"  said  Mary 
the  mother,  "  because  they  had  children." 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Venn.     u  His.tory 


lover,  and  forgets  them  all,  and  cleaves  to 
her  little  ones. 

Venn  came  in,  hurried  and  excited. 

«  Where  is  Lollie  ?  "  he  asked.  •«  Have 
you  seen  Lollie  ?  " 

"  Your  little  girl,  Mr.  Venn  ?  Oh,  what 
has  come  to  her  ?  " 

Hartley's  last  slender  reed  of  hope  was 
broken.  He  sat  down,  and  dropped  his 
face  in  his  hands.  Then  he  looked  round, 
blankly. 

"  If  I  could  find  him!"  be  groaned  — 
"  if  I  could  find  him  !  By  G— d  I  if  I 
should  but  for  once  come  across  him  some- 
where ! " 


says  very  .little  about  it.  Perhaps  they 
were.  Let  us  hope  so.  Good-by,  girl." 

She  took  his  hand,  and,  out  of  her  grati- 
tude and  sympathy,  raised  it  to  her  lips. 
The  action  had  all  the  grace  of  a  duchess, 
though  it  was  but  in  a  poorly  furnished 
lodging,  —  bedroom,  sitting-room,  and  all 
in  one,  —  and  the  performer  was  only  a 
ballet-girl. 

From  her,  Venn  went  to  Lynn's  rooms. 
These  were  at  the  top  of  an  endless  stair- 
case in  the  Temple. 


MY   LITTLE   GIKL. 


89 


"  You,  Venn  !  "  snid  Lynn,  opening  the 
door.  "  I  thought  it  was  the  long-expected 
case.  What  has  brought  you  here  at  this 
time  of  day  ?  " 

Venn  sat  down,  and  answered  nothing. 
After  a  minute  or  so,  which  his  thoughts 
turned  into  half  an  hour,  he  got  up  again. 

"  I  must  go,"  he  said.  "  I've  staid  here 
too  long." 

He  put  on  his  hat,  and  made  for  the  door, 
with  staggering  step.  Then  Lynn  caught 
him  by  the  arm,  and  forced  him  into  an 
armchair. 

"  For  God's  sake,  Venn,  what  is  the  mat- 
ter ?  " 

Hartley  looked  at  him  in  a  dazed  way. 
Then  he  fairly  fainted,  falling  forwards. 
It  was  two  o'clock,  and  he  had  eaten  noth- 
ing all  day.  Lynn  lifted  him,  and  laid  him 
on  the  sofa,  pouring  water  on  his  fore- 
head, which  was  burning.  Presently  he 
recovered  a  little,  and  sat  up. 

"  Do  you  remember  our  idle  talk  last 
night,  Lynn?  " 

"  Perfectly.     What  about  it  ?  " 
**  Do  you  remember  what  we  said  about 
women  ?  " 

"  What  about  it  V  " 

Venn  was  silent  again.  Then  he  went 
on,  with  a  deep,  harsh  voice,  — 

"  I  found  a  little  child.     In  my  loneliness, 
and  the  despair  that  followed  all  my  ruined 
hopes,  I  made  her  the  one  joy  and  comfort 
of  my  life." 
"Laura?" 

"  I  brought  her  up  myself,  and  taught 
her  all  that  I  thought  the  child  should 
know.  I  forgot  one  thing." 
"  Venn,  what  has  happened  V  " 
"  I  forgot  religion.  All  the  rules  of  right 
and  wrong  do  not  come  by  observation. 
The  habit  of  fearing  God  comes  by  teach- 
ing. But  I  loved  her,  Lynn  —  I  loved  her. 
She  looked  to  me  as  a  kind  of  elder  broth- 
er ;  but  I  —  I  loved  her  not  as  a  little 
sister.  I  looked  for  a  time  when  she 
should  be  old  enough  to  hear  the  love  story 
of  a  man  nearly  twenty  years  her  senior. 
I  thought  to  win  her  heart,  and  not  her 
gratitude.  So  I  was  content  to  wait.  Her 
only  joy  in  life  w*as  to  come  to  me.  But  I 
forgot  that  there  are  wolves  abroad.  If 
ever  I  meet  the  man.  But  it  is  idle 
threatening.  Old  friend  of  twenty  years, 
if  I  thought  you  had  done  this  thing,  I 
would  strangle  you  as  you  stand  there." 
"  But,  Venn  —  Venn,  what  is  it  ?  " 
"  I  was  reading  a  story  in  a  novel  the 
other  day, —  a  French  novel.  There  was 
a  Laura  in  it,  and  a  man  :  a  foolish  sort  of 
story.  She  left  him  one  evening,  hanging 
upon  his  neck,  vowing  a  thousand  loves 
showering  kisses  upon  him.  She  said  she 
was  going  to  the  seaside  —  to  Dieppe  — 


somewhere  for  a  fortnight.  She  wrote  to 
lim  a  fortnight  later,  when  he  expected 
icr  back,  — told  him  in  three  lines  that  she 
iad  left  him  forever,  that  she  could  never 
see  him  again,  that  she  was  to  be  married 
o  some  one  else.  Not  a  word,  you  see,  of 
regret.  Nothing  left,  no  memory  at  all  of 
:he  days  they  had  spent  together.  A  fool- 
'.sh  story.  I  laughed  when  I  read  it. 

'*  He  who  was  only  a  poor  sort  of  loving 
fool,  and  believed  that  women  could  be  true 
sat  down  in  his  lonely  room,  and  cried. 
Then  he  wrote  to  a  post-office  where  she 
might  possibly  go  and  ask  for  letters,  and 
told  her  to  be  happy ;  that  he  forgave  her  ; 
that  if  any  thing  happened  toiler  —  any 
poverty,  any  distress  —  he  was  still  her 
friend.  I  thought  what  an  ass  he  was. 
Her  name  was  Laura  too.  That  must 
have  been  why  I  read  the  story.  Laura  — 
Laura  —  a  lover's  name." 

"  In  Heaven's  name  !  Venn,  what  has 
happened  ? " 

"  Women,  you  see,"  Venn  went  on,  in  a 
hard,  unnatural  voice,  "  require  positive 
teaching.  You  must  say  to  them,  do  this, 
do  that,  and  avoid  something  else.  I  for- 
got this.  I  treated  the  girl  as  if  she  had 
been  a  boy. 

*'  Life,  you  will  observe,  is  a  series  of 
unexpected  retributions.  For  every  mis- 
take you  make,  down  comes  the  avenger. 
No  quarter  is  given,  and  no  warning.  It 
seems  hard  when  you  first  begin  to  under- 
stand it,  doesn't  it  ? 

"  We  have  been  accustomed  to  look  at 
the  disappointments  of  life  as  so  much 
capital,  —  the  occasion  for  saying  clever 
things.  Why,  Jones  makes  fifty  rhymes 
every  time  he  fails,  and  I  say  fifty  remark- 
able things.  And  you  utter  fifty  oaths. 
Here  is  only  another  disappointment.  We 
will  have  another  brilliant  Chorus  next 
week.  Life's  disappointments  are  so  many 
of  a  small  kind,  that  when  a  big  one  comes 
—  the  biggest  that  can  come  —  we  really 


ought  to  be  prepared. 

"  I  loved  her,  Lynn,  I  loved  her." 

All  the  time  he  had  been  sitting  on  the 
sofa,  talking  in  this  incoherent  way,  with 
his  eyes  strained  and  his  lips  cracked. 
Then  Lynn  took  him  by  the  arm. 

"  Come  back  to  Gray's  Inn,"  he  said. 
"  We  will  take  a  cab." 

He  led  him  down  the  stairs,  and  took  him 
back  to  his  own  chambers.  When  they 
got  there,  the  old  woman,  still  waiting  for 
them,  rushed  forward. 

"Have  you  found  her,  sir?  Have  you 
found  her  V  " 

And  then  Venn  sat  down  in  his  old  easy 
chair,  and  cried  like  a  child. 

"  I  think,"  he  said,  presently,  recovering 


a  little,  "  that  I  will  go  to  bed. 


The  kings 


90 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


of  Israel,  whenever  they  experienced  any 
little  disappointment,  used  to  do  it,  and 
turned  their  faces  to  the  wall.  Ahab,  you 
remember,  in  that  affair  of  his  about  the 
vineyard.  I  shall  turn  my  face  to  the  wall. 
When  J  was  ill  as  a  child  I  used,  directly  I 
got  into  bed,  to  fancy  myself  in  a  coach 
and  four;  and  the  relief  was  wonderful. 
Good-bv,  Lynn,  it's  very  kind  of  you  ;  but 
—  but  —  well,  you  can  go  away  now." 

"  I  shall  stay,"  said  Lynn,  not  liking  the 
way  in  which  he  talked.  "  I  shall  stay  all 
night,  and  sleep  on  the  sofa." 

Venn  went  to  bed  ;  and  his  friend,  get- 
ting a  steak  sent  up  at  six,  sat  quietly 
waiting  and  watching.  At  midnight  he 
stole  into  the  bedroom.  Venn  was  sleep- 
ing soundly,  with  his  fair,  smooth  cheeks 
high  up  on  the  pillow.  As  Lynn  bent  over 
him,  the  lips  of  the  sleeper  parted  ;  and, 
with  that  sweet,  sad  smile  which  was  his 
greatest  charm,  he  murmured,  softly  and 
tenderly 

"  My  little  girl  —  kiss  me  again." 


CHAPTER  XX. 

Do  you  know  the  coast  of  Normandy  ? 
It  is  a  country  that  everybody  thinks  he 
knows  well.  We  have  all  been  to  Dieppe, 
some  even  to  Havre.  Dear  friends,  that 
is  really  not  enough.  What  you  do  not 
know  is  the  existence  of  a  dozen  little  wa- 
tering-places between  Havre  and  Boulogne, 
all  charming,  all  quiet,  all  entirely  French. 
These  secluded  retreats  are  like  the  trian- 
gles in  the  sixth  book  of  Euclid's  immortal 
work, —  they  are  all  similar  and  similarly 
situated.  Where  the  sea  runs  in  and 
makes  a  bay,  where  a  river  runs  down  and 
mingles  the  fresh  with  the  salt,  where  the 
cliffs  on  either  side  stoop  to  the  earth  and 
disappear  in  space,  there  lies  the  little  fish- 
ing-town. What  it  must  be  like  in  win- 
ter, imagination  vainly  endeavors  to  real- 
ize ;  but  in  summer,  between  June  and 
October,  there  are  no  pleasanter  places  for 
quiet  folk  to  stay  in.  Right  and  left,  the 
cliffs  rise  to  a  height  of  some  hun- 
dreds of  feet.  You  climb  them  in  the 
morning  after  your  coffee  and  brioche,  and 
stride  away  in  the  fresh  upland  air,  with 
the  grass  under  your  feet  and  the  woods 
behind.  As  you  go  along,  you  see  the 
girls  milking  the  sleepy-eyed  Norman  cows 
you  salute  the  women  going  to  market  with 
their  baskets,  you  listen  to  the  lark,  you 
watch  the  blue  sea  far  away  beyond,  with 
perhaps  a  little  fleet  of  fishing-boats.  Pres 
sently  you  turn  back,  for  the  sun  is  getting 
hot.  Then  you  go  down  to  the  shore  am 
bathe.  Augustine,  the  fat,  the  bunchy 


;he  smiling,  the  rosy-fingered,  brings  you  a 
na'dlot.  Clad  in  this  comfortable  garb, 
ind  throwing  a  sheet  about  you,  yon  trip 
lown  the  boards  which  lead  to  the  sea,  and 
jnjoy  a  feeling  of  superiority  when  you  fuel 
ill  eyes  turned  to  behold  you  swimming 
out  to  sea.  Family  groups  are  bathing 
together  beside  you,  —  father  of  family  and 
circle  of  children,  bobbing,  with  shrieks, 
ip  and  down  ;  next  to  them  some  ancient 
dame,  of  high  Norman  lineage  and  won- 
Irous  aspect,  gravely  bobbing,  held  by 
)oth  hands  by  the  Amphibious  One,  who 
spends  his  days  in  the  water,  and  never 
catches  rheumatism.  Everybody  bobbing. 
Then  you  go  back  to  breakfast.  The 
able  d'hote  might  be  better,  but  it  is 
wholesome.  Here  you  become  acquainted 
with  strange  fish,  —  conger  eel,  for  instance  ; 
and  you  learn  the  taste  of  mussels.  The 
claret  might  be  a  more  generous  wine,  but 
t  is  light  and  sound.  After  your  walk, 
vou  may  drink  a  bottle  for  breakfast. 

Presently  you  stroll  into  the  town,  and 
ook  around.  Here  is  a  fisherman's  church, 
[n  the  little  chapel,  as  you  go  in,  are  the 
x  voto  pictures,  —  they  mean  countless 
tears  and  anxiety.  Here  is  the  ship  tossed 

the  storm ;  here  the  ship  entering  the 
3ort ;  here  are  the  rags  of  a  Hag,  the  bits  of 
an  oar,  —  all  the  little  memorials  of  an  es- 
:ape  from  danger,  aided  by  Our  Lady  of 
he  Sea,  influenced  by  the  prayers  of  the 
faithful.  Are  we  in  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury? So,  too,  the  Roman  sailor  offered 
iis  ex  voto  to  Venus  Marina  ;  while  yonder 
priest,  jn  stole,  alb,  and  dalmatic,  may 
stand  for  his  predecessor  of  Brindisium  two 
thousand  years  ago,  who  chanted  the  ser- 
vice to  his  goddess  in  the  self-same  dress, 
and  very  likely  in  the  self-same  Gregorian. 
Verily,  my  readers,  we  take  a  long  time  to 
change. 

There  is  a  quay.  Lazy  sailors  lie  about 
and  talk.  There  is  a  smell  of  soup  in  the 
air,  curiously  blending  with  the  tar.  Over- 
the  cobbled  roads  thunder  the  country  carts 
with  their  bells.  The  diligence  is  prepar- 
ing, with  a  tremendous  clatter  and  bustle, 
to  get  under  way ;  and  where,  in  an  English 
country  town,  would  be  dismal  silence  and 
sluggishness,  are  life,  animation,  activity. 

At  six  you  may  dine;  in  fact,  you  must, 
if  you  want  to  dine  at  all.  The  dinner  is 
the  same  as  the  breakfast.  And  after  that 
you  may  go  to  the  casino.  Ah,  the  casino  ! 
It  is  the  home  of  all  dazzling  pleasures. 
There  is  the  theatre,  with  a  stage  the  size 
of  a  dining-room  table ;  then  the  ball-room, 
with  a  piano  and  violin  for  music,  —  no 
better  music  can  be  found ;  and  there  are 
the  young  bloods  of  the  place,  panting  for 
the  fray,  with  waxed  mustache,  and  pat- 
ent leather  boots,  the  Don  Juans  of  a  thou- 


MY   LITTLE    GIRL. 


91 


sand  harmless  amourettes  ;  for  here,  mark 
you,  we  have  not  the  morals  of  Paris.  And 
the  young  ladies.  They  are  not  pretty,  the 
.Norman  girls,  after  our  notions  of  beauty. 
Some  of  them  are  too  big  in  the  nose,  some 
of  them  are  flat-faced,  some  of  them  are  in- 
clined to  be  "  hatchety ;  "  but  they  are  gra- 
cieuses.  Say  any  thing  you  will  of  the 
Frenchwomen,  but  tell  me  not  that  they  are 
clumsy.  Always  graceful,  always  at  ease, 
always  artistic.  I  believe,  speaking  as  a 
bachelor,  and  therefore  as  a  fool,  that  a 
Frenchwoman  is,  above  all,  the  woman  one 
would  emphatically  never  get  tired  of. 
Pretty  faces  pall,  pretty  little  accomplish- 
ments are  soon  known  by  heart.  A  loving 
heart  may  be  no  prevention  against  that 
satiety  which  cometh  at  the  end  of  sweet 
things.  In  love,  as  in  cookery,  one  wants 
a  little  —  eh  ?  a  very  little  —  sauce  pi- 
quante.  Now,  the  Frenchwoman  can  give 
it  you. 

And  at  eleven  o'clock  you  may  go  to  bed  ; 
because,  if  you  sit  up,  you  will  be  the  only 
soul  awake  in  all  the  town.  They  are  all 
alike,  as  I  said  before.  I  have  seen  them 
all.  The  prettiest  of  them  is  Etretat,  the 
sweetest  of  watering-places,  with  its  little 
chalets  perched  on  the  hillsides,  its  perfo- 
rated rocks,  its  sharp  cliffs,  and  its  gardens ; 
but  it  is  also  the  dearest.  Reader  of  the 
middle  class,  sensible  reader,  who,  like  me, 
does  not  pretend  to  be  a  milord,  go  not  to 
Etretat  to  stay.  Go  rather  to  little  Yport, 
close  by,  where  the  etablissf.ment  is  no 
bigger  than  a  family  pew,  and  where  in  a 
day  you  will  be  the  friend  of  all  the  good 
people  —  chiefly  connected  with  the  coV 
ton,  or  perhaps  the  cider,  interests  —  who 
are  staying  there  for  the  benefit  of  the  sea- 
breezes. 

It  was  to  Vieuxcamp  that  Philip  took  his 
bride.  They  arrived  there  the  day  after 
their  marriage.  Laura  was  too  confused 
with  the  novelty  of  every  thing  to  be  able 
to  think.  She  was  wild  with  excitement. 
This,  then,  was  the  world.  How  big  it 
was !  These  were  the  people  who  spoke' 
French.  Why,  the  little  children  talked  it 
better  than  she  did,  after  all  her  lessons  ! 
Then,  the  Norman  caps,  and  the  cookery, 
and  the  strangeness  of  it  all.  I  don't  be- 
lieve there  is  any  thing  in  the  world  —  not 
even  love's  young  dream,  or  love's  first  kiss, 
or  the  first  taste  of  canvas-back,  or  the  first 
oyster  of  the  season,  or  the  forbidden  port, 
or  a  glass  of  real  draught  bitter  after  years 
abroad  ;  or  the  sight  of  those  you  love, 
when  you  come  home  again  ;  or  the  news 
that  your  play  is  accepted,  or  the  first 
proof-sheet,  or  a  legacy  when  you  are  sick 
with  disappointment,  or  praise  when  you 
are  dying  with  fatigue,  or  a  laudatory  re- 
view :  there  is  not  one  of  these  delights  — 


I  forgot  to  mention  twins,  but  not  even  tlvit 
—  which  comes  up  to  the  first  joy  of  seeing 
a  foreign  land,  and  that  land  France. 

Lollie  saw  some  English  children  at 
Dieppe  the  morning  after  they  came. 

"  O  Philip  !  "  she  cried,  "  what  a  shame 
to  bring'those  children  here  !  Think  of  the 
happiness  they  will  miss  when  they  grow 
up." 

That,  as  the  Yankees  say,  is  so. 

He  brought  her  by  diligence  from  Dieppe 
to  Vieuxcamp,  and  they  began  the  usual 
life  of  the  place.  He  had  taken  the  best 
rooms  in  the  hotel,  where  they  could  sit 
and  look  at  the  sea.  Laura  had  not  seen 
it  since  she  went  with  Sukey  to  Deal,  eight 
years  ago.  In  the  morning  they  bathed 
together  in  the  pleasant  French  fashion. 
In  the  hot  daytime  they  staid  indoors, 
and  read  novels.  In  the  evening,  they 
went  to  the  Casino. 

At  the  table  d'hote,  Philip's  wife  was 
quite  silent  for  three  days.  Then,  to  his 
utter  amazement,  she  turned  to  her  neigh- 
bor, a  lively  little  Frenchwoman,  who  had 
addressed  some  remark  to  her,  and  an- 
swered her  quite  fluently,  and  in  perfect 
French. 

"  Where  did  you  learn  it,  my  darling  ?  " 

"  I  learned  it  at  home.  Mr.  Venn  and  I 
used  to  talk  ;  but,  somehow,  I  could  not  say 
a  word  at  first.  Now  I  begin." 

And  then  the  French  ladies  all  made 
much  of  her,  admiring  the  sweet  innocence 
of  her  beauty,  and  that  fair  wealth  of  hair, 
which  she  wore  loose  and  dishevelled  at 
breakfast,  and  neatly  bound  up  for  dinner. 

On  the  very  first  morning  after  their  ar- 
rival, Philip  found  her,  on  coming  in  from 
a  walk,  writing  a  letter  to  Venn. 

"That  is  right,"  he  said.  "Tell  Mr. 
Venn  where  we  are.  He  will  want  to 
know  more  than  your  little  note  told  him. 
Write  all  you  can,  darling ;  but  tell  him 
you  are  happy.  Are  you  happy,  my  own  ?  " 

She  smiled  contentedly,  and  went  on 
writing.  It  was  a  -long  letter,  and  took  a 
good  half-hour  to  write,  though  her  facile 
pen  seemed  to  run  glibly  enough  over  the 
paper.  When  it  was  finished,  she  folded 
and  placed  it  in  an  envelope. 

"  Now,  let  us  go  and  post  it,"  she  cried, 
looking  for  her  hat. 

Phil  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was  a  quar- 
ter to  eleven. 

"  Better  let  me  go,  dear,"  he  said :  "  it 
only  wants  a  quarter  of  an  hour  to  break- 
fast. I  shall  be  ten  minutes,  and  you  will 
be  ready  to  go  down  then." 

She  gave  him  the  letter,  and  he  went 
out. 

On  the  way,  the  landlady  of  the  hotel 
gave  him  a  letter  from  England,  which  he 
opened  and  read.  It  was  from  Maclntyre. 


92 


MY   LITTLE  GIRL. 


"  I  thought  it  best  not  to  take  that  note 
to  Mr.  V.  Jt  has  been  burnt  instead.  If 
I  were  you,  all  things  considered,  I  would 
not  let  her  write  to  him.  Questions  will 
be  asked.  Tilings  perfectly  legal  in  Scot- 
land may  not  be  so  in  England.  From 
what  I  have  learned  of  Arthur,  who  is  his 
friend,  Mr.  V.  is  a  man  capable  of  making 
himself  very  disagreeable.  Don't  let  her 
write. 

Philip  read  it  with  a  sinking  heart.  This 
man  seemed  to  stand  between  himself  and 
every  effort  at  well-doing.  He  had  firmly 
steeled  himself  to  letting  Venn  know  what 
he  had  done,  and  taking  any  consequences 
that  might  befall  him.  The  last  orders  he 
had  given  were  that  the  note  was  to  be  ta- 
ken to  Gray's  Inn  ;  and  now  the  letter  was 
burned,  and  the  poor  girl's  guardian  would 
believe  that  she  had  run  away  from  him. 
At  the  first  shock,  Philip  felt  sick  with  dis- 
may and  remorse.  Then  he  began  to  think 
of  himself.  Should  the  new  letter  be  sent. 
He  strolled  along  the  esplanade  by  the  sea- 
shore, sat  down,  and  looked  at  it.  The 
envelope  was  not  yet  dry.  He  opened  it  and 
took  out  the  letter.  Then  he  committed 
the  first  crime  —  unless  the  marriage  was 
one  —  in  his  life.  I  mean  the  first  thing 
which  destroyed  his  own  self-respect,  and 
gave  him  a  stronger  shove  downhill  —  see 
the  philosophical  remarks  in  a  previous 
chapter  —  than  any  thing  he  had  yet  expe- 
rienced. For  he  read  the  letter. 

"  MY  DEAR  MR.  VENN,  —  I  do  not  know 
how  to  begin  my  letter.  You  have  heard 
my  secret  now,  because  Philip  sent  on  my 
letter.  I  was  so  sorry  not  to  be  able  to 
come  with  it  myself.  When  I  saw  you  on 
Tuesday,  I  came  determined  to  tell  you  all, 
in  spile  of  Philip's  prohibition;  but  you 
would  not  hear  it.  And  now  I  wish  you 
had,  because  then  you  would  have  come 
yourself,  and  been  present  at  my  marriage. 
Yes,  I  am  really  and  truly  married.  I  can- 
not understand  it  at  all.  I  keep  turning  ray 
wedding-ring  round  and  round  my  finger, 
and  saying  that  I  have  done  the  very  thing 
you  wanted  me  to  do.  And  then  I  feel  that 
I  was  wrong  in  not  telling  you  of  it.  Direct- 
ly after  the  marriage  we  came  over  here,  — 
Philip  and  I, — and  are  going  to  stay  for 
another  fortnight.  I  will  tell  you  all  about 
the  place  and  the  people  when  I  see  vou  : 
but  it  is  all  so  strange  to  me,  that  I  feel  g'iddy 
thinking  about  it.  And  you  will  like  Philip, 
I  know  you  will ;  if  only  because  he  is  so 
kind  to  me  and  loves  me.  It  is  all  through 
your  kindness.  I  can  never  say  or  wrfte 
what  I  feel  towards  you  for  it  all.  You  will 
always  be  first  in  my  thoughts.  We  are 
not  very  rich,  I  believe ;  but  we  have 
enough  to  live  upon,  and  we  are  going  to  be 


happy.  The  old  life  has  passed  away,  and 
all  our  pleasant  days ;  but  the  new  ones 
will  be  better,  only  you  will  have  to  come  and 
see  me  now.  I  think  I  shall  be  very  happy 
as  soon  us  I  hear  that  you  are  satisfied  and 
pleased  with  what  I  have  done.  Write  at 
once,  and  tell  me  that  you  are,  dear  Mr. 
Venn  ;  and  then  I  shall  dance  and  sing. 
Let  nie  always  be  your  little  girl.  I  had  to 
keep  the  secret  ibr  Philip's  sake ;  but  he 
always  promised  that  as  soon  as  we  were 
married  you  should  know  every  thing. 

"  He  is  too  good  for  me,  too  handsome, 
and  too  clever.  Of  course  he  is  not  so 
clever  as  you  are :  nobody  is  ;  and  I  do 
not  think  he  has  ever  written  any  thing.  — 
at  least,  he  has  never  told  me  ot  any  thing. 

l*  Write  to  me  at  once,  dear  Mr.  Venn, 
by  the  very  next  post  that  comes  back. 
To-day  is  Saturday  :  I  shall  get  your  letter 
on  Tuesday.  Give  my  love  to  my  grand- 
mother :  she  will  not  miss  me.  And  always 
believe  me,  .dear  Mr.  Venn,  your  own 
affectionate  and  grateful  little  girl,  — 

"  L.OLLIE    DlTRNFORD." 


Philip's  handsome  face  grew  ugly  as  he 
read  the  letter,  —  ugly  with  the  cloud  of  his 
negro  blood.  What  business  had  his  wife 
to  write  a  letter  so  affectionate  to  another 
man  ?  Jealousy  sprang  up,  a  full-blown 
weed,  in  his  brain.  What  right  had  she 
to  love  another  man  ?  ,  His  nostrils  dilated, 
his  forehead  contracted,  his  lips  projected. 

These  were  symptoms  that  accompanied 
the  awakening  of  his  lower  nature. 

Two  men  passed  him  as  he  sat  on  the 
beach.  Quoth  one  to  another,  as  they  both 
looked  in  his  face,  — 

"  C'est  probablernent  un  Anglais  ?  "  . 

And  the  other  made  reply,  — 

"  Je  crois  que  c'est  un  inulatre.  Peut- 
etre  de  Martinique." 

He  heard  them,  and  his  blood  boiled 
within  him.  The  lower  nature  was  in  com- 
mand now.  He  tore  the  letter  into  a  thou- 
sand fragments,  and  threw  them  into  the 
air. 

Then  he  resolved  to  go  back,  and  tell  a 
lie.  At  any  cost  —  at  the  cost  of  honor,  of 
self-respect  —  he  would  break  off  all  con- 
nection with  this  man.  His  wife  should  not 
know  him  any  longer,  should  not  write  to 
him  a  second  time. 

He'  strolled  back,  angry  and  ashamed, 
but  resolved. 

Lollie  was  waiting  for  him,  dressed  for 
breakfast.  He  kissed  her  cheek,  and  tried 
to  persuade  himself  that  he  was  acting  for 
the  best. 

"  And  what  did  you  say  to  Mr.  Venn, 

1  i.  (i     ..  *  r 

darling : 

"  I  said  that  I  was  married,  and  happy, 


MY    LITTLE   GIKL. 


93 


and  eager  to  get  his  letter  to  tell  me  he  is 
pleased." 

"  Why  did  you  not  write  to  your  grand- 
mother, my  dear  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  "  she  replied  lightly,  "  she  will  hear 
from  Mr.  Venn;  and,  besides,  as  she  can- 
not read,  what  does  it  matter  ?  You  know, 
she  never  liked  me  at  all ;  and  only  kept 
me  with  her,  I  believe,  on  account  of  Mr. 
Venn.  I  must  have  been  a  great  trouble 
to  her/' 

Caresses  and  kisses  ;  and  Philip,  with  the 
ease  of  his  facile  nature,  put  behind  him  his 
deceit  and  treachery  to  be  thought  of  anoth- 
er day. 

After  all,  letters  do  miscarry  some- 
times. 

The  honeymoon,  married  men  of  some 
standing  declare,  is  wont  to  be  a  dreary  sea- 
son, involving  so  much  of  self-sacrifice  and 
concession  that  it  is  hardly  worth  the 
trouble  of  going  through  it.  It  has  some 
compensations.  Among  these,  to  Philip, 
was  the  real  pleasure  of  reading  all  the 
thoughts  of  a  pure  and  simple-minded  girl. 
When  he  was  under  the  influence  of  this 
maidenly  mind,  his  mind  —  Augean  stable 
though  it  was  —  seemed  cleansed  and  puri- 
fied. The  prompting  of  evil  ceased.  The 
innocence  of  his  youth  renewed  itself,  and 
seemed  t,o  take  once  more,  with  a  brighter 
plumage,  a  heaven  ward  flight,  — only  while 
he  was  in  her  presence  ;  and,  as  we  have 
seen,  a  few  words  from  his  evil  genius  had 
power  ^enough  to  make  him  worse  than  tye 
was  before.  For  the  stream  of  Lollie's  in- 
fluence was  a  shallow  one  :  it  had  depth 
enough  to  hide  the  accumulations  of  mud, 
but  not  enough  to  clear  them  away.  Like 
the  transformation  scene  in  a  theatre,  for  a 
brief  five  minutes  all  is  bright,  roseate,  and 
brilliant :  before  and  after,  the  yellow 
splendor  of  the  gaslight.  With  a  lie  hot 
upon  his  lips,  with  a  new  sin  fresh  upon  his 
conscience,  Philip  yet  felt  happy  with  his 
wife.  It  is  not  impossible.  The  poor  habit- 
ual criminals  of  the  thieves'  kitchen  are 
happy  in  their  way,  boozing  and  smoking, 
though  the  policemen  are  gathering  in  pur- 
suit, and  they  know  their  days  of  freedom 
are  numbered. 

"  Tell  me,"  said  Philip,  "  did  Mr.  Venn 
never  make  love  ?  " 

"  What  a  question  !  "  she  replied,  laugh- 
ing. u  Mr.  Venn,  indeed !  Why,  he  is  as 
old  —  as  old  —  No  one  ever  made  love  to 
me  except  yourself.  But  take  me  down  to 
breakfast.  Philip,  when  we  go  back  to  Lon- 
don, will  your  own  relations  be  ashamed  of 
me  y  " 

"  I  have  no  relations,  dear,  except  a 
cousin.  If  he  is  ashamed  of  you,  I  shall 
wring  his  neck.  But  he  will  be  proud  of 
you,  as  I  am  proud  of  my  pretty  wife.  But 


for  the  present  you  must  be  content  with 
your  stupid  husband.     Can  you  ?  " 

"  Don't,    Philip,"    said  his  wife.     "  And 
the  bell  has  gone  ten  minutes." 

And  on  the  Sunday  —  next  day  —  Lollie 
got  a  new  experience  of  life. 

It  was  after  breakfast.  They  were 
strolling  through  the  town.  The  bells  were 
ringing  in  the  great  old  church,  so  vast 
and  splendid  that  it  might  have  been  a 
cathedral.  And  in  one  of  the  little  streets, 
where  there  was  a  convent  school,  there 
was  assembling  a  procession  —  all  of  girls, 
dressed  in  white,  and  of  all  ages  and  sizes, 
from  the  little  toddler  who  had  to  be  led, 
to  the  girl  of  twenty,  gorgeous  in  her 
white  muslins  and  her  lace  veil.  As  they 
stopped  to  look,  the  procession  formed. 
At  its  head  marched  the  toddler,  supported 
by  two  a  little  taller  than  herself;  and 
then,  wedge  fashion,  the  rest  followed,  the 
nuns  with  their  submissive,  passionless 
faces,  like  the  sheep  of  sacrifice,  following 
after.  And  as  they  defiled  into  the  street, 
they  began  to  sing  some  simple  French 
ditty,  —  not  more  out  of  tune  than  could  be 
expected  from  a  choir  of  French  country 
iris,  —  and  went  on  to  the  church.  Philip 
and  Laura  followed.  The  girls  passed  into 
the  church.  As  the  darkness  of  the  long 
nave  seemed  to  swallow  them  up,  a  strange 
yearning  came  over  the  girl. 

"  Philip,  I  should  like  to  go  into  the 
church." 

"  Do,  my  dear,  if  you  like.  I  shall  go 
and  stroll  along  the  beach.  You  can  go 
in  and  see  the  ceremony,  whatever  it  is, 
and  then  come  back  to  the  hotel." 

She  walked  hesitatingly  into  the  church. 
A  man  with  a  cocked  hat  and  a  pike  in 
his  hand  beckoned  her,  and  gave  her  a 
seat.  She  sat  down,  and  looked  on.  A  tall 
altar,  garnished  with  flowers7  and  lights, 
men  with  colored  robes,  boys  with  incense, 
and  an  organ  pealing.  In  all  her  life  of 
eighteen  years,  she  had  never  been  inside 
a  church  :  in  all  her  education,  there  had 
been  no  word  of  religion.  Now,  like  an- 
other sense,  the  religious  principle  awak- 
ened in  her ;  and  she  knew  that  she  was, 
for  the  first  time,  worshipping  God. 

When  the  people  knelt,  she  knelt,  won- 
dering. Always,  the  or^an  pealed  and 
rolled  among  the  rafters  in  the  roof,  and 
the  voices  of  the  singers  echoed  in  her  ears, 
and  the  deep  bass  "of  the  priest  sounded 
like  some  mysterious  incantation.  It  was 
so  grand,  so  sweet,  this  gathering  of  the 
folk  with  one  common  object.  Her  heart 
went  up  with  the  prayers  of  the  Church, 
though  she  knew  nothing  of  what  they 
meant.  Lines  from  poetry  crossed*  her 
brain:  words  from  some  authors  she  had 
read.  The  Madonna  and  the  Child  looked 


94 


MY  LITTLE   GIRL. 


on  her  smiling :  the  effigy  of  our  Saviour 
seemed  to  have  its  eyes,  full  of  tenderness 
and  pit\',  fixed  upon  her.  When  next  she 
knelr,  the  tears  poured  through  her  fingers. 

The  service  ended.  All  went  away  ex- 
cept Laura.  She  alone  sat  silent  and 
thinking. 

"  Madame  would  like  to  seethe  ehurch  ?  " 
asked  the  beadle. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  Let  me  sit  a  little  longer,"  she  said, 
putting  a  franc  into  that  too  sensitive 
palm. 

"  Madame  is  right.  It  is  cool  in  here." 
And  left  her. 

She  was  trying  to  work  it  all  out.  She 
had  discovered  it  at  last,  the  secret  which 
Venn's  carelessness  had  kept  from  her. 
She  knew  the  grave  defect  of  her  educa- 
tion :  she  had  found  the  religious  sense. 

She  rose  at  last,  refreshed  as  one  who, 
suffering  from  some  unknown  disease,  sud- 
denly feels  the  vigor  of  his  manhood  return. 
And  when  she  rejoined  her  husband,  there 
shone  upon  her  face  a  radiance  as  of  one 
who  has  had  a  great  and  splendid  vision. 

For  the  child  had  wandered  by  accident 
into  the  fold. 


CHAPTER    XXL 

AN  answer  was  to  be  expected  from 
Venn  in  three  or  four  days.  Laura  passed 
these  in  suspense  and  anxiety.  Every 
morning  she  went  to  the  church  and  heard 
the  service,  daily  gaining  from  her  artistic 
instincts  a  deeper  insight  into  the  mystery 
of  religion.  After  the  service,  she  would  go 
back  to  her  husband,  and  pour  into  his  won- 
dering ears  the  new  thoughts  that  filled  her 
heart.  He,  for  his  part,  sat  like  a  Solomon, 
and  shook  his  head,  only  half  understand- 
ing what  she  meant.  Nor  did  she  quite 
know  herself.  The  instinct  of  adoration, 
of  submission ;  the  sense  of  a  protecting 
power ;  the  sweetness  of  church  music ; 
the  gorgeous  ceremonial  to  which  it  was 
wedded,  —  all  these  things  coming  freshly 
on  the  girl's  brain  confused  and  saddened 
her,  even  while  they  made  her  happier. 
For  in  these  early  days,  when  every  thing 
was  new  and  bright,  she  was  happy,  —  save 
for  that  gnawing  anxiety  about  Venn. 

Tuesday  came,  and  Wednesday,  but  no 
letter  ;  and  her  heart  fell. 

"I  shall  write  again,  Philip.  He  must 
be  ill.  lie  would  never  else  have  left  my 
letter  unanswered." 

Philip  changed  color;  for  in  the  early 
days  of  dishonor  men  can  still  feel  ashamed. 

"  If  you  like,"  he  said,  with   an  effort. 


"  Yes,  write  again,  dear.  We  will  try  one 
more  letter  before  we  go  back  to  London. 
Sit  down,  and  write  it  now*." 

The  second  letter  was  harder  to  write 
than  the  first ;  but  she  got  over  the  begin- 
ning at  last,  and  went  on.  After  repeat- 
ing all  she  had  said  in  the  first,  she  began 
to  talk  of  the  church  :  — 

"  I  have  been  to  church.  O  Mr.  Venn  ! 
why  did  we  not  go  together  ?  There  is 
no  place  where  I  am  so  happy.  It  seems 
as  if  I  were  protected  —  I  don't  know  from 
what  —  when  I  am  within  the  walls,  and 
listening  to  the  grand  organ.  When  we 
go  back  to  England,  you  will  have  to  come 
with  me.  —  Do  not,  dear  Mr.  Venn,  keep 
me  any  longer  in  suspense.  Write  to  me, 
and  tell  me  you  forgive  me.  1  seem  to  see, 
now,  more  clearly  than  I  did.  I  see  how 
wrong  I  was,  how  ungrateful,  how  unkind 
to  you  ;  but  only  tell  me  you  forgive  me, 
and  ease  my  heart." 

This  time,  with  less  compunction,  her 
husband  quietly  took  the  letter  to  a  secluded 
spot  under  the  cliffs,  and  tore  it  up.  For, 
having  begun,  he  was  obliged  to  go  on. 
Laura,  he  was  determined,  should  have 
nothing  whatever  more  to  do  with  Mr. 
Venn.  She  should  be  his,  his  own,  his 
only.  Some  men  make  angels  of  their 
wives.  These  are  the  highest  natures : 
perhaps  on  that  account  the  greatest  fools 
in  the  eyes  of  the  world.  Philip  did  not 
commit  this  noble  fault.  He  knew  his  wife 
was  a  woman,  and  not  an  angel  at  all. 
Even  in  those  moments  when  she  tried  to 
pour  out  all  her  thoughts  to  him,  —  when, 
like  Eve,  she  bared  her  soul  before  his 
eyes,  and  was  not  ashamed,  — he  only  saw 
the  passing  fancies  of  an  inexperienced 
girl ;  played  with  them,  the  toys  of  a  mo- 
ment, and  put  them  by.  Of  the  depths  of 
her  nature  he  knew  nothing,  and  expected  ' 
nothing  :  only  he  was  more  and  more  pas- 
sionately fond  of  her.  For  it  seemed  as 
if  the  change  had  made  her  more  lovely. 
Bright  and  beautiful  as  she  was  before,  she 
was  more  beautiful  now.  Some  of  Philip's 
five  hundred  went  to  accomplish  this  change; 
for  she  was  now  well-dressed,  as  well  as 
tastefully  dressed,  —  a  thing  she  had  never 
known  before,  —  and  was  woman  enough 
to  appreciate  accordingly.  She  was  ani- 
mated, bright,  and  happy,  except  for  the 
anxiety  about  the  letter;  for  no  answer 
came  to  the  second. 

"  We  will  not  try  again,"  said  Philip. 
"  Promise  me  faithfully,  my  dear,  that  you 
will  not  write  again  without  my  knowl- 
edge." 

"  I  promise,  Philip.  Of  course  I  will 
not." 


MY    LITTLE   GIRL. 


95 


"  When  we  go  back  to  England,  perhaps, 
we  may  think  proper  to  make  another  at- 
tempt ;  but  we  have  our  own  dignity  to 
keep  up,"  said  her  husband  grandly. 

Laura  only  sighed.  If  Mr.  Venn  would 
but  write  ! 

Sunday  came  round,  and  there  was  still 
no  letter.  Laura  grew  very  sad.  Could 
it  be  possible  that  Mr.  Venn  was  angry 
with  her  ?  Was  it  possible  that  he  would 
not  forgive  her?  She  sat  in  the  church 
with  a  sinking  heart.  For  one  thing  she 
had  already  found  out,  —  a  bitter  thing  for 
a  young  wife,  though  yet  it  was  but  an  un- 
easy thought,  —  a  sort  of  pin-pricking, 
whose  importance  she'  did  not  yet  know, 
that  her  husband  would  never  be  to  her 
what  Hartley  Venn  had  been. 

Presently  the  service  was  finished.  She 
sat  on,  while  the  people  all  went  out  of 
the  church.  As  she  sat,  she  watched  the 
women,  one  after  the  other,  going  to  the 
confessional.  They  had,  then,  some  one 
in  whom  they  could  confide,  some  one  to 
advise,  some  one  who  would  listen  patiently 
to  their  little  tales  of  sorrow  and  anxiety. 

She  felt  desolate  ;  because,  now  there 
was  no  longer  Mr.  Venn,  there  was  no- 
body. Had  Philip  touched  her  heart  but 
a  little,  had  she  been  able  to  love  him,  she 
would  not  have  had  the  thought ;  but  she 
did  not  love  him.  There  was  between  the 
pair  the  barrier  which  only  love  can  de- 
stroy between  two  human  beings. 

The  women  went  away.  It  was  getting 
late.  The  confessor — an  old  priest  with 
white  hair  —  caine  out,  stretching  himself, 
and  suppressing  a  little  yawn.  The  confi- 
dence of  the  wives  and  mothers  had  been 
more  than  usually  wearisome  to  the  good 
man.  As  he  came  out,  Laura  stood  before 
him. 

"  Hear  me  too,"  she  whispered  in 
French. 

He  looked  at  her  in  astonishment. 

"  Madame  is  English  —  and  Catholic  ?  " 

"  I  am  English.  I  am  not  a  Catholic. 
Hear  my  confession  too,  and  advise  me. 
Do  not  send  me  away." 

"Let  us  sit  here  —  not  in  the  confes- 
sional, my  child.  That  is  only  for  the 
faithful.  Tell  me  —  you  have  doubts ;  you 
would  return  to  the  ancient  faith  ?  " 

"  I  want  advice.  You  have  given  it  to 
all  those  women.  Give  some  to  me." 

"  Tell  me  how  T  can  help  you." 

She  told  him  all  her  little  story.       . 

"I  did  not  know  that  by  marrying  him 
I  should  separate  myself  from  Mr.  Venn, 
I  thought  to  please  him  —  I  did,  indeed 
Oh  !  what  shall  I  do—  what  shall  I  do?  " 

"  My  poor  child,  you  talk  to  an  olc 
priest.  I  know  nothing  of  love." 

"  Love  !  it  is  always  love.    What  is  love  ? 


.  love  Mr.  Venn  because  I  am  his  ward,  his 
laughter  —  because  he  is  my  life,"  she 
said  simply. 

The  priest  was  puzzled. 

"  I  think  you  must  go  to  see  him  directly 

ou    get  back  to  England.     Consult  your 

insband,   and    obey    him.      Your  —  your 

guardian  never  took  you  to  church,  then  ?  " 

'  No,  I  never  came  to  church  till  I  en- 
tered this  one.  It  has  made  me  happier." 

"  It  always  does,  —  it  always  does.  Come 
to  see  me  again.  Come  to-morrow.  When 
fou  go  to  England,  my  dear  young  lady, 
search  for  some  good  and  faithful  prirst 
who  will  teach  you  the  doctrines  of  the 
Faith.  But  obey  your  husband  in  all 
things  ;  that  is  the  first  rule." 

She  rose  and  left  him,  a  little  comforted. 

This  Sunday  was  a  great  day  for  Vieux- 
:amp,  the  day  of  the  annual  races.  These 
were  not,  as  might  be  expected,  conducted 
on  the  turf  as  is  our  English  practice  — 
perhaps  because  there  was  no  turf,  except 
on  the  mountain  side.  The  Vieuxcamp 
races  are  held  on  the  road  behind  the  long 
promenade,  which  stretches  from  the  two 
piers  to  the  Casino,  about  a  quarter  of  a 
mile.  The  course  is  hard,  as  may  be  im- 
agined ;  but,  as  the  horses  are  used  to  it,  I 
suppose  it  matters  little. 

Philip  was  as  excited  as  a  boy  over  the 
prospect  of  a  little  sport,  and  was  engaged 
all  the  morning  in  discussing  events  at  the 
Casino.  The  preparations  were  on  a  mag- 
nificent scale.  Flags  were  placed  at  inter- 
vals. Gardes  champelres,  if  that  is  their 
name,  were  stationed  to  keep  the  course. 
There  were  stewards,  who  began  to  ride 
about  in  great  splendor,  very  early  in  the 
morning ;  the  ladies  drove  in  from  the 
country,  dressed  in  their  very  best ;  the 
fisherwomen  had  on  their  cleanest  caps ; 
and  the  day  was  clear  and  bright. 

"  Come  out,  Laura,"  said  her  husband, 
bounding  into  the  room.  "  I've  got  a  splen- 
did place  for  you  to  see  the  fun." 

"  I  don't  want  to,  Philip.  I  think  I 
would  rather  sit  here,  and  read." 

"  Oh,  nonsense  !  "  he  urged ;  "  it  will  do 
you  good.  Come." 

But  she  refused ;  and  he  went  by  himself, 
leaving  her  to  solitude  and  her  reflections. 

The  races  began  at  two.  First  came  a 
velocipedists*  race,  which  was  fairly  run 
and  gallantly  won,  though  not  by  the 
ladies'  favorite,  —  a  tall,  good-looking 
young  fellow,  with  a  splendid  velocipede 
and  an  elaborate  get-up.  A  ragged  little 
urchin  from  the  town,  on  a  ramshackle  old 
two-wheel,  beat  him  by  a  couple  of  yards. 
Then  there  came  a  running  race,  —  four 
times  up  and  down  the  course,  which  made 
a  mile.  The  competitors  were  chiefly  the 
fisher-boys  of  the  place.  The  poor  lads, 


96 


MY  LITTLE   GIRL. 


good  enough  in  their  boats,  are  weak  in 
such  unaccustomed  sports  as  running. 
Philip  looked  at  them  fora  little  while,  and 
then  turned  to  his  neighbor,  and  offered  to 
bet  twenty  francs  on  the  boy  who  was  last, 
though  they  all  kept  pretty  close  together. 
The  bet  was  taken.  Philip's  favorite  was 
a  man,  older  than  the  others,  who  were 
mere  boys.  He  was  a  little  fat  fellow,  close 
upon  forty,  with  a  funny  look  on  his  face, 
as  if  every  step  was  taking  out  the  last  bit 
left.  But  he  kept  up;  and,  just  at  the 
middle  of  the  last  course,  he  opened  his 
mouth  quite  wide,  gave  a  sort  of  suppressed 
groan,  and  put  on  the  most  comical,  quaint, 
and  unwieldy  spurt  ever  seen ;  but  it 
landed  him  first,  and  Philip  pocketed  his 
Napoleon. 

Then  they  had  a  walking  race,  with 
some  of  the*  school  lads  and  others.  It 
was  severe  upon  the  sailors.  From  time 
to  time  one  would  burst  into  a  run,  and  be 
turned  out  of  the  race  by  a  steward  who 
rode  behind.  And  just  at  the  finish  — 
there  being  only  three  boys  left,  and  all 
close  together  —  the  middle  one  slipped 
and  fell.  With  the  greatest  presence  -of 
mind  he  kicked  out  hard,  and  brought  the 
other  two  down  upon  him.  Then  they  all 
laid  hold  of  each  other,  trying  to  be  up 
first,  and,  forgetting  the  terms  of  the  con- 
test, ran  in  together,  amid  inextinguishable 
laughter.  That  prize  was  not  adjudged. 

Then  pony  races;  and  then  the  grand 
trotting-match,  of  which  the  Normans  are 
so  fond.  It  was  not  like  the  American 
institutions,  inasmuch  as  the  horses  were 
simply  harnessed  to  the  heavy  carriages  of 
every-dny  life,  and  the  pace  was  a  food 
deal  under  a  mile  in  two  minutes.  Still, 
the  interest  and  delight  of  the  people  were 
immense.  Philip  made  his  selection  out 
of  the  animals,  and  offered  his  neighbor  to 
take  the  odds  against  him.  It  was  his  neigh- 
bor's own  horse.  He  was  delighted. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  dragging  Philip  away 
by  the  arm,  —  "come,  we  will  get  the 
odds." 

And  so  Philip  found  himself  in  the  cen- 
tre of  a  gesticulating  crowd,  making  a  little 
book  on  the  trotting-match. 

Philip  had  his  faults,,  as  we  have  seen ; 
but  an  ignorance  of  horseflesh  was  not  one 
of  them.  That  day  he  went  to  his  wife 
with  a  flushed  face,  having  come  out  of  the 
melee  thirty  Napoleons  the  richer.  He 
might  as  well  have  tried  to  communicate 
his  enthusiasm  to  a  Carmelite  nun,  be- 
cause the  girl  had  no  more  power  of  under- 
standing the  excitement  of  betting.  There 
was,  therefore,  one  point,  at  least,  in  which 
there  would  be  no  community  of  interests. 
After  dinner  Philip  went  to  the  Casino, 
and  played  billiards  with  his  new  friends, 


while  his  wife  sat  at  home,  and  read  and 
meditated.  It  was  the  first  evening  she 
had  been  left  by  herself;  but  she  was  not 
lonely.  She  had  some  pretty  French  novel 
of  a  religious  tone,  —  there  are  not  too 
many  of  them  ;  and  she  was  happily  pass- 
ing over  the  bridge  that  leads  from  ignor- 
ance and  indifference  to  faith.  In  what 
creed  ?  She  knew  not :  it  mattered  not. 
Faith  is  above  dogma.  So  while  she  read, 
pondered,  arid  prayed,  her  husband  smoked, 
drank,  and  gambled. 

He  had  not  come  back  at  ten,  so  she  put 
on  her  hat,  and  went  to  look  at  the  sea. 
No  one  was  on  the  beach.  The  waves 
came  swelling  gently  in  with  their  soft,  sad 
murmur,  as  the  Sysyphean  stones  rolled 
up  the  beach  and  back  again.  The  hoarse 
voices  of  the  sailors  on  the  quay,  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  away,  sounded  even  musical  in 
the  distance.  The  air  was  warm  and 
sweet.  The  moonless  sky  was  set  with 
stars,  like  diamonds,  seeming  to  fall  back 
into  illimitable  depths.  Sitting  there,  the 
girl  gave  herself  up  to  the  thoughts  newly 
born  within  her,  —  thoughts  that  could  pro- 
duce no  echo  in  the  heart  of  her  hus- 
band, —  thoughts  without  words,  too  deep, 
too  precious,  too  sweet,  for  words. 

When  the  clock  struck  eleven  she  was 
roused  by  the  carillon  from  her  medita- 
tions, and  went  slowly  back  to  the  hotel. 
As  she  passed  through  the  hall  to  the  stair- 
case she  heard  her  husband's  voice,  loudly 
talking  in  the  little  room  on  the  right, 
where  lay  the  papers  and  journals.  There 
was  the  cliquetis  of  glasses  and  the  pop- 
ping of  soda. 

A  cold  feeling  stole  over  her,  she  knew 
not  why ;  and  she  went  up  to  bed  alone, 
saddened  and  melancholy.  It  was  the  first 
real  glimpse  of  the  great  gulf  between 
herself  and  the  man  with  whom  her  fate 
was  linked. 

A  week  after  this,  no  letter  having  come 
from  Mr.  Venn,  they  went  back  to  London ; 
for  Phil's  five  hundred  had  walked  away, 

—  thanks  to  the  ecarte  of  the  last  few  days, 

—  and  he  had  barely  enough  left  to  pay 
his  hotel-bill. 

There  was  still  another  five  hundred 
which  he  might  draw  from  his  agent,  and 
he  had  his  commission. 

And  after  that  ? 


CHAPTER   XXH. 

PHILIP  took  his  wife  to  a  little  cottage 
near  Notting  Hill.  She  was  pleased  with 
the  place  and  the  furniture,  and  the  little 
garden,  but  more  pleased  still  with  the 
prospect  of  seeing  Mr.  Venn  again.  She 


MY  LITTLE   GIRL. 


97 


talked  about  it  all  the  evening ;  wondered 
what  she  should  say ;  and  made  her  hus- 
band silently  furious  with  jealousy  and 
foolish  rage.  But  he  said  nothing.  Only 
in  the  morning,  when,  after  breakfast,  she 
came  down  to  him  dressed,  and  announced 
her  intention  of  going  to  Gray's  Inn  at 
once,  he  took  a  line,  and  sternly  forbade 
her  to  go  at  all. 

"  But  you  promised,  Philip.*' 

"  I  did,"  he  answered.  "  But  your 
letters,  Laura:  where  is  his  answer  to  them  ? 
Listen  to  me,  —  one  word  will  be  enough. 
You  shall  not  go  and  see  this  man  until  he 
answers  your  letters,  or  till  I  give  you 
leave." 

She  sat  down,  and  burst  into  tears. 
Philip,  not  unkindly,  took  off  her  hat,  and 
laid  it  on  the  table. 

"  It  is  hard,  Laura,"  he  said,  —  "I  know 
it  is  hard  for  you  ;  but  it  is  best.  He  has 
given  you  up." 

"  He  has  not  given  me  up,"  said  the  girl. 
*'  He  would  never  give  me  up  —  never 
—  never.  He  loved  me  better  than  you 
can  ever  dream  of  loving  me.  I  am  his  — 
altogether  his.  You  made  me  promise  not 
to  tell  him,  —  you  made  me  leave  him." 

"  Why  does  he  not  answer  your  letters  ?  " 

"  Something  has  happened.  O  Philip ! 
let  me  go." 

"  I  will  not  let  you  go,"  returned  her 
husband.  "  You,  in  this  new  religious 
light  that  you  have  got,  know  at  least, 
that  you  are  to  obey  your  husband.  Obey 
me  now." 

She  sat  still  and  silent.  It  was  what  the 
priest  had  told  her.  Yes,  she  must  obey  him. 

"  For  how  long  ?  "  she  said.  "  O  Philip  ! 
for  how  long  ?  " 

•"For  two  or  three  months,  my  dear. 
Forgive  me  :  I  am  harsh,  —  I  am  unkind  ; 
but  it  is  best.  Besides,  other  things  have 
happened.  You  must  not  go.  Promise 
me  again." 

She  promised. 

He  took  his  hat.  His  hands  were  trem- 
bling, and  his  cheeks  red. 

"  I  am  going  to  my  club  on  business,"  he 
said.  "  I  shall  not  be  back  till  late  this 
evening.  Kiss  me,  Laura." 

She  kissed  him  mechanically,  —  obedient 
in  every  thing ;  and  he  went  away. 

A  bad  omen  for  their  wedded  life.  It  is 
the  first  day  at  home ;  and  her  husband, 
unable  to  endure  the  torture  of  his  con- 
science about  the  letters,  and  the  sorrow  of 
his  wife,  flies  to  the  club — his  club  of 
gamblers  and  sharpers  —  for  relief. 

It  is  late  when  he  returns,  —  a  heavy 
loser  at  play,  —  his  cheek  flushed  with  wine, 
not  with  shame. 

O  Philip ! 

"  Tu  tibi  supplicium,  tibi  tu  rota,  tu  tibi  tortor." 
7 


Among  the  earliest  callers  on  Mrs.  Durn- 
ford  —  in  fact,  her  only  visitor  —  was  Mr. 
Alexander  MacTntyre.  He  came  dressed  in 
a  sober  suit  of  pepper  and  salt;  and,  sit- 
ting with  his  hat  on  the  floor  and  his  hand 
supporting  one  knee,  he  began  to  discourse 
to  Laura — for  her  husband  was  nut  at  home 
—  on  the  topics  of  the  day. 

"  Did  you  take  my  note  to  Mr.  Venn  ?  " 
asked  the  girl,  interrupting  him. 

"That  note?  Oh,  yes,  I  remember! 
Yes  :  I  had  not  the  pleasure  of  seeing  the 
gentleman,  because  he  was  out.  I  dropped 
it  into  the  letter-box." 

Laura  sighed.  There  was,  then,  no 
doubt.  He  had  received  all  her  letters, 
and  would  write  to  her  no  more. 

"  Has  there  been  no  answer,  Mrs.  Durn- 
ford  ?  " 

"  None,"  she  replied.  «  And  I  have 
written  to  him  twice  since  then ;  but  he 
will  not  take  any  notice  of  my  letters." 

The  tears  stood  in  her  eyes. 

"I  have  promised  Philip  not  to  write 
again  without  his  consent.  He  says  we 
have  done  as  much  as  we  can.  I  don't 
know,  —  I  wish  I  could  go  round  myself  and 
see  Mr.  Venn." 

"  Oh  !  you  must  not  think  of  doing  that," 
interposed  Mr.  Maclntyre  hastily. 

"  So  Philip  says ;  but  I  shall  think 
about  it." 

Presently  she  began  to  ask  him  questions 
about  himself.  It  was  a  new  thing  for  the 
philosopher  to  have  anybody  taking  an  in- 
terest in  his  movements ;  arid  he  perhaps 
"  expanded  "  more  than  was  absolutely 
prudent. 

"  What  am  I  to  do  ?  "  he  said.  "  I  am 
getting  old  :  my  hair  is  gray.  People  want 
to  know  all  sorts  of  things  that  it  is  not 
always  easy  to  tell." 

"  But  the  simple  truth  can  always  be  told, 
and  that  ought  to  satisfy  them." 

"  There,"  said  the  man  of  experience, 
with  a  curious  look,  "  is  exactly  the  point. 
It  is  just  the  simple  truth  that  will  not  sat- 
isfy these  sharks.  I  might  write  a  book, 
but  what  about?  People  only  buy  books 
written  on  the  side  of  morality;  and  the 
moral  ranks  are  so  crowded  that  there 
seems  little  chance  of  gettino1  in  with  new 
lights." 

"  But  you  would  not  write  on  any  other 
side,  surely  ?  " 

"  Obsairve,  my  dear  young  leddy ;  if 
there  ever  were  such  a  thing  as  a  clever 
scoundrel,  who  had  the  moral  strength  to 
take  his  stand  as  such,  and  write  an  auto- 
biography without  the  usual  sacrifice  to 
supposed  popular  opinion,  he  might  make 
a  fortune.  A  general  case  —  a  heepotheti- 
cal  case  only ;  but  one  which  occurred  to 
me.  I  mean,  of  course,  an  unscrupulous 


MY   LITTLE  GIRL. 


man,  without  religion  of  any  kind,  —  such  a 
man  as,  to  secure  his  own  safety,  would 
ruin  any  one  else  who  stood  in  his  way, 
and  do  it  without  a  pang." 

"  I  should  hope  no  such  persons  exist 
Why  are  we  talking  about  such  creatures  !  " 

"They  do  exist.  I  have  met  them,  —  in 
the  colonies.  Mrs.  Durnford,  if  ever  you 
should  come  across  such  a  man,  remember 
my  words.  They  would  rather  do  a  good 
turn  than  a  bad  one  ;  but  if  the  bad  turn 
has  to  be  done  for  their  own  good,  why  — 
then  it  must." 

"  But  go  on  about  yourself.' 

"  About  myself,  then.  I  have  a  small 
sum  of  money,  the  fruits  of  many  years  of 
careful  living  and  economy." 

O  Mr.  Maclntyre  !  was  not  this  a  super- 
fluous evasion  of  truth  ? 

"  This  small  amount  is  rapidly  decreas- 
ing ;  what  I  shall  do  when  it  is  gone  I  do 
not  know.  It  is  my  rule  through  life,  Mrs. 
Durnford,  and  I  recommend  it  to  your  care- 
ful consideration,  never  to  decline  the 
proffers  of  fate.  Very  often,  behind  the 
drudgery  of  a  position  which  fortune  puts 
into  your  hands,  may  be  found,  by  one  who 
knows  how  to  take  an  opportunity,  the 
road  to  wealth,  if  not  to  fame  ;  now  I  think 
nothing  of  it.  What  does  it  matter  ?  You 
do  great  things ;  at  least,  popular  things. 
You  get  money,  —  you  are  asked  to  make 
speeches  at  dinners.  When  you  die,  your 
friends  write  your  life  and  distort  your 
character.  Bah  !  The  only  thing  worth 
living  for  is  money.  Get  money  —  get 
money.  Be  comfortable ;  eat,  drink,  enjoy 
all  the  senses  of  nature,  and  care  for  noth- 
ing else.  That  is  what  the  city  people  do, 
in  spite  of  their  snug  respectability." 

"  Mr.  Maclntyre,  is  this  the  faith  that 
Scotch  clergymen  teach  ?  " 

He  began  to  think  that  perhaps  Laura 
was  not  sufficiently  advanced  to  accept  all 
his  views. 

"  Is  your  religion  nothing  ?  "  she  asked. 
"  Is  it  nothing  to  lead  a  life  of  sacrifice  and 
self-denial  like  the  nuns  I  have  seen  in 
France  ?  Is  there  no  sacred  duty  of  life 
but  to  make  money  ?  Surely,  Mr.  Macln- 
tyre, —  surely  these  are  not  the  things  you 
preach  in  your  church  ?  " 

"  You  are  right,"  he  replied  :  "  they  are 
not  the  things  I  preach  in  my  church.  For- 
give my  inconsiderate  speech.  I  say  some- 
times more  than  I  mean." 

But  the  conversation  left  a  bad  impres- 
sion on  Laura,  and  she  began  to  regard  the 
man  with  something  like  suspicionf 

As  the  weeks  went  on,  she  found  herself, 
too,  left   a  good  deal   alone.     Philip  was 
growing  tired  of  her.     Her  sadness,  her 
coldness,  were  silent   reproaches   to  him 
and  he  neglected  her  more  and  more. 


One  night  he  entertained  a  party  of 
Viends.  On  that  occasion  he  insisted  on 
ler  keeping  up  stairs  all  the  evening,  with- 
ji.it  explaining  why.  They  staid  till 
,hree.  She  could  not  sleep  till  they  went 
away,  being  kept  awake  by  their  noisy 
aughter  and  talk.  Philip  came  up  when 
the  last  was  gone. 

4  I'm  an  unlucky  Devil,"  he  murmured, 
racing  to  and  fro. 

"  What  is  it,  Philip  ?  "  asked  his  wife. 

"  Nothing  you  understand,  ray  dear  ;  un- 
ess  you  can  understand  what  dropping 
three  ponies  means." 

"  No,  Philip,  not  in  the  least." 

He  put  out  the  light,  and  was  asleep  in 
five  minutes. 

The  clouds  grew  thick  in  Laura's  sky. 
She  could  not  understand  horse-racing  and 
betting.  She  took  not  the  smallest  interest 
in  events  and  favorites.  On  the  other  hand, 
Philip  took  no  interest  in  what  she  did  : 
never  asked  her  how  she  spent  the  day, 
never  took  her  out  with  him,  never  gave 
her  his  confidence.  At  least,  however,  he 
was  kind;  never  spoke  harshly  to  her, 
never  ill-treated  her,  only  neglected  her. 
This  was  not  what  the  girl  pined  and  sick- 
ened for.  Philip  occupied  her  thoughts  very 
little.  She  longed  for  the  old  life.  She 
longed  for  the  freedom  of  her  talks  with  the 
only  man  she  could  talk  to.  She  was  soli- 
tary in  spirit.  She  was  beginning  to  feel 
the  misery  of  mating  with  low  aims.  She 
stood  on  a  higher  level  than  her  husband, 
and  she  did  not  have  that  perfect  love  for 
him  which  sometimes  enables  a  woman  to 
stoop  and  raise  him  with  her. 

The  new  and  congenial  society  of  gentle- 
men more  or  less  interested  in  the  noble  and 
exciting  sports  of  our  country,  to  which 
Philip's  friends  had  introduced  him  when 
he  retired  from  his  old  club,  was  banded 
together  under  the  title  of  the  Burleigh 
Club.  To  the  name  of  Burleigh  the  most 
captious  can  take  no  exception.  To  such 
members  as  the  name  suggested  any  thing, 
its  associations  were  stately  and  dignified. 
To  the  majority,  for  whom  it  meant  nothing 
beyond  being  the  patronymic  of  a  noble 
house  and  the  name  of  their  club,  it  did  as 
well  as.any  other.  It  looked  well,  embossed 
in  colors  on  the  club-note  paper.  By  any 
other  name,  the  Burleigh  could  not  have 
smelt  more  sweet.  And  another  name,  by 
which  it  was  not  uncommonly  called,  had 
been  bestowed  on  it  by  a  body  of  gentle- 
men who,  though  not  members  themselves, 
had  heavy  claims  upon  many  who  were. 
The  ring  men  dubbed  it,  before  it  had 
existed  a  twelve  month,  The  Welshers' 
Retreat.  The  members,  recognizing  the 
happiness  of  the  sobriquet,  jocularly  took 
the  new  title  into  favor ;  and  Philip's  club 


MY   LITTLE  GIRL. 


99 


had  thus  two  names,  —  interchangeable  at 
pleasure,  —  always  understood,  and  the 
latter  for  choice. 

This  was  Philip's  club.  A  tall,  narrow- 
fronted  house  in  the  centre  of  club-land  ; 
what  an  auctioneer  would  describe  as 
"  most  eligibly  situate."  Outside,  the 
quietest  and  most  respectable  club  in 
London,  —  Quakerlike  in  the  sober  sadness 
of  its  looks.  Inside,  a  gambler's  paradise. 
Day  at  the  Burleigh  begins  at  three  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon.  The  blinking  waiters 
would  prophecy  the  speedy  ruin  of  any- 
body who  required  their  services  before 
that  hour.  It  is  the  custom  of  the  club  for 
members  to  leave  it  at  any  time,  but  never 
to  enter  it  till  two  or  three  hours  after 
noon. 

Breakfasts  are  served  till  five,  P.M.,  sup- 
pers till  six,  A.M.  Between  these  hours  a 
smart  Hansom  can  always  be  had  opposite 
the  door.  Business  begins  in  the  pool- 
room at  half-past  three;  the  chat  is  ani- 
mated at  five,  and  very  lively  between  six 
and  seven.  Then  the  men  g0  away  to 
dinner,  to  return  any  time  after  ten  to 
whist,  loo,  hazard,  blind-hookey,  —  any 
thing  that  can  be  gambled  at."  Rules  ? 
The  code  is  short.  It  is  summed  up  in 
this  one  regulation,  —  betting  debts  must 
be  paid  on  the  usual  settling  days;  card 
debts  not  later  than  the  next  day  after 
they  have  been  incurred.  "  Complaints 
of  the  infraction  of  this  rule,  on  being  re- 
ferred to  the  committee,  will  render  the  de- 
faulting member  liable  to  expulsion  "  And 
they  do  expel.  Oh,  honorable  men,  how 
admirable,  how  necessary,  is  your  rule ! 
In  this  way  the  honor  of  the  Burleigh  is 
kept  sweet.  For  the  rest,  you  may  do  as 
you  like  :  every  member  is  a  law  unto  him- 
self; their  club  is  Liberty  Hall.  What 
manner  of  men,  it  may  be  asked,  is  it  that 
people  this  little  paradise? 

The  members  of  the  Burleigh  are  young 
and  old.  Postobit  has  just  heard  of  his 
election  at  twenty.  Leatherflapper,  one 
of  the  fathers  of  the  society,  is  seventy- 
three.  They  are  rich  and  poor.  Four-in- 
hand,  with  the  string  of  forty  thoroughbreds 
in  training  at  Newmarket,  and  the  rents  of 
twenty  thousand  acres  to  keep  them  and 
himself  upon  ;  and  Philip  Durnford,  with 
five  hundred  pounds  at  his  agents,  and  his 
shovel  in  his  hand  to  dig  it  out  with,  both 
belong.  They  number  in  their  ranks  the 
richest  and  the  poorest,  the  kindest  and 
cruelest,  the  most  unimpeachably  respect- 
able and  the  most  undeniably  shady  gentle- 
men, in  these  kingdoms.  In  some  clubs  the 
elders  are  unsociable,  crusty  old  hunkers. 
Not  so  here.  They  are  so  communicative, 
so  ready  to  teach  all  they  have  learnt,  and 
to  tell  all  they  know,  that  it  is  quite  beauti- 


ful to  see.  Every  man  disposed  to  turn 
misanthrope  should  witness  it.  It  always 
goes  straight  to  my  heart  to  see  old  Leather- 
napper  taking  young  Postobit  in  hand, 
and  putting  him  up  to  every  wrinkle  on  the 
board.  True,  there  is  a  price  to  be  paid  — 
understood,  never  expressed :  a  fee  for  ex- 
perience. But  what  that  is  worth  having 
on  earth  is  to  be  had  for  nothing?  You 
would  like  to  be  introduced  to  this  com- 
pany of  wise  and  benevolent  men  V .  You 
know  their  faces  well.  They  are  to  be 
studied  at  every  race-meeting,  seen  in  the 
Park  on  sunny  days,  at  German  spas,  at 
Hurlingham,  —  everywhere  where  excite- 
ment can  be  bought.  And  the  bond  that 
makes  them  such  friends  and  such  enemies, 
—  you  guess  it :  Gambling.  The  universal 
p -is-ion.  The  passion  of  all  times  of  life, 
from  earliest  youth  to  latest  age ;  of  all 
places,  from  Christian  London  to  Buddhist 
Yeddo ;  of  all  periods,  from  the  first  re- 
corded tradition  of  savage  life  till  the 
Archangel  shall  sound  the  last  trump; 
of  men  and  women,  from  the  tramp  card- 
seller,  who  bets  his  sister  two  pennies  to 
one  against  a  favorite  for  a  race,  to  the 
nobleman  who  stakes  a  fortune  on  a  cast 
of  the  dice  ;  the  miser,  the  spendthrift,  the 
stock-jobber,  the  prince,  —  gambling  has 
joys  for  all. 

So  the  Burleigh  was  founded  for  play 
that  mi'jjht  run  to  any  height,  for  games 
prohibited  at  other  places ;  as  a  rendez- 
vous for  every  gentleman  who  wanted  a 
little  excitement,  a  place  where  there 
should  always  be  "  something  doing." 
You  must  know  the  members  by  certain 
characteristic  habits  and  ways  they  have. 
They  breakfast  late ;  they  are  fond  of  a 
devil  early  in  the  day ;  they  take  "  pick- 
me-ups."  In  the  daytime  they  are  busy 
with  their  books.  Notes  addressed  in 
female  hands  lie  waiting  for  their  arrival 
in  the  morning,  the  writing  being  general- 
ly of  such  a  kind  as  to  suggest  a  late  ac- 
quisition of  the  art  of  penmanship.  They 
have  a  keen,  cold  look  about  the  eyes,  where 
the  crow's-feet  gather  early.  For  the  most 
part  they  dress  very  carefully  ;  though 
sometimes,  just  a  day  in  advance  of  the 
fashion,  they  affect  drab  or  brown  gaiters 
and  cloth-topped  boots ;  carry,  in  this 
year  of  grace,  their  walking-canes  by  the 
ferule  ;  and  smoke  eternally.  From 
these  gentlemen  Philip's  companions  were 
chosen. 

This  was  h'is  club ;  this  the  place  where 
he  spent  his  days  and  nights,  a  short  month 
after  his  marriage,  while  his  wife  staid  at 
home,  or,  if  she  went  out  at  all,  was  afraid 
to  go  far  for  fear  of  meeting  Mr.  Venn.  In 
this  company,  starting  in  July  with  his  five 
hundred  pounds  and  the  proceeds  of  his  com- 


100 


MY  LITTLE  GIEL. 


mission,  —  for  he  sold  out,  —  be  was  trying 
to  make  hay  while  the  sun  did  not  shine, 
and  melting  it  all  away. 

He  kept  no  accounts  ;  but  kept  on  di'j/jin'j; 
at  the  little  heap,  ignorant  and  careless  of 
how  much  was  left.  His  great  hope  lay  in 
his  pluck  and  skill  .in  playing  cards,  and 
betting  on  horse-races.  He  was  often  ad- 
vised by  Mr.  Mac  In  tyre,  who  had  the  use- 
ful talent  of  clear-headedness,  and  used  to 
come  to  Netting  Hill  about  Philip's  break- 
fast-time ;  and  then  the  two  would  sit  and 
go  through  the  "  Calendar  "  and  "  Ruff's 
Guide,"  while  the  neglected  girl  looked  on, 
and  wondered  what  it  was  they  talked  about. 
It  was  one  of  her  great  sorrows  at  this  time 
that  she  had  no  books  to  read,  —  none  of  her 
old  books  ;  none  of  those  old  poets,  which 
she  and  Mr.  Venn  used  to  pore  over  in  the 
summer  evenings,  while  the  shadows  fell 
upon  the  dingy  old  court  of  the  Inn.  Philip, 
who  seemed  to  have  given  up  his  old  read- 
ing tastes,  had  only  a  few  novels.  She  had 
never  read  any  novels  at  all  until  she  went 
to  France.  Phil's  did  not  please  her.  They 
were  barrack  novels,  stories  of  camp-life, 
sporting  stories,  —  books  to  her  without 
interest.  She  could  not  read  them,  and 
put  them  down  one  after  another,  —  falling 
back  upon  the  piano,  for  which  she  had  no 
music,  and  could  only  play  the  things  she 
knew. 

Maclntyre  saw  what  was  coming.  Philip 
was  plunging ;  and  his  method,  infallible  on 
paper,  as  the  experience  of  twenty  seasons 
proved,  did  not  work  quite  perfectly  in 
practice. 

Mr.  Maclntyre  had  seen  this  from  the 
first.  In  the  multitude  of  his  experiences 
he  had  tried  the  martingale,  new  to  Philip, 
even  before  that  young  gentleman  was  born. 
Like  his  pupil,  he  had  been  fascinated  by 
it.  The  lever  that  was  to  raise  him  to 
wealth  and  power,  so  beautifully  simple, 
so  utterly  impracticable. 

He  remonstrated  with  Philip,  pointing 
out  the  rocks  ahead.  But  he  spoke  to  a 
deaf  man. 

'•I  know  better.  It's  my  cursed  luck. 

I'm  sure  to  warm  the  ring  at ."  Philip 

urged.  Then,  with  a  shrug  of  the  shoul- 
ders, he  added,  "  And  if  my  luck  sticks  to 
me,  why  —  at  the  worst  I  shall  pay  up ; 
and  then  Laura  and  I  will  go  away  some- 
where, borrow  money  of  Arthur,  and  be- 
come farmers  in  New  Zealand,  or  keep  a 
shop  in  Ballarat,  or  mock  the  hairy-faced 
baboon  somewhere.  We  shall  do»  The 
world  is  wide." 

"  It  is,  Phil.  I  have  found  it  so.  The 
world  is  wide  —  and  hungry." 

Mr.  Maclntyre  took  the  book  again,  and 
totted  up  the  amount  that  Philip  had  lost 
at  his  last  meeting.  Then  he  made  a  little 


note  of  it  on  a  slip  of  paper,  and  put  it 
into  his  pocket. 

"  Phil,'' he  said,  with  an  insinuating  air, 
"I  hope  you  have  not  lost  much  since  you 
came  home." 

He  changed  color. 

"  I've  dropped  more  than  four  hundred 
at  the  club,  and  a  hundred  and  fifty  one 
night  here,  when  I  had  those  fellows  to  play 
loo  ;  besides  that  pill  at  the  last  meeting." 

Mr.  Maclntyre  shook  his  head.  When 
he  went  home,  he  made  a  little  sum  in 
arithmetic. 

"  When  I  consider,"  he  said  to  himself, 
"  that  in  a — b,  b  is  greater  than  a,  I'm  afraid 
that  Phil  is  likely  to  be  up  a  tree,  and  my 
great  card  may  very  likely  be  played  to 
advantage." 

He  Avent  up  to  dine  a  few  nights  after 
this  talk.  Laura  was  charming,  in  a  fresh, 
bright  dress  and  in  better  spirits  than 
usual.  Philip,  in  one  thing,  had  been  dis- 
appointed in  his  wife.  He  had  promised 
himself  the  trouble  of  teaching  her  the 
little  courtesies  of  life,  —  the  ordinary  ac- 
complishments, perhaps  her  mother  tongue. 
He  never  made  a  greater  mistake.  She 
came  to  him  a  lady  ready  to  his  hand  :  in 
all  points  an  accomplished,  refined,  well- 
educated  lady,  how  far  superior  to  the 
ordinary  run  of  young  ladyhood  he  hardly 
knew. 

The  little  dinner  went  off  pleasantly ; 
and,  when  Laura  left  them  in  the  little 
dining-room,  both  men  were  pleased.  She 
sat  down  in  the  drawing-room,  and  played 
while  they  talked  over  their  wine.  She 
played  on  till  the  clock  struck  ten ;  then 
she  waited  till  eleven ;  then  she  opened 
the  door  timidly,  and  looked  in.  Philip, 
flushed  in  the  face,  was  making  calcula- 
tions on  paper.  Mr.  Maclntyre,  with  face 
very  much  more  flushed,  had  a  long  clay 
pipe  in  his  mouth,  not  lighted,  at  which  he 
was  solemnly  sucking. 

«  By  Jove  !  "  said  Phil.  «  I  thought  I  was 
a  bachelor  again.  Come  in,  Laura,  come 
in." 

Maclntyre  rose  solemnly,  holding  by  the 
table-cove'r. 

"  The  shoshiety  of  leddies  is  —  what'sh 
wanted  —  ceevileeze  the  world.  Ye  will 
obsairve  —  at  the  'vershety  of  which  I  am 
—  member  —  Master  of  Arts,  —  they  al- 
ways obsairved  that  the  shoshiety  of  led- 
dies— Phil,  ye  drunken  deevil,  whaur's 
my  tumbler  ?  " 

Laura  looked  at  him  with  amazement. 
The  reverend  gentleman  was  hopelessly 
drunk,  —  as  drunk  as  any  stonemason  in 
Puddock's  Row.  Port,  followed  by  whiskey 
toddy,  had  produced  this  lamentable  effect. 

"All  right,"  said  Phil.  He  was  not 
drunk  himself;  but,  as  policemen  say,  he 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


101 


had  been  drinking.  "  All  right,  darling. 
Here,  old  bag  of  evil  devices,  put  on  your 
hat,  and  try  to  tie  your  legs  in  as  many 
knots  as  you  can  on  your  way  home." 

*'  Shif,  said  the  Maclntyre,  putting  the 
bowl  of  the  pipe  into  his  mouth,  "  apolo- 
geeze.  This  is  —  this  is  —  eh  V  —  persh- 
nal." 

"To-morrow,"  said  Phil.  "Don't  be 
frightened,  Laura." 

For  his  reverence  made  a  sudden  lurch 
in  her  direction,  inspired  neither  by  ani- 
mosity, nor  yet  by  friendship,  nor  by  any 
amorous  inclination,  but  solely  by  the  toddy. 

"  I  was  shtudying  "  — 

"  Yes  —  yes  —  we  know.  Don't  trouble 
yourself  to  say  good-night." 

Philip  pushed  him  down-stairs,  and  out 
of  the  door,  and  returned. 

"  O  Phil !  how  could  you  ?  " 

"  Well,  dear,  he  did  it  himself.  I  always 
let  the  Maclntyre  have  the  full  run  of  the 
bottle  :  so  did  my  father." 

"  But  he  is  a  clergyman." 

"  My  dear  wife,"  her  husband  exclaimed, 
"  they  all  do  it  in  private  life." 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

ABOUT  the  same  time  that  Philip  Dor- 
mer, Lord  Chesterfield,  was  bringing  the 
powers  of  his  great  mind  to  the  alteration 
of  Old  Style  into  New  Style  by  making 
our  English  year  begin  on  the  first  of  Jan- 
uary instead  of  the  twenty-fifth  of  March, 
and  cheating  the  common  people  of  eleven 
good  days  of  the  year  'of  grace  1752,  his 
right  trusty  and  well-beloved  friend,  my 
Lord  Bath,  after  spending  ten  days  at  New- 
market, delivered  himself  of  a  sentiment. 
His  lordship  was  pleased  to  remark  of  his 
favorite  sport,  that  "  it  is  delightful  to  see 
two,  or  sometimes  more  of  the  most  beau- 
tiful animals  of  creation  .struggling  for 
superiority,  stretching  every  muscle  and 
sinew  to  obtain  the  prize  and  reach  the 
goal ;  to  observe  the  skill  and  address  of 
the  riders,  who  are  all  distinguished  by 
different  colors  of  white,  blue,  green,  red, 
or  yellow,  sometimes  spurring  or  whipping, 
sometimes  checking  or  pulling  to  give  fresh 
breath  and  courage.  And  it  is  often 
observed  that  the  race  is  won  as  much  by 
the  dexterity  of  the  rider  as  the  vigor  and 
fleetness  of  the  animal."  The  flourishing 
era  of  the  English  turf  dates  from  the  time 
of  this  memorable  saying  of  Lord  Bath's  ; 
and  it  is  doubtful  if  the  change  in  the 
calendar  "introduced  by  Lord  Chesterfield 
has  had  one  tithe  of  the  effect  upon  man- 
ners and  society  that  this  new  fashion  set 
by  Lord  Bath  of  patronizing  horse-races 


all  over  the  country  has  been  the  means 
of  bringing  about. 

It  is  still  as  delightful  as  it  was  in  the  days 
of  the  second  Charles  or  the  second  George 
to  stand  on  that  magnificent  expanse, 
Newmarket  Heath,  and  watch,  from  the 
rising  ground  at  the  top  of  the  town,  or 
from  the  A.F.  winning  post,  the  struggles 
"  of  two  or  sometimes  more  of  the  most 
beautiful  animals  of  creation,"  though  the 
"  skill  and  address  of  the  riders  "  are  not 
always  turned  to  the  account  of  making 
the  "  beautiful  animals,"  they  bestride 
stretch  "  every  muscle  and  sinew  to  obtain 
the  prize,"  as  seems  to  have  been  the  custom 
in  the  innocent  days  Lord  Bath  knew. 
Probably,  in  his  lordship's  time,  roping, 
as  an  art  based  on  scientific  deductions, 
had  not  been  invented,  though  his  descrip- 
tion mentions  "  checking  and  pulling,"  but 
it  is  for  the  now  obsolete  custom  of  giving 
"fresh  breath  and  courage."  What  the 
noble  author  would  say  if  he  saw  a  field  of 
thirty  horses  facing  the  starter  for  a  fifty 
pound  Maiden  Plate,  T.  Y.  C.  (A.  F.),  and 
his  distinguishing  colors  "  of  white,  blue, 
green,  red,  or  yellow"  complicated  and 
modernized  into  "  French  gray,  scarlet 
hoops  and  chevrons,"  or  "  black,  white 
sleeves,  death's  head,  and  crossbones,"  we 
do  not  care  to  speculate  upon.  In  his  time, 
honest  races  were  run  over  four  and  six 
mile  courses;  a  match  was  the  favorite 
description  of  race  ;  betting  was  not  a  pro- 
fession ;  and  the  scum  did  not  invade  the 
sacred  precincts  of  the  Duke  of  Rutland's 
heath.  A  noble  sport  was  in  the  hands  of 
noble  men. 

Now  — 

Well,  this  is  hardly  my  business. 

"  Obsairve,"  said  Mr.  Maclntyre,  speak- 
ing to  his  pupil,  Philip  Durnford,  above  a 
hundred  years  later, "  the  fascination  of  this 
noble  sport.  You  never  knew  a  man  in 
your  life  who  had  once  tasted  the  delights 
of  the  turf  who  did  not  return  to  them  again 
as  soon  as  he  had  the  means.  There  is 
something  about  it  that  no  man  can  resist, 
break  him  as  often  as  you  like.  If  he  has 
got  the  money  to  go  racing,  and  bet,  he 
goes  racing,  and  bets.  I  knew  a  man 'who 
had  three  several  fortunes,  and  lost  them 
all  gambling  on  the  turf,"  Mr.  Maclntyre 
proceeded  to  say ;  "  and  Phil,  ye'll  ob- 
sairve  that  when  he  came  into  a  fourth,  he 
went  and  did  likewise  with  that  one 
also." 

Like  every  idle  young  man  with  the 
command  of  cash,  and  the  slightest  possi- 
ble amount  of  egging  on,  Philip  Durnford 
was  inclined  to  fiddle  a  bit  at  long  odds. 
He  had,  on  some  score  or  so  of  occasions, 
taken  a  long  shot,  backed  a  tip  or  a  fancy, 
before  he  had  become  the  instrument  in 


102 


MY  LITTLE  GIKL. 


the  hands  of  Providence  of  rescuing  Mr. 
Maclntyre  from  his  advertising  agency. 
But  he  was  not  sweet  upon  the  practice, 
ibr  he  had  hardly  ever  won.  It  is  notori- 
ous that,  at  all  other  sorts  of  gambling  a 
man  invariably  wins  at  first.  This  is  not 
soin  watering  "upon  horses ;  and  Philip,  with 
the  common  inclination  to  bet,  and  his  full 
share  of  love  for  the  sport,  felt  a  little  sour- 
ed by  his  experience.  Now,  part  of  the 
universal  scholarship  of  Mr.  Maclntyre 
was  an  interest  in  horse-flesh,  a  knowledge 
of  betting,  and  an  experience  of  races. 
Added  to  this,  he  was  an  infatuated  be- 
liever in  the  well-known  doubling  martin- 
gale. Practising  on  the  credulity  and  igno- 
rance of  Philip,  he  unfolded  the  secrets 
of  this  wonderful  system  of  winning  fabu- 
lous sums,  as  his  —  the  Maclntyre's  — 
whole  and  sole  discovery  and  property. 
And  he  represented  to  that  willing  ear 
that,  if  he  only  had  the  means  of  working 
it  out,  the  Fuggers  in  the  past,  and  the 
Rothschilds  in  the  present,  might  be  re- 
garded as  poor  men  compared  with  the 
cidevant  pedagogue. 

"  Eh,  my  dear  young  friend,  it's  just  the 
mighty  lever  that  can  make  us  meellion- 
aires,  an  ye'll  only  believe  it." 

And  there  was  evidence  forthcoming  to 
support  the  assertion.  Racing  calendars 
for  twenty  years  were  referred  to;  piles 
of  paper  scribbled  over,  and  two  or  three 
lead-pencils  consumed  over  these  calcula- 
tions. The  system  stood  the  test  af  all 
these  years;  generations  of  horses  passed 
away  as  Phil  and  his  mentor  tested  the 
lever's  strength,  and  no  run  of  luck  was 
ill  enough  to  break  it.  Philip  believed  in 
it,  —  as,  after  such  an  array  of  evidence, 
who  would  not  ?  —  but  he  doubted  Macln- 
tyre. 

"  And  do  you  mean  to  say  you  found 
this  out  yourself?  "  he  often  asked. 

And  without  either  blush  or  smile,  the 
old  vagabond  declared  that  he  was  the 
great  discoverer,  and  accordingly  rolled  a 
Newtonian  and  Copernican  eye  on  Philip, 
and  gave  himself  the  airs  of  the  Spaniard 
holding  in  his  hand  the  key  of  the  Incas' 
gold,  or  of  Raleigh  with  El  Dorado  in  full 
view. 

1,  2,  4,  8,  16,  32,  64,  128,  256,  512. 

These  figures  were  Maclntyre's  ladder 
of  fortune  ;  and  he  offered  boundless  wealth 
•  to  needy  Philip  Durnford,  on  the  modest 
condition  of  "  standing  in."  He  had  con- 
fided his  great  secret  to  him,  and  he  trust- 
ed to  his  honor. 

His  pupil  was  convinced  and  fascinated. 
Could  the  favorite  lose  ten  times  in  suc- 
cession ?  Maclntyre  said  no.  Could  a 
tipster  be  out  ten  times  running  ?  Macln- 
tyre said  no.  Could  Philip's  own  selection 


be  wrong  ten  times  ?  Maclntyre  said  no. 
Could  any  mortal  thing  happen  ten  times  ? 
Mr.  Maclntyre's  calculations  were  there  to 
give  it  the  lie. 

So  they  worked  away  at  the  books, 
going  carefully  through  the  results  of 
thousands  of  races.  They  applied  their 
lever  to  betting  on  billiards,  boats,  guns, 
cards,  dice,  —  any  thing  that  a  wager  can 
be  made  about ;  and  nothing  could  happen 
in  the  ordinary  course  of  things  to  beat 
them. 

Philip  rejoiced ;  for  he  held  power  and 
houses  and  wealth  in  his  hand.  He  was 
the  lucky  possessor  of  the  certain  method 
of  making  'a  colossal  fortune.  He  could 
break  the  ring,  the  banks,  the  world  of 
gamblers.  He  did  not  envy  his  richer 
brother  now,  nor  any  man.  He  only  pined 
at  the  little  delay  that  kept  him  from  be- 
ginning. His  brother  was  the  slowest  fel- 
low in  the  world. 

"  The  mighty  lever  that  can  make  us 
millionnaires  " —  he  held  it  in  his  hand; 
and  the  fulcrum  was  the  Newmarket  July 
Meeting,  two  weeks  hence.  He  began  to 
spend  his  great  wealth.  He  dreamed  long 
day  dreams.  He  was  rich,  famous,  gener- 
ous, too,  to  poor  Arthur,  with  only  three  or 
four  thousands  to  spend  in  good  years. 
He  made  up  the  deficit  in  bad  ones.  Ar- 
thur was  a  brother,  after  all,  and  could 
draw  on  him  for  what  he  liked.  Laura, 
his  wife,  —  no  princess  of  Russia  had  su  ;h 
jewels.  His  four-in-hand  was  the  admira- 
tion of  the  park.  His  horses  were  always 
first.  If  they  cost  their  weight  in  gold, 
what  did  it  matter  ?  He  could  pay  it. 
He  won  the  Derby.  The  most  splendid 
prince  in  Europe  came  into  his  box  to 
drink  champagne-cup  with  him,  and  con- 
gratulate him  on  his  success.  He  bought 
vast  estates,  —  the  envy  of  the  envied,  — 
Mr.  Durnfor.d  the  millionnaire  !  He  had  his 
troubles  too.  He  distressed  himself  when 
he  had  bought  all  the  land  in  the  market, 
—  in  parcels  large  enough,  to  be  worth 
having.  He  had  no  devise  schemes  for 
keeping  his  secret  from  the  ring,  or  betting 
would  be  over.  He  could  not  get  on  all 
the  money  he  wanted.  His  friends  quar- 
relled about  his  wealth.  People  watched 
him  in  the  ring,  —  followed  his  lead,  — 
mobbed  him. 

Chateaux  in  Spain,  and  castles  in  the 
air  beyond  all  power  of  description,  he 
built  on  Maclntyre's  ingenious  multiplica- 
tion-table. 

But  in  all  his  unbounded  belief  in  the 
doubling  martingale  there  lurked  a  doubt. 
He  never  could  credit  Mr.  Madlntyre's 
statement  that  he  was  the  inventor,  though 
that  canny  gentleman  stuck  to  his  lie  with 
characteristic  hardihood.  If  he  had  been 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


103 


disposed  to  tell  the  truth,  he  might  have 
mentioned  that  he  got  it  from  a  groom  at 
Melbourne,  who  in  turn  had  got  it  from  a 
little  shilling  "  Guide  to  the  Winning  Post," 
which  had  been  read  no  doubt  by  hundreds 
of  people  who  had  a  shilling  to  lay  out. 
The  author  of  the  pamphlet,  again,  was 
indebted  to  somebody  before  him ;  and  so 
on,  ad  infinitum.  But  the  curious  part  of 
it  was  that  all  these  persons  claimed  the  in- 
vention of  the  system  of  doubling,  and  im- 
parted their  information  as  something  of 
a  very  secret  and  confidential  nature. 
In  this  way  Philip  Durnford  received  it 
from  Mr.  Maclntyre.  He  gave  a  solemn 
promise  not  to  tell  it  to  anybody,  but  to  go 
to  work  as  speedily  as  possible  so  make  his 
own  and  his  mentor's  fortune. 

Maclntyre  had  received  the  precious 
talisman  as  a  secret.  He  believed  that 
few  people  knew  of  it;  that  those  who  did 
must  grow  rich  by  working  this  most  pro- 
ductive vein.  He  honestly  believed  in  his 
system,  and  gave  it  to  Philip  as  a  chart  to 
guide  him  over  the  shoals  and  quicksands 
in  the  sea  of  turf  enterprise  to  the  land  of 
gold  on  the  other  side.  He  had  carefully 
worked  out  —  always  on  paper,  though  — 
every  known  method  of  winning  money  by 
gambling,  he  had  seen  generations  of  back- 
ers and  betters  go,  from  a  late  noble  mar- 
quis with  a  capital  of  a  quarter  of  a  million 
to  "  Ready-money  Riley "  and  his  lucky 
five-pound  note.  Before  Mr.  Maclntyre's 
eyes,  all  had  gone  the  same  way.  It  was 
only  a  question  of  time.  Their  ruin  the 
philosopher  attributed  to  want  of  system  ; 
and,  among  all  the  systems,  his  own  was 
the  best.  He  had  waded  through  all  the 
"Racing  Calendars"  from  1773  to  date, 
had  applied  his  system  to  every  race  for  a 
period  of  ninety  odd  years,  and  on  paper 
he  had  never  broken  down,  and  was  the 
winner  of  many  millions.  He  showed 
his  figures  to  Philip,  a.nd  completely  satis- 
fied him.  But  Philip,  being  a  genius,  went 
to  work  to  improve  it ;  and  he  tried,  on 
paper,  all  sorts  of  little  modifications  of 
his  secret  method  of  breaking  the  ring. 
Not  to  go  into  petty  details,  he  broke  the 
ring  in  half  a  dozen  different  ways,  and 
became  Crresus  six  times  over.  The  leaves 
of  his  pocket-books  were  scribbled  over 
with  a  thousand  repetitions  and  combina- 
tions of  the  same  series  of  figures  ;  and  he 
argued  with  himself  that  he  was  not  going 
to  gamble,  —  it  was  merely  speculation. 

"  The  mathemateecian,  Dr.  Morgan," 
said  Mr.  Maclntyre,  "  remarks  that  a  gam- 
bler ceases  to  be  such  when  he  makes  his 
stakes  bear  a  proportion  to  his  capital,  and 
takes  no  hazards  that  are  unduly  against 
him." 

And  Philip  Durnford's  capital  left  him  a 


large  reserve,  over  and  above  his  working 
money,  for  contingencies  that  might  arise. 
So  he  started  with  a  light  heart  on  his 
course  of  speculation.  For  a  few  days  all 
went  well.  A  fortnight  brought  a  change, 
and  showed  him  that  paper  and  practice 
are  two  mightily  different  things,  and  that 
his  system  could  not  be  worked  out,  if  he 
had  had  the  pluck  to  do  it.  Half  his  mon- 
ey was  gone  in  following  his  system.  The 
other  half  was  punted  away  in  indiscrimi- 
nate wagering  on  any  tip  that  might  turn 
up  trumps. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

CHACUN  a  son  secret.  Philip  had  his, 
and  he  kept  it  well.  Every  young  fool  who 
airs  his  inexperience  on  the  turf — and, 
for  that  matter,  every  old  one  —  has  his 
own  way  of  breaking  the  ring.  How  many 
of  these  ingenious  devices  are  the  same, 
fate  knows,  and  bookmakers  may  guess 
perhaps.  The  infatuated  themselves  guard 
their  secrets  more  closely  than  their  honor ; 
and  the  system,  method,  modus,  martin- 
gale, —  call  the  thing  by  what  name  you 
will,  —  is  never  spoken  of  by  the  lucky  pos- 
sessors. They  are  careful  over  each  oper- 
ation, for  fear  some  inkling  of  their  royal 
road  to  fortune  should  be  discovered  ;  jeal- 
ous, lest,  on  turning  over  the  leaves  of  their 
bocks,  some  eye,  looking  over  their  shoulder, 
should  see  their  game.  Once  out,  they 
think,  the  mischief  is  done.  Everybody 
will  do  as  they  do  ;  winning  will  be  a  cer- 
tainty ;  and  in  a  trice  there  will  be  no  ring 
for  them  to  break.  The  motive  is  selfish, 
but  easily  understood  :  for  is  not  the  world 
we  live  in  selfish,  and  the  least  disinter- 
ested corner  of  it  a  betting-ring  ?  Granted 
a  system  that  makes  winning  certain,  and 
that  it  is  generally  known,  and  there  is  the 
end  of  betting ;  and  with  it  your  own  par- 
ticular chance  of  becoming  richer  than  the 
Rothschilds.  No  wonder,  then,  that  when 
you  have  the  magic  talisman  in  your  pocket, 
you  keep  it  there,  jealously  buttoned  up. 
That  thousands  of  men  have  carried  such 
a  talisman  for  turning  all  they  touched  to 
gold,  that  thousands  of  men  have  reduced 
winning  on  the  turf  to  a  certainty, — on 
paper,  —  are  matters  of  common  knowl- 
edge. That  theory  is  one  thing,  and  prac- 
tice another,  —  in  a  word,  that  the  systems 
do  not  work  to  the  satisfaction  of  the 
owners,  it  is  sufficient  to  call  attention  to 
the  fact  that  there  are  as  few  Rothschilds 
among  us  as  of  old  ;  or  to  the  pockets  of 
the  greasy  ring-men,  still  stuffed  as  full  as 
ever  with  Bank  of  England  notes.  The 
common  fate  of  methods  based  on  paper 


104 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


calculations  had  befallen  the  martingale 
which  Mr.  Philip  Durnfbrd  had  hu^ed  to 
his  heart  for  half  a  season.  Owing  its 
existence,  as  Philip  believed,  to  the  original 
intellect  of  Mr.  Maclntyre,  modified  and 
perfected  by  his  own  hand,  he  felt  as  cer- 
tain of  the  great  results  to  be  obtained  from 
working  it  out  as  he  did  that  the  bank 
would  change  its  notes  for  gold  on  demand. 
With  his  hat  jauntily  set  on  his  head,  a 
flower  in  his  coat,  and  the  blue  satin  note- 
case Laura  had  quilted  for  him  with  her 
fair  fingers,  in  his  pocket,  crammed  with 
bank-notes,  he  had  paid  his  guinea,  and 
plunged  proudly  and  defiantly  into  the 
'babel  of  the  ring  at  the  Newmarket  July. 

Here  he  was,  at  the  beginning  of  No- 
vember, driving  down  to  Kingdon  races  in 
a  Hansom  :  alone  with  his  thoughts,  which 
were  far  from  pleasant,  with  his  betting- 
book  to  remind  him  of  past  mistakes  and 
misfortunes,  and  all  the  money  he  had  in 
the  world  in  the  inside  pocket  of  his  waist- 
coat, —  that  pocket  which  was  to  be  found 
in  all  his  waistcoats,  secret  and  secure,  in 
which  he  had  meant  to  carry  away  the 
spoils  he  wrested  from  the  ring. 

.Down  on  his  luck,  and  as  nearly  desper- 
ate as  a  gambler  can  be  who  has  one  throw 
left,  there  was  this  chance  for  him  still,  — 
the  two  hundred  pounds  he  had  about 
him  —  one  month  of  racing.  In  that  month, 
with  luck,  he  might  turn  the  two  hundred 
into  thousands.  Without  luck,  —  well,  it 
hardly  mattered. 

The  method  had  long  since  been  cast 
aside.  He  made  his  bets  now  without  ref- 
erence to  it.  He  had  followed  the  phan- 
tom chance  through  seven  losing  weeks. 
They  had  ruined  him.  There  is  nothing 
demoralizes  the  gambler  like  a  long  tide 
of  ill-luck.  His  judgment  leaves  him.  He 
can  no  longer  thread  the  mazes  of  public 
form,  or  make  clever  guesses  at  the  effect 
of  weight  in  handicaps.  He  makes  this 
wager  and  that,  for  no  reason  but  that  a 
feather  turns  the  scale.  In  his  mind,  the 
strongest  reason  why  a  horse  should  lose  is 
that  it  carries  his  money.  He  never  backs 
the  right  tip ;  and  the  only  consolation  he 
has  is  to  quarrel  with  luck,  and  call  it  hard 
names.  These  had  been  Philip  Durnford's 
experiences  of  the  "  glorious  uncertainty 
of  the  turf"  for  seven  miserable  weeks  of 
the  worst  season  for  backers  the  oldest 
turfite  could  remember.  Undreamt-of 
outsiders  were  always  coming  in  first, 
till  the  .very  ring-men  avowed  that  they 
were  tired  of  winning.  The  slaughter 
had  been  great,  and  complaints  of  de- 
fault were  loud  and  deep  Doncaster  had 
punished  some,  the  first  and  second  weeks 
at  Newmarket  had  settled  others.  This 
noble  lord  s  and  that  honorable  gentleman's 


accounts  were  absent  from  Tattersall's  on 
settling-day.  Backers  could  not  stand 
against  such  luck,  it  was  said  in  excuse. 
There  was  a  pretty  general  stampede  for 
the  Levant  among  the  shaky  division. 
But  Philip's  little  account  had  always  been 
forthcoming  till  after  the  Newmarket 
Houghton.  He  had  taken  his  shovel,  and 
dug  away  manfully  at  his  little  heap  of 
sovereigns,  and  paid  his  debts  every  week 
to  time  ;  but  that  last  week  in  Cambridge- 
shire was  a  facer.  It  had  settled  him. 
When  he  added  up  his  book  after  the  first 
day  of  the  meeting,  he  knew  he  had 
wagered  and  lost  more  than  he  could  pay 
if  he  sold  the  coat  off  his  back.  Then  he 
smiled  the  bitter  smile  of  defeat,  and,  in 
the  language  of  the  sport,  "  went  for  the 
gloves  "  —  that  is,  he  had  five  days'  good 
hard  gambling,  well  knowing  that  if  the 
result  of  the  week's  work  was  against  him 
he  could  not  settle.  So,  being  desperate, 
he  was  foolish,  and  betted  in  amounts  three 
times  heavier  than  he  was  in  the  habit  of 
doing. 

"  Ma  boy,  take  ma  word,  the  captain'sh 
going  for  the  glovesh,"  said  a  discreet  He- 
brew, placing  his  dirty  jewelled  paw  on 
the  shoulder  of  another  of  his  tribe.  "•  I 
don't  bet  no  more  with  him.  I'm  full  agen 
any  think  at  all." 

"  Vy,  Nathan,  vy  ?  Misther  Vilkins 
settled  for  him  all  right  last  veek." 

"  I'll  tell  you  vy,  Jacob,  ma  boy.  Ven  I 
see  a  young  feller  as  alvays  used  to  be  sat- 
isfied vith  havin'  a  pony  or  fifty  on  the 
favorite  for  a  sellin'  race  a  bettin'  in  hun- 
derds  all  of  a  sudding,  I  know  vat  it 
means.  Look,  there's  Nosey  Smith  a  layin' 
him  two  centuries  agen  Bella.  Not  for  me, 
that's  all.  Mark  me,  now,  he'll  go.  And 
nobody  knows  nothink  about  him.  I've 
looked  in  the  peerage  :  there  isn't  no  Durn- 
fbrd in  it  as  I  can  find.  They'll  book  any 
think  to  anybody  now,  bless  me  if  they 
von't !  Hallo,  hallo,  hallo !  Who'll  back 
any  think  ?  Any  pricesh  agen  some  o* 
these  runners  !  Full,  Capt.  Durnford,  sir, 
agen  all  the  fav'rits." 

For  Philip  had  not  done  with  Bella  yet, 
and  asked  her  price  of  Mr.  Nathan  Morris, 
diamond  merchant,  of  Bishopsgate-street 
Without,  money-lender  and  leg  in  any  part 
of  the  world  he  might  happen  to  be  in. 

And  Mr.  Morris  was  right.  Philip  was 
betting  all  to  nothing,  for  if  he  lost  he  would 
not  pay ;  and  he  laughed  as  he  pencilled 
down  the  name  of  Bella  till  two  openings 
of  his  book  were  filled  with  it.  Then  there 
was  the  fun  of  watching  the  race,  and'  see- 
ing Bella  struggle  past  the  post. 

"Of course,"  thought  Philip;  "beaten 
by  a  head  just  on  the  post,  by  what  I  always 
thought  was  the  worst  animal  in  training." 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


105 


Then  he  rode  off  to  while  away  a  few 
minutes  with  luncheon,  —  partridge  pie, 
washed  down  with  champagne  —  coming 
into  the  ring  again  with  a  smile  on  his  face, 
and  filling  more  pages  of  his  book  with  the 
name  of  another  loser. 

He  had  no  money,  but  he  had  credit ; 
and  credit  is  a  very  wonderful  thing.  It  is 
the  only  substitute  for  wealth.  To  borrow 
a  quotation  from  Defoe,  "  Credit  makes 
the  soldier  fight  without  pay,  the  armies 
march  without  provisions,  and  it  makes  the 
tradesman  keep  open  shop  without  stock. 
The  force  of  credit  is  not  to  be  described 
by  words.  It  is  an  impregnable  fortifica- 
tion, either  for  a  nation  or  for  a  single  man 
in  business,  and  he  that  has  credit  is  invul- 
nerable, whether  he  has  money  or  no." 
And  there  is  nowhere  in  the  world  where 
credit  will  do  more,  or  where  there  is  more 
of  it  to  be  had,  than  in  the  betting-ring. 
It  enabled  Philip  to  "  keep  open  shop  with- 
out goods  "  till  the  next  settling-day. 

That  day  came,  and  Mr.  Durnford's  ac- 
count was  absent  from  the  clubs.  His  name 
was  mentioned  pretty  often  in  the  course  of 
that  Monday  afternoon.  He  was  wanted 
.very  badly.  Then  people  began  to  wonder 
who  he  was,  what  he  was,  why  they  had 
booked  bets  to  him.  Well  they  might  won- 
der. This  tendency  to  trust  every  man  who 
has  paid  ready  money  with  his  bets  for  one 
month  at  most  is  one  of  the  most  remark- 
able things  about  the  professional  layer. 
Very  often  he  does  not  know  the  address 
of  his  debtor,  or  even  that  the  name  lie  bets 
in  is  the  one  he  commonly  makes  use  of. 
The  layer  must  pay  every  week,  or  his  liv- 
ing is  gone.  The  profession  is  propped  up 
by  this  solitary  kind  of  honesty.  The  book- 
maker always  pays ;  but  the  backer  may 
retire  at  any  moment,  as  Philip  did  after 
going  for  his  gloves  without  getting  them. 

The  ring-men  used  some  very  bad  lan- 
guage when  the  next  Monday  after  his  de- 
fault came,  and  there  was  no  news  of  him. 
Nobody  had  seen  him  "  about "  that  week 
either.  One  little  man  had  drawn  a  fiver 
of  him  in  the  street,  having  met  him  casu- 
ally in  Chancery  Lane.  This  speculator 
took  a  hopeful  view  of  things,  and  thought 
all  would  be  right.  You  see,  he  was  out 
of  the  mire.  The  others  swore,  and  said 
they  should  be  careful  in  future*  whom  they 
trusted,  &c. ;  but  they  had  often  said  so  be- 
fore, and  it  only  wanted  a  young  adventu- 
rer to  pay  up  regularly  for  three  or  four 
weeks,  to  be  able  to  do  with  them  exactly 
what  Philip  Durnford  had  done. 

When  the  fatal  week  was  over,  and  he 
came  to  reckon  up  the  cost  of  his  reckless- 
ness, he  wished  he  had  never  done  it ;  but 
it  was  too  late.  He  was  neither  more  nor 
less  than  a  welsher.  So  men  would  say,  he 


knew.  And  he  had  still  left  some  of  the 
feelings  of  a  man  of  honor.  So,  for  a  day 
or  two,  he  shut  himself  up  at  home,  -— 
moody,  very  irritable,  and  very  wretched, 
but  safe.  He  blessed  his  stars  that  only  one 
of  the  pack  of  ravening  wolves  knew  his 
private  address.  If  he  had  had  the  means 
he  would  have  paid  that  man,  under  promise 
that  he  would  not  tell  his  whereabouts  to 
the  rest. 

When,  after  a  day  or  two  had  passed,  he 
ventured  out,  he  expected  every  moment  to 
be  stopped,  or  to  meet  some  emissary  from 
the  ring,  —  to  be  insulted,  jeered,  hooted  at, 
as  a  thief  and  a  welsher.  But  he  was  safe 
enough  :  the  ring-men  were  plying  their 
busy  trade  a  hundred  miles  from  where  he 
stood.  So  he  got  over  his  fear,  and  showed 
his  face  pretty  much  as  of  old.  Then  came 
the  chance  of  retrieving  all.  Kingdon 
clashed  with  a  popular  Midland  meeting. 
Not  three  of  the  bigger  men  who  wanted 
him  would  be  there.  He  would  go,  but 
keep  out  of  the  ring,  and  bet  in  ready  mon- 
ey. They  could  not  stop  him  from  doing 
that ;  and  he  had  been  very  lucky  at  King- 
don in  the  summer. 

*His  hansom  drove  along  the  muddy  road 
at  a  good  speed,  for  he  had  covenanted  to 
pay  the  driver  "  racing-price  "  for  the  day's 
job.  They  passed  the  last  strangling  rows 
of  suburban  houses,  and  got  into  the  open 
country  of  the  "  way  down  Harrow-way," 
halting  at  all  the  recognized  hostehies'on 
the  road.  "  Half-way  houses,"  the  driver 
called  them,  where  he  could  just  rinse  the 
horse's  mouth,  and  —  what  was  equally  ne- 
cessary—  his  own.  Philip  drew  his  Dutch 
courage  from  a  private  fountain  of  inspira- 
tion in  his  breast  pocket.  An  .unpleasant 
fear  of  recognition  kept  him  in  his  seat ;  but 
the  honest  cabman  spent  his  fare's  small 
silver  for  the  good  of  the  house  at  every  port 
they  put  in  at.  And  it  is  almost  superfluous 
to  add  th«y  touched  at  all  they  passed,  or 
that  to  the  sturdy  sons  of  Britain  this  is 
more  than  half  the  pleasure  of  a  day  in  the 
country.  As  Philip  furtively  peeped  out 
through  the  oval  side  windows  of  his  cab, 
he  saw  nothing  to  alarm  him.  He  was  rec- 
ognized, too,  by  a  few  friends,  and  by  some 
of  the  small  fry  of  the  professionals.  These 
people,  it  was  plain,  had  not  heard  of  his 
little  mishap.  It  gave  him  courage  to  go 
into  the  ring  when  he  got  to  the  course. 
He  paid  his  six  shillings  at  the  gate,  not 
with  the  air  of  the  expatriated  wretch  he 
was,  but  more  like  his  former  self,  —  the 
loving  patron  of  a  noble  sport.  He  was 
early  in  the  field. '  The  ring  was  thin.  He 
mounted  the  wooden  steps  of  the  Grand 
Stand,  and  hid  himself  safely  away  in  the 
farthest  corner  of  the  top  shelf.  From  this 
eminence  he  watched  and  waited,  drank 


106 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


in  the  undulating  landscape  with  his  gaze 
or  scanned  the  faces  of  the  ring  below 
through  his  glass.  The  clearing-bell  sound- 
ed; the  numbers  of  the  runners  were  hoist- 
ed on  the  board,  —  he  ticked  them  off  on  his 
card ;  the  riders'  names  were  added  to 
the  numbers  ;  the  saddling-bell  rang ;  the 
horses  streamed  out  of  the  enclosure  ;  the 
roar  of  the  odds  began  in  the  ring  down  be 
low.  He  pricked  his  ears,  as  the  war-horse 
at  the  smell  of  powder,  or  the  veteran  hunt 
er  at  the  tongue  of  hounds,  and  forgot  his 
luck  as  he  strained  his  ear  to  catch,  in  the 
roar  of  the  Babel,  a  notion  of  what  it  was 
they  were  making  favorite,  and  how  the 
market  was  going. 

"  How  do  they  bet  ?  "  he  asked,  as  one 
after  another  pushed  up  the  steps  to  where 
he  stood. 

He  was  satisfied  the  worst  favorite  could 
win  at  the  weights,  if  it  was  only  trying. 
To  assure  himself  of  this,  he  edged  and 
dodged  his  way  through  the  ring  out  to  the 
lists.  Not  a  hungry  creditor  to  be  seen  : 
only  the  small  scoundrels  who  infest  the 
metropolitan  gatherings  were  assisting  at 
Kingdon.  The  big  rascals  were  away,  a 
hundred  and  twenty  miles  off,  in  the  Mid- 
lands. 

He  had  begun  to  feel  safe,  and  confident 
in  his  judgment,  when  he  saw  some  well- 
known  sharps  putting  down  the  money  in 
small  sums  at  the  lists  on  his  own  selection. 

"  She'll  win,"  he  said,  with  an  excited 
chuckle,  as  he  pressed  forward  in  the  crowd 
with  as  springy  a  step  as  the  mud  round 
the  boxes  permitted. 

"  Good  goods  —  the  old  mare  is,"  he 
heard  an  ex-champion  of  England  whisper 
in  the  ear  of  a  sporting  publican. 

"  Going  straight?  "  inquired  the  confi- 
dant, putting  his  dirty  hand  before  his 
greasy  mouth.  "  Party  got  the  pieces  on  ?  " 

"  Hold  yer  jaw.  'Er  'ead's  loose  — 
that's  enough  for  you  ;  be  quick  and  back 
her,  before  it's  blown  on." 

Philip  profited  by  what  he  had  overheard, 
rushed  to  the  nearest  list,  wrenched  a 
crumpled  fiver  from  his  inside  pocket,  and 
reached  up  to  the  man  in  the  box. 

"  Corinthian  Sal  1 " 

The  fist  of  the  burly  ruffian  seized  his 
note,  squeezed  it  up  and  shoved  it  into  his 
bag,  calling  to  his  clerk  behind  — 

"  Fifty  to  five—  Corinthian  Sal." 

"  Right !  " 

"  Here's  your  ticket." 

Philip  took  it,  and  in  trying  to  get  away 
from  the  list-man's  stand  he  was  met  by  a 
hurrying  crowd.  There  was  a  rush  from 
the  ring  to  back  the  good  thing,  outside  ; 
but  the  men  who  wanted  to  do  it  were  well 
known.  In  an  instant  the  pencil  was  run 
through  the  "  10  "  before  the  name  of  Cor- 


inthian Salon  all  the  lists  in  the  gambling 
thoroughfare. 

In  vain  the  excited  regiment  from  the 
ring  plunged  through  the  mud  and  mire, 
proffering  their  money  to  the  list-keepers. 
They  were  answered  everywhere,  "  Done 
with."  The  secret  was  out.  The  little 
Selling  Plate  was  squared  for  the  seven- 
year-old  daughter  of  Corinthian  Tom. 

"  Another  ramp !  And  I've  just  laid 
fifty  to  five  agen  her,"  groaned  the  man 
Philip  had  bet  with.  % 

"  Ain't  they  hot  on  these  selling-races  ?  " 

"  He's  a  hot  member  as  I've  laid  it  to. 
These  swells  don't  come  outside  unless  they 
know  something.'' 

When  Philip  managed  to  get  back  to  his 
old  stand,  he  met  with  a  friend  or  two  who 
wanted  to  hear  ''  what  he  had  done,"  and 
whether  he  "  knew  any  thing  ; "  and  he  had 
the  pleasure  of  telling  them  he  was  ^  in  the 
know,"  appearing  to  be  much  wiser  than 
he  really  was,  and  letting  them  think  he 
had  backed  the  mare  for  a  good  stake. 

When  he  feaw  her  canter  past  the  post, 
hands  down,  an  easy  winner,  he  inwardly 
cursed  his  luck  at  having  won  when,  com- 
paratively speaking,  he  had  "  nothing  on." 

"  Just  my  luck,"  he  said,  as  he  pocketed 
the  fifty-five  pounds  he  had  drawn ;  '*  but 
let  us  hope  it  has  taken  a  turn." 

He  patronized  the  refreshment  booth, 
drinking  some  champagne  with  his  friends  ; 
and  then  turned  his  attention  to  the  next 
event,  reduced  to  a  match,  as  only  two  of 
the  seven  horses  entered  came  to  the  post. 
The  talent  were  some  time  in  making  a  fa- 
vorite. It  was  even  betting  between  the 
two  weedy  screws  that  cantered  down  to 
the  starting-post.  Philip,  thinking  it  pru- 
dent to  keep  for  the  present  out  of  the  ring, 
for  fear  of  any  little  contretemps  that  might 
arise  from  meeting  somebody  who  wanted 
him,  went  out  to  the  lists,  and  at  last  bet- 
ted the  fifty  pounds  he  had  won,  in  several 
small  bets,  posting  the  money.  He  backed 
the  favorite,  laying  fifty  to  forty  on  it,  — 
and  lost. 

Is  it  necessary  that  I  should  ask  my 
reader  to  follow  the  fortunes  of  Philip 
through  the  two  days'  racing  at  Kingdon  ? 
To  him  who  is  initiated  in  the  mysteries  of 
the  turf  my  narrative  will  be  intelligible, 
but  probably  uninteresting,  for  it  is  a  tale 
he  knows  by  heart.  To  the  uninitiated  this 
chapter  must  be  to  a  great  extent  unintelli- 
ible,  therefore  uninteresting  ;  but  the  exi- 
gencies of  my  history  —  as  will  be  seen 
from  what  is  to  follow  — seem'  to  demand 
that  I  should  give  a  brief  outline  of  Philip 
Durnfbrd's  doings  on  this  last  appearance 
of  his  in  the  charmed  circle  devoted  to  the 
interests  of  dishonesty  and  dirt.  Apolo- 
izing,  let  me  comply  with  the  necessity, 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


107 


offer! no;  only,  as  some  sort  of  excuse,  the 
plea  that  I  draw  from  the  life. 

After  losing  the  fifty  pounds  he  had  won, 
Philip  had  still  his  little  capital  in  his 
pocket  intact.  Three  succeeding  races  re- 
lieved him  of  three-fourths  of  it. 

"  What  forsaken  luck  !  "  he  laughed  bit- 
terly, being  desperate.  "  Fifty  left !  One 
more  flutter,  I  suppose,  and  then  "  — 

"  Halloo,  old  Durnford  !  "  a  friendly  voice 
sounded  in  his  ear.  "  Well,  how  are  they 
using  you,  old  man,  —  eh  ?  I  have  just 
landed  again." 

"I  should  say  I  had  the  Devil's  own 
luck,"  replied  Philip.  "  except  for  the  cu- 
rious fact  that  fellows  say  that  indiscrimi- 
nately of  the  best  luck  and  the  worst." 

"  Well,  we'll  say  you  have  the  Devil's 
worst  luck,  then." 

They  chatted  till  the  numbers  of  the 
next  race  were  run  up. 

"  The  good  thing  of  the  day,"  cried  Phil- 
ip's friend.  "  1  know  three  or  four  of  the 
clever  division  that  have  come  down  on 
purpose  to  back  this.  It  was  backed  down 
to  level  money  this  morning  in  town." 

"We  shall  get  no  price  about  it,"  said 
Philip. 

"I'll  see  what  they  offer.  Shall  I  do 
any  thing  for  you  ?  " 

Philip  hesitated  —  onlv  for  a  moment. 

"Yes." 

"  I'm  going  to  put  the  money  down  upon 
it,  I  can  tell  you." 

"  Put  on  a  century  for  me." 

Then  he  stole  out  to  the  lists,  and  emptied 
his  pockets.  The  odds  he  took  against 
Triumpher  were  six  to  four.  With  the 
hundred  his  friend  had  put  on  by  this  time, 
he  stood  to  win  nearly  two  hundred  pounds. 
With  a  beating  heart  he  made  for  his  place 
of  vantage  on  the  top  of  the  wooden  steps. 
As  he  ran  in  at  the  ring-gate  he  was  stopped 
by  a  man  who  had  often  seen  him  bet,  but 
with  whom  he  had  had  no  dealings  before. 

"  What  do  you  want  to  do,  Capt.  Durn- 
ford? Let  me  have  a  bet  with  you  this 
time  —  come." 

"  Triumpher  ?"  said  Philip,  raising  his 
eyebrows  in  a  careless  way,  and  chewing 
the  end  of  his  pencil. 

"  Fifty  to  forty,  sir." 

"  No."  And  he  made  a  move  to  go  on, 
feeling  sure  the  odds  would  be  extended. 

"  Sixty  to  forty,  sir  ?  " 

"  Not  good  enough." 

"  Here,  I  won't  be  be't  by  you,"  cried 
another  ring-man.  "  I'll  lay  the  gentle- 
man eighty-five  to  seventy." 

"  All  right,"  said  Philip. 

"  Twice,  sir  V  " 

"  Twice." 

As  he  asked  the  man's  name  and  wrote 
it  down  in  his  book,  there  was  a  general 


hoarse  laugh  among  the  book-makers,  for 
they  saw  intuitively  what  he  had  failed  to 
see  —  namely,  that  he  had  refused  six  to 
four  and  taken  a  fraction  over  four  to  three 
and  a  half;  but  the  laugh,  when  Philip  had 
left  them,  was  turned  in  quite  the  opposite 
direction,  when  an  acquaintance  called  out 
to  the  man  who  had  done  the  clever 
trick  :  — 

"  So  help  me,  you've  gone  and  done  it, 
you  have  I  "  ^ 

"  Ha,  ha  !  "  laughed  the  lawyer. 

"  The  cap'n  ain't  paid  for  a  fortni't. 
Now  !  "  The  "  Ha,  ha ! "  now  became  "  Oh- 
h,  oh-h  !  " 

«  I'll  off  the  bet.     Where  is  he  ?  " 

But  Philip  had  altered  his  mind,  and  was 
gone  right  away  across  the  running  track  to 
the  other  side,  opposite  the  stand.  He  was 
sitting  out,  dangling  his  legs  over  the 
white  railing,  and  looking  at  his  muddy 
boots.  Oh,  the  exquisite  pleasure  of  seeing 
the  flag  drop,  the  runners  go  down  into 
the  dip,  come  sweeping  up  the  hill ! 

Ruined  or  made  !     His  heart  sank. 

Curse  the  boy  !  why  does  he  not  bring  the 
horse  out  of  the  ruck  V  He's  shut  in." 

Hope  at  zero.     Ruined. 

"  No,  by  Jove,  he's  got  him  out ! '  He's 
done  it !  Hur-ray-y-y  !  " 

Up  went  his  hat,  high  in  the  air. 

"  Triumpher  !  " 

Yes,  the  judge  sends  up  "No.  21,"  and 
Phil  drove  home  nearly  happy,  with  a  mind 
full  of  resolutions  to  win  on  the  morrow. 

Wednesday  morning  broke  in  happy  un- 
certainty as  to  whether  to  be  wet  or  fine  ; 
but  by  twelve  o'clock  in  the  day  the  rain 
fell  fast.  But  nothing  short  of  the  crack 
of  doom  —  hard  frost  excepted  —  will  stop 
a  race-meeting.  All  the  difference  the 
weather  apparently  made  to  Philip  was  that, 
instead  of  spending  two  sovereigns  in  going 
down  by  road,  he  spent  two  shillings  ingoing 
to  Kingdon  by  rail.  Wrapped  in  his  mack- 
intosh from  head  to  foot,  he  felt  in  better 
heart  than  on  the  day  before ;  and  all  went 
on  well  till  he  was  recognized  on  the  road, 
and  insulted,  by  one  of  his  forty-seven  cred- 
itors for  debts  of  honor. 

"  Well,  what  will  you  do  ?  "  asked  Philip 
angrily. 

"  You  show  your  face  in  the  ring,  and 
you'll  see  what  I'll  do.  Call  yourself  a 
gentleman  ?  I  call  you  a  welsher." 

He  shouted  the  la'st  word  ;  and,  as  there 
were  a  lot  of  people  about,  Philip  rushed  for 
a  fly,  and  swore  at  the  man  for  not  driving 
on  in  a  moment.  He  did  not  pay  for  ad- 
mission to  the  ring.  He  knew  the  man 
would»keep  his  word,  so  he  played  the  un- 
dignified part  of  an  outsider,  and  was,  be- 
sides, in  constant  dread  of  being  hooted  by 
his  enemy.  There  is  no  charge  easier  to 


108 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


bring,  or  more  difficult  to  rebut,  than  the 
charge  of  "  welshing,"  on  a  race-course  ;  anc 
the  mob  has  a  nasty  habit  of  hunting  the 
victim,  half-naked,  into  the  nearest  pond 
and  hearing  the  evidence  some  other  day 
This  unpleasant  practice  made  the  young 
man  careful  whom  he  met.  Altogether 
things  were  unpleasant.  There  were  seven 
races  on  the  wet  card.  They  were  run  in 
a  pouring  rain.  There  was  no  trusting  to 
form,  for  the  horses  could  not  act  in  the 
wet,  and  all  calculations  were  upset.  Of 
the  first  four  races  on  the  card,  Philip  won 
two  and  lost  two.  Then  he  sat  out  and 
looked  on  once  without  a  bet,  —  sad,  weary 
and  dripping. 

On  his  fancy  for  the  last  two  races  he 
staked  all  the  money  he  had  in  the  world  — 
and  lost  it. 

u  Well,  old  fellow,'*  said  an  acquaintance 
whom  he  met  on  the  platform  at  King's 
Cross,  seizing  him  by  the  shoulders,  and  giv- 
ing him  a  friendly  shake,  "  if  you've  been 
backing  horses  in  red  mud  you've  come  off 
a  winner,  and  no  mistake :  you've  got 
plenty  of  it  sticking  about  you.  What  a 
day  it  has  been !  " 

Philip  muttered,  "  Damnable,"  in  an  un- 
dertone, and,  getting  a  cab,  directed  the  man 
to  drive  him  home.  As  they  left  the  sta- 
tion-yard, he  put  his  hands  into  his  pocket, 
and  pulled  out  the  only  coins  he  had  left  : 
they  were  just  enough  to  pay  his  fare. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

SOME  of  my  readers  —  I  am  writing  for 
both  worlds  —  have  very  likely  been 
hanged.  They  will  remember,  that,  on  the 
morning  of  the  day  for  which  this  unpleas- 
ant operation  —  surrounded  by  every 
thing  most  likely  to  increase  the  unavoid- 
able discomfort  —  was  fixed,  they  slept 
sweetly  and  soundly,  awaking  early  in  the 
morning  with  dreams  of  childhood's  inno- 
cence. This  was  the  case  with  Philip  on 
the  morning  after  all  this  disaster  had  fall- 
en upon  him.  He  woke  at  twelve  from  a 
dream  of  perfect  peace  and  happiness  — 
awoke  smiling  and  at  rest.  Suddenly  the 
thought  of  all  his  misery  fell  upon  him,  and 
he  started  up,  wide  awake,  and  wretched. 
He  could  not  lie  any  longer  but  got  up, 
dressing  hurriedly  and  nervously.  All, 
every  thing,  gone  :  more  than  all.  Dishon- 
or before  him,  and  ruin  already  upon  him. 
In  this  evil  plight,  what  to  do?  He  thought 
of  Arthur ;  but  he  could  not  bear  to  go  and 
tell  him,  his  younger  brother,  the  story  of 
his  ruin.  And  then  he  looked  back,  and 
saw  with  what  fatal  folly  he  had  gone 


deeper   and  deeper,  hoping  against  hope, 
living  in  the  fool's  paradise  of  a  gambler. 

He  went  down  stairs,  and  found  Laura, 
fresh  and  bright,  reading  quietly  in  the 
window.  She  looked  up,  rang  the  bell,  and 
sat  down  again.  No  word  of  welcome  for 
him,  none  of  reproach  ;  for,  as  liar  husband 
grew  colder,  the  young  wife  retreated  more 
and  more  within  herself.  Laura's  face  has 
changed  in  the  last  three  months.  The  old 
look  has  passed  away,  and  another  has  ta- 
ken its  place.  It  is  a  sad  expression,  an  ex- 
pression of  thought  and  reflection,  that  sits 
upon  her  face.  She  has  found  out  her 
great  and  terrible  fault.  Between  herself 
and  Philip  there  is  nothing  in  common  ;  and 
she  trembles,  thinking  of  the  future  that  lies 
before,  and  a  life  spent  as  these  last  three 
months  have  been.  For  she  has  no  friends, 
no  visitors,  no  acquaintance.  No  one  but 
Philip  and  Mr.  Maclntyre  ever  speaks  to 
her.  She  is  alone  in  the  world  ;  and  yet 
she  knows,  in  her  heart,  that  there  is  one 
friend  to  whom  she  may  go,  with  whom  she 
will  find  forgiveness.  Of  that  she  is  cer- 
tain. Philip's  breakfast  was  brought  up. 
He  sat  down,  exasperated  with  himself,  with 
his  wife  because  she  took  no  notice  of  him, 
with  every  thing.  He  poured  out  a  cup  of 
tea,  and  looked  at  it.  Then  he  broke  into 
a  fit  of  irrepressible  wrath. 

"  Damn  it  all !  "  he  said,  "  the  tea  is  cold." 

His  wife  looked  at  him  in  surprise.  It 
was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  lost  his  tem- 
per before  her. 

"  Philip  !     Why,  it  is  just  made." 

To  prove  his  words,  he  tasted  it,  and 
scalded  his  lips.  Then  he  pushed  the  tray 
back,  swearing  again.  Laura  watched  him 
with  astonishment. 

"  I  will  have  no  tea  and  trash.  Give  me 
some  brandy." 

"Not  in  the  morning.  Philip,  you  are 
very  strange.  Are  you  ill  ?  " 

He  went  to  the  cellaret,  and  helped  him- 
self, saying  nothing. 

Just  then  the  maid  came,  bearing  a  small 
blue  paper,  —  a  missive  from  the  butcher. 

"  Philip,  give  me  four  pounds,  please. 
The  man  wants  his  money." 

"  I  have  no  money/' 

"  Mary,  tell  the  butcher  to  call  again  to- 
morrow," Laura  said,  flushing  with  shame. 
'  What  is  the  meaning  of  this,  Philip  ?  " 

"Nothing.     If  there  were,  you  would  not 
care,  you  would  not  understand.     Do  you 
are  any  thing  at  all  for  what  concerns  me  ? 
Have  you  ever  cared  ?  " 

"  At  least,  I  may  know  if  it  is  any  thing 
n  which  I  can  help." 

"  You  cannot  help.  You  can  only  make 
;hings  worse.  If  you  loved  me,  you  might ; 
but,  there,  what  is  the  use  of  talking  ?  " 

She  was  looking  quite  coldly  in  his  face. 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


109 


Love?  —  of  course  she  had  never  loved 
him  ;  but  why  —  why  did  not  conscience, 
who  so  often  slumbers  when  she  ought  to 
be  awake  and  at  work  —  why  did  not  con- 
science remind  him  then,  even  then,  of  all 
the  girl  had  given  to  him,  and  all  of  which 
he  had  robbed  her,?  He  might  have  remem- 
bered her  sweet  and  innocent  trust;  the 
confidence  which  came  from  perfect  purity 
of  soul ;  the  nights  when  he  had  awak- 
ened, her  head  upon  his  breast,  his  arms 
round  her  neck,  to  listen  to  her  sweet 
breath  rise  and  fall,  to  catch  the  murmur 
of  her  dreams  ;  and,  for  very  shame's  sake, 
he  might  have  thought  of  the  friend  from 
whom  he  had  torn  her,  —  the  disgraceful 
lies  and  deceits  with  which  he  had  sur- 
rounded her.  But  he  thought  of  none  of 
these  things ;  he  thought  only,  that,  at  all 
risks  and  hazards,  this,  at  least,  must  be 
put  an  end  to. 

"What  is  it,  Philip?  "  she  asked,  with 
frightened  eyes. 

"  I  have  been  thinking,"  he  said,  looking 
on  the  carpet,  and  lighting  a  cigar  with 
trembling  fingers,  "  for  some  time,  that  we 
should  come  to  an  understanding." 

"  What  about  V  " 

"  About  every  thing,  —  our  marriage 
especially." 

I  believe,  that,  when  he  got  up  that  morn- 
ing, nothing  was  farther  from  his  thoughts 
than  this  villany  :  but  a  drowning  man 
catches  at  a  straw ;  and  the  ruined  man 
saw,  that,  by  getting  rid  of  Laura,  he  should 
at  least  be  free  to  act.  The  power  of  impe- 
cuniosity  to  make  men  do  vile  and  abom- 
inable things  has  never  been  properly 
stated  by  poet  or  novelist.  In  the  Lord's 
Prayer,  after  the  petitions  for  bread  and 
forgiveness,comes  the  equally  important  one 
that  we  may  not  be  led  into  temptation  — 
amongst  other  things,  by  an  empty  purse. 

Laura  suspected  nothing,  understood 
nothing. 

"  I  told  you  two  months  ago,  Laura,  that 
perhaps  you  might,  some  time  or  other, 
make  another  attempt  to  recover  Mr. 
Venn's  friendship.  I  think  the  time  has 
come." 

"I  may  write  to  him,  Philip?  You 
mean  it  ?  —  you  really  mean  it  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  would  not  write  to  him,  if  I 
were  you,  because  you  might  mislead  him 
on  one  or  two  important  points.  I  think 
you  had  better  go,  and  see  him." 

"  Mislead  him  ?  How  am  I  to  mislead 
him?" 

He  looked  up,  and  met  the  clear,  deep 
eyes  of  his  wile;  and  his  own  fell.  His 
voice  grew  husky. 

"  When  you  met  me  —  that  is,  when  I 
took  you  to  the  lodgings  of  the  man  in 
Keppel  Street "  — 


"  Where  we  were  married  ?  " 

"  Where,  Laura,  —  there  is  no  use  in  hid- 
ing things  any  longer,  —  where  the  man 
pretended  to  marry  us." 

She  looked  full  at  him,  unable  to  take 
in,  all  at  once,  the  whole  force  of  his 
words. 

Philip,  the  fatal  shot  once  fired,  felt  em- 
boldened to  proceed ;  but  he  was  very 
pale. 

"  Maclntyre  was  not  a  properly  qualified 
clergyman.  He  had  no  power  to  marry  us. 
He  says  he  is  a  clergyman  of  the  Scotch 
Church.  If  that  is  any  consolation  to  you, 
believe  it.  The  man  is  an  accomplished 
liar;  but  he  may  sometimes  speak  the 
truth.  We  are  no  more  married,  Laura, 
than  if  we  had  never  met." 
<  "You  knew  this  all  along,  Mr.  Burn- 
ford?" 

"  All  along.  I  should  have  married  you 
regularly,  because  I  was  so  infatuated  with 
your  beauty ;  but  you  insisted  on  being 
married  on  that  particular  Wednesday  or 
no  other.  It  was  not  altogether  my  fault. 
I  thought  perhaps  "  — 

"  Yes,"  said  Laura,  sitting  down. 

Neither  spoke  for  a  space.  The  cigar 
went  out  between  Philip's  lips,  and  these 
trembled  and  shook.  His  face  was  white, 
with  a  look  of  terror  :  a  man  might  have 
it  when  he  suddenly  realizes  that  all  the 
nobleness  has  gone  out  of  him. 

Presently  he  moved  forward  a  step. 
She  started  back,  crying,  — 

"  Don't  touch  me  —  don't  come  near  me  1 " 

"  Laura,  in  spite  of  your  coldness,  — 
though  you  have  never  loved  me  as  I  once 
loved  you,  —  I  should  have  kept  this  secret 
but  for  one  thing.  I  am  utterly  ruined.  I 
not  only  have  no  money,  but  I  owe  hun- 
dreds of  pounds  more  than  I  can  pay ;  and 
I  shall  be  a  dishonored  man.  I  must  leave 
the  country,  if  I  cannot  raise  the  money. 
We  must  part." 

"  Yes."  said  the  girl,  "  we  must  part, 
Why  did  we  ever  meet  ?  By  what  cruel 
mockery  of  fate  did  you  ever  cross  my 
path  ?  Part !  Man,  if  you  were  to  touch 
me,  if  I  were  to  feel  your  breath  upon  me, 
I  should  die.  You,  who  for  five  months 
have  lived  with  this  shameful  lie  upon  your 
conscience  —  you  who  call  yourself  gentle- 
man —  you  who  mocked  at  the  poor  man's 
sins  and  sufferings  —  you  !  Is  every  gen- 
tleman like  this  ?  " 

He  did  not  answer,  looking  down  upon 
the  hearth-rug.  There  were,  then,  some 
remains  of  shame  upon  him. 

Laura  poured  out  a  glass  of  water,  and 
drank  it.  Then  she  took  off  her  wedding- 
ring,  kissed  it,  and  laid  it  gently  on  the 
table. 

"Holy  symbol,"  she  said,  "I  must  not 


110 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


wear  you  any  longer.  Why  did  you  find 
me  out  to  ruin  me,  Mr.  Philip  Durnford  ? 
Are  there  not  enough  poor  women  crying 
in  the  world,  but  you  must  bring  sorrow 
and  shame  to  another  ?  And  —  and  —  O 
God  !  is  heaven  so  full  that  there  is  no  room 
in  it  for  me  ?  " 

Then  she  turned  upon  him  like  a  tigress, 
so  that  he  shrank  back,  and  cowered. 

"  You,  for  whom  I  prayed  night  and 
morning !  you,  that  I  thought  all  noble- 
ness and  honor;  so  that  I  laid  bare  all 
the  secrets  of  my  soul  to  you,  and*  told 
every  thing  that  was  in  my  heart !  I  am 
ashamed  when  I  think  that  I  have  so  talked 
with  you.  I  am  moro  ashamed  of  this 
than  of  any  thing.  And,  oh  !  what  will 
Mr.  Venn  say  when  I  go  back  to  him,  and 
tell  him  all  the  shameful  story  ?  How 
shall  I  tell  it  him  —  how  shall  I  tell  it  him  ? 
Philip  Durnford,  keep  out  of  his  way  ;  and 
tell  that  other  man,  your  accomplice,  to 
keep  out  of  his  way,  and  hide  himself,  or 
it  maybe  worse  for  him.  I  don't  want  any 
punishment  to  fall  on  you  —  except,  I  sup- 
pose, God  does  sometimes  make  wicked 
people  feel  their  wickedness ;  but  nothing 
can  make  their  victims  again  as  they  have 
been.  When  your  turn  comes,  Philip,  when 
you  go  from  bad  to  worse  —  when  you 
find  yourself  at  last  upon  your  death-bed, 
with  "this  behind  you,  you  will  think  of  me, 
—  you  will  think  of  me." 

Philip  was  a  little  recovered  by  this  time. 

"  Of  course,"  he  said  lightly,  "  I  expected 
a  little  unpleasantness  at  first.  You  will 
see,  when  we  get  older,  that  I  could  not  act 
otherwise." 

"  As  a  gentleman  —  no." 

"  I  will  not  be  irritated,"  he  went  on, 
being  now  as  calm  as  if  he  were  doing  a 
virtuous  action,  —  "I  will  not  be  irritated. 
The  sale  of  this  furniture  "  — 

"  Thank  you  —  you  are  thoughtful." 

Then  she  left  him,  and  went  to  her  own 
room,  where  she  locked  the  door,  and  threw 
herself  upon  the  bed. 

Philip,  left  alone,  wiped  his  forehead, 
and  breathed  more  freely.  One  source  of 
expense  was  gone,  at  any  rate.  There 
was  comfort  in  that  thought,  —  a  ray  of 
sunshine  in  the  tempest  of  his  mind.  As 
for  what  might  be  said  or  thought  of  him, 
he  was  profoundly  indifferent.  Only  it 
occurred  to  him  that  the  news  might  have 
been  broken  in  a  different  manner,  less  ab- 
ruptly, through  a  third  person,  by  letter. 
However,  it  was  done,  and  nothing  could 
undo  it.  Misfortune  to  some  men  is  a  kind 
of  Ithuriel's  spear :  it  reveals  the  real  na- 
ture of  a  man  — 

"  No  falsehood  can  endure 
Touch  of  celestial  temper,  but  returns 
Of  force  to  his  won  likeness." 


Then  the  brave  man  becomes  a  coward, 
the  large-hearted  man  mean,  the  godly 
man  ungodly,  the  virtuous  man  vicious, 
the  noble  a  lache.  The  women  of  the 
family  generally  have  the  best  opportuni- 
ties of  finding  out  the  truth  ;  but  they 
cover  it  up,  hide  it,  and  go  about  flaunting 
their  colors  of  loyalty  to  the  great  and 
-.rood  man  whom  all  the  world  admires ; 
and,  after  the  first  agony  of  shame,  fall 
into  that  cynicism  which  sits  so  ill  on  wo- 
man's nature.  As  for  the  men,  I  think 
their  thoughts  may  arrange  themselves  in 
the  form  of  a  collect,  a  prayer  for  every 
morning  of  the  year,  as  thus  :  "  Lord,  the 
helper  of  sinners  as  well  as  of  saints,  let 
not  the  smugness  of  our  reputation  ever  de- 
crease ;  but  replenish  us,  above  all  things, 
with  the  bulwarks  of  wealth  and  honor,  so 
that  the  virtues  with  which  we  are  credited 
may  never  be  called  into  exercise."  And 
there  are  some —  Philip  Durnford  was  one 
—  who  deliberately  believe  themselves  to 
be.  chivalrous,  delicately  honorable,  brave, ' 
manly,  and  great;  though  all  the  time 
every  thought  and  every  action  might  go 
to  prove  the  contrary.  The  mirror  in 
which  men  see  themselves  —  what  we  call 
conscience  —  is  distorted  ;  and  while  the 
real  man  performs  duties  and  absurdities 
in  folly  and  sin,  the  mirror  shows  another 
Sir  Galahad,  marching  with  lofty  crest, 
along  the  narrow  path  of  honor,  while  in 
the  sunshine  glow  the  battlements  which 
guard  the  Holy  Grail. 

Such  was  Philip  in  his  mirror.  All  of  a 
sudden,  when  Laura  left  him,  there  was  an 
instant  flash  of  lightning  in  his  soul  which 
showed  him  a  thing  he  was  never  to  forget, 
the  real  creature  he  was,  —  no  Sir  Galahad, 
but  a  mopping  and  mowing  antic,  crawling 
ignobly  down  the  slope  of  Avernus.  He 
started  to  his  feet,  and  stood  for  a  moment 
staring  into  space.  Then  he  seized  the 
brandy  bottle,  and  drank  a  wine-glassful ; 
and  behold,  Sir  Galahad  again  !  —  only 
with  a  sort  of  blurr  and  haze  •  ardund  his 
noble  form,  evermore  to  grow  more  blurred 
as  the  memory  of  this  guilt  eats  into  his 
soul.  Perhaps  this  illusory  image  will 
some  day  be  wholly  gone,  and  his  real  self 
be  seen  with  clearer  eyes.  Then  may  he 
cry  aloud  to  be  delivered  from  the  body  of 
this  death,  and  God's  punishment  be  upon 
him  —  the  punishment  of  forgiveness.  Is 
there  no  punishment  in  repentance  and 
self-abasement  ?  Cannot  revenge  itself  be 
satisfied  when  the  sinner  is  prostrate,  cry- 
ing, from  shame  and  remorse,  "  Lord,  I 
have  sinned  — I  have  sinned  "  V 

Laura,  in  her  bedroom,  sat  silent  for  a 
while,  trying  to  think.  Then  she  fell  upon 
her  knees,  and  tried  to  pray ;  but  no  words 
came.  Only  as  she  knelt  a  thought  came 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


Ill 


across  her  soul,  which  was,  perhaps,  the 
answer  to  her  prayer.  For  she  arose  swift- 
ly, and  began  to  undress  herself.  Every 
thing  she  had  on  she  tore  off,  and  threw 
from  her,  as  if  it  had  been  a  shirt  of  Nes- 
sus.  Her  earrings,  her  jewels,  the  cross 
around  her  neck,  she  laid  on  the  table, 
and  put  with  them  her  watch  and  chain,  all 
her  little  trinkets, —  all  but  a  single  little 
cross  with  a  black  ribbon,  which  she  laid 
aside,  for  Mr.  Venn  had  given  it  to  her. 
And  then  she  opened  all  her  drawers, 
took  out  the  contents, —  the  trousseau  that 
Philip  had  given  to  her,  —  piled  them  all 
in  a  heap,  and  trampled  on  them  with  her 
bare  little  feet.  And  then,  out  of  the  low- 
est division,  she  took  the  dress  she  had 
worn  when  she  was  married  :  all  that  she 
had  on  that  day  was  lying  folded  together, 
even  to  the  stockings  and  the  little  boots. 
She  put  them  on  hurriedly  :  the  dress  of 
blue  merino  stuff;  the  little  hat  with  an 
ostrich  feather,  Mr.  Venn's  last  gift ;  the 
ivory  cross  and  the  locket  he'  had  given 
her;  the  brown  cloth  jacket,  the  belt  with 
the  great  steel  buckle,  and  the  neAv  pair  of 
gloves, —  the  last  she  had  received  from 
him.  In  the  pocket  of  her  dress  was  her 
purse,  and  in  it  two  pounds,  —  Mr.  Venn's 
two  pounds. 

Then  she  took  her  jewel-case,  placed  in 
it  all  the  things  that  Philip  had  given  her, 
and  descended  the  stairs.  He  was  sitting 
there,  just  as  she  had  left  him  half  an  hour 
before,  — her  handsome  husband,  her  knight, 
and  lord,  and  king !  He  for  whom  she  had 
left  the  noblest  of  friends,  to  cleave  to  him. 
All  the  nobleness  was  gone  out  of  his  face. 
As  she  looked  on  him,  she  wondered  where 
it  had  been ;  and  she  pitied  him  —  yes,  she 
pitied  him  —  for  his  baseness. 

He  looked  up,  and  made  a  motion  with 
his  lips  as  if  he  would  speak  ;  but  no  words 
came.  She  placed  the  jewel-case  on  the 
table  gently. 

"  You  will  find  my  dresses  up  stairs,  Mr. 
Dnrnford.  You  can  sell  them  for  some- 
thing, I  dare  say.  I  am  come  to  return  you 
your  other  presents.  There  is  the  watch 
you  gave  me  at  Vieuxcamp,  with  a  pretty 
speech  about  its  lasting  as  long  as  your 
love :  you  remember  it,  I  dare  say.  Here 
is  the  chain.  You  said  that  love's  fetters 
were  all  golden.  It  was  a  very  pretty 
thing  to  say,  was  it  not  ?  Here  are  the 
bracelets,  and  all  the  rest.  They  will  do 
for  your  next  victim. 

"  After  the  next  mock  marriage,  try  to 
undeceive  the  victim  a  little  less  suddenly 
and  harshly.  Let  her  know  it  in  some 
way  a  little  different  to  this. 

"  I  wish  you  had  died  first,  Philip.  I 
wish  you  were  lying  dead  at  my  feet,  and 
that  I  were  crying  over  your  dead  body, 


believing  you  to  be  good  and  true.  Now 
there  is  nothing  to  lament ;  but  how  much 
worse  for  both  of  us !  The  last  memory  I 
shall  carry  away  with  me  is  of  a  coward 
and  a  liar.  A  "gentleman  !  Look  in  the 
glass,  at  your  own  face." 

It  was  now,  though  she  did  not  know 
this,  the  face  of  a  negro,  with  protruding 
lips,  lowering  eyebrows,  and  black  cheeks. 

"  Have  you  more  to  say  ?  "  asked  Philip 
hoarsely. 

"  I  go  as  I  came,"  she  said.  "  Whatever 
I  brought  with  me  I  take  away,  but  noth- 
ing more.  Stay,  this  is  my  own  pen- 
knife." 

She  took  a  little  white-handled  thing  from 
the  inkstand,  and  put  it  into  her  pocket. 
It  was  the  slightest  action  in  the  world,  but 
it  wrung  Philip's  heart  as  nothing  yet  had 
wrung  it. 

"  Now  there  is  nothing  left  to  remind 
you  of  me,"  she  said.  "  Mr.  Venn  will 
help  me.  I  go  back  to  him." 

He  did  not  speak. 

"  Farewell,  Philip." 

She  turned  to  go.  As  she  touched  the 
handle  of  the  door,  her  husband  fell  for- 
ward on  his  knees  before  her,  and  caught 
her  by  the  hand,  with  tears  and  sobs. 

"  Laura,  Laura, "  he  cried,  "  forgive  me  ! 
All  shall  be  as  it  was.  We  will  be  married 
again.  Forgive  me,  Laura.  I  am  mad 
this  morning.  Only  stay  "  — 

But  she  slipped  from  him,  and  was  gone. 

After  all,  the  memory  of  her  husband 
was  not  altogether  that  of  the  hardened 
wretch  she  might  have  thought  him. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

ABOUT  two  o'clock,  Mr.  Maclntyre 
called  upon  his  patron,  and  found  him  in  a 
state  of  mental  irritation  which  indicated 
the  necessity  of  prudence  and  tact.  He 
was  sitting  where  Laura  had  left  him, 
glowering  over  the  fire,  —  her  bracelets  and 
trinkets  on  the  table  ;  and  the  black  cloud 
upon  his  face,  with  this  disorder,  was  quite 
sufficient  to  teach  the  student  of  human 
nature  that  something  had  happened.  A 
curious  phrase  this,  if  we  may  be  allowed 
a  digression.  It  surely  indicates  a  strong 
belief  in  the  malignity  of  fate,  when  the 
phrase,  "  something  has  happened  "  means 
misfortune  ;  as  if  nothing  was  ever  given 
unexpectedly  except  kicks  and  buffets.  So 
far  as  my  own  experience  goes,  the  voice 
of  the  people  is  right.  ,. 

Mr.  Maclntyre  assumed  an  expression, 
designed  to'  illustrate  the  profound  sympa- 
thy working  in  his  breast,  took  off  his  hat, 
and  sat  down  in  silence.  * 


112 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


"  What  is  the  matter,  Phil  ?  "  After  a 
pause. 

Philip  made  an  impatient  gesture. 

'•  Mrs.  Durnford"  — 

"  Damnation  1"  cried  Philip,  starting  to 
his  feet,  and  walking  backwards  and  for- 
wards. 

Mr.  Maclntyre  was  silent.  Presently, 
preserving  the  same  sympathetic  look,  he 
rose,  and,  moving  softly,  —  after  the  man- 
ner of  one  who  respects  trouble,  —  he  pro- 
ceeded to  the  well-known  cellaret,  whence 
he  drew  a  decanter  of  sherry.  Helping 
himself  to  a  glass,  he  drank  it  off  with  a 
deep  sigh.  Then  he  shook  his  head  sol- 
emnly, and  offered  the  decanter  to  Philip. 

"  Drink ! "  he  cried.  "  It  is  all  you 
think  of.  Is  there  a  misfortune  in  the 
world  that  you  would  not  try  to  cure  with 
drink?" 

"  None,"  said  Maclntyre  :  "  I  think  there 
is  none.  Drink  makes  a  man  forget 
every  thing.  But  what  is  it,  Philip  V 
What  has  happened  V  " 

"  Why  have  you  not  been  near  me  for  a 
week  ?  " 

"Because  I  have  been  busy  about  my 
own  affairs.  What  has  happened,  then  ?  " 

"I  have  been  losing  about  as  fast  as 
a  man  could  lose,  for  seven  or  eight 
weeks  "  — 

"  Eh,  man  !  luck  will "  — 

"  I  have  no  luck  but  the  Devil's,  I  sup- 
pose. Listen  :  you  blew  the  spark  into  a 
flame,  —  you  and  your  wonderful  secret 
were  at  the  beginning  of  it.  '  The  mighty 
lever  that  can  make  us  meellionnaires.' 
You  recollect  ?  " 

"  I  can't  but  say  I  do." 

"  Well,  the  lever's  broke  into  little  bits. 
that's  all.  I  owe  more  hundreds  than  I  can 
tell  you  over  what  I  can  pay.  I  have  not 
bothered  to  add  up  the  sum  total  of  the 
book  over  the  Houghton  meeting.  I  can 
tell  you  this,  though  :  before  Kingdon,  I 
had  forty-seven  creditors  ;  now,  I  suppose, 
I've  got  three  or  four  more.  They*d  like 
to  meet  me,  I  have  not  the  least  doubt. 
They  won't.  I'm  scratched  for  all  my  en- 
gagements. Broken  down  badly.  It  is 
not  one  leg  in  my  case,  it's  all  four." 

He  laughed.  His  mind  was  easier  since 
the  anxiety  of  how  he  should  find  the 
money  to  pay  with  had  been  removed. 
He  had  decided  not  to  pay ;  been  desper- 
ate, and  gambled  without  much  hope  of 
paying  ;  come  off  second-best  at  the  game, 
and  had  not  paid.  His  desperation  had 
brought  some  sort  of  relief  with  it.  Only 
the  reckless  man  can  laugh  as  he  did.  Mr. 
Maclntyre,  now  many  degrees  removed 
from  the  feeling  of  recklessness,  saw  no 
cause  for  making  merry,  and  opened  his 
eyes  as  wide  as  it  was  possible  to  do,  put- 


ting on  his  most  sympathizing  mask,  at  the 
same  time  that  he  ejaculated  a  pious, 
"  Hear  that,  now  !  "  as  his  young  friend's 
narrative  proceeded. 

"  See  there,"  Philip  continued,  tossing 
his  betting-book  across  the  table  to  Mr. 
Maelntyre,  "  turn  over  the  pages,  and  sat- 
isfy yourself.  There  is  a  line  scored  through 
the  wins.  You  won't  find  many.  I  backed 
fifteen  horses  in  the  last  two  days  at  New- 
market without  scoring  one  win." 

"  I  doubt,"  said  Mr.  Maclntyre,  shaking 
his  head,  and  handing  back  the  book, "  I 
doubt  you  did  not  keep  to  the  seestem. 
Ah,  now  "  — 

"  I  did  not.  Nobody  ever  did  keep  to 
a  system.  They  mean  to  at  the  start ;  but 
they  forget  they  even  meant  till  they 
come  to  add  up  a  losing  account.  I  thought 
when  you  saw  what  a  succession  of  facers 
backers  have  had,  you  would  have  guessed 
what  was  the  matter." 

Here  he  picked  up  a  newspaper  a  week 
old,  and  read,  "  The  complaints  of  ab- 
sent accounts  were  loud  and  deep,  and  no 
wonder.  Even  bookmakers  don't  like  to 
be  shot  at ;  and  two  noble  lords,  besides  a 
baker's  dozen  of  '  un titled  noblemen,'  have 
gone  in  the  last  few  weeks." 

"  ;  Untitled  noblemen,'  Maclntyre.  that's 
for  me.  After  that  awful  Monday  came,  I 
was  frightened  at  my  own  shadow  for  a 
few  days,  and  hardly  dared  to  look  into  the 
paper  of  a  morning.  I  expected  to  find 
my  name  at  the  head  of  the  sporting  intel- 
ligence, or  in  the  agony  column  with  the 
people  wanted.  They  don't  do  that,  I 
find  ;  but  one  fellow  has  written,  after  call- 
ing about  twenty  times  at  the  club,  to 
say  he  shall  post  me  at  Tattersall's.  Much 
I  care  if  he  does.  It  will  be  a  paste  restante, 
but  I  am  not  likely  to  be  called  for." 

"  Ye  don't  know  that,"  said  Maclntyre, 
wisely  wagging  his  head. 

"  I  do,"  said  Philip,  with  his  bitter, 
scornful,  hollow  lau^h.  "  All  is  lost,  — 
honor,  money,  all.  If  I  raked  together 
every  thing  I  have  in  the  world,  I  don't 
suppose  I  should  be  able  to  pay  a  shilling 
in  the  pound.  But  this  is  not  all.  I've 
had  another  loss,"  he  went  on.  "  I  told 
that  girl  the  whole  truth,  and  she  has  left 
me." 

"  Is  she  gone  ?  I  am  sorry,"  said  Mac- 
lntyre. "  I've  always  been  vera  sorry  for 
the  poor  little  bonnie  thing." 

"  She  is  gone,  and  will  never  come  back 
to  me.  So  that  is  finished.  Let  us  talk 
about  other  things.  I  suppose,  Maclntyre, 
that  the  marriage  was  all  a  farce  ?  " 

The  reverend  gentleman  took  two  bits 
of  paper  —  the  famous  marriage  certificates 
—  from  his  pocket-book,  and  handed  them 
to  Philip. 


MY  LITTLE  GIKL. 


113 


"  The  mock  certificates,"  lie  said.  "  Yes, 
Philip,  you  can  do  what  you  like  with  them. 
Best  tear  them  up." 

Philip  threw  them  into  the  fire. 

"  But  you  told  me  "  — 

"  Eh,  now  V  Don't  let  us  have  a  bleth- 
erin'  about  what  I  told  you.  You  were  in 
one  of  your  moral  moods  that  day,  you  see  ; 
and  I  always  suit  my  conversation  to  cir- 
cumstances. I  just  thought  it  best  to  make 
the  most  of  what  we  did.  Perhaps  I  was 
never  an  ordained  clergyman  at  all.  Per- 
haps I  pretended.  I  have  preached  though, 
on  probation.  It  was  at  Glasgie.  They 
said  I  wanted  unction.  Eh,  sirs,  what  a 
man  I  might  have  been,  with  unction !  " 
.  Philip  took  him  by  the  shoulders,  and 
held  him  at  arm's  length. 

"  Maclntyre,  you  are  a  precious  scoun- 
drel !  I  am  bad  enough,  God  knows ;  but 
not  so  bad  as  you.  I  have  the  strongest 
desire  at  this  moment  to  take  you  by  the 
throat,  and  throttle  the  life  out  of  you." 

The  philosopher  looked  up  for  one 
moment  in  alarm,  but  speedily  smiled 
again. 

"  You  will  not,  Phil.  First,  because  it 
would  be  murder,  and  you  would  not  like 
to  be  hanged.  Second,  because  you  would 
not  be  such  a  fool  as  to  hurt  the  only  man 
who  has  it  in  his  power  to  help  you." 

«  You ! " 

"  And  third,  because  your  wrath  is  like 
a  fire  of  chips.  It  burns  out  as  soon  as  it 
is  lighted." 

Philip  let  him  go. 

*'  If  you  are  the  only  man  to  help  me, 
why  the  devil  don't  you,  instead  of  drink- 
ing sherry,  and  telling  me  what  a  liar  you 
are?" 

"  I'm  going  to,"  said  the  little  man,  sit- 
ting down  with  an  air  of  great  dignity,  and 
beginning  to  tremble,  because  he  was  at 
last  going  to  play  his  great  card.  "  I'm 
going  to.  Sit  down,  Phil,  and  listen.  Let 
us  first  face  the  position.  What  is  it  ?  " 

"  Ruin  and  disgrace." 

"  For  want  of  a  few  hundreds,  which  I 
will  put  into  your  hands  at  once,  with 
plenty  more  to  the  back  of  them." 

"  Go  on,  man.  Are  there  any  more  lies 
at  the  bottom  of  all  this  ?  " 

"Do  not  pain  me  unnecessarily,  Philip. 
You  will  be  sorry  afterwards.  This  is  a 
very  grave  and  serious  matter.  Do  you 
remember  a  conversation  I  had  with  you 
after  your  father's  death  ?  " 

« I  do." 

"  I  hinted  then  at  the  possession  of  cer- 
tain documents  which  might  or  might  not 
be  found  useful  in  proving  you  the  heir  to 
certain  property." 

"  Go  on,  Maclntyre.     Do  get  on  faster." 

"  I  afterwards    obtained    those    proofs. 


During  all  the  years  of  my  wandering,  I 
have  kept  them  releegiously  in  my  pocket- 
book,  in  the  hope  that  they  might  one  day 
be  of  use  in  restoring  you,  my  favorite  pu- 
pil, to  your  own." 

He  dropped  his  voice  from  nervousness. 
Suppose,  after  all,  the  plan  should  fail? 
It  seemed  to  Philip  that  his  accents  trem- 
bled with  emotion. 

"  The  papers  prove  you  beyond  a  doubt 
—  I  mean,  mind,  beyond  a  legal  doubt  — 
to  be  the  sole  heir  of  your  father's  proper- 
ty, the  estate  of  Fontainebleau,  in  the 
Island  of  Palmiste." 

"Arthur's  estate?  I  will  not  believe 
it." 

"  Do  not,  if  you  prefer  to  believe  to  the 
contrary.  It  brings  in  at  present  about 
£4,000  per  annum,  clear  profit,  in  good 
years.  There  is  not  a  mortgage  on  it,  and 
it  is  managed  by  the  most  honest  man  in 
all  the  island.  Philip,  I  offer  you  this, 
not  in  an  illegal  way,  not  in  a  way  of 
which  you  will  hereafter  be  ashamed',  but 
as  a  right,  your  right.  I  offer  you  for- 
tune, escape  from  all  your  troubles ;  and, 
Philip,  —  not  the  least  —  I  offer  you  legiti- 
macy." 

"  The  proofs,  Maclntyre  —  the  proofs." 

"  Wait,  wait.  First  read  and  sign  this 
document.  It  is  a  secret  agreement.  It 
is  not  possible  to  receive  the  sum  named 
by  any  legal  procedure,  —  I  trust  entirely 
to  your  honor ;  and,  if  you  do  not  obtain 
the  estate,  the  agreement  is  not  worth  the 
paper  it  is  written  on." 

Philip  read  it.  It  was  a  paper  in  which 
he  pledged  himself  to  hand  over  to  Mac- 
lntyre, as  soon  as  he  got  the  Fontainebleau 
estate,  the  sum  of  £5,000. 

"  It  will  be  a  cruel  thing  to  turn  out  Ar- 
thur," he  said. 

"  You  can  settle  with  all  your  creditors," 
said  Maclntyre  significantly. 

"  At  the  worst,  I  can  but  starve,"  said 
Philip. 

"  Hoots  toots !  "  said  the  philosopher. 
"  I've  tried  it :  you  would  not  like  it.  Of 
course  you  will  not  starve.  Sign  the  paper, 
and  we  will  proceed." 

Philip  took  a  pen,  signed  it,  and  tossed 
it  back. 

Maclntyre  folded  the  document,  and 
carefully  replaced  it  in  his  pocket-book. 
Then  he  took  out  three  or  four  papers, 
wrapped  in  a  waterproof  cover.  They 
were  clean  enough,  though,  frayed  at  the 
edges,  and  the  ink  was  yellow,  with  age. 
He  handed  them  solemnly  to  Philip. 
Three  of  them  were-  letters  written  by 
George  Durnford,  beginning  "  My  dearest 
wife,"  and  ending  with  "  Your  most  alfec- 
tionate  husband,  George  Durnford." 

"  Obsairver"  said  Mr.  Maclntyre.     "  The 


114 


MY  LITTLE  GIEL. 


dates  of  all  are  before  that  of  his  marriage 
•with  Mdlle.  Adrienne  de  Rosnay.  The  let- 
ters themselves  are  not  sufficient.  Look 
at  this." 

It  was  a  certificate  of  marriage  between 

George  Durnford  and  Marie ,  no  other 

name. 

"  And  this." 

The  last  paper  purported  to  be  a  copy 
of  a  marriage  register  from  the  Roman 
Catholic  chaplain  of  St.  Joseph.  To  it 
was  appended  a  statement  to  the  effect  that 
the  marriage  had  been  privately  solem- 
nized in  Mr.  Durnford's  house,  but  that  the 
register  was  duly  entered  in  the  church- 
book. 

Philip's  eyes  flashed. 

"  If  you  had  told  me  that  you  were  your- 
self the  Roman  Catholic  priest,  I  should 
not  have  believed  you.  Maclntyre,  if  those 
papers  are  what  they  pretend  to  be,  I  am  a 
legitimate  son." 

"  Of  course  you  are.  I've  known  it  all 
along ;  but  I  waited  my  opportunity." 

"  Who  are  the  witnesses  to  the  mar- 
riage ?  "  said  Philip. 

"  See  those  signatures.  I  am  one.  I 
was  present  on  the  occasion.  The  other  is 
Adolphe,  brother  to  Marie,  the  bride.  The 
clergyman  is  dead,  and  I  suppose  the  other 
witness  by  this  time.  But  you  can  inquire 
in  Palmiste  if  you  like.  The  ways  of  what 
we  call  Providence  are  obscure.  They 
may  appear  to  be  winding.  They  are,  in 
reality,  straight." 

Philip  made  an  impatient  gesture,  and 
he  stopped. 

Mr.  Maclntyre  had  played  his  last  card, 
his  King  of  Trumps,  and  it  looked  like 
winning.  He  breathed  more  easily. 

"I  believe,  Maclntyre,"  said  Philip 
coolly,  "  that  there  is  not  a  single  thing  in 
the  world  that  you  would  not  do  for 
money."  , 

"  There  is  not,"  replied  the  tutor  with 
readiness.  "  There  is  nothing.  And  why 
not  ?  I  look  round,  and  see  all  men  en- 
gaged in  the  pursuit  of  wealth.  They 
nave  but  one  thought,  —  to  make  money. 
I,  too,  have  been  possessed  all  my  life  with 
an  ardent  desire  to  be  rich ;  but  fortune 
has  persecuted  me.  Ill-luck  has  dogged 
me  in  all  that  J  have  tried.  I  am  past 
fifty  now,  and  have  but  a  few  years  to  live. 
To  have  a  large  fortune  would  bring  with 
it  no  enjoyment  that  I  any  longer  greatly 
care  for ;  but  to  have  a  small  one  would 
mean  ease,  respectability,  comfort  for  my 
declining  years,  nurses  to  smooth  my  pil- 
low, considerate  friends.  This  is  what  I 
want.  This  is  what  you  will  give  me.  I 
have  looked  for  it  all  these  years,  and  bided 
my  time.  With  my  five  thousand  pounds, 
which  is  two  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  a 


year,  I  shall  go  to  some  quiet  country 
place,  and  live  in  comfort.  My  antece- 
dents will  be  unknown.  I  shall  be  respect- 
able at  last." 

The  prospect  was  too  much  for  him,  philos- 
opher that  he  was.  He  went  on,  in  an  agi- 
tated voice,  walking  up  and  down  the 
room,  — 

"  Money !  Is  there  any  thing  in  the 
world  I  hat  money  will  not  procure  ?  Is  it 
friends  ?  You  can  get  them  by  the  bribe 
of  a  dinner.  Is  it  love  ?  You  can  buy 
the  semblance,  and  win  the  substance.  Is 
it  honor?  You  can  buy  that  too,  if  you 
have  got  enough  money.  Is  it  power? 
Money  is  synonymous  with  power.  Is  it 
comfort  ?  Only  money  will  buy  it.  Is  it 
health  ?  You  may  win  it  back  by  money. 
Is  it  independence  ?  You  cannot  have  it 
without  money.  Money  is  the  provider  of 
all." 

"  It  won't  help  you  to  get  to  heaven. " 
"  I  beg  your  pardon.    Without  it  I  am,  — 
I  am  damned  if  you  will  get  to  heaven." 

"  A  curiously  involved  expression,"  said 
Philip,  looking  at  the  man  with  astonish- 
ment. 

"  Answer  me  this,  Phil.  Did  you  ever 
hear  of  a  poor  man  repenting,  unless  it  was 
when  he  was  going  to  be  hanged  ?  " 

"  I  really  have  not  given  the  subject  any 
consideration." 

"  You  never  did.  It  is  only  the  rich  who 
have  leisure  to  repent.  What  is  a  poor  man 
to  think  about  but  the  chance  of  to-morrow's 
dinner  ?  Great  heavens  !  Phil,  when  I  think 
of  how  wretchedly,  miserably,  detestably 
poor  my  life  has  been,  my  wonder  is,  not 
that  my  life  has  been  so  bad,  but  that  it 
has  not  been  worse.  Do  you  know  what 
grinding  poverty  is  ?  Do  you  know  what 
it  is  to  be  a  poor  student  at  a  Scotch  Uni- 
vairsity  ?  Do  you  know  what  it  means  to 
take  up  a  sacred  profession  which  you  are 
not  fit  for,  — to  disgrace  yourself,  and  lose 
self-respect,  before  you  are  five  and  twenty, 

—  to  be  put  to  a  thousand  shifts,  —  to  invent 
a  hundred  dodges,  —  to  lose  your  dignity  as 
a  man,  —  to  be  a  parasite,  and  fail  in  that, 

—  to  take  to  drink  because  the  years  of 
your  manhood  are  slipping  by,  and  a  miser- 
able old  age  is  before  you  ?     Tell  me,  can 
you  guess  what   all  these   things   mean  ? 
Youth  !     I  had  no  youth.     It  was  wasted 
in  study  and  poverty.     I  dreamed  of  love 
and  the  graces  of  life.     None  came  to  me. 
No  woman  has  ever  loved  me.     Not  one. 
I  have  always  been  too  poor  even  to  dream 
of  love.     Philip,  I  like  you  for  one  reason. 
You  have  kicked  me  like  a  dog.    You  have 
called  me  names:    you  despise   me;    but 
you  and  I  are  alike  in  this,  that  we  owe  the 
world  a  grudge.    I  rejoiced  when  I  saw  you 
ruining  yourself.    I  stood  by  at  the  last,  and 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


115 


let  it  go  on,  because  I  knew  that  every  hun- 
dred pounds  you  threw  away  brought  me 
nearer  to  my  end  ;  and  that  is  the  five 
thousand  pounds  that  you  will  give  me." 

Philip  said  nothing.  He  saw  in  part 
what  this  man  was  whom  he  had  believed 
to  be  a  simple,  common  rogue  ;  saw  him  as 
he  was,  —  pertinacious,  designing,  cynically 
unscrupulous.  He  recoiled  before  a  nature 
stronger  than  his  own,  and  felt  abashed. 

"  The  money,"  Maclntyre  went  on,  "  will 
not  come  a  bit  too  soon.  I  am  nearly  at  the 
end  of  the  hundred  pounds  I  had.  Arthur 
told  me  I  should  have  another  fifty,  and 
then  no  mo^e.  What  should  I  do  when 
that  was  gone  ?  You  remember  what  I 
was  when  you  met  me  in  the  street  ?  —  a 
poor,  famished  creature,  on  one  and  three 
pence  a  day.  A  few  more  weeks  would 
have  finished  me.  Even  now  the  effects 
of  that  bitter  winter  are  on  me  ;  and  I 
wake  at  night  with  the  terror  upon  me 
that  those  days  are  coming  back,  —  that  I 
shall  have  to  return  to  the  twopenny 
breakfast,  and  the  fourpenny  dinner,  and 
the  miserable  lodging  where  I  sat  at  night, 
gloomy  and  drinkless.  Money  !  He  asks 
me  if  I  would  do  any  thins  for  money  !  I, 
with  my  memories  !  Philip,  I  swear  there 
is  no  act  of  dishonesty  I  would  not  commit 
to  save  myself  from  this  awful  dread  of 
destitution  that  hangs  over  me  day  and 
night.  After  my  miserable  life,  compensa- 
tion is  due  to  me.  I  say,  sir,  it  is  due." 

His  face  grew  black  and  lowering. 

"  If  I  am  not  paid  what  is  owing  to  me, 
I  shall  take  what  I  can  get.  For  the  forced 
hypocrisies  of  my  youth,  for  my  servile  man- 
hood, for  my  ill-fortune,  my  wretched  condi- 
tion of  last  year,  I  swear  that  compensation 
is  due  to  me.  Honesty!  The  wise  man 
guides  himself  by  circumstances.  Well, 
I've  prayed  —  yes,  you  may  laugh,  but  1 
have  prayed  till  my  knees  were  stiff — for 
some  measure,  even  the  smallest,  of  success 
in  the  world,  for  just  a  little  of  that  material 
comfort  which  makes  life  tolerable.  As  well 
pray  for  the  years  to  roll  back  as  for  fate  to 
be  changed.  Whatever  I  do  henceforth,  I 
claim  as°my  right.  It  is  my  compensation 
for  the  sufferings  of  the  past." 

He  sat  dowm  Philip  noticed  how  shaky 
he  was,  how  his  legs  tottered,  and  the  per- 
spiration stood  in  great  beads  upon  his 
nose, — the  feature  where  emotion  general- 
ly first  showed  itself  with  this  philosopher  ; 
but  he  answered  him  not  a  word. 

"  Go  now,"  he  said,  '•  and  show  these 
papers  to  Arthur.  He  ought  to  see  them." 

Maclntyre  put  on  his  hat. 

"Don't  come  back  here,"  said  Philip. 
"  Find  me  at  the  club.  I  shall  choke  if  I 
slept  a  night  in  this  house." 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

WHEN  Arthur  heard  Macln tyre's  story, 
he  was  amazed. 

"  Why  did  you  not  tell  me  all  this  be- 
fore ?  "  he  asked  at  last. 

"  You  have  known  it  all  these  years,  — 
why  did  you  not  tell  it  when  my  father 
died  ?  Let  me  look  at  the  letters  again. 
They  are  in  my  father's  writing.  Is  there 
some  villany  in  this?" 

<;  The  extract  from  the  register,  ye'll  ob- 
sairve,"  said  the  philosopher,  passing  over 
the  injurious  nature  of  the  last  words,  "  is 
certificated  by  a  firm  of  respectable  solici- 
tors, and  enclosed  to  me  by  their  agents  in 
London." 

"  Why  not  tell  the  story  before  ?  " 

"  Loard,  loard  !  it  is  a  suspicious  world. 
Yo'u  will  remember,  Mr.  Arthur,  that  I  was 
once  violently  assaulted  by  your  brother  ?  " 

"  I  remember." 

"  It  was  because  I  hinted  at  this  secret ; 
for  no  other  reason.  Therefore,  as  I  was 
not  personally  interested  in  either  of  you 
getting  the  money,  —  though  I  certainly 
always  received  great  consideration  from 
Philip,  —  I  held  my  tongue.  The  time 
has  now  come,  when  poor  Phil  is  ruined." 

"  Ruined  !     How  ?  " 

"  He  has  lost  his  money  on  the  turf.  He 
has  now  nothing.  This  being  the  case,  I 
found  it  time  to  interfere.  Here  are  my 
papers,  —  here  my  proofs.  It's  vera  hard 
for  you,  Mr.  Arthur,  after  so  many  years  o 
the  pillow  o'  luxury,  and  ye  will  commence 
to  remember  some  of  the  maxums  "  — 

"  What  does  Philip  say  ?  " 

"  He  told  me  to  bring  you  the  things, 
and  tell  you  the  story." 

"  It  seems  incredible,  —  impossible.  And 
yet  the  letters  and  the  certificate." 

"  You  can  nVht  it,  Mr.  Arthur,  if  you 
please.  You  will  have  to  put  me  in  the 
box  ;  and  I  shall,  most  reluctantly,  have  to 
represent  to  the  world  the  secrets  of  your 
father's  life." 

Arthur  recoiled  in  dismay. 

"  It  is  not  a  question  of  fighting.  It  is  a 
question  of  doing  what  is  right.  If  only 
your  story  is  true.  Pray,  Mr.  Maclntyre, 
what  is  the  price  you  have  put  upon  it  ?  " 

He  smote  his  chest. 

"  Go  on,  Arthur,  go  on.  You  into  whose 
young  mind  I  poured  treasures  of  philoso- 
phy. Insult  your  aged  and  poverty-stricken 
tutor,  —  and  a  Master  of  Arts  of  an  ancient 
and  "  — 

"  You  sold  me  an  address." 

"  Pardon  me.  I  borrowed  forty  pounds 
of  you,  and,  with  a  kindness  which  I  re- 
gret not  to  see  rated  at  its  real  worth,  I 
gave  you  Miss  Madeleine's  address.  I  hope 
you  have  made  good  use  of  it." 


116 


MY   LITTLE  GIRL. 


"  What  does  it  matter  to  you,  sir,  what 
use  I  have  made  of  it  V  " 

"  Not  at  a',  not  at  a' :  let  us  come  back 
to  our  business.  The  story  is  not  mine 
alone,  Arthur.  It  rests  on  the  evidence  of 
the  Church.  Man  tells  lies :  church  re- 
gisters are  infallible.  I  suppose  that  Marie 
died  in  England  before  the  second  mar- 
riage "  — 

"  Mr.  Maclntyre,  do  you  want  me  to 
wring  off  your  nock  ?  " 

"  The  facs  of  the  case,  —  the  facs  of  the 
case  only.  Your  elder  brother,  sir,  re- 
ceived my  communication  without  any  of 
the  manifestations  of  temper  which  you 
have  shown.  Naturally,  there  is  a  differ- 
ence between  you." 

"  You  should  have  told  us  ten  years  ago. 
You  should  have  told  us  even  three  months 
ago.  Why  did  you  not  ?  " 

"  To  begin  with,  I  saw  no  reason  for 
speaking  at  all,  till  my  friend,  as  well  as 
old  pupil,  lost  his  money.  This  was  yester- 
day." 

«  And  why  next  ?  " 

"  Because  I  did  not  choose." 

This  was  the  only  outward  mark  of  re- 
sentment at  Arthur's  suspicions  which  the 
sage  allowed  himself. 

He  gave  a  long  sniff  of  satisfaction,  and 
went  on,  — 

"  There  may  be  a  weakness  in  the  evi- 
dence. The  law  might  be  evaded  by  a 
crafty  counsel.  You  can  fight  the  ques- 
tion, if  you  like.  But  the  right  of  the  case 
will  remain  unaltered.  Arthur  Durnford, 
you  are  only  the  second  son  of  your 
father." 

Arthur  was  silent  for  a  while,  leaning  his 
head  on  his  hand. 

"  Come  into  the  city  with  me.  Do  you 
object  to  bring  your  papers  to  my  law- 
yer's ?  " 

"  Not  at  a',  not  at  a*.  Let  us  go  at  once," 
answered  Maclntyre,  apparently  in  great 
good  humor.  "  And  don't  be  overmuch 
cast  down,  Arthur,  at  this  temporary  re- 
vairse  of  circumstances.  Philip  will  give 
you  enough  to  live  upon.  If  not,  there  are 
several  lines  of  life  open  to  you.  You  may 
be  a  private  tutor,  like  me.  Then,  indeed, 
ray  example  will  not  have  been  wholly  in 
vain." 

He  pursued  this  theme  as  they  drove 
into  the  city  in  a  cab,  illustrating  his  posi- 
tion by  reference  to  passages  in  his  own 
life,  wherein  he  had  imitated  the  magna- 
nimity of  Themistocles,  the  clemency5  of 
Alexander,  the  continence  of  Scipio,*  and 
the  generosity  of  Caesar. 

"  Poor  I  may  be,"  he  said,  "  and  cer- 
tainly am  :  but  at  least  I  can  reflect  —  the 
reflection  alone  is  worth  a  bottle  of  Isla 
whiskey  —  on  temptations  avoided  and 


good  effected.  I  forgive  yon,  Arthur,  for 
your  hard  words  ;  and  remain,  as  I  always 
have  been,  your  best  friend." 

Arthur  answered  little,  and  that  in  mono- 
syllables. He  was  so  much  pre-occupied, 
that  the  man's  prattle  dropped  unheeded  on 
his  ears. 

What  was  the  right  thing  to  do. 

The  lawyer  heard  what  Arthur  had  to 
say,  read  the  documents  carefully, — from 
time  to  time  casting  a  furtive  glance  on 
Maclntyre,  who  sat  with  an  air  of  great 
dignity,  and  even  virtue,  in  his  counte- 
nance, and  occasionally  rubbed  his  nose. 

u  You  are  the  only  surviving  witness,  Mr. 
Maclntyre  ?  " 

"  I  am,"  returned  our  Alexander.  "  That 
is,  the  only  one,  I  believe,  surviving.  *  Flesh 
is  grass.'  The  priest  was  younger  than 
myself;  but,  you  see,  he  is  gone  first. 
Adolphe  might  be  found,  perhaps,  though 
I  think  he  is  dead  too." 

"  It  is  now  twenty-seven  years  since  this 
marriage,  according  to  your  certificate,  was 
contracted.  Would  you  kindly  tell  us  more 
about  it  ?  " 

"  With  pleasure.  It  took  place  in  Mr. 
Durn ford's  own  house  at  Fontainebleau,  in 
the  dining-room.  You  remember  our  les- 
sons, —  those  delightful  lessons,  —  which 
used  to  take  place  in  the  dinin--room,  Ar- 
thur ?  It's  vera  sweet  to  recall  old  days. 
It  was  in  the  evening.  Marie  left  her 
mistress's  house  in  the  afternoon.  -No  one 
knew  where  she  had  gone  except  myself. 
I  helped  her  to  escape." 

"  Oh !  "  said  the  lawyer,  "  you  acted  as 
—  as  the  uncle  of  Cressida.  It  was  a 
creditable  position  for  you  to  occupy." 

"Perhaps,"  said  Maclntyre,  with  all 
that  was  left  of  his  power  of  blushing 
mantling  to  his  nose,  —  "  perhaps.  The 
necessities  of  the  stomach  have  on  several 
occasions  obliged  me  to  take  part  in  ac- 
tions of  which  my  conscience  disapproved. 
The  needy  man  has  no  choice.  I  approve 
the  better  cause,  even  when  fate,  armed 
with  the  weapon  of  hunger,  has  obliged  me 
to  follow  the  worse.  In  the  words  of  the 
Latin  poet,  —  I  hope,  sir,  you  have  not  en- 
tirely neglected  the  humanities,  —  *  Durn 
meliora  probo  '  "  — 

"  My  dear  sir,"  interrupted  the  lawyer, 
"  pray  get  on  with  your  story." 

"  Marie  required  a  good  deal  of  persuad- 
ing," he  went  on,  gaining  courage  as  he 
began  to  unfold  his  web  of  fiction.  "  Mr. 
Durnford,  a  young  man  at  the  time,  had 
conceived  a  violent  passion  for  her.  She 
was  as  white  as  a  European,  and  had  no 
marks  at  all  of  her  descent,  except  her  full 
black  hair.  Her  mother,  indeed,  was  a 
mulatto;  and  perhaps  her  father  was  a 
white  man,  —  I  don't  know.  On  the  even- 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


117 


ing  when  I  drove  her  over  to  Fontaine- 
bleau,  I  had  got  Father  O'Callinan  to  ride 
up  in  the  afternoon.  He  knew  what  he 
was  to  do.  It  was  promised  to  Marie  ;  and 
there  in  the  sitting-room,  with  myself  and 
Adolphe,  a  halt-blood  brother  of  Marie, 
who  was  sworn  to  secrecy,  the  marriage 
was  performed,  and  these  papers  signed. 
A  year  and  a  half  later,  after  her  boy  was 
born,  Marie  went  away  to  Europe,  and  Mr. 
Durnford  married  Mademoiselle  Adrienne 
de  Rosnay." 

"  And  pray  how  did  the  papers  come 
into  your  hands  ?  " 

Maclntyre  for  a  moment  hesitated,  and 
a  violent  effusion  of  red  mounted  to  his 
nose. 

"  After  the  death  of  Mr.  Durnford,  I  went 
through  his  papers." 

"  As  a  legally  appointed  agent?  " 

"No.  As  a  confidential  friend  of  the 
family,  in  which  I  had  been  a  tutor  for 
many  years,"  said  Maclntyre. 

"In  other  words,  you  ransacked  my 
father's  desk  ?  "  asked  Arthur. 

"  Do  not  put  an  injurious  construction 
on  the  proceeding,"  said  Maclntyre.  "  I 
searched  the  drawers  for  some  papers  of 
my  own,  and  found  not  only  my  own  pri- 
vate documents,  but  also  these  letters." 

"  Oh ! "  said  the  lawyer.  "  Dear  rne  ! 
Would  you  be  good  enough  to  step  outside  ? 
Stay,  though,  what  has  become  of —  of — 
Marie?" 

"  She  went  to  Europe,  and  was  lost  sight 
of.  I  suppose  she  died." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  lawyer,  opening 
the  door.  "  You  will  find  the  papers  in 
the  next  room.  Mr.  Thompson,  pray  give 
this  gentleman  *  The  Times.'  Now,  Mr. 
Durnford,  this  is  an  ugly  case.  Tell  me 
what  you  know  of  this  man." 

Arthur  told  him  every  tiling. 

"He  is  evidently  a  rogue.  And  I  be- 
lieve that  the  whole  thing  is  a  forgery. 
Do  you  know  your  father's  hand- writ- 
ing?" 

"  Yes  :  the  letters  are  his." 

"  Well,  well,  it  may  be.  Still,  observe 
that  in  the  only  place  where  the  word 
Marie  occurs,  the  writing  looks  to  me  un- 
certain, and  the  word  laps  over  beyond  the 
line.  It  may  possibly  have  been  put  in 
afterwards.  Are  you  sure  that  the  dates 
are  in  the  same  writing  as  the  letters  ?  " 

"  They  look  so.  Besides,  there  is  the 
church  register." 

"  Registers  have  been  tampered  with,  es- 
pecially in  novels.  But  what  does  the  man 
mean  by  it  all :  the  secrecy  for  ten  years, 
—  the  suddenness  of  the  revelation  ?  What 
does  lie  get  for  it?" 

"Philip,  I  am  sure,  would  not  pay  for 
his  secret. 


"  Humph  !  I  don't  know.  The  church 
register  is  the  only  thing  to  fear.  Fight  it, 
Mr.  Durnford."  " 

"  It  is  not  the  winning  or  losing,"  Arthur 
replied.  "  That  seems  the  least  part  of 
it." 

The  lawyer  stared  at  him. 

"  To  Philip  it  means  legitimacy.  He 
must  fight." 

"  My  dear  sir,  it  may  also  mean  legiti- 
macy to  you." 

"  I  think  not.  I  am  quite  sure  that  my 
father  would  not  have  married  a  second 
time,  except  with  the  clearest  proof  of  his 
first  wife's  death.  That  is  to  me  a  convic- 
tion. I  have  nothing  to  fear  on  that  ground. 
But  there  is  another  thing.  How  can  I 
drag  my  father's  life  and  character  into 
open  court  ?  " 

"  Would  you  sacrifice  every  thing  for  the 
mere  sake  of  hiding  scandals  five  and 
twenty  years  old  ?  " 

"  If  they  are  my  father  s  —  yes." 

"  Well,  well  —  let  us  see  " 

He  went  into  the  outer  office,  and  re- 
quested permission  to  see  the  papers  again, 
holding  them  up  to  the  light  to  see  the 
water-mark.  Mr.  Maclntyre  watched  him 
steadily,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye  distinctly 
resembling  a  wink.  The  lawyer  returned 
the  papers,  and  went  back. 

"  He's  a  crafty  rascal,  at  least.  The 
water-marks  are  all  right.  Mr.  Durnford, 
there  is  villany  in  it.  Do  nothing  rashly." 

"  Philip  will  press  on  the  case.  I  only 
begin  now  to  understand  what  it  may  mean 
to  him  —  what  the  past  has  been  for  him. 
I  shall  not  fight  with  my  brother." 

"  You  will  acknowledge  every  thing  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Arthur,  straightening  him 
self,  as  one  who  is  doing  a  strong  thing,  "  I 
shall  hide  every  thing.  I  may  be  a  coward, 
but  I  ivill  not  have  my  father's  name  hawked 
about  in  public,  and  the  story  of  his  youth 

—  and  —  and  — perhaps  his    sins,  told  to 
the  whole  world.     Let  Philip  have  all  the 
money.     I  retire.     Let  Philip  have  all  the 
money.     I  shall  not  starve,  I  dare  say." 

"  Nonsense,  nonsense.  As  your  lawyer, 
I  protest  against  it.  My  dear  sir,  the  time 
for  Quixotism  has  passed  away.  People 
will  ask  questions  too.  What  will  you 
say  ?  " 

"Nothing.  Let  them  ask  what  they 
please.  The  secret  is  mine  —  and  Philip's 

—  and  this  man's.     Not  one  of  us  will  speak 
of  it." 

"  As  for  Mr.  Maclntyre,  certainly  not  — 
provided  his  silence  is  bought.  Will  your 
brother  buy  it?" 

"  I  shall  not  ask.  I  should  excuse  him 
if  he  did." 

"Take  advice,  Mr.  Durnford,  take  ad- 
vice." 


118 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


"  I  will  take  advice.  I  will  put  the  whole 
facts  into  the  hands  of  a  third  person,  and 
be  guided  by  the  counsel  I  get  from  her." 

k-  If  it  is  a  lady,"  the  lawyer  returned, 
laughing,  "  I  give  you  up.  But  come  and 
see  me  to-morrow." 

Arthur  went  out  by  the  private  door, 
forgetting  all  about  Mr.  Maclntyre,  who 
still  sat  behind  "  The  Times,"  waiting.  The 
time  passed  on  —  an  hour  or  two  —  before 
the  lawyer  came  again  into  the  outer  office. 
Perhaps  he  kept  liis  man  waiting  on  pur- 
pose, after  the  sweet  and  gentle  practice 
of  a  Bismarck, "  letting  him  cook  in  his  own 
juice." 

"  What !  —  you  there  still,  Mr.  Macln- 
tyre ?  I  thought  you  gone  long  ago3  with 
Mr.  Durnford.  Come  in  again,  —  come  and 
have  a  glass  of  sherry.  Now,  then,  sit 
down,  —  sit  down.  We  are  men  of  business 
here,  and  shall  soon  understand  each  other. 
You  will  find  that,  Mr.  Maclntyre,  if  you 
are  a  judge  of  sherry ;  and  I  have  no  doubt 
you  are  a  very  excellent  judge"  — 

"  Pretty  well  —  pretty  well.  I  am  bet- 
ter at  whiskey." 

"  Aha !  very  good  —  very  good,  indeed. 
Reminds  me  of  a  thing  I  once  heard  said. 
But  never  mind  now ;  let  me  give  you  an- 
other glass.  Dry,  you  observe,  but  gener- 
ous. A  fat  wine.  A  wine  with  bone  and 
muscle.  I  knew  you'd  like  it."  He  sat 
down  opposite  his  visitor,  clapped  him  on 
the  knee,  and  laughed.  "  And  now  let  us 
talk  about  this  affair  which  you  have  been 
the  means  of  bringing  to  light." 

"  Under  Providence." 

"  Quite  so.  Under  Providence,  as  you 
say.  You  know,  I  feel  for  Arthur  Durn- 
fbrd's  position  in  this  case." 

"  I  am  but  an  instrument,"  said  Macln- 
tyre, with  a  solemn  face  and  another  pull 
at  the  sherry  —  "a  vera  humble  instrument. 
But  life  is  so.  The  moral  philosopher  has 
often  called  attention  to  the  curious  way  in 
which  our  sins  become  pitfalls  for  our  chil- 
dren. I  could  give  you  some  striking  pas- 
sages indirectly  bearing  upon  the  "point 
from  Stewart  and  Reid.  But  perhaps, 
Mr.  —  I  forget  your  name — you  are  not  a 
parent  ?  " 

"  He  crossed  his  legs,  and  brought  the 
tips  of  his  fingers  together. 

"Another  time,  my  dear  sir,  another 
time.  By  the  way,  is  it  not  rather  unusual 
for  an  Englishman  to  marry  a  mulatto  V  " 

"  Most  unusual.  Nothing  ever  surprised 
me  so  much.  I  have  often  obsairved,  in 
my  progress  through  life,  that "  — 

"Yes.  The  circumstance  will  tell  in 
court." 

Mr.  Maclntyre  visibly  started. 

"  You  will  go  into  court  ?  " 

"  Doubtless,"  returned  the  lawyer,  watch- 


ing his  man,  in  whom,  however,  he  saw 
no  other  sign  of  emotion.  "  Doubtless  — 
your  own  evidence  will  be  the  main  chain, 
so  to  speak.  I  hope  you  don't  mind  cross- 
examination." 

"  When  a  medicine,  however  disagree- 
able, has  to  be  taken,  it  must  be  taken." 

"  Quite  so.  They  will  probably  inquire 
into  all  your  antecedents  —  eh  ?  —  ask  you 
all  sorts  of  impudent  questions  —  ha  !  ha  1 
Whether  you  ever  got  into  trouble  ?  We, 
the  lawyers  for  our  side,  will  make  it  our 
business  to  hunt  up  every  thing  about  you." 

"  What  trouble  ?  " 

"  Into  the  hands  of  the  law,  you  know 

—  eh  ?     Oh,  most  absurd,  I  assure  you  !     I 
remember  a  similar  case  to  this,  when  the 
principal  witness  was   obliged  to   confess 
that   he  had    sold   his  information.     The 
case  was  lost,  sir  —  lost  by  that  simple  fact. 
Now,  you  see,  what  an  ass  that  man  was  ! 
Had  he  gone  to  the  lawyers  on  the  other 
side,  a  respectable  firm  like  ours,  —  had  he 
come  to  me,  for  instance,  in  a  friendly  way, 
and  said  '  My  dear  sir,  I  have  certain  pa- 
pers —  I  am  a   needy  man.     There   they 
are.     We  are  men  of  "the  world.'     Had  he, 
in  fact,  behaved  as  a  man  of  sense,  lie  would 
have  been,  sir  —  for  in  losing  the  case  he 
lost  his  reward  —  he   would  have   been  " 

—  here  the  speaker  looked  sharply  in  the 
face    of    Mr.    Maclntyre  — "a    thousand 
pounds  in  pocket." 

He  remained  stolid  —  only  helping  him- 
self to  another  glass  of  wine. 

"  Very  good  thing,  Mr.  —  really,  I  have 
not  caught  your  name." 

"Never  mind,  sir  —  never  mind  my 
name.  It  is  on  the  door-plate,  if  you  wish 
to  read  it.  But  your  opinion  now  as  to 
my  man's  stupidity  ?  " 

u  Well,  you  see  —  it  may  be,  after  all,  a 
question  of  degree.  I  am  myself  induced 
to  think,  that,  if  you  had  offered  him  ten 
thousand,  he  might  have  accepted.  Money 
down,  of  course." 

The  cool  audacity  of  this  indirect  pro- 
posal staggered  the  lawyer.  He  put  the 
stopper  in  the  decanter  of  sherry,  and  rose. 

"  I  should  like  to  see  you  again,  Mr. 
Maclntyre." 

"  Mr.  Arthur  has  gone  to  see  Philip. 
Do  you  know  Arthur  Durnford,  sir  ?  " 

"  I  believe  I  do." 

"Not  so  well  as  I  do.  I  will  tell  you 
something  about  him.  He  is  ready  to  do 
any  thing  that  he  thinks  honorable,  even 
to  strip  himself  to  the  last  shilling;  and  he 
is  jealous  that  no  word  should  be  breathed 
against  his  father.  He  is  now  gone  to 
consult  Miss  Madeleine.  I  know  what 
her  advice  will  be." 

"Well?" 

"  And  do  you  know  Philip  ?    No  —  not 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


119 


so  well  as  I  do.  I  left  him  a  ruined  man. 
That  you  know,  perhaps.  He  will  do  any 
thing  for  money  when  it  is  wanted  to  save 
his  honor.  He  wants  it  now  for  that  pur- 
pose. And  he  would  do  any  thing  in  the 
whole  world  to  remove  the  stain  of  illegit- 
imacy and  black  blood.  The  latter  is  im- 
possible- The  former  can  now  be  arranged. 
Ten  thousand  pounds,  sir?  Good  heavens  ! 
If  an  estate  is  worth  more  than  four  thou- 
sand a  year,  and  if  you  have  got  three 
times  ten  thousand  accumulated  —  Do  you 
know  the  story  of  the  Sibyl,  Mr.  —  really, 
I  forget  your  name.  Never  mind.  You 
remember  the  story,  sir  ?  Probably  you 
had  some  humanities  when  you  were  a  boy. 
She  came  back,  sir,  again  and  again  ;  and 
the  third  time  her  price  was  three  timfcs 
that  of  her  first." 

"  In  point  of  fact,  Mr.  Maclntyre,  y6u 
want  to  sell  your  information  for  ten  thou- 
sand pounds.  It  is  a  disgraceful  "  — 

Mr.  Maclntyre  started,  and  opened  his 
eyes. 

"  The  absence  of  the  reasoning  faculty 
in  England  is  vera  wonderful.  Man!  I 
was  talking  of  general  principles.  I  was 
giving  you  my  opeenion  on  the  creature 
that  would  not  sell  his  information.  I 
would  have  you  to  know,  sir,  that  I  am 
not  in  the  habit  of  selling  any  thing.  I  am 
a  Master  of  Arts,  sir,  of  an  ancient  and 
honorable  Univairsity  —  the  Univairsity 
of  Aberdeen.  And  I  wish  ye  good-morn- 
ing, sir." 

He  put  on  his  hat,  and  stalked  away 
with  dignity. 


CHAPTER    XXIV. 

ARTHUR  went  to  Madeleine  for  advice 
being  one  of  those  who,  when  they  have 
made  up  their  minds  to  a  line  of  action 
are  not  satisfied  without  being  fortified  in 
their  design  by  their  friends. 

He  called  after  dinner,  and  found  the 
two  ladies  alone, — Mrs.  Long  worthy  asleep 
and  Madeleine  reading. 

"  Coming  in  here,"  he  said,  in  a  low 
voice,  "  is  like  coming  into  a  haven  of  re- 
pose. You  are  always  peaceful." 

"  Yes,  —  a  woman's  conflicts  are  below 
the  surface  mostly.  And  my  own  troubles 
lie  two  miles  away,  as  you  know.  When 
are  you  really  going  to  make  up  your  mine 
to  come  and  help  us  ?  " 

"  What  am  I  to  do  ?  Teach  science 
again  ?  " 

"  No ;  lecture,  start  clubs,  give  concert 
—  you  play  very  well  —  write  tracts,  do  al 
sorts  of  things  that  will  help  the  people  tc 
raise  themselves." 


'  I  am  afraid  I  should  not  do  for  it,  Ma- 
leleine.  But  I  will  try  to  join  you.  Only 
irst  give  me  your  advice  on  a  very  serious 
matter." 

He  told  his  story. 

"  Your  father  married  to  a  mulatto  girl  ? 
Arthur,  it  is  impossible." 

"  So  I  should  have  said  ;  but  it  seems 
,rue.  There  are  the  certificates  of  mar- 
nage,  duly  signed  and  attested.  And  not 
by  the  man  Maclntyre  himself — or  we 
night  suspect  them  —  but  by  a  legal  firm 
f  Palmiste.  You  know  them.  There  can 
)e  no  douht  whatever.  And  Philip  is  my 
brother." 

'  I  always  knew  it,"  murmured  Mrs. 
L/ongworthy,  waking  up  to  enjoy  her  lazy 
:riumph.  "I  told  you,  Arthur;  that  your 
Either  had  no  brothers." 

"  I  suppose,"  Arthur  continued,  "  that  by 
some  accident  this  mulatto  girl,  my  father's 
irst  wife,  died  early,  and  that  on  hearing 
of  her  death  my  father  married  again. 
But  Maclntyre  knows  nothing  of  this  :  he 
only  knows  that  Marie  —  we  will  go  on 
calling  her  Marie  —  went  away  to  Eng- 
land. ' 

"  And  the  result  of  the  whole  ?  " 

"  Would  be,  if  the  claim  were  substanti- 
ated, that  I  have  nothing  :  I  am  a  beggar. 
All  the  estate,  -and  all  the  accumulations, 
go  to  Philip." 

"  Have  you  seen  Philip  ?  " 

"  Not  yet.  I  shall  go  and  see  him  in  the 
morning.  I  have  not  seen  him  for  more 
than  four  months.  You  know,  we  were 
three  months  in  Italy ;  but  I  have  heard 
one  or  two  stories  about  him.  I  am  afraid 
he  has  lost  money  betting." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?  " 

"  The  lawyer  says  fight.  What  ought  I 
to  do,  Madeleine  ?  " 

"  Fighting  means  further  exposure  of  old 
scandals,  and  raking  up  private  histories 
which  may  as  well  be  left  buried.  Is  there 
no  middle  way  ?  " 

"  None.  Either  he  is  the  rightful  heir,  or 
I  am.  To  Phil  it  means  not  only  fortune, 
but  also  legitimacy.  I  know  now  —  I  have 
known  for  some  little  time  —  what  it  is 
that  has  made  Phil  whnt  he  is.  It  is  not 
the  love  of  that  fast  life  to  which  he  be- 
longs, so  much  as  his  constant  sense  of  his 
birth,  and  the  tinge  of  the  black  blood. 
Can  you  not  understand  it,  Madeleine  ?  " 

"  But  if  the  certificates  are  correct,  and 
not  forgeries,  there  can  be  no  doubt  what- 
ever of  the  thing." 

"There  can  be  none,  —  Philip  is  the 
heir." 

They  were  silent  for  a -while,  Mrs.  Long- 
worthy  only  giving  to  the  group  that  feel- 
ing of  repose  which  is  caused  by  the  long 
breathing  of  one  who  slumbers. 


120 


MY  LITTLE  GIEL. 


so  long,  Arthur, 


"  If  it  will  make  you  work,  Arthur,  whis- 
pered Madeleine,  "  it  will  be  a  good  thing 
for  you.  Let  it  go,  my  friend  ;  let  your 
brother  take  it,  and  raise  no  further  ques- 
tions about  your  father's  private  history. 
It  may  be  all  a  forgery,  put  together  by 
that  creature,  your  Scotch  tutor;  only  be 
very  sure  that  Philip  knows  nothing  about  it. 
Go 'out  into  the  world,  and  work  with  other 
men.  It  will  be  better  for  you.  Or  come 
and  work  with  me." 

"  That  is  impossible,  Madeleine,"  he 
whispered,  —  "  except  on  one  condition." 

She  flushed  scarlet  for  a  moment,  and 
then  she  answered  directly,  and  to  the 
point. 

"  I  know  what  your  condition  is.      We 
have  known  each  other 
that  I  am  afraid." 

«  What  are  you  afraid  of?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  that  our  old  brother  and 
sister  feeling  may  be  all  that  you  can  have 
for  me." 

"  Listen  a  moment,  Madeleine.  When  I 
saw  you  first,  —  I  mean  six  months  ago,  —  I 
was  afraid  of  you.  You  were  so  queenly, 
so  beautiful,  so  unlike  the  child  I  loved  so 
many  years  ago.  When  I  came  here  day 
after  day,  and  found  you  always  the  same, 
—  always  kind,  thoughtful,  sisterly,  —  the 
old  feeling  arose  again,  and  I  felt  once  more 
that,  as  of  old,  we  were  brother  and  sister ; 
but  when  I  was  with  you  abroad,  when  we 
were  together  every  day  and  all  day,  that 
feeling  died  away  again,  and  another  has 
sprung  up  in  its  place.  Madeleine,  I  can- 
not work  with  you  as  you  wished,  because 
I  love  you.  If  you  were  another  girl,  if  I 
did  not  know  you  so  well,  I  should  make 
fine  speeches  about  coming  to  you  as  a  beg- 
gar, now  that  I  have  lost  all  my  money  ; 
but  you  do  not  want  these.  Let  me  go,  or 
bid  me  stay  ;  but,  Madeleine,  whatever  you 
do,  do  not  let  me  lose  your  friendship." 

"  You  are  sure  you  love  me,  Arthur,"  she 
murmered  between  her  lips,  —  her  eyes 
softened,  her  cheeks  glowing. 

"  Am  I  sure  ?  Do  you  know  that  I  have 
sprung  into  new  being  since  I  found  I  loved 
you?  My  blood  flows  faster,  my  life 
has  quickened.  I  can  feel,  I  can  hope. 
Madeleine,  I  can  work.  Before,  what  was 
my  very  existence?  It  was  life  without 
life,  light  without  sunshine,  work  without  a 
purpose,  days  that  brought  neither  hope 
nor  regret.  Do  I  love  you,  Madeleine  ?  " 

"  Then,  Arthur,"  she  whispered,  leaning 
forward  so  that  her  lips  met  his,  "  I  have 
always  loved  you.  Take  me,  I  am  alto- 
gether yours." 

It  was  then  that  Mrs.  Longworthy  showed 
the  real  goodness  of  her  heart.  She  had 
been  awake  for  some  moments,  and  was 
taking  in  the  situation  with  all  her  eyes. 


Now  she  rose,  and,  gathering  her  skirts 
round  her,  she  swept  slowly  out  of  the 
room,  remarking  as  she  went,  — 

"  You  will  find  me  in  the  dining-room, 
my  dears,  as  soon  as  you  have  done  talk- 
ing." 

They  sat  and  talked  together,  hand  in 
hand,  of  the  life  that  they  would  lead,  of 
the  perfect  confidence  there  should  be  be- 
tween them,  of  all  high  and  sweet  things 
that  a  man  can  only  tell  to  a  woman. 
Young  fellows  whisper  to  each  other  some- 
thing of  their  inner  life,  —  it  can  only  be 
done  between  eighteen  and  twenty-two,  — 
and  ever  after  there  is  a  bond  of  union  be- 
tween them  that  is  always  felt,  if  not  ac- 
knowledged. Sometimes,  too,  at  night,  on 
the  deck  of  a  ship,  when  the  moonlight  is 
broken  into  ten  thousand  fragments  in  the 
white  track,  and  the  stars  are  gazing  sol- 
emnly at  us  with  their  wide  and  pitying 
eyes,  men  may  lay  bare  the  secrets  of  their 
soul.  One  of  the  many  whom  I  have 
known  —  he  is  ten  thousand  miles  from 
here  —  in  my  wanderings  abroad  —  I  spent 
six  months  beneath  the  same  roof  with  him 
—  was  wont  to  rise  at  dead  of  night,  and 
pace  the  veranda  for  an  hour  or  two.  If 
you  heard  him,  and  got  up  to  join  him,  he 
would  talk  to  you.  The  memory  of  his  talk 
is  with  me  still.  I  remembered  it  in  the 
morning,  but  he  did  not.  Which  was  the 
real  man,  which  was  the  false,  I  never 
knew.  One  lived  by  day,  and  one  by 
night.  I  think  the  man  of  the  night  —  he 
who  showed  me  his  thoughts  —  was  the 
true  man.  He  is  the  one  whom  I  love  to 
recall. 

While  they  talked,  Mrs.  Longworthy 
slumbered  by  the  table  in  the  dining-room. 

Outside,  Laura  was  wandering  in  the 
cold  and  pitiless  streets. 

At  the  house  at  Netting  Hill,  Philip  and 
Maclntyre  were  drinking  together,  —  Philip 
to  drown  his  excitement,  which  had  abso- 
lutely driven  Laura,  for  the  time,  out  of  his 
head ;  Mr.  Maclntyre,  to  drown  his  anxi- 
ety. If  he  lost  this  stake  !  But  it  looked 
like  winning. 

Between  the  two  were  a  couple  of  cham- 
pagne bottles,  empty.  At  stroke  of  ten, 
Maclntyre  rang  the  bell  for  tumblers.  At 
twelve,  Philip  went  to  bed  too  drunk  to 
speak.  At  one,  Mr.  Maclntyre  fell  prone 
upon  the  hearth-rug,  and  slumbered  there. 
In  the  morning,  at  seven,  he  awoke,  and, 
finding  where  he  was,  got  up,  rubbed  his 
nose  thoughtfully,  and  went  home  to  Kep- 
pel  Street. 

"  It's  wonderfu',"  he  remarked  when  he 
got  back  to  his  lodgings,  and  sat  down  to 
breakfast,  "  what  a  restorer  is  the  morn- 
ing air.  'When  I  go  down  to  Scotland  I 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


121 


shall  always  get  up  early,  to  shake  off  th< 
whiskey  of  the  night.  Elizabeth,  my  las 
sie,  I  think  you  may  bring  ine  another 
rasher  of  bacon." 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

I  GOT  this  address  of  yours  from  Mac- 
Intyre,"  said  Arthur,  calling  on  Philip  at 
midday.  "  Why  have  you  been  hiding 
away  so  long  ?  " 

"  Th'ere  has  been  no  hiding,"  said  Philip, 
half  sullenly. 

Then  both  men  paused,  thinking  of 
the  words  that  were  to  be  spoken  between 
them. 

Arthur  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  Of  course  you  know  what  Maclntyre 
came  to  tell  me," 

"Of  course  I  know  it." 

"  Whatever  happens,  Philip,  let  us  be 
friends  still.  If  it  is  clear  that  my  father 
married  — was  married  —  before  he  mar- 
ried my  mother,  there  is  nothing  more  to 
be  said." 

Both  flushed  scarlet. 

"  You  see,  Arthur,  I  have  known  since  I 
was  fifteen  years  old,  —  no  matter  how,  — 
that  I  am  "your  half-brother.  This  ques- 
tion is  more  to  me  than  property.  It  is 
legitimacy." 

"  I  know." 

"  But  go  by  what  your  lawyer  advises. 
Let  us  make  a  legal  question  of  it  all." 

"  My  lawyer  says  fight." 

«  Then  fight." 

"  Fighting  means  bringing  the  private 
life  of  our  father  into  public,  making  known 
things  that  ought  not  to  be  revealed.  I 
think  I  cannot  fight,  Phil." 

"  But  I  must,  Arthur." 

"  Yes,  and  I  must  give  way.  After  all, 
Phil,  it  matters  very  little  to  me,  so  far  as 
the  money  goes.  I  shall  have  to  work ; 
but  I  am  a  man  of  very  simple  habits. 
You  will  make  a  better  planter  than  I. 
You  will  go  out,  and  do  great  things  for 
Palmiste." 

"  Not  I.  I  fight  for  my  legitimacy.  I 
shall  do  no  great  things,  either  here  or  in 
Palmiste." 

"  Let  me  tell  you  about  the  property, 
Phil.  No,  —  it  is  best  that  you  should 
know.  It  is  a  very  good  property.  In 
ordinary  years,  when  there  is  no  hurri- 
cane, it  is  worth  more  than  four  thousand 
pounds  a  year.  I  do  not  spend  one-fourth 
of  that  amount.  There  are  consequently 
large  accumulations.  I  should  think  I  am 
worth  thirty  thousand  pounds,  —  that  is 
you  are  worth." 

"  It  is  not  the  value  of  the  oroperty  "  — 


"  I  know.  Still  you  ought  to  learn  all 
that  is  at  stake.  This  is  yours.  I  surren- 
der it  all,  rather  than  go  to  law  over  our 
father's  grave." 

"  I  must  prove  my  legitimate  birth,  if  I 
can,  Arthur.  Think  of  it.  Think  what  it 
is  to  me,  who  have  all  along  been  weighted 
with  my  birth,  to  be  made  free,  —  free  and 
equal  to  all  other  men." 

"  I  do  think  of  it.  I  think  a  great  deal 
of  it  If  I  were  in  your  place,  nothing 
should  persuade  me  to  forego  the  chance 
of  setting  this  right.  Still,  I  believe  you 
have  always  exaggerated  the  importance 
of  the  point." 

"  It  may  be  so.     I  do  not  think  so." 

"  And  now,  Phil,  let  us  talk  it  over  com- 
pletely. I  am  in  your  hands.  The  whole 
estate  will  be  yours  as  soon  as  the  trans- 
fer can  be  made ;  but  you  will  not  let  me 
go  quite  empty-handed !  " 

"  Good  heavens,  —  no  1 "    cried  Philip. 

I  believe  you  are  the  most  chivalrous 
man  in  the  world.  Empty-handed  !  no : 
take  what  you  will." 

'  Give  me  what  you  have  yourself  and 
[  shall  be  content." 

;*  You  mean  what  I  had,  I  suppose. 
Make  it  double,  Arthur,  and  I  shall  be  con- 
tent, —  content  in  a  way.  How  is  any 
man  to  be  contented  who  has  the  slave 
}lood  in  his  veins  V  Look  here."  He 
Dulled  his  short,  curly  black  hah'.  "  This 
comes  from  the  negro  wool.  And  look 

•e."  He  held  out  his  hand.  "  Do  you 
see  the  blue  below  the  nails  ?  That  comes 
rom  the  negro  blood.  And  look  at  my 
eyes.  Do  you  see  the  black  streak  be- 
neath them  ?  Negro  blood,  I  tell  you. 
And  generation  after  generation  may  pass, 
>ut  these  marks  never  pass  away.  My 
face,  at  least,  is  like  my  father's.  I  am 
more  like  him  than  you  are,  Arthur." 

"  You  are  too  sensitive,  Phil.  Do  you 
really  seriously  think  the  old  prejudices 
are  founded  in  reason  ?  Do  you  imagine 
hat  you  are  the  least  worse  for  having 
his  little  admixture  of  race  in  your 
>lood  ?  " 

"  I  do,"  said  his  brother.  "  I  know  that 
'.  am  worse.  I  feel  it.  When  white  men 
are  calm,  I  am  excited.  When  they  are 
sareless  about  their  superiority,  I  am  anx- 
.ous  to  assert  mine.  When  they  are  self- 
>ossessed,  I  am  self-conscious.  When  they 
ire  at  ease,  I  am  vain.  I  know  my  faults. 
!  can  do  things  as  well  as  any  man,  but  I 
;an  do  nothing  as  well  as  some  men.  That 
s  the  curse  of  the  mulatto,  the  octoroon, 
r  whatever  you  call  him.  Unstable  as 
vater,  we  never  excel.  So  far  we  are  Like 
Fudah,  the  son  of  Jacob,  founder,  you  know, 
>f  the  celebrated  tribe  of  that  name." 

They  were  silent  for  a  while. 


122 


MY  LITTLE   GIRL. 


"  Even  now  I  have  made  myself  a  grea 
er  fool,  a  greater  ass,  than  you  would  con 
ceive  possible.  If  ever  you  hear  storie 
about  me,  Arthur,  —  by  Jove,  you  are  sur 
to  heai*  them  !  "  —  he  suddenly  remein 
bered  Venn,  and  his  friendship-  with  Ar 
thur,  —  "  think  that  I  am  more  than  sorry 
not  repentant,  because  I  do  not  see  an; 
good  in  repentance.  Milk  that  is  spilt 
eggs  that  are  broken,  money  that  is  spent 
sins  that  are  committed,  are  so  many  fait, 
accomplis.  Well,  never  mind.  Let  us  re 
turn  to  business.  You  will  take  the  accu 
mulated  funds." 

"  No :  I  will  take  ten  thousand  pounds 
and  I  shall  be  rich." 

"  Have  what  you  like.  And  now  take 
me  to  your  lawyer's,  and  let  us  tell  him 
what  we  are  going  to  do ;  and  if  at  an) 
moment,  Arthur,  either  now  or  hereafter, 
you  wish  to  rescind  your  transfer,  you  shal] 
do  it,  and  we  will  fight.  By  gad,  the  prod- 
igal son  always  gets  the  best  of  it !  The 
good  man  toils  and  moils,  and  gets  noth- 
ing. Then,  you  see,  the  scapegrace  comes 
home.  Quick,  the  fatted  calf,  — kill,  cook, 
light  the  fire,  make  the  stuffing,  roast  the 
veal,  broach  the  cask,  and  spread  the 
feast." 

So  he  passed,  in  his  light  way,  from  re- 
pentance to  cynicism,  happy  at  heart  in 
one  thing,  —  that  now  he  could  face  his 
creditors  and  meet  his  engagements. 
•  It  was  a  week  after  this  that  Maclntyre, 
who  had  been  calling  every  day  at  the 
Burleigh  Club,  and  at  dotting  Hill, — 
being  a  prey  to  the  most  gnawing  anxie- 
ties he  had  ever  known, — at  last  found 
Philip  at  home. 

He  was  greeted  with  a  shout  of  laughter, 
—  not,  it  is  true,  of  that  kind  which  we  are 
accustomed  to  associate  with  the  mirth  of 
innocence.  Perhaps  Philip's  joyousness 
had  something  in  it  of  the  Sardinian  char- 
acter. 

"  Come,  Prince  of  Evil  Devices,  and  re- 
ceive your  due." 

"  You  are  pleased  to  be  facetious,"  ob- 
served Maclntyre. 

"  Haven't  I  'a  right  to  be  facetious  ?  Do 
not  I  owe  it  to  you  that  I  have  got  rid  of  a 
wife,  and  come  into  a  fortune  ?  Sit  down, 
man,  and  let  us  have  a  reckoning.  My  en- 
gagements are  met.  It  is  all  settled.  Ar- 
thur retires,  and  the  heir-at-law  steps  in. 
Rid  of  a  wife,  —  with  dishonor  saved,  and 
honor  gained,  —  what  do  I  owe  you  ? 
Five  thousand  is  too  ;paltry  a  sum  to  speak 
of." 

'Maclntyre  turned  perfectly  white,  and 
shivered  from  head  to  foot. 

"  The  papers  are  signed,  —  the  transfer 
is  completed.  I  am  in  possession  of  the  es- 
tate of  Fontainebleau  and  fifteen  thousand 


pounds  in  stocks.  It  is  your  doing,  Mac- 
lntyre. You  shall  have  the  money  bar- 
gained for.  Give  me  up  the  agreement." 

He  took  it  from  his  pocket,  and  handed 
it  over,  with  trembling  hands.  He  was 
unable  to  speak,  for  very  astonishment. 
He  grew  faint,  and  staggered  against  the 
table. 

Phil  caught  him  by  the  arm.        l 

"  Why,  what  is  the  matter,  man  ?  Will 
you  have  some  brandy  ?  " 

"  Not   now,  Phil,  —  not  now.     Let    me 
sit  down  a  moment,  and  recover  myself." 
Presently  he  started  up  again. 

"  Now,"  he  cried,  —  "  at  once ;  let  me 
have  no  delay.  The  money,  Phil,  —  the 
money .  Let  me  handle  it.  Ah  !  At  last, 

—  at   last !     I  have   been  anxious,    Phil. 
I  was  afraid  that  there  was  some  link  miss- 
ing, —  some  possible  doubt ;  but  it  is    all 
right.     I    have  won   the   prize   I  worked 
for." 

;  You  have  won  the  compensation  you 
were  talking  about  the  other  night." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  philosopher,  —  "  the 
compensation,  —  ah,  yes,  the  cornpensa- 
;ion  !  It  has  come." 

"  And  without  any  of  the  little  hankey- 
pankey  that  the  world  has  agreed  to  con- 
demn, —  isn't  that  so  V  " 

"  Surely,  —  surely ! " 

He  looked  at  Philip  with  steady  eyes, 
nit  shaky  lips. 

A  righteous  man,  you  know,  never 
>egs  his  bread." 

;  I've  begged  mine,  like  the  unrighteous 

—  or  next   door  to   it.     The  next  door  to 
t,  may  be,  was  not  included  in  the  text." 

'Obviously,  the  inference   is  that   you 
ire  a,  righteous   man.     But,  come,  —  one 
worcl    of    explanation    first.     You   know 
when  I  met  you  in  the  street  ?  " 
"  As  if  I  shall  ever  forget  the  time." 
"  You  had  those  papers  in  your  pocket 
hen  ?  " 

They  have  never  left  me  since  I  took 
hem  away  from  Palmiste." 

"  Why  did  you  not  produce  them  at 
nee  ?  " 

"  Because  the  risk  was  too  great.  I  want- 
d  to  sell  them.  I  wanted  to  see  how  you 
vould  take  the  chance.  It  was  one  I  could 
ot  afford  to  risk.  When  I  saw  you  going 
own  hill,  I  knew  that  I  had  only  to  wait 
r  the  end.  Every  thing  helped  me.  You 
ecame  more  and  more  involved.  I  be- 
ame  more  and  more  certain ;  but  it  was 
ot  till  the  very  end  that  I  dared  bring 
iem  out." 

"  And  then  you  thought  you  could  win  ?  " 

"  I  did.     I  knew  that  under  the  cloud  of 

isfortunes  any  of  the  old  misplaced  gener- 

sity  to  your  milksop  of  a  brother  would  be 

nally  put  away  and  done  with,  and  that 


MY  LITTLE  GIKL. 


123 


the  lure  —  legitimacy  arid  a  fortune  — 
would  be  too  much  for  you  to  withstand. 
I  rejoiced,  Philip  —  I  rejoiced." 

Philip  was  silent.  By  all  the  rules  he 
should  have  kicked  this  man  then  and  there. 
But  he  was  accustomed  to  the  calculating 
and  unscrupulous  ways  of  the  creature. 
Besides,  he  half  liked  him.  The  very 
openness  of  his  wickedness  was  a  kind  of 
charm.  It  was  only  one  more  confession,  — 
a  confession  already  more  than  half  made. 
"  You  have  won,  then.  Let  that  be 
your  consolation.  And  now  tell  me,  Mac- 
Intyre".  Swear  by  all  that  you  hold  sacred, 
—  Stay,*  is  there  any  thing  you  hold 
sacred?" 

"  Money  —  I  will  swear  by  money.  Or 
drink  —  I  will  swear  by  drink." 

"  Swear,  then,  anyhow,  that  you  will  tell 
me  the  truth.  Did  my  father  write  those 
letters  ?  " 

"  He  did,  Philip  —  I  swear  it.  He  did, 
indeed." 

Only  the  smallest  suppressioveri,  —  only 
the  dates  that  were  added  long  afterwards 
by  himself. 

"  And  the  marriage.  Is  that  register 
really  in  the  church  book  ?  " 

"  I  swear  it  is  there.  Did  you  not  see  the 
attestation  of  the  Palmiste  lawyers?  It  is 
really  there ! " 

So  it  was.  He  might  have  added,  to 
complete  the  truth  of  the  attestation,  that 
he  had  himself  placed  it  there. 

"  Then  I  am  the  lawful  heir.  I  have  not 
defrauded  Arthur." 

"  You  have  not.  What  does  Arthur  get 
out  of  it  ?  " 

"  Ten  thousand." 

"  And  vera  handsome  too.  Double  of 
my  share.  Arthur  has  done  well.  Now 
give  me  my  money,  Phil." 

Philip  gave  him  a  bank  pass-book. 
"I  have  paid  into  your  account  at  this 
bank  the  sum  of  five  thousand  pounds,  — 
you  can  see  the  note  of  the  amount.  Here 
is  your  check-book.  Go,  now,  man,  and 
be  happy  in  your  own  way." 

"  Yes,  I  will  go.  You  are  a  rich  man.  I 
am  as  rich  as  I  wish  to  be.  My  old  max- 
ums  will  no  longer  be  of  any  use  either  to 
you  or  me.  It  pains  me  only  to  think  that 
I  must  not,  with  my  experience,  dissemble 
my  convictions  and  go  over  to  the  other 
side,  preaching  in  future  that  honesty  is  the 
best  policy.  I  may  vera  likely  give  lec- 
tures to  show  how  merit  is  rewarded,  and 
steady  effort  always  commands  success. 
Steady  effort  has  been,  as  you  know,  of 
great  use  to  me.  Industry  is  the  best  thing 
going.  We  always  get  what  we  deserve. 
Every  thing  is  for  the  best.  Whatever  is,  is 
right.  The  prosperous  man  goes  back  to 
the  copy-books  for  his  philosophy,  and  all 


his  reading  is  thrown  away.  Now,  my  ex- 
perience is  the  contrary.  It  is  only  the 
clumsy  sinners  who  get  punished.  *  The 
innocent  man  very  often  receives  the  flog- 
ging. Therein  the  moral  world  differs  from 
the  natural.  For  if  you  run  your  head 
against  a  post,  you  infallibly  get  a  head- 
ache. He  who  would  be  rich  must 
also  be  cautious.  If  he  can  escape 
detection,  he  will  acquire  money,  and 
therefore  happiness.  My  dear  pupil,  a  word 
of  parting  advice." 

"  No,"  replied  Philip.  «  Go.  I  hardly 
know  whether  to  thank  you  or  to  curse  you. 
I  think  I  must  curse  you.  You  have 
poisoned  the  atmosphere  of  life  for  me.  I 
have  got  riches  without  enjoyment.  I  can 
never  be  happy  again,  with  the  memory  of 
the  past  —  your  doing." 

"  Poor  little  leddy,"  sighed  Maclntyre. 
"  I'm  vera  sorry,  indeed,  for  her  hard  fate. 
I  wish  it  had  never  been  done.  Eh,  Phil, 
—  it  was  an  awfu'  piece  of  wickedness  "  — 

"  It  was.  God  forgive  us  both  !  But  it 
can  never  be  forgiven." 

"  I'm  vera  sorry,  Phil.  It  was  a  clumsy 
thing ;  but  there  —  we  won't  talk  about 
it.  What  was  it  I  was  telling  you  some 
time  ago,  Phil  ?  The  poor  man  never  re- 
pents, —  it  is  only  the  rich.  See,  now  — 
I  am  rich,  and  I  begin  to  repent  at  once. 
Eh,  man,  it  is  a  terrible  time  I  have  before 
me !  There's  just  an  awfu'  heap  to  repent 
for;  and  pocket  handkerchiefs,  too,  very 
expensive.  As  soon  as  I  get  settled,  I  shall 
begin.  But  where  ?  Phil,  I  think  I  shall 
work  backwards.  It  will  come  easier  so. 
Obsairve.  He  who  tackles  his  worst  foe  at 
once  has  little  to  fear  from  the  rest.  The 
drink,  and  the  troubles  at  Sydney,  —  all 
these  things  are  venial.  But  the  lassie, 
Phil,  the  lassie,  —  I  must  begin  my  repent- 
ance Avith  the  lassie." 

"You  will  never  begin  your  repentance 
at  all.  You  will  go  on  getting  drunk  till 
you  die." 

"  Philip  Durnford,"  returned  Mr.  Mac- 
lntyre magisterially,  "  You  pain  me.  After 
an  acquaintance  of  nearly  twenty  years  — 
after  all  the  maxums  1  have  taught  you, 
and  the  corpus  of  oreeginal  and  borrowed 
philosophy  that  I  have  compiled  and  di- 
gested for  you  —  to  think  that  you  could 
say  a  thing  like  that.  Know,  sir,  once  for  all, 
that  the  man  at  ease  with  fortune  never 
drinks,  save  in  moderation.  The  philos- 
opher gets  drunk  when  his  cares  become 
too  much  for  him.  He  changes  his  world 
when  the  present  is  intolerable.  Some 
poor  creatures  commit  suicide.  The  true 
philosopher  drinks.  He  alone  is  unhappy 
who  has  not  the  means  of  getting  drunk. 
When  I  was  between  the  boards,  I  am  not 
ashamed  to  confess,  I  used  to  save  two- 


124 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL, 


pence  a  day,  That  made  a  shilling  a  week. 
With  that  I  was  able  to  get  drunk  on 
Sunday,  by  taking  two  pennyworths  of  gin 
and  porter  in  alternate  swigs.  And  that  is 
all  over.  Philip,  my  pupil,  I  shall  go  away. 
I  shall  go  back  to  Scotland,  among  my  own 
people,  as  an  elder  of  the  kirk,  which  I  in- 
tend to  be.  I  shall  set  an  example  oft 
rigid  doctrine,  Sabbatarian  strictness,  and 
stern  morality.  After  a',  it  is  good  for  the 
vulgus  —  the  common  herd  —  to  be  kept  to 
strict  rules.  But  drink  —  no  sir.  Intox- 
ication and  Alexander  Maclntyre  have 
parted  company.  I'm  far  from  saying  that 
I  shall  not  take  my  glass  whiles  —  the  twal' 
hoor,  especially,  —  that  is  but  natural ;  but 
intemperance !  sir,  the  thought  degrades 
me." 

He  buttoned  up  his  coat,  and  put  on  his 
hat. 

"  Farewell,  Philip !  you  will  never  see 
me  again.  As  for  that  poor  young  thing  "  — 

"  Do  not  provoke  me  too  much,"  said 
Philip,  growing  pale. 

"  I  was  only  going  to  say,  that,  if  you  can 
take  her  back,  it  is  your  duty.  I'm  vera 
sorry.  She  was  bonnie,  she  was  kind,  she 
was  douce,  she  was  faithful.  Ah!  Phil, 
Phil  !  it  is  a  terrible  thing  to  think  of  — 
the  wickedness  of  the  world  !  I  must  go 
away  at  once,  and  begin  my  repentance." 

He  shook  his  head  from,  side  to  side, 
seized  Philip  by  the  hand,  and  disappeared. 

And  this  was  the  last  that  Philip  Durn- 
fbrd  ever  saw  of  his  old  tutor. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

LEAVING  the  house,  poor  little  Lollie 
•walked  quickly  away  into  the  dark  Novem- 
ber mist,  and  down  the  road.  She  had  no 
purpose ;  for  as  yet  she  had  but  one 
thought  to  get  away,  —  to  see  the  last  of  a 
house  which  had  witnessed  her  shame  and 
suffering ;  to  take  herself  somewhere  —  it 
mattered  not  where  —  till  the  dull,  dead 
pain  in  her  brow  would  go  away,  and  she 
should  feel  again  able  to  see  things  clearly, 
—  able  to  go  to  Mr.  Venn,  and  tell  him  all. 
As  she  went  along  the  streets,  and  passed 
the  lighted  shops,  it  seemed  that  every 
woman  shunned  her,  or  looked  at  her  in 
contempt,  and  every  man  stared.  In  all 
the  passers-by  she  detected  the  glance  of 
scorn.  The  very  beggars  did  not  ask  her 
for  alms  ;  the  crossing-sweepers  allowed  her 
to  pass  unnoticed. 

It  was  only  two  o'clock,  and  she  had 
more  than  two  hours  of  daylight  before 
her.  She  pulled  down  her  veil,  and  walked 
on,  her  fingers  interlaced,  like  a  suppliant's, 


feeling  for  the  lost  wedding-ring.  She 
passed  down  the  long  Edgware  Road, 
which  seemed  to  have  no  end,  and  where 
the  noise  of  the  cabs  nearly  drove  her 
mad.  At  last  she  came  to  the  Park,  where 
the  comparative  quiet  soothed  her  nerves  ; 
but  she  walked  on,  and  presently  found 
herself  in  Piccadilly.  She  hurried  across 
the  road  here,  and  got  into  the  Green 
Park,  which  was  even  quieter  and  more 
deserted  than  the  other.  And  so  at  last 
into  St.  James's,  the  best  of  the  three, 
beyond  which  arose  the  intolerable  noise 
and  tumult  of  the  streets.  She  sat  down 
on  one  of  the  benches.  It  was  the  very 
same  bench  where  she  had  once  sat  with 
Philip,  talking  over  the  meaning  of  love 
and  marriage.  Alas  1  she  knew  by  this 
time  what  one  might  mean,  but  not  the 
other.  For  as  she  sat  alone,  and  the  early 
evening  closed  round  her,  she  felt  how, 
through  all,  her  marriage  was  but  a  mock- 
ery of  every  thing,  —  of  love,  because  she 
never  loved -him;  of  a  real  ceremony,  be- 
cause the  man  was  no  clergyman.  How 
there  was  no  religion  in  what  she  had 
done,  no  duty,  no  prudence,  —  nothing 
but  a  vain  and  ignorant  desire  to  please 
her  guardian.  And,  after  all,  he  had 
turned  her  off. 

But  as  yet  she  could  think  of  nothing 
clearly. 

Two  hours  since  she  left  him,  —  only  two 
hours  !  —  and  it  seemed  an  age,  and  the  last 
three  months  a  dream  of  long  ago.  And  as 
she  tried  to  think,  the  stream  of  her  thoughts 
would  rush  backwards  in  her  head,  as  if 
stopped  and  turned  by  some  sudden  dam. 

Big  Ben  struck  four.  Presently  there 
came  to  her  a  policeman,  with  hirsute 
countenance  and  kindly  eyes. 

"  The  Park  gates  shut  at  half-past  four, 
miss.  Don't  you  think  you  had  better  not 
sit  any  longer  under  this  dripping  tree  ?  " 

She  got  up  at  once  —  submissive.  Poor 
little  Lollie,  always  obedient,  always  douce. 

"  I  will  go  if  you  like." 

"  Hadn't  you  better  go  home,  miss  ?  " 

She  made  no  answer,  but  looked  at  him 
sadly  for  a  moment,  and  then,  drawing  her 
veil  tighter  over  her  face,  went  slowly 
through  the  gates,  and  passed  through  the 
Horse  Guards.  In  the  Strand,  the  shops 
were  all  lit  up,  and  things  looked  brighter. 
She  went  down  the  street  slowly,  looking 
into  every  window  as  she  passed,  trying  to 
think  what  it  was  she  wanted  to  buy. 
Here  were  chains,  gold  watches,  and  silver 
cups;  and  here  —  what  is  it  makes  her 
heart  leap  up  within  her,  and  her  pale 
cheek  glow? — a  tray  of  wedding-rings. 
She  hurried  in,  she  held  out  her  finger  to 
be  measured  without  saying  a  word,  and 
pointed  to  the  tray.  The  ring  cost  her  a 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


125 


guinea,  and  so  she  had  nineteen  shillings 
left.  But  she  came  out  relieved  of  a  little 
of  the  pain  that  oppressed  her,  and  went 
on  happier,  as  if  something  had  been  re- 
stored to  her. 

It  was  nearly  six  when  she  came  to  Chan- 
cery Lane ;  and  as  she  saw  the  old  familiar, 
ugly  street  once  more,  a  great  yearning  came 
over  her  heart,  for  was  it  not  the  street  that 
leads  to  Gray's  Inn  ? 

"  I  will  arise  and  go  unto  my  father,"  said 
the  poor  prodigal,  —  say  all  of  us,  when  sor- 
row and  punishment  fall  upon  us.  "  I  will 
go  to  Mr.  Venn,"  thought  Lollie. 

She  quickened  her  step,  and  came  to  the 
familiar  portals.  No  one  saw  her  go  in.  She 
mounted  the  stairs  —  ah,  how  often  had  she 
run  up  before  !  —  thinking  what  she  should 
say.  Alas  !  when  she  got  there,  the  outer 
door  was  shut,  and  Mr.  Venn  was  not  at 
home. 

Then  her  heart  fell;  and  she  burst  into 
low  wailings  and  tears,  leaning  her  cheek 
against  the  door,  as  if  that  could  sympathize 
with  her  trouble.  It  was  the  hour  when 
every  man  in  Gray's  Inn  was  gone  to  din- 
ner, and  no  one  was  on  the  staircase  to  hear 
her. 

She  might  have  known,  had  she  reflected. 
But  she  could  not  think.  Time  had  no  more 
any  meaning  for  her.  She  thought  that  Mr. 
Venn  was  gone  away  altogether,  and  that 
she  had  no  longer  a  single  friend  left  in  the 
whole  world.  So,  when  the  paroxysm  of 
tears,  the  first  she  had  shed,  had  passed, 
she  crept  down  stairs  again,  and  turned 
away  to  go  out  at  the  north  gate,  by  Ray- 
mond's Buildings.  Alas,  alas !  had  she 
taken  the  other  turning  she  would  have 
met  Venn  himself,  almost  as  sad  as  she 
was,  returning  home  to  his  desolate  cham- 
bers. 

Seven  o'clock,  —  eight,  —  nine.  The 
shops  are  being  shut  now,  and  the  streets 
not  so  crowded.  There  are  not  so  many 
carts  about,  which  is  good  for  her  nerves  ; 
but  the  rain  is  pouring  upon  her.  She  is 
somewhere  about  Regent's  Park —  walking, 
walking  still.  The  rain  falls  heavily.  Her 
dress  is  wet  through,  and  clings  to  her 
limbs  ;  but  she  staggers  on  mechanically. 

Hartley  Venn  is  in  his  chambers,  sitting 
over  the  fire,  brooding. 

Philip  is  drinking,  and  playing  cards. 

Men  pass  by  and  speak  to  her.  She  does 
not  hear,  and  takes  no  notice. 

Twelve  o'clock,  —  one  o'clock.  The  pas- 
sengers in  the  street  are  very  few  now. 

A  rush  of  many  people  and  of  galloping 
horses.  There  is  a  fire,  and  the  cavalcade 
of  rescue  runs  headlong  down  the  street, 
followed  by  a  little  mob  of  boys  and  men. 
They  are  always  awake,  these  boys  and 
men,  reauy  lor  plunder. 


Then  silence  again. 

Two  o'clock.  The  street  is  quite  empty 
now.  Then  from  a  side  street  there  are 
loud  screams  and  cries,  and  a,  woman 
rushes  into  the  road  with  a  wild  shriek. 
She  passes  close  to  Lollie.  Her  face  is 
bleeding,  her  clothes  are  torn.  She  waves 
her  arms  like  some  wild  Cassandra,  as  one 
who  prophesies  the  woe  that  shall  fall  upon 
the  city.  But  it  is  nothing.  Only  the  wail 
of  despair  and  misery  ;  for  she  is  starving, 
and  her  husband  in  a  drunken  rage  has 
struck  her  down,  and  trampled  on  her. 
Oh  !  brothers  and  sisters,  how  we  suffer, 
how  we  suffer  for  our  sins  ! 

Three  o'clock.  She  is  in  Oxford  Street, 
the  stony-hearted.  It  is  quite  empty.  Not 
even  a  policeman  in  sight.  Her  eyes  are 
heavy  and  dim  ;  her  head  is  burning ;  an 
unnatural  strength  possesses  her  limbs ; 
her  shoulders  have  fallen  forward.  Is  this 
Hartley  Venn's  little  girl  ?  This  with  the 
bowed  head,  the  draggled  dress,  the  weary 
gait?  O  Hartley,  could  you  have  seen 
her  then,  it  would  have  been  bad  for  Philip 
and  his  tutor  !  But  Hartley  is  sound  asleep, 
and  so  is  Philip  ;  so,  too,  is  Mr.  Maclntyre. 
They  are  all  asleep  and  comfortable  in  their 
beds,  and  only  the  tender  and  delicate  girl 
is  wandering  about  in  the  night  under  the 
rain. 

The  city  is  sleeping.  A  strange  hush  has 
fallen  over  London.  Not  the  sound  of  a 
single  wheel,  not  a  footstep.  The  silenoe 
strikes  her  ;  for  it  seems  to  have  come  sud- 
denly. She  lifts  her  head,  and  looks  round, 
with  a  moan  of  weariness  and  agony. 

After  her  there  creeps  silently,  on  bare 
feet,  a  creature  in  the  semblance  of  a  man. 

He  is  tall,  nearly  six  feet  high,  lean  and 
emaciated.  His  scanty  clothes  are  rags; 
his  trousers  are  so  tight  that  the  sharp 
bones  seem  projecting  through  them.  His 
arms  are  too  long  for  the  ragged  sleeves  of 
his  tattered  coat.  He  has  no  hat.  His  face 
is  black  with  dirt,  and  wisps  of  a  fortnight's 
beard  are  sticking  in  patches  over  it.  His 
hair  is  long  and  matted.  His  eyes  are 
sharp.  It  is  the  wolf  of  London,  —  the 
wehr-wolf  of  civilization.  In  what  lair 
does  he  crouch  all  day  ?  Where  does  he 
hide  while  honest  folk  are  up  and  doing. 

She  does  not  hear  him  as  his  naked  feet 
press  close  upon  her.  As  he  gets  nearer, 
he  looks  round  quickly  and  furtively,  like 
a  beast  of  prey  before  he  makes  his  spring. 
No  policeman  is  in  sight.  His  long  fingers 
clutch  her  shoulder,  and  she  feels  his  quick 
breath  upon  her  cheek.  She  starts,  and 
turns  with  a  shriek  of  terror. 

"  Have  you  got  any  money  ?  "  he  hisses. 
"  Give  it  to  me,  —  give  it  to  me  quick,  or 
1  will  murder  you." 

She  stared  for  a  moment,  and  then,  un- 


126 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


derstanding  so  much,  put  her  hand  in  her 
pocket,  and  drew  out  her  purse.  He 
looked  up  and  down  the  street,  and  then, 
snatching  it  from  her  hand,  swiftly  fleS 
down  a  court  and  was  lost. 

Then  the  great,  bare  streets  filled  her 
with  terror,  and  she  turns  out  of  it.  Per- 
haps there  are  no  wolves  in  the  small 
streets. 

So,  presently,  she  finds  herself  in  Co- 
vent-garden  Market.  Light,  activity,  noise. 
The  early  market  carts  are  arriving.  She 
goes  under  the  piazza,  and,  sitting  on  a 
basket,  falls  fast  asleep  in  the  midst  of  it 
all. 

She  sleeps  for  nearly  two  hours, 
she  is  awakened  by  a  rough 
kindlv  touch  of  her  arm. 


Then 


me  last  night  of  all  I  had.  It  was  nine- 
teen shillings.  "  Stay,"  she  added,  taking 
off  her  locket,  —  Venn's  present  —  "  take 
this  for  your  kindness." 

"  I  won't,"  said  the  woman  stoutly. 

"  You  must.  Please  take  it.  I  think  I 
should  have  died  if  it  hadn't  been  for  you. 
You  are  a  good  woman." 

"  Don't  'ee,  now,  miss,"  she  answered, 
taking  the  locket,  —  "  don't  'ee,  now,  miss, 
or  you'll  cry." 

And  then  she  began  to  cry  herself;  and 
Lollie  left  her,  and  slipped  away. 

On  the  Embankment,  while  the  day 
slowly  breaks,  and  as  the  light  returns,  the 
poor  child  begins  to  realize  the  desolateness 


"  Come, 
basket." 


but  not  un-   of  her  position.     She  leans  upon  the  low 
wall,  and  tries  to  think  what  she  will  do. 


young    woman,    I    want    my 


She  sprang  to  her  feet,  trying  to  remem- 


Only  one  thing  occurs  to  her.  She  must 
go  back  to  Gray's  Inn,  and  find  out  where 
Mr.  Venn  is.  She  has  no  money  to  buy 


ber  where  she  was.     Two  or  three  people   breakfast,  she   has  nowhere   even   to     sit 
were   staring   at  her.     A  great  red-faced    down  ;  and  her  limbs  are  trembling  with 

>? 


woman  among  the  rest,  —  a  coarse,  rough, 


rude,  hard-drinking  creature. 

They  were  speaking  to  her,  but  she 
could  not  understand.  It  seemed  a  dream. 

"  Leave  her  to  me,*'  said  the  woman. 
"  You  go  about  your  business,  all  of  you. 
I  know  a  lady  when  I  see  her.  You  leave 


her,  all  of  you,  to  me. 
don't  try  to  say  a  word. 


Come,  my  dear, 
Don't  'ee  speak 
Wait  a  bit 


fatigue.  She  was  almost  staggering  now 
as  she  reached  the  gate  of  the  inn.  From 
the  other  side  of  the  road,  she  saw  the 
porter  and  the  people  who  knew  her  face, 
standing  in  the  gateway.  So  she  went 
round  by  the  side  entrance  in  Warwick 
Court  to  the  door.  This  time,  at  least,  she 
would  find  him  in  his  chambers.  Alas  ! 
no.  The  door  was  still  shut,  as  the  gate 
of  Paradise  was  to  the  Peri ;  and  her 
courage  died  away  within  her.  Inside  lay 
Hartley,  sound  asleep  ;  for  it  was  but  nine 
o'clock.  Then  she  slowly  and  sadly  de- 
scended the  staircase.  Should  she  go  and 
ask  the  porter  where  he  was  ?  Not  yet, 
—  presently.  She  would  wait  a  little,  and 
make  one  more  trial.  And  so,  down  Hoi- 
born  and  into  Long-acre,  with  a  dazed 

the    preceding   day,  say   eighteen  hours,  j  idea  of  finding  her  way  to  Covent  Garden, 
The  coffee  restored  her  to  a  sense  of  reality,  |  where  there  might  be  another  basket  to  sit 


now,  or  else  ye'll  begin  to  cry. 
—  wait  a  bit," 

She  put  her  arms  round  Lollie's  waist, 
and  half  led.  half  carried  her,  to  a  coffee- 
stall,  of  which,  indeed,  she  was  the  pro- 
prietor. 

"  Now,  me  darlin',  sit  ye  down  on  my 
seat,  and  taste  this." 

Laura  had  eaten  nothing  since  breakfast 


for  she  had  fallen  into  a  state  almost  of 
coma.  She  drank  the  cup,  and  handed  it 
back  to  her  new  friend. 

Now,  my  dear,  another,  and  a  bit  of 


upon. 

But  as  she  crawled  along,  her  cheeks 
blanched,  her  eyes  heavy  and  dull,  neither 
seeing  nor  feeling  any  thing,  some  one 


bread  and  butter.     Don't  'ee  say  a  word,   passed  her,  started,  ran  back,  and  caught 
now,  or  ye'll  begin  to  cry."  I  her  by  the  arm,  crying  — 

She  took  a  little  bread  and  butter ;  and  |      "  Miss  Lollie,  Miss  Lollie !  "     And  she 
then,  overcome  with  weariness,  her  head   fell  fainting  forwards, 
fell  upon  the  tray  where  the  bread  and       It  was  no  other  than  that  Mary  of  whom 


butter  stood,  and  she  was  asleep  again 

The  good  soul  covered  her  with  a  shawl, 
—  not  the  cleanest  in  the  world,  but  the 
only  We  she  had,  —  and  went  on  with  her 
early  coffee  trade.  At  seven  she  awakened 
her. 

"I  must  go  now,  my  t dear,"  she  said. 
"  I'm  an  hour  almost  behind  my  time,  and 
the  childer  want  me ;  but  I  wouldn't  waken 
you.  Are  you  better  now  ?  " 

Lollie  felt  in  her  pocket  for  her  purse. 

"  I  remember,"  she  said,  "  a  man  robbed 


mention  has  already  been  made.  Mary 
the  sinful,  you  know.  She  was  on  her 
way  to  rehearsal  at  Drury  Lane.  For 
there  was  the  grandest  of  all  grand  spec- 
tacles "  on,"  and  she  was  one  of  the  most 
prominent  of  the  ladies  engaged  specially 

—  a  dignified  position  nearest  to  the  lights 

—  in  the  joyous  dance  of  village  maidens. 
She   also   had    to   appear   as  one   of  the 
queen's  personal  attendants,  in  a  proces- 
sion which  beat  into   fits  any  procession 
ever  made  on  the  sta<re  or  off  it.     She  was 


MY  LITTLE  GIEL. 


127 


going  along  with  a  friend,  engaged  in  the 
same  line,  talking  of  her  boy. 

"  And  the  notice  he  takes,  —  it's  wonder- 
ful. Only  two  years  old,  and  he  under- 
stands every  thing  you  tell  him.  And  the 
words  he  can  say ;  and  good  as  gold 
with  it  all.  I'm  making  him  a  little  pair 
of —  Oh,  good  gracious,  it's  Lollie  Colling- 
wood !  " 

She  lived  close  by,  in  the  pleasant  seclu- 
sion of  a  two-pair  back  King  Street,  Long- 
acre. 

The  two  lifted  Laura  between  them,  and 
half  carried  her,  half  led  her,  to  the  door, 
and  dragged  her  up  stairs,  because  now 
she  gave  way  altogether,  and  lay  lifeless 
in  their  arms.  They  placed  her  on  the 
bed,  and  waited  to  see  if  she  would  re- 
cover. Presently  she  opened  her  eyes, 
gave  a  dreamy  look  at  them  as  they  leaned 
over  the  bed,  and  closed  them  again. 

"  Who  is  it  V  "  whispered  the  friend. 

"  Hush  !  Don't  make  any  noise  !  It's 
Mr.  Venn's  little  girl.  Oh,  dear !  oh,  dear  ! 
and  she  so  pretty  and  good !  See,  she's 
got  a  wedding-ring  on.  Go  down,  and  get 
the  kettle,  my  dear ;  and  go  on  to  rehear- 
sal without  me.  I  shall  be  fined ;  but  I 
know  who  will  pay  the  fine.  And  bring 
Georgie  up.  Perhaps  the  sight  of  him 
will  do  her  good,  —  it  always  does  me ;  and 
come  back,  my  dear,  when  rehearsal's  over, 
I  shall  want  you." 

She  took  off  Lollie's  hat  and  jacket,  her 
boots  and  wet  stockings,  covering  her  poor 
cold  feet  with  blankets ;  and  then  smoothed 
and  tidied  her  hair,  hanging  dank  and  wet 
upon  her  cheek  as  if  she  had  been  drowned. 

But  Lollie  made  no  movement,  lying 
stupefied  and  senseless. 

Presently  came  up  the  other  woman, 
bearing  tea  in  one  hand,  and.  little  Georgie, 
making  a  tremendous  crowing,  in  the  other. 

"  Is  she  come  to  V  "  whispered  the  girl. 

"  No  ;  but  she  will  presently.  Go  you, 
or  you'll  be  late  too ;  and  don't  forget  to 
come  back  as  soon  as  you  can.  Where's 
the  sugar  ?  Georgie,  boy,  you've  got  to 
be  very  quiet.  Sit  down  and  play  with 
the  spoon,  and  mother  will  give  you  su- 
gared bread  and  butter." 

The  child  immediately  sat  down,  and  as- 
sumed the  silence  of  a  deer-stalker. 

"  Did  you  ever  see  such  a  boy  ?  "  his 
mother  went  on.  "  As  good  as  gold.  Now 
the  milk  ;  and  ask  Mrs.  Smith  to  trust  me 
another  quarter-hundred  of  coals.  I  must 
have  a  fire  for  this  poor  thing.  Tell  her 
there's  them  as  will  see  it  paid." 

She  made  up  the  fire,  tidied  the  room,  so 
that  it  looked  at  least  clean  and  neat ;  and 
then,  pouring  out  the  tea,  brought  it  to  the 
bedside. 

"  Lollie,  my  dear,"  she  whispered,  — "  Lol- 


lie, my  little  darling,  open  your  eyes.  It's 
only  me,  — it's  only  Mary,  that  you  helped 
three  years  ago.  Take  some  tea,  dear; 
and  lie  down,  and  go  to  sleep,  and  I'll  send 
for  Mr.  Venn." 

At  this  name  the  girl  opened  her  eyes, 
and  half  lifted  her  head,  while  she  drank*  the 
tea.  Then  she  lay  back,  looked  round  the 
room,  pressed  her  hand  to  her  head  as  if 
in  pain,  and  shut  her  eyes  again. 

She  lay  like  one  dead,  but  for  the  light 
breathing  to  which  her  good  Samaritan  lis- 
tened from  time  to  time. 

At  two  o'clock  the  friend  came  back,  and 
Mary  began  to  hunt  about  in  drawers,  in 
pockets,  everywhere. 

"  I  knew  I'd  got  a  piece  left  somewhere," 
she  said  at  last,  triumphantly  producing  a 
piece  of  note-paper  the  size  of  a  man's  hand, 
the  remnant  of  a  quire,  the  only  purchase 
of  note-paper  she  ever  had  occasion  to  make. 

"  I  knew  I'd  got  a  piece  left,  but  there's 
no  ink.  A  pencil  must  do." 

With  some  pains,  for  she  was  not  one  of 
those  who  write  a  letter  every  day,  she  in- 
dited a  letter  to  Mr.  Venn  :  — 

"  DEAR  MR.  VENN,  —  Come  here  as 
soon  as  you  can.  If  you  are  out,  come  when 
you  get  back.  Never  mind  what  time  "it 
is.  If  it's  midnight  you  must  come. 

"  MARY." 

"  Take  that,"  she  whispered,  "  to  Gray's 
Inn.  If  he  is  out,  drop  it  into  his  letter-box  ; 
if  he  is  in,  tell  him  not  to  be  bringing  the 
old  grandmother  round.  Laura  don't  want 
to  see  her,  I  fancy,  so  much  as  him." 

On  the  bed  the  patient  lay  sleeping 
through  all  that  day  ;  for  Mr.  Venn  did  not 
come.  A  sudden  shock  makes  one  stupid. 
So  long  as  it  cannot  be  understood,  one  can 
go  to  sleep  over  it.  It  is  only  when  the 
dull,  slow  pain  succeeds  the  stupefying  blow 
that  we  begin  really  to  suffer.  Lollie's  sleep 
was  what  Mr.  Maclntyre  might  have  called 
a  compensation  due  to  her.  And  in  her 
dreams  she  went  back  to  her  husband,  and 
mixed  up,  with  the  little  house  at  Notting 
Hill,  her  former  happiness  with  Mr.  Venn. 

The  hours  sped,  and  the  afternoon  came 
on.  Mary  had  her  dinner,  and  put  some- 
thing on  the  hob  for  Lollie  if  she  should 
wake.  Then  came  tea-time  ;  but  she  slept 
still,  and  the  boy  had  to  be  put  to  bed. 
Then  it  was  Mary  discovered  that  Lollie 
was  sleeping  in  clothes  wet  through  and 
through. 

She  half  raised  her,  pulled  them  off*,  and 
laid  her  back,  with  her  own  warm  flannel 
dressing-gown  wrapped  round  her. 

No  Mr.  Venn. 

Then  Mary  sat  down  by  the  fire,  prepar- 
ed to  watch,  "and  keep  herself  awake. 


128 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

BUT  where  was  Venn  ? 

He  was  engaged  at  a  funeral ;  no  other, 
indeed,  than  that  of'Mrs.  Peck  herself.  The 
old  lady  was  dead,  —  not  in  consequence  of 
her  grand-daughter's  elopement ;  because 
when  she  found  that  little  difference  would 
be  made  in  the  allowance,  she  was  a  good 
deal  more  comfortable  without  her  than 
with  her.  She  died  of  some  disease  more 
common-place  than  a  broken  heart, —  one  for 
which  the  doctor  brought  her  little  phials 
of  physic,  and  Hartley  Venn  pint  bottles  of 
port.  As  for  the  disappearance  of  the  girl, 
that  affected  her  chiefly  in  lowering  the  po- 
sition she  had  hitherto  held  in  the  row. 
The  transportation  of  a  son  or  the  disap- 
pearance of  a  daughter  is  held  in  some  cir- 
cles to  be  as  much  a  disease  as  the  scarlet 
fever.  It  is  a  thing  which  happens,  some- 
how, in  many  most  respectable  families,  and 
is  not  to  be  accounted  for,  or  fought 
against. 

The  old  woman  grew  worse  instead  of 
better,  and  presently  kept  her  bed.  Then 
Hartley  got  a  nurse  for  her,  and  used  to  look 
in  once  a  week  or  so  to  see  how  she  was 
getting  on.  One  day  the  inevitable  mes- 
sage from  across  the  river  came  to  the  dame 
in  bed;  and  she  immediately  sent  for  Hartley, 
in  great  trouble  lest  she  should  have  to  be- 
gin the  journey  before  he  arrived ;  but  he 
was  in  time. 

"  Is  it  about  Lollie  ?  "  he  asked,  expect- 
ing some  message  of  forgiveness  or  love  to 
the  girl. 

"  No  —  no,"  she  answered.  "  Drat  the 
girl,  with  her  fine  learning  and  her  ways  ! 
It's  myself  this  time,  Mr.  Venn,  and  time 
enough  too,  I  think.  All  the  things  I've 
seen  you  give  that  child,  and  never  a  thing 
forme."  ' 

Hartley  almost  burst  into  a  fit  of  laugh- 
ter, it  was  so  grotesque. 

Here  she  was  seized  with  a  fit  of  cough- 
ing that  nearly  finished  her  off  altogether. 

"  Oh,  dear,  dear  !  The  time's  come,  Mr. 
Venn,  when  you  can  make  amends  for  your 
selfishness,  and  give  me  something  too." 

"  My  good  soul,  haven't  I  given  you 
every  thing  you  want  ?  Do  you  want  more 
port  wine  ?  " 

"  Better  than  that,"  she  gasped.  "  I  want 
a  funeral.  I  haven't  complained,  have  I, 
sir  ?  Not  when  I  see  the  child  decked  out 
that  fine  as  the  theayter  couldn't  equal  it, 
I  haven't  murmured ;  because,  says  I  to 
myself —  oh,  dear  !  oh,  dear  !  —  Mr.  Venn, 
he's  a  good  man,  he  is.  He  means  it  al 
for  the  best ;  and  the  time  will  come.  And 
now  it  has  come.  I  want  a  funeral.  If  J 


was  to  die  to-night,"  she  went  on,  "you'd 
save  all  the  'lowances,  and  the  port  wine. 
Think  of  that,  now." 

•'  I  don't  see  what  you  want.  A  fune- 
ral?" 

'  When  Peck  died  we  had  a  trifle  saved 
and  put  by,  —  that  was  fifteen  years  ago  ; 
and  we  did  it  properly.  His  brother 
came  from  Hornsey,  and  his  two  cous- 
ins from  Camberwell  ;  and  we  all  went 
respectable  to  Finchley.  After  the  fune- 
ral —  it  was  a  cold  day  —  we  went  to  the 
'  Crown,'  and  sat  round  the  fire,  and  cried, 
as  was  but  right,  and  drank  gin  and  water 
hot.  Oh,  dear  1  and  we  all  enjoyed  our- 
selves. Let  me  have  a  funeral,  too,  Mr. 
Venn." 

He  promised ;  and  she  died  that  very 
night,  chuckling  over  the  great  happiness 
that  had  come  to  her.  The  two  cousins  from 
Camberwell,  who  had  not  been  seen  since 
the  demise  of  the  late  Mr.  Peck,  could  not 
be  found ;  but  the  brother  from  Hornsey 
turned  up  :  and  Venn,  anxious  that  the  old 
man  should  really  have  a  good  time  of  it, 
went  to  the  funeral  himself,  and  gave  him 
after  it  more  gin  and  water  than  he  could 
arry. 

This  pious  act  accomplished,  he  went 
to  the  club,  and  dined,  going  afterwards 
to  Lynn's,  where  he  sat  till  twelve,  dis- 
oursing  of  funeral  ceremonies  of  all  na- 
tions ;  so  that  it  was  after  midnight  when 
he  got  Mary's  missive.  He  trembled  when 
he  read  it.  The  blood  rushed  to  his  head, 
because  it  could  mean  but  one  thing,  —  his 
little  girl ;  and  as  he  hurried  down  the 
streets  to  her  lodging,  he  could  find  no  for- 
mula for  the  prayer  of  his  heart,  which  was 
for  her  safety  and  —  for  her  purity. 

"  Everybody  had  gone  to  bed  ;  but  Mary 
heard  his  step  at  the  door,  and  let  him  in 
herself. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  he  whispered,  as  she  pro- 
ceeded quickly  to  bolt  the  door  again  and 
put  up  the  chain  ;  "  what  is  it,  girl  V  " 

"  Hush  !  "  she  answered.  "  Pull  off  your 
boots.  I'll  carry  them.  She's  up  there, 
and  asleep." 

He  crept  up.  On  the  bed  there  lay,  still 
sleeping,  her  face  upon  her  hand,  her  cheek 
all  pale  and  blanched,  her  long  hair  stream- 
ing back  upon  the  pillow,  wrapped  warm 
in  all  Mary's  blankets,  his  Lollie,  —  his  lit- 
tle girl.  He  made  a  movement  towards 
her,  but  Mary  held  him  back. 

"  Not  yet  —  wait.  She  has  been  sleep- 
ing since  one  o'clock  this  morning.  Let 
her  be.  Something  dreadful  has  happened 
to  her.  Sit  down  and  wait. 

"  Notice,  Mr.  Venn.  She's  got  the  same 
clothes  on  as  she  used  to  have.  She  must 
have  been  going  back  to  you.  Poor  thing  ! 
poor  thing  1  See  here  —  her  jacket,  and 


MY   LITTLE  GIRL. 


129 


hat,  and  blue  frock,  and  all  —  I  know  them 
every  one.  And  look  here." 

Very  softly  she  laid  back  the  blanket 
which  covered  her  left  hand.  On  the  third 
finder  was  a  wedding-ring. 

Hartley  bent  down,  and  kissed  the  ring. 
His  tears  fell  fast  upon  the  little  fingers. 

'•  When  will  she  wake  V  "  he  whispered. 

"  I  don't  know,  —  any  thing  may  wake 
her." 

•'  I  shall  stay  here,"  he  replied  ;  and  sat 
down  by  the  bed,  in  the  only  chair  in  the 
room. 

Mary  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  lay 
down  on  the  extreme  edge  of  the  other  side 
of  the  bed.  Hartley  noticed  then  that  be- 
tween her  and  Lollie  lay  the  child. 

In  two  moments  she,  too,  was  asleep ; 
and  the  watch  of  the  night  began  in  ear- 
nest. Hartley  saw  how  Mary  had  laid  all 
her  blankets  and  wraps  upon  his  child,  and 
left  herself  with  nothing,  not  even  a  shawl. 
He  took  off  his  own  great-coat,  —  he  was 
ever  a  kind-hearted  man,  —  and  laid  it  over 
her  shoulders,  with  a  corner  of  a  blanket 
across  her  feet,  and  then  sat  down  again, 
shivering,  —  the  fire  was  quite  out,  and  the 
room  was  getting  cold,  —  and  waited. 

Presently  the  candle  went  out  suddenly, 
and  then  there  was  darkness  and  silence, 
save  for  the  breath  of  the  sleepers. 

The  tumult  of  his  thoughts  in  this  still- 
ness was  almost  more  than  his  nerves  could 
bear.  It  was  not  till  the  girl  left  him  that 
he  had  at  all  realized  the  hold  she  had 
upon  his  affections  and  her  place  in  his 
life.  He  had  been  very  lonely  without  her. 
He  had  longed  with  all  his  soul  to  see  her 
again.  There  was  no  moment,  now,  when 
he  was  not  ready  to  forgive  every  thing, 
nor  when  his  arms  were  not  open  to  her. 
The  love  he  had  for  the  girl  was  the  out- 
come of  so  many  years.  She  had  so  twisted 
and  twined  the  tendrils  of  affection  round 
him,  that  when  she  went  away  he  was  like 
some  old  tower  from  which  its  ivy,  the 
growth  of  centuries,  had  been  rudely  and 
roughly  dragged  away.  With  the  child 
coming  every  day,  full  of  fresh  thoughts, 
and  eager  for  knowledge,  there  was  always 
some  compensation  for  the  neglect  of  the 
world.  Laura  was  his  family  :  she  it  was 
who  preserved  his  life  from  utter  loneliness 
and  disappointment.  While  he  watched 
the  growth  of  her  mind,  he  forgot  that  his 
own  was,  as  he  was  fond  of  calling  it,  a 
wreck.  While  he  listened  to  her  ideas,  he 
forgot  that  his  own  were  ruthlessly  con- 
signed to  waste-paper  baskets ;  and  with 
her  bright  face  and  child-like  ways,  he  had 
forgotten  that  he  was  getting  on  for  forty, 
—  a  poor  man  still,  and  disappointed. 

All  these  things  crowded  into  his  mind 
as  he  sat  there,  and  a  great  hunger  seized 
9 


his  heart  to  have  all  things  back  again  as 
they  were  before.  He  had  been  growing 
weary  of  late ;  the  old  things  ceased  to 
please  him  ;  there  was  little  interest  left  in 
life  ;  he  felt  himself  "getting  old';  lie  awoke 
in  the  morning  without  the  former  feeling 
that  another  day  would  bring  its  little  bas- 
ket of  pleasure;  he  lay  down  at  night  with 
the  new  feeling  that  here  was  finished  an- 
other of  those  gray-colored  days  which  go 
to  make  up  the  total  of  a  sad  fife.  Would 
that  all  could  be  as  it  had  been,  —  that  the 
step  of  the  child  could  be  heard  again  upon 
the  stairs,  and  the  lessons  renewed  where 
they  left  off;  but  the  waters  run  not  back 
to  the  mountains.  Old  Mrs.  Peck  was  ly- 
ing buried  in  Finchley  Cemetery.  Laura 
was  a  woman  ;  a  wedding-ring  was  on  her 
finger;  her  long  eyelashes  lay  wet  with 
tears  upon  her  cheeks,  —  those  cheeks  that 
never  knew  a  tear  while  he  was  there  to 
kiss  them.  She  moaned  in  her  dreams  who 
had  once  only  smiled ;  and  nothing  could 
come  back  but  the  old,  old,  inextinguisha- 
ble love. 

So,  minute  by  minute,  the  slow  night 
passed  along.  Hartley  sat  through  it  mo- 
tionless, in  the  dark,  catching  the  breath- 
ing of  the  sleeper,  though  he  could  not  see 
her  face.  After  many  hours,  there  came 
through  the  window  the  first  faint  streaks 
of  a  November  dawn,  growing  stronger  and 
stronger.  When  it  fell  on  little  Georgie's 
face,  it  half  roused  him  from  his  sleep ;  and, 
reaching  out  his  arms  to  find  his  mother,  the 
boy  laid  his  little  hand  on  Lollie's  neck, 
and  she  awoke.  Woke  with  a  start,  and  a 
rush  of  thoughts  that  made  her  half  sit  up 
and  stare  at  the  figure  of  Hartley,  indis- 
tinct in  the  morning  gloom,  with  strange, 
wild  eyes. 

"Where  am  I?  — where  am  I?"  she 
murmured,  sinking  back. 

Hartley  bent  over,  and  raised  her  head, 
kissing  her  brow  in  his  quiet,  old-fashioned 
way. 

"  Open  your  eyes,  my  little  girl.  You 
are  come  home  again.  Thank  God !  you 
are  come  home  again,"  the  tears  raining 
thick  upon  her  face. 

She  hardly  as  yet  comprehended  ;  but  at 
last,  sitting  up  in  bed,  she  looked  about  the 
room,  trying  to  remember.  The  bitter 
knowledge  came  at  last ;  and,  throwing  her 
arms  about  his  neck,  she  laid  her  face 
against  his,  crying  pitifully,  — 

"  O  Mr.  Venn,  Mr.  Venn  !  " 

This  was  all  her  prayer.  Hartley  could 
not  trust  himself  to  answer.  He  clasped 
her  in  his  arms,  he  held  her  face  to  his,  and 
covered  it  with  kisses,  he  called  her  a  thou- 
sand names  of  love  and  endearment,  — his 
child,  his  Lollie,  his  little  daughter.  And 
then  Mary  showed  herself  to  be  a  young 


ISO 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


woman  of  really  a  high  order  of  feeling ; 
for,  awakened  by  the  voices,  she  got  up 
from  the  edge  of  the  bed  on  which  she  had 
slept  all  night,  and,  catching  up  the  still 
sleeping  boy,  disappeared  to  some  other 
part  of  the  house,  —  I  fancy  to  the  back 
kitchen  below,  —  and  left  them  alone. 

Presently,  as  the  light  grew  stronger, 
Lollie  recovered  herself  a  little,  and,  in  a 
quick,  nervous  way  began  to  tell  him  her 
tale.  Hartley  listened  with  grinding  teeth. 
She  told  all,  extenuating  nothing,  hiding 
nothing,  save  some  of  the  cruelty  of  her 
husband's  last  words.  He  stopped  her 
then. 

"  You  wrote  to  me  from  the  place  where 
you  were  married,  my  dear  V  " 

"  Yes.  Mr.  Maclntyre  was  to  take  the 
letter." 

"And  again  from  Vieuxcamp?  " 
"  I  wrote  twice  from  Vieuxcamp." 
"  I  got  no  letters  at  all,  poor  child,  —  not 
one.     They  suppressed  them  all.     Go  on. 
It  was  the  day  before  yesterday.     Where 
did  you  go  when  you  left  him  ?  " 

"I  walked  —  I  don't  know.  I  walked 
all  night.  You  were  not  in  your  chambers. 
It  rained.  I  walked  about  all  night. 
Somebody  took  away  my  purse.  What 
was  I  to  do,  Mr.  Venn  ?  Where  was  I  to 
go  ?  A  women  in  Covent  Garden  gave  me 
some  coffee  "  — 

"  Tell  me  her  name,  Lollie,  —  tell  me  her 
name." 

"  I  don't  know.  She  had  a  stall  at  the 
corner  of  Bow  Street." 

"  She  had  a  stall  at  the  corner  of  Bow 
Street,"  he  repeated. 

"  And  she  went  home  at  seven  o'clock." 
"  Home  at  seven  ?  "  he  said.  "  All  night, 
Lollie?  — all  the  cold,  wet,  dark  night? 
O  child,  child  1  why  did  you  not  come 
to  my  rooms,  and  sit  on  the  stairs  till  I 
came  home  ?  " 

He  held  her  close  to  his  heart. 
"  All  night  —  all  night  1     Lollie,  Lollie 
my  heart  is  breaking  for  you.     One  thine 
you  have  forgotten.     Tell  me  the  name  o 
your  husband." 

«  Philip  Durnford." 
"  Arthur's  cousin !  " 


CHAPTER  XXVHI. 

PHILIP  DURNFORD,  —  Arthur's  cousin 
of  whom  he  was  always  speaking.  I 
seemed  a  new  complication.  Venn  sa 
back  in  his  chair,  pondering. 

"Promise  me  something,  Mr.  Venn, — 
promise  me  something.  Do  not  harm 
Philip." 


"  Harm  him  !  "  he  answered,  with  a  fierce 
ght  in  his  eyes. 

"  For  my  sake,  do  not  try  to  see  him. 
)o  not  go  in  his  way." 

"  My  poor  child  !  " 

"  But  promise." 

"  Lollie,  you  ask  too  much.  But  what 
arm  can  I  do  him  ?  I  cannot  go  round  to 
is  tent  with  a  knife,  as  a  child  of  Israel 
rould  have  done,  and  stab  him  till  he  die. 

wish  I  could.     I  cannot  even  ask  him  to 

*ht  a  duel.  I  would  if  I  could.  My  aim 
iiould  be  steady,  and  my  eye  straight. 
?ell  me  what  harm  I  can  possibly  do  to 
im.  True,  I  could  go  to  him  with  a  stick, 
nd  so  relieve  myself." 

"  No,  Mr.  Venn,  you  will  not  do  that." 

"  Do  not  talk  about  him,  child  —  do  not 
alk  about  him.  Let  us  talk  of  other 
hings.  And,  first,  to  make  you  well. 
Vly  child,  how  hot  your  head  is  !  I  will  go 
,nd  send  a  doctor  to  you.  Lie  down,  and 
leep  again." 

"  I  should  like  some  tea,"  she  said,  sink- 
ng  back  exhausted.  "  I  am  thirsty.  My 

ands  are  burning,  and  my  head  swims. 
Send  me  Mary,  please." 

He  hurried  down  stairs,  and  brought  up 
Vlary ;  and  then,  promising  to  return  in 
he  afternoon,  went  away  to  send  her  a 
loctor.  That  done,  he  returned  to  his 
chambers,  feeling  lighter  and  happier  than 
had  done  for  months  past.  So  happy 
was  he,  that  he  set  to  work  and  burned  no 
ess  than  three  immortal  essays,  because  he 
suspected  that  they  were  deficient  in  joy 
and  thankfulness,  —  two  qualities  which  he 
now  regarded  as  essential  to  a  well-bal- 
anced mind.  That  sacrifice  completed,  he 
sat  down  before  the  fire,  and  fell  fast  asleep, 
thinking  of  how  the  good  old  days. were  to 
restored  to  him. 

When  he  awoke  it  was  three  o'clock, 
and  he  had  had  no  breakfast.  This  was  a 
trifling  consideration,  because  coffee  can 
be  always  made.  He  broke  bread  with  a 
sense  of  happiness  and  gratitude  that  al- 
most made  his  modest  meal  a  sacrament, 
and  then  went  back  to  his  patient. 

But  on  the  stairs  he  was  met  by  Mary. 
"  You  can't  come  in,  Mr.  Venn.     Lollie 
is  very  ill,  and   the   doctor  is   with  her. 
Don't  be  frightened.     She's  had  too  great 
a  shock.     You  may  come  to-morrow." 

He  turned  away,  all  his  joy  dashed. 
As  he  shut  the  door  behind  him,  he  ground 
his  teeth  savagely,  and  stood  still  for  a  mo- 
ment. 

"If  my  child" — shaking  his  hand  at 
the  silent  heavens  —  "  if  my  little  girl  does 
not  get  better,  I  will  kill  him  —  I  will  kill 
him  !  A  life  for  a  life.  I  will  kill  him  !  " 

Then  he  wandered  about  the  streets,  fol- 
lowing as  nearly  as  he  could  the  wander- 


MY  LITTLE  GIEL. 


131 


ings  of  Lollie  during  that  night,  and  trying 
to  imagine  where  she  would  stand  for  shel- 
ter. The  fancy  seized  him  to  find  out  the 
man  who  robbed  her.  It  was  from  a  court 
on  the  north  side  of  Oxford  Street.  He 
went  along,  turning  into  every  court  he 
could  find,  and  prowling  up  and  down  with 
a  vague  sort  of  feeling  that  he  might  see 
the  man,  and  know  him  by  his  long  legs, 
his  bare  feet,  and  his  crouching  like  a 
wolf.  There  were  a  good  many  wolf-like 
creatures  about,  but  none  that  quite  an- 
swered Lollie's  description  ;  and  he  desist- 
ed from  the  search  at  last,  calling  himself 
a  fool,  and  so  went  home. 

Then  another  notion  seized  him.  He 
ordered  the  night  porter  to  call  him  at 
lour  o'clock,  and  so  went  to  bed. 

At  four  he  was  awakened,  and  got  up. 

"  Most  extraordinary,"  he  murmured, 
shivering,  and  lighting  a  candle,  "  the  sen- 
sation of  rising  in  the  night.  I  quite 
understand  now  why  the  laboring  classes, 
who  always  do  it,  never  take  tubs." 

He  dressed  hastily,  and  went  out  into 
the  court.  The  very  last  light  had  disap- 
peared in  the  square.  The  last  roysterer 
was  gone  to  bed.  The  last  student  had 
knocked  off'  work  for  the  night. 

"  It  gives  one,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  an 
Antipodean  feeling.  I  feel  as  if  I  were  on 
my  head.  Now  I  begin  to  understand  why 
agricultural  laborers  are  never  boisterous 
in  their  spirits.  This  is  enough  to  sadden 
Momus!  " 

Not  a  soul  was  in  Holborn  when  he 
passed  through  the  gate.  He  buttoned 
his  great-coat  tighter  across  his  chest,  and 
strode  up  the  street,  his  footsteps  echoing 
as  he  went. 

"I  wish  it  would  rain,"  he  said,  "then 
I  should  understand  the  misery  of  it  bet- 
ter." 

He  left  Holborn,  and,  passing  down  the 
by-streets,  made  directly  for  Covent  Gar- 
den. There  he  found  the  market  in  full 
vigor,  —  the  carts  all  seeming  to  come  in 
at  the  same  time.  He  peered  about  in  the 
faces  of  the  drivers  and  workmen. 

"  An  expression  of  hope,"  he  said,  "  or 
rather  of  expectation.  We  have  had  our 
bed :  they  seem  as  if  they  were  always 
looking  for  it.  Very  odd  !  Life  pulled  for- 
ward, —  breakfast  at  four,  dinner  at  ten, 
tea  at  two.  Bed,  if  you  are  a  Sybarite, 
about  seven  ;  if  you  are  a  reveller,  at  nine. 
Where  is  my  coffee-woman  ?  " 

He  came  to  a  stall,  where  a  fat,  red-faced 
woman  was  ladling  out  cups  of  coffee  to  an 
expectant  crowd.  He  stood  on  one  side, 
and  let  the  crowd  thin,  and  then  humbly 
advanced. 

"  A  cup  of  coffee,  if  you  please,  ma'am." 

She  poured  it  out  for  him. 


"  Drink  it,  and  go  home  to  bed,"  she  said. 
"You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself, 
stayin'  out  all  night  this  fashion." 

"  I  am  only  just  out  of  bed,"  said  Venn 
meekly.  "  I  got  out  of  bed  to  see  you." 

"  And  pray  what  might  you  be  wanting 
to  see  me  for,  young  man  ?  I  don't  owe 
you  nothing." 

"  On  the  contrary,  it  is  I  who  owe  you 
a  great  deal,"  he  repiied,  sitting  on  the 
shafts  of  her  coffee  cart.  "  Tell  me,  my 
2ood  soul,  you  were  here  the  night  before 
last  V  " 

*'  I  am  here  every  night." 

"Then  you  remember  the  young  lady 
who  came  here." 

"  I  should  think  I  do  remember  her,  — 
the  pretty  lamb." 

Venn  took  her  great  rough  hand  in  bis, 
and  held  it. 

"  She  gave  you  a  locket.  Have  you  got 
it  with  you  ?  " 

"  Yes*,  it's  in  my  pocket.  Wait  a  bit, — 
wait  a  bit.  Here  it  is.  What  do  you  want 
with  the  locket  ?  " 

"  She  has  sent  me  to  buy  the  locket 
back,"  he  replied,  "  and  to  find  out  where 
you  live.  She  is  with  her  friends  now. 
You  must  not  ask  any  thing  about  her,  — 
why  she  was  out  alone ;  but  she  is  with 
her  own  friends,  —  those-  who  love  her. 
She  is  ill  too,  —  God  help  ner  !  " 

"  Amen,"  said  the  woman,  "  and  good 
she  was,  I  swear." 

"  As  good  as  any  saint.  See,  give  me 
the  locket,  and  tell  me  where  you  live.  She 
shall  come  soon  to  see  you  herselfl  And 
here  is  the  price  of  the  locket." 

He  laid  five  pounds  in  her  hand.  The 
woman  looked  at  the  gold,  —  it  was  as 
much  as  ever  she  had  had  in  her  posses- 
sion, all  at  once,  —  and  then  held  out  her 
hand  again. 

"  If  she's  poor,  take  it  back,  I  don't  want 
it,  —  the  Lord  love  her  !  If  she's  rich,  I'll 
keep  it  for  the  childer." 

"  I  am  rich,"  said  Venn,  "  because  I  have 
her  back.  Keep  the  money.  And  now 
tell  me  where  you  live." 

She  shook  her  head  again,  and  turned 
away. 

"  I  can't  go  to  bed,"  he  said.  "  I've 
had  my  breakfast  too  :  what  time  shall  I 
want  lunch,  I  wonder  ?  Where  am  I  to  go 
now  ?  " 

It  was  not  quite  six  o'clock.  He  strolled 
along  the  streets,  making  mental  observa- 
tions, watching  how  the  traffic  began  and 
how  it  slowly  increased.  Then  he  went  on 
the  Embankment. 

"  I  have  never  yet  seen  the  rosy-fingered 
dawn.  Let  us  contemplate  one  of  Nature's 
grandest  phenomena." 

A  dense  fog  came  rolling  up  with  the 


132 


MY   LITTLE  GIRL. 


break  of  day,  and  there  was  nothing  to  see 
at  all. 

"  I  am  disappointed,"  he  said  to  himself. 
"  From  the  description  of  that  lying  tribe, 
the  poets,  I  had  expected  a  very  different 
thing.  Alas  1  one  by  one  the  illusions  of 
life  die  away.  Let  us  go  and  look  after 
our  patient." 


The  worst  was  passed ;  and  though 
Laura  was  hanging  between  life  and  death, 
the  balance  of  youth  and  strength  was  in 
her  favor. . 

After  a  day  or  two,  they  allowed  Venn 
to  enter  the  sick  room  and  help  to  nurse. 
Never  had  patient  a  nurse  more  careful 
and  attentive.  In  the  morning,  when 
Mary  went  to  rehearsal,  and  in  the  even- 
ing, when  she  went  to  the  theatre,  he  took 
her  place,  and  watched  the  spark  of  life 
slowly  growing  again  into  a  flame.  She 
was  light-headed  still,  and  in  her  uncon- 
scious prattling  revealed  all  the  innocent 
secrets  of  her  life.  What  revelations  those 
are  of  sick  men  in  the  ears  of  mothers 
and  sisters  who  have  thought  them  spot- 
less ! 

Venn  learned  all.  He  heard  her  plead 
with  her  husband  for  permission  to  tell 
himself,  to  write,  to  try  and  see  him.  He 
saw  how,  through  it  all,  he  himself  lay  at 
her  heart ;  and,  lastly,  he  heard  from  her 
lips  the  real  and  true  story  of  the  last  cruel 
blow  that  drove  her  out  into  the  street. 
What  could  he  do  to  this  man  ?  How 
madden  him  with  remorse  ?  How  drive 
him  and  lash  him  with  a  scourge  of  scor- 
pions ? 

One  morning  he  found  her  sitting  up, 
half-dressed,  weak  and  feeble,  but  restored 
to  her-  right  mind.  Then  Hartley  Venn 
did  a  thing  he  had  not  done  for  nearly 
thirty  years,  —  you  so  easily  get  out  of  the 
habit  at  Eton,  —  he  knelt  down  by  the 
bedside,  her  hand  in  his,  and  thanked  God 
aloud  for  his  great  mercy. 

"  When  I  get  well  again,  Mr-  Venn," 
whispered  Lollie,  "we  will  go  to  church 
together,  will  we  not." 

Then  he  sat  down  by  her  while  she  told 
him  all  the  story  again,  till  the  tears  ran 
down  both  their  cheeks  ;  for  Hartley  Venn 
WHS  but  a  great,  soit- hearted  baby,  and 
showed  his  feelings  in  a  manner  quite  un- 
known to  the  higher  circles. 

"  But  what  are  we  to  do  with  you,  Lol- 
lie ?  "  he  asked,  when  he  had  told  all  his 
news, — how  Mrs.  Peck  was  gone,  and 
there  was  no  house  anywhere  for  her. 
"  You  could  not  possibly  have  gone  to  live 
with  your  old  grandmother  any  more. 
What  shall  we  do  for  you  ?  " 


"  I  don't  know,  Mr.  Venn.  Do  some- 
thing for  Mary.  See  how  good  she  has 
been." 

"  Mary  don't  want  any  thing,  child. 
When  she  does  she  knows  where  to  go  for 
help." 

Then  he  told  her  all  about  the  coffee 
woman. 

"  I  will  take  you  to  see  her,"  he  said, 

as  soon  as  you  are  well.  Here  is  your 
locket,  my  dear,  back  again.  We  are  to 
go  in  the  day-time,  and  I  am  to  prepare 
her  for  your  visit  first.  But  what  am  I  to 
do  with  you  V  Stay.  I  will  go  and  ask 
Sukey  ?  She  always  knows  what  ought  to 
be  done." 

It  was  really  a  serious  question.  What 
was  he  to  do  with  her  V  He  might  get 
her  lodgings.  But  then  his  own  visits 
would  have  to  be  few,  so  as  to  prevent  talk. 
He  might  take  a  house  for  her,  though  that 
hardly  seemed  the  best  thing.  But  as  he 
walked  along  to  WToburn  Place,  a  brilliant 
thought  flashed  across  him.  Sukey  should 
take  her.  A  comfortable  house,  the  care 
of  a  lady,  surrounding  circumstances  not 
only  new,  but  new  enough  to  have  a  charm, 
and  a  life  beyond  the  reach  of  any  mali- 
cious tongues.  Nothing  could  be  better. 
But,  then,  Sukey  might  object.  He 
smoothed  his  face  into  its  sweetest  lines. 
He  would  diplomatize. 

Sukey  was  in  a  state  of  great  nervous 
excitement,  in  consequence  of  having  been 
excommunicated.  She  was  of  High  Church 
proclivities,  and  loved,  in  moderation,  the 
exercise  of  those  observances  appointed  by 
her  advisers.  Naturally,  too,  she  was  fond 
of  the  society  of  her  clergyman,  a  gentle- 
man who  held  rigid  views  as  to  fasting  and 
feasting,  observing  the  periods  of  the 
former  courageously,  —  but  with  grief  and 
pain,  —  and  the  latter  with  undisguised  joy. 
Both  states  of  feeling  he  regarded  as  con- 
ducive to  a  sound  spiritual  state.  And  so 
far  he  was  followed  by  Miss  Venn,  who 
hated  a  vegetable  diet  as  much  as  she 
loved  a  good  dinner.  In  an  evil  hour,  hav- 
ing been  presented  with  an  Angola  cat, 
she  christened  it  St.  Cyril.  Her  director, 
on  discovering  this  piece  of  levity,  treated 
it  as  an  offence  quite  beyond  the  venial 
sins  common  among  mankind,  and  not  only 
ordered  her  to  change  the  name  to  Tom, 
but  also  enjoined  as  a  penance  an  octave 
of  cabbage.  At  this  tyranny  her  whole 
soul  revolted,  and  she  flew  into  open  rebel- 
lion ;  going  over  to  the  enemy's  camp,  a 
neighboring  Low  Church  establishment, 
where  as  yet  no  surplice  was  flaunted  in 
the  pulpit,  the  Psalms  were  read,  and  the 
service  finely  rendered. 

Thereupon  she  was  excommunicated. 


MY  LITTLE   GIRL. 


133 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

VENN,  on  the  following  morning,  called 
upon  his  sister. 

She  burst  forth  with  all  her  tale  of  trou- 
ble as  soon  as  she  saw  him.  Hartley 
judiciously  gave  her  the  reins,  only  occa- 
sionally murmuring  sympathetically. 

"  Why,  Sukey,"  lie  said,  when  she  had 
quite  finished,  "  you  can  do  nothing  better 
than  persist.  It  is  the  most  outrageous 
tyranny.  And  such  a  beautiful  animal 
too  !  St.  Cyril,  come  here.  Sh — tsh  !  A 
lovely  cat." 

"  I  thought  you  hated  cats,  Hartley." 

"  As  a  rule,  I  do,  but  not  such  a  superb 
creature  as  this.  St.  Cyril,  —  what  a 
beautiful  name  for  a  cat!  Suggestive  of 
howlings  on  the  chimney-tops,  —  I  mean, 
of  purrings  on  the  hearth-rug.  My  dear 
sister,  you  have  a  genius  for  giving  names. 
When  I  was  a  child  —  when  we  were  chil- 
dren together  —  you  used  to  call  me  Billa- 
belub  for  short,  I  remember  well." 

Sukey  began  to  purr  too,  falling  into  the 
trap  baited  by  flattery,  as  innocently  as 
any  creature  of  the  forest. 

"  I  think  I  chose  a  good  name,  in  spite 
of  Mr.  De  Vere.  Take  a  glass  of  wine, 
Hartley,  and  a  biscuit.  Why  do  you  call 
here  so  seldom  ?  " 

"  The  sherry,  by  all  means." 

He  poured  out  two  glasses. 

"  Hartley,  you  know  I  never  take  wine 
in  the  morning." 

"  As  it  is  poured  out,  you  may  as  well 
drink  it :  besides,  it  will  do  you  good." 

She  drank  it,  and  appeared  to  like  it. 

"  But  I  came  to  tell  you  some  good  news, 
Sukey,"  he  went  on,  seeing  that  the  mo- 
ment had  arrived.  "  My  little  girl  has 
come  back  to  me." 

Sukey  said  nothing,  but  looked  up 
sharply. 

"  Yes.  Her  husband  has  ill-treated 
her." 

"Her  husband!  She  has  a  husband, 
then  ?  " 

"  Sukey  1  Why,  how  else  should  she 
have  left  me  ?  " 

This  was  a  facer.  Hartley  followed  up 
the  advantage. 

"  Her  husband,  it  appears  "  — 

"  Who  is  her  husband,  Hartley  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Philip  Durnfbrd,  lieutenant  in  the 
— th  Regiment,  cousin  of  Arthur  Durn- 
ford,  whose  father  used  to  be  a  pupil  at 
the  rectory.  You  remember  him  thirty 
years  ago  ?  " 

"My  dear  brother.  As  if  I  could  re- 
member any  thing  so  long  ago  as  that." 

"  True,  I  forgot.  Philip  Durnford,  I  am 
sorry  to  say,  is  not  a  good  man.  He  made 


her  conceal  the  marriage,  destroyed  the 
letters  she  wrote  to  me,  forbade  her  writ- 
ing any  more,  and  at  last  ruined  himself, 
and  turned  her  out  of  doors.  Lollie  has 
had  a  hard  time,  Sukey." 

"  Where  is  she  now?  " 

"  She  had  nowhere  to  go,  wandered 
about  trying  to  find  me  in  my  chain  hers, 
kept  on  missing  me,  and  at  last  was  picked 
up  by  a  girl  whom  she  befriended  two  or 
three  years  ago,  who  took  her  in  like  a 
Samaritan,  and  we  nursed  her  through 
a  fortnight  of  dangerous  illness.  She  is 
still  almost  too  weak  to  be  moved." 

"  You  must  see  her  husband  at  once." 

"  I  think  not." 

"Then,  where  can  she  go?  Hartley, 
you  must  not  begin  that  old  business  of 
having  her  up  in  your  chambers." 

"  No,  certainly  not  —  that  must  be  put 
a  stop  to.  I  have  thought  it  over.  She  must 
go,  Sukey  "  —  here  he  became  very  impres- 
sive —  "  she  must  go  to  the  house  of  some 
lady,  a  little,  but  not  too  much,  older  than 
herself,  of  a  kind  and  affectionate  disposi- 
tion —  my  child  is  dreadfully  broken  and 
weak,  Sukey  —  where  her  wounds  may  be 
healed,  and  we  can  teach  her  to  forget 
some  of  her  troubles;  where  she  will  have 
no  reproaches,  no  worries,  no  hard  words." 

"  Where  will  you  find  her  such  a  guar- 
dian?" 

"Where?  Here,  Sukey,  here,"  — he 
took  her  fat  little  hands  in*  his,  —  "  here, 
my  dear.  I  know  no  other  woman  so  good 
and  kind  as  yourself,  and  no  house  which 
will  so  entirely  fulfil  all  the  conditions  as 
your  own." 

"  Mine  ?     Oh,  goodness  gracious !  " 

"  Yours,  Sukey.  For  there  is,  I  am 
quite  sure,  no  one  in  the  world  whose  heart 
is  so  soft  and  whose  house  is  so  comfort- 
able as  yours." 

She  sat  silent. 

"  You  know  Lollie  too.  It  is  not  as  if 
you  were  strangers.  Remember  how  you 
used  to  kiss  her  when  she  was  quite  a  little 
thing/' 

"  I  do,"  said  Sukey.  "  The  child's  lips 
were  always  sticky  with  jam." 

"  They  were  ;  and  it  shows,"  said  Hart- 
ley, "  the  kindness  of  your  heart  to  treasure 
up  this  trifling  circumstance.  Women  alone 
know  how  to  touch  the  chords  of  feeling. 
She  was  always  extravagantly  fond  of  jam. 
I  remember,  too,  how  you  used  to  spread  it 
for  her,  on  bread  and  butter,  careful  not  to 
give  her  too  much  butter  for  fear  of  bilious- 
ness. The  old  days,  Sukey,  the  old 
days ! " 

He  was  silent,  as  if  overcome.  Then 
he  went  on,  -*- 

"  And  it  is  really  kind  —  more  kind  than 
I  know  how  to  thank  you  for  —  to  accede 


134 


MY  LITTLE  GIEL. 


at  once  to  my  suggestion.  I  feel  as  if  it 
came  from  you.  "Believe  me,  sister,  I  am 
very  grateful." 

He  kissed  her  forehead  ;  and  the  caress, 
so  exceedingly  rare  from  her  brother, 
brought  a  glow  of  conscious  benevolence 
to  Sukey's  cheeks.  She  almost  felt  as  if 
she  had  really  suggested  the  step.  Then 
her  heart  sank  again. 

"  Well,  you  know,  my  dear  Hartley,  I 
am  the  last  person  in  the  world  to  think  of 
my  own  comfort." 

"  You  are,  indeed,  Sukey,"  he  murmured 
with  a  glance  at  the.  sherry,  "  the  very 
last.  Always  self-denying." 

"  But  what  will  Anne  think  ?  " 

Hartley  rang  the  bell,  and  Anne 
appeared. 

"My  sister,  Anne,  —  upon  my  word, 
Anne,  you  are  getting  younger  every  day, 
—  wants  to  take,  for  a  little  while,  a  young 
lady  into  the  house.  Mrs.  Durnford,  who 
is  unhappily  separated  from  her  husband. 
You  remember  her,  —  my  ward.  Miss  Col- 
lingwood,  that  was ;  but  she  is  a  little 
afraid  that  it  will  put  you  out." 

Anne  looked  troubled. 

"  Not  a  young  lady  who  will  give  trouble 
or  any  extra  work,  but  one  who  wants  a 
comfortable  place,  and  thoughtful  people 
like  yourself  about  her." 

"  If  Miss  Venn  wants  it,"  said  Anne. 

"  Of  course  she  wants  it." 

"  Then  I'm  not  the  one  to  make  objec- 
tions ;  and  I'm  sure  the  house  wants  a  little 
brightening  up.  And  you  never  coming 
in  but  once  in  three,  months,  Mr.  Hartley." 

"  I  shall  come  every  day  now,  Anne ; 
but  haven't  you  got  Mr.  De  Vere  ?  " 

This  was  the  clergyman  with  whom  Anne 
did  not  hold. 

"  Mr.  De  Vere,  indeed  !  "  and  Anne  re- 
treated. 

"  Then  we  will  lose  no  time,"  said  Hart- 
ley. "  I  don't  think  you  could  have  her 
to-morrow ;  but  the  day  after,  perhaps." 

"  The  day  after  V  O  Hartley  !  will  she 
be  wanting  gayety  and  fuss,  and  every 
thing?" 

"Lollie?  My  dear  Sukey,  she  wants 
quiet ;  but,  would  it  not  be  a  nice  thing  — 
a  graceful  thing  —  if  you  would  bring  her 
here  yourself?  " 

"If  you  prefer  it,  Hartley.  Where  is 
she  ?  " 

"  Where  she  has  been  for  the  last  three 
weeks.  With  Mary." 

"Mary  has  got  a  surname,  I  suppose. 
Pray,  what  is  the  profession  of  Mary  ?  " 

"  Mary  —  I  mean,  Mrs,  Smith,  whose  — 
ahem!  whose  husband  has  gone  to  — 
to"  — 

"  Where  is  he  gone  to  ?  " 

"  How  should  I  know  where  he  is  gone 


to  ?  "  replied  Hartley,  a  little  irritably,  for 
he  did  not  like  being  off  the  rails  of  truth. 
"  Gone  to  Abraham's  bosom,  I  suppose. 
So  Mrs.  Smith,  you  know,  dances  at  the 
theatre,  and  supports  her  child  in  a  credit- 
able way." 

"Now,  Hartley,  I  will  not —  the  grand- 
daughter of  a  Bishop,  and  all  —  go  to  the 
lodgings  of  a  dancing  person." 

Hartley  repressed  an  inclination  to  refer 
to  the  ancestral  glue  manufactory,  and  only 
meekly  replied  that  there  was  no  need. 

"  Bring  Laura  to  your  chambers  the  day 
after  to-morrow,"  said  Sukey,  "  and  I  will 
come  and  fetch  her." 

"Do,  Sukey,  come  to  breakfast, — kid- 
neys, sister.  You  shall  take  her  away 
afterwards  in  a  cab.  You  will  be  kind  to 
her,  Sukey  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  will.  Oh,  dear  !  there  is 
nothing  but  trouble.  Now  we  shall  have 
to  make  things  ready.  Well,  go  away 
now,  Hartley :  you  will  only  be  in  the 
way.  I  will  come  at  ten." 

Two  days  afterwards  Hartley  brought 
his  ward  back  again  to  the  old  chambers. 
Mary  hugged  and  kissed  her ;  but  when 
Laura  promised  to  call  and  see  her  soon, 
she  only  shook  her  head,  and  said  it  was 
better  not,  and  began  to  cry  ;  and  then  she 
went  back  to  her  room  again,  and  found  it 
cheerless  and  dreary  indeed. 

Hartley  helped  Laura  up  stairs,  and  in- 
stalled her  in  her  old  place,  the  old  chair 
by  the  fire. 

"  It  looks  like  what  it  used  to  be,  Lol- 
lie," he  said ;  "  but  it  is  not.  It  never  can 
be  again." 

"  Ah,  no  !  It  never  can  be  again.  My 
fault,  my  fault." 

"  Never  again,  never  again.  The  waters 
are  troubled,  dear,  and  we  shall  be  long  in 
getting  them  clear.  But  think  no  more  of 
the  past.  You  are  always  my  little  girl, 
remember  ;  and  if  you.  were  dear  to  me  be- 
fore, Lollie,  when  you  were  but  a  child,  you 
are  doubly  dear  now,  when  you  come  back 
in  your  sorrow  and  trouble.  There  are  to 
be  no  more  lessons  and  talks  and  walks. 
I  must  not  see  you  very  often,  and  never 
here,  because  people  might  talk.  But  never 
doubt,  my  child,  that  I  love  you." 

He  kissed  her  forehead,  and  caressed  her 
face  in  his  old  calm  way,  while  the  tears 
were  standing  in  his  eyes.  She  dropped 
her  face  in  her  hands,  and  wept  unrestrain- 
edly. 

Miss  Venn  appeared  at  this  juncture. 
She  had  walked  to  Gray's  Inn,  making  up 
her  mind  to  be  kind,  but  yet  severe ;  for 
elopement  should  always  be  visited  by 
coldness  of  manner,  at  least.  Besides,  med- 
itation of  forty-eight  hours  had  revealed  to 


MY  LITTLE   GIEL. 


135 


her,  the  cunning  manner  in  which  her 
brother  had  entrapped  her  into  a  gener- 
osity of  which  she  half  repented. 

But  at  sight  of  her  brother's  sorrow,  and 
the  weak,  wasted  figure  in  the  chair,  her 
resolution  gave  way ;  and  almost  before 
she  had  got  the  girl  well  in  her  fat  moth- 
erly arms,  she  was  crying  over  her,  and 
kissing  her,  with  a  vehemence  which  did 
infinite  credit  to  the  family. 

Hartley  left  them,  and  presently  re- 
turned with  the  kidneys,  cooked  in  his 
bedroom.  Nobody  could  do  kidneys  so 
well  as  Hartley,  or  brew  such  splendid  cof- 
fee ;  and  sympathy  brings  its  own  reward 
in  the  shape  of  appetite. 

After  this  she  took  Lollie  away  with 
her,  laid  her  on  the  sofa,  and,  with  Anne, 
made  much  of  her. 

I  have  only  to  add  that  the  public  ap- 
pearance of  Laura,  and  the  way  in  which 
she  was  carried  off  by  Miss  Venn,  entirely 
re-established  her  in  the  eyes  of  the  Gray's 
Inn  functionaries,  and  effectually  drowned 
the  voices  of  those  who  had  said  evil  things 
about  her  disappearance. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

VENN  went  with  a  troubled  mind  to  find 
Arthur  Durnford.  He  knew  nothing  as 
yet  of  his  changed  fortunes,  and  had,  in- 
deed, only  heard  of  Philip  as  a  cousin  of 
whom  Arthur  spoke  little. 

"  Arthur,"  he  said,  shaking  his  hand, 
"  something  has  happened  to  me." 

"A  great  deal  has  happened  to  me," 
said  Arthur,  laughing ;  "  but  I  hope  your 
accident  is  not  so  serious  as  mine.  It's  a 
long  story  ;  but  you  shall  have  it." 

He  told  all,  from  the  very  beginning. 

"  I  gave  up  the  fortune  at  once,"  he  said 
simply,  "  because  it  seemed  to  me  clear  and 
beyond  any  dispute  that  my  father  was  ac- 
tually married  to  this  girl,  who  must  have 
died  in  Europe  before  he  married  again, 
and  when  Philip  was  a  year  old.  He  is 
only  two  years  older  than  myself.  I  might 
have  fought  the  case,  my  lawyer  said ;  but 
it  would  "have  been  at  the  cost  of  publish- 
ing my  father's  early  history,  perhaps  rak- 
ing up  old  scandals,  —  all  sorts  of  things. 
This  I  couldn't  do ;  and  Philip,  who  is  the 
most  generous  man  alive,  insisted  on  my 
having  double  the  sum  which  my  father 
had  given  him.  You  see,  my  father  never 
intended  him  to  be  his  heir.  Of  that  I  am 
quite  certain.  On  the  other  hand,  by  his 
will,  Philip  is  the  heir.  And  the  decision 
of  the  case  means  legitimacy  to  him." 

"  I  see,"  said  Venn ;  "  I  see.  Neverthe- 
less, I  do  not  believe.  This  man  who  sup- 


plies the  proofs  —  I  will  tell  you  something 
about  him  directly." 

"  You  can  tell  me  very  little  that  I  do  not 
know  already.  That  Maclntyre  is  a  scoun- 
drel, an  unscrupulous  man,  bound  by  no 
laws  of  honor,  religion,  or  morality,  I  know 
already,  —  partly  from  his  own  confession." 

"  He  sold  his  proofs,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  so.  I  have  not  asked  Philip 
what  he  asked  or  got  for  them." 

"  Tell  me  his  address,  if  you  know  it." 

"  I  know  the  street,  but  not  the  number. 
He  is  in  lodgings  in  Keppel  Street,  Rus- 
sell Square." 

"Keppel  Street?  I  know  it.  Yes  — 
Keppel  Street." 

Over  his  face  there  stole  a  look  of  thank- 
fulness, expressed  by  the  movement  of  his 
sensitive  lips.  His  color  rose  just  a  little, 
but  he  was  outwardly  calm. 

"  You  want  to  see  him  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  shall  probably  call  upon  him 
to-day." 

"  But  what  has  happened  to  you,  Venn  ? 
I  am  so  full  of  my  own  troubles  that  I  am 
selfish,  and  forget  yours." 

"  Mine  are  not  all  troubles,  Arthur.  My 
little  girl  has  been  restored  to  me." 

Arthur  did  not  dare  say  a  word.  He 
was  afraid  to  ask  the  question  that  rose  to 
his  lips. 

"  Spotless,  thank  God,  and  pure.  You 
shall  learn  presently  how.  But  tell  me 
first  about  this  new-found  brother  of  yours." 

"  What  about  him  ?  " 

"  Is  he,  for  instance,  a  man  of  honor  ?  " 

"I  would  stake  my  own  upon  Phil's 
honor." 

"And  truth?" 

"  Surely,  my  dear  Venn,  you  have  noth- 
ing to  say  or  to  suspect  against  Philip,  have 
you?" 

"  And  a  man,  you  think,  of  generous 
leanings,  of  chivalrous  feeling,  of  lofty  sen- 
timents, of —  Well,  Arthur,  I  am  go- 
ing to  give  you  a  greater  shock  than  the 
loss  of  your  fortune.  Listen  to  me.  I  used 
to  tell  my  child,  in  a  thoughtless  way,  that 
I  should  like,  above  all  things,  to  see  her 
married  to  a  gentleman.  She,  my  inno- 
cent and  ignorant  Lollie,  brought  up  with 
me  and  me  only,  knew  nothing  about  love, 
marriage,  any  thing  else  that  is  common 
and  practical.  She  and  I  lived  among  our 
books,  and  fed  our  minds  on  the  words  of 
old  writers.  Well" —  he  paused  for  a 
moment.  "  One  night,  when  she  left  me, 
she  was  insulted  in  the  street.  A  gentle- 
man came  to  her  help.  Of  all  this  she 
told  me.  She  did  not  tell  me  the  rest,  be- 
cause he  persuaded  her  not  to,  —  that  he 
met  her  again,  that  he  told  her  he  loved 
her,  and  begged  her  to  marry  him.  She 
thought  it  would  please  me.  She  accepted 


136 


MY  LITTLE  GIEL, 


him  to  please  me.  She  kept  silent  to  please 
me.  You  think  it  is  impossible  ?  You  do 
not  know  how  I  had  kept  the  girl  from 
knowing  the  world  and  its  wickedness. 
The  day  before  the  marriage,  she  told  me 
she  had  a  secret,  and  wanted  to  tell  it  me. 
J,  though  I  saw  her  distress,  blinded  by  my 
own  ignorant  conceit,  bade  her  keep  her 
secret,  and  refused  to  hear  it.  The  next 
day  she  was  privately  married  by  a  Scotch 
clergyman  —  living,  Arthur,  in  Keppel 
Street." 

"  Heavens,  Venn  !  Do  you  mean  Mac- 
Intyre  ?  It  was  not  Philip  —  it  could  not 
be  Philip." 

"  Was  the  man  ever  a  Scotch  clergy- 
man ?  " 

"  Who  can  know  ?  He  is  a  mass  of  lies. 
He  would  say  so  for  his  own  purposes, 
whether  he  was  or  not." 

"  And  yet  you  allowed  him  to  take  your 
fortune  from  you  !  " 

"Not  on  his  own  evidence,  Venn;  but 
go  on." 

"  The  man  who  married  Lollie  took  her 
to  Normandy  with  him.  Before  leaving  the 
house  in  Keppel  Street,  Lollie  wrote  me  a 
note,  telling  all.  Maclntyre  promised  to 
take  it  himself  to  Gray's  Inn.  He  never 
did.  When  they  got  to  Normandy,  she 
wrote  me  a  long  letter,  —  I  can  fancy  what 
my  little  girl  would  say  to  me  in  it.  Her 
husband  took  the  letter  to  the  post.  It 
never  came.  She  waited  a  week,  and  then 
she  wrote  again.  Her  husband  took  the 
letter  to  the  post.  The  second  letter  never 
came.  Then  her  husband  brought  her 
back  to  England,  put  her  in  a  small  house 
near  London,  and  forbade  her  to  write  to 
me  any  more.  You  understand  so  much." 

"  It  cannot  be  Philip,"  Arthur  said. 

"  Wait.  There  is  more.  This  was  in 
June ;  it  is  now  November.  For  nearly 
five  months,  then,  she  lived  there.  She 
was  absolutely  alone  the  whole  time.  Her 
husband  left  her  in  the  morning,  and  usu- 
ally came  home  at  night.  She  dined  alone, 
sat  alone,  had  no  visitors,  no  companions. 
All  the  time  he  was,  as  I  gather,  betting 
on  horse-racing,  gambling,  —  losing  money 
every  day.  Once  or  twice  Mr.  Maclntyre 
came  to  see  her.  Once  her  husband  had 
a  large  party  of  men  in  the  house.  Then  he 
sent  her  to  her  own  room,  and  there  kept 
her  awake  all  night,  singing  and  laughing. 
My  little  Lollie  !  When  I  think  of  it  all, 
Arthur,  I  feel  half  mad !  Wait,  don't 
speak  yet :  there  is  more.  It  is  now  ten 
days  ago.  He  came  home  very  late ;  he 
rose  at  mid-day ;  he  cursed  at  the  break- 
fast ;  and  then,  without  a  word  of  regret, 
without  a  word  to  soften  the  blow,  he 
turned  upon  his  wife,  told  her  that  he  was 
a  ruined  man,  that  he  had  nothing  left  at 


all,  that  she  must  leave  him,  because  they 
never  had  been  married  at  all.  What  do 
you  think  of  that  man,  Arthur  Durnford  ?  " 

"  Finish  your  story." 

"  She  left  him,  —  left  him  with  nothing 
but  what  she  had  when  she  married  him  ; 
and  all  that  night,  that  bitter,  wretched, 
dismal  night,  with  the  wild  wind  and  rain 
driving  in  her  face,  the  poor  girl  wandered, 
wandered  in  the  streets.  Think  of  it, 
Arthur, —  think  of  it!  My  little  girl 
walked  about  the  streets  all  night  long, — 
never  stopped,  never  sat  down,  never  ate 
or  drank.  All  night  long !  do  you  know 
what  that  means  ?  The  rain  beating  upon 
her,  her  wet  clothes  clinging  to  her,  her 
brain  confused  and  troubled,  stupid  with 
suffering ;  while  the  hours  went  on,  one 
after  the  other, 'creeping  for  her,  flying  for 
us.  Good  God  !  and  1  in  my  warm  bed, 
asleep,  unthinking.  My  dear,  my  little 
darling  !  If  I  only  had  but  known  !  " 

He  was  standing  over  Arthur,  as  the 
latter  sat  looking  at  him  with  pained  and 
troubled  face.  Venn's  eyes  were  heavy 
with  those  tears  which  do  not  fall,  and  his 
voice  was  shaken  as  he  spoke. 

"  There  is  more  still,  Arthur.  She  wan- 
dered so,  —  where,  she  does  not  know.  In 
the  morning  a  woman,  a  humble  child  of 
Samaria,  gave  her  a  cup  of  coffee.  I  have 
found  that  giver  of  the  cup  of  coffee,  Arthur. 
Then  she  thinks  she  sat  down,  somewhere, 
just  before  it  grew  light;  and  then  she 
began  to  wander  again.  From  noon  till 
noon,  twenty-four  hours  of  walking  in  the 
streets.  She  was  to  have  been,  —  she 
might  have  been,  —  Arthur,  a  mother. 
Think  of  it.  Then,  if  you  like  it  put  that 
way,  God  was  good  to  her,  and  sent  in  her 
path  a  girl,  a  poor  starving  girl,  whom  I 
had  helped  two  years  before  at  Lollie's 
own  prayer,  —  her  own  prayer,  mind,  not 
any  charitable  act,  —  when  she  was  igno- 
rant of  what  the  girl  had  done,  what  it 
meant,  and  why  her  father  had  turned  her 
away.  Mary  found  her  wandering  down 
the  street,  and  took  her  home,  fainting  and 
weary  to  death,  not  knowing  what  was 
being  done  to  her.  Then  she  sent  to  me. 
Lollie  has  been  ill  since  :  that  was  to  be 
expected.  At  death's  door :  that,  too, 
was  to  be  expected. 

"  Now  you  know,  Arthur,  what  has  hap- 
pened to  me.  Is  rny  little  girl  blameless  V  " 

"  Surely,  yes,  Venn." 

"  And  the  man,  Arthur,  —  what  is  to  be 
done  with  the  man  ?  I  made  her  tell  me 
his  name,  on  the  promise  that  I  would  not 
harm  him.  To  keep  that  promise,  it  is 
necessary  that  I  should  not  see  him ; 
but  what  is  to  be  done  with  the  man,  I 
say  V  How  can  we  make  him  feel  what  he 
has  done  ?  Is  there  any  way  —  any  way  ? 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


137 


I  see  none.  A  man  whose  sense  of  honor 
is  so  delicate  that  you  would  exchange  it 
for  your  own  ;  who  is  the  soul  of  truth,  of 
honor,  of  nobility  ;  who  is  —  alas  !  alas  ! 
my  friend  —  your  brother  Philip." 

'Then  Venn  took  up  his  hat. 

"  I  must  go  now,"  he  said.  "  Shake 
hands,  Arthur.  Tell  me  again  you  think 
my  little  girl  is  pure  and  spotless." 

"  Before  God,  I  think  so,"  said  Arthur. 
"  She  is  my  sister." 

"  Thank  you,  friend.  You  shall  see  her. 
Now  I  go.  I  am  bound  on  a  pleasanter 
journey  than  when  I  came  here.  I  am 
going  to  pay  a  little  visit.  Yes.  you  are 

?uite  right,  I  am  going  to  Keppel  Street. 
am  going  to  see  the  Scotch  clergyman." 

He  put  on  his  hat,  and  went  away. 

He  had  not  been  gone  half  an  hour  be- 
fore Philip  himself  came,  radiant,  happy, 
light-hearted.  Some  sinners  are  so.  Then 
wise  men  say  they  live  in  Fools'  Paradise. 
Perhaps }  but  I  do  not  pretend  to  solve 
these  difficulties.  My  own  idea  is  that 
when  a  man  has  done  such  things  as  ought 
to  take  away  all  his  selfLrespect,  there  is  al- 
ways some  of  it  left  so  long  as  things  are 
not  found  out.  You  can  hardly  expect 
self-respect  in  a  gentleman  who  has  stood 
in  the  dock,  for  instance,  and  heard  the 
judge  pronouncing  sentence  upon  him. 
But°the  jury,  how  eminently  sell-respeet- 
ful  they  are  !  One  or  two  even,  perhaps, 
of  these  might  fairly  stand  side  by  side  with 
the  criminal.  So,  too,  —  but  I  am  plagia- 
rizing from  Venn's  essay,  "  On  Being 
Found  Out ;  "  and,  as  the  world  will  per- 
haps get  this  work  some  day,  I  must  stop. 

Arthur  looked  the  criminal  certainly ; 
for  he  flushed  scarlet,  stammered,  and  re- 
fused to  notice  the  hand  that  Philip  held 
out. 

"  I  have  heard  something,  Philip." 

"  It  must  be  something  desperately  sol- 
emn, then,"  said  his  brother.  "  Is  it  any 
thino1  new  about  the  —  the  late  business  of 
oars?  " 

"  Nothing.  It  is  much  worse  than  that. 
Mr.  Hartley  Venn  has  been  here." 

Philip  had,  for  the  moment,  utterly  for- 
gotten Venn's  existence.  He,  too,  changed 
color. 

"  Well  V  " 

"  The  rest  you  know,  I  suppose.  Your 
wife  "  — 

"  Come,  come,  Arthur,  be  reasonable." 

"  I  am  reasonable.  I  say  your  wife  — 
Good  heavens,  sir  !  what  makes  a  woman  a 
wife  ?  What  are  the  laws  of  the  country 
to  the  laws  of  honor,  honesty,  truth  ?  Did 
you  not  pledge  your  faith  to  her  ?  Did 
you  not "  — 

"  Arthur,  I  will  not  be  questioned." 

"  Answer  me,  then,  one  question..    You 


have  done  —  you,  Philip,  you  —  you  have 
done  all  that  Venn  has  told  me.  Learn 
that  your  wife,  my  sister-in-law,  is  lying  ill. 
She  has  been  close  to  dying.  You  will,  at 
least,  make  her  your  wife  in  the  eyes  of  the 
law  ?  " 

"  Oh,  dear,  no  !  "  said  Philip  lightly.  "  I 
do  not  justify  myself,  my  dear  fellow.  Of 
course  it  is  extremely  wicked  and  im- 
proper. I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  about 
her  illness.  Tell  Mr.  Venn  that  no  money 
arrangement  that  is  at  all  reasonable  will 
be  objected  to  —  that  "  — 

"  Philip,  stop  —  I  won't  hear  it." 

"  Won't  hear  what  ?  You  were  not  born 
yesterday,  I  suppose,  Arthur  ?  You  know 
that  such  things  are  done  every  day.  We 
all  do  them." 

"We  all?" 

"  Yes  — we  all.  Bah  !  the  girl  will  get 
over  it  in  a  month." 

"  And  this  man  is  my  own  brother,"  said 
Authur,  recoiling  —  "  is  my  own  brother  1 " 

Philip's  face  grew  cloudy.  There  was 
no  longer  any  thing  in  him  but  the  animal. 

<%  Let  us  have  no  more  of  this  nonsense," 
he  said.  "  Tell  this  man  Venn  that  he 
may  do  what  he  likes,  and  go  to  the  devil. 
And  as  for  you,  Arthur  "  — 

"  Philip,  you  are  a  villain.  Leave  my 
room.  Never  speak  to  me  again.  Never 
come  here.  Let  me  never  see  your  face 
any  more.  We  have  been'  a  family  of  gen- 
tlemen for  generations ;  and  now  you  are 
our  representative !  It  is  shameful  —  it  is 
dreadful ! " 

Philip  left  him.  As  he  opened  the  door, 
he  turned  and  said, — 

"  When  you  apologize  to  me  for  this  lan- 
guage, you  may,  perhaps,  expect  to  see  me 
again.  Till  then,  never." 

It  was  a  poor  way  of  getting  off  the 
stage ;  and  Philip  afterwards  reflected  that 
he  might  have  finished  with  at  least  more 
fire  and  effect  if  he  had  gone  off  swearing  ; 
but  the  best  things  always  occur  to  us  too 
late  to  put  them  into  practice. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

"  IT  is  indeed  a  dreadful  story,"  said 
Madeleine,  when  Arthur  told  her. 

"  What  is  to  be  done  ?  Advise  me, 
Madeleine." 

"  Who  can  advise  ?  Mr.  Venn's  plan 
of  assuming  the  marriage  to  be  legal, 
without  asking  any  questions,  and  letting 
Philip  alone  altogether,  seems  the  best ; 
unless,  which  I  very  much  doubt,  we  can 
bring  your  brother  to  a  better  frame  of 
mind.  You,  of  course,  have  done  as  much 


138 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


mischief  as  was  possible.  Men  are  always 
so  violent." 

".  I  told  him  he  was  a  villain,"  said  Ar- 
thur. "  It  is  true.  I  have  never  read, 
never  heard,  of  baser  or  more  cold-blooded 
treachery." 

"  Let  me  go  and  see  Philip,"  said  Made- 
leine. 

She  went  at  once  to  the  house  at  Nett- 
ing Hill.  It  was  now  dismantled  ;  for 
Philip  had  sent  away  every  thing  but  the 
furniture  of  the  two  rooms  in  which  he 
lived.  There  was  no  one  in  the  place  but 
himself  and  an  old  woman.  He  had  never 
been  up  stairs  to  the  room  which  had  been 
Laura's  since  she  left  him. 

Madeleine  found  him,  unshaven,  in  a 
dressing-gown,  smoking  a  pipe,  in  gloomy 
disorder.  It  was  in  the  afternoon.  On 
the  table  was  an  empty  soda-water  bottle, 
an  empty  tumbler,  and  a  brandy  bottle. 

Philip,  surprised  to  see  her,  made  some 
sort  of  apology  for  the  general  disorder, 
and,  putting  aside  his  pipe,  brushed  the 
hair  back  from  his  forehead,  and  waited  to 
hear  what  she  would  say. 

She  began  by  abusing  him  for  living  in 
such  a  mess. 

"Why  do  you  do  it?"  she  asked. 
"Brandy  and  soda  in  the  daytime  —  not 
dressed  —  rooms  in  the  most  dreadful  lit- 
ter. Philip,  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of 
yourself." 

He  only  groaned  impatiently. 

"  Is  that  all  you  have  come  to  see  me  for, 
Madeleine  ?  Do  not  worry  about  the 
rooms  and  me.  I've  got  something  else  to 
think  of  besides  the  disorder  of  my  rooms. 
You  shall  blow  up  the  old  woman  if  you 
like.  She  is  within  hail,  —  probably  sitting 
with  her  heels  under  the  grate  and  her 
head  in  the  coal-scuttle." 

"  I  have  a  great  deal  more  to  say,  Philip. 
First  of  all,  do  you  know  that  I  am  going 
to  be  your  sister  ?  I  am  to  marry  Arthur." 

"  Arthur  is  a  happy  man,  Madeleine. 
I  envy  him ;  but  he  always  had  all  the 
luck." 

"  Don't  call  it  luck,  Phil.  But  we  shall 
see  a  great  deal  more  of  you,  shall  we  not, 
when  we  are  married  ?  " 

"No  —  a  great  deal  less.  I  have  quar- 
relled with  Arthur." 

"  I  know,  I  know.  But  hasty  words  may 
be  i-ecalled  ;  and  —  and  hasty  actions  may 
be  repaired,  Phil,  may  they  not  V  " 

"  If  they  could  be  undone,  it  would  be 
worth  talking  about.  Do  not  beat  about 
the  bush,  Madeleine.  I  suppose  you  know 
all  about  that  girl,  and  are  come  here  to 
talk  to  me,  and  pitch  into  me.  Well,  go 
on.  I  cannot  help  what  you  say." 

"  Indeed,  I  do  not  couie  to  pitch  into  you, 
as  you  call  it,  at  all.  I  cannot  bear  to 


think  that  my  own  brother,  my  husband's 
brother,  could  do  this  thing  in  cold  blood. 
Do  tell  me  something." 

Philip  was  silent  for  a  while. 

"  I  will  tell  you  the  exact  truth,  Made- 
leine. You  may  call  it  excuse  or  defence, 
or  any  thing  else  you  like.  It  shall  be  the 
exact  truth,  mind.  I  would  tell  no  other 
living  soul.  I  care  nothing  for  what  the 
world  says  ;  but  I  care  something  for  what 
you  think. 

"  You  cannot  understand  the  nature  of 
a  man.  You  will  not  comprehend  me 
when  I  tell  you  that  I  was  devoured  with 
love  for  this  girl.  There  was  nothing  I 
could  not  have  done  —  nothing,  mind  —  to 
get  possession  of  her.  There  came  a  time 
when  I  had  to  marry  her  on  a  certain  day 
or  not  at  all.  I  got  the  special  license, 
but  forgot  all  about  speaking  to  any  clergy- 
man till  it  was  too  late.  Then  Maclntyre 
pretended  that  he  could  marry  us ;  and 
we  were  married.  A  fortnight  ago,  I  found 
myself  a  ruined  man.  Worse  than  ruined, 
for  I  had  not  money  to  meet  my  debts  of . 
honor.  I  was  on  the  point  of  being  dis- 
graced. I  was  maddened  by  my  difficul- 
ties. She  understood  nothing  of  them, 
never  entered  into  my  pursuits,  cared  noth- 
ing for  my  life.  I  was  maddened  by  her 
calmness.  Then  I  lost  command  of  myself, 
and  told  her  —  what,  mind,  I  did  not  know 
till  after  —  that  the  marriage  was  a  mock 
one,  and — and —  Well,  you  know  the 
rest.  That  is  all." 

"  And  your  love  for  her,  Philip  ?  " 

"  My  love  ?  Gone  —  gone  a  long  time 
ago.  It  was  never  more  than  a  passing 
fancy,  and  all  this  business  of  the  last  fort- 
night put  her  out  of  my  head  entirely  until 
Arthur  reminded  me  of  her.  She  is  gone 
to  her  friend,  guardian  —  what  is  it  ?  — a 
Mr.  Venn,  who  lives  in  chambers,  and  en- 
acts the  part  of  the  universal  philanthro- 
pist. I  only  keep  on  in  this  house,  where 
it  is  torture  to  me  to  live,  in  order  that  he 
may  not  say  I  ran  away  from  him.  Here 
I  am,  and  here  I  shall  stay  to  face  him  — 
not  to  excuse  myself,  you  understand.  I 
stoop  to  defend  my  life  to  you  alone." 

"  Philip,  you  are  not  so  bad  as  he  thinks  ; 
but  I  may  tell  you  at  once  that  he  will  not 
come.  When  Laura  told  him  your  name, 
she  made  him  at  the  same  time  promise  to 
do  you  no  harm,  —  to  take  no  revenge  on 
you." 

"  I  am  not  afraid  of  that,  Madeleine." 

"  No  ;  but  you  need  stay  here  no  longer. 
She  has  gone  for  the  present  to  live  with 
Miss  Venn.  I  am  going  to  call  upon  her 
myself.  I  am  anxious  to  make  the  ac- 
quaintance of  Mrs.  Durnford." 

"  Mrs.  Durnford  !  " 

"  I  am  told  that  she  is  a  young  lady, 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


139 


very  beautiful,  very  carefully  educated, 
most  sweet-tempered  and  affectionate." 

"  She  is  all  that,  Madeleine ;  but  she 
never  loved  me.  She  was  always  pining 
after  Mr.  Venn.  That  reminds  me  —  I 
told  you  I  would  give  you  the  exact  truth. 
I  destroyed  the  letters  that  she  wrote  to 
him,  without  telling  her.  That  was  be- 
cause I  was  jealous  of  him.  I  would  have 
no  man  in  her  heart  except  myself.  I  am 
extremely  sorry  I  did  that,  because  it  was 
an  error  of  judgment,  as  well  as  a  "  — 

"  A  wrong  act,  Phil,  was  it  not  ?  " 

"It  was,  Madeleine,  —  a  dishonorable 
thing.  Have  I  abased  myself  enough  be- 
fore you,  or  do  you  want  more  of  the  con- 
fessions of  a  man  about  town  ?  I  have 
lots  more  relating  to  other  events  in  a  riot- 
ous career.  Would  you  like  to  hear  them  ? 
By  Jove !  I  wonder  if  the  prodigal  son 
ever  beguiled  the  winter  evenings,  sitting 
round  the  fire,  with  tales  of  the  things  he 
had  done  ?  The  name  of  the  other  son  is 
not  given  in  the  original  narrative,  but  I 
believe  it  was  Arthur." 

"No,  Philip.  I  want  no  more  confes- 
sions. I  want  an  act  of  reparation.  See, 
Phil,"  she  pleaded,  "  God  only  allows  us  to 
be  happy  in  being  good.  Be  good,  iny 
brother." 

"  I  can't,  Madeleine.  J'rn  much  too  far 
gone." 

"  Then  undo  the  evil  you  have  done." 

"  How  can  that  be  ?  " 

"  I  know  you  better  than  all  the  rest  of 
them,  Phil.  I  know  that  you  are  easily  in- 
fluenced, that  you  act  without  thinking, 
that  you  are  easily  moved,  that  your  heart 
is  not  selfish.  I  know  that  you  are  repent- 
ant in  spite  of  your  light  words.  But 
think  of  the  girl,  Phil." 

"  I  do  think  of  her.  I  think  of  her  day 
and  night.  I  cannot  sleep.  I  cannot  do 
any  thing.  She  is  always  before  my  eyes." 

"  Then  marry  her,  and  take  her  back,  if 
she  would  come." 

"  She  would  not,  Madeleine.  There 
was  a  look  in  her  eyes  when  she  left  me 
that  told  me  all  was  over.  No  woman  can 
have  that  expression  in  her  face,  and  ever 
come  back  to  love  and  confidence.  She 
would  never  come  back." 

44  Then  marry  her,  Phil.  In  the  eyes  of 
the  law,  at  least,  let  her  be  your  wife." 

Philip  was  silent. 

"  I  love  her  no  longer,"  he  said.  "  There 
can  be  no  longer  any  question  of  love  be- 
tween us.  But  see,  you  shall  do  with  me 
what  you  will,  Madeleine.  Ask  me  any 
thing  for  Laura,  and  you  shall  have  it. 
Keep  my  story,  —  keep  what  I  have  told 
you  to  yourself.  Do  not  even  tell  it  to 
Arthur." 

"  Philip,  you  promise  V  " 


"I  promise,  Madeleine.  Give  me  your 
hand.  I  swear  by  your  hand,  because 
there  is  nothing  I  know  so  sacred,  that  I 
will  obey  you  in  all  things  as  regards  Laura." 

He  kissed  her  fingers.  Over  his  mobile 
countenance  there  passed  the  old  expres- 
sion of  nobility,  as  if  it  had  come  back  to 
settle  there  for  good. 

"  And  Arthur  V  "  Madeleine  began. 

The  bright  look  vanished. 

"  Arthur  has  used  words  to  me  —  I  have 
used  words  to  Arthur  —  which  can  never 
be  forgotten.  Tell  him  so.  I  desire  to 
meet  him  no  more.  Farewell,  Madeleine. 
Write  and  tell  me  what  I  am  to  do ;  and 
I  will  do  it.  And  let  us  part  now,  never 
to  meet  again.  I  do  not  know  what  I  shall 
do  with  my  future.  Make  ducks  and 
drakes  of  it,  I  suppose.  But  I  shall  be 
out  of  my  path.  I  shall  be  happy  enough. 
The  slopes  that  lead  to  Avernus  are  broad 
and  pleasant.  You  may  hear  us  singing 
as  we  go  down  them  —  you  may  see  us 
dancing.  Oh,  it  is  a  pleasant  life,  the  liie 
I  am  going  to  lead.  Good-by,  Madeleine." 

She  took  his  hand,  his  face  was  clouded 
and  moody ;  and  then,  grateful  for  the 
promise  she  had  got,  she  left  him,  and 
drove  back  to  her  own  house. 

And  the  same  day  she,  with  Arthur, 
made  a  formal  call  upon  Miss  Venn.  Sukey, 
little  accustomed  to  visitors  who  came  in 
their  own  carriage,  was  not  above  being 
flattered. 

"  We  are  not  come  wholly  for  the  pleas- 
ure of  seeing  you,  Miss  Venn,"  said  Made- 
leine. <k  I  want  to  make  the  acquaintance 
of  my  future  sister-in-law,  Mrs.  Durnford." 

"  Laura  ?  "  She  looked  curiously  at 
Madeleine,  but  it  was  Arthur  who  was 
blushing.  "  Laura  ?  She  is  in  her  own 
room.  Would  you  like  to  go  up  and  see  her  V  " 

"If  I  might.  'You  are  too  kind,  dear 
Miss  Venn.  May  I  go  up  by  myself,  with- 
out being  announced  ?  " 

Sukey  took  her  to  the  door,  and  left  her. 

Madeleine  gently  opened  it. 

On  the  sofa  by  the  fire,  wrapped  in  a 
dressing-gown,  lay  a  fair  young  girl,  thin, 
pale,  wasted.  Her  head  was  lying  among 
the  pillows  ;  and  she  was  asleep. 

Madeleine  bent  over  her,  and  kissed  her. 

She  opened  her  eyes.  She  saw  a  tall 
and  queenly  woman  in  silks  and  sealskin, 
and  half  rose. 

"  Don't  move,  my  dear,"  said  Madeleine  : 
"  let  me  kiss  you.  I  am  to  make  your  ac- 
quaintance. Shall  I  toll  you  who  I  am  ? 
I  am  Madeleine  de  Villeroy ;  and  I  used 
to  know  your  husband  when  he  was  quite 
a  boy.  Now  I  am  going  to  marry  your 
husband's  brother ;  and  we  shall  be  sisters. 
My  child,  you  shall  be  made  happy  again. 
We  shall  all  love  you." 


140 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


"  My  husband  ?     He  said  —  he  said  " — 

"  Forget  what  he  said,  my  darling,  — 
forget  all  that  he  said,  and,  it'  you  can,  for- 
give him.  Now,  sit  up,  and  let  us  talk." 

She  sat  with  her  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour, 
and  then  went  away,  promising  to  call 
again  soon. 

In  the  drawing-room  there  was  rigid  dis- 
comfort. For  Sukey,  the  moment  she  got 
back,  had  seized  the  bull  by  the  horns,  and 
attacked  Arthur. 

"You  are  the  brother  of  Mr.  Philip 
Durnford  V  "  she  began.  "  You  are  the 
brother  of  a  bad  man,  —  a  bad  man,  Mr. 
Arthur  Durnford.  Tell  him  not  to  come 
to  this  house,  for  I  won't  have  him.  Re- 
member that "  — 

"Indeed,  Miss  Venn,  he  will  not  come 
here." 

"  If  he  does,  Anne  will  take  the  tongs  to 
him  —  I  know  she  will.  She  did  that  much 
to  a  policeman  in  the  kitchen.  Tell  him 
not  to  come." 

"  My  brother  and  I,  Miss  Venn,  are  not 
on  speaking  terms  at  present." 

"Indeed.  I'm  glad  to  hear  it, — lam 
very  glad  to  hear  it." 

Then  they  both  relapsed  into  silence; 
and  Sukey  glared  at  poor  Arthur,  by  way 
of  conveying  a  lesson  in  virtue,  till  he 
nearly  fell  off  the  chair. 

Madeleine  relieved  them  ;  and,  after  ask- 
ing Sukey 's  permission  to  come  again,  took 
away  the  unfortunate  Arthur. 

"  Why  didn't  you  ring  for  the  sherry, 
miss  ?  "  asked  Anne,  presently  coming  up 
stairs. 

"  I  gave  it  him.  Anne  —  I  gave  it  him 
well."  Sukey  shook  her  head  virulently. 
"  That  was  Laura's  husband's  brother.  I 
told  him  if  his  precious  brother  came  here 
you'd  go  at  him  —  with  the  tongs,  1  said." 

"  So  I  would  —  so  I  would,"  said  Anne. 

"  Sherry,  indeed  !  They  are  always 
wanting  to  drink.  We  don't  drink  glasses 
of  sherry  all  day.  I  dare  say  it  was  sherry 
drove  that  abandoned  brother  of  his  to  bad 
courses.  I  hope,  for  that  sweet  girl's  sake, 
he  isn't  like  his  brother.  He  doesn't  look 
it,  Anne ;  but  you  never  can  tell.  They 
are  all  alike, —  waste,  drink,  eat,  and  devour. 
Why  isn't  the  world  peopled  with  nothing 
but  women  V  " 

"  'Deed,  then,  miss,"  replied  Anne,  "  the 
end  of  the  world  wouldn't  be  very  far  off." 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

MR.  MAC!NTYRE  is  sitting  in  his  easy- 
chair  at  home,  in  those  respectable  lodg- 
ings of  his  in  Keppel  Street.  He  is  medi- 
tating on  the  good  fortune  that  has  come 


to  him.  Perhaps  he  is  too  much  inclined 
to  attribute  his  success  to  merit  rather  than 
fortune ;  but  in  this  we  may  pardon  him. 
It  is  but  two  o'clock  in  the  da,y  ;  but  a  glass 
of  steaming  whiskey-toddy  is" on  the  table, 
and  a  pipe  in  his  mouth.  In  spite  of  the 
many  virtues  which  adorned  this  groat  man, 
I  fear  that  the  love  of  material  comfort 
caused  him  sometimes  to  anticipate  the 
evening,  the  legitimate  season  of  comfort. 

Nursing  his  leg,  and  watching  the 
wreaths  of  smoke  curling  over  his  head,  he 
meditated  ;  and,  if  his  thoughts  had  taken 
words,  they  would  have  been  much  as  fol- 
lows :  — 

"  After  all  my  shipwrecks,  behold  a  haven. 
I  have  been  in  prison.  I  have  been  scourged 
by  schoolboys.  I  have  been  tried  for  em- 
bezzlement. I  have  starved  in  the  streets 
of  London.  I  have  been  usher,  preacher, 
missionary,  tutor,  retailer,  sandwich  man. 
I  have,  at  last,  found  the  road  to  fortune ; 
not  by  honest  means,  but  by  lies  and  vil- 
lanies,  by  practising  on  the  honor  of  others. 
I  have  five  thousand  pounds  in  the  bank, 
eleven  pounds  ten  shillings  and  threepence 
in  my  pocket.  Nothing  can  hurt  me 
now  ;  nothing  can  annoy  me  but  ill-health 
and  the  infirmities  of  age.  I  have  ten 
years,  at  least,  of  life  before  me  yet.  I 
shall  go  back  to  my  own  people.  The 
Baillie  will  hardly  refuse  to  receive  me 
now  that  I  have  money.  I  shall  be  re- 
spected and  respectable.  *  Honesty  is  the 
best  policy  ! '  Bah  1  it  is  the  maxim  of  the 
successful.  I  know  better.  Cleverness  is 
the  best  policy.  Scheme,  plunder,  pur- 
loin, cheat,  and  devise.  When  your  for- 
tune is  made,  hold  out  your  clean  white 
hands," and  say  '  Christian  brethren,  I  am 
a  living  example  that  honesty  is  the  best 
policy.'  I  shall  join  this  band ;  and,  at  the 
kirk  on  the  sawbath,  and  among  rny  folk 
on  week  days,  I  shall  be  a  living  sermon  to 
the  young  of  the  advantages  of  honesty. 
Respected  and  respectable,  Alexander 
Maclntyre,  retire  upon  your  modest  gains, 
and  be  happy." 

Just  then  a  knock  was  heard  at  the 
door. 

The  visitor  was  no  other  than  Hartley 
Venn.  He  had  strolled  leisurely  from  Ar- 
thur s  lodgings,  smoking  all  the  way,  with 
a  smile  of  immeasurable  content,  and  a 
sweet  emotion  of  anticipation  in  his  heart. 
Having  once  ascertained  the  address  of  the 
philosopher,  he  lost  no  time  in  making  his 
way  to  the  street.  On  the  way  he  stopped 
at  a  shop,  and  bought  a  gutta-percha  whip, 
choosing  one  of  considerable  weight,  yet 
pliant  and  elastic. 

"  This,"  he  said  to  the  shopman,  "  would 
curl  well  round  the  legs,  in  tender  places. 
I  should  think  ?  " 


MY  LITTLE   GIRL. 


141 


"I  should  think  it  would,"  said  the 
man. 

"  Yes  ;  and  raise  great  weals  where  there 
was  plenty  of  flesh,  I  should  say.  Thank 
you.  Good-morning.  It  will  suit  me  very 
well.'* 

He  poised  the  instrument  in  his  hand, 
and  walked  along.  When  he  got  to  Kep- 
pel  Street,  he  showed  his  knowledge  of 
human  nature  by  going  to  the  nearest  pub- 
lic-house, and  asking  for  Mr.  Maclntyre's 
number.  The  potboy  knew  it. 

Hartley  presented  himself  unannounced, 
and,  with  a  bow  of  great  ceremony,  —  one 
of  those  Oriental  salutations  which  were, 
reserved  for  great  occasions  :  he  had  not 
used  it  since  his  last  interview  with  the 
master  of  his  college. 

"  I  believe  I  have  the  honor  of  address- 
ing Mr.  Alexander  Maclntyre,"  he  began. 

"The  tutor  confessed  to  owning  the  name, 
and  began  to  feel  a  little  uneasy.  How- 
ever, he  asked  his  visitor  to  take  a  chair. 

"Thank  you  —  no,  Mr..  Maclntyre. 
Shall  we  say  the  Reverend  Alexander  Mac- 
lntyre ?  " 

«  No." 

"  We  will  not.  The  business  I  have  to 
transact  will  not  detain  me  long,  and  will 
be  better  done  standing.  You  are,  I  be- 
lieve, acquainted  with  Philip  Durnford  ?  " 

"  I  am.     May  I  ask  "  — 

"  Presently,  presently.  You  are  like- 
wise acquainted  with  Mrs.  Philip  Darn- 
ford?" 

It  was  Maclntyre's  chance,  but  he  neg- 
lected it. 

"  The  young  person  calling  herself  Mrs. 
Philip  Durnibrd  has,  I  believe,  run  away 
from  him." 

Venn  gave  a  start,  but  restrained  him- 
self. 

"  One  more  question.  You  have  often, 
I  doubt  not,  reflected  on  the  wisdom  of  that 
sentence  of  Horace,  which  might  be  in- 
spired were  it  not  the  result  of  a  world's 
experience.  In  that  sense,  too,  you  would 
perhaps  urge,  and  very  justly,  that  it  might 
be  considered  as  divine,  since  experience  is 
a  form  of  revelation.  I  offer  you  a  para- 
phase,  perhaps  too  alliterative,  — 

'  Lightly  the  sinner  leaps  along  the  way, 

Lamely  limps  after  he  who  bears  the  cane ; 
Yet,  soon  or  lute,  there  comes  the  fatal  day 

When  stick  meets  back,  and  joy  is  drowned  by 
pain.' " 

"  Go  on,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Maclntyre,  seri- 
ously alarmed,  "  and  let  me  know  your 
business.  Who  are  you  ?  What  have  you 
to  do  with  me  ?  I  have  never  set  my  eyes 
on  you  before." 

"Do  not  let  us  precipitate  matters. 
Patience,  Mr.  Maclntyre,  patience.  Al- 
though you  have  not  seen  me,  you  have, 


perhaps,  heard  of  me  from  Mrs.  Philip 
Durnford.  I  am  her  guardian.  My  name, 
sir,  is  Hartley  Venn." 

The  philosopher,  among  whose  prominent 
defects  was  a  want  of  physical  courage,  fell 
back  in  his  chair,  and  began  to  perspire  at 
the  nose. 

"  Having  learned  from  my  ward  the  facts 
of  the  case,  —  that  you  exercised  practices 
undoubtedly  your  legal  right  in  Scotland, 
and  married  her  to  Durntbrd  by  a  special 
license  in  this  very  room  ;  also,  that  you 
suppressed  the  letter  she  sent  me  ;  and,  fur- 
ther, that  you  have  been  the  prime  agent 
and  adviser  in  the  whole  of  the  business,  — 
it  was  but  natural  that  I  should  desire  to 
make  your  acquaintance.  In  fact,"  he 
added,  with  a  winning  smile,  "  I  really  must 
confess,  that  I  had  imagined  your  breed  to 
be  now  totally  extinct,  gone  out  with  the 
Regent,  and  belonging  chiefly  to  the  novels 
of  his  period.  For  this  mistake  I  humbly 
beg  permission  to  apologize.  I  obtained 
your  address,  partly  from  Arthur  Durnford, 
an  admirer  of  yours,  —  I  wish  I  could  say 
follower,  — and  partly  from  the  potboy  who 
supplies  your  modest  wants.  I  hope  you 
will  remember  the  claim  of  gratitude  which 
that  potboy  will  henceforth  have  upon  you. 
I  had  a  struggle  in  my  own  mind  —  &iav6i%a 
Hepplpi&v  ;  for  while  I  ardently  desired  to 
converse  with  you  myself,  I  had  yet  a  feel- 
ing that  the  —  the  penalty  should  be  left  to 
some  meaner  person  ;  but  I  bore  in  mind 
the  distinction  of  rank.  You  are,  I  believe, 
a  graduate  of  some  university  ?  " 

"  Sir,  you  are  addressing  a  Master  of 
Arts  of  the  Univairsity  of  Aberdeen." 

"  Aberdeen  is  honored.  I  wish  we  had 
had  you  at  Cambridge.'' 

Venn  took  the  riding-whip  in  both  hands, 
passing  his  fingers  up  and  down  tenderly. 
Maclntyre  saw  now  what  was  coming,  and 
looked  vainly  round  the  room  for  a  means 
of  escape.  Before  him  stood  his  tormen- 
tor. Behind  the  tormentor  was  the  door. 
It  is  cruel,  if  you  are  to  hang  a  man,  first 
to  stick  him  on  a  platform  for  an  hour  or 
so  and  harangue  him  ;  but  perhaps,  in  the 
cases  of  lighter  punishment,  the  suspense 
should  be  considered  a  part  of  the  suffer- 
ing. This  was  in  Maclntyre's  mind ;  but 
he  did  not  give  it  utterance,  sitting  crouched 
in  the  chair,  looking  at  the  whip  with  a 
terrible  foreboding. 

Venn  went  on  moralizing  in  a  dreadful 
way,  suggesting  the  confidence  of  one  who 
knows  that  his  game  is  fairly  caught. 
^  "  The  chastisement  I  am  about  to  bestow 
upon  you,  Mr.  Maclntyre,  is  ludicrously 
disproportionate  to  the  offence  you  have 
committed.  You  will  reflect  upon  this 
afterwards,  and  laugh.  On  the  highest 
.Christian  grounds,  I  ought,  perhaps,  to  for- 


142 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


give  you;  and  I  dare  say  I  shall,  if  I 
know  how,  after  this  interview.  On  the 
other  hand,  I  have  little  doubt  that  the 
slight  horsewhipping  I  shall  give  you  will 
be  considered  by  the  powers  leniently,  per- 
haps even  approvingly.  Let  me  for  once 
consider  myself  an  instrument." 

He  raised  his  whip  above  his  head. 
Maclntyre  crouched  down,  with  his  face  in 
his  hands. 

'•  1  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Venn,  pausing, 
"  I  have  something  else  to  say.  You  will 
remark  that  I  have  passed  over  the  question 
of  disgrace.  No  disgrace,  I  imagine,  could 
possibly  touch  you,  unless  it  were  accom- 
panied by  severe  personal  discomfort.  It 
i^  this  curious  fact  —  by  the  way,  do  you 
think  it  has  received  the  attention  it  de- 
serves? —  which  leads  me  to  believe  in  the 
material  punishments  of  the  next  world. 
You  will  remark,  —  I  do  hope  I  make  my- 
self sufficiently  clear,  and  am  not  tedious." 

"Ye.  are  tedious,"  groaned  the  philoso- 
pher, looking  up. 

"  I  mean,  there  comes  upon  a  man  in  the 
development  of  a  long  course  of  crime  and 
sin  —  say  such  a  man  as  yourself —  a  time 
when  no  disgrace  can  touch  him,  no  dis- 
honor can  be  felt,  no  humiliation  make  him 
lower  than  he  actually  is.  He  has  lost  not 
only  all  care  about  the  esteem  of  others, 
but  also  all  sense  of  self-respect.  He  is 
now  all  body  and  mind  —  no  soul.  There- 
fore, Mr.  Maclntyre,  when  a  man  reaches 
this  stage,  on  which  I  imagine  that  you 
are  yourself  scanding  now,  what  is  left  for 
him  V  How,  I  mean,  can  you  get  at  him  ? 
I  see  no  way  of  attacking  his  intellect,  and 
there  remains  then  but  one  way,  —  this  !  " 

Quick  as  lightning,  with  aback  stroke  of 
his  hand,  Venn  sent  the  whip  full  across 
Maclntyre's  face.  He  leaped  to  his  feet' 
with  a  yell  of  pain  and  fear,  and  sprang  to 
the  door.  But  Venn  caught  him,  as  he 
passed,  by  the  collar ;  and  then,  first  push- 
ing the  table  aside,  so  as  to  have  a  clear 
stage,  he  held  him  firmly  out  by  the  left 
hand,  —  Mr.  Maclntyre  was  but  a  small 
man.  and  perfectly  unresisting,  —  and  with 
the  right  administered  a  punishment  which, 
if  I  were  Mr.  Kingsley,  I  should  call  grim 
and  great.  Being  myself,  and  not  Mr. 
Kingsley,  I  describe  the  thrashing  which 
Mr.  Venn  administered  as  at  once  calm, 
judicial,  and  severe.  A  boatswain  would 
not  have  laid  on  the  cuts  with  more  judg- 
ment and  dexterity,  so  as  at  once  to  find 
out  all  the  tender  places,  and  to  get  the 
most  out  of  the  simple  instrument  em- 
ployed. 

But  it  was  interrupted ;  for,  hearing  the 
door  open,  Venn  turned  round,  and  saw  a 
lady  standing  in  the  room  watching  him. 
He  let  go  his  hold,  and  Maclntyre  instant- 


ly dropped  upon  the  floor,  and  lay  there 
curled  in  a  heap. 

A  lady  of  middle  age,  with  pale  face  and 
abundant  black  hair,  dressed  in  comely  silks. 
For  a  moment,  Venn  thought  he  knew  her 
face,  but  dismissed  the  idea. 

"  Mr.  Maclntyre  ?  "  she  asked  hestitat- 
ingly- 

"  He  is  here,  madam,"  replied  Hartley, 
indicating  with  the  whip  the  recumbent 
mass  beneath  him. 

The  lady  looked  puzzled. 

"  I  am  extremely  sorry  your  visit  should 
be  so  ill-timed,"  said  Hartley  politely. 
"  The  fact  is,  you  find  our  friend  in  the 
receipt  of  punishment.  His  appearance  at 
this  moment  is  not  dignified,  —  not  that 
with  which  a  gentleman  would  prefer  to 
see  a  lady  in  his  rooms.  Perhaps,  if  your 
business  is  not  urgent,  you  would  not  mind 
postponing  your  call  till  to-morrow,  when 
he  may  be  able  to  receive  you  with  more 
of  the  outward  semblance  of  self-respect. 
We  have  not  yet  quite  finished." 

"  Don't  go,"  murmured  the  prostrate  sage. 

Venn  spoke  calmly,  but  there  was  a  hot 
flush  upon  his  cheeks  which  spoke  of  intense 
excitement. 

"  Pray,  madam,  leave  us  for  a  few  moments 
together,  —  I  am  still  in  high  spirits." 

"  I  prefer  ye  in  low  spirits." 

This  was  the  voice  of  Maclntyre,  lying 
still  crouched  with  his  face  in  his  hands. 

"  Really,  sir,"  said  the  visitor,  "  I  think  I 
ought  to  remain.  Whatever  Mr.  Maclntyre 
has  done,  you  have  surely  punished  him 
enough." 

"  I  think  not,"  said  Venn.  "  As  you  are 
apparently  a  friend,  —  perhaps  a  believer  in 
Mr.  Maclntyre,  —  I  will  tell  you  what  he 
has  done." 

He  told  her,  in  a  few  words. 

The  lady  looked  troubled. 

"  The  other  one,  you  observe,  madam,  a 
young  fellow  of  six  and  twenty,  had  still 
some  grains  left  of  morals  and  principles, 
—  they  were  sapped  by  Mr.  Maclntyre  ; 
he  had  still  the  remains  of  honor,  —  they 
were  removed  by  Mr.  Maclntyre  ;  he  still 
called  himself  a  gentleman,  —  he  can  do  so 
no  longer,  thanks  to  Mr.  Maclntyre.  Do 
you  want  to  hear  more  ?  " 

"  And  the  girl,  —  where  is  she"?  " 

"  She  is  with  me,  madam.  She  is  my 
ward." 

"  Perhaps,  sir,  Mr.  Maclntyre  would  get 
up,  if  he  were  assured  that  there  was  no 
more  personal  violence  intended." 

Mr.  Maclntyre  shook  a  leg  to  show  that 
he  concurred  in  this  proposition,  and  was 
prepared  to  listen  to  these  terms. 

"  Get  up,"  said  Venn  sternly. 

He  slowly  rose,  his  face  and  hands  a 
livid  mass  of  bruises  and  weals,  and  stag- 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


143 


gered  to  his  feet.  His  coat  was  torn.  His 
eyes  were  staring.  His  face,  where  the 
whip  had  not  marked  it,  was  of  a  cold, 
white  color.  He  stood  for  a  moment  stu- 
pidly gazing  at  Venn,  and  then  turned  to 
the  lady.  For  a  moment  he  gazed  at 
her  indifferently,  then  curiously,  then  he 
stepped  forward  and  stared  her  in  the 
face  ;  and  then  he  threw  up  his  arms  over 
his  head,  and  would  have  fallen  forward, 
but  Venn  caught  him,  as  he  cried, — 

«  Marie  ! " 

They  laid  him  on  the  floor,  and  poured 
cold  water  on  his  forehead.  Presently  he 
revived  and  sat  up.  Then  they  gave  him 
a  glass  of  brandy,  which  he  drank,  and 
staggered  to  his  feet.  But  he  reeled  to 
and  fro,  like  unto  one  who  goes  down  upon 
the  sea  in  a  great  ship. 

"  It  is  Marie,"  said  the  lady.  "  It  is  more 
than  five  and  twenty  years  since  we  met  last. 
You  were  bad  then,  —  you  are  worse  now. 
Tell  me  what  new  villany  is  this  that  you 
have  committed  ?  " 

"  Marie  !  "  he  began,  but  stopped  again, 
and  turned  to  Venn.  "  Sir,  you  do  not  un- 
derstand. Some  day  you  will  be  sorry  for 
this  Outrage  upon  a  respectable  clergyman, 
who  cannot  retaliate,  because  his  cloth  for- 
bids. Let  me  go  and  restore  myself." 

He  slipped  into  the  back  room,  his  bed- 
room, and  they  saw  him  no  more.  Had  they 
looked  out  of  the  window,  they  might  have 
seen  him  slip  from  the  door,  with  a  great- 
coat about  him  and  a  carpet-bag  in  his  hand, 
his  face  muffled  up  and  his  hat  over  his  eyes. 
He  got  round  the  corner,  and,  calling  a  cab, 
drove  straight  to  his  bank. 

"  Can  I  help  you  in  any  way,  madam  ?  " 

'*  I  called  here  to  ask  for  the  address  of  a 
Mr.  Philip  Durnford." 

"  That  at  least  I  can  procure  for  you.  For 
Mr.  Philip  Durnford  is  none  other  than  the 
man  of  whom  I  have  spoken." 

She  sat  on  a  chair,  and  answered  nothing 
for  a  while. 

He,  wondering,  looked  on  silent. 

"  Oh,  there  must  be  a  mistake  1  Philip 
would  never  do  it.  O  Philip,  my  son, 
my  son !  " 

The  words  seemed  extorted  by  the  agony 
of  sharp  pain. 

«  Your  son  ?  "  cried  Hartley. 

"  Ay,  my  son.  Let  the  world  know  it 
now.  Let  it  be  published  in  all  the  papers, 
if  they  will.  My  son,  my  son  !  " 

Then  she  seemed  to  regain  her  com- 
posure. 

"  Sir,  you  have  the  face  of  a  gentleman." 

"  That  must  be  the  bishop's  doing,"  mur- 
mured Venn,  "  not  the  glue-man." 

But  she  did  not  hear  him. 

"  You  may,  perhaps,  keep  a  secret,  —  not 
altogether  mine.  I  am,  Madame  de  Guy- 


on, —  yes,  the  singer.  I  am  a  native  of 
Palmiste.  Philip  Durnford  is  my  son." 

Venn  sat  down  now,  feeling  as  if  every 
thing  was  going  round  with  him. 

And  here  let  me  finish  off  Avith  Mr.  Mac- 
Intyre,  from  whom  I  am  loth  to  part. 

His  lodgings  knew  him  no  more.  The 
things  he  left"  behind  paid  for  the  rent  due. 
He  drove  to  the  city,  drew  out  all  his  money 
in  drafts  on  an  Edinburgh  bank,  and  went 
down  to  Scotland  that  very  night  by  the 
limited  mail.  As  soon  us  his  face  was  re- 
stored to  its  original  shape  and  hue,  he 
went  to  his  native  town  and  took  a  small 
house  there,  after  an  interview  with  the 
Baillie,  his  cousin,  who,  finding  that  he  had 
a  large  sum  to  deposit  in  the  bank,  received 
him  with  cordiality,  and  even  affection. 

He  lives  there  still,  respected  by  the  town, 
as  is  right  for  one  who  left  the  country,  and 
returned  with  money.  He  is  consulted  on 
all  matters  of  finance,  speculation,  educa- 
tion, doctrine,  morals,  and  church  disci- 
pline. He  holds  views,  perhaps,  too  rigid, 
and  his  visitations  on  minor  offences  are 
sometimes  more  severe  than  the  frailty  of 
the  flock  can  altogether  agree  with.  He  is 
never  seen  drunk,  though  it  is  notorious  that 
he  drinks  a  good  many  tumblers  of  toddy 
every  evening.  He  spends  the  mornings 
in  his  garden,  —  a  pursuit  which  has  always 
attracted  great  men  in  retirement ;  and  on 
wet  days  in  his  study,  where  he  is  supposed 
to  be  elaborating  a  grand  work  on  meta- 
physics. In  conversation  he  is  apt  to  deal 
too  exclusively  with  principles  of  an  ab- 
stract nature ;  and  his  friends  complain 
that,  considering  he  has  been  so  great  a 
traveller,  he  tells  so  few  tales  of  his  own 
experiences.  Palmiste  Island  he  never 
mentions.  As  for  the  story  of  his  life,  no 
one  knows  it  but  himself,  and  no  single 
episode  has  ever  got  down  to  his  native 
town.  In  all  probability  he  will  go  on, 
as  he  said  himself,  respected  and  respect- 
able, till  the  end, —  a  living  example  of 
the  truth  of  the  proverb  that  "  Honesty  is 
the  best  policy." 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

MARIE,  when  she  told  George  Durnford 
that  she  had  a  great  voice,  spoke  less  than 
the  truth.  She  had  a  magnificent  voice  ;  a 
voice  that  comes  but  once  or  twice  a  cen- 
tury ;  a  voice  that  history  remembers,  and 
that  marks  an  epoch  in  the  annals  of  music. 
With  the  money  that  Durnford  gave  her, 
she  devoted  herself  to  its  cultivation.  She 
did  not  hurry.  In  Italy  she  studied  long 
and  diligently,  until,  at  the  age  of  six  and 
twenty,  she  was  able  to  make  her  first  ap- 


144 


MY  LITTLE  GIKL. 


pearance  in  London.  She  had  hoped  to 
please  her  old  lover,  and  interest  him  in 
her  success  ;  but  he  answered  hardly  any 
of  her  letters,  and  only  coldly  acquiesced 
in  her  schemes  for  the  future.  For  George 
Durnford's  love  had  long  disappeared  from 
his  heart :  it  vanished  when  he  married 
Adrienne.  He  looked  on  poor  Marie  as  a 
living  witness  of  a  time  that  he  repented. 
He  wanted,  having  assured  her  against 

!">overty,  neither  to  hear  from  her  nor  to  see 
u-r  again.  He  was  fated  not  to  see  her ; 
and  when  she  wrote  to  him,  telling  of  the 
great  success  of  her  first  appearance,  he 
tore  the  letter  into  shreds,  and  inwardly 
hoped  that  she  would  never  come  back  to 
Palmiste.  It  is  not  exactly  cowardice,  this 
sort  of  feeling  ;  nor  is  it  wholly  shame.  It 
is,  perhaps,  the  feeling  that  prompts  one  to 
put  away  all  signs  and  remembrances  of 
sickness  and  suffering.  We  do  not  like  to 
be  reminded  of  it.  There  are  thousands  of 
respectable,  godly,  pure-minded  fathers  and 
husbands,  who  have  a  sort  of  skeleton  in 
the  closet,  hid  away  and  locked  up,  as  it 
were,  in  their  brain,  not  to  be  lightly  dis- 
turbed. In  providing  for  Marie,  and  tak- 
ing charge  of  her  son,  Mr.  Durnford  had 
done,  he  thought,  enough.  There  was  no 
longer  any  possibility  of  love  —  let  there 
be  no  longer  any  friendship.  And  so  her 
letters  worried  and  irritated  him,  and  his 
answers  grew  colder  and  shorter.  From 
time  to  time  he  read  in  the  papers  of  her 
success.  Madame  de  Guyon  appeared  at 
the  Italian  Opera.  She  was  described  as 
of  French  descent,  —  some  said  from  Mar- 
tinique ;  none  thought  of  Palmiste.  She 
was  said  to  be  a  young  and  strikingly  beau- 
tiful widow.  Her  reputation  was  abso- 
lutely blameless ;  her  name  was  widely 
spread  about  for  those  graceful  deeds  of 
charity  which  singers  can  do  so  well.  And 
when,  after  a  few  years  of  the  theatre,  she 
withdrew  altogether  from  the  stage,  and  it 
was  stated  that  henceforth  she  would  only 
sing  at  oratories  and  at  concerts,  everybody 
said  that  it  was  just  the  thing  that  was  to 
be  expected  of  a  singer  so  good,  so  charita- 
ble, and  so  pious. 

He  once  wrote  to  her,  advising  her  to 
marry  again ;  nor  did  he  ever  understand 
the  bitter  pain  his  letter  caused  her. 

For  women  are  not  as  men.  It  seems  to 
me  that  women  can  only  give  themselves 
wholly  and  entirely  to  one  man.  To  other 
men  they  may  be  thoughtful,  and  even  ten- 
der ;  but  one  woman  is  made  for  one  man, 
and  when  she  loves  she  loves  once  and  for 
all.  Marie  had  told  her  old  lover  that  she 
loved  him  no  more,  —  that  what  had  been 
could  never  come  again.  It  was  not  true. 
What  had  been  might,  at  any  time,  have 
come  over  again.  The  old  idol  of  her  heart 


was  not  shattered.  It  was  erect,  and 
stronger  than  ever,  —  strengthened  by  the 
thought  of  her  boy  ;  fostered  by  the  memo- 
ries which  ran  like  a  rivulet  through  the 
waste  and  loneliness  of  her  life,  filling  it 
with  green  things  and  summer  flowers ;  and 
held  in  its  place  by  that  constancy  of  wo- 
man which  is  proof  against  time  and  cir- 
cumstances and  absence  and  neglect. 
George  Durnford  loved  her  no  longer.  He 
did  not,  it  is  true,  understand  her.  That 
magnificent  nature,  which  had  been  like 
some  wild  forest  plant,  unchecked  in  its 
luxuriance,  when  he  knew  it  best,  was  de- 
veloped by  training  and  sorrow  to  one  of 
the  most  perfect  types  of  womanhood. 
What  more  splendid  than  the  full  maturity 
of  her  beauty  when  she  swept  across  the 
stage  ?  What  more  perfect  than  the  full 
rich  tones  of  a  voice  that  thrilled  all  listen- 
ers as  she  sang?  And  what  —  could  he 
only  have  known  it  —  more  precious  than 
the  riches  of  the  thoughts  which  welled  up 
in  her  mind  with  no  listener  to  impart 
them  to,  no  husband  to  share  them  ?  But 
George  Durnford  died  ;  and  only  when  she 
heard  of  his  death  was  she  conscious  of  the 
space  he  occupied  in  her  mind.  She  saw 
it  in  the  papers ;  for  no  one  wrote  to  her,  or 
knew  of  her  existence.  Then  she  got  the 
Palmiste  papers,  and  read  first  of  his  fu- 
neral, and  the  fine  things  that  were  said 
about  him,  and  then  of  his  will ;  and  next  she 
saw  the  names  of  the  two  boys  as  passen- 
gers to  England.  And  presently  she  began 
to  live  again ;  for  she  hoped  to  meet  her 
boy.  and  —  after  many  days  —  to  reveal 
herself  to  him,  and  get  back  some  of  the 
love  she  lavished  upon  him  in  imagination. 
She  did  not  hurry.  She  preferred,  for 
many  reasons,  to  bide  her  time.  First,  be- 
cause she  thought  him  ignorant  of  his  birth  ; 
secondly,  she  thought  that  it  would  be  bet- 
ter to  wait  till  he  was  a  man,  and  could 
better  bear  what  would  certainly  be  a  bit- 
ter blow,  —  the  stigma  of  his  birth  ;  and, 
lastly,  she  was  afraid.  Geoi*ge  Durnford 
had  said  but  little  about  him.  He  was 
growing  tall  and  handsome ;  he  was  strong 
and  clever ;  he  was  a  bold  rider  and  a  good 
shot.  All  this  she  learned  from  his  letters, 
but  nothing  more.  In  the  last  letter  he  had 
ever  written  to  her,  he  mentioned  that 
Philip  was  going  into  the  army.  And  after 
some  time  she  "bought  an  Army  List,  and 
read  with  ecstasy  the  name  of  her  son  in 
the  list  of  ensigns.  She  never  attempted 
to  see  him,  but  she  saved  her  money  —  she 
had  made  a  good  deal  of  money  by  this 
time  —  and  laid  it  out  judiciously  for  the 
future  benefit  of  her  son.  If  Philip  had 
only  known  ! 

She  lived  in  her  own  house,  near  Regent's 
Park,  where  she  saw  but  few  friends,  and 


MY  LITTLE   GIRL. 


145 


up, 
She 


those  chiefly  of  her  own  profession.  Her 
life  was  not  dull,  however.  It  was  bright- 
ened by  the  hope  that  lived  in  her.  Morn- 
ing and  evening  she  prayed  for  her  son  ;  all 
day  long  she  thought  about  him ;  at  night 
she  dreamed  of  him.  She  pictured  him 
brave,  clever,  and  handsome  ;  she  made  him 
her  knight,  —  young  Galahad,  without  stain 
or  blemish  of  sin ;  and  she  trembled  at  the 
thought  of  meeting  him  —  not  for  fear  he 
might  fall  below  the  standard  she  had  set 
but  for  fear  of  her  own  un  worthiness, 
he  was  to  go  to  him,  some  day,  with  the 
bitter  confession  of  his  mother's  sin.  She 
was  to  say,  "  You  are  separated  from  other 
men  by  a  broad  line.  They  may  rejoice  in 
their  mothers  :  you  must  be  ashamed  of 
yours."  She  was  to  ask  him,  not  for  that 
love  and  respect  which  wives  can  get  from 
their  sons,  but  for  love  and  pity  and  for- 
giveness. She  was  to  blight  his  self-re- 
spect and  abase  her  own.  No  wonder  that 
she  hesitated,  and  thought,  year  after  year, 
that  there  was  time  enough. 

But  one  day,  looking  at  the  familiar  page 
in  the  Army  List,  she  saw  that  her  son's 
name  was  missing  ;  and,  on  looking  through 
the  "  Gazette,"  she  found  that  he  had  sold 
out.  This  agitated  her.  Something  must 
have  happened.  He  had  abandoned  his 
career.  He  might  have  married.  How 
could  she  face  his  wife  ?  Or  he  had  met 
with  some  misfortune.  How  could  she  as- 
certain what  ?  She  did  not  know  what  to 
do  or  to  whom  to  apply.  The  weeks  passed 
on.  She  was  in  great  anxiety.  At  last, 
unable  to  bear  any  longer  the  suspense  of 
doubt,  she  went  to  a  private  inquiry  office, 
and  set  them  to  work  to  find  Mr.  Durn- 
ford's  address.  It  was.  quite  easy  to  ascer- 
tain where  he  had  lodged  before  he  sold 
out,  but  impossible  to  learn  where  he  was 
now ;  only  the  lodging-house  people  gave 
the  address  of  his  friend,  Mr.  Maclntyre, 
and  his  cousin,  Arthur  Durnford.  This 
was  all  she  wanted.  Of  the  two,  she  would 
first  try  Maclntyre.  She  knew  him  of  old. 
He  was  unscrupulous,  she  well  knew,  and 
still  poor,  as  she  suspected.  She  would 
bribe  him  to  give  her  Philip's  address,  un- 
less he  would  do  it  for  nothing. 

All  this  is  by  way  of  explanation  of  her 
sudden  appearance  at  a  moment  so  inop- 
portune, when  dignity  was  utterly  out  ol 
the  question,  and  her  old  acquaintance 
showed  to  such  singularly  small  advantage. 

The  shock  of  Venn's  intelligence  was  for 
the  moment  too  much  for  her. 

"  I  fear  I  have  hurt  you,"  said  Hartley. 
"  Pardon  me,  I  was  careless  of  my  words. 
Did  I  understand  him  rightly  ?  He  said 
that  —  that  "  — 

"  Where  is  he  ?  "  asked  Marie.     "  Brin 
him  here." 

10 


Venn  opened  the  door  of  the  bedroom 
and  looked  in,  but  no  one  was  there. 

"  He  is  gone,  madame.  Pray  let  me  be 
of  assistance  to  you.  I  can  give  you  Mr. 
Durnford's  address.  It  is  at  Notting  Hill 
that  he  lives." 

"  Stay.  First,  the  young  lady  you  spoke 
of,  sir  —  your  ward.  Could  I  see  her  ?  " 

Venn  hesitated. 

"  She  is  ill  —  she  has  just  lost  her  hus- 
band. Would  it  do  any  good  if  you  were 
to  see  her  ?  " 

Marie  looked  him  straight  in  the  face. 

"  I  have  not  seen  Philip  Durnford  for 
twenty-five  years,  and  I  am  his  mother." 
She  blushed  like  a  girl.  "  It  is  twenty- 
seven  years  ago,"  she  murmured.  "  I  am  a 
native  of  the  Palmiste  Island." 

"  Good  God !  "  said  Venn,  thinking  of 
Arthur. 

"  I  put  my  story  into  your  hands,  though 
I  do  not  even  know  your  name.  You  may, 
if  you  please,  publish  to  the  world  the 
shame  and  disgrace  of  a  woman  that  the 
world  has  always  believed  pure  and  good ; 
but  I  think  you  will  not  do  that." 

"  I  ?  "  cried  Venn.  "  Great  heavens  I 
why  should  I  ?  My  name  is  Venn,  Madame 
de  Guyon.  My  father  was  Mr.  George 
Durnford's  tutor,  and  I  am  a  friend  of  Ar- 
thur Durnford.  My  ward  —  the  little  girl 
that  I  brought  up  and  made  a  lady  of —  is 
the  grand-daughter  of  my  old  laundress. 
Your  son  made  her  acquaintance  —  and  — 
it  is  best  to  let  you  know  the  whole  truth  — 
made  her  promise  to  hide  the  fact  from  me  ; 
brought  her  here  to  these  very  rooms,  one 
evening,  six  months  ago,  when  Maclntyre 
married,  pretended  to  marry  them, —  I  don't 
know  which.  Then  he  took  her  to  France. 
She  will  tell  you  the  rest,  perhaps,  her- 
self." 

"  Advise  me  what  is  best  to  do,"  cried 
Marie,  in  deep  distress.  "  Oh,  sir,  if  I  have 
but  found  my  son  to  lose  him  again  !  " 

"At  all  events,  you  shall  see  his  wife," 
said  Venn.  "  You  will  be  very  kind  to 
her  V  Yes,  I  see  you  will.  But  there  are 
other  complications." 

Then  he  told  the  story  of  the  transferred 
property,  just  as  he  had  heard  it  from  Ar- 
thur an  hour  before. 

"  But  I  was  never  married,"  said  Marie 
simply. 

"  Then  Mr.  Maclntyre,  who  is  really  a 
scoundrel  of  quite  the  ancient  type,  and,  as 
one  may  say,  of  the  deepest  dye,  has  been 
forging  the  letters ;  and  we  shall,  perhaps, 
have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  him  in  the  fel- 
on's dock  before  long." 

"  Promise  me  again,"  cried  Marie,  alarm- 
ed, "  that  you  will  keep  my  secret,  whatever 
happens." 

"  I  have  promised  already,"  said  Venn. 


146 


MY  LITTLE  GIKL. 


"  Not  even  Arthur  Durnford  shall  hear  a 
•word.  But  it  seems  a  pity  to  let  the  Mac- 
Intyre  go." 

"  Then  take  me  to  your  ward,"  Marie 
asked  him. 

"  She  is  staying  at  my  sister's  house. 
Do  not  tell  my  sister,  if  you  see  her,  any 
thing.  She  is  a  most  excellent  woman, 
Madame  de  Guyon,  and  as  silent  as  death 
on  unimportant  matters  ;  but,  in  the  matter 
of  secrets,  I  believe  she  is  too  confiding. 
She  imparts  in  confidence  all  that  is  in- 
trusted to  her  in  confidence,  and  considers 
she  has  kept  a  secret  when  she  has  not  pro- 
claimed it  at  church.  Just  now,  however, 
she  is  not  likely  to  be  inquisitive,  because 
she  is  greatly  excited  at  being  excommuni- 
cated." 

"  Excommunicated  ?  " 
"  Yes  :  she  gave  her  cat  the  name  of  St. 
Cyril.  On  her  refusal  to  change  it,  her 
clergyman,  who  holds  rigid  views,  has  ex- 
communicated her.  It  is  the  greatest 
excitement  that  has  ever  happened  to  her, 
and  she  attends  all  those  ordinances  of  re- 
ligion from  which  she  is  debarred  by  her 
own  director  at  "an  adjacent  Low  Church, 
where  the  clergyman  parts  his  hair  at  the 
side,  wears  long  whiskers,  and  reads  the 
prayers  with  solemnity  and  effect.  But  I 
beg  your  pardon,  Madame  de  Guyon,  for 
inflicting  these  family  details  upon  you. 
Let  me  get  a  cab  for  you." 

He  returned  in  a  few  minutes,  and  they 
drove  to  Miss  Venn's  house.  His  sister 
was  out.  As  he  afterwards  learned,  there 
had  been  a  prayer-meeting  at  the  evangel- 
ical clergyman's  school ;  and,  as  nothing 
irritated  the  Rev.  Mr.  De  Vere  so  much  as 
a  public  prayer-meeting,  she  went  there 
ostentatiously.  By  the  greatest  good  luck, 
he  was  passing  as  she  went  in,  and  saw  her ; 
so  that  she  enjoyed  her  meeting  extremely. 
Laura  was  lying  on  the  sofa,  reading. 
Her  pale  cheeks  brightened  up  when  Hart- 
ley came  in. 

"  What  is  my  ward  doing  ?  "  he  asked. 
"  Not  reading  too  long,  I  hope.  I  have 
brought  you  a  visitor,  Lollie.  Madame  de 
Guyon,  this  is  my  ward,  Mrs.  Philip  Durn 
ford." 

Laura  looked  appealingly  at  Hartley  ; 
but  was  more  astonished  when  Marie  went 
straight  to  the  sofa,  and,  kneeling  down, 
took  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  kissed  her. 
with  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"  I  had  better  leave  you,  Madame  de 
Guyon,  I  think,"  said  Venn.  "  I  shall  wai 
in  the  dining-room  for  you." 

Left  alone,  Marie  began  to  tremble. 
"  My  dear,  I  ought  not  to  have  kissec 
you.     I  ought,  first,  to  tell  you  who  I  am. 

"  Who  are  you  ?  "  asked  Laura.  "  I  am 
sure,  at  least,  you  are  very  kind." 


"  My  dear  child,  I  hear  that  you  have 
uflfered.     I  want,  if  I  can,  to  soothe  your 
orrow,  and.  if  it  be  possible,  remove  it." 
"  Ah,  no  one  can  !  " 

"  We  shall  see.  Have  you  patience  to 
isten  to  the  story  of  a  woman  who  has  also 
uffered,  but  through  her  own  fault ;  while 
rou  have  only  suffered  through  the  fault 
)f  others  ?  " 

She  told  her  own  story.  How  poor  and 
gnorant  she  had  been ;  how  George  Durn- 
brd  had  made  her  proud  and  happy  with 
a  love  of  which  she  realized  all  the  passion 
ind  happiness  and  none  of  the  guilt ;  how 
le  had  told  her,  one  day,  that  it  was  to  be 
n  future  as  if  they  had  never  met ;  how  he 
lad  taken  her  boy,  at  her  own  request,  and 
given  her  money  to  come  to  England  ;  and 
low  she  had  studied  long  and  hard,  and 
earned  to  make  the  most  of  a  gift  which  is 
granted  to  few ;  and  then  her  voice  soft- 
med  as  she  told  how  she  had  made 
ame  and  got  fortune,  and  toiled  on  eom- 
3anionless,  cheered  by  the  hope  that  some 
lay  she  might  find  her  son,  and  pour  into 
lis  heart  some  of  the  love  with  which  her 
own  was  bursting. 

"  My  dear,"  she  said,  "  I  found  not  my 
son,  but  his  evil  adviser,  —  not  his  friend,  — 
Mr.  Maclntyre.  And  my  son  is  your  hus- 
band." 

Laura  buried  her  face  in  her  hands. 

"  Yes,  I  know  it  all.  Mr.  Venn  has 
told  me.  Only,  dear,  you  are  not  to  blame. 
You  are  a  wife :  I  never  was.  Let  me 
find  in  you  what  I  have  lost.  If  I  cannot 
win  my  son,  let  me  win  a  daughter." 

"  O  madame  !  "  Laura  replied,  stroking 
back  the  thick  brown  hair  that  covered 
her  face,  "  you  are  a  lady,  I  am  only  a 
poor  girl.  How  Philip  could  ever  love  me, 
—  he  did  love  me  once,  —  I  do  nbt  know. 
I  am  only  Mr.  Venn's  little  girl ;  and  you 
are  the  only  lady,  except  Miss  Venn  and 
Madeleine,  who  has  ever  spoken  to  me  at 
all." 

"  My  dear,  and  I  was  only  a  singer  at 
the  theatre." 

"  But  you  are  a  great  singer ;  and  I  —  O 
madame  !  and  what  will  Philip  say  ?  " 

"  We  will  not  care  what  Philip  says." 

"  And  then  —  oh,  I  am  so  unhappy  1 " 

And  she  began  to  cry. 

Marie  cried  too  ;  and  the  two  found  con- 
solation in  the  usual  way. 

Then  Laura  began  to  whisper. 

"  You  have  had  some  comfort,  —  you  had 
a  child." 

»'  We  will  get  you  back  your  husband. 
Philip  cannot  be  <very  bad,  dear.  He 
loved  you  once,  at  any  rate." 

She  brightened  up;  but  the  moment 
after,  fell  back  upon  the  sofa,  and  burst 
into  fresh  tears. 


MY   LITTLE  GIRL. 


147 


"I  shall  never  get  him  back.  I  could 
never  see  him  again.  You  do  not  know 
what  he  called  me,  —  me,  his  wife.  I  am 
his  wife,  am  I  not  ?  I  could  never  look 
Mr.  Venn  in  the  face  again  if  I  were  not." 

"  Yes,  dear,  you  are  his  wife,  surely  you 
are  ;  but  I  will  go  and  see  him." 

"  Take  Mr.  Venn  with  you :  let  him 
speak  for  me." 

"  Would  it  be  wise  ?  No,  —  I  will  go 
alone.  If  he  will  not  hear  me,  he  will  cer- 
tainly not  hear  Mr.  Venn.  And  now,  I 
must  go ;  but,  dear,  my  heart  is  very 
heavy.  I  am  oppressed  with  a  sense  of 
coming  evil.  Tell  me,  —  if  Philip,  if  my 
son,  should  not  receive  me  well,  if,  after 
all  these  years  of  forbearance,  he  greets 
me  with  coldness  and  distrust  —  oh,  tell 
me  what  he  is  like  !  " 

Laura  told  her  as  well  as  she  could. 

"  But  Philip  is  passionate,"  she  conclud- 
ed ;  "  and  I  think  he  has  lost  some  money 
lately,  and  Mr.  Maclntyre  makes  him  do 
reckless  things." 

"  I  can  manage  Mr.  Maclntyre,"  said 
Marie.  "  Besides,  he  is  not  likely  to  for- 
get the  lesson  Mr.  Venn  has  taught  him 
to-day." 

"What  was  that?"   ' 

Marie  told  her  of  the  scene  she  had  wit- 
nessed. 

Laura,  usually  the  mildest  of  her  sex, 
set  her  lips  together,  and  clasped  her 
hands. 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  glad  —  I  am  so  glad  ! 
Was  he  hurt  ?  Did  he  cry  ?  Tell  me  all 
over  again,"  she  said. 

Marie  only  smiled. 

"  Let  me  finish,  dear.  I  have  only  one 
proposition  to  make  to  my  son.  If  he  will 
not  agree  to  that,  I  have  one  to  make  to 
you." 

"  What  is  that  ?  " 

"  Would  you  like  to  go  back  to  Philip  ?  " 

She  clasped  her  hands,  and  began  to 
think. 

"  He  was  so  cruel  !  If  I  only  could.  If 
he  would  only  take  me.  But  I  am  his  wife." 

"  And  if  he  will  not,  will  you  come  with 
me,  child  ?  My  heart  is  empty  :  I  long  for 
some  one  to  love.  Come  with  me,  and  be 
my  loved  and  cherished  daughter." 

Laura  threw  her  fair  young  arms  round 
her  neck,  and  Marie  kissed  her  passion- 
ately. 

"  I  must  go  now,"  she  said,  after  a  few 
minutes.  "  I  do  not  think  I  can  go  to  your 
husband's  —  to  my  son's  house  to-day.  I 
must  wait  till  to-morrow.  Write  down  his 
address,  dear,  on  my  tablets.  And  now, 
good-by.  Ask  Miss  Venn  to  let  me 
come  to  see  you.  Tell  her  only  that  I  am 
your  husband's  old  friend ;  and  remember 
to  keep  my  secret  till  I  see  you  again." 


She  went  away.  Presently  came  back 
Miss  Venn,  in  a  high  state  of  exhilaration 
at  the  discomfiture  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  De 
Vere,  who,  seeing  her  open  act  of  rebel- 
lion, ;aust  have  gone  home,  she  concluded, 
in  a  furious  state  of  indignation.  This,  in- 
deed, the  reverend  gentleman  had  actually 
done.  And  she  called  loudly  tor  St.  Cyril, 
—  her  cat,  —  and  sat  down  and  made  her- 
self comfortable,  and  gave  her  brother  a 
comfortable  little  dinner. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

"  WE  have  not  had  a  chorus  for  a  long 
time,"  said  Venn.  "  All  these  excitements 
have  been  too  much  for  us.  Sit  down, 
Arthur.  Jones,  consider  this  a  regular 
night." 

"  I  have  been  reading,"  said  Jones  pres- 
ently, "  with  a  view  to  understanding  the 
great  secret  of  success,  some  of  the  poetry 
of  the  period  ;  and  I  beg  to  submit  to  the 
Chorus  a  ballad  done  in  the  most  approved 
fashion  of  our  modern  poets.  May  I  read 
it  ?  It  is  called  '  The  Knightly  Tryste,'  or, 
if  you  will,  4  My  Ladye's  Bidding,'  which 
is  more  poetical :  — 

'  Between  the  saddle  and  the  man,  * 
Ah  me !  red  gleams  of  sunlight  ran ; 
He  only,  on  his  Arab  steed, 

Left  all  tlie  streaming  winds  hehind. 
Sighed,  "  Well  it  were,  in  time  of  need, 

A  softer  place  than  this  to  find." 

The  twinkling  milestones  at  his  side 

Flashed  for  a  moment  as  he  passed; 
Small  thought  had  he  of  joy  or  pride, 

Groaned  only,  "  This  can  never  last." 
And  more  and  more  the  red  light  ran 
Between  the  saddle  and  the  man. 

"  Woe  worth  the  day,"  he  gasped  by  times, 

"  My  lady  fair  this  fancy  took ; 
And  Devil  take  her  prattling  rhymes 
About  the  willows  and  the  brook; 
For  this  I  suffer  what  I  can, 
Between  the  saddle  and  the  man." 

Still  rode  the  knight :  the  dewy  beads 
Stood  on  his  brow,  but  on  he  spurred; 

Ere  compline  bell  doth, ring  it  needs 
He  meet  the  lady  by  her  word ; 

And  great  discomfort  then  began 

Between  the  saddle  and  the  man." 

There  came  a  moment  —  o'er  a  gate, 
Five-barred,  close  shut,  the  destrier  flew; 

He  also  —  but  his  knees,  too  late, 
Clutched  only  mosses  wet  with  dew. 

Ah,  me !  the  ever-lengtheningvspan 

Between  the  saddle  and  the  man.'  " 

Jones  read  and  looked  round  for  ap- 
plause. None  followed. 

"  It  won't  do,  Jones,"  said  Venn,  —  "  it 
won't  do.  You  had  better  stick  to  the  old 
school.  The  grotesque  and  the  unreal 
won't  last.  Write  for  posterity,  if  you 
must  write  poetry." 

"  I  don't  care  so  much  for  posterity  as  I 


148 


MY   LITTLE   GIKL. 


did,"  said  Jones.  "  I  want  things  that  pay. 
Now,  I  really  think  an  able  editor  ought  to 
give  something  lor  those  lines." 

"  Low  and  grovelling  aim  !  Look  at  me, 
—  I  write  for  nothing  but  the  praise  of  my 
fellow-countrymen,  as  soon  as  I  can  get 
published." 

"  I  sometimes  think,"  Jones  continued, 
"  of  taking  up  the  satirical  line.  Are  you 
aware  that  there  is  not  such  a  thing  as  a 
satirist  living  ?  We  want  a  Boileau.  The 
nation  asks  for  a  man  of  sense.  Some- 
thing must  be  done  soon." 

For  once  Jones  looked  melancholy. 

"  What  is  it,  Jones  ? "  asked  Venn. 
"  More  disappointments.  Remember  the 
banquet  of  life,  my  boy  V  " 

"  I  do,"  said  Jones,  with  an  effort  to 
smile.  "  In  the  words  of  Hannah  More,  — 

'  For  bread  and  cheese  and  little  ease 

Small  thanks,  but  no  repining ; 
Still  o'er  the  sky  they  darkling  lie,  — 
Clouds,  with  no  silver  lining.' 

Come,"  he  went  on,  "the  Chorus  is  un- 
usually dull  and  silent.  '  I  will  sing  you  a 
song  made  for  the  occasion  :  — 

« I  am  an  unfortunate  man, 

Bad  luck  at  my  elbow  doth  sit; 
Let  me  tell  how  my  troubles  began, 
If  only  my  feelings  permit. 

The  spoon  that  my  young  lips  adorned 

In  infancy's  hour  was  of  wood : 
No  freaks,  then,  of  fortune  I  mournd, 

And  for  pap  it  was  equally  good. 

To  school  I  was  sent,  and  the  first  day 
I  was  caned  with  the  rest  by  mistake ; 

But  each  morning  that  followed,  the  worst  day 
Seemed  still  in  my  annals  to  make; 

For  I  laughed  when  I  should  have  been  weeping; 

I  cried  when  I  ought  to  have  smiled; 
And  the  painful  results  still  are  keeping 

Their  memory  green  in  this  child. 

The  other  boys  sinned  at  their  leisure ; 

They  could  do  what  they  liked  and  escape ; 
But  I,  for  each  illicit  pleasure, 

Still  found  myself  in  a  new  scrape. 

Now  in  London  I  linger,  and  sadly 
Get  shoved  on  my  pathway  by  fate : 

Hope  dances  before  me,  and  madly 
Shows  fruits  that  are  only  a  bait. 

For  I  am  an  unfortunate  man ; 

But  fate,  which  has  taken  the  rest, 
Has  given,  to  console  when  she  can, 

Good  spirits  still  left  in  my  breast.'  " 

<l  That's  not  very  good,  Jones,"  said 
Lynn.  "  What  has  put  you  into  this  de- 
jected and  miserable  frame,  unfit  for  the 
society  of  a  decent  and  philosophical 
Chorus?  First  you  read  a  bad  poem,  and 
then  you  sing  a  comic  song." 

"  A  letter  I  got  this  morning,"  he  an- 
swered with  a  groan.  "  Let  me  talk,  you 
fellows,  and  I'll  tell  you  a  story.  Call  it 
a  vision  if  you  like,  —  a  vision  of  two  lives. 

"  The  two  lives  were  once  one.     They 


thought  the  same  thoughts,  and  had  the 
same  ambitions.  They  had  the  same 
chances,  they  won  the  same  successes, 
dreamed  the  same  dreams.  No  two  friends 
were  ever  so  close ;  for  the  two  minds  were 
one,  and  dwelt  in  the  same  body.  I  saw 
in  my  vision  that  there  came  a  time —  the 
boy  was  almost  grown  to  the  age  of  man- 
hood —  when  the  two  separated.  It  was 
at  Oxford  that  this  disunion  first  took 
place.  And  in  my  vision  it  seemed  to  me 
that  the  one  which  remained  in  the  boy 
was  as  myself;  and  the  other,  that  other 
self  which  I  might  have  been." 

Jones  paused,  and  pondered  for  a  few 
moments,  with  grave  face. 

"  Yes,  I  —  that  is,  the  one  that  remained 
behind  —  was  seized  with  a  kind  of  mad- 
ness of  vanity.  All  my  noble  dreams,  all 
my  thoughts  of  what  might  be,  gave  way 
to  a  desire  to  amuse.  I,  that  is  —  of 
course  "  — 

'•  Go  on  saying  I,  without  apology,"  said 
( Venn. 

<;  Well,  I  succeeded  in  amusing  the  men 
of  my  college.  I  succeeded  as  an  actor  — 
I  think  I  was  a  good  mimic.  J  sang.  I  made 
verses,  I  wrote  little  plays  and  acted  them. 
I  went  every  day  to  wines,  suppers,  an  1 
breakfasts.  I  was,  of  course,  tremendously 
poor;  and,  like  most  poor  idiots,  did  no 
reading  whatever.  Meantime,  my  old  friend 
was  very  differently  occupied.  I  used  to 
see  his  calm,  quiet  face  —  like  mine  in  fea- 
tures, but  different  in  expression  —  in  hall 
and  chapel.  He  was  a  student.  He  came 
up  to  Oxford  with  ambitions  and  hopes  that 
I  shared ;  but  he  kept  them,  and  workeil 
for  them.  Mine,  with  the  means  of  real- 
izing them,  I  had  thrown  away.  I  used  to 
look  at  him  sometimes,  and  ask  myself  if 
this  was  the  friend  who  had  once  been  the 
same  as  myself,  like  the  two  branches  of  an 
equation  in  Indeterminate  Co-efficients." 

"  Jones,"  said  Venn,  "  don't  be  flowery, 
pray  don't.  We  are  not  mathematical 
men." 

"  The  time  came  when  we  were  to  go 
into  the  schools.  I,  my  friends,  in  my  vis- 
ion, was  plucked.  He,  in  my  vision,  got  a 
Double  First.  Curiously  enough,  in  reality 
1  was  plucked  in  Greats  —  for  divinity. 
However,  after  this,  we  took  paths  even 
more  divergent.  He  staid  behind  to  try 
for  a  Fellowship,  which  he  easily  got.  I 
went  up  to  London  to  try  to  get  my  daily 
bread  in  any  way,  however  humble.  He 
entered  at  the  bar,  —  it  had  always  been 
our  ambition  to  become  Fellows,  and  to 
enter  at  the  bar.  — •  I  became  a  drudge  to  an 
army  cram  coach,  who  paid  me  just  enough 
to  keep  me  going. 

"  He,  too,  a  year  or  too  later,  came  to 
London.  How  long  is  it  V  I  think  it  is  ten 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


149 


years  since  we  took  our  decrees,  and 
read  law.  Presently  lie  was  called,  —  I  saw 
his  name  in  the  Law  List,  —  and  began  to 
get  practice.  J,  like  a  stone,  neither  grew 
nor  moved. 

"  The  time  goes  on;  but  the  two  lives 
are  separated,  never  again  to  meet.  He  is 
on  the  road  to  fortune  and  fame.  He  will 
make  his  mark  on  the  history  of  his  coun- 
try. He  will,  —  that  is,  after  all,  the  cruel- 
est  part  of  the  vision, — he  will  marry 
Mary  ;  for,  while  the  boy  was-  growing 
into  manhood,  there  came  to  live  in  the 
village  where  his  father,  the  vicar,  lived,  a 
retired  officer,  with  a  little  daughter  eight 
years  younger  than  the  boy.  The  boy,  who 
had  no  play-fellows  in  the  village,  took  to 
the  child,  and  became  a  sort  of  elder 
brother  to  her ;  and,  as  they  grew  up,  the 
affection  between  the  two  strengthened. 
Mary  was  serious  beyond  her  years,  chiefly 
froia  always  associating  with  her  seniors. 
When  she  was  twelve  and  the  boy  eigh- 
teen, she  could  share  his  hopes,  and  could 
understand  his  dreams.  She  looked  on 
him  as  a  hero.  Like  all  women,  with  those 
they  love,  she  could  not  see  his  faults ;  and 
when  he  disappointed  all  their  expecta- 
tions, and  came  back  from  the  grand  uni- 
versity that  was  .to  make  so  much  of  him, 
disgraced  instead  of  honored,  loaded  with 
debt  instead  of  armed  with  a  Fellowship, 
she  it  was  who  first  forgave  him. 

"  He  could  not  forgive  himself.  He 
handed  her  over  mentally  to  his  old  friend, 
and  left  her." 

"  But  he  will  see  her  again,"  said  Arthur. 

"  I  think  never.  He  has  had  his  chance, 
that  would  have  made  them  both  happy.; 
and  he  threw  it  away.  My  friend,  how- 
ever, who  must  be  making  a  very  large 
income  by  this  time  at  the  Chancery  bur, 
who  writes  critical  papers  in  big  words 
in  the  'Fortnightly.'  whose  book  on  some- 
thing or  other  connected  with  the  law  is 
quoted  by  judges,  —  he  will  doubtless  marry 
her,  and  then  they  will  be  happy;  but  I 
—  I  mean  the  ego  of  my  vision  —  shall  go- 
on struggling  with  the  world,  and  rejoicing 
over  small  sacrifices,  resigned  to  great  dis- 
appointments, till  the  end  of  the  chapter. 
I  shall  contemplate  the  visionary  happiness 
of  my  alter  ego  —  with  Mary,  whom  I  shall 
never  see  again.  He  will  be  Lord  Chan- 
cellor ;  and,  if  I  live  long  enough,  when  I 
die  I  shall  think  of  the  great  works  that 
he  has  done,  and  thank  God  for  his  excel- 
lent gift  of  a  steady  purpose  and  a  clear 
brain." 

Jones  was  silent  for  a  few  minutes. 

'•  You  were  talking  about  women  the 
other  night,  —  three  months  ago.  It  makes 
me  angry  to  hear  theories  of  women.  I 
beg  your  pardon,  Venn,  for  criticising  your 


trumpet-noses  ;  and  yours,  Lynn,  for  get- 
ting savage  over  your  world  of  the  future. 
Women  are  what  men  make  them ;  and  if 
my  Mary  had  married  the  future  Lord 
Chancellor,  there  would  have  been  no 
nobler  woman  in  the  world,  as  there  is  now 
none  more  tender-hearted  and  forgiving. 
But  —  oh  dear  me! —  if  women  are  frivo- 
lous, it  is  because  they  have  nothing  to  do. 
To  make  them  work  is  to  unsex  them ;  to 
put  them  through  a  Cambridge  course  of 
mathematics  is  so  ludicrously  absurd  in  its 
use.essness,  that  we  need  no  vision  of  an 
impossible  future  world  to  show  us  its 
folly." 

"  And  suppose,  Jones,"  said  Arthur,  — 
"only  suppose,  that  Mary  marries  the  '  I' 
of  your  dream." 

"I  can't  suppose  it.  He  cannot  drag 
her  down  to  his  own  level." 

"  But  she  may  raise  him  to  hers." 

Jones  sighed.  In  his  vision  of  the  two 
lives  he  had  revealed  the  story  of  his  own, 
—  which  Venn  already  partly  knew ;  and 
the  dignity  of  sorrow  for  a  moment  sat 
like  a  crown  on  his  forehead.  But  he 
shook  it  off,  and  turning  round  with  a 
cheerful  smile,  adjusted  his  spectacles,  and 
concluded  his  observations. 

"  My  own  verses  again  :  — 

'  Gone  is  the  spring  with  wings  too  light, 

The  hopeful  song  of  youth  is  mute, 
The  sober  tints  displace  the  bright, 

The  blossoms  all  are  turned  to  fruit : 
I,  like  a  tree  consumed  with  blight, 

Fit  only  for  the  pruner's  knife, 
Await  the  day,  not  far  away, 

Which  asks  the  harvest  of  a  life. 

And,  for  the  past  is  surely  gone, 

The  coming  evil  still  unseen, 
I  think  of  what  I  might  have  won, 

And  fancy  things  that  should  have  been ; 
And  so  in  dreams  by  summer  streams, 

While  golden  suns  light  every  sheaf, 
I  take  her  hand,  and  through  the  land, 

My  love  makes  all  the  journey  brief." 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

MADAME  DE  GUYON  sought  her  son's 
house  at  noon  the  next  day.  She  was  ill 
with  a  long  night's  anxiety;  and  her  face, 
usually  so  calm,  looked  troubled  and  hag- 
gard^ 

Philip  was  at  home,  and  would  see  her. 

The  moment,  long  looked  for,  was  come 
at  last ;  and  she  trembled  so  much  that  she 
could  hardly  mount  the  steps  of  the  door. 
He  was  sitting  in  the  dismantled  room  of 
the  little  cottage  at  Notting  Hill,  but  rose 
to  receive  his  visitor. 

She  drew  her  thick  veil  more  closely 
over  her  face,  and  stood  looking  at  her  own 
son  with  a  thousand  emotions  in  her 
breast. 


150 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


Her  own  son  —  her  Philip!  A  man 
now,  whom  she  had  last  seen  a  child  of 
four  years  old,  when  she  took  him  out  of 
his  cot  at  Fontainebleau.  A  tall  and 
shapely  man,  with  a  face  like  that  of 
George  Durnford,  only  darker,  and  eyes 
that  she  knew  1'or  her  own,  —  large,  deep, 
lustrous.  She  gazed  at  him  for  a  few  mo- 
ments without  speaking  or  moving,  for  her 
heart  was  too  full. 

Philip  set  a  chair  for  her. 

"  Madame  de  Guyon  V  "  he  asked,  look- 
ing at  the  card.  "  May  I  ask  what  gives 
me  the  honor  of  a  visit  from, — I  presume 
you  are  the  lady  whose  name  "  — 

"  Yes  :  I  am  the  singer." 

"  I  come,"  she  went  on,  with  an  effort, 
"  from  your  wife." 

Philip  changed  color. 

"  Your  wife,  Philip  Durnford,  whom  you 
drove  away  from  you  three  weeks  ago. 
You  will  be  sorry  to  learn  that  she  is 
very  ill,  —  that  she  has  been  dangerously 
ill." 

"  Tell  me,"  he  stammered,- —  "  she  is  not 
—  not  dead  V  " 

"  No  :  grief  does  not  kill." 

"  Where  is  she  V  " 

"  She  is  at  present  under  the  charge  of 
Miss  Venn,  the  sister  of  her  guardian." 

The  old  jealousy  flamed  up  again  in  his 
heart. 

"  Then  she  may  stay  there.  She  al- 
ways loved  him  better  than  me.  I  hardly 
understand,  however,  what  my  private 
affairs  have  to  do  with  Madame  de  Guy- 
on." 

"  I  will  tell  you  presently.  First,  let  me 
plead  for  this  poor  girl." 

"  I  am,  of  course,  obliged  to  listen  to  all 
that  you  have  to  say." 

"  I  know  the  whole  story,  the  pitiful, 
shameful  story.  I  know  how,  influenced  by 
that  bad  man,  you  went  through  a  form  of 
marriage  which  is  illegal ;  how  you  gam- 
bled away  your  money;  how,  when  you 
were  ruined  at  last,  you  let  her  go  from 
your  doors,  with  more  than  the  truth, — 
more  than  the  cruel  truth,  —  ringing  in  her 
ears,  disgraced  and  ashamed." 

"  More  than  the  truth  ?  " 

"  Yes,  more ;  for  the  man  was  once  an 
ordained  minister  of  his  own  church,  and 
the  illegality  consisted  only  in  the  place 
where  he  married  you.  Philip  Durnford, 
she  is  your  wife." 

He  answered  nothing. 

"  I  do  not  ask  you  to  take  her  back. 
That  cannot  be  yet.  I  say  only,  remove 
the  doubt  that  may  exist ;  and,  as  soon  as 
she  is  strong  enough,  make  her  yours  in 
the  eye  of  the  law  as  well  as  of  God." 

"  Why  do  you  come  here  ?  What  have 
you  to  do  with  me  ?  " 


She  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm. 

"  Philip  Durnford,  for  the  love  of  all  that 
you  hold  sacred,  promise  me  to  do  this.  Do 
riot  tell  me  that  you, —  you,  of  all  men  in 
this  wide  world,  purposely  deceived  the 
girl,  and  are  not  repentant.  O  Philip  — 
Philip ! " 

He  started.  Why  should  this  woman 
call  him  by  his  Christian  name  ?  Why 
should  she  throw  back  her  veil,  and  look  at 
him  with  her  full  black  eyes  filled  with 
tears  V 

"  You  had  married  her.  You  meant  to 
marry  her.  Do  not  let  me  believe  you  to 
be  utterly  base  and  wicked.  Do  this,  if 
only  to  undo  some  of  the  past.  Then  let 
her  stay  on  with  her  friends,  —  deserted 
but  not  disgraced.  Think  of  it,  think  of 
it !  The  girl  was  innocent  and  ignorant. 
She  knew  nothing  of  the  world,  —  nothing 
but  what  one  man  had  taught  her.  She 
had  no  circle  of  friends,  no  atmosphere  of 
home,  to  teach  her  what  life  means.  She 
fell  into  your  hands.  You  loved  "her,  I 
know  you  loved  her  "  -— 

"  She  never  loved  me." 

"I  want  to  move  your  heart,  Philip 
Durnford.  Think  of  those  in  the  world 
who  love  you,  to  whom  your  honor  and 
good  name  are  dear."  , 

She  sighed  and  went  on,  — 

"  There  must  be  a  way  to  touch  your 
heart.  Think  of  the  days  you  had  her 
with  you, — men  have  said  that  for  the 
sake  of  those  early  days,  when  their  wives 
were  to  them  as  angels,  they  love  them  for 
the  rest  of  their  lives,  long  after  they  have 
found,  them  women,  full  of  faults,  and  lower 
than  themselves,  —  when  you  read  that 
poor  child's  thoughts,  bared  before  you, 
and  you  only,  —  when,  out  of  all  her 
thoughts,  there  was  not  one  that  she  was 
not  ready  to  confess  to  you,  —  when  you 
took  her  out  of  the  solitude  of  maidenhood, 
and  taught  her  the  sweet  mystery  of  com- 
panionship. Philip  Durnford,  can  the 
Church  devise  any  form  of  words,  any  holy 
ceremony,  any  oaths  or  sacraments,  that 
ought  to  be  more  binding  than  these  things  ? 
Can  any  man  have  memories  of  greater 
tenderness,  innocence,  and  purity  than  you 
have  of  poor  Laura  V  Not  a  common,  un- 
taught girl,  of  whom  you  might  have  been 
tired  in  a  week  ;  but  a  girl  full  of  all  kinds 
of  knowledge,  trained  and  taught.  No  one 
knows  the  story  but  Mr.  Venn  and  myself, 
and,  —  and  the  other  man.  The  fault  may 
be  repaired." 

"  Arthur  knows  it,  Madeleine  knows  it, 
all  the  world  knows  it  by  this  time.  We 
waste  time  in  words.  I  loved  her,  —  I  love 
her  no  longer.  I  am  ashamed  for  my  folly  ; 
ashamed,  "if  you  will,  of  the  evil  temper 
which  made  me  tell  her  all.  If  no  one 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


151 


knows,  why  not  let  things  go  on  as  they 
are  ?     We  are  both  free." 

u  You  are  neither  of  you  free  :  you  are 
bound  to  each  other.  Since  her  departure, 
you  have  obtained  possession  of  Arthur 
Durnford's  estate." 

"  My  estate,  if  you  please.  I  was  pre- 
pared to  prove  it  mine  in  a  court  of  law." 

"  I  think  not,  because  I  could  have  pre- 
vented it.  The  estate  is  not  yours  by  any 
legal  claim." 

"  Upon  my  word,  Madame  de  Guyon," 
said  Philip,  "  you  appear  to  know  a  great 
deal  about  our  family  history." 

"  I  do  know  a  great  deal." 

"  But  I  prefer  not  To  discuss  the  details 
with  you.  I  return  to  what  I  said  before. 
Let  things  past  be  forgotten." 

He  waved  his  hand  impatiently. 

"  Let  us  dismiss  the  subject ;  and  now, 
Madame  de  Guyon,  pray  gratify  my  curi- 
osity by  telling  me  how  you  became  mixed 
up  in  the  affair  at  all." 

"  Let  me  say  one  word  more." 

"  Not  one  word.  I  have,  I  confess,  those 
qualms  of  regret  which  some  people  attrib- 
ute to  conscience.  I  am  extremely  sorry 
that  I  have  made  her  unhappy.  I  do  not 
justify  any  part  of  my  conduct.  Mr.  Mae- 
Intyre  did,  it  is  true,  endeavor  to  persuade 
me  that  the  marriage  was  legal.  I  was 
madly  in  love,  and  tried  to  believe  him. 
Of  course,  it  was  not  legal.  This  is  not 
a  thing  that  can  be  said  and  -unsaid.  It  is 
a  fact.  Facts  are  stubborn  things,  as  you 
know.  The  history  of  her  life,  together 
with  the  overpowering  affection  she  has 
for  the  other  man,  are  not  calculated  to 
make  me  desirous  of  turning  into  an  indis- 
soluble contract  what  was  really  no  con- 
tract at  all.  If  she  wants  money  "  — 

"  She  would  die  rather  than  take  money 
from  you." 

"  In  that  case,  I  think  there  is  nothing 
really  nothing — -more  to  be  said." 

"  O  Philip  Durnford !  is  Heaven's 
wrath  "  — 

"  Come,  Madame  de  Guyon,  let  us 
not  go  into  theology.  We  met ;  I  loved 
her ;  I  deceived  her ;  was  partly  deceived 
myself.  I  did  "not  meet  with  any  love 
from  her.  I  lost  my  money  on  the  turf. 
I  lost  my  temper  with  her.  We  quarrel. 
She  goes  away.  I  sit  down  and  do,  — 
nothing.  The  religious  part  of  the  matter 
concerns  me  only.  Heligious  matters  do  not 
trouble  my  head  much.  1  am  a  man  of  the 
world,  and  take  things  as  I  find  them. 
Things  are  mostly  bad,  and  men  are  all 
bad.  Que  voulez  vous  ?  " 

Good  heavens !  And  this  man  —  this 
libertine  —  was  her  own  son,  and  she  was 
sitting  there  listening  in  silence  ! 

But  the  time  was  coining  to  speak. 


"  I  cannot  believe  you  are  speaking  what 
you  think.  You  cannot  be  so  bitter  against 
the  world." 

"•  Perhaps  I  have  cause." 

"  You  have  not,  Philip  Durnford.  I 
know  your  whole  history,  —  yes,  from 
your  childhood.  There  are  few  alive, — 
unless  it  be  that  man  Maclntyre,  —  who 
knows  the  secret  of  your  birth." 

"  There,  at  least,  I  have  no  reason  to  be 
ashamed.  My  mother  was  married  to  my 
father." 

She  bent  her  face  forward,  and  was 
silent  for  a  moment. 

"  Suppose  she  was  not  ?  " 

"  But  she  was.  I  have  legal  proofs. 
They  are  in  my  desk." 

He  grew  impatient. 

"  What  is  this  ?  What  does  it  mean  ? 
You  come  to  me,  knowing  all  about  me ; 
you  interfere  in  my  most  private  relations. 
Tell  me,  I  ask  again,  what  it  means  V  " 

"  I  will  tell  you,"  she  said.  "  It  is  a  bit- 
ter thing  to  tell,  —  it  is  a  bitter  time  to 
have  to  tell  it.  I  have  prayed  and  hoped 
for  five  and  twenty  years ;  and  now  I  find 
you  —  ah,  me!  —  so  changed  from  the 
Philip  of  my  dreams." 

His  face  grew  white,  and  his  hand  shook, 
for  a  strange  foreboding  seized  him;  but 
he  said  nothing. 

"  There  was  once,"  she  went  on,  the 
tears  falling  fast  through  her  veil,  —  "  there 
was  once  a  rich  man  and  a  poor  handmaid- 
en. He  was  kind  and  generous,  and  she 
loved  him  :  they  had  a  son.  The  time 
came  when  the  wickedness  and  folly  were 
to  cease.  He  married,  and  sent  her  away, 
—  not  cruelly,  not  with  harsh  words,  as 
you  sent  Laura  away,  but  kindly  and  con- 
siderately. She  knew  it  must  come.  She 
was  one  of  the  inferior  race,  with  the  old 
slave  blood  in  her  veins.  The  English  gen- 
tleman could  never  marry  her,  and  she 
knew  it  all  along.  She  could  hope  for 
nothing  but  his  kindness  for  a  time,  and 
look  for  nothing  but  a  separation.  She 
was  ignorant  and  untaught.  She  felt  no 
degradation.  That  was  to  come  after- 
wards,—  to  last  through  all  her  life.  Her 
over  practiced  no  deception,  made  her  no 
false  promises." 

"  Go  on,"  he  said  hoarsely,  when  she 
stopped. 

"  He  married.  The  mulatto  girl  went 
away.  With  his  money  she  learned  to  sing. 
She 'is  living  now,  rich,  and  of  good  name. 
No  one  knows  her  past.  Philip  Durnford, 
she  never  married  your  father,  and  you  are 
tier  son." 

She  raised  her  veil,  and  looked  him 
straight  in  the  face.  He  gazed  at  her, 
white  and  scared. 

'And  you  ?  " 


152 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


She  fell  at  his  feet,  crying,  — 
"  O  Philip,  —  Philip  !  I  am  your  guilt} 
mother.     Forgive  me,  —  forgive  me  !  " 

And  she  waited  for  his  words  of  lov 
and  forgiveness. 

Alas  I  none  came.  After  a  while  h 
raised  her,  and  placed  her  in  a  chair. 

His  lips  moved,  but  he  could  not  speak 
When  he  did  his  voice  was  hard  am 
harsh. 

"  You  say  you  are  my  mother.  I  mus 
believe  you.  That  I  am  still  illegitimate ' 
That,  too,  I  must  believe.  The  letters  and 
church  register  "  — 
"  They  are  forgeries." 
"They  are  forgeries, — I  believe  tha 
too.  Arthur  and  I  have  been  tricked  am 
cheated.  And  so,  what  next  ?  " 
She  did  not  answer. 
"  See,  now,  I  am  an  unnatural  son,  per- 
haps; but  I  am  going  to  take  a  common- 
sense  view  of  the  matter.  Let  every  thin 
be  as  it  was  before.  For  all  those  years 
I  have  had  no  mother,  I  cannot  now 
not  yet,  at  least  —  feel  to  you  as  I  should. 
Go  to  Arthur,  —  I,  too,  will  write  to  him 
—  tell  him  what  you  please.  If  I  were 
you,  I  should  tell  him  nothing.  And  let 
us  part.  I  am  ruined  in  fortune  and  un- 
happy in  every  relation  of  life;  but  we 
should  neither  of  us  be  happier  if  I  were 
to  go  home  with  you,  and  fall  into  false 
raptures  of  filial  love.  I  am  unkind,  per- 
haps ;  but  I  am  trying  not  to  deceive  you 
in  any  respect.  My  mother,  we  have  met 
once.  We  are  not  acting  a  play,  and  I 
cannot  fall  into  your  arms,  and  love  you 
all  at  once.  I  am  what  my  life  has  made 
me.  I  belong  to  another  world,  —  differ- 
ent to  yours.  I  have  my  habits,  my  preju- 
dices, my  opinions,  —  all  bad,  no  doubt; 
but  I  have  them.  Let  me  go  on  my  road. 
Believe  me,  with  such  a  son  you  would  be 
miserable.  Let  us  go  on  keeping  our  secret 
from  the  world.  No  one  shall  "know  that 
Madame  de  Guyon  has  a  son  at  all,  far  less 
such  a  son  as  myself." 

For  all  answer  she  threw  her  arms  round 
his  neck,  and  kissed  him  again  and  again. 
The  tears  came  into  his  eyes ;  ami,  for 
a  moment,  his  heart  softened,  and  he  kiss- 
ed her  cheek.  Then  the  frost  of  selfish- 
ness fell  upon  him  again,  and  he  grew 
hard  and  cruel. 

''  Let  us  part,"  he  said. 
"  Philip,"  she  moaned,  "  God  punishes 
me  very  hard ;  but  it  cannot  be  that  you 
should  suffer  for  my  faults.  God  only  grant 
that  you  never  feel  the  agony  and  suffering 
that  you  have  caused  two  women  who  love 
you." 

The  agony  and  suffering,"  he  answered 
lightly,  "  may  be  put  at  the  door  of  our 
modern  civilization.  I  am  sure  vou  will 


both  feel,  after  a  while,  that  I  have  acted 
tor  the  best.  Let  us  part,  and  be  friends. 
Sometimes  I  will  come  and  see  you." 

"  I  am  your  mother  still.  You  can  say 
and  do  nothing  that  I  would  not  forgive. 
When  your  heart  is  softened,  you  will 
come  back  to  me.  Stay  "  —  she  bent  for- 
ward with  fixed  eyes,  as  of  one  who  looks 
into  the  future,  — "I  feel  it.  The  time  is 
not  far  off  when  you  will  lie  in  my  arms, 
and  cry  for  shame  and  sorrow.  I  cannot 
make  it  all  out.  It  is  my  dream  that  comes 
again  and  again.  I  see  the  place,  —  it 
looks  like  George's  room.  And  now,  — 
now,  all  is  dark."  She  closed  her  eyes, 
and  then  looked  up  "with  her  former  ex- 
pression. "  And  now,  farewell,  —  Laura 
is  my  daughter." 

He  held  out  his  hand.  She  drew  her 
face  to  him,  and  kissed  him  on  the  brow. 
Then  she  let  down  her  veil,  and  went  away. 

Hour  after  hour  passed  ;  but  Philip  still 
sat  in  the  desolate  room  whence  he  had 
driven  away  the  angels  of  his  Ike. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

A  MONTH  passed  by,  and  no  message  or 
.etter  was  sent  to  Philip.  He,  now  quite 
gone  back  to  the  old  life,  spent  his  days 
chiefly  at  the  Burleigh  Club,  in  the  custom- 
ary unprofitable  pursuits  of  a  man  about 
town*  This  is  not  an  improving  course  ; 
and  every  day  found  him  more  ready  to 
keep  what  he  had  got,  whatever  might  be 
;he  truth.  His  mother  V  And  if  she  were 
lis  mother,  what  duty  did  he  owe  to  her  ? 
When  the  new  year  came  round,  he  was 
curious  to  learn  if  the  usual  two  hundred 
>ounds  would  he  paid  into  his  account.  It 
vas  not.  Then  he  was  quite  certain  about 
he.  sender.  It  was  Madame  de  Guyon. 
Another  thing  bothered  him.  Nothing 
jould  be  ascertained  as  to  Mr.  Maclntyre's 
vhereabouts.  No  notice  given  at  the 
odgings.  He  had  quietly  disappeared. 
Jne  thing  was  ascertainable,  however  :  he 
ad  drawn  out  the  whole  of  his  money  in 
ank-notes  and  gold. 

"  Come  with  me,"  said  Venn,  after  tell- 
ng  Arthur  what  he  had  learned,  —  "  oorae 
nd  see  Madame  de  Guyon.  She  would 
ke  it." 

Arthur  went.  Madame  de  Guyon  re- 
eived  him  with  a  curious  air  of  interest. 

"  You  are  like  your   father,"  she  said  ; 

but   more     like     poor     Adrienne,    your 

mother.       May  I   call   you  Arthur  V     You 

now  the  whole  sad  story,  Arthur.     At  this 

ength   of  time,  thinking   what   I  was,  in 

»vhat  school  brought  up,  how  utterly  igno- 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


153 


rant,  I  have  brought  myself  to  look  upon 
the  past  as  few  women  with  such  a  memory 
could.  I  can  now,  as  you  see,  even  talk 
about  it.  Have  you  seen  Philip  lately  ?  " 

"  I  never  see  Philip  at  all." 

*'  I  am  sorry.  Mr-  Venn  has  told  me  all  the 
story.  I  am  permitted  to  see  my  son's  wife. 
I  even  hope  that  she  may  come  to  live 
with  me.  Bo-t  this  estate  must  be  given  back. 
It  is  not  Philip's.  Cruel  as  the  blow  would 
be,  I  would  even  consent  to  go  into  a  court, 
and  relate  my  own  history,  if  necessary, 
rather  than  let  this  wrong  be  done  you." 

u  Philip  has  offered  to  restore  the  estate," 
said  Arthur ;  "  but  he  may  keep  it.  Be  at 
ease,  madame:  there  will  be  no  steps 
taken,  and  Philip  may  enjoy  what  the  for- 
geries of  Maclntyre  have  given  him." 

"  I  am  glad.  Put  yourself  only  in  my 
place,  Arthur.  After  twenty-five  years  of 
effort,  I  am  rich,  I  am  looked  up  to,  I  have 
a  good  name." 

"  Indeed  you  have,"  said  Arthur. 

"  What  if  all  were  to  be  lost  at  a  blow  ?  " 

"  It  shall  not,  madame, —  it  shall  not  be 
lost  at  all.  Keep  what  you  have,  the  repu- 
tation that  is  your  own.  Rest  assured  that 
rone  of  us  will  ever  harm  it." 

What  Marie  said  about  her  reputation 
was  less  than  the  truth.  Of  all  great  sing- 
ers nonct  had  become  so  widely  known  for 
her  thousand  acts  of  charity  and  grace  ; 
none  had  a  better  name ;  none  lived  a  life 
more  open  and  observed  of  all;  but  she 
was  not  satisfied  with  this.  She  wanted  to 
have,  if  she  could,  the  friendship  of  Made- 
leine arid  the  love  of  Laura. 

She  wrote  to  Madeleine :  — 

"  You  know  all  my  life,  —  its  beginning 
and  its  progress.  You,  a  girl  of  Palmiste, 
can  understand  what  I  was  thirty  years  ago, 
when  I  was  sixteen  years  old.  I  was  born 
a  slave,  white  as  I  was  in  complexion.  My 
mother  was  a  slave,  and  therefore  I  was  one. 
My  people  were  forbidden  to  marry  by  law, 
—  God's  laws  set  aside  for  man's  purposes. 
They  could  not  hold  property ;  they  were 
not  allowed  to  wear  shoes  ;  they  were  pub- 
licly flogged  in  the  Place  ;  they  were  not 
allowed  to  read  and  write.  When  I  was 
eight  years  old,  the  emancipation  came  ; 
but,  though  we  were  free,  the  old  habits  of 
slave-life  rested  with  us.  Think  of  these, 
if  you  can  ;  for  you  are  too  young  to  know 
much  about  what  we  were .  Think  of  what 
you  do  know,  and  then  ask  what  punish- 
ment I  deserve  for  two  years  of  sin.  Be- 
lieve rne,  every  year  that  has  elapsed  since 
has  been  a  year  of  punishment,  never  so 
heavy  as  now,  when  my  son  has  cast  me  off. 
You  know  what  a  position  I  have  conquered 
for  myself;  you  know,  too,  —  I  write  it  with 
a  pride  that  you  will  appreciate,  —  that  no 


breath  of  calumny  or  ill  report  has  been 
cast  upon  me  during  all  this  time.  No  one 
knows  who  I  am,  what  I  was.  I  wish  that 
no  one  should  know.  Why  do  I  write  to 
you  ?  It  is  because  you  have  been  kind  to 
my  daughter,  my  little  Laura,  and  because 
you  are  engaged  to  Arthur  Durnford. 
Years  ago,  —  the  last  time  I  saw  his  father, 
—  I  took  the  two  children,  my  Philip  and 
Arthur,  out  of  their  beds,  one  after  t  In  i  other. 
Philip  turned  from  me  and  cried ;  Arthur 
laid  his  arms  round  my  neck,  and  went  to 
sleep.  It  was  an  omen.  Part  of  it  has 
been  fulfilled.  Let  the  rest  be  fulfilled.  I 
ask  for  Arthur's  friendship.  I  —  yes,  I  — 
ask  you  foryour  friendship.  It  is  because  I 
hear  you  are  unlike  other  girls  —  indepen- 
dent, able  to  think  for  yourself —  that  I 
dare  to  ask  it  ;  and  I  ask  it  for  the  sake  of 
Laura,  as  well  as  myself.  I  want  to  take 
her  to  my  own  heart.  I  am  a  lonely  woman, 
and  hunger  for  somebody  to  love  me.  I 
cannot  do  this  unless  her  friends  —  you 
and  Arthur,  and  all  —  will  come  to  my 
house.  Tell  me  you  can,  after  these  years 
of  repentance,  give  me  your  hand.  Cannot 
a  woman  ever  be  forgiven  by  other 
women  V  " 

Madeleine  read  the  letter  with  burning" 
cheeks.  Why  should  she  not  go  to  see  this 
poor  woman,  shut  out  from  the  world  by  a 
thirty  years'  old  sin,  that  was  itself  but  igno- 
rance V 

But  she  must  keep  her  secret. 

She  gave  the  letter  to  Arthur  to  read. 

"  What  will  you  do,  Madeleine  ?  " 

"  I  will  do  what  you  wish,  Arthur." 

"  What  would  you  like  to  do  ?  Is  it  to 
go  and  see  her?  My  dear,  if  you  only 
knew,  she  is  the  best  of  good  women." 

So  Madeleine  went. 

All  this  time  Lollie  was  slowly  recovering 
her  strength,  under  the  motherly  care  of 
Sukey. 

When  she  grew  strong  enough  to  go  out, 
Hartley  thought  Philip's  promise  should  be 
fulfilled.  He  approached  the  subject  very 
delicately  one  day. 

"  I  have  been  thinking,  Lollie,"  he  said, 
"  that  in  case  of  any  legal  difficulties  about 
your  marriage  "  — 

"  What  legal  difficulties,  Mr.  Venn  ?  " 

"  You  see,  my  child,  a  ceremony  perfect- 
ly binding  in  all  other  respects  may  very 
possibly  not  be  in  accordance  with  the  law 
as  regards  succession  to  property,  and  so 
forth." 

"  But  what  have  I  to  do  with  succession 
to  property  V  " 

"  A  good  deal,  Lollie ;  and  I,  as  your 
guardian,  must  protect  your  interests.  The 
best  way  will  be  for  us  to  have  the  marriage 
done  over  a^ain." 


154 


MY  LITTLE   GIRL. 


"  Over  again  !  But  then  Philip  would 
have  to  be  there." 

"  Philip  will  be  there.  He  has  expressed 
his  readiness  to  be  there.  You  need  not  be 
alarmed,  Lollie ; "  for  she  began  to  shiver 
from  head  to  foot.  "  He  will  just  come  for 
the  ceremony,  and  go  away  immediately 
afterwards.  You  will  not,  perhaps,  even 
speak  to  him,  nor  him  to  you.  All  that  is 
arranged.  I  know,  Lollie,  child,  how  pain- 
ful nil  this  is  to  you  ;  but  it  must  be  done. 
Believe  me,  it  is  lor  your  own  sake." 

She  acquiesced.  If  Hartley  Venn  had 
told  her  to  go  straight  to  the  guillotine,  she 
would  have  done  it  for  his  sake. 

The  necessary  arrangements  were  made. 
An  old  college  friend  of  Venn's  undertook 
to  marry  them,  being  just  told  that  the  cir- 
cumstances were  peculiar,  and  that  he  was 
to  ask  no  question^. 

And  then  Madeleine  wrote  to  Philip  :  — 

"  MY  DEAR  PHILIP,  —  You  will  be  pre- 
pared to  go  through  the  marriage  ceremony 
of  the  Church  of  England  the  day  after  to- 
morrow, at  eleven  o'clock,  at 

Church, Square.  It  has  been  ex- 
plained to  Laura,  to  save  her  self-respect, 
that  this  will  be  done  in  the  view  of  pos- 
sible legal  difficulties.  She  is  growing 
stronger  and  better,  and  will,  as  soon  as 
she  is  able  to  be  moved,  go  to  reside  with 
Madame  de  Guyon.  For  everybody's 
sake  —  for  hers  as  well  as  ours  —  old  histo- 
ries will  be  left  alone,  and  no  steps  will  be 
taken  to  convict  the  forger  who  deceived  us 
all.  Keep  the  estate  of  Fontainebleau, 
dear  Philip,  and  be  happy.  You  have 
promised  to  do  every  thing  I  asked  you  for 
Laura.  You  will  first  marry  her  legally ; 
you  will  then  take  her  into  the  vestry  alone, 
and  ask  her  forgiveness.  You  cannot  re- 
fuse so  much.  I  hope  that  as  the  years 
move  on,  you  may  love  each  other  again, 
and  forget  the  wrongs  and  woes  of  the  past. 
1  love  your  wife  more  every  day  I  see 
her. 

"  There  is  one  other  point  I  should  like 
to  ask  you,  if  I  may.  It  is  of  Madame  de 
Guyon.  You  know  what  I  would  ask  you, 
and  I  will  not  name  it.  O  Philip!  if  it  is 
a  good  thing,  as  people  write,  for  man  to  be 
rich  in  woman's  love,  how  rich  ought  you 
to  be  !  Think  of  all  this,  and  do  what  your 
heart  prompts  you. 

"  You  will  see  me  at  the  church.  Your 
affectionate  sister, 

"  MADELEOE." 

But  the  letter  reached  Philip  at  a  wrong 
moment,  when  he  was  in  one  of  his  bitter 
moods  ;  and  he  only  tore  it  up",  and  swore. 
Nevertheless,  he  wrote  to  say  he  would 
keep  his  promise. 


It  was  a  bitterly  cold  morning  in  Janua- 
ry, with  snow  upon  the  ground,  and  icicles 
hanging  from  every  projection.  Sukey  was 
to  know  nothing  of  the  business  on  hand, 
and  was  mightily  astonished  when  Made- 
leine called  at  ten  o'clock,  and  took  out 
Laura  in  her  carriage,  wrapped  up  as 
warmly  as  could  be  managed.  Hartley 
Venn  and  Madame  de  Guyon  joined  them 
at  the  corner  of  the  street,  and  the  conspir- 
ators drove  to  the  church. 

It  was  the  most  difficult  thing  of  any 
that  Laura  had  yet  been  called  upon  to  do. 
She  had  made  up  her  mind  never  to  see 
her  husband  again.  Now  it  had  to  be  all 
gone  over  just  as  before.  She  remembered 
that  last  scene,  when,  after  words  sharper 
than  any  steel,  Philip  fell  crying  at  her 
feet  as  she  left  the  room,  praying  her  to 
come  back,  and  let  all  be  as  it  was.  But 
this  could  never  be.  She  knew  it  could 
never  be.  All  the  little  ties  that  grow  up 
between  lovers  —  the  tendrils  that  bind  soul 
to  soul,  growing  out  of  daily  thought  and 
daily  caresses  —  were  snapped  and  severed 
at  a  stroke.  The  ideal  had  been  destroyed 
at  one  blow;  even  its  ruins  seemed  van- 
ished and  lost.  Philip  had  more  of  her 
pity  now  than  .of  her  love.  No  more  her 
gallant  and  noble  lover,  the  crown  and  type 
of  all  loyalty  and  honor,  but  degraded  and 
fallen  ;  his  spurs  struck  off,  his  scutcheon 
smirched,  —  a  recreant  knight.  She  had 
forgiven  him.  Perhaps,  too,  love  might 
have  been  born  out  of  forgiveness  :  a  rose- 
bush beaten  to  the  ground  will  put  up  one 
or  two  branches,  and  blossom  again.  And 
woman's  love,  like  God's,  continues  through 
sin  and  shame  and  disgrace.  And  then, 
another  thing.  She  had  lived  a  different 
life.  The  three  women  who  were  now  her 
companions  and  i'riends,  —  Madeleine,  Ma- 
rie, and  Sukey,  —  each  in  her  own  way,  had 
taught  her  what  Hartley  Venn  could  never 
do  :  how  women  look  on  things  ;  how  great 
had  been  her  own  sin  in  keeping  her  secret 
from  Hartley.  With  all  these  influences 
upon  her,  as  she  grew  stronger,  her  very 
lace  seemed  to  change  :  she  passed  from  a 
girl  to  a  woman,  and  her  beauty  grew,  so  to 
speak,  stronger  and  more  real. 

Hartley  led  her  up  the  aisle.  There 
were  no  bridal  veils,  no  bridesmaids,  no 
pealing  organ.  She  kept  her  eyes  on  the 
ground  ;  but  she  knew  Philip  was  standing, 
pale  and  agitated,  by  the  altar. 

The  clergyman  came  out. 

A  strange  wedding.  The  clerk  and  the 
pew-opener  stared  with  open  eyes  at  each 
other;  for  the  bride  stood  before  the  altar, 
like  a  culprit,  —  pale,  thin,  tearful,  shiver- 
ing. Beside  her,  Venn,  his  smoo .  li  cheek 
flushed  with  suppressed  fury,  as  he  stood 
face  to  face  with  the  destroyer  ol  his  hap- 


MY   LITTLE   GIRL. 


153 


piness.  All  his  philosophy,  his  acceptance 
of  the  inevitable,  his  resignation  to  fate 
seemed  useless  now  to  stay  the  angry  beat 
ing  of  his  heart.  But  for  the  presence  ol 
the  women,  he  might  have  broken  out  then 
and  there.  Behind  Laura,  another,  more 
deeply  moved  than  any  of  the  rest  —  tht 
mother  of  the  Bridegroom.  With  her 
Madeleine,  anxious  that  there  should  be 
above  all,  no  scene,  — tue  only  one  present 
to  whom  the  whole  ceremony  did  not  ap- 
pear a  kind  of  strange,  wild  dream. 

As  for  Philip,  he  stood,  at  first  defiantly, 
looking  straight  at  the  clergyman ;  and,  but 
for  the  hot  flush  upon  his  face,  you  might 
have  thought  him  careless.  Madeleine 
looked  at  him,  and  knew  otherwise.  Pres- 
ently he  had  to  kneel.  Then,  open  as 
natures  such  as  his  are  to  every  kind  of  in- 
fluence, the  words  of  the  prayer  fell  upon 
his  dry  heart  like  rain  upon  a  thirsty  soil ; 
and  he  was  touched,  almost  to  tears,  by 
pity  and  sorrow  for  the  gentle  girl  at  his 
side,  but  not  by  love. 

They  stood  up,  face  to  face.  For  the 
second  time  their  hands  were  joined  with 
solemn  words ;  and  Laura  started  when 
she  heard  the  voice  of  Philip  —  low  and 
sad  as  it  seemed  —  saying,  after  the  clergy- 
man, the  words  prescribed  by  the  Church. 

They  were  pronounced  man  and  wife. 

Philip  took  her  by  the  hand,  and  led 
her  into  the  vestry,  shutting  the  door. 

He  placed  a  chair  for  her,  and  stood  in 
front.  The  church  service  had  softened 
him,  and  the  better  nature  was  again 
uppermost. 

u  Laura,"  he  said,  "  I  promised  Made- 
leine to  remove  any  doubts  that  might 
exist  in  any  mind  by  going  through  this 
ceremony.  That  is  done.  We  are  now 
married  so  that  no  one,  if  they  could  say 
any  thing  before,  can  say  a  word  now 
against  the  legality  of  our  union ;  but  one 
thing  remains.  I  have  done  you  cruel 
wrong.  Will  you  forgive  me  V  " 

"  Yes,  Philip,  I  have  forgiven." 

"  Freely  and  fully  ?  " 

"  Long  since,  Philip,  —  long  since." 

"  We  ought  never  to  have  met,  child. 
Tell  me  again,  that  I  may  take  the  words 
away  with  me,  that  you  forgive  me." 

"  Philip,  in  the  sight  of  God,  I  forgive 
all  and  every  thing." 

"  We  must  part,  Laura,  now,  —  at  all 
events,  for  the  present.  It  is  best  so,  is  it 
not  V  I  shall  travel.  We  will  not  even 
write  to  each  other.  I  have  not  forgiven 
myself.  Kiss  me  once,  my  wife." 

She  stood  up,  and  kissed  him  on  the  lips, 
her  tears  raining  on  his  cheeks.  Then 
Philip  opened  the  door  and  stepped  into 
the  church,  where  the  clerk  was  standing 
open-mouthed  at  this  extraordinary  conduct. 


"  There  are  some  papers  to  sign,  I  be- 
lieve," he  said. 

They  all  went  into  the  vestry.  Philip 
signed. 

"  I  have  done  what  I  promised,  Made- 
leine." 

Madeleine  made  a  gesture  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Madame  de  Guyon,  who  was  bend- 
ing over  Laura. 

"  You  have  no  word  for  her,"  she 
whispered. 

He  turned  to  his  mother,  hesitated  a 
moment,  then  raised  her  hand  and  kissed 
it.  She  threw  her  arms  about  his  neck, 
and  kissed  him  passionately,  whispering, — 

"  Philip,  my  son,  come  back  to  us  soon  " 

He  freed  himself  gently,  placed  her  in  a 
chair,  and  took  his  hat.  Then  he  saw 
Hartley. 

"  You  are  Mr.  Venn  ?  "  he  asked.  "  I 
cannot  ask  your  forgiveness,  that  would 
be  too  preposterous.  I  leave  my  wife  and 
—  and  my  mother  in  your  care." 

He  left  the  vestry,  and  strode  down  the 
aisle.  They  heard  his  footsteps  out  of  the 
church  door,  and  down  the  street  outside. 
Then,  they,  too,  left  the  church,  and  drove 
away  in  Madeleine's  carriage  to  Madame 
de  Guyon's  house. 

"  He  asked  me  to  forgive  him,  mamma," 
said  Laura,  sobbing  in  her  arms.  "  He 
told  me  he  was  sorry.  Let  us  pray  for 
him  together." 

"  This,"  said  the  clerk  to  the  old  woman 
who  assisted  — "  this  here  is  the  most 
extraordinary  and  rummest  wedding  I  ever 
see.  First,  the  young  man  he  comes  half 
an  hour  early.  I  told  him  to  look  at  the 
clock.  '  Damn  the  clock,'  he  said,  begging 
your  pardon,  Mrs.  Trigg.  Such  was  his 
blasphemous  words,  and  in  a  church  1 
He  didn't  give  you  much,  I  suppose,  Mrs. 
Trigg  ?  You  ain't  a  great  deal  richer  tor 
this  precious  morning's  work  ?  " 

"  Not  a  brass  farthing  !  " 

"  Ah !  they  call  themselves  gentlefolks,  I 
suppose.  It's  a  queer  way  to  begin  rnar- 
•ied  life  by  giving  the  church  people  noth- 
ng,  let  alone  quarrelling  before  ever  they 
:ome  near  the  place  !  However,  I  dessay 
:here's  nothing  absolutely  illegal  in  not  giv- 
ng  the  clerk  and  pew-opener  their  just  and 
awful  dues;  but  it  looks  bad.  It  looks 
very  bad.  Mark  my  words,  Mrs.  Tri^g : 
here  will  be  no  blessin'  on  this  wedding." 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

So  Philip  went  his  way,  and  they  heard 
no  more  of  him  for  a  time.  But  a  change 
•vas  coming  over  the  unhappy  young  man  ; 
a  change  for  the  worse.  He  was,  as  has 


156 


MY   LITTLE   GIRL, 


boon  seen,  of  that  light  and  unstable  char- 
acter whose  good  and  evil  never  seem  to 
end  their  contest,  whose  owner  is  able  at 
one  moment  to  resolve  the  highest  and  no- 
blest things,  and  at  the  next  to  fall  into  the 
lowest  and  basest  actions.  Does  this  come 
from  the  fatal  African  blood  ?  God  forbid 
that  we  should  say  so ;  but  surely  it  may 
be  helped  for  the  worse  by  the  presence 
of  a  constant  suspicion  of  inferiority.  It  is 
self-respect  that  makes  men  walk  erect, 
and  in  a  straight  line.  We  who  sin  are 
men  who  esteem  ourselves  but  lightly. 
Sinners  there  are  who  think  no  small  beer 
of  themselves — rather  the  finest  and  old- 
est Trinity  Audit ;  but  they  are  those  who 
have  framed  themselves  a  special  code  of 
honor  and  morality ;  and,  if  we  called 
things  by  their  right  names,  we  should  not 
use  the  idle  metaphors  of  the  common  jar- 
gon, saying  of  a  man  that  he  wants  ballast, 
bottom*  backbone,  staying  power,  energy, 
but  we  should  say  that  he  wants  self- 
respect.  This  is  the  quality  that  makes  a 
man  Senior  Wrangler,  Victoria  Cross, 
K.C.B.,  Mayor  of  his  town,  Deputy  Grand 
of  the  Ancient  Order  of  Druids,  or  any 
other  distinction  we  long  for.  This  is  what 
inspires  industry,  pluck,  perseverance,  con- 
fidence, —  every  thing.  Dear  friends,  and 
fathers  of  families,  make  your  sons  con- 
ceited, Viiin,  proud,  self-believers,  encour- 
age confidence.  Never  let  them  be  snubbed 
or  bullied.  See  that  they  walk  head  erect 
and  fist  ready.  Inspire  them  with  such  a 
measure  of  self-esteem  as  will  make  them 
ready  to  undertake  any  thing.  If  they  fail, 
as  is  quite  likely,  no  matter.  They  would 
have  failed  in  any  case,  you  see  ;  and  they 
have  always  their  conceit  to  fall  back 
upon.  Lord  John  Russell  is  a  case  in 
point.  Ready  to  command  the  Channel 
Fleet,  —  you  know  the  rest  of  it.  I  know 
a  man  —  the  stupidest,  piggest-headed, 
most  ignorant,  most  conceited,  and  most 
inflated  bloater  of  a  man  you  ever  saw. 
This  creature,  by  sheer  dint  of  conceit  and 
vanity,  which  made  him  step  calmly  to  the 
front,  and  stand  there  just  as  if  he  were 
in  his  right  place,  has  a  great  house  at  South 
Kensington,  and  is  director  of  a  lot  of  com- 
panies. He  is  also,  save  the  mark !  a  Fel- 
low of  the  Royal  Society.  He  got  this,  I 
know,  by  asking  for  it ;  and  they  were  so 
astonished  by  the  request  that  they  gave 
him  the  distinction  by  mistake.  He  sent 
in  his  name  with  all  the  letters  of  the  alpha- 
bet after  it  —  those  degrees  which  you  can 
get  for  two  guineas  a  year  or  thereabouts 
—  F.A.S.,  F.B.S,  F.C.S.  F.D.S.,  &c. ; 
and  then  F.R.A.S.  F.R.B.S.,  F.R.C.S.,  &c., 
and  after  the  names  there  came  the  words, 
in  great  capitals,  AUTHOR  OF  THE 
WORK  ENTITLED  «  ON  THE  TRIT- 


URATION  OF  IGNEOUS  PARTI- 
CLES." You  see,  he  once  rubbed  a 
couple  of  sticks  together  to  try  and  make 
a  lire,  after  the  manner  of  the  barbarians, 
and  failed  to  do  more  than  bark  his  own 
knuckles.  Then  he  wrote  a  pamphlet,  in 
six  pa^es,  on  the  subject.  This  was  his 
work,  to  which  he  refers  whenever  a  scien- 
tific point  is  mooted. 

Pardon  me,  reader,  whenever  I  think 
of  that  man  and  this  subject,  I  am  carried 
away  with  an  irrepressible  enthusiasm  and 
admiration. 

Graviora  canamus.  It  is  an  easy  thing 
to  write  of  a  man's  downward  course  — 
but  a  sad  thing.  Poor  Philip,  seeing  some- 
times the  things  he  had  done  in  their  true 
and  real  characters,  was  afflicted  with  a 
senss  of  shame  and  disgrace  that  became 
so  strong  as  to  drive  him  back  upon  him- 
self. He  left  off  going  to  the  club.  That 
is  to  say,  he  left  off  going  among  his  fellow- 
men  at  all.  He  had  no  friends,  except 
club-friends.  Occasionally  he  might  be 
met,  but  not  in  the  daytime,  wandering 
carelessly  along  the  streets.  For  he  could 
not  sleep  at  night,  and  used  to  tire  himself 
by  long,  lonely  walks,  and  then  get  home 
to  his  rooms  at  three  in  the  morning,  and 
go  to  bed  exhausted.  Presently  two  devils 
entered  into  him,  and  possessed  him.  The 
first  was  the  demon  of  drink.  He  be<xan 
to  drink  in  the  morning ;  he  went  on  drink- 
ing all  day.  At  night  he  was  sodden,  and 
could  sleep. 

All  this  was  not  done  in  a  day.  A  man 
who  begins  to  live  by  himself  in  this  great 
London,  where  it  is  so  easy,  soon  drops  into 
the  habit  of  ceasing  to  care  for  any  society. 
The  streets  are  society,  —  the  long  and 
multitudinous  streets,  with  the  roar  "of  the 
carriages  and  the  faces  of  the  people. 
The  streets  inspired  Dickens,  who  would 
come  up  from  the  country  to  London,  and 
find  in  the  streets  the  refreshment  that  he 
needed.  The  streets  possessed  the  soul  of 
De  Quincy.  To  me  there  is  no  exhibition 
in  the  world  comparable  to  Regent  Street 
at  four,  or  to  the  strand  all  day  long.  I 
know  a  man  who  dropped  some  years  since 
into  this  lonely  life.  He  goes  nowhere 
now ;  he  cares  to  go  nowhere.  He  dines 
every  day  at  the  self-same  seat  and  the 
self-same  place,  on  the  self-same  dinner. 
Then  he  goes  back  to  his  chambers,  smokes 
a  cigar,  and  presently  to  bed.  In  the  day- 
time he  goes  up  and  down  the  streets. 

Philip,  in  his  bitter  moods,  began  by  go- 
ing less  often  to  the  club,  so  that  he  gradu- 
ally dropped  out  of  the  set.  He  was  no 
longer  to  be  depended  on  for  a  rubber. 
His  face  was  missed  at  the  nightly  pool. 
No  more  bets  were  to  be  got  out  of  him. 
And  then  he  ceased  to  go  there  at  all. 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


157 


It  was  at  this  period,  during  February 
and  March,  that  another  fancy  took  him. 
He  found  out  from  the  "  Directory  "  where 
Madame  de  Guyon  lived.  It  was  in  one 
of  those  houses  that  lie  so  thickly  round 
the  north  of  Regent's  Park.  One  night  he 
walked  up  there  after  dinner.  It  was  a 
house  with  a  little  garden-ground  under  the 
windows.  One  room,  the  drawing-room, 
was  lighted  up.  The  blinds  were  not  down, 
and  the  curtains  not  drawn.  Philip  stood 
on  the  pavement,  and  looked  in  through 
the  railings.  The  party  inside  consisted 
of  two  ladies,  —  his  mother  and  his  wife,  — 
and  a  man,  Hartley  Venn.  Venn  was  ly- 
ing lazily  in  an  easy-chair  ;  Madame  Guy- 
on  was  sitting  opposite  to  him,  knitting ; 
Lollie  sat  in  the  middle,  reading  aloud. 
Philip  heard  her  voice.  She  hud  one  of 
those  sweet,  rich  voices  —  not  *  strong  — 
which  curl  around  a  man's  heart  like  the 
tendrils  of  a  vine.  I  hate  a  woman  with 
a  loud  voice,  and  I  hate  a  woman  who 
whispers.  He  could  not  hear  what  she 
read;  but  he  listened  to  the  voice,  and 
tried  to  remember  the  past.  All  that 
blind,  mad  passion  was  dead.  There  was 
left  in  his  heart  the  power,  like  a  seed 
waiting  for  the  spring,  of  waking  to  a 
higher  and  purer  love ;  and  now  he 
seemed  to  know  her  better,  and  acknowl- 
edged within  himself  that  she  was  every 
way  worthy  of  the  best  love  a  man  can 
bring. 

He  stood  without,  in  the  rain  and  cold, 
looking  on  the  quiet  happiness  within. 
Presently,  Madame  de  Guyon  went  to  the 
piano,  and  began  to  sing.  Her  glorious 
voice  filled  the  little  room  to  overflow- 
ing, and  welled  forth  in  great  waves  of 
sound.  Philip  clutched  the  railings,  and 
pressed  his  cheek  against  the  iron.  This 
was  his  mother,  —  this  glorious  queen  among 
women,  this  empress  of  song.  There  was 
the  peaceful  retreat  waiting  for  him.  He 
knew  he  had  but  to  knock  at  the  door.  It 
was  like  Bunyan's  way  to  heaven  :  to  knock 
at  the  door  was  enough. 

Then  the  younger  lady  took  the  elder's 
place,  and  began  to  play,  —  some  of  the  old 
things  he  knew,  that  she  had  so  often  play- 
ed to  him.  She  played  on,  with  her  head 
.thrown  back,  in  that  attitude  of  careless 
grace  which  he  had  never  seen  in  any 
other  woman,  with  lips  half  parted,  eyes 
half  closed,  while  the  music  rose  and  fell 
beneath  her  fingers,  and  flowed,  like  the 
rising  tide  among  the  caves,  within  her 
soul.  Then  she,  too,  stopped ;  and  Venn 
got  up  and  shook  hands  with  both.  He 
passed  out,  and  crossed  to  the  other  side 
of  the  street ;  but  did  not  notice  the  man 
leaning  against  the  railings,  with  straining 
eyes,  staring  within. 


Then  the  blind  was  drawn  down.  A 
bell  rang.  Some  one  —  his  wife  —  played 
an  evening  hymn.  They  sang.  Then  a 
monotonous  voice  for  a  few  minutes,  and 
presently  the  lights  were  extinguished. 
They  had  prayed,  and  were  gone  to  bed  ; 
but  they  had  prayed  ibr  him.  And,  as  he 
stood  there,  after  the  lights  were  extin- 
guished, there  were  two  women,  in  two 
rooms,  each  on  her  knees  by  the  bedside, 
praying  for  him  again,  —  his  mother  and 
his  wile.  Then  he  came  to  himself,  and 
walked  back  as  fast  as  he  could,  trying  to 
pull  himself  together. 

Two  or  three  nights  afterwards,  he  went 
up  again.  This  time  there  were  no  lights. 
All  was  dark.  He  waited  till  past  eleven, 
walking  backwards  and  forwards  in  the 
road.  Then  a  carriage  drew  up,  and  he 
saw  them  descend  and  enter  the  house. 
They  had  been  to  the  theatre,  and  were 
laughing  and  talking  gayly.  That  night  he 
went  home  in  a  rage.  What  right  had 
they  to  be  happy  without  him  ? 

But  he  went  up  again.  Sometimes  the 
blinds  were  left  up,  and  he  saw  the  group. 
Ot'tener  blinds  and  curtains  were  drawn; 
and  he  could  only  hear  the  voices,  and  the 
sound  of  the  piano.  He  knew,  too,  well 
enough,  which  of  the  two  was  playing  ;  and 
also  got  to  know  —  which  filled  his  boul 
with  inexpressible  pangs  of  rage  and  jea- 
lousy —  that  Venn  was  there  about  four 
nights  in  the  week. 

All  this  time  he  was  drinking  fcard,  and 
living  entirely  alone.  One  night  he  went  to 
bed  earlier  than  usual,  —  about  one  o'clock, 
—  and,  contrary  to  his  usual  practice,  went 
to  sleep  at  once.  At  three  o'clock  he  awoke 
with  a  shudder  and  a  start.  Opening  his 
eyes  wide,  he  saw,  sitting  by  the  side  of  the 
bed,  —  in  fact  on  his  own  pile  of  clothes,  — 
a  skeleton.  Not  a  skeleton  of  the  comic 
order,  with  a  pipe  in  his  mouth,  such  as  we 
aro  fond  of  drawing,  but  of  the  entirely 
tragic  and  melancholy  kind:  with  his 
mouth  open  wide,  from  ear  to  ear,  as  if  it 
was  a  throat  cut  an  inch  and  a  half  too  high 
up  ;  a  long,  bony  hand  that  pointed  straight 
at  him,  and  shook  its  finger  in  anger ;  eyes 
that  glared  with  a  horrid  earnestness ; 
bones,  all  the  way  down,  that  seemed  trans- 
parent. Solitude  makes  men  nervous ; 
drink  makes  them  see  skeletons.  Philip 
sat  up,  and  glared.  Then  he  gave  a  half 
cry,  and, buried  his  head  under  the  clothes. 

Presently  he  looked  out  again.  The 
skeleton  was  gone.  He  turned  round  with 
a  sigh  of  relief.  The  skeleton  was  on  the 
other  side.  Then  he  covered  his  head 
again,  and  waited  till  daybreak,  —  till  past 
six  o'clock.  By  that  time  the  spectre  was 
gone. 

The  next  night  he  did  not  dare  to  go  to 


158 


MY   LITTLE   GIRL. 


bed  again.  And  then  it  was  that  the  second 
devil,  of  whom  I  have  spoken  above,  took 
possession  of  him.  This  time  it  was  the 
demon  of  play.  Philip,  who  knew  every 
thing  about  London,  was  not  ignorant  of 
the  existence  of  one  or  two  places  —  where, 
indeed,  he  had  more  than  once  been  seen, 
—  where  you  may  find  a  green  table,  dice, 
and  other  accessories  to  the  gambling-table. 
To  one  of  these  he  went  that  night  at  one 
o'clock.  There  were  two  or  three  of  his 
club  acquaintances  there,  who  greeted  him 
as  one  newly  returned  from  some  long  for- 
eign travel. 

ile  got  through  the  night  so.  And  saw 
no  spectre  when  he  awoke  at  mid-day. 

Then  he  began  to  frequent  the  place 
regularly.  It  seemed  to  him  the  only 
place  where  pleasure  could  be  found.  At 
the  age  of  six  and  twenty  this  young  man 
found  the  fruits  of  the  world  turned  in  his 
mouth  to  dust  and  ashes.  He  had  no 
longer  any  ambition  or  any  hope.  The 
long  night  spent  over  the  chances  of  the 
game  gave  him  light,  companionship,  ex- 
citement. To  keep  his  head  clear,  he  gave 
up  the  brandy  and  water  of  the  day.  So 
far  this  was  a  gain.  But  then  he  took  to 
champagne  at  night,  and  drank  too  much 
of  it.  As  for  the  play,  whether  he  lost  or 
won  made  no  difference,  because  he  never 
lost  heavily ;  and  fortune  favored  him  by 
giving  him  neither  great  coups,  nor  great 
reverses. 

This  kind  of  thing  went  on  for  a  couple 
of  months  or  so.  He  grew  thin,  pale,  ex- 
citable. He  had  not  the  moral  courage 
even  to  go  among  men  at  all,  never  went 
anywhere  except  to  the  gaming-table, — 
except  when  he  walked  up  to  Regent's 
Park  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  home  he 
had  abandoned.  The  sight  of  it,  the  oc- 
casional sight  of  its  inhabitants,  was  like  a 
lash  of  scorpions.  If  he  saw  them  happy, 
his  blood  boiled  with  jealousy  and  rage.  If 
he  thought  they  looked  depressed,  he  ground 
his  teeth  together,  and  cursed  himself  for 
the  cause. 

At  first  he  used  to  have  mighty  yearnings 
of  spirit,  and  was  moved  to  knock  at  the 
door  and  ask  admittance.  These  emotions 
being  suppressed,  day  after  day,  grew  grad- 
ually of  less  strength.  Then  he  ceased  to 
think  of  any  change  at  alii  and  went  on 
moodily  —  without  any  of  that  singing  and 
dancing  of  which  he  spoke  to  Madeleine  — 
down  the  slope  of  Avernus,  the  bottom  of 
which  was  not  far  off. 

He  had  laid  his  skeleton  by  the  process 
of  changing  his  hours  altogether ;  but  it 
was  only  laid  for  a  time.  Youth  will  stand 
a  good  deal ;  but  there  is  a  point  beyond 
which  you  may  not  go.  Then  a  disordered 
liver,  an  unhealthy  brain,  a  nervous  excite- 


ment, produce  discomforts  of  a  very  rude 
and  practical  kind.  There  came  a  time, 
early  in  April,  when  his  sleep  was  so  tor- 
mented 'with  terrible  dreams,  and  his 
waking  hours  with  terrible  thoughts,  — 
thoughts  that  he  knew  could  belong  to  no 
sound  brain,  and  sights  that  he  knew  to  be 
unreal  or  supernatural,  —  that  he  went  to  a 
doctor,  and  humbly  asked  assistance. 

"  What  have  you  been  doing  ?  " 

"  Nothing.  Smoking,  drinking,  living 
alone,  gambling.  Every  thing  that  is 
bad." 

"  Leave  it  all  off.     Go  into  society." 

'•The  only  society  I  can  go  into  is  the 
society  of  men  who  do  these  things." 

"  You  have  money  ?  Good.  Then  go 
away.  That  is  the  only  thing  I  can  do 
for  you.  Live  temperately,  and  go  away." 

"  Where  am  I  to  go  to  ?  " 

"  Go  ?  Go  anywhere.  As  far  as  you 
can.  Take  a  long  sea-voyage.  Come 
back  after  it,  —  say  in  two  years'  time, 
and  we  will  see  how  you  are.  If  you  stay 
here  and  go  on  drinking,  you  will  probably 
be  dead  in  six  months." 

"  What  does  it  matter  if  I  am  ?  " 

"  Pardon  me,  my  dear  sir.  My  business 
is  to  prolong  life,  not  to  examine  into  the 
desirability  of  preserving  it.  Most  of  my 
patients  prefer  to  live.  Doubtless  they 
consider  the  chances  of  a  change  dubious." 

Philip  went  away  relieved.  He  would 
go  away  and  travel.  The  new  thought 
occupied  his  mind  all  day;  and  for  that 
night  he  slept  soundly,  and  if  skeletons 
danced  in  his  room,  as  they  did  sometimes, 
he  was  asleep,  and  did  not  see  them. 

Where  to  go  ? 

He  awoke  in  the  morning,  asking  himself 
the  question.  And  then  a  happy  thought 
struck  him.  He  would  go  away  for  good 
and  all ;  he  would  get  out  of  a  country 
where  all  the  memories  were  miserable  to 
"him.  The  past  should  be  shaken  off  like 
an  old  garment.  He  would  begin  a  new 
life;  he  would  go  and  live  on  his  own 
estate,  —  Arthur's,  by  right,  said  his  con- 
science,—  in  Palrniste. 

His  thoughts  flew  to  the  place.  He  felt 
again  the  warm  breath  of  the  'summer  air ; 
he  sat  in  the  shade,  deep  down  in  the  ravine, 
where  the  cool  dash  and  plash  of  the  moun- 
tain stream  made  sweet  music  in  his  ears  ; 
roamed  the  forest,  gun  in  hand,  while  the 
branches  sighed  in  the  breeze.  He  saw 
the  hill-tops  purpling  at  dawn,  and  the 
heavy  dew  lying  in  great  beads  upon  the 
roses.  He  heard  the  shrill  voices  of  the 
coolies,  and  watched  the  Indian  women 
pass  by,  with  their  lithe,  graceful  figures 
and  their  scarlet,  robes.  And  all  at  once 
a  wild  longing  came  over  him  to  be  there, 
and  at  peace. 


MY   LITTLE  GIRL. 


159 


All  day  long  he  went  about,  radiant  with 
the  new  thought.  He  drove  to  Silver's, 
and  ordered  a  lot  of  things  to  be  put 
together  at  once.  He  drove  to  his  agent's, 
and  told  him  what  he  was  going  to  do.  lie 
ascertained  that  the  steamer  left  Southamp- 
ton in  three  days,  and  he  took  his  passage. 

Then  he  went  home,  and  dreamed  of  the 
future. 

There,  in  that  land  where  it  is  always 
afternoon,  peace  would  come  to  him  at 
last,  and  conscience  be  still.  A  pleasant 
life  lay  before  him,  —  a  life  of  ease  and 
dignity.  He  would  be  a  judge  among  the 
people  of  his  estate,  as  his  father  had  been 
before  him  :  he  would  be  the  giver  and  dis- 
penser of  hospitality.  He  would  leaye  be- 
hind him,  and  forget  forever^  the  two 
women  who  could  be  happy  while  he  was 
wretched  ;  Arthur,  the  wronged,  —  all 
against  whom  he  had  sinned.  He  would 
forget  them  all,  and  be  happy. 

Alas  !  "  Ccelum,  non  animum,  mutant  qui 
trans  mare  currunt." 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

BAD  indeed  must  be  the  condition  of  that 
man  whom  a  long  voyage  does  not  restore 
to  freshness  and  health.  Here  are  no  let- 
ters, no  duns,  no  newspapers.  The  world 
goes  on  without  you.  One  has  no  longer 
the  fidgety  feeling,  like  the  fly  on  the  wheel, 
of  being  essential  to  the  march  of  events. 
Nor  is  there  any  sense  of  responsibility. 
Nothing  to  be  done  ;  nothing  to  be  thought 
of:  eating  and  drinking  the  business  of  the 
day,  its  pleasure  to  watch  the  waves  and 
the  skies. 

For  Philip  there  was  the  additional  pleas- 
ure of  renewing  intercourse  with  his  brother 
man.  He  lost  all  his  spectres,  grew  once 
more  bright-eyed  and  keen-witted,  and, 
when  they  steamed  into  the  harbor  of  St. 
Denys,  had  altogether  forgotten  the 
wretched  being  who  clung  to  the  railings 
of  the  little  house  at  Regent's  Park,  and 
peered  into  the  brightness  within.  He 
stepped  upon  the  quay,  —  the  old  familiar 
place,  —  and  looked  around  him.  There 
were  the  coolies  at  work  ;  the  white  houses 
of  the  residents  stretching  up  the  broad 
street ;  beyond,  the  ugly  spire  of  the  cathe- 
dral, like  a  gigantic  extinguisher  ;  and  over 
all  towered  the  mountains,  blackening  now 
with  the  shadows  of  evening.  And  then 
there  fell  upon  him  a  very  curious  feeling, 
because  he  suddenly  remembered  that  he 
should  not  know  a  single  soul  in  the  whole 
island  :  not  one.  During  the  whole  voyage 
lie  had  been  nursed  by  a  vague  idea  that  he 
was  rushing  back  into  the  arms  of  innu- 


merable friends.  Now  he  felt  like  Oliver 
Goldsmith  when  he  went  among  the  Hol- 
landers with  the  grandest  projects,  and  only 
remembered  too  late  that  he  knew  no 
Dutch.  But  his  laughter  was  short ;  and 
he  felt  somewhat  saddened  as  he  ordered 
his  things  to  be  taken  to  the  hotel. 

There  is  a  hotel  at  St.  Deny?,  — in  fact, 
there  are  many,  but  only  one  of  decent  re- 
pute. It  consists  of  a  long,  low,  wooden 
house,  painted  a  bright  yellow,  with  a  deep 
veranda  round  it.  It  has  two  stories,  the 
upper  one  containing  the  bedrooms ;  and, 
for  coolness'  sake,  the  partitions  are  not  run 
up  to  the  ceiling,  leaving  a  clear  space 
above.  This  not  only  allows  the  air  to  cir- 
culate, but  also  permits  the  guests  the  ad- 
vantage of  overhearing  all  the  conversation 
that  may  be  going  on  in  the  adjoining 
rooms.  Lying  and  sitting  about  the  veran- 
da are  a  crowd  of  Indian  boys,  dressed  in 
a  suit  of  uniform,  of  white  trousers  and  black 
jackets,  neat  and  handy  looking.  Outside, 
under  the  thick  shade  of  the  trees,  sit  the 
happy  islanders,  playing  dominoes.  They 
begin  this  amusement  at  early  dawn,  and 
go  on,  with  short  intervals  for  business  and 
longer  ones  for  breakfast  and  dinner,  till  it 
is  time  to  go  to  bed,  that  is,  till  about  eight 
o'clock.  They  do  this  every  day,  including 
Sunday,  and  are  never  tired  ;  and  when 
Azrael  is  sent  to  fetch  them  away,  they  are* 
thinking  —  as  they  have  been  thinking  all 
their  lives  —  of  the  last  combinations  of 
the  pips.  At  least  their  lives  may  be  called 
happy,  because  they  have  all  that  they  de- 
sire. 

All  was  as  Philip  remembered  it  years 
before.  The  waiters  ran  about  and  chat- 
tered ;  the  players  smoked  cigars,  drank 
orgeat,  and  chattered  ;  and,  that  nothing 
might  be  wanting,  a  great  black  parrot, 
which  had  been  there  ten  years  before,  was 
there  still,  stalking  about  with  an  air  of 
being  the  only  really  superior  person  pres- 
ent. It  was  a  parrot  of  infinite  accomplish- 
ments ;  and  at  sight  of  him  Philip  laughed, 
thinking  how  he  had  made  Arthur  and 
himself  laugh  years  before.  For  he  had 
been  carefully  instructed  in,  and  had  by 
sheer  force  of  imitative  genius  acquired,  the 
art  of  representing  all  the  sounds  which 
proceed  from  a  person  affected  with  cold, 
from  its  earliest  appearance  to  its  most  ad- 
vanced stage  of  pulmonary  consumption. 
Too  much  of  him  might  be  undesirable,  but 
at  |irst,  he  was  amusing.  Nothing  was 
changed.  At  the  table  d'hote,  the  same 
dinner.  The  principal  guests  were  his  fel- 
low-travellers in  the  mail, —  at  all  events, 
the  most  important,  because  they  had  the 
latest  news.  Of  course  their  importance 
last-s  only  five  minutes  ;  for  no  one  can  be 
expected  in  Palmiste  to  pay  attention  to 


1GO 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


foreign  news  for  a  longer  time.  The  con- 
cession of  five  minutes  grunted  to  the  outer 
world,  the  conversation  rolled  on  in  its 
usual  groove,  and  the  latest  scandal  re- 
sumed its  proper  place.  Philip  noticed  it 
all,  and  listened,  wondering  how  he  should 
get  on  with  all  these  people,  whom  he 
seemed  to  remember  in  a  kind  of  dream. 
It  was  their  old  manner  of  talk,  he  remem- 
bered. 

He  went  to  bed  early.  Just  as  he  was 
turning  in,  he  heard  voices  from  the  next 
room. 

'-  Dites  moi,  mon  ami"  —  it  was  a  lady's 
voice,  —  u  who  was  this  M.  Durnford,  who 
has  just  arrived  and  dined  at  the  table 
d'hote?" 

"  It  is  not  the  son  of  our  old  friend,"  re- 
plied her  husband,  —  "  not,  that  is,  the  son 
of  your  school-fellow,  Adrienne  de  Rosnay. 
Another  son  altogether.  Some  early  liai- 
son. His  name  is  Philip.  He  has  bought 
the  estate  of  his  half-brother,  and  comes 
here  to  see  it,  I  suppose.  It  is  not  proba- 
ble he  will  live  here." 

"  No  :  that  is,  of  course,  out  of  the  ques- 
tion. He  is  a  handsome  young  man. 
Pity  he  is  a  mulatto.  He  had  much  better 
go  back  to  England  or  France,  where  they 
are  not  particular  as  to  color." 

There  was  a  plunge  and  a  heavy  thud,  as 
if  some  stout  person  was  getting  into  bed; 
and  in  five  minutes  dead  silence,  but  for  a 
gentle  breathing,  which  gradually  deep- 
ened into  a  melodious  snore. 

But  Philip  was  lying  in  bed,  tossing 
about,  and  clinching  his  fists.  On  the  very 
first  night  to  be  reminded  in  this  brusk 
and  brutal  way,  it  was  too  much.  He 
lay  awake.  Why  had  he  come  here  ? 
What  cursed  fate  was  it  which  brought 
him  back  to  the  island  he  had  always 
hated  ? 

The  night  was  hot  too ;  and  the  mosqui- 
toes were  stinging  his  face  and  hands.  He 
got  out  of  bed,  and  lit  a  candle,  and  sat  at 
the  open  window,  smoking  a  cigar.  The 
town  was  silent  and  asleep.  Not  even  a 
dog  barked;  but  outside  the  moonlight 
bathed  every  thing  with  a  flood  of  rich 
white  light.  The  breeze  from  the  moun- 
tains fanned  his  cheek.  There  was  the 
solemn  silence  of  the  night  on  the  sleeping 
city ;  but  the  peace  of  night  brought  no 
peace  to  him.  Why,  why  had  he  come*all 
this  way  to  be  reminded  of  what  he  had  run 
away  from  England  to  forget  ?  And  then 
he  cursed  his  fate  and  himself. 

All  night  he  sat  brooding  and  wretched. 
As  the  day  broke,  he  fell  asleep,  his  head 
on  the  window-sill,  and  slept  till  the  noise 
of  the  Indian  boys  recalled  him  to  wake- 
fulness.  Then,  to  avoid  meeting  the  peo- 
ple of  the  next  bedroom,  he  ordered  a 


carriage  to  be  brought  round,  and  drove, 
in  the  early  morning,  away  to  his  own  es- 
tate. 

As  he  had  written  to  no  one,  he  was 
quite  unexpected.  The  house  was  unin- 
habited, the  manager  and  his  wife  living  in 
a  cottage  close  by.  They  came  and  wel- 
comed him,  —  a  bright,  cheery  young 
Frenchman,  with  a  pretty  little  wife. 
While  his  own  house  was  being  set  in 
order,  would  he  use  theirs  V  The  manager 
led  him  over  his  mills,  pointed  out  the 
great  improvements  that  had  been  made,  and 
then  took  him  back  to  his  wife,  who  had 
got  a  dainty  breakfast,  with  the  best  claret 
at  her  command,  ready  for  him.  Then  all 
day  there  was  cleaning  and  setting  in 
order;  and  then,  for  a  few  "days  after,  nov- 
elty and  strangeness,  which  distracted 
Philip,  and  kept  him  in  high  spirits.  Then 
he  had  to  go  and  see  his  lawyer,  which  was 
a  day's  journey,  in  and  out  of  town  ;  then 
to  get  the  lawyer  to  come  and  stay  a  day 
or  two  with  him.  All  this  took  time,  and 
a  fortnight  passed  away  beiore  Philip  found 
it  dull,  or  had  a  thought  for  the  past. 

After  that,  things  began  to  be  a  little 
monotonous  ;  for  no  one  called  upon  him. 

Philip  fell  back  upon  the  officers.  There 
was  a  regiment  whose  head-quarters  were 
stationed  at  a  place  some  eight  miles  off. 
It  was  on  detachment  duty,  but  there  were 
always  a  good  many  of  the  officers  to  be 
found  about  the  mess-rooms.  He  knew  the 
regiment,  and  called  upon  his  old  friends. 
So,  at  least,  companionship  was  attained, 
at  the  cost  of  perpetual  dinners  at  Fontaine- 
blejiu  —  which  mattered  little,  for  Philip 

liked  hospitality.  But  the th  was  a 

fast  regiment,  and  the  young  fellows  who 
went  to  Fontainebleau  were  the  fastest ; 
and  the  old  "pace"  began  again,  with 
cards,  brandy  and  soda,  and  late  hours. 

The  first  event  of  importance,  as  the  his- 
tories say,  was  a  special  humiliation.  The 
estate  adjoining  his  own  belonged  to  a  cer- 
tain old  French  gentleman  who  held  strong 
views  on  the  subject  of  the  mixed  races. 
He  had  been  a  friend  of  Mr.  Durnford  pere, 
but  he  abstained  from  calling  upon  his  son. 

Now  he  gave,  once  a  year,  a  great  hunt- 
ing-party, lasting  a  week,  to  which  all  the 
island  was  invited,  —  the  governor,  the 
merchants,  the  officers,  everybody  who  had 
the  least  claim  to  call  himself  some  one. 
Philip  was  his  next  neighbor  ;  but  he  did 
not  invite  him.  Then  his  guests  began  to 
talk  about  putting  up  at  Fontainebleau 
during  the  chasse  ;  and  it  was  awkward  to 
have  to  say  that  you  were  not  invited. 

The  time  drew  near.  Philip  was  riding 
with  one  of  his  guests  in  the  evening.  They 
passed  the  house  of  M.  de  Geofiroi,  who 
was  sitting  in  his  veranda. 


MY   LITTLE   GIRL. 


161 


"  Aha !  "  cried  Philip's  companion.  "  Let 
u?  ride  in,  and  call  on  the  old  boy.  You'll 
do  the  talking,  you  know.  I  can't  speak 
French." 

Philip  assented,  and  in  a  few  moments 
was  introduced  to  a  white-headed  old  gen- 
tleman, who  saluted  him  coldly. 

"  I  had  the  honor  of  knowing  Capt. 
Durnford  well,"  he  said. 

"  I  remember  you  well,  M.  de  Geoffroi. 
You  were  often  at  Fontainebleau  when  I 
was  a  boy." 

"  I  wa's.  And  your  brother,  M.  Durn- 
ford ?  lie  is  married,  I  hear,  to  Mdlle.  de 
Villeroy." 

"  He  is  engaged,  at  least." 

"  Yes.  It  was  once  the  wish  of  both  par- 
ents that  the  estates  should  pass  into  the 
same  hands." 

Philip  reddened. 

"  That,  at  least,  cannot  be,  because  the 
estate  has  now  passed  into  my  hands." 

"  So  I  have  been  informed." 

Then  they  talked  about  weather,  and  so 
forth ;  and  presently,  when  they  went 
away,  M.  de  Geoffroi  offered  his  hand  to 
the  other,  and  merely  bowed  to  Philip. 

"  Must  have  set  the  old  man's  back  up, 
Durnford.  What  did  you  say  to  him  ?  " 

But  Philip  did  not  answer ;  being,  in 
fact,  in  a  temper  the  reverse  of  amia- 
ble. 

The  hunting-party  came  off,  and  Philip 
sat  at  home  with  troubled  heart.  The 
party  was  nothing,  but  the  reason,  —  the 
reason  for  his  exclusion  from  it.  Then  he 
gave  a  great  party  of  his  own,  asking  all 
the  Englishmen,  who  came,  and  as  many 
Frenchmen  as  he  thought  would  come. 
It  was  purely  out  of  revenge  ;  but  it  seemed 
to  affect  M.  de  Geoffroi  very  little. 

One  more  event  happened  to  him  ;  and 
then  he  shut  himself  up  altogether  at  Fon- 
tainebleau. 

There  came  the  cold  season,  and  the 
time  for  balls  and  dances.  Of  course 
Philip  got  an  invitation  to  the  great  ball  of 
the  year,  at  Government  House,  at  which 
the  governor  appears  in  uniform,  —  a  gor- 
geous suit,  similar  to  that  of  a  lord  lieu- 
tenant ;  while  the  members  of  the  legisla- 
tive council  wear  wonderful  coats,  with 
gold  lace  in  a  sort  of  cushion  just  where  the 
tails  begin,  too  high  up  for  use,  except  in  a 
second  class  railway  carriage,  where  it 
might  protect  the  small  of  the  back.  Then 
the  heads,  and  the  sub-heads,  and  even  the 
tails  of  departments,  appear  in  wonderful 
and  strange  costumes,  the  effect  of  which 
at  first,  on  the  civilian  of  plain  clothes,  is 
simply  bewildering,  and  even  appalling. 
Of  course  there  are  also  the  scarlet  coats 
•of  the  officers.  And,  on  the  whole,  a  Colo- 
nial State  Ball  is  as  pretty  a  sight  —  with 
11 


the  ladies  all  in  their  very  finest  and  best 
—  as  one  can  generally  see. 

Why  do  we  sneer  at  the  universal  desire 
to  put  on  a  uniform?  I  have  never  worn 
any,  not  even  as  a  volunteer  privute ;  but  I 
can  sympathize  with  it.  I  like  to  see  a 
man  in  all  his  bravery.  I  think  there  is  no 
more  admirable  and  edifying  spectacle  than 
that  of  the  ordinary  Briton  in  some  strange 
and  wonderful  costume,  put  on  about  once 
a  year.  He  wears  it  with  such  a  lordly  air, 
as  one  who  should  say,  "  This  is  nothing  to 
what  I  could  look  if  I  had  on  what  I  deserv- 
ed." Then  his  wife  admires  him,  and  his 
daughters.  And  more  than  that,  all  the 
black-coated  civilians  who  sneer  at  him 
envy  him.  The  last  is  a  very  great  point. 

Philip,  being  an  ex-commissioned  officer, 
was  above  uniforms,  it  may  be  presumed ; 
but  he  was  not  above  admiration  for  the 
uniforms  of  the  other  sex.  The  women  of 
Palmiste,  pale  and  colorless,  perhaps,  are 
yet,  above  the  generality  of  women,  gra- 
cieuses.  They  become  their  uniibrms. 
They  dance  with  a  passion  and  an  abandon 
which  is  unknown  in  colder  regions.  It  is 
their  one  great  accomplishment ;  and  the 
young  fellow  fresh  from  London  rooms  looks 
on  with  astonishment  at  the  lightning  ra- 
pidity with  which  the  smoothly  polished 
floors  are  covered.  Very  soon  he  falls  in 
with  it,  too,  if  he  be  of  a  sympathetic 
mind. 

Philip,  long  exiled  from  ladies'  society, 
enjoyed  it  hugely ;  danced  every  thing,  al- 
ways with  English  ladies ;  devoured  a 
splendid  supper ;  took  plenty  of  champagne. 
Then,  as  bad  luck  would  have  it,  after  sup- 
per one  of  his  friends  introduced  him  to  the 
lady  he  had  been  dancing  with,  a  liberty 
quite  unpardonable  by  all  the  rules.  Philip 
asked  for  the  next  waltz.  The  girl  turned 
red,  and,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  ac- 
ceded, and  put  her  arm  in  his.  Her  broth- 
er, who  was  standing  by  with  frowning 
forehead,  stepped  forward  at  once. 

"  Pardon  me,  monsieur,"  he  said.  "  My 
sister  does  not  dance  any  more  this  even- 
ing." 

The  young  lady  took  her  brother's  arm, 
and  walked  away. 

The  next  moment  he  saw  her  whirled 
round  in  the  arms  of  an  Englishman. 

All  the  blood  rushed  to  his  head,  and  he 
staggered  with  the  rage  which  nearly  sti- 
fled him.  For  he  knew  the  reason. 

He  stepped  across  the  room  to  where 
the  youngr  Frenchman  was  standing,  and 
touched  him  on  the  arm. 

"  Will  you  give  me  a  moment's  conversa- 
tion outside  ?  " 

The  young  fellow  hesitated  for  a  moment : 
then  he  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  As  you  will,"  he  said. 


162 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


They  stepped  down  the  stairs,  and  into 
the  garden.  No  one  was  there  but  them- 
selves. 

"  May  I  ask  the  reason  of  your  refusal  to 
let  your  sister  dance  with  me  just  now  ?  " 

The  Frenchman  hesitated.  Philip  re- 
peated the  question. 

"  Really,  monsieur,"  said  the  young  fel- 
low, "  it  seems  absurd  to  put  such  a  ques- 
tion. Can  we  not  leave  it  unanswered  ?  " 

"  No.  I  demand  an  answer,  and  the  true 
one.  I  am  publicly  insulted  :  I  insist  on 
an  explanation." 

"  Suppose  I  have  none  to  give  you  ?  " 

"  I  will  have  one.'* 

"  You  shall  not  have  one,"  returned  the 
other  quietly. 

Philip  lost  command  of  himself,  twisted 
his  hand  in  the  other's  collar,  and  threw 
him  heavily  to  the  ground. 

"  Will  you  give  me  one  now  ?  " 

"  Mulatto,  I  will  give  you  none,"  hissed 
out  his  enemy,  lying  on  the  ground. 

Philip  left  him  there.  Going  back  to  the 
ball-room,  he  found  young  Freshley,  of  the 
— th. 

"  Come  with  me  for  a  moment,"  he  whis- 
pered. 

They  went  outside.  In  the  garden  was 
the  young  Frenchman,  trying  to  repair  the 
damage  done  to  his  necktie  and  collar. 

"  There  has  been  a  row,"  said  Philip. 
"  You  know  this  man,  perhaps  ?  I  have 
knocked  him  down." 

"  I  know  Mr.  Freshley,"  said  the  French- 
man. 

"  Be  my  friend,  Freshley.  I  will  wait 
for  you  in  your  quarters." 

Philip  went  away  to  barracks,  leaving 
the  two  together. 

"What  is  it,  D'Auray,?" 

"I  called  him  a  mulatto.  Eh,  bien:  it 
is  true,  at  any  rate.  Then  he  put  his  hand 
to  my  collar,  and  I  fell  over  his  foot." 

"  Doesn't  seem  manners  to  tell  a  man  a 
thing  he  isn't  proud  of,  does  it  ?  " 

"  What  business  has  he  among  ladies  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  invite  him,  so  I  can  hardly  say ; 
but  you  had  better  ask  the  aide-de-camp. 
Look  here,  old  fellow,  this  is  a  bad  busi- 
ness. Don't  let  us  have  any  public  shindy. 
Give  me  the  name  of  a  man,  and  I  will  try 
to  make  things  square." 

"  I  put  myself  in  the  hands  of  my  cousin. 
You  will  find  him  in  the  ball-room." 

Duelling  has  gone  out  of  fashion  in  Eng- 
land ;  but  it  still  lingers  in  one  or  two  of  her 
majesty's  colonies,  where,  although  they 
have  the  institution  of  a  jury,  the  sympa- 
thies of  the  jury  are  sure  to  be  with  the 
combatants.  Here  there  would  surely  be 
fighting,  thought  Freshley,  beginning  to 
wish  he  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  busi- 
ness, in  case  of  the  thing  ending  seriously. 


He  found  the  cousin,  and  put  the  case  to 
him. 

"  I'm  going  home  now  to  barracks.  Find 
me  there  early  to-morrow  morning." 

He  went  home,  and  discovered  Philip 
walking  up  and  down  in  a  wild  state  of 
excitement. 

<;  I  will  kill  him,  Freshley.  By  Heav- 
en !  I  will  kill  him." 

"You've  knocked  him  down,  anyhow. 
Now  go  to  bed,  old  fellow,  —  it's  past  two 
o'clock*  The  cousin  is  coming  to-morrow, 
and  we  shall  have  an  apology  or  a  chal- 
lenge. If  the  latter  —  why,  then,  I  sup- 
pose, we  must  fight." 

"  Fight  ?  Of  course  I  will  fight.  I  tell 
you,  I  mean  to  kill  him." 

"  Deuced  easy  to  pack  a  jury  if  he  kills 
you,  Philip.  Don't  quite  see  ray  way  to 
packing  one  if  you  kill  him." 

"  Bah !  You  don't  know  the  country. 
Any  lawyer  will  do  it  for  you." 

They  went  to  bed,  but  not  to  sleep ;  and 
at  five  o'clock  Freshley  saw  Philip  outside, 
walking  up  and  down,  clinching  his  fists, 
in  the  moonlight.  So,  with  a  sigh,  he  got 
up  too,  and,  half  dressing,  went  out  and 
joined  him.  Day  broke  at  six,  and  then 
they  had  coffee  and  a  cigar. 

At  half-past  six  the  cousin  was  seen  com- 
ing to  the  barracks. 

"  It's  manners  for  me  to  receive  him 
alone,  I  suppose,"  said  Freshley.  "  Let's 
look  as  if  we  had  done  it  fifty  times  before. 
Hang  it,  I  feel  like  an  Irishman  out  of  one 
of  Lever's  novels.  You  go  in,  Phil.  Well, 
M.  D'Auray,  and  when  do  we  fight  ?  " 

"  I  think,  Mr.  Freshley,  that  —  well,  you 
see,  it's  an  awkward  business.  I  hardly 
see  my  way  to  a  fight." 

"  Oh,  very  well !  for  my  own  part,  I'm 
very  glad.  My  man  is  insulted  :  that  you 
will  acknowledge.  Your  man  is  knocked 
down:  that  there  is  no  getting  over,  is 
there  ?  So  you  won't  fight  ?  I'm  sure  I'm 
not  displeased  ;  because,  after  all,  yours  is 
the  most  injured  side,  I  should  say.  Mat- 
ter of  taste,  —  never  been  knocked  down 
myself.  Why  can't  we  fight  ?  " 

"  Well,  your  principal  —  I  am  not  in  the 
least  wishing  to  insult  or  offend  you." 

"  You  forget  that  Mr.  Durnford  has  had 
the  honor  of  bearing  her  Majesty's  commis- 
sion'." 

"  Not  at  all.  That  was  considered.  I 
laid  the  case  before  several  of  my  friends. 
We  all  agreed  that  if  he  were  still  an  offi- 
cer in  the  British  army,  to  refuse  a  duel 
would  be  to  insult  the  English  flag ;  but  he 
is  no  longer  an  officer,  and  we  cannot  fight 
him." 

Freshley  whistled. 

"  Oh,  very  good,  I'm  sure !  The  knock- 
ing down  is  on  your  side,  as  I  remarked 


MY  LITTLE   GIRL. 


163 


before.  Have  a  pick-me-up  this  fine  morn- 
ing, M.  D'Auray,  —  a  brandy  and  soda?  " 

"  Nothing,  thank  you.  I  have  the  honor 
to  wish  you  a  good-morning." 

"  Good-mornincr,  M.  D'Auray.  Perhaps 
your  cousin  would  like  a  pick-me-up." 

But  M.  D'Auray  did  not  appreciate  the 
joke,  being  unacquainted  with  the  niceties 
of  the  English  language. 

"  Now,  that's  devilish  smart  and  good," 
said  the  lieutenant,  left  alone.  "  Phil,  my 
boy,  come  out.  They  won't  fight." 

«  Why  not?" 

"  Don't  know.  Can't  say.  Wasn't  told. 
Funk,  I  expect.  I  say,  Phil,  I  asked  him 
if  his  cousin  wanted  a  pick-me-up  this 
morning.  Devilish  good  remark,  eh  ?  I 
don't  know  when  I  said  any  thing  sharper. 
He'll  find  out  what  I  meant  by  and  by. 
Look  it  up  in  the  dictionary,  I  suspect. 
Well,  old  boy,  I'm  glad  we're  out  of  it.  I 
didn't  like  it  at  the  first ;  and,  between 
ourselves,  I  couldn't  afford  to  lose  my  com- 
mission just  now.  Pretty  fools  we  should 
look,  the  brace  of  us,  in  a  dock,  with  the 
beak  pounding  away  at  us,  saying  it  was 
the  worst  case  he  had  ever  known  in  the 
whole  course  of  his  professional  career,  — 
eh  ?  and  then,  perhaps,  chokee  for  six 
months,  and  a  court-martial  afterwards. 
Upon  my  word,  I'm  delighted.  And  now 
I  think  I  shall  have  another  nap." 

But  that  was  Philip's  last  appearance  in 
public.  Henceforth  his  days  are  few  and 
troubled,  and  they  are  spent  wholly  on  his 
own  estate  at  Fontainebleau. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

MEANWHILE,  in  the  quiet  house  at  Re- 
gent's Park,  the  two  women  waited,  — 
some  women  seem  to  have  nothing  to  do 
except  to  wait.  No  change  came  to  them. 
All  they  knew —  and  this  through  Arthur's 
lawyer — was  that  Philip  had  arrived  in 
Palmiste,  and  was  residing  on  the  estate. 
Nothing  more.  As  for  Laura,  her  suffer- 
ing was  over. 

Only  she  was  subdued.  Time,  and  the 
atmosphere  of  love  with  which  they  sur- 
rounded her,  had  cured  her. 

"  You  love  him  still,  child,  do  you  not  ?  " 
asked  Marie. 

"  I  will  tell  you,  as  truthfully  as  I  can, 
every  thing,"  said  Lollie.  "  You  cannot 
tell  —  it  is  impossible  for  any  one  to  know 
—  how  ignorant  and  foolish  I  was  a  year 
ago.  When  Mr.  Venn  said  he  should  like 
to  see  me  married  to  a  gentleman,  I  under- 
stood nothing,  —  nothing  of  what  he  meant. 
Then  I  met  Philip ;  and  he  asked  me  to 
marry  him.  Mamma,  1  declare  that  I  ac 


cepted  him  only  to  please  Mr.  Venn,  —  for 
no  other  reason  whatever.  Then  he  said 
I  was  cold,  and  wanted  me  to  say  I  loved 
him.  Of  course  I  could  not  say  so,  be- 
cause I  did  not  then.  Afterwards  we 
were  married,  and  we  went  abroad  ;  and 
be  was  kind.  I  think  I  began  to  love  him 
then.  But  now  I  always  think  of  the  last 
time  I  saw  him,  when  he  asked  my  forgive- 
ness, and  looked  sorry.  And  since  then  I 
have  loved  him  better  than  ever  before. 
Poor  Philip  !  Perhaps  if  I  had  been  fitted 
for  him  he  would  have  been  a  better  man." 

"  I  think  of  him  always,  my  daughter," 
said  Philip's  mother.  "  I  lie  awake,  and 
think  of  him.  They  took  him  away  from 
me  when  he  was  only  one  year  old.  I 
have  seen  him,  since  then,  only  twice  in 
my  life.  Once  he  refused  to  own  me,  and 
once  he  refused  to  speak  to  me  ;  but  what 
woman  can  forget  the  little  hands  that  curl 
round  her  -neck  —  of  her  own  child  ?  Philip 
is  my  son,  Lollie  ;  and  a  mother's  love  is 
better  than  a  wife's." 

"  I  wish  I  loved  him  more,  mamma,  for 
your  sake,"  said  Lollie,  caressing  her. 

"  Nay,  dear.  You  are  the  sweetest  and 
best  of  daughters.  My  life,  now  its  great 
hope  has  failed,  would  be  sad  indeed,  and 
lonely,  if  it  were  not  for  you.  And  we 
must  pray,  dear,  more  and  more,  for  his 
return  to  us.  I  know  that  he  will  one  day 
lay  his  head  in  my  arms,  and  kiss  me  him- 
self. Don't  ask  me  how  I  know  it.  I  am 
certain.  Only  I  cannot  see  all  the  future ; 
and  there  seems  a  cloud  which  I  cannot 
pierce.  Somehow,  you  are  not  with  me, 
child." 

She  often  talked  like   this,  pouring  out    • 
what   still  haunted  her  of  the  old  negro 
superstitions. 

"  I  know  where  he  is  now,  at  this  mo- 
ment," she  murmured,  half  closing  her  eyes. 
"  It  is  morning  with  us,  but  afternoon  with 
him.  He  is  riding  alone  along  the  road. 
The  canes  are  waving  each  side  of  him. 
His  face  is  clouded  and  angry.  He  is  not 
thinking  of  us,  Lollie.  Alas  —  alas  !  he 
only  thinks  of  himself.  The  time  is  not 
yet  come." 

Lollie  grasped  her  hand,  and  cried  out. 
Marie  started,  and  looked  round  her. 

"  Kiss  me,  my  daughter.  I  was  far  away 
in  Palmiste  with  my  son,  our  Philip." 

Their  only  visitors  were  Hartley  Venn 
and  his  sister,  Arthur  and  Madeleine  ;  and 
they  went  nowhere,  except  sometimes  to 
the  opera,  which  was  a  necessary  luxury 
to  the  singer. 

"You  have  changed  Lollie  altogether, 
madame,"  said  Hartley,  looking  at  his  little 
girl. 

"  How  am  I  changed,  Mr.  Venn  ?  "  asked 
Laura. 


164 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


"  That  is  what  I  am  trying  to  find  out. 
You  look  thinner  than  you  were ;  but  it  is 
not  that.  You  are  no  taller ;  so  it.  is  not 
that.  I  give  it  up,  Lollie." 

Marie  could  have  told  him.  The  girl 
had  been,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  living 
among  ladies,  and  was  now  a  lady  herself 
—  such  as  all  the  arts  of  Hartley  Venn 
could  not  fashion  or  produce. 

k<  It  is  only  you,  Mr.  Venn,"  said  Made- 
leine, "  who  never  change.  Oh  that  I 
could  tie  ropes  round  you,  and  drag  you 
away  from  your  chambers,  and  make  you 
work  1  " 

"  He  does  work,  Madeleine.  He  really 
works  very  hard,"  said  Lollie. 

"  Part  of  your  wish  has  been  already  an- 
ticipated, Miss  de  Villeroy ;  for  I  have  met 
with  a  grave  misfortune." 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  they  cried. 

"  I  have  received  notice  to  quit  my  cham- 
bers at  the  end  of  the  year." 

"  Oh  ! "  cried  Lollie, "  the  dear  old  cham- 
bers ! " 

•'  I  shall  not  have  the  heart  to  find  out 
new  chambers,  and  so  I  shall  go  and  live  in 
lodgings.  It  is  sad,  after  so  many  years  of 
occupation.  I  had  hoped  that  my  life  would 
be  finished  there." 

"Indeed,"  said  Madeleine,  "  I  think  it  a 
very  good  thing.  You  men  get  into  a 
habit  of  doing  nothing,  going  nowhere,  and 
living  three  or  four  in  a  set,  which  seems 
to  me  destructive  of  every  thing.  Go  into 
the  world,  and  work,  Mr.  Venn." 

"  Really,  Miss  de  Villeroy,  you  carry 
about  so  deep  an  air  of  resolution  and  ac- 
tivity that  you  shame  us  all.  I  will  go 
into  the  world  and  work.  What  shall  I 
do?" 

This  was  easier  to  ask  than  to  answer. 
Besides,  Madeleine  was  at  this  time  in- 
tently occupied  in  considering  Arthur's 
future.  He,  too,  professed  a  willingness  to 
go  into  the  world,  and  work ;  but  what 
work  ?  Here  was  a  tall,  strong  man  to  be 
thrown  on  her  hands  for  life,  and  what  was 
she  to  find  for  him  ?  Arthur  said  he 
would  work  ;  but  he  never  made  the  least 
effort  to  find  work,  and  went  on  burying 
himself  in  his  books,  while  Madeleine  fret- 
ted about  his  useless  life. 

"  Marry  me  at  once,  Madeleine,"  he  said, 
"  and  I  will  be  your  secretary.  Will  that 
do?" 

"  I  don't  want  a  secretary,"  she  said. 

But  she  consented  to  marry  him  at  once, 
which  was  all  he  wanted. 

This  was  in  February.  The  wedding 
was  quiet  enough,  for  they  were  a  compara- 
tively friendless  pair.  Mrs.  Longworthy 
was  there ;  and  in  the  church,  as  specta- 
tors, Marie  and  Laura.  Madeleine  invited 
them  to  the  breakfast ;  but  this  was  against 


Marie's   rules,    and   Laura  would   not   go 
without  her. 

When  they  came  back,  after  a  month  in 
Paris,  the  old  life  went  on  just  as  before. 
;  Mrs.  Longworthy  lived  on  with  them,  being 
one  of  those  old  ladies  whom  it  is  pleasant 
to  have  in  the  house.    Arthur  had  his  study, 
where  Madeleine  repaired  sometimes  in  the 
evening,  for  those  little  talks  and  confiden- 
tial  whisperings   which     even     the    most 
queenly  of  women  are   not  above  liking. 
J  But  all  became  as  it  was  before,  and  the 
house  at  Regent's  Park  was  still  a  favorite 
!  place  to  spend  an  evening. 

"  I  like  it,  Arthur,"  said  Madeleine.     "  It 
is  all  so  different  from  what  you  get  any- 
where  else.     I  like   Madame   de    Guyon, 
poor  woman,  and  the  noble  way  she  bears 
her  misfortunes.     I   like   Lollie,  with  her 
innocent    dependence     upon    Mr.    Venn. 
•  And  I  like  that  lazy,  good-for-nothing  Bo- 
j  hemian,  who  is  everybody's  friend  except 
(  his  own.     They  are  quaint,  delightful  peo- 
i  pie.     I  suppose  the  world  would  object,  if 
,  the  world  knew  all ;   but  then  the  world 
;  knows  nothing.     And  as  for  poor  little  Lol- 
j  lie,  our  sister-in-law,  no  one  could  possibly 
blame  her." 

"  Surely  not.  If  ever  there  was  an 
act "  — 

"  No,  Arthur.  Do  not  put  yourself  into 
a  rage  about  what  has  been  done,  and  can- 
not be  helped.  After  all,  it  was  mostly 
Mr.  Venn's  fault.  Did  ever  man  devise  a 
more  absurd  training  for  a  girl  V  " 

Came  again  the  spring,  and  with  it  the 
little  excursions  that  Venn  was  so  fond  of; 
but  they  were  not  quite  the  same.  The 
relations  between  himself  and  Lollie  were 
altered,  somehow.  He  could  no  longer 
kiss  her  in  the  old  paternal  way.  Some- 
times, as  he  thought  of  her,  he  ground  his 
teeth,  and  cursed ;  but  ever  with  her,  his 
voice  was  soft  and  kind.  He  was  always 
thoughtful  and  anxious  about  her.  She 
was  still,  as  before  all  this,  his  little  girl. 

Marie  grew  to  love  him  as  if  he  had  been 
her  own  son ;  scolded  him  for  his  laziness 
almost  as  soundly  as  Madeleine  ;  went  to 
his  chambers,  and  brought  away  great 
stores  of  linen,  which  she  and  Lollie 
amused  themselves  by  setting  in  order  for 
him ;  made  him  read  her  some  of  his  nu- 
merous Opuscula,  and  criticised  thei^  in  a 
way  which  astonished  him  ;  and  gave  him 
hints  and  suggestions  which  opened  out 
vistas  of  innumerable  other  literary  efforts, 
so  that  he  formed  as  many  projects  as 
Coleridge. 

The  spring  grew  into  summer;  and 
then  a  change  was  to  happen.  For  one 
morning  the^Palmiste  mail  came  in,  and 
Arthur  received  a  letter  from  his  lawyer. 

"  Your  half-brother,"  he  said,  "  is  going 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


165 


on,  I  fear,  as  badly  as  possible.  It  is  my 
duty,  —  or,  rather,  I  make  it  my  officious 
duty,  —  to  tell  you  4hat  his  only  compan- 
ions are  the  most  dissipated  young  English- 
men of  the  colony,  —  officers  chiefly.  At 
Fontainebleau  there  are  reported  to  be 
nightly  scenes  of  drink  and  play,  which 
will  most  certainly  end  in  disaster,  if  not 
to  fortune,  then  to  health.  In  this  climate, 
as  you  know,  one  has  to  exercise  some  dis- 
cretion. Poor  Philip  has  none.  I  liked 
him  at  first.  He  landed  here  fresh  and 
bright,  as  if  he  had  never  touched  a  bottle 
of  brandy  ;  but  that  is  four  'months  ago, 
and  his  face  is  now  bloated  with  drink  and 
late  hours.  If  you  have  any  influence  over 
him,  write  and  expostulate.  If  you,  or  any 
friend,  could  only  come  out  here,  all  might 
be  well.  Philip  is  open  to  any  influence. 
He  can  resist  no  temptation  :  he  is  led 
away  by  every  voice  that  he  hears  ;  but 
he  is  kind-hearted.  In  an  evil  hour  he  in- 
sulted little  Volet,  his  manager,  whom  you 
remember  as  a  boy.  No  better  or  more 
honest  man  ever  lived.  Volet  was  obliged 
to  resign.  Since  he  went  away,  Philip  has 
been  secretly  sending  him  money  to  keep 
him  going :  I  suppose,  out  of  a  desire  to 
make  atonement;  but  the  estate  is  going 
to  the  dogs.  In  a  few  months  the  hot  sea- 
son will  be  upon  us  again,  when  these  ex- 
cesses will  tell  more  than  they  do  now.  I 
may  say  that  he  always  speaks  of  you  in 
terms  of  the  highest  respect.  He  told  me, 
what  I  did  not  know  before,  that  the  es- 
tate is  only  his  own  because  you  refused  to 
fight  the  case.  I  think  that  you  might,  at 
least,  write  to  him." 

And  so  on,  all  in  the  same  strain. 

Arthur  showed  the  letter  to  his  wife. 

"What  shall  we  do?" 

"You  must  write  to  him.  Say  nothing 
of  the  past,  except  what  is  kind.  I  will 
write  too.  You  will  remember  that  he  did 
once  do  what  I  asked  him." 

"I  know,  —  that  was  because  he  loved 
you." 

"  He  did  not  really  love  me.  He  fan- 
cied he  did.  The  only  woman  he  ever 
really  loved  was  Lollie.  I  am  sure  of  it, 
from  the  way  he  spoke  of  her,  the  bitter- 
ness with  which  he  remembered  the  poor 
girl's  look  when  he  cast  her  off." 

"  How  can  you  be  bitter  against  a  wo- 
man you  have  ever  loved  ?  " 

"  I  knew  you  would  say  that.  It  is  just 
what  a  man  would  be  sure  to  say.  The 
bitterness,  great  stupid,  was  in  his  own 
breast;  and  he  thought  he  felt  bitter  to- 
wards her.  Suppose  you  are  bilious-.  It 
is  not  a  romantic  comparison,  but  it  will  do. 
You  see  every  thing  yellow.  That  is  how 
Philip  saw  things.  His  real  nature  was 
turned  inside  out.  I  told  you,  months  ago, 


that  his  mind  was  like  your  old  garden,  all 
overrun  with  pumpkins. 

"  What  a  silly,  unreasonable  creature  he 
is  !  Why  does  he  hide  his  head  in  a  bush, 
like  an  ostrich  ?  He  is  ashamed  of  his 
mother,  —  he  knows,  my  dear  Arthur,  that 
all  the  stupid  story  of  the  marriage  is  a 
forgery.  I  saw  the  look  ho  gave  her  in 
the  church.  There  was  longing  and  re- 
pentance in  it,  as  well  as  shame.  He  is 
stupidly  ashamed  that  his  mother  is  a  great 
singer,  as  well  as  that  she  is  colored.  And 
what  a  woman  is  he  ashamed  of!  Is  there 
one  woman  in  all  the  world  more  charita- 
ble, more  large-hearted,  less  selfish,  than 
poor  Marie  ?  Ashamed  of  her !  lie  ought 
to  be  proud  of  her,  and  to  thank  God,  who 
gave  him  such  a  mother." 

Arthur  moved  his  hand. 

"  And,  O  Arthur  !  he  is  more,  ten  thou- 
sand times  more,  ashamed  of  himself  and 
his  treatment  of  Laura.  I  believe  that  is 
the  secret  of  all  his  sins.  He  wanted  at 
first  to  make  money  by  gambling,  for  her. 
But  gambling  is  a  hard  master  to  serve. 
And  then  —  and  then  —  oh !  my  poor  Phil/ 
what  a  melancholy  ending  it  all  is  ! " 

"  It  is  not  ended  yet." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  You  do  not  know,"  she  said,  "  but  I 
know  ;  because  he  sent  me  a  letter  before 
he  went  away,  and  his  landlady  brought  it. 
He  used  to  wander  about  at  night,  to 
drink  all  day.  He  saw  no  one.  He  used 
to  lie  on  the  sofa,  with  his  head  in  his 
hand?,  and  groan.  He  used  to  see  things 
that  do  not  exist  in  the  daytime.  He  knew 
he  was  dishonored,  poor  fellow;  and  he 
tried,  like  a  weak  creature  as  he  is,  to 
drown  it  all  in  drink." 

"  I  blame  myself,  Madeleine.  I  should 
have  gone  to  him,  in  the  old  way,  and  said 
what  I  could  to  help  him.  Poor  Phil  is 
good  at  heart." 

"  Good  at  heart !  What  is  the  good  of 
that?  Everybody  is  good  at  heart.  I 
want  men  to  be  strong  of  will.  Women 
only  love  strong  men." 

"  Then,  why  do  you  love  me.  Madeleine  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  Arthur,"  she  said,  smil- 
ing. "  You  know  that  I  love  you,  dear  — 
do  you  not '?  —  with  all  the  strength  of  my 
nature.  But  then  you  are  strong  in  all 
good  things.  I  believe  in  your  nobleness, 
dear.  God  knows,  if  man  and  wife  cease 
to  believe  in  that,  there  can  be  nothing 
left.  .  .  .  Let  us  go  and  see  madame." 

They  got  there  in  time  for  luncheon. 
Venn  was  lying  lazily  on  the  sofa.  He  did 
not  get  up  as  they  came  in  ;  but  held  out 
his  hand,  smiling." 

"  You  come  like  a  breath  of  the  most 
invigorating  breeze,  Mrs.  Durnford.  Do 
not  reproach  me.  I  am  hard  at  work,  try- 


166 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


ing  to  make  out,  with  Lollie  here,  what  it 
is  I  am  to  work  at." 

"  I  tell  him  he  ought  to  practise  at  the 
bar,"  said  Lollie. 

"  So  I  would,  but  for  two  things.  I 
know  no  solicitors,  and  I  know  no  law. 
Bless  you !  if  I  had  a  brief  I  should  be 
obliged  to  put  it  into  a  drawer  for  a  couple 
of  years  while  I  read  law.  '  No :  think  of 
something  else." 

"  What  do  rich  men  do  ?  "  asked  Marie. 
"  They  seem  always  at  work." 

"They  become  directors.  Then  they 
make  speeches.  They  take  chairs.  They 
do  all  sorts  of  things  for  nothing,  which 
poor  men  get  paid  for.  They  even  write 
for  the  magazines,  confound  them  !  " 

"  Write  a  novel,"  said  Madeleine. 

"  Eh  ? "  cried  Venn,  starting  up. 
"  Now,  that  is  a  practical  suggestion. 
Lollie,  do  you  remember  the  novel  we 
wrote  together,  and  buried  close  above 
Teddington  Lock  ?  That  was  real  work, 
if  you  like.  Oh,  if  we  had  not  buried  that 
novel !  " 

"  Let  us  go  and  fish  for  it,"  cried  Lollie, 
laughing. 

"  We  will.  We  will  go  at  once.  Mrs. 
Durnford,  you  will  come  too.  We  will  go 
this  afternoon.  The  sun  shines.  The  blue- 
bottle buzzes.  The  lilac  is  in  blossom. 
The  lark  will  be  singing.  The  laburnum 
is  golden.  Lollipops,  put  on  your  hat,  — 
your  summer  hat,  with  the  brightest  feath- 
er in  it.  We  will  have  a  glorious  da}'." 

Madeleine  made  a  sign  to  Marie. 

"  You  three  go,"  she  said.  "  Madeleine 
will  stay  with  me,  and  you  shall  have  a 
late  dinner  at  nine.  Go  away,  all  of  you, 
and  leave  us  two  to  make  ourselves  miser- 
able together." 

"  What  is  it,  dear  ?  "  she  asked. 

For  all  answer,  Madeleine  gave  her  the 
lawyer's  letter. 

Marie  read  it,  and  the  tears  came  into 
her  eyes. 

"What  are  we  to  do?"  asked  Made- 
leine. 

"  I  knew  it  was  coming.  '  I  have  had 
presentiments.  I  have  had  dreams.  I 
dreamed  that  I  saw  my  brother  Adolphe  — 
poor  Adolphe,  I  wonder  if  he  is  living  yet 
—  putting  a  gri-gri  under  Philip's  head. 
That  is  to  produce  disaster,  you  know. 
Every  night  my  thoughts  carry  me  back  to 
Fontainebleau.  George  Durnford  speaks 
to  me  in  visions.  And  every  night  I  see 
Philip's  face  averted.  My  dear,  since  I 
saw  him,  I  have  felt  myself  en  rapport  with 
him.  You  may  laugh  as  you  will ;  but,  as 
he  suffers,  I  suffer.  When  he  is  wretched, 
lonely,  repentant,  I  am  sad.  I  hide  it 
from  that  poor  child,  who  does  not  know 


what  such  love  means,  and  thinks  she  loves 
Philip  because  she  pities  him;  and,  as  I 
look  forward,  I  see  nothing  but  clouds  and 
blackness.  A  great  disaster  is  before  me, 

—  that  is,  before  Philip.     Day  by  day,  the 
yearning  has  become  stronger  in   me  to 

go  out  and  try  to  save  my  boy.  If  I  go, 
I  may  find  him  in  the  midst  of  his  compan- 
ions, drunken  and  dissolute.  He  may 
driVe  me  away  with  hard  words.  He  may 

—  but  he*  will  not,  he  will  not,  Madeleine. 
I  feel   that  the  hour  for   reconciliation  is 
drawing  near.    I  shall  see  my  boy.    I  shall 
feel  his  cheek  to  mine.     I  shall  be  able  to 
put  my  arms  round  his  neck,  and  kiss  him. 

0  child,  child!  if  ever  God  gives  you  a 
son,  pray  —  pray  —  pray  that  you  may  not 
suffer  what  I  am  suffering  now." 

She  was  silent  for  a  while,  struggling  with 
her  emotion. 

"  Do  you  think  that  God  is  punishing 
me  ?  I  cannot  think  that.  I  have  learned 
long  since  my  sin,  and  been  forgiven.  Of 
that  I  am  as  sure  as  if  a  voice  from  Heav- 
en had  pronounced  my  pardon.  I  know  it 
from  my  own  heart.  My  Father  has  for- 
given the  sin  of  an  ignorant  childhood.  It 
cannot  be  that.  Then  what  is  it  ?  —  what 
is  it  ?  I  lived  but  for  him.  All  those 
years  when  I  toiled  in  Italy,  trying  to  im- 
prove the  defects  of  my  education,  all  those 
years  when  I  sang  upon  the  stage,  it  was 
all  for  Philip.  I  lived  upon  nothing  :  my 
money  all  went  into  the  bank  for  him.  I 
waited  for  the  day  when  I  could  say  to 
him,  *  Son,  son,  take  all  I  have,  and  be 
happy.  Only  kiss  your  mother  —  if  only 
it  be  once,  and  to  let  her  go  away.'  I 
never  thought  to  be  to  him  what  most 
mothers  are  to  their  children  :  I  prayed 
only  for  a  kind  thought,  a  kind  word.  I  got 
none;  and  now,  what  are  all  my  riches 
worth  ?  I  have  no  son." 

"  You  have  Laura.  You  love  her." 
.  "  Yes  —  I  am  wicked.  I  forget,  in  my 
selfish  passion.  I  love  this  child,  who  loves 
me.  There  is  no  better  girl  in  the  world 
than  my  daughter.  But,  Madeleine,  I 
want  my  own  child,  —  my  very  own  :  the 
baby  that  lay  in  my  lap — my  own  life's 
blood  —  my  darling,  my  gallant  son  !  Do 
not  tell  me  that  he  has  fallen  from  his 
ideal :  he  surfers,  and  would  rise  again 
if  he  could.  Let  me  go  to  him.  Let  me 
try  once  more  to  gain  his  love,  all  alone, 
by  the  verge  of  that  great  forest  where  I 
wandered  one  night  all  alone,  and  saw  vis- 
ions of  the  future.  Did  I  ever  tell  you  ? 

1  went  out,  with  the  first  money  I  ever 
earned  at  singing,  by  myself.     I  crept  at 
night  through  the  woods.     I  found  George 
Durnford  weeping  for  his  dead  wife, ; —  not 
me,   dear   Madeleine.     I   was   bitter   and 
cruel.     Then  I  saw  poor  Adrienne,  white, 


MY   LITTLE  GIEL. 


167 


pale,  and  imploring,  before  me  ;  and  I  was 
softened.  I  saw  the  children.  Arthur 
clung  to  me,  and  kissed  me,  in  his  pretty 
way.  My  own  boy,  .my  Phil,  turned  his 
face  away,  arid  cried.  It  was  an  omen,  and 
my  heart  fell.  I  left  George  Durnford, 
arid  went  back  as  I  had  come,  through  the 
forest.  All  the  night,  as  I  walked  along  in 
the  black  darkness,  I  heard  voices  saying 
to  me  that  there  should  be  no  happiness 
for  me,  —  nothing  but  bitterness,  disap- 
pointment, and  misery." 

"But  you  have  found  happiness,  dear 
Madame  de  Guyon." 

"  Yes,  yes ;  but  not  the  happiness  I 
wanted.  There  is  nothing  that  I  desire 
but  the  love  of  my  son,  —  nothing  but  to 
hear  him  say  that  he  is  sorry  for  the  words 
he  spoke/' 

"  Play  to  me,  dear.  Soothe  me  with 
music,  for  my  spirit  is  troubled." 

Madeleine  played,  while  Marie  walked 
up  and  down,  with  fingers  interlaced,  try- 
ing to  recover  from  her  agitation. 

Presently  she  sat  down,  close  to  the 
piano. 

"  Don't  leave  off,  my  dear.  It  soothes 
me  as  nothing  else  can.  I  am  determined 
what  to  do.  I  will  go  out  by  the  next  mail. 
That  starts  in  a  few  days,  and  I  shall  pack 
to-morrow,  —  take  my  ticket,  and  go." 

As  she  spoke,  a  wailing  was  heard  from 
the  next  house  in  the  street,  of  a  child. 
She  shrank  back,  with  a  white  face. 

"  That  is  the  worst  sign  you  can  hear." 

"  Do  not  be  superstitious,"  said  Made- 
leine. "  If  you  had  heard  the  child  cry  at 
any  other  time  you  would  have  laughed." 

"At  any  other  time  —  yes.  That  I  am 
superstitious  is  true,  my  dear.  I  can  never 
shake  it  off.  Call  it  what  you  please,  weak- 
ness, prejudice.  I  was  made  superstitious 
when  I  was  a  child ;  and  the  old  fears  cling 
to  me  like  —  like  the  color  of  my  birth." 

They  spent  the  day  making  preparations. 
There  were  not  many  wanted;  for  Marie 
was  a  woman  whom  stage  experience  had 
taught  to  be  profuse  in  dress. 

•'  Lollie  will  goxand  live  with  Miss  Venn," 
she  said.  "  Yes,  dear,  I  know  what  you  were 
going  to  offer,  and  it  is  very  kind  of  you  ; 
but  it  is  better  for  the  present  that  she 
should  not  go  into  society.  I  do  not  want 
her  to  feel  things." 

"  She  would  not  feel  any  thing.  She  is 
quite  convinced  that  she  was  properly  mar- 
ried at  first." 

"  It  is  not  only  that.  People  might  ask 
who  Mr.  Philip  Durnford  was,  and — and 
—  O  Madeleine  !  do  you  not  see  that  I  am 
right  V  " 

"  You  are  always  right,  dear  madame." 

In  the  evening  the  party  came  back  — 
Venn,  at  least,  happy.  They  had  been 


fishing  for  the  novel,  and  failed  to  find  it. 
Lollie  had  caught  a  gudgeon,  Arthur  had 
caught  nothing.  And  so  on,  childishly 
happy,  as  they  always  were  when  Venn 
was  with  them,  —  the  man  who  never  lost 
his  delight  in  childish  things. 

And  so,  after  their  late  dinner,  Venn 
thought  it  was  time  to  go. 

"  Stay  a  moment,  dear  Mr.  Venn,"  said 
Marie.  "  I  have  something  to  say.  Will 
Miss  Venn  take  our  child  for  a  little 
while  ?  " 

"  Mamma  !  "  cried  Lollie. 

"  Yes,  dear.  We  have  had  a  letter  from 
Palmiste.  I  am  going  out." 

Laura  turned  white. 

"  And  I  so  happy  to-day.  It  is  wicked. 
Is  he  ill  ?  Tell  me." 

"  We  will  tell  you  every  thing,  dear," 
said  Madeleine.  "  Philip  is  not  well,  and 
the  news  is  not  good." 

Laura  gave  a  great  gasp. 

"  And  I  shall  go,  too,  —  shall  I  not,  Mr. 
Venn  ?  Who  ought  to  be  with  a  man  who 
is  ill  but  his  wife?" 

They  looked  at  each  other,  and  were 
silent.  Venn  spoke  first. 

"  Lollie,  dear,  let  me  talk  to  you  alone 
for  a  moment." 

He  took  her  into  another  room. 

"  Would  you  like  to  go,  my  dear  ?  "  he 
said,  folding  her  in  his  arms  in  the  old 
fashion,  while  her  head  leant  upon  his 
shoulder.  "  Would  you  like  to  go  V  Re- 
member all:  He  has  treated  you  cruelly  "  — 

"  But  he  asked  my  forgiveness." 

"  And  he  said  himself  that  you  had  better 
be  away  from  him  for  a  while.  My  dear, 
your  husband  is  not  a  good  man.  He  has 
done  bad  things.  When  he  comes  back, 
with  his  mother,  and  asks  to  be  taken  into 
your  arms  again,  I  shall  not  be  one  to  re- 
fuse him  forgiveness ;  but  he  does  not  ask 
for  you,  or  his  mother  either.  If  humilia- 
tion is  to  fall  on  the  one  who  goes  out  to 
him,  do  not  let  it  be  you." 

"  He  will  think  J  have  forgotten  him,  —  as 
if  I  ever  could  forget  him,"  she  pleaded. 

"  Do  you  love  him,  Lollie  V  " 

"  Always  the  same  question  :  I  love  him 
as  I  always  did,  no  more  and  no  less ;  but 
he  is  my  husband." 

Venn  choked  a  spasm  of  intense  jealousy. 

"  Love  him  still,  dear.  Love  your  hus- 
band ;  but  you  must  not  go  to  him.  Will 
you  be  guided  by  me  ?  " 

"lam  always  guided  by  you.  Whoever 
else  have  I  in  the  world  ?  "  she  said  simply. 
"  As  if  I  did  not  love  you  better  than  all  the 
world." 

"  My  dear  little  girl !  "  he  whispered,  be- 
cause his  voice  choked,  —  "  ever  my  dear 
little  girl,  are  you  not  ?  Nothing  can  part 
us.  Nothing  shall  sever  the  love  we  have 


168 


MY    LITTLE  GIKL. 


for  each  other.  But  you  will  stay  with 
Sukey,  while  madame  goes  out  and  tries  to 
recover  her  son  for  all  of  us." 

He  Avent  back  to  the  others,  leaving  Lollie 
there. 

Then  they  arranged  things  ;  and  next  day 
he  went  to  see  Sukey,  telling  her  only  that 
Madame  de  Guyon  had  business  in  Pal- 
rniste,  her  native  place.  For  there  was  sad 
deceit  and  hiding  of  the  truth  necessary ; 
and  only  the  little  circle  themselves  knew 
all  the  history  that  bound  them  together 
with  ties  so  sacred  and  so  sad. 

The  day  she  went  away,  Marie  sought 
Hartley  Venn  alone. 

"  I  know/'  she  said,  "  that  evil  will  come 
to  me  :  I  feel  it  like  the  cold  wind  before  the 
rain ;  but  good  will  come  too.  See,  now, 
dear  Mr.  Venn,  there  is  but  one  thing  I 
have  to  say.  You  will  find  at  my  law- 
yer's, in  case  —  in  case  I  never  come  back 
—  my  will.  To  whom  should  I  leave  my 
money  but  to  my  Philip's  wife  ?  " 


CHAPTER  XL. 

WEARIED  in  body  and  mind,  Marie 
landed  at  the  old  familiar  wharf  at  Port 
St.  Denys.  Five  and  twenty  years  since 
last  she  stood  there,  filled  with  the  bitter- 
ness of  regret,  and  yet  the  confidence  of 
youthful  hope.  She  recalled  now  the  mo- 
ment when,  standing  on  the  deck,  she 
marked  the  mountains  growing  fainter  and 
darker  as  the  sun  set,  plunging  them  in  a 
bath  of  light  and  color,  till  night  came  on, 
and  they  disappeared.  Now  she  stood 
once  more  on  the  wharf,  and  marked  the 
old  things  little  changed.  The  half-naked 
Indians  rolled  the  sugar-bags  about,  and 
piled  them  in  great  heaps,  with  their  shrill 
cries  and  wild  laughter,  just  as  she  remem- 
bered to  have  watched  them  as  a  child. 
Under  the  trees  on  th.e  Place  sat  the  same 
old  men  —  or  they  seemed  to  be  the  same, 
—  who  had  always  sat  there,  talking  and 
squabbling  over  the  little  politics  of  the 
day.  Among  the  talkers  under  the  trees, 
rolled  and  played  the  little  naked  mulatto 
and  Indian  children,  as  they  had  always 
done  ;  and  in  long  line  stood  the  carriages 
'waiting  to  be  hired,  as  they  had  stood  a 
quarter  of  a  century  since.  Nothing  was 
changed  ;  and  for  a  moment  the  years 
rolled  back,  and  all  her  youth  flashed  again 
before  her,  vwith  its  happiness,  such  as  it 
was,  and  its  regrets.  Only  for  a  moment. 
One  of  the  ship's  officers,  seeing  her  stand- 
ing alone,  proffered  his  assistance ;  and 
Marie  woke  to  a  sense  of  the  dismal  errand 
on  which  she  had  come. 

"  I  have  got  your  boxes  on  shore,  Mad- 


ame de  Guyon,"  he  said  :  "  what  shall  I  do 
next?  You  had  better  let  me  get  you  a 
carriage.  Have  you  no  friends  waiting  for 
you  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Marie.  "  I  am  going  into  the 
country.  It  is  a  long  drive.  Will  you 
kindly  see  that  the  man  has  good  horses  ? 
I  am  going  quite  to  the  other  side  of  the 
island." 

"  You  are  surely  not  going  alone,  Mad- 
ame de  Guyon  ?  " 

"Not  alone!  Why  not?  Oh,  I  have 
never  told  you  that  I  was  here  as  a  girl.  I 
know  every  road  in  the  place,  I  believe. 
Thank  you,  Mr.  Hatton,  for  your  kindness. 
If 'you  will  only,  now,  get  me  a  carriage." 

Presently  came  rattling  up  a  long,  losv 
carriage,  with  a  pair  of  screws  that  looked 
like  any  thing  in  the  world  except  going  a 
long  journey. 

Marie  said  something  to  the  officer,  who 
spoke  to  the  driver.  He  was  a  mulatto, 
approaching  very  nearly  to  the  negro  type, 
with  woolly  head,  and  face  almost  black. 
He  was  apparently  about  fifty,  and  was  ac- 
companied by  a  little  boy,  clothed  chiefly 
in  a  ragged  straw  hat,  half  a  jacket,  and  say 
a  quarter  of  a  pair  of  cotton  trousers.  He 
answered  the  officer's  objections,  laughing 
and  protesting  in  a  patois  that  made  Marie's 
heart  leap  within  her,  for  it  was  the  patois 
that  she  had  first  learned  to  speak.  She 
understood  it  all,  after  these  long  years ;  the 
intonation  of  the  voice,  the  gestures  which 
eked  out  the  imperfections  of  the  language, 
the  rough,  rude  inflections  of  the  barbaric 
tongue ;  and  she  asked  herself  whether,  in 
the  far  past,  she  herself  could  have  been  as 
these  naked  children  rolling  in  the  dust, 
could  have  talked  this  jargon,  could  have 
been  such  as  her  driver.  Getting  into  the 
carriage,  however,  she  explained  to  him 
that  she  was  to  go  to  the  estate  of  Fon- 
tainebleau. 

"  How,  madame  ?  "  said  the  man.  "  No 
one  lives  at  Fontainebleau  since  Mr.  Durn- 
ford  died." 

"  You  know  the  place,  then  ?  " 

"  I  was  born  there,  madame.  My  par- 
ents lived  close  by."  He  called  them  his 
''  papa  and  mamma,"  this  grizzly  mulatto. 

"But  Mr.  Philip  Durnford  lives  there 
now." 

"  Madame  wants  to  see  Mr.  Philip  ? 
Oh ! " 

He  jumped  upon  his  box,  called  the  boy, 
whipped  up  his  horses,  and  went  swinging 
down  the  street  at  full  gallop.  The  boy 
kept  prattling  to  him,  but  he  made  no  an- 
swer. When  they  had  gone  some  three  or 
four  miles,  taking  advantage  of  a  hill,  he 
turned  round,  and,  poking  his  head  into  the 
carriage,  he  remarked,  iu  a  tone  as  if  he 
were  conveying  information,  — 


MY  LITTLE   GIRL. 


169 


"Madame  is  going  to  see  Mr.  Philip 
Durnford." 

Some  five  or  six  miles  farther  on,  he  put 
his  head  in  again,  — 

"Does  madame  know  Mr.  Philip?'* 

"  Marie  said  she  had  seen  him. 

"  A  mauvais  sujet,  madame.  Alphonse, 
take  the  reins.  Do  not  whip  them,  my 
child.  I  will  tell  you,  madame.  Ah  !  bri- 
gand, you  want  to  repose  already  ?  Up, 
then.  Alphonse,  take  the  whip  to  that 
vaurien."  This  was  addressed  chiefly  to 
his  horses.  "  Madame,  I  am  about  to  tell 
you,  Mr.  Philip,  —  why  do  I  say  monsieur  ? 
—  he  is  the  son  of  old  Mr.  Durnford,  who 
died  in  the  cholera,  and  the  little  Marie. 
Pah  !  everybody  knows  that." 

Poor  Marie  ! 

"  Philip  goes  to  England  with  Mr.  Ar- 
thur. There  was  a  young  man,  madame. 
Philip  stays  for  seven,  eight  years.  He 
comes  back  without  Mr.  Arthur.  He  says 
the  estate  is  his;  and  he  lives  there." 

"  Who  was  Marie  ? "  asked  the  poor 
mother. 

"  Marie  ?  I  will  tell  you,  madame. 
There  was  a  young  lady,'  white  as  a  lily, 
who  lived  in  the  great  house  close  by  my 
father's  hut.  She  was  lonely,  and  had  no 
one  to  play  with  ;  and  so  they  took  my  little 
sister,  who  was  almost  as  fair  as  she 
was  "  — 

"  Your  sister  !     You  are  Adolphe  ?  " 

"  Madame  knows  my  name  ?  See,  mad- 
ame." He  produced  a  sort  of  card,  on 
which  was  printed  a  tariff  of  prices.  It 
was  inscribed  with  the  names,  in  full, 
"Monsieur  Adolphe  Napoleon  Rohan  de 
Montmorenci."  This  he  read  out  with  unc- 
tion. "  How  did  madame  know  my  name  ? 
My  nephew,  who  went  to  the  great  col- 
lege, gave  me  the  surnames;  for  I  must 
confess  to  madame,  who  knows  every  thing, 
that  I  was  formerly  plain  Adolphe.  Al- 
phonse, with  all  your  force,  flog  that  vieux 
scderat  who  will  do  no  work." 

The  intelligent  steed,  hearing  this,  in- 
stantly quickened,  and  Alphonse  put  back 
the  whip. 

"Yes,  madame,"  he  resumed,  "Marie 
was  as  fair-cheeked  as  Mademoiselle  Ad- 
rienne  herself.  Only  mademoiselle  had 
light  hair,  and  Marie  black.  Droll,  was  it 
not  ?  I  was  as  black  as  Alphonse  here, 
and  so  was  my  brother  Alcide  ;  and  Marie 
was  as  white  as  a  lady.  Eh,  the  vieux  papa 
used  to  laugh  when  he  looked  at  her.  Only 
the  priest  said  it  was  the  will  of  God. 
Well,  madame,  Marie  went  to  live  with 
mademoiselle,  and  staid  there  till  she  was 
fifteen  years  old ;  then  she  ran  away." 
"  Where  did  she  go  to  V  " 
"  Oh !  I  know,  because  I  saw  her  often 
enough.  She  lived  fora  year  in  a  little 


cottage  close  by  Mr.  Durnford's  house,  in 
the  forest.  There  she  had  a  baby,  white 
as  —  as  "  —  here  his  eyes  wandered  to  lit- 
tle Alphonse  for  a  suitable  simile ;  but,  not 
finding  one  in  his  brown  face,  he  turned 
back  to  the  carriage,  —  "  as  white  as  mad- 
ame herself." 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  Weil,  madame,  that  baby  is  Philip  him- 
self. You  could  hardly  believe  it,  but  it 
is  so;  and  I  who  sit  here  am  his  uncle. 
Ha,  ha,  ha  !  Alphonse  is  his  cousin.  Ho, 
ho,  ho !  but  it's  droll." 

"  And  —  and  —  your  sister  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Durnford  married  ma'm'selle,  and 
poor  Marie  went  away.  She  came  back, 
though,  and  walked  all  the  way  to  Fon- 
tainebleau  through  the  forest  —  Alcide  saw 
her  —  on  the  night  after  Madame  Durnford 
was  buried.  Then  she  went  away  again, 
and  no  one  has  heard  of  her  since.  Poor 
Marie  !  She  was  too  good  for  us,  and  the 
bon  Dieu  took  her  to  heaven." 

"Good?  When  she  lived  with  Mr. 
Durnford  ?  " 

"  Eh  V  "  said  the  black,  "  why  not  ?  Ah  ! 
she  was  yent'dle.  You  should  have  seen 
her,  madame,  go  to  church  with  her  white 
kid  gloves,  and  her  silk  parasol,  and  a  rose- 
bud in  her  hair.  All  the  white  folks  stored 
at  her.  Poor  Marie  !  But  the  bon  Dieu 
has  taken  her,  and  her  son  is  a  vaurien. 
Alphonse,  if  the  idler  does  not  go  quicker, 
get  down  and  kick  him." 

The  idler  instantly  quickened  repent- 
antly. 

"He  is  a  vaurien,  I  say,  madame.  He 
drinks  in  the  morning,  he  drinks  all  day, 
he  drinks  at  night ;  and  he  goes  to  bed  — 
saoul.  No  one  goes  to  see  him.  He  lives 
alone,  he  sees  ghosts,  he  laughs  and  cries. 
The  servants  run  away.  Last  week  one 
ventured  to  sit  up  and  watch  him  all  night. 
He  gets  up,  takes  a  pistol,  and —  ping \  — 
if  the  boy  had  not  ducked  his  head,  like 
this,  he  would  have  been  killed.  Alphonse, 
thou  laughest  V  Matin  !  He  is  very  dan- 
gerous, madame.  And  madame  is  going  to 
see  him  V  " 

Presently  they  left  the  high  road,  and 
;urned  down  a  rudely-made  lane,  cut 
Jirough  the  forest.  The  still,  quiet  air  re- 
called all  the  old  moments  to  Marie.  She 
remembered  when  George  Durnford,  her 
over,  made  the  road  ;  and  here,  before  it 
.vas  finished,  he  would  walk  and  talk  with 
ler  in  the  evening,  telling  her  a  thousand 
hings  she  had  never  dreamed  of,  opening 
up  paths  for  her  thoughts  which  she  had 
never  suspected,  lifting  her  above  the  petty 
hings  that  she  had  been  accuutomed  to 
eed  her  mind  with,  and  filling  her  mind 
with  a  happiness  that  was  all  the  sweeter 
as  it  was  the  newer  and  more  unexpected. 


170 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


Forgetting  her  present  miseries,  an  invol- 
untary sm^e  wreathed  her  lips,  and  her 
eyes  glowed  again  with  the  brightness  of 
her  youth,  as  she  thought  of  those  days, 
all  too  brief,  of  love  and  tenderness.  Do 
women  ever  repent  of  first  love?  I  think 
not.  The  man  repents,  thinking  of  the 
wreck  he  has  made  of  a  woman's  happiness. 
She  weeps,  not  for  the  folly  and  the  sin, 
but  for  the  shattered  image,  the  perished 
hopes,  and  the  cruel  punishment.  Guilt? 
What  guilt  was  there  in  the  young  mulatto 
girl,  who,  knowing  that  she  could  never  be 
aught  but  the  white  man's  mistress,  yet  ran 
•willingly  into  his  arms,  and  obeyed  the  in- 
stincts of  a  passionate  nature  that  knew  no 
religion,  and  had  no  sense  of  a  higher  duty  ? 
Thousands  of  times  had  poor  Marie,  in  the 
height  of  her  popularity  and  fame,  pondered 
over  the  question,  and,  against  all  the  dog- 
mas of  creed,  had  acquitted  herself;  and 
thousands  of  times,  besides,  had  she  will- 
ingly acquiesced  in  the  results  of  the  social 
necessity  under  which  we^are  all  slaves. 

The  road,  winding  through  thick  under- 
wood, presently  crossed  a  rude  wooden 
bridge  over  a  small  ravine.  Marie  made 
the  driver  stop,  and  leaned  out  of  the 
carriage,  looking  at  a  scene  she  remem- 
bered so  well.  On  the  steep,  damp  sides, 
towering  above  the  tangled  herbage,  grew 
the  tall  tree-ferns,  each  with  its  circle  of 
glory,  clear  cut  against  the  blue  of  the 
sky  ;  along  the  foot  bubbled  a. little  moun- 
tain stream  over  great  bowlders  that  lay 
strewn  about.  Just  above  the  bridge  was 
a  tiny  waterfall  of  some  three  or  four  feet, 
over  which  the  water  leaped  merrily,  with 
as  much  fuss  and  splash  as  if  it  were  a 
great  Niagara.  And  above  the  fall,  hud- 
dled together  and  gazing  with  suspicious 
eyes  on  the  carriage,  stood  a  herd  of  twen- 
ty or  thirty  soft-eyed  deer.  But  not  on 
them  were  Marie's  eyes  resting ;  for  half 
hidden  within  the  trees,  stood  the  remains 
of  an  old  cottage,  the  thatch  half  torn  off 
and  covered  with  creepers,  the  door  hang- 
ing by  one  hinge,  the  door-posts  wrenched 
out  by  the  force  of  a  growing  tree,  and  the 
whole  place  presenting  a  dreary  look  of 
desolation.  Calling  Adolphe,  she  pointed 
it  out  to  him,  with  a  look  of  interroga- 
tion. 

"  It  is  the  cottage  of  Marie,  madame. 
That  is  where  Mr.  Durnford  put  her  when 
she  left  ma'm'selle.  He  thought  no  one 
knew.  But  I  knew,  and  many  a  time  I've 
lain  down  there  watching  Mr.  Durnford 
coming  to  call  her  out.  Every  evening  he 
used  to  come  ;  and  all  day  long  Marie  used 
to  sit  and  wait,  looking  along  the  path 
where  he  would  come." 

It  was  so  true ;  and  her  heart  was 
pierced  to  think  how  this  poor  fellow,  her 


own  brother,  not  ashamed  of  her  disgrace, 
would  He  and  wait  to  see  her  lover  come. 

'•  Mr.  Durnford  taught  her  to  read,  mad- 
mie;  ami  then  she  used  to  sit  at  the  win- 
dow with  a  book  all  the  day,  and  at  ni^ht 
would  tell  him  all  she  had  learned.  Eh? 
I  have  listened  often  at  the  window.  But 
it  did  not  last  long.  Then  she  went  away  ; 
and  then  she  came  back.  And  then  —  I 
don't  know  where  she  went.  The  bon  Dteu 
took  her." 

"  Why  do  you  think  she  is  dead  ?  " 

"  Madame,  I  will  tell  you.  Because  — 
how  long  ago?  Alphonse,  how  old  are 
you  ?  " 

"  How  should  I  know  ?  "  said  the  boy. 

"  Well,  it  was  twelve  years  before  Al- 
phonse was  born.  I  was  down  here  ;  it 
was  the  cholera  time.  Ouf !  what  a  time  ! 
No  one  died  here  except  Mr.  Durnford ; 
but  the  night  he  died  I  was  passing  through 
this  road,  and  in  the  moonlight  just  here,  I 
saw  two  figures  in  white,  —  one  was  Marie 
and  the  other  was  Mr.  Durnford.  Since 
then,  no  one  has  passed  by  here  at  night." 

"  How  do  you  know  it  was  Marie  ?  " 

"  What  a  droll  question.  As  if  I  should 
not  know  my  own  sister." 

They  went  on  ;  and,  as  they  drew  near 
the  house,  Marie  began  to  think  what  she 
should  say  to  her  son,  and  how  she  would 
be  received.  Her  long  voyage  was  ended, 
but  the  uncertainty  of  it  remained  yet. 
Nor  had  she  ever  realized  until  now  the 
almost  utter  hopelessness  of  her  journey. 
She  was  to  save  her  boy.  But  how  ?  By 
what  subtle  art  was  that  ruined  nature  to 
be  raised  —  that  seared  conscience  to  be- 
come softened  ?  Alas  !  she  knew  not  that 
what  she  hoped  to  effect  by  pleading,  the 
mystery  of  pain  and  suffering  was  even 
then  accomplishing. 

The  carriage  drew  up  in  front  of  the 
veranda.  She  got  out,  and  told  the  dri- 
ver —  her  brother  —  to  put  down  her  boxes, 
and  to  drive  back. 

No  one  received  her.  It  was  strange. 
In  the  old  days,  when  a  visitor  arrived, 
troops  of  servants  came  running.  Now 
not  one.  The  veranda,  too,  once  like  a 
well-ordered  apartment,  with  its  matting, 
the  blinds,  the  long  chairs  and  little  tables, 
now  stood  stripped  of  all.  The  floor  of 
concrete  was  in  holes.  The  old  ropes  of 
the  blinds  hung  helplessly  about.  Creep- 
ers climbed  up  the  posts,  and  trailed  along 
the  woodwork  of  the  roof.  Outside,  the 
pretty  rose-garden  was  all  destroyed,  and 
grown  over.  The  mill  beyond  was  closed. 
There  was  no  sign  of  work  or  noise  from 
the  adjacent  "  camp,"  which  seemed  de- 
serted ;  no  voice  from  the  house  within,  no 
barking  of  dogs,  or  clattering  of  hoofs.  A 
strange  dread  caine  upon  Marie.  She 


MY  LITTLE   GIRL. 


171 


shivered  from  head  to  foot.  It  was  too  late 
to  recall  her  carriage,  which  was  now  out 
of  sight,,  and  almost  out  of  hearing.  And 
with  a  dull  foreboding  of  sorrow  she  en- 
tered the  house  which,  four  and  twenty 
years  ago,  she  had  quitted  with  such  repent- 
tance  and  regrets. 

The  old  furniture  was  there,  in  its  old 
places ;  but  dust-covered,  mildewed,  and 
uncared  for.  No  one  was  in  the  salon,  no 
one  in  the  dining-room.  Avoiding  the 
rooms  to  the  right,  which  had  been  those 
of  George  Durnford,  she  went  into  the 
smaller  bedrooms  on  the  left,  put  up  origi- 
nally for  children  and  guest-rooms.  These, 
with  all  their  old  furniture,  which  she  re- 
membered so  well,  had  yet  a  dreary  and 
desolate  look.  Only,  in  one,  provided  with 
a  deal  table,  a  bookcase,  and  a  few  chairs, 
lay  the  relics  of  the  days  when  her  son, 
whom  she  had  seen  so  seldom,  was  yet 
but  a  child.  In  one  corner  were  the  bro- 
ken toys  of  the  two  boys.  On  the  shelves 
lay  the  old  well-thumbed  grammars  and 
school-books.  Damp  had  loosened  the 
bindings  ;  white  ants  had  burrowed  long 
passages  through  them  ;  the  cockroaches 
had  gnawed  away  the  leather ;  and  when 
she  moved  them,  a  whole  colony  of  scorpi- 
ons ran  out,  brandishing  their  tails  in  fran- 
tic assertion  of  their  long-established  rights. 

She  turned  away  sorrowfully,  and,  once 
more  entering  the  dining-room,  went  in, 
with  sinking  of  heart,  to  the  great  bed- 
room beyond.  The -silence  and  stillness  of 
the  house  oppressed  her.  It  seemed  haunted 
with  ghosts  of  the  days  gone  by ;  and, 
added  to  this  was  the  dread  of  something, 
she  knew  not  what,  which  she  might  find 
within. 

Twice  she  tried  to  turn  the  handle  of  the 
door;  twice  her  heart  failed  her.  She 
went  to  the  well-known  buffet  in  the  din- 
ing-room, where  water  always  stood,  and 
drank  a  glass  of  it.  That,  at  least,  in  its 
red  earthenware  vase,  was  the  same  as 
ever.  Then  she  resolutely  opened  the  door, 
and  went  in. 

On  the  bed,  —  ah,  me  !  the  bitterness  of 
punishment,  —  on  the  great  bed  which  had 
once  been  her  own  and  George  Durnfbrd's, 
lay,  pale  and  motionless,  her  only  son, 
stricken  even  unto  death.  Alone  and  un- 
cared for.  With  dry,  parched  lips,  that 
sometimes  murmured  a  wail,  and  sometimes 
moved  to  let  fall  some  wild  words  of  deliri- 
um, with  bright  rolling  eyes,  Philip  was 
waiting  for  the  approach  of  death.  This 
was  written  on  his  forehead  in  unmistaka- 
ble signs.  He  was  not  even  undressed.  It 
appeared  as  if  he  had  thrown  himself  upon 
the  bed  with  his  clothes  "on,  and,  in  the 
passion  of  lever,  had  torn  his  shirt-collar 
opun,  and  tried  ineffectually  to  take  off  his 


upper  clothing ;  and  though  the  fever  made 
his  brow  and  his  hands  burning  hot,  he 
shivered  occasionally,  and  his  teeth  chat- 
tered with  cold. 

Marie  took  in  »the  whole  at  a  glance. 
Stepping  back  to  the  dining-room,  she  has- 
tily brought  water,  and  gave  him  to  drink, 
and  bathed  his  burning  face.  He  drank 
eagerly,  and  as  long  as  she  would  let  him. 
Then  she  opened  the  windows,  for  tire  air 
was  stifling  ;  and  then  —  what  hands  are 
so  tender  as  a  mother's  ?  —  she  undressed 
him,  and  managed  to  make  him  at  least  a 
little  easier.  And  when  all  was  done,  —  her 
patient  rambling  incoherently,  —  she  knelt 
by  the  bedside,  and  prayed  with  passionate 
sobs  and  tears,  that,  if  her  son  was  to  die, 
she  might  at  least  be  permitted  to  breathe 
a  few  words  —  only  a  few  —  out  of  the  ful- 
ness of  her  heart,  into  his  listening  ear. 
Presently  she  recovered,  and  went  in  search 
of  help.  The  silence  and  stillness  were 
inexplicable.  At  the  back  of  the  house, 
behind  the  stables,  stood  the  huts  for  the 
servants.  Thither  she  went.  They  were 
empty.  A  hundred  yards  from  the  house, 
close  by  the  road,  stood  the  huts  which 
formed  the  "  camp,"  —  a  little  village  for 
some  eight  hundred  folks.  It  was  empty 
and  deserted.  The  shop  was  closed,  the 
stables  were  empty.  What  could  it  all 
mean  ? 

Coming  back  to  the  house,  she  went  to 
the  kitchen.  This  stood  by  itself,  a  small 
stone  building.  There  she  found  a  (ire ; 
and,  crouching  by  the  fire,  though  it  was  an 
afternoon  in  the  height  of  summer,  sat  an 
Indian  boy,  who  only  moaned  when  she 
touched  him.  He,  too,  had  fever.  She 
took  him  up, — a  light  burden  enough, — 
and  carried  him  to  a  room  next  to  Philip's, 
where  she  tended  him,  and  laid  him  in  the 
only  bed  he  had  ever  slept  in  in  his  life. 
Fortunately,  he  was  not  delirious  ;  and,  from 
him,  she  learned  something  of  what  had 
happened. 

The  luckless  Philip  had  taken  to  drink- 
ing all  day  long,  and  almost  all  night.  He 
had  become  moody,  irritable,  and  capricious, 
so  that  the  very  men  who  came  for  the 
coarse  revels  that  went  on  there,  grew  tired 
of  him,  and  left  off  coming  at  all.  Then, 
having  no  companions  and  no  resources,  he 
became  every  day  worse.  Once,  the  near- 
est doctor,  an  old  friend  of  his  father's, 
rode  over  to  see  him  ;  and  after  his  depart- 
ure Philip  improved  for  a  short  time.  He 
even  sent  for  his  lawyer,  and  gave  him  in- 
structions to  sell  the  estate.  No  purchaser 
came  for  it.  The  crop  was  put  through  the 
mill,  and  sent  up  to  town ;  and  after  it,  the 
unhappy  man,  growing  mad  with  the  dread- 
ful life  he  lived,  resolved  to  have  nothing 
more  to  do  with  the  estate,  and  actually 


172 


MY   LITTLE  GIRL. 


took  steps  to  get  rid  of  his  coolies,  in  which 
he  had  almost  succeeded.  And  for  two 
•months  the  canes  had  been  uncared  for, 
the  fields  almost  left  to  themselves.  He 
said  he  was  going  back  to  England.  As 
they  learned  afterwards,  there  was  still  a 
large  sum  of  money  left  out  of  Arthur's 
savings.  As  for  the  estate,  Philip  declared, 
with  many  oaths,  that,  if  no  one  would  buy 
the  place,  no  one  should  work  in  it ;  and 
then  he  reduced  his  private  establishment. 
Two  boys  and  a  cook  were  all  he  kept ; 
while  for  two  long  months  he  wandered 
gloomily  about  his  deserted  estate,  and  at 
night  drank  himself  into  a  state  of  insensi- 
bility. And  then,  one  night,  he  was  strick- 
en with  fever.  The  cook  and  one  of  the 
boys  ran  away  in  terror.  The  other  would 
have  followed,  but  that  fever  seized  him, 
too,  and  held  him  down. 

Marie  gathered  this  partly  from  the  sick 
boy,  and  partly  from  what  she  heard  after- 
wards. Going  into  the  camp  again,  she 
found  some  bustle  and  noise.  Thank  Hea- 
ven !  there  was  some  one.  As  she  learned 
afterwards,  the  whole  body  of  the  remain- 
ing coolies  had  struck  work  that  very  day, 
and  gone  off  together  —  men,  women,  and 
children  —  to  complain  to  the  nearest  ma- 
gistrate about  getting  no  wages.  Now  they 
were  all  returned,  and,  gathered  in  knots, 
discussed  their  grievances.  Marie  called 
a  sirdar,  and  despatched  him,  with  a  hand- 
some gratuity  beforehand,  for  the  nearest 
doctor.  This  done,  she  returned  to  her  pa- 
tients, the  Indians  gazing  curiously  at  her. 

The  boy  told  her  where  some  tea  could  be 
got,  and  she  hastily  prepared  it  for  Philip, 
who  lay  quietly  enough.  He  was  too  weak 
to  move,  poor  fellow  ;  and  only  murmured 
incessantly.  He  drank  the  tea,  however, 
and  then  fell  asleep,  when  Marie  was  able 
to  leave  him,  and  doctor  the  little  Indian 
who  was  almost  as  ill  as  his  master.  Slowly 
the  hours  passed.  She  marked  the  sun  set, 
as,  long  ago,  she  had  often  watched  it,  be- 
hind the  hills  in  front  of  the  house.  She 
saw  the  moon  rise  in  the  dear  old  tropical 
lustre;  the  cigale  shrieked  its  monotonous 
note  ;  the  watchman  began  to  go  his  rounds, 
and  cry,  "  All's  well !  "  the  same  as  he  had 
always  done ;  and,  but  for  the  heavy  breath- 
ing of  the  poor  stricken  prodigal,  her  son, 
she  cotild  almost  have  thought  the  four  and 
twenty  years  since  last  she  sat  there  a 
dream.  About  nine  o'clock,  a  deputation 
waited  on  her.  She  knew  the  rustling  of 
the  muslin  and  the  clink  of  the  bangles,  and 
went  out  on  the  veranda  to  receive  her 
visitors.  Some  half-dozen  Indian  women 
stood  there.  One  bore  a  dish  of  curry  for 
madame.  All  wanted  to  know  what  they 
could  do  for  her;  all  were  curious  to  learn 
who  she  was  and  why  she  had  come  ;  and 


all  looked  on  her  with  a  sort  of  superstitious 
dread.  Their  husbands  accompanied  them 
as  far  as  the  garden  hedge,  but  would  go  no 
farther  ;  and  now  stood,  prepared  to  fly,  in 
case  of  any  supernatural  manifestations. 
None  occurred,  however.  Marie  asked  if 
two  of  them  \wuld  stay  with  her,  and  ac- 
cepted the  curry  gratefully.  It  was  the 
first  thing  she  had  taken  since  the  early 
morning  coffee  ;  and  a  long  night  was  before 
her. 

The  women  were  horribly  afraid  of  the 
fever.  They  would  do  any  thing  for  mad- 
ame in  the  house  —  they  would  sleep 
on  the  veranda  ;  but  nothing  would 
induce  them  to  go  into  rooms  of  the 
sick.  However,  it  was  something,  in 
her  desolation,  to  have  even  them  with  her ; 
and,  with  a  sense  of  companionship,  she 
went  back  to  watch  her  charges.  The  boy 
at  last  fell  asleep ;  and  she  brought  a  chair 
and  sat  by  Philip's  bedside,  watching  his 
deep  breath  come  and  go. 

The  two  women  outside,  curled  under  a 
blanket,  chattered  for  a  while,  and  then  fell 
asleep.  The  watchman  at  first  made  a 
great  show  of  wakefulness,  expectorating 
loudly  every  time  he  passed  the  doors  of 
the  bedroom ;  finally,  he,  too,  subsided  into 
his  usual  corner,  and  fell  fast  asleep,  with 
his  long  stick  in  his  hands.  The  dogs 
began  by  barking  against  each  other,  but 
gradually  grew  sleepy,  and  left  off.  The 
cocks,  who  disregard  all  times  and  sea- 
sons in  Palmiste  Island,  loudly  called  for 
the  sun  about  midnight.  As  he  declined  to 
appear  at  their  bidding,  they  tucked  their 
heads  in  again,  and  had  another  nap.  And 
then  the  silence  of  the  forest  seemed  to 
make  itself  felt ;  and  Marie,  her  old  super- 
stitions coming  back"  in  all  their  force,  al- 
most gasped  with  the  tension  of  her  nerves. 
The  room  filled  with  ghosts,  —  not  ghosts 
that  filled  her  with  terror  so  much  as  regret. 
Her  long-dead  mistress,  Adrienue,  with  long, 
floating  light  hair,  seemed  to  be  hovering  in 
white  robes  in  the  moonshine  ;  the  faces  of 
old  acquaintances  laughed  at  her  from  the 
dark  corners  of  the  room  ;  or  the  still,  sleep- 
ing face  of  Philip  would  suddenly  change 
into  the  face  of  her  dead  lover.  Voices,  too, 
were  whispering  about  her,  till  she  could 
bear  it  no  longer,  and  went  out  into  the 
open  air,  to  pace  the  veranda,  and  look 
upon  the  old  familiar  scene  bathed  in  the 
silver  moonlight. 

Then  she  came  back,  and  prayed  again  — 
in  the  Catholic  faith  that  had  reared  her  — 
to  the  Madonna.  What  matter  if  no  Madon- 
na heard  her  ?  The  prayer  was  the  same  to 
God,  who  hears  all  prayers,  and  seems  to 
grant  so  few.  Does  any  one  ever  get  all  he 
prays  for  ?  I  trow  not.  And  yet  we  pray, 
—  pray  against  hope  and  certainty  — 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


173 


though  we  see  the  advent  of  the  inevitable, 
and  know  that  God  will  not  turn  it  aside  for 
any  prayers  or  vehement  calling-out  of  ours. 
But  still  we  pray;  and  when  the  hand  of 
death  is  on  the  nearest  and  dearest  to  us, 
when  all  that  makes  life  sweet  is  to  be  torn 
from  us,  we  betake  ourselves  to  our  knees, 
and  so  we  go  on  praying  till  the  world's  end, 
despite  the  calm  persuasion  of  the  philoso- 
pher, and  the  experience  of  a  life.  Only,  by 
prayer,  we  soften  our  hearts  ;  and  it  seems 
as  if  God  answers  us  by  alleviating  the  blow, 
and  giving  some  comfort  while  our  sorrow 
is  at  its  bitterest. 

So,  while  Marie  prayed,  it  seemed  to 
her,  in  the  dim  light,  as  if  the  face  of  the 
sick  man  altered  and  softened.  The  fierce 
heat  of  the  fever  died  away,  his  brow  grew 
damp  and  chill,  his  hands  soft  and  warm, 
and  his  breathing  calm  and  regular ;  and 
lor  the  time,  she  fancied  that  her  prayers 
were  heard  indeed. 

Do  you  know  that  moment  in  the  night 
—  the  passage,  as  it  were,  from  day  to 
day  —  when  a  chill  breath  seems  to  pass 
over  the  earth,  and  for  a  space  all  the  world 
is  hushed  as  if  in  death  ?  You  may  feel  it 
by  sea  or  by  land.  I  have  shivered  and 
trembled  under  its  spell,  while  gasping  for 
breath  in  the  sulphureous  Red  Sea.  Or  in 
the  heart  of  London,  should  you  be  awake, 
you  lie  and  feel  that  yesterday  is  dead  in- 
deed, and  the  new  day  not  yet  fully  born. 
This  is  the  time  when  feeble  old  men  and 
children  die ;  and  when  death  seems  most 
terrible. 

'At  this  moment  Philip  woke  :  and,  at 
sight  of  his  eyes,  the  mother's  heart  leapt 
up,  and  she  thanked  God  ;  for  one  part  of 
her  prayer,  at  least,  was  answered.  For 
the  delirium, was  gone,  and  her  son  was  in 
his  right  mind.  She  did  not  dare  to  speak, 
while,  on  her  knees  at  the  bedside,  she 
looked  him  face  to  face,  and  met  his  eyes, 
which  gazed  wonderingly  into  hers,  so  full 
of  tears  and  tender  love. 

"  There  are  so  many  ghosts,"  he  mur- 
mured, "  about  this  house,  that  I  suppose 
you  are  another.  You  are  the  ghost  of  my 
mother." 

"  Ah,  no  !  herself,"  she  cried  out.  "  No, 
my  son,  your  own  mother  herself  come  to 
nurse  you,  —  your  own  loving  mother. 
Oh,  my  boy,  my  darling,  forgive  me  !  " 

"I  am  weak,"  he  said,  '"  and  my  head  is 
confused.  Touch  me,  that  I  may  know  you 
are  no  phantom  of  my  brain.  Kiss  me,  my 
mother." 

She  showered  a  thousand  kisses  on  his 
poor  thin  cheeks  ;  she  took  his  head  in  her 
arms,  and  bathed  it  with  her  tears, e —  those 
precious  woman's  tears,  not  all  of  repent- 
ance, but  some  of  thankfulness  and  love, 
like  those  that  once  washed  our  Saviour's 


feet,  till  Philip's  heart,  softened  by  suffering, 
broke  down  ;  and  he  wept  aloud. 

But  then  her  fears  took  alarm,  and  she 
quickly  dried  her  eyes.  And  when  he 
would  have  spoken,  —  when  he  would  have 
answered  some  of  her  love  with  repentance 
and  prayers,  —  she  forbade  him  to  utter  a 
word. 

"  Not  yet,  my  son  —  not  yet,"  she  said. 
"  To-morrow  we  will  talk.  Now,  sleep 
again  —  or,  stay  a  moment." 

She  went  to  the  old  buffet  in  the  dinin  _r- 
rooui,  and  found  some  claret,  of  which  she 
made  him  take  a  few  drops.  This  bright- 
ened his  eyes  for  a  moment;  and  then, 
overcome  with  his  weakness,  he  fell  asleep 
once  more.  Her  heart  danced  within  her, 
—  she  could  not  sit  still.  Leaving  him 
sleeping,  she  went  out  again  to  the  veran- 
da, and  watched  the  coming  dawn. 

The  moon  was  down  by  this  time ;  and 
save  the  Southern  Cross,  paling  before  the 
coming  day,  all  the  stars  were  gone.  Only 
the  bright  morning  star  was  left  in  the 
east.  The  birds  began  to  twitter  in  the 
trees,  just  in  their  dreams  — as  she  remem- 
bered long  ago  —  before  the  dawn  ;  and 
the  sweet  words  of  the  poet  came  into  her 
mind :  — 

"  Ah !  sad  and  strange,  as  in  dark  summer  dawns 
The  earliest  pipe  of  half-awakened  birds 
To  dying  ears,  when  unto  dying  eyes 
The  casement  slowly  grows  a  glimmering  square : 
So  sad,  so  strange,  the  days  that  are  no  more ! " 

And  she  was  sitting  with  the  memories 
of  by-gone  days  ;  with  her  dying  son  in  his 
last  sleep,  —  save  the  longest,  —  while  this 
gray  summer  dawn  crept  slowly  up  the 
east. 

Slowly  ;  but  it  came.  First  a  dull  gray, 
and  presently  a  silver  gray;  and  then 
those  long,  marvellous  fingers  of  light 
which  spread  themselves  out  upon  the 
world  as  though  they  would  fain  seize  it, 
and  make  it  their  own.  And  then  the 
rocks,  which  had  been  black,  grew  purple  ; 
the  mist  upon  the  nearest  peak,  which  had 
been  a  cloud,  became  a  bridal  veil,  drawn 
loosely  round,  and  falling  in  a  thousand 
folds  upon  the  woods  below.  And  then  a 
few  short  minutes  of  bright  green,  and  red, 
and  gold,  and  the  great  sun  bounded  into 
the  sky  with  a  single  leap ;  and  another  day 
was  born  to  the  world.  And  then  the 
birds  all  flew  about  to  greet  the  sun  ;  from 
the  woods  chattered  the  monkeys ;  the 
lizards  woke  up,  and  began  to  hunt  about 
for  the  hottest  places,  blinking  at  the  light ; 
the  dogs  from  the  camp  resumed  their 
musical  contest  in  AmaBbean  strains,  just 
where  they  had  left  it  off  the  previous 
night ;  the  cocks  began  to  crow,  and  make 
a  great  triumph,  as  if  they  had  compelled 
the  sun  to  come  back  by  their  own  per- 


174 


MY  LITTLE  GIEL. 


sonal  efforts  ;  the  turkeys  began  to  strut 
about  with  a  great  babbling  and  cackle; 
the  mules  came  out,  and  rolled  in  the  cane 
straw ;  the  mosquitoes  all  went  away  to 
bed  ;  and  the  women's  voices  began,  in  the 
way  she  knew  so  well,  —  the  women  al- 
ways seemed  to  waken  first,  —  to  rail  at 
their  lords  from  the  huts  of  the  camp. 
Her  own  two  companions  of  the  night 
shook  themselves  together,  and  greeted  her 
kindly.  She  set  them  to  make  some  tea, 
and  sat  with  her  hands  crossed,  looking 
before  her  at  the  bright  and  hopeful  morn- 
ing. 

Presently  she  remembered  her  little  In- 
dian, and  went  to  look  at  him  in  his  bed. 
Alas !  alas !  the  poor  child  was  dead. 
Without  a  sound,  or  she  would  have  heard 
it  through  the  open  door,  his  spirit  had 
gone  from  him  in  the  night ;  and  he  lay, 
cold  and  stiff,  in  the  careless  grace  of  sleep- 
ing childhood,  his  head  pillowed  on  his 
arm,  his  eyes  closed.  Struck  with  terror, 
she  turned  to  the  other  room.  There,  at 
least,  was  sleep,  —  kinsman,  but  not  friend, 
of  death ;  and,  sitting  patiently  by  the 
bedside,  she  resumed  her  watch. 

The  hours  passed  on,  the  sun  grew  high  ; 
but  still  he  slept.  About  ten  arrived  the 
doctor,  —  she  had  simply  sent  for  the  near- 
est doctor ;  but  she  recognized  an  old 
friend  of  George  Durnford's,  and  went  to 
meet  him  as  an  acquaintance. 

He  took  off  his  hat,  —  Dr.  Staunton,  — 
and,  seeing  an  unknown  lady  who  held  out 
her  hand,  took  it  with  great  astonishment. 

"  Pardon  me,  madame,  I "  — 

"  O  Dr.  Staunton !  you  have  forgotten 
me,  then  ?  But  come  in  quickly." 

He  went  in  without  a  word,  and  began 
to  listen  to  her  account  of  his  patient. 

"  It  is  a  bad  case,  madame,  a  very  bad 
•case.  I  ought  to  have  been  sent  for  four 
days  ago.  If  you  are  interested  in  him  "  — 

"  Interested  ?  O  Dr.  Staunton  !  is  it 
possible  you  have  forgotten  me  ?  I  am  his 
mother." 

"You  — Marie?  Can  it  be,  indeed? 
I  thought  you  dead.  Tell  me  about  your- 
self. My  poor  child,  —  I  mean  "  — 

"  Never  mind,  doctor.  People  call  me 
Madame  de  Guyon.  But  tell  me  about 
my  son." 

"  Madame  de  Guyon  ?  Is  it  possible 
that  you  are  "  — 

"  Yes,  —  I  am  the  singer  ;  but  now  tell 
me  about  my  son." 

'*  Marie  —  be  strong,  —  strong  to  bear 
the  worst.  He  cannot  live.  No  human 
art  can  save  him." 

She  sat  down  dry-eyed. 

«  When  will  he  die  ?  " 

"  We  cannot  tell.  Perhaps  in  an  hour, 
—  perhaps  in  two.  He  will  die  before  the 


evening.      I    will   stay  with    you   to    the 
end." 

She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  — 
not  to  weep,  but  to  keep  back  the  hard,  re- 
bellious thoughts  that  surged  up  in  her  bosom. 
In  a  few  moments  she  stood  up,  and  began 
to  busy  herself  about  her  boy,  smoothing 
his  pillows,  and  lading  the  sheets  straight. 

"  I  heard,"  she  said,  "  in  England,  — 
Arthur  Durnford  told  me,  —  that  he  was 
being  led  away  by  bad  companions.  1  am 
sure  his  heart  was  good.  I  came  out, 
thinking  to  try  and  save  him.  I  find  him 
dying.  O  doctor,  save  him  !  You  loved 
George  Durnford,  who  loved  me ;  for  his 
sake  save  him.  In  all  his  life,  since  he  was 
a  baby,  —  since  I  gave  him  up  to  his  father, 
—  this,  is  only  the  third  time  I  have  seen 
him.  And,  Dr.  Staunton,  he  loves  me  still. 
Oh,  save  him  !  " 

"  Marie,  I  cannot." 

"  And  why," — she  turned  fiercely  upon 
him,  —  "  why  did  you  not  save  him  betbre, 
for  his  father's  sake  ?  Why,  when  you 
knew  that  he  was  here,  and  that  he  was 
not  what  he  should  be,  did  you  not  come 
and  reason  with  him  ?  Oh !  "  she  added 
bitterly,  "  I  know  the  reason,  —  after  four 
and  twenty  years  of  England,  —  that  his 
mother  was  a  mulatto." 

"  I  swear,  Marie,"  said  the  old  doctor 
earnestly,  "  that  you  wrong  me.  I  came 
here,  —  I  came  twice.  The  first  time,  —  I 
must  tell  you,  —  I  was  insulted.  I  came 
again,  and  he  listened  to  me.  I  have  been 
ill  myself,  and  could  not  come  a  third 
time.'' 

"  Doctor,"  cried  a  weak,  thin  voice  from 
the  pillow,  "  I  thank  you ;  and  again  I  beg 
your  forgiveness." 

Marie  was  at  his  side  in  a  moment,  kiss- 
ing and  fondling  him. 

"  What  shall  he  have,  doctor  ?  Tea,  — 
oh  !  hear  it  comes." 

Dr.  Staunton  ordered  him  some  simple 
things. 

"  I  have  heard  what  you  hav  e  been  say- 
ing, "  said  Philip.  "  I  shall  die  to-day." 

"  Oh,  no,  my  son,  —  oh,  no  !  —  God  will 
not  permit  it." 

"  God  knows,  dear  mother,  that  it  is  the 
best  thing  I  can  do.  Perhaps  that  is  the 
reason  why  he  lets  me  do  it.  Doctor,  I 
have  a  good  deal  to  say  to  my  mother,  and 
very  little  time  to  say  it  in.  Leave  us 
for  a  little  ;  but  first  shake  hands  with 
me." 

Left  alone  — 

"  Kiss  me,  mother,"  said  Philip.  "  Tell 
me  that  you  forgive  me.  Mother,  in  my 
weakness,  I  implore  your  pardon." 

"  O  Philip !  with  all  my  heart's  love,  I 
forgive  you.  You  did  not  know  me.  You 
could  not  know  I  was  your  mother,  indeed. 


MY  LITTLE   GIRL. 


175 


Tt  was  I  who  was  wrong.  There  is  nothing 
to  forgive,  dear." 

"  But  there  is,"  he  said.  "  I  knew  you 
were  my  mother,  directly  you  told  me  so. 
I  felt  it."  But  I  was  proud,  and  I  had  just 
—  without  knowing  all  my  wickedness,  it 
is  true  —  robbed  Arthur  of  his  inheritance  ; 
and  I  could  not  bear  to  give  it  back  again. 
My  heart,  too,  was  bitter  with  that  other 
wrong  I  had  committed,  —  O  my  mother  ! 
a  deeper  wrong,  even,  than  what  I  did  to 
you.  You  may  forgive  me  for  one,  but  you 
can  never  forgive  me  for  the 'Other." 

"  Hush  !  my  boy.     It  is  all  forgiven." 

"  All  ?  "  He  hardly  seemed  astonished, 
and  had  forgotten  how  she  knew. 

"  All.  Laura  told  me  herself.  She  bade 
me  take  out  to  you  her  love  and  pardon. 
She  implored  me  to  bring  her  out  with  me. 
She  says  that  all  she  wants  now  is  to  hear 
one  loving  word  from  you,  to  treasure  up, 
and  hide  the  memory  of  all  the  things  you 
did  and  said  —  when  you  did  not  know 
what  you  were  saying,  my  dear." 

Philip  turned  his  face,  and  wept  on  the 
pillow." 

"  Wipe  rny  eyes,  mother.  I  am  so  weak 
that  I  cannot  even  do  that  for  myself. 
And  now,  get  some  paper,  and  write  a  let- 
ter for  me,  but  call  the  doctor  first." 

Marie  went  to  get  the  paper  :  before  she 
came  back,  Dr.  Staunton  had  administered 
a  restorative. 

"How  long?"  asked  Philip  of  the 
doctor. 

"  Don't  talk  too  much,  or  you  will  kill 
yourself  in  an  hour." 

"  Good  ! "  said  Philip."  Write,  dear 
mother,  — 

"  '  DEAREST  WIFE,  —  I  have  but  a  short 
time  now  to  live.  With  my  last  breath,  I 
ask  pardon  of  you  for  the  grievous  wrongs 
I  have  done  you.  No  punishment  could  be 
too  great  for  me.  My  mother  tells  me  you 
have  sent  me  your  forgiveness.  My  dear, 
if  I  could  tell  you  how  I  have  repented  — 
if  you  knew  the  bitter  remorse  that  has 
seized  me  since  I  have  been  in  this  place ! 
But  all  is  over  at  last.  The  great  weight 
is  lifted.  God  has  sent  my  mother  with 
her  love  and  your  pardon.  I  go  into  the 
other  world.  I  have  no  excuse  for  myself. 
I  have  been  a  bad  man,  and  have  led  a  bad 
life.  Only,  if  God  lets  me  ask  any 
thing'"  — 

"  My  son  !."  cried  Marie. 

" '  If  God  lets  me  ask  any  thing,  I  will 
ask  him  to  bless  you  both.  This  is  my 
only  prayer —  I  dare  have  none  for  myself. 
My  dear  —  my  Laura  —  I  am  very,  very 
sorry.  Think  only  for  the  future  that  I 


loved  you  all  along.  God  bless  you,  my 
wife.  Your  most  affectionate  and  peni- 
tent husband,  — 

<  PHILIP.'  " 

He  signed  it  with  feeble  fingers,  guided 
by  Marie,  and  then  fell  back. 

"  I  should  like  to  write  to  Arthur,  but  I 
cannot.  Write  for  me,  and  tell  him  how  I 
repented,  and  ask  his  forgiveness.  Mac- 
Intyre  wanted  me  to  do  it  eight  years  ago, 
but  I  refused.  You  will  write  ;  won'tyou, 
dear  mother  ?  " 

She  promised. 

"  Sing  to  me,  dear  mother  ;  you  sing  so 
well.  I  should  like  to  hear  your  voice  once 
more.  Sing  me  a  hymn." 

It  was  a  cruel  trial.  She  steadied  her- 
self, and  sang  —  his  head  upon  her  shoulder 
—  with  all  her  fulness  and  richness  of 
voice,  so  that  the  old  doctor  wiped  his 
brimming  eyes  at  the  sound,  — 

"  '  Abide  with  me !  fast  falls  the  eventide : 

The  darkness  deepens.    Lord,  with  me  ahide! 
When  other  helpers  fail,  and  comforts  flee, 
Help  of  the  helpless,  oh,  abide  with  me ! 

Swift  to  its  close  ebbs  out  life's  little  day, 
Life's  joys  grow  dim,  its  glories  fade  away ' "  — 

His  cheek  dropped  against  hers.  She 
stopped  in  sudden  affright. 

"  Mother,"  he  murmured  very  faintly, 
"  is  it  growing  dark  ?  Is  it  night  already  ?  " 

"O  Philip!" 

"  I  think  I  am  dying  —  give  my  love  to 
Laura.  Kiss  me,  mother.  Shall  we  meet 
again  V  " 

"  My  boy —  in  heaven.  I  could  not  go 
there  without  you." 

His  head  fell  heavily  forward.  He  was 
dead. 

The  little  Indian  boy  was  buried  that 
same  evening,  in  the  Indian  cemetery  on 
the  hillside.  Small  funeral  rites  had  he, 
and  no  mourners.  The  man  who  dug  his 
grave,  and  carried  him  under  his  arm  to 
the  place  of  sepulture,  all  out  of  the  good- 
ness of  his  heart  and  a  kind  of  natural 
piety,  placed  a  bottle  on  the  grave,  so  that, 
should  he  perchance  awake,  there  might  be 
the  means  of  at  least  slaking  bis  thirst. 
And  in  India,  perhaps  his  mother  waited 
for  him  to  come,  and  wondered,  looking  as 
the  years  went  by,  that  he  delayed  so 
long.  The  life  of  man  is  short  at  the 
best ;  but  the  shorter  it  is,  the  less  of  bit- 
terness he  knows.  Solomon  said  much  the 
same  thing. 

Dr.  Staunton  staid  with  Marie.  After 
the  first  burst  of  passionate  grief,  she 
began,  womanlike,  to  find  her  consolation ; 
and  the  thought  that  his  last  few  hours 


176 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


were  spent  In  love  and  repentance  ;  that 
the  memory  she  would  have  of  her  son 
would  not  be  of  cruel  insult  and  wrong,  but 
of  tenderness  and  affection,  made  her  thank 
God  for  one  great  mercy  at  least. 

They  buried  him  next  day,  in  the  near- 
est English  churchyard,  close  to  his  father's 
grave.  After  his  feverish  life,  it  was  con- 
soling to  his  mother's  heart  to  carry  with 
her  his  last  few  words  of  repentance  and 
sorrow.  She  treasured  them  up  ;  and  when 
she  thought  of  them,  she  forgot  the  cruel 
scene  in  London,  his  harsh  words,  his  tones 
of  mockery  and  pride,  remembering  only 
his  tender  love  at  the  last,  and,  when  all 
was  over,  his  calm  face  set  with  the  sweet, 
sad,  unchanging  smile  of  death. 

They  buried  him  as  the  sun  went  down 
into  the  sea.  The  fierce  heat  of  a  tropical 
summer  day  was  over  ;  and  night,  with  its 
perfect  calm,  was  stealing  upon  the  world 
when  the  last  words  of  the  funeral  service 
were  pronounced,  and  the  mould  rattled 
upon  the  coffin  of  poor  Philip,  Marie 
thought  of  his  life  :  of  the  storm  and  hurri- 
cane when  she  left  him  with  his  father,  and 
went  back  alone  through  the  forest ;  of  the 
blight  that  his  birth  had  thrown  upon  him  ; 
of  his  wasted  energies,  ruined  hopes,  and 
cruel  misdeeds ;  and  of  the  sweet  calm  and 
peace  of  the  end.  And  it  seemed  to  her 
that  this  tropical  day  was  an  emblem  of 
his  life,  with  its  fierce  and  scorching  heat, 
its  turbulent  hurricanes,  and  its  peaceful 
night. 

The  clergyman  read  the  service,  and 
went  away.  Then  Marie  saw  that  she  and 
the  doctor  were  not  the  only  mourners  ; 
for,  with  their  hats  off,  and  kneeling  on 
the  sward,  were  her  two  brothers,  Adolphe 
and  Alcide.  Stepping  reverently  forward, 
they  each  threw  a  handful  of  mould  upon 
the  coffin  ;  their  first  and  last  claim  at  kin- 
ship. And  then  the  two  poor  fellows 
walked  slowly  away,  and  Marie  saw  them 
no  more. 

She  went  back  to  the  estate,  the  old 
doctor  keeping  her  company  ;  and  though 
Pahniste  knew  that  the  great  singer  had 
been  to  their  island,  and  was  at  Fontaine- 
bleau  when  young  Durnford  died,  no  one 
knew  on  what  errand  she  had  come,  nor 
what  was  her  relationship  to  Philip.  Dr. 
Sfcaunton  kept  the  secret  well.  Nor  did 
she  think  it  necessary  to  tell  Adolphe  Na- 
poleon Rohan  de  Montmorenci  that  Marie 
was  not  dead,  after  all.  What  would  have 
been  the  use  ?  It  was  not  any  false  shame. 
If  all  the .  world  knew  that  her  brothers 
were  poor  blacks,"gaining  a  living  by  driv- 
ing a  voiture  de  place,  it  would  have  mat- 
tered nothing  to  her.  No  one  in  England 
would  think  the  worse  of  her.  A  singer  is 
not  expected  to  be  of  unblemished  family, 


more  than  any  other  professional  person. 
And  what  good  could  she  do  to  her  rela- 
tions ?  They  were  happy ;  they  had  no 
wants  that  they  could  not  satisfy  ;  they  had 
no  ambition  ;  they  desired  nothing,  looked 
for  nothing.  Moreover,  between  them  and 
herself  so  great  a  gulf  was  fixed  that  it 
could  not  be  passed  ;  and,  whatever  her 
childhood  had  been,  she  was  now  a  lady. 
Lastly,  there  was  this,  —  her  story  no  one 
knew  except  one  or  two  persons  in  Eng- 
land, and  one  person  in  Pahniste.  There 
was  no  need  for  any  one  to  know.  She 
had  suffered  almost  every  thing  that  a 
woman  can  suffer,  except  what  tortures 
women  most,  —  the  loss  of  her  reputation. 
Blameless  and  pure  in  conduct,  she  had 
passed  through  the  theatre  without  a  re- 
proach, whispered  or  spoken.  She  had 
learned,  soon  enough,  the  valua  of  fair 
fame,  and  she  was  not  disposed  to  give  it 
up.  Therefore  she  kept  the  secret  to  her- 
self. 

Turning  over  Philip's  papers,  she  found 
among  them  evidences,  not  only  of  the 
power  he  undoubtedly  possessed,  but  of 
thoughts  which  showed  him  in  a  better 
light,  —  which  betrayed  the  causes  of  his 
wreck,  the  fatal  moral  wreck  which  his 
nature  had  sustained  when  he  learned, 
through  the  man  who  was  his  evil  genius, 
that  he  was  illegitimate,  and  touched  with 
the  blood  of  the  lower  race. 

Philip,  until  the  last  few  months  of  his 
life,  had  been  in  the  habit  of  writing  ;  not 
for  papers  or  magazines,  partly  because  it 
never  occurred  to  him  to  write  for  them,  and 
partly  because  he  did  not  write  well  enough. 
But  his  loose  papers,  heaped  together  in 
his  desk,  written  on  slips  and  fragments  of 
paper,  —  sometimes  in  a  few  words,  some- 
times many  —  sometimes  in  prose,  some- 
times in  verse, — showed  that  he  knew 
himself  capable  of  good  things,  and  that, 
though  he  followed  the  worst,  he  approved 
the  better. 

She  burnt  them  all  but  one.  This  she 
kept,  and  sent  to  Laura.  It  had  no  title, 
and  consisted  of  four  stanzas  —  rough 
verses  enough,  but  not  without  an  element 
of  power. 

"  Go,  dig  ray  grave  for  me  — 
Not  where  the  painted  sunshine  lights  the  aisle, 
Not  where,  through  glories  of  the  pillared  pile, 

The  silver-voiced  choir 
Sing  o'er  the  sacred  bones  of  glorious  dead 

The  strains  of  David's  lyre. 

Rather  seek  out  for  me 

Some  village  churchyard,  where  the  world  comes 

not; 
Where  mounds  ignoble  cover  men  forgot; 

Where  the  black  branching  yew 
O'erhangs  with  midnight  shade  the  moss-grown 

stones, 
And  hides  the  graves  from  view. 


MY   LITTLE   GIKL. 


177 


Bury  me  there,  and  write 

No  long  inscription  on  a  marble  stone  : 

Only  a  head-cross,  with  these  words  alone  — 

1  He  dared  not  :  therefore  failed.' 
Let  the  dishonor  of  a  coward  heart, 

So  set  forth,  so  be  veiled. 

Let  no  man  weep  for  me  : 

Rather  rejoice  that  one  whose  will  was  weak~ 

No  longer  cumbers  earth  ;  and,  when  they  speak 

(Not  with  breath  bated),  say, 
God  made  the  world  for  those  who  dare  be  strong  : 

Well  that  the  weak  decay  !  " 


She  kept  these  lines  only,  and  on  his 
grave  set  up  the  head-cross  he  wished,  with 
his  own  words,  "  He  dared  not  :  therefore 
failed."  Under  them  she  wrote  —  "  P.D. 
Aged  twenty-six." 

Over  his  grave,  and  his  father's,  wave 
the  tall  filhaos,  with  the  long,  mournful 
sough,  singing  a  perpetual  lament  over  the 
sins  and  sorrows  of  the  dead.  In  this  for- 
gotten corner  of  the  world,  —  no  longer  a 
memory  even  in  Palrniste,  though  few  years 
have  as  yet  gone  by  since  he  died,  —  he  lies 
at  rest.  Arthur  and  his  wife,  and  their 
children,  will  perhaps  be  laid  beside  him, 
but  not  Marie.  Another  grave  is  hers,  —  a 
wider  one,  but  I  think  quite  as  peaceful. 

She  sent  Philip's  last  words  to  Laura 
and  Arthur  by  the  next  mail.  She  staid 
to  finish  what'she  had  to  do  ;  left  presents 
for  her  people,  to  be  given  by  Dr. 
Staunton,  and  embarked  again  for  Eng- 
land in  the  first  homeward-bound  ship, 
happier,  if  more  sad,  than  when  she  arrived 
but  a  short  month  before. 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

"MY  dearest  daughter,"  —  it  was  the 
last  letter,  the  one  letter,  that  Laura  ever 
had  from  Marie,  —  "I  send  you  Philip's 
last  words.  It  is  all  over,  my  child.  I 
cannot  write  about  him  yet ;  but  he  kissed 
me  at  the  last,  and  we  prayed  together.  I 
have  given  money  to  a  man,  who  promises 
to  keep  his  grave,  and  to  tend  the  flowers 
that  I  have  planted.  There  is  a  cross  at 
its  head,  with  his  initials,  and  a  line  that  I 
found  in  his  desk,  — '  He  dared  not :  there- 
fore failed.'  It  is  the  story  of  his  life,  —  a 
poor  life,  a  sinful  life,  a  sorrowful  life.  He 
saw  what  was  good,  and  took  what  was 
bad,  because  it  seemed  the  easiest.  In  all 
his  faults,  he  tried  to  make  a  compromise 
between  the  two.  My  poor  boy !  He 
looked  so  handsome,  though  he  was  pale 
and  worn  at  the  last;  and,  as  he  lay  dead, 
his  mouth  was  set  with  a  sweeter  smile 
than  I  had  ever  seen  on  it  in  lii'e.  Alas  ! 
I  never  saw  him  smile.  I  love  to  think  of 
him  so ;  and  to  feel  that  he  is  with  One 
12 


who  is  far  more  merciful  than  we  two  wo- 
men. 

"  I  am  delayed  by  all  this  business,  but  I 
return  by  the  "next  mail. 

"  Strange  presentiments  fall  upon  me.  I 
cannot  sleep  at  night.  If  I  do,  I  have 
dreams  and  visions;  and  I  feel  as  if  I 
shall  never  see  you  again.  But  I  am  not 
unhappy.  God  has  forgiven  us  both,  —  my 
boy  and  me.  I  say  that  ajjain  and  auain  ; 
and  I  comfort  myself  with  thinking  how 
ray  Philip  laid  his  arms  about  my  neck, 
and  kissed  me,  at  the  end. 

"  One  thing  I  forgot  to  tell  you.  You 
are  now  the  owner  of  Fontainebleau.  You 
must  give  it  back  to  Arthur.  Make  him 
take  it.  What  is  mine  is  yours,  and  I  am 
rich.  Should  I  never  reach  England,  all 
is  bequeathed  to  you. 

"  I  enclose  you  a  lock  of  Philip's  hair. 
1  cut  it  from  his  head  when  I  took  my  last 
look  at  his  poor,  white,  dead  face.  I  put 
up  one  of  mine  with  it.  Tie  them  up 
together,  dear  child,  and  put  them  in  a 
locket.  Here,  too,  is  a  flower  from  his 
grave.  And,  with  it  all,  his  last  letter. 
God  bless  you,  my  daughter.  Perhaps  my 
forebodings  may  come  to  nothing. 

"MARIE." 

A  wild  day  off  the  Cape,  where  the  gales 
are  fiercer,  and  the  waves  longer,  than  in 
any  other  part  of  the  ocean.  In  the  midst 
of  the  warring  winds  and  mighty  waves  a 
gallant  ship,  tossing  and  groaning  as  every 
successive  mountain  of  gray-green  water 
strikes  her.  The  sailors  are  holding  on  by 
the  ropes,  the  man  at  the  helm  is  lashed  to 
his  post,  the  captain  is  giving  orders  cling- 
ing to  the  davits,  and  all  the  passengers, 
except  two  or  three  who  are  on  deck  and 
watching  the  waves,  are  below  in  the  saloqp. 
The  storm  has  raged  without  intermission 
for  three  days.  They  have  been  driven 
steadily  south,  far  out  of  the  track  of  any 
ship.  It  is  bitterly  cold.  The  men  have 
been  all  day  trying  to  get  up  cargo  and 
lighten  the  vessel.  The  engines  labor 
heavily.  Every  now  and  then  the  screw, 
as  the  ship's  stern  is  lifted  out  of  the  water, 
whizzes  round  against  the  air,  with  a  sound 
that  seems  to  terrify  the  ship ;  for  she 
gives  a  shiver,  and  then  makes  another 
bound  forwards,  and  gallantly  tries  to  right 
herself.  Now  and  again  a  passenger  tries 
to  get  hold  of  the  captain  or  one  of  the  of- 
ficers, and  essays  to  find  a  crumb  of  comfort 
in  the  assurance  that  things  cannot  get 
worse,  and  therefore  must  change  soon ; 
but  the  officers  wear  anxious  faces,  and  the 
captain  shakes  his  head  when  he  talks  to 
his  chief.  Hour  after  hour  goes  on,  and 
things  get  worse,  —  the  wind  higher,  the 
waves  longer.  One  after  the  other,  the  pas- 


178 


MY  LITTLE  GIRL. 


senders  creep  below  into  the  saloon,  and  try 
to  cheer  each  other,  with  a  sickening  fear  at 
their  hearts.  Marie  is  there,  sitting  with 
clasped  hands  and  calm  face  and  downcast 
eyes.  The  women  around  her  are  crying  and 
weeping  ;  the  men  are  sitting  with  haggard 
faces,  or  sometimes  looking  at  each  other 
with  a  smile ;  and  the  storm  grows  worse. 
Presently  she  feels  a  hand  catching  at  her 
arm.  It  is  a  young  girl,  going  to  England 
to  be  married.  She  had  not  spoken  to 
Marie  before.  Now,  in  her  misery,  she 
looks  round,  and  finds  hers  the  only  face 
with  any  courage  upon  it.  Marie  rouses 
herself  at  the  touch,  and  takes  the  girl  into 
her  arms. 

"  My  poor  child,"  she  whispers. 

And  at  the  sound  of  her  pitying  voice, 
the  girl  breaks  into  a  flood  of  weeping  and 
lamentation. 

"  Madame  de  Guyon,"  she  cries,  "  do  you 
think  we  are  going  to  be  drowned  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  my  dear.  God  knows. 
He  will  do  what  is  best  for  us." 

"  Pray  for  us,  Madame  de  Guyon." 

Marie  prayed,  —  whispering  her  prayer 
in  the  girl's  ear.  The  storm  grew  louder 
and  fiercer.  She  had  to  cling  to  the  back 
of  the  saloon-seat  on  which  she  was  rest- 
ing ;  and,  in  the  middle  of  her  prayer,  an 
awful  crash  was  heard.  The  child  —  she 
was  little  more  —  shrieked  with  terror. 
Marie  clasped  her  the  more  firmly. 

"  God,  our  Father,"  she  whispered,  "  send 
us  what  is  best  for  us." 

There  was  a  great  stamping  and  noise 
upon  deck,  for  the  mainmast  had  been  car- 
ried by  the  board  ;  but  it  was  finally  cleared 
away ;  and  presently  more  noise  befell 
them  when  the  foremast  followed.  Those 
in  the  cabin  trembled  and  shrieked.  One 
or  two  of  the  men  got  brandy,  and  drank 
freely  to  keep  up  their  courage.  Four  e^p 
diggers  from  California  sat  down  to  have 
a  final  gamble,  and,  holding  the  cards 
firmly  in  one  hand  and  the  brandy  in  the 
.other,  prepared  themselves  so  to  leave  the 
world. 

But  the  end  was  not  yet.  This  was  the 
forenoon.  The  wind  abated  towards  one 
o'clock ;  and  there  seemed  a  prospect,  how- 
ever distant,  of  getting  through.  The 
diggers  gave  up  their  gambling,  and  grum- 
bled, being  half  drunk,  over  the  winnings 
and  losings.  Those  who  had  been  most 
terrified  assumed  an  air  of  valor  ;  and  the 
women  left  off  crying.  Only  the  girl  clung 
to  Marie,  and  begged  her  not  to  leave  her 
again.  The  long  day  crept  on.  About 
five,  a  pretence  was  made  at  dinner  —  what- 
ever could  be  found  to  eat  being  put  out. 
But  by  this  time  a  good  many  of  the  men 
were  drunk,  and  lying  helpless  about  the 
seats  on  the  floor ;  and  the  women  could 


not  eat.  The  captain  came  down, — a 
cheery,  hearty  man.  He  looked  with  in- 
finite disgust  at  his  drunken  passengers, 
and  hastened  to  say  a  few  words  to  Marie 
and  the  young  lady. 

"  You  seem  brave,  Madame  de  Guyon," 
he  said ;  "  and  so  I  tell  you,  that,  though 
we  may  pull  through,  I  do  not  think  we 
shall.  If  the  wind  rises  again  to-night,  we 
shall  have  a  rough  time  of  it.  Cheer  up, 
my  pretty,"  he  said  to  the  girl,  "  we  must 
hope  for  the  best.  And  here's  the  doctor 
to  look  after  you.  He  can  save  us  from  a 
good  deal,  if  not  from  storm  and  tempest. 
As  for  storm  and  tempest,"  he  muttered, 
"  only  the  Lord  can  save  us  from  those  ; 
and  I  don't  think  the  Lord  will." 

Then  the  doctor  —  a  young  fellow  of  five 
and  twenty,  as  brave  as  if  he  had  fifty  lives 

—  sat  down  and  talked  to  them,  making  a 
rough  dinner  all  the  while,  and  trying  to 
cheer  up  the  poor  lassie,  but  without  much 
effect.     Presently  the  sun  set,  —  or,  rather, 
the  night  fell,  —  and  darkness  came  upon 
them.     The  stewardess  lit  one  or  two  of 
the  saloon  lamps,  and  relapsed  into  a  sort 
of  torpor  which  had  fallen  upon  her.     The 
doctor  tried  to  rouse  her  up.     It  was  no 
use.  She  lifted  upherhead,  and  moaned,  — 

"I've  been  a  great  sinner  —  oh,  I've 
been  a  great  sinner  !  " 

"  Well,  come,"   said  the   doctor  kindly, 

—  "  we  all  know  that  of  course ;  but  you 
might  as  well  do  your  duty  all  the  same." 

But  she  refused  to  move.  So  the  doctor 
tried  himself  to  minister  to  his  two  ladies, 
without  much  effect.  Indeed,  there  was 
little  to  be  done  for  them. 

Marie  raised  her  head,  and  listened. 
Then  she  whispered  to  the  doctor,  — 

"  The  wind  is  rising  —  I  feel  it  coming." 

The  doctor  shuddered.  He  could  dis- 
tinguish nothing  beyond  the  dull  roar  of 
the  waves  and  the  struggling  of  the  ship ; 
for  the  wind  had  almost  died  away.  But 
he  listened  intently.  Presently  it  came,  — 
first  a  shrill  whistle  in  the  shrouds,  and 
then  a  sort  of  heavy,  dull  blow  to  starboard ; 
and  the  good  ship  staggered  and  reeled. 

"  God  help  us  !  "  said  the  doctor  softly. 
"  We  shall  not  get  through  this  night." 

Marie  and  the  girl  clung  to  each  other. 

"  Come  below,"  said  Marie,  "  if  there  is 
time." 

He  nodded,  and  went  out  into  the  black, 
howling  night. 

"  Madame,"  said  the  girl. 

"  Call  me  Marie,  dear." 

"  Marie,  call  me  Lucy.  If  there  were 
only  a  clergyman." 

"  Let  me  be  your  clergyman,  dear  Lucy. 
God  hears  us  in  the  storm  as  much  as  in 
the  calm.  We  want  no  clergyman." 

"  But  —  but  —  oh  !  1  loved  him  so  much, 


MY  LITTLE  GIEL. 


179 


—  more  than  God  !  Do  you  think  he  will 
forgive  me  ?  Marie,  do  you  think  I  can  be 
forgiven  V  " 

"  God  forgives  us  all,"  said  Marie.  "  He 
has  forgiven  me.  And  God  has  taken  my 
son,  and  is  going  to  take  me.  He  has  for- 
given us  both,  —  me  and  my  boy  too.  Do 
you  not  think  he  will  forgive  you  ?  " 

"  Pray  for  me  again,"  sobbed  the  girl. 

Marie  prayed.  Two  or  three  of  the 
women,  —  they  were  soldiers'  wives,  poor 
things,  second-class  passengers,  who  had 
crept  aft  for  better  shelter,  —  seeing  the 
girl  on  her  knees,  and  Marie  bending  over 
her,  slid  and  crawled  over  to  her,  and 
kneeled  round  her,  while  Marie  prayed  for 
all. 

In  the  midst  of  her  prayer  there  was  a 
confused  rush  and  gurgle  of  waters,  and  the 
ship  seemed  suddenly  to  stop.  In  the  roar 
of  the  tempest,  they  hardly  perceived  that 
it  was  her  engines  which  had  stopped. 
And  Marie,  looking  up,  saw  the  doctor 
making  his  way  towards  her.  Catching 
one  of  the  iron  pillars  of  the  saloon,  he  bent 
over,  and  whispered  in  her  ear,  — 

"  The  ship  will  be  down  in  ten  minutes." 

She  nodded,  and  drew  from  her  breast  a 
little  packet,  which  she  handed  him.  He  put 
it  in  his  pocket ;  and  then,  with  tears  in 
his  eyes,  kissed  her  upturned  face,  and  dis- 
appeared up  the  companion  ladder.  None 
of  the  women  noticed  it. 

Ten  minutes  afterwards,  he  found  him- 
self clinging  to  a  rope  on  the  deck.  Next 
to  him  was  the  chief  officer. 

"  Where's  the  skipper  ?  "  he  shouted 
through  the  storm. 

"  Gone  overboard.  All  the  rest,  too,  I 
think,  with  the  almighty  wave  that  put  out 
our  engine-fires.  Doctor,  don't  be  drowned 
like  a  heathen.  Say  you  didn't  mean  what 
you  said  the  other  night." 

"  Not  I,"  shouted  the  doctor.  "  If  I've 
been  wrong,  and  there  is  something  to 
come,  I  won't  go  sneaking  into  it  with  a 
miserable  apology." 

The  chief  officer  said  no  more  ;  because 
at  that  moment  another  wave,  striking  the 
ship,  washed  them  both  off  together  into  the 
black  sea. 

The  doctor,  recovering  his  senses,  found 
himself  clinging  to  some  portion  of  the 
wreck.  How  he  got  hold  of  it,  by  what 
instinct,  how  in  the  crash  and  roar  when 
his  senses  left  him  he  still  managed  to  hold 
to  it,  lie  never  knew.  It  was  a  black  night, 
and  he  was  alone  on  the  waves.  He  looked 
round,  but  could  see  nothing. 

The  morning  found  him  still  living.  The 
storm  had  subsided,  and  the  sun  broke  fair 
and  warm. 

Two  days  afterwards,  a  homeward-bound 
ship  saw  an  object  tossing  on  the  sea,  and 


made  out  that  it  was  a  man  and  a  piece  of 
wreck.  They  lowered  a  boat.  The  man 
was  breathing,  but  that  was  all.  They 
took  him  on  board,  and  gave  him  restora- 
tives. He  came  to  his  senses  presently, 
and  told  his  story.  And  the  doctor  was 
the  only  survivor  of  the  ship.  The  captain 
and  the  crew,  Marie  and  little  Lucy,  and 
the  passengers,  had  all  gone  down  together. 
When  they  touched  at  Plymouth,  the 
doctor  landed,  and  went  straight  to  Venn 
with  the  packet  that  Marie  had  put  into 
his  hands.  It  contained  nothing  but  a  few 
memorials  of  Philip. 

Laura  had  lost  her  husband  and  her 
mother. 


CHAPTER  XLH. 

LAURA  continued  to  stay  with  Sukey. 
She  made  no  new  friends,  and  no  change 
in  her  life.  Hartley  came  to  see  her  nearly 
every  day,  and  the  old  visit  daily  was  so  re- 
stored, with  the  difference  that  he  was  the 
scholar. 

All  her  beauty  had  come  back  to  her : 
roses  to  her  cheeks,  the  life  and  lightness 
of  youth,  the  sweetness  and  grace,  doubled 
and  trebled  by  the  lessons  of  sorrow,  with 
that  additional  charm  for  which  we  have 
no  other  word  than  ladyhood. 

All  were  happy,  except  Sukey,  who 
watched  her  brother  day  after  day,  with 
feelings  growing  more  and  more  irritated. 
At  last  she  spoke.  He  was  in  a  particularly 
good  temper  that  morning.  Laura  was  in 
her  own  room,  dressing  to  go  out  with  him. 

"It's  ridiculous,  Hartley,"  cried  Sukey, 
losing  all  control  over  herself. 

"  What  is  ridiculous,  Sukey  ?  " 

"  I  say  it  is  ridiculous,  the  way  you  are 
going  on.  How  long  is  it  to  last?  And 
people  talking.  Even  Anne  says  it's  too 
bad  of  you." 

"  My  own  Sukey,  what  is  it  ?  " 

"  It's  Laura.  Has  the  man  got  eyes  in 
his  head  ?  Are  you  stupid  ?  Are  you 
blind  ?  " 

Hartley  turned  red. 

"  Tell  me,  Sukey  —  speak  plain.  Tell 
me  what  it  is  you  mean  ?  " 

"  O  Hartley !  You  are  the  most  fool- 
ish creature  that  ever  was,  my  dear  brother." 
She  laughed  hysterically.  "  The  child  loves 
the  very  ground  you  walk  upon.  She  dreams 
of  you,  —  she  is  never  happy  except  with 
you." 

"Don't,  Sukey,  don't" —  He  began 
walking  about  the  room.  "  If  you  should 
be  wrong.  Am  I  to  lose  the  happiness  I 
have  every  day  ?  " 

"  Lose  it !     And  a  second  time,  this  non- 


180 


MY  LITTLE  GIKL. 


sense  !  I  haven't  patience  with  the  man. 
While  the  prettiest  and  best  girl  in  the 
world  is  dying  of  love  for  him,  he  talks 
about  losing  happiness  !  " 

"  Go  send  her  here,  Sukey,  dear.      It's 

true  our  grandfather  was  a  bishop,  and  hers 

.  was  a  Gray's-inn  laundress  —  no,  that  was 

her  grandmother."     He  looked  at  her  with 

a  smile  playing  about  his  lips. 

"  It  may  be  remarkable,  Hartley,"  said 
Sukey,  "  to  quote  yourself,  but  it  is  true, 
that  in  our  family  there  are  two  grand- 
lathers,  one  of  whom  was  not  unconnected 
with  the  wholesale  "  —  here  she  made  a  wry 
face  —  "  the  wholesale  glue  trade." 

"  Go  away,  Sukey,"  he  laughed,  giving 
her  that  very  unusual  thing  from  him,  a 
kiss.  He  had  never,  by  the  way,  been  very 
frugal  over  his  kisses  for  little  Lollie,  in  the 
old  time.  "  Go  away,  and  send  me  my  little 
girl." 

She  came,  dancing  down  the  stairs  and 
singing,  ready  for  her  walk,  in  a  dainty 
little  costume,  all  her  own  invention,  and 
bringing  the  sunshine  into  the  room  with 
her. 

"  Here  I  am,  Mr.  Venn.  Are  you  impa- 
tient? I  have  only  been  ten  minutes. 
Where  shall  we  go  V  " 

"I  am  always  impatient,  Lollie."  He 
took  her  hand,  and  held  it  for  a  moment  in 
his. 

"  Child,  I  am  more  than  impatient.  I 
am  discontented.  You  give  me  all  the  joy  I 
have  in  life  ;  but  you  withhold  some  —  the 
greatest." 

She  began  to  tremble,  and  her  eyes  filled 
with  tears. 

"  Give  me  the  greatest,  my  darling. 
Never  to  be  separated  from  you,  —  to  have 
you  alvyays  with  me.  Give  me  the  right  to 
take  you  in  my  arms,  as  I  used  to  do  when 
you  were  a  little  child.  Be  my  wife,  Lollie." 

She  looked  in  his  face.  The  eyes  were 
smiling,  —  the  face  was  grave.  No  wild 
tempestuous  passion  such  as  she  might 
have  remembered,  only  that  memory 
seemed  all  dead.  No  fierce  light  of  a 
burning  fire  in  those  eyes,  —  only  the  light 
of  a  full,  deep  love  which  nothing  could  ever 
destroy. 

She  threw  her  arms  round  his  neck,  and 
laid  her  cheek  to  his. 

"  Mr.  Venn,  —  Mr.  Venn,  I  have  never 
loved  anybody  but  you." 

What  could  he  say  ?  There  was  nothing 
to  say.  Five  minutes  afterwards,  Sukey, 
hearing  no  voice,  opened  the  door.  They 
were  still  standing  in  that  same  posture, 
kissing  each  other,  as  Sukey  afterwards 
told  Anne,  "like  a  pair  of  babies." 

"  My  dearest,"  said  Sukey,  "  I  have  al- 
ways prayed  for  this  from  the  beginning. 
Hartley,  you  must  tell  Anne.  King  the 


bell.  Anne,  you  will  be  glad  to  hear  that 
Mr.  Hartley  is  going  to  marry  Mrs.  Duru- 
fbrd." 

Anne  sat  down,  and  wiped  her  eyes  with 
the  corner  of  her  apron. 

"  Now,  I'm  content  to  go,"  she  said.  "  O 
Mr.  Hartley,  Mr.  Hartley  !  —  and  she  never 
tired  of  hearing  how  I  dandled  you  on  my 
knees  when  you  were  a  little  baby  a  month 
old.  God  bless  and  keep  you  both,  my 
dears ! " 

That  evening  the  Chorus  assembled. 
Lynn  and  Jones  arrived  nearly  at  the  same 
moment.  Both  seemed  strangely  pre-occu- 
pied  and  nervous.  Jones  could  not  sit  down. 
He  walked  about,  upset  glasses,  and  com- 
ported himself  as  one  under  the  influence 
of  strong  emotion.  Venn  only  seemed 
perfectly  tranquil. 

"  What  is  it,  Jones  ?  "  he  asked  at  last. 

"  My  play  came  out  last  night  at  the  Ly- 
ceum." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Lynn ;  "  and  failed,  of 
course." 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Verrn,  "  you  can 
easily  write  another.  After  all,  what  mat- 
ters little  disappointments  ?  Mere  inci- 
dents in  our  life,  giving  flavor  to  what  else 
would  be  monotonous." 

"  Yes,"  said  Jones,"  "  if  one  may  quote 
Byron  on  such  an  occasion  as  the  pre- 
sent — 

<  Oh !  weep  not  for  me,  though  the  Bride  of  Abydos 

Wildly  calls  upon  Laura  to  slumber  no  more ; 
Though  from  Deios  to  Crete,  from  Olynthus  to 

•Cnidos, 
The  canoe  of  the  Corsair  is  hugging  the  shore. 

Oh !  weep  not  for  me,  though  on  Marathon's  moun- 
tain, 

The  chiefs  are  at  thimblerig,  as  is  their  wont: 
Though  beneath  the  broad  plane  tree,  by  Helicon's 

fountain, 
The  languishing  Dudu  is  murmuring  "  Don't." ' ' 

"  We  will  not  weep,  Jones.  Sit  down 
and  be  cheerful." 

"lam  a  humbug,"  cried  Jones.  "Oh! 
why  were  you  not  there  ?  It  was  a  great 
success.  The  house  screamed.  I  have 
succeeded  at  last  —  at  last."  He  sat  down, 
and  his  voice  broke  almost  into  a  sob  as 
he  added,  "  I  have  written  to  Mary." 

"  This  will  not  do,"  said  Venn.  "  He 
violates  every  rule  of  this  Chorus.  He 
brings  his  private  joys  into  what  is  sacred 
to  private  sorrows.  Lynn,  he  must  be  ex- 
pelled." 

"  Stay  a  moment,"  said  Lynn.  "  I,  too, 
have  something  to  communicate." 

"  What  ?  You,  too  V  Have  you 
then  V  "  — 

"No:  I  have  accepted  a  judgeship  in 
Trinidad.  I  start  next  month." 

Venn  looked  round  him  with  astonishment. 

Then  he  turned  red  and  confused. 


MY   LITTLE  GIRL. 


181 


"  I,  too,"  he  confessed,  "  have  my  secret 
to  communicate.  Yes,  my  friends,  the  Cho- 
rus is  dissolved.  I  am  going  to  be  mar- 
ried." 

They  looked  at  him  nervously. 

"  I  am  to  marry  my  little  girl." 

"  Thank  God  !  "  said  Lynn. 

"  Why,  who  else  could  I  marry?  There 
is  but  one  woman  in  the  world,  so  far  as  I 
am  concerned.  We  shall  be  married  im- 
mediately, and  go  to  Italy  till  we  are  tired 
of  it;  then  we  shall  come  back  again. 
There  will  be  no  wedding  fuss,  or  breakfast, 
or  other  annoyances,  —  unless  Sukey  likes 
to  come  here  for  a  final  kidney." 

"And  the  Opuscula?"  • 

Venn  winced. 

"  I  shall  begin  their  careful  revision  with 
a  view  to  publication  —  at  my  own  expense. 
Lollie  is  rich,  you  know,"  he  added  simply. 
"  Besides,  it  will  be  good  to  have  something 
to  do.  In  the  morning,  we  shall  roam 
about  and  enjoy  the  sunshine.  In  the  even- 
ing, I  shall  correct  the  manuscripts  while 
Lollie  plays  to  me.  You  see,  I  am  not  in 
any  hurry  about  publishing.  Perhaps  in 
ten  years'  time  you  may  see  an  announce- 
ment of  their  appearance. 

"  The  last  night  of  the  Chorus,"  he  went 
on.  "My  friends,  there  stands  before  us 
the  venerable  bottle  of  champagne  which 
was  brought  in  the  very  first  night  of  the 
newly-established  Chorus,  now  twelve  years 
ago.  This  night  must  witness  the  drinking 
of  that  wine.  Aged  and  mellowed,  it  is 
doubtless  by  this  time  in  splendid  condi- 
tion. I  would  Arthur  were  here  to  join  us. 
Jones,  get  the  champagne  glasses  from  the 
cupboard.  Lynn,  my  boy,  help  me  to  re- 
move the  wire.  Are  we  ready  ?  Now,  in 
the  sparkle  of  the  generous  wine  behold 
the  brightness  of  the  future.  Our  youth 
will  be  renewed.  We  shall  live  again  in 
the  sunshine  of  success  and  happiness. 
Behold!" 

He  removed  his  hand  from  the  cork.  It 
did  not  immediately  fly  out,  and  he  had  re- 


course to  the  vulgar  expedient  of  pulling  it 
out  with  a  corkscrew.  After  great  exer- 
cise of  strength,  it  came  out  with  a  dull 
thud. 

He  said  nothing ;  but  while  all  three 
crowded  round  the  table,  he  poured  out  the 
wine.  It  was  flat,,dead,  and  sour.  Not  a 
single  sparkle  in  the  glass. 

They  looked  at  each  other. 

Lynn  laughed  bitterly. 

"  It  is  an  emblem  of  life,"  he  said. 
"  Nothing  compensates.  We  have  wasted 
our  youth." 

Venn  stared  vacantly  at  the  unhappy 
wine,  which  seemed  an  omen  of  bad  luck. 

"  J  believe  it  was  bad  at  the  beginning," 
he  murmured.  "  It  came  from  the  public- 
house." 

Jones,  however,  brought  his  clinched  fist 
upon  the  table. 

"Emblem  of  life?  Compensation? 
Rubbish  !  "  he  cried.  "  We  have  waited,  we 
have  suffered.  What  of  it  ?  The  suffering 
is  gone,  the  waiting  is  over.  It  is  no  more 
than  the  earache  I  had  when  I  was  a  boy. 
Even  the  memory  of  it  is  almost  faded. 
Venn,  Lynn,  this  infernal  bottle  is  the  em- 
blem of  our  hopes  and  disappointed  ambi- 
tions. Go,  cursed  symbol  of  defeat !  " 

He  hurled  the  bottle  into  the  fireplace, 
and  threw  the  glasses  after  it. 

"And  now,  Venn,  if  you  like,  I  will  get 
you  some  new  champagne,  and  drink  to 
your  happiness,  and  to  yours,  Lynn,  and  to 
my  own.  In  the  words  of  the  poet,  — 


'  Look  not  for  comfort  in  the  champagne  glasses, 

They  foam,  and  fizz,  and  die; 
Only  remember  that  all  sorrow  passes, 
As  childhood's  ear-aches  fly. 

At  the  great  Banquet  where  the  Host  dispenses, 

Ask  not,  but  silent  wait ; 
And  when  at  last  your  helping  turn  commences, 

Complain  not  'tis  too  late. 

And  see,  O  Chorus  of  the  disappointed! 

Ourselves  not  quite  forgot; 
And  after  aimless  play  and  times  disjointed, 
Sunshine  and  love  our  lot.' " 


THE   END. 


HARPER'S  LIBRARY  OF  SELECT  NOVELS. 


PRICK 

1.  Pelham.     By  Bulwer $  75 

2.  The  Disowned.     By  Bulwer 75 

3.  Devereux.    By  Bulwer 50 

4.  Paul  Clifford.     By  Bulwer 50 

5.  Eugene  Aram.     By  Bulwer 50 

6.  The  Last  Days  of  Pompeii.     By  Bulwer 50 

7.  The  Czarina.     By  Mrs.  Hofland 50 

8.  Rienzi.     By  Bulwer 75 

9.  Self-Devotion.     By  Miss  Campbell 50 

10.  The  Nabob  at  Home 50 

11.  Ernest  Maltravers.     By  Bulwer 50 

12.  Alice ;  or,  The  Mysteries.     By  Bulwer 50 

13.  The  Laat  of  the  Barons.     By  Bulwer 1  00 

14.  Forest  Days.    By  James 50 

15.  Adam  Brown,  the  Merchant.     By  H.  Smith  ...  60 

16.  Pilgrims  of  the  Rhine.     By  Bulwer 25 

17.  The  Home.     By  Miss  Bremer 50 

IS.  The  Lost  Ship.     By  Captain  Neale 75 

19.  The  False  Heir.    By  James 50 

20.  The  Neighbors.    By  Miss  Bremer 50 

21.  Nina.    By  Miss  Bremer. 50 

2-2.  The  President's  Daughters.     By  Miss  Bremer. .  25 

23.  The  Banker's  Wife.     By  Mrs.  Gore 50 

24.  The  Birthright.     By  Mrs.  Gore 25 

25.  New  Sketches  of  E  very-day  Life.  By  Miss  Bremer  50 
20.  Arabella  Stuart.     By  James 50 

27.  The  Grumbler.    By  Miss  Pickering 50 

28.  The  Unloved  One.     By  Mrs.  Hofland 50 

29.  Jack  of  the  Mill.     By  William  llowitt 25 

30.  The  Heretic.     By  Lnjetchnikoff .-.  50 

31.  The  Jew.     By  Spindler 75 

32.  Arthur.     By  Sue 75 

33.  Chatsworth.     By  Ward 50 

34.  The  Prairie  Bird.     By  C.  A.  Murray 1  00 

35.  Amy  Herbert.    By  Miss  Sewell 50 

36.  Rose  d'Albret.     By  James 50 

37.  The  Triumphs  of  Time.     By  Mrs.  Marsh 75 

38.  The  II Family.    By  Miss  Bremer 50 

30.  The  Grandfather.     By  Miss  Pickering 50 

40.  Arrah  Neil.     By  James. 50 

41.  TheJilt 50 

44.  Tales  from  the  German 50 

43.  Arthur  Arundel.     By  II.  Smith 50 

44.  Agincourt.     By  James 50 

45.  The  Regent's  Daughter 50 

4«.  The  Maid  of  Honor 50 

47.  Safia.     By  De  Beauvoir 50 

48.  Look  to  the  End.     By  Mrs.  Ellis 50 

49.  The  Improvisatore.     By  Andersen 50 

50.  The  Gambler's  Wife.     By  Mrs.  Grey 50 

51 .  Veronica.     By  Zschokke 50 

52.  Zoe.    By  Miss  Jewsbury 50 

53.  Wyoming ;... 50 

54.  De  Rohan.     By  Sue 50 

55.  Self.    By  the  Author  of  "Cecil" 75 

56.  The  Smuggler.     By  James 75 

57.  The  Breach  of  Promise 50 

58.  Parsonage  of  Morn.    By  Miss  Bremer. 25 

53.  A  Chanc3  Medley.     By  T.  C.  Grattan 50 

60.  The  White  Slave 1  00 

61.  The  Bosom  Friend.     By  Mrs.  Grey 50 

62.  Amaury.     By  Dumas 50 

63.  The  Author's  Daughter.     By  Mary  Howitt 25 

61.  Only  a  Fiddler!  &c.     By  Andersen 50 

65.  The  Whiteboy.     By  Mrs.  Hall 50 

66.  The  Foster-Brother.     Edited  by  Leigh  Hunt. . .  50 

67.  Love  and  Mesmerism.    By  11.  Smith. 75 

63.  Ascanio.     By  Dumas 75 

63.  Lady  of  Milan.     Edited  by  Mrs.  Thomson 75 

70.  The  Citizen  of  Prague 1  00 

71.  The  Royal  Favorite.     By  Mrs.  Gore 50 

7'2.  The  Queen  of  Denmark.     By  Mrs.  Gore. 50 

73.  The  Elves,  &c.     ByTieck 50 

74,  75.  The  'Step-Mother.    By  James 1  25 

76.  Jessie's  Flirtations 50 

77.  Chevalier  d'Har mental.     ByDumns 50 

78.  Peers  and  Parvenus.     By  Mrs.  Gore 50 

79.  The  Commander  of  Malta.     By  Sue 50 

80.  The  Female  Minister 50 

81.  Emilia  Wyndham.     By  Mrs.  Marsh 75 

82.  The  Bnsh-Kanger.     By  Charles  Rowcroft 50 

S3.  The  Chronicles  of  Clovernook 25 

8 1.  Genevieve.     By  Lamartine 25 

85.  Livonian  Tales 25 

80.  Lettice  Arnold.     By  Mrs.  Marsh 25 

87.  Father  Darcy.     By  Mrs.  Marsh 75 

88.  Leontine.     By  Mrs.  Maberly 50 

89.  Heidelberg.     By  James 50 

90.  Lucretia.     By  Bulwer 75 

91.  Beauchamp.    ByJames 75 

92.  94.  Fortescue.    By  Knowles 1  00 


PRICE 

93.  Daniel  Dennison,  &c.     By  Mrs.  Hofland $  50 

95.  Cinq-Mars.     By  De  Vigny 50 

96.  Woman's  Trials.     By  Mrs.  S.  C.  Hall 75 

97.  The  Castle  of  Ehren-stein.     ByJames 50 

98.  Marriage.     By  Miss  S.  Ferrier 50 

99.  Roland  Cashel.     By  Lever 1  25 

100.  Martins  of  Cro'  Martin.     By  Lever 1  25 

101.  Russell.     ByJames. 50 

102.  A  Simple  Story.     By  Mrs.  Inchbald 50 

103.  Norman's  Bridge.     By  Mrs.  Marsh 50 

104.  Alaraance 50 

105.  Margaret  Graham.     B/ James 25 

106.  The  Wayside  Cross.     By  E.  H.  Milman 25 

107.  The  Convict.     By  James 50 

1 08.  Midsummer  Eve.     By  Mrs.  S.  C.  Hall 50 

109.  Jane  Eyre.     By  Currer  Bell 75 

110.  The  Last  of  the  Fairies.     By  James 25 

111.  Sir  Theodore  Broughton.     By  James 60 

112.  Self-Control.     By  Mary  Brunton 75 

113.  114.  Harold.     By  Bulwer 1  00 

115.  Brothers  and  Sisters.    By  Miss  Bremer 50 

116.  Gowrie.    By  James 50 

117.  A  Whim  and  its  Consequences.    ByJames 50 

118.  Three  Sisters  and  Three  Fortunes.    By  G.  H. 

Lewes 75 

119.  The  Discipline  of  Life 50 

120.  Thirty  Years  Since.     By  James 75 

121.  Mary  Barton.     By  Mrs.  Gaskell 50 

122.  The  Great  Hoggarty  Diamond.    By  Thackeray     25 

123.  The  Forgery.    ByJames. 50 

124.  The  Midnight  Sun.     By  Miss  Bremer 25 

125.  126.  The  Caxtons.     By  Bulwer 75 

127.  Mordkunt  Hall.    By  Mrs.  Marsh 60 

128.  My  Uncle  the  Curate 60 

129.  The  Woodman.     By  James '.. .  75 

130.  The  Green  Hand.    A  "  Short  Yarn" 75 

131.  Sidonia  the  Sorceress.    By  Meinhold 1  00 

132.  Shirley.     By  Currer  Bell 1  00 

133.  The  Ogilvies 50 

134.  Constance  Lyndsay.     By  G.  C.  H 60 

135.  Sir  Edward  Graham.    By  Miss  Sinclair 1  00 

136.  Hands  not  Hearts.    By  Miss  Wilkinson 50 

137.  ThsWilmingtons.     By  Mrs.  Marsh 50 

138.  Ned  Allen.     By  D.  Hannay 60 

139.  Night  and  Morning.     By  Bulwer "A 

140.  The  Maid  of  Orleans 75 

1 41.  Antonina.    By  Wilkie  Collins . . . 50 

142.  Zanoni.     By  Bulwer 50 

143.  Reginald  Hastings.    By  Warburton 50 

144.  Pride  and  Irresolution 50 

145.  The  Old  Oak  Chest.     By  James 50 

146.  Julia  Howard.     By  Mrs.  Martin  Bell 50 

147.  Adelaide  Lindsay.     Edited  by  Mrs.  Marsh 50 

148.  Petticoat  Governm&Jt.     By  Mrs.  Trollope 50 

149.  The  Luttrells.    By'F.  Williams 50 

150.  Singleton  Fontenoy,  R.N.    By  Hannay 50 

151.  Olive.    By  the  Author  of  "  The  Ogilvies" 50 

152.  Henry  Smeaton;     By  James 60 

153.  Time,  the  Avenger.    By  Mrs.  Marsh 50 

154.  The  Commissioner.     By  James 1  00 

155.  The  Wife's  Sister.     By'Mre.  Hubback 50 

156.  The  Gold  Worshipers 50 

157.  The  Daughter  of  Night.     By  Fullom 60 

158.  Stuart  of  Dunleath.    By  Hon.  Caroline  Norton.  50 

159.  Arthur  Conway.     By  Captain  E.  H.  Milman  . .  50 

160.  The  Fate.     By  James 60 

161.  The  Lady  and  the  Priest.    By  Mrs.  Maberly. . .  60 

162.  Aims  and  Obstacles.     By  James 50 

163.  The  Tutor's  Ward 50 

164.  Florence  Sackville.     By  Mrs.  Burbury 75 

165.  Ravenscliffe.     By  Mrs.  Marsh 50 

166.  Maurice  Tiernay.     By  Lever 1  00 

167.  The  Head  of  the  Family.    By  Miss  Muloek.. ..  75 

168.  Darien.    By  Warburton 50 

169.  Falkenburg 75 

170.  The  Daltons.     By  Lever 1  60 

171.  Ivar;  or,  The  gkjuts-Boy.     By  Miss  Carlen. . .  50 

172.  Pequinillo.     By  James 50 

173.  Anna  Hammer.    By  Temme 50 

174.  A  Life  of  Vicissitudes.     By  James 5«» 

175.  Henry  Esmond.     By  Thackeray 60 

176.  177.  My  Novel.    By  Bulwer 1  60 

178.  Katie  Stewart 25 

179.  Castle  Avon.    By  Mrs.  Marsh 50 

180.  Agnes  Sorel.    ByJames I 

1S1.  Agatha'u  Husband.     By  the  Author  of  "  Olive"  50 

182.  Villette.    By  Currer  Bell 75 

183.  Lover's  Stratagem.     By  Miss  Carlen 50 

184.  Clouded  Happiness.     By  Countess  D'Orsay 50 

185.  Charles  Auclicster.     A  Memorial 75 

186.  Lady  Lee's  Widowhood 50 


2 


Harper's  Library  of  Select  Novels. 


PKIOE 

HARPER'S    Library    of    Select    Novels- 
Continued. 
1ST.  Dodd  Family  Abroad.     By  Lever $1  25 

188.  Sir  Jasper  Carew.     By  Lever 75 

189.  QuietHeart 25 

190.  Aubrey.     By  Mrs.  March 75 

191.  Ticonderoga.    By  James 50 

192.  Hard  Times.     By  Dickena 50 

193.  The  Young  Husband,     By  Mrs.  Grey 50 

194.  The  Mother's  Recompense.     By  Grace  Aguilar.  75 

195.  Avillion,  &c.     By  Miss  Mulock 1  25 

196.  North  and  South.     By  Mrs.  Gaskell 50 

19Z.  Country  Neighborhood.     By  Miss  Dupuy 50 

19S.  Constance  Herbert.     By  Miss  Jewsbury 50 

199.  The  Heiress  of  Haughton.     By  Mrs.  Marsh 50 

200.  The  Old  Dominion.     By  James 50 

201.  John  Halifax.    By  the  Author  of  "Olive,"  &c.  75 

202.  Evelyn  Marston.     By  Mrs.  Marsh 50 

203.  Fortunes  of  Glencore.    By  Lever 50 

204.  Leonora  d'Orco.     By  James 50 

205.  Nothing  New.     By  Miss  Mulock 50 

206.  The  Rose  of  Ashurst.     By  Mrs.  Marsh 50 

207.  The  Athelings.     By  Mrs.  Oliphant 75 

208.  Scenes  of  Clerical  Life 75 

209.  My  Lady  Ludlow.     By  Mrs.  Gaskell 25 

210.  211.  Gerald  Fitzgerald.     By  Lever 50 

212.  A  Life  for  a  Life.    By  Miss  Mulock 50 

213.  Sword  and  Gown.    By  Geo.  Lawrence 25 

214.  Misrepresentation.     By  Anna  H.  Drury 1  00 

215.  The  Mill  on  the  Floss.    By  George  Eliot 75 

216.  One  of  Them.     By  Lever 75 

217.  A  Day's  Ride.     By  Lever 50 

218.  Notice  to  Quit.    By  Wills 5f 

219.  A  Strange  Story * 1  00 

220.  Brown,  Jones,  and  Robinson.     By  Trollope 50 

221.  Abel  Drake's  Wife.     By  John  Saunders 75 

222.  Olive  Blake's  Good  Work.    By  J.  C.  Jeaffreson.  75 

223.  The  Professor's  Lady 25 

224.  Mistress  and  Maid.    By  Miss  Mulock 50 

225.  Aurora  Floyd.     By  M.  E.  Braddon 75 

226.  Barriugton.    By  Lever 76 

227.  Sylvia's  Lovers.    By  Mrs.  Gaskell 75 

228.  A  First  Friendship 50 

229.  A  Dark  Night's  Work.     By  Mrs.  Gaskell 50 

230.  Countess  Gisella.     By  E.  Marlitt. 25 

231.  St.Olave's 75 

232.  A  Point  of  Honor 60 

233.  Live  it  Down.    Ry  Jeaffreson 1  00 

234.  Martin  Pole.    By  Saunders 50 

235.  Mary  Lyndsay.    By  Lady  Ponsonby 50 

236.  Eleanor's  Victory.     By  M.  E.  Braddon 75 

237.  Rachel  Ray.     By  Trollope 50 

238.  John  Marchmont's  Legacy.     By  M.  E.  Braddon  75 

239.  Annis  Warleigh's  Fortunes.     By  Holme  Lee. . .  75 

240.  The  Wife's  Evidence.     By  Wills 50 

241.  Barbara's  History.    By  Amelia  B.  Edwards. ...  75 

242.  Cousin  Phillis 25 

243.  What  will  he  do  with  It  ?    By  Bulwer 1  50 

244.  The  Ladder  of  Life.    By  Amelia  B.  Edwards. . .  50 

245.  Denis  Di  val.     By  Thackeray 50 

246.  Maurice  Dering.    By  Geo.  Lawrence 50 

247.  Margaret  Denzil's  History 75 

248.  Quite  Alone.    By  George  Augustus  Sala 75 

249.  Mattie :  a  Stray 75 

250.  My  Brother's  Wife.     By  Amelia  B.  Edwards...  50 

251.  Uncle  Silas.     By  J.  S.  Le  Fanu 75 

252.  Lovel  the  Widower.    By  Thackeray 25 

253.  Miss  Muckenzie.    By  Anthony  Trollope 50 

254.  On  Guard.     By  Aunie  Thomas 50 

255.  Theo  Leigh.     By  Annie  Thomas 50 

256.  Denis  Donne.    By  Annie  Thomas 50 

257.  Belial 50 

258.  Carry's  Confession 75 

259.  Miss  Carew.     By  Amelia  B.  Edwards 50 

260.  Hand  and  Glove.     By  Amelia  B.  Edwards  ....  50 
2G1.  Guy  Deverell.     By  J.  S.  Le  Fanu 50 

262.  Half  a  Million  of  Money.   By  Amelia  B.  Edwards  75 

263.  The  Belton  Estate.     By  Anthony  Trollope 50 

264.  Agnes.     By  Mr.-?.  Oliphant 75 

265.  Walter  Goring.     By  Annie  Thomas 75 

266.  Maxwell  Drewitt.     By  Mrs.  J.  H.  Riddell 75 

267.  The  Toilers  of  the  Sea.     Bv  Victor  Hugo 75 

26S.  Miss  Marjoribanks.     By  Mrs.  Oliphant 50 

209.  True  History  of  a  Little  Ragamuffin.    By  James 

Greenwood 50 

270.  Gilbert  Rugge.     By  the  Author  of  "A  First 

Friendship" 1  00 

271.  Pans  Merci.     By  Geo.  Lawrence 50 

272.  Phemie  Keller.     By  Mrs.  J.  H.  Riddell. 50 

273.  Land  at  Last.     By  Edmund  Yates 50 

274.  Frlix  Holt,  tlie  Radical.     By  George  Kliot 75 

275.  Bound  to  the  Wheel.     By  John  Ssumders 75 


PBICB 

HARPER'S  Library  of  Select  Novels- 

Continued. 
276.  All  in  the  Dark.     By  J.  S.  Le  Fanu  ...........  $  50 


277.  Kissing  the  Rod.     By  Edmund  Yates  ......... 

278.  The  Race  for  Wealth.     By  Mrs.  J.  H.  Riddell.  . 

279.  Lizzie  Lorton  of  Greyrigg.     By  Mrs.  Liuton.  .  . 

280.  The  Beauclercs,  Father  and  Son.     By  C.  Clarke 

281.  Sir  Brook  Fossbrooke.     By  Charles  Lever.  ... 

282.  Madonna  Mary.     By  Mrs.  Oliphaut  .......... 


75 
75 
75 

M 
50 
50 

283.  Cradock  Xowell.     By  R.  D.  Blackmore  .......      76 

284.  Bern  thai.     From  the  German  of  L.  Muhlbach.      50 

285.  Rachel's  Secret  .............................      75 

286    The  Claverings.     By  Anthony  Trollope  .......      50 

287.  The  Village  on  the  Cliff.    By  Miss  Thackeray.      25 

288.  Played  Out.     By  Annie  Thomas  ..............      t5 

289.  Black  Sheep.     By  Edmund  Yates  ............      50 

290.  Sowing  the  Wind.     By  E.  Lynn  Linton  .......      50 

291.  Nora  and  ArchibaM  Lee  .....................      50 

292.  Raymond's  Heroine  .........................      50 

293.  Mr.  Wynyard's  NYard.     By  Holme  Lee  .......      50 

294.  Alec  Forbes.     By  George  Macdonald  .........      75 

295.  No  Man's  Friend.     By  F.  W.  Robinson  ........      75 

296.  Called  to  Account.     By  Annie  Thomas  ........      50 

297.  Caste  ...........................  ,      50 


298.  The  Curate's  Discipline.    By  Mrs.  Eilourt 50 

299.  Circe.     By  Babington  White 5') 

300.  The  Tenants  of  Malory.    By  J.  S.  Le  Fanu. . .  50 

301.  Carlyon's  Year.    By  James  Payu 25 

302.  The  Waterdale  Neighbors 50 

303.  Mabel's  Progress 50 

304.  Guild  Court.     By  Geo.  Mac  Donald 50 

305.  The  Brothers'  Bet.     By  Miss  Carlen 25 

306.  Playii  3  for  High  Stakes.     By  Annie  Thorn 

as.     Illustrated 25 

307.  Margaret's  Engagement 50 

308.  One  of  the  Family.     By  James  Payn 25 

309.  Five  Hundred  Pounds  Reward.    By  a  Barrister.  60 

310.  Brownlows.    By  Mrs.  Oliphant 3S 

311.  Charlotte's  Inheritance.     Sequel  to  "•Birds  of 

Prey."    By  Miss  Braddon 50 

312.  Jeanie's  Quiet  Life.    By  the  Author  of  "  St. 

Olave's" 50 

313.  Poor  Humanity.     By  F.  W.  Robinson 50 

314.  Brakespeare.    By  Geo.  Lawrence 50 

315.  A  Lost  Name.     By  J.  S.  Le  F»nu -50 

316.  Love  or  Marriage  ?    By  W.  Black 50 

317.  Dead-Sea  Fruit.  By  Miss  Braddon.  Illustrated.  50 

318.  The  Dower  House.     By  Annie  Thomas 50 

319.  The  Bramleighs  of  Bishop's  Folly.     By  Lever.  50 

320.  Mildred.    By  Georgiana  M.  Craik 50 

321.  Nature's  Nobleman.    By  the  Author  of  u  Ra- 

chel's Secret" 50 

322.  Kathleen.      By   the   Author    of  "  Raymond's 

Heroine" 50 

323.  That  Eoy  of  Norcott's.     By  Charles  Lever. 25 

324.  In  Silk  Attire.    By  W.  Black 50 

325.  Hetty.     By  H  enry  Kingsley 25 

326.  False  Colors.     By  Annie  Thomas 50 

327.  Meta's  Faith.    By  the  Author  of  "St.  Olave's."  50 

328.  Found  Dead.     By  James  Payn 50 

329.  Wrecked  in  Port.    By  Edmund  Yates ffO 

330.  The  Minister's  Wife.     By  Mrs.  Oliphant 75 

331.  A  Beggar  on  Horseback.     By  James  Payn 65 

332.  Kitty.     By  M.  Betham  Edwards 50 

333.  Only  Herself.     By  Annie  Thomas 50 

334.  Hirell.     By  John  Sannders 50 

335.  Under  Foot.     By  Alton  Clyde 50 

336.  So  Runs  the  World  Away.   By  Mrs.  A.  C.  Steele.  50 

337.  Baffled.     By  Julia  Goddard 75 

338.  Beneath  the  Wheels 50 

339.  Stern  Necessity.     By  F.  W.  Robinson 50 

340.  Gwendoline's  Harvest.     By  James  Payn 25 

341.  Kilmeny.    By  William  Black 50 

342.  John :  A  Love  Story    By  Mrs.  Oliphant 50 

343.  True  to  Herself.     By  F.  W.  Robinson 50 

344.  Veronica.  By  the  Author  of  "  Mabel's  Pi  ogress"  50 

345.  A  Dangerous  Guest.     By  the  Author  of  "  Gil- 

bert Rugge" 50 

346.  Estelle  Russell 75 

347.  The  Heir  Expectant.   By  the  Author  of  "  Ray- 

mond's Heroine  " 50 

348.  Whicli  is  the  Heroine  ? 50 

349.  The  Vivian  Romance.     By  Mortimer  Collins. .  50 

350.  In  Duty  Bound.     Illustrated 50 

351.  The  Warden  and  Barchester  Towers.    By  A. 

Trollope 75 

352.  From  Thistles— Grapes  ?    By  Mrs.  Eiloart. ...  50 

353.  A  Siren.     By  T.  A.  Trollope 50 

354.  Sir  Harry  Hotspur  of  Humblethwaite.      By 

Anthony  Trollopo.     Illustrated 50 

355.  Enrl's  Pe»e.     By  R.  F,.  Fmncil'on 50 

356.  Paipy  Nicliol.     By  1  n.ly  Hnrdy 50 


Miscellaneous  Popular  Novels. 


PKICK 

HARPER'S  Library  of  Select  Novels- 
Continued. 

357.  Bred  iu  the  Bone.     By  James  Puyn $  50 

353.  Feutou'u  Quest.   By  MUsBi addon.  Illustrated. .  50 

359.  Monarch  of  Mincing-Lime.    By  W.  Blnck.     Il- 

lustrated  :. .  50 

360.  A  Life's  Assize.     By  Mrs.  J.  II.  Riddell 50 

301.  Anteros.  By  the  Author  of  "Guy  Livingstone."  50 

362.  Her  Lord  and  Master.     By  Mrs.  Itoss  Church. .  50 

363.  Won— Not  Wooed.     By  James  Payn 50 

364.  For  Lack  of  Gold.     By  Charles  Gibbon 50 

305.  Anne  Fnrness 75 

366.  A  Daughter  of  Heth.     By  W.  Black 50 

367.  Durnton  Abbey.     By  T.  A.  Trollopc 50 

368.  Joshua  Marvel .     By  B.  L.  Farjeoa 40 

369.  Lovels   of  Arden.    By  M.  K.  Braddon.    Illus- 

trated   75 

370.  Fair  to  See.     By  L.  W.  M.  Lockhart 75 

371.  Cecil's  Tryst.     By  James  Payn 50 

372.  Patty.     By  Katharine  S.  Macquoid 50 

373.  Maud  Mohan.     By  Annie  Thomas 25 

374.  Grif.     By  B.  L.  Farjeon 40 

375.  A  Bridge  of  Glass.     By  F.  W.  Robinson 50 

376.  Albert  Lunel.     By  Lord  Brougham 75 

377.  A  Good  Investment.     By  Wm.  Flagg. 50 

373.  A  Golden  Sorrow.     By  Mrs.  Cashel  Hoey 50 

379.  Ombra.     By  Mr.-.  Oliphant 75 

380.  1 1  ope  Deferred.     By  Eliza  F.  Pollard 50 

381.  The  Maid  of  Sker.     By  R.  D.  Blackmore 75 

382.  For  the  King.     By  Charles  Gibbon 50 


HARPER'S  Library  of  Select  Novels- 
Concluded. 

383.  A  Girl's  Romance,  and  Other  Tales.     By  F.  W. 

Robinson 

384.  Dr.  Wain wright's  Patient.    By  Edmund  Yates. 

iiSf).  A  Passion  in  Tatters.     By  Annie  Thomas 

oS^.  A  Woman's  Vengeance.     By  James  Payn 

;  81.  'JLYe   Strange  Adventures  of  a  Phaeton.     By 

Wm.  Black 

3Sf .  Tc  the  Bitter  End.     By  Miss  M.  E.  Braddon. . 
b&9.  Robin  Gray.    By  Charles  Gibbon 5ti 

390.  Godolphin.     By  Bulwer 50 

391.  Leila.     By  Bulwer 50 

392.  Kenelm  Chillingly.     By  Lord  Lytton 76 

393.  The  Hour  and  the  Man.   By  Harritt  Martineau      75 

394.  Murphy's  Master.     By  James  Payn 25 

395.  The  New  Magdalen.     By  Wilkie  Collins 60 

396.  "'He  Cometh  Not,' She  Said."  ByAnnieThomaa      50 

397.  Innocent.  By  Mrs.  Oliphant.     Illustrated.....      75 

398.  Too  Soon.     By  Mrs.  Macquoid 60 

399.  Strangers  and  Pilgrims.    By  Miss  Braddon. ...     76 

400.  A  Simpleton.     By  Charles  Reade 50 

401.  The  Two  Widows.     By  Annie  Thomas BO 

402.  Joseph  the  Jew 50 

403.  Her  Face  was  Her  Fortune.    By  F.  W.  Robin- 

son       50 

404.  A  Princess  of  Thnle.     By  W.  Black 75 

405.  Lottie  Darling.     By  J.  C.  Jeaffreson 76 

40fc.  The  Blue  Ribbon.     By  the  Author   of   "  St. 

Olave's" 50 


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MISCELLANEOUS  POPULAR  NOVELS 

PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER   &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK. 

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DICKENS'S  NOVELS,  Harper's  Household  Edition, 

Illustrated. 

Oliver  Twist.  Svo,  Cloth,  $1  00 ;  Paper,  50  cents. 
Martin  Chuz/.lewit.  8vo,  Cloth, $1  50;  Paper,  $1  00. 
The  Old  Curiosity  S-hop.  Svo,  Cloth,  $1  25 ;  Paper, 

75  cents. 

David  Copperfield.  Svo,  Cloth,  $1  50 ;  Paper,  $1  00. 
Dombey  and  Son.  Svo,  Cloth,  $1  50 ;  Paper,  $1  00. 
Nicholas  Nickleby.  8vo,Cloth,  $1  50;  Paper,  $1  00. 
Bleak  House.  Svo,  Cloth,  $1  50 ;  Paper,  $1  00. 
Pickwick  Papers.  Svo,  Cloth,  $1  50 ;  Paper,  $1  00. 
Little  Dorrit.  Svo,  Cloth,  $1  50 ;  Paper,  $1  00. 

To  lefollotced  Inj  the  Author's  other  novels. 
COLLINS'S*  Armadale.     Illustrations.     Svo,  Paper, 

$100. 

Man  and  Wife.    Illustrations.    Svo,  Paper,  $1  00. 
Moonstone.    Illustrations.    Svo,  Paper,  $1 00. 
No  Name.    Illustrations.    Svo,  Paper,  $1  00. 
Poor  Miss  Finch.   Illustrations.  Svo,  Paper,  $1  00. 
Woman  in  White.  Illustrations.  Svo,  Paper,  $1  00. 
COLLINS'S  NOVELS:    II.LVBTKATED  LIBBABY  EDI- 
TION.   12mo,  per  vol.  $1  50. 

Armadale.— Basil.— Hide  -  and  -  Seek.—  Man   and 
Wife.— No  Name.— Poor  Miss  Finch.— The  Dead 
Secret.— The  Moonstone.— The  New  Magdalen.— 
The  Woman  in  White.— Qneeu  of  Hearts. 
BENEDICT'S  My  Daughter  Elinor.  Svo,  Cloth,  $1  75 ; 

Paper,  $1  25. 
Miss  Dorothy's  Charge.    8vo,  Cloth,  $1  50  ;  Paper, 

$1  00. 

Miss  Van  Kortland.     Svo,  Cloth,  $1  50 ;   Paper, 
$100. 


BLACKWELL'S  The  Island  Neighbors.    Illustrated. 

Svo,  Paper,  75  cents. 
BRADDON'S  (M.  E.)*  Birds  of  Prey. .  Illustrations. 

Svo,  Paper,  75  cents. 

Bound  to  John  Company.  Ill's.  Svo,  Paper,  75  cts. 
BROOKS'S   Silver  Cord.    Ill's.    Svo,  Cloth,  $2  00. 
Sooner  or  Later.    Illustrations.    Svo,  Cloth,  $2  00; 

Paper,  $1  50. 

The  Gordian  Knot.    Svo,  Paper,  50  cents. 
CHURCH'S  (Mrs.  Ross)'  Prey  of  the  Gods.  Svo,  Paper, 
30  cents. 


BRONTE  Novels: 

Jane  Eyre.    By  Currer  Bell  (Charlotte  Bronte). 

12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

Shirley.    By  Currer  Bell.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 
Villette.    By  Currer  Bell.    12rao,  Cloth,  $1  50. 
The  Professor.  By  Currer  Bell.  12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 
Tenant  of  Wildfell  Hall.    By  Acton  Bell  (Anna 

Bronte).     12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 
Withering  Heights.   By  Ellis  Bell  (Emily  Bronte). 

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BULWER'S  (Sir  E.  B.  Lytton)*  My  Novel.  Svo,  Paper, 
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What  will  He  Do  with  It?  Svo,  Paper,  $1  50; 
Cloth,.  $2  00. 

The  Caxtons.  Svo,  Paper,  75  cents ;  Library  Edi- 
tion, 12mo,  Cloth,  $1  25. 

Leila.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  00. 

Godolphin.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

Kenelm  Chillingly.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  25. 

A  Strange  Story.  Library  Edition.  12mo,  Cloth, 
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BULWER'S  (Robert- "Owen  Meredith")  The  Ring 
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Svo, 


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Cloth,  $1  25;  Paper,  75  cents. 
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The  Cryptogram.  Illustrations.  Svo, Cloth,  $2  00; 

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The  Dodge  Club.  Illustrations.  Svo,  Cloth,  $1  25 ; 

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Motherless.    Illustrations.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 
FARJEON'S  (B.  L.)»  Blade-o'-Grass.     Illustrations. 

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Bread-and-Cheese  and  Kisses.   Illustrations.  Svo, 

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Golden   Grain.      Illustrations.      Svo,  Paper,  86 

cents. 
•  For  other  Novels  by  the  same  author,  see  Library  of  Select  Xovela. 


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CHARLES  READE'S  Terrible  Temptation.    Illustra- 
tions. Svo,  Paper,  30  cents ;  12uiO,Cl6th,T5  ceuts. 
Hard  Cash.    Illustrations.    Svo,  Paper,  50  cents. 
Griffith  Gaunt.    Ill's.    Svo,  Paper,  25  cents. 
It  is  Never  Too  Late  to  Mead.    Svo,  Paper,  50  cts. 
Love  Me  Little,  Love  Me  Long.     Svo,  Paper,  50 

cents.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 
Foul  Play.    Svo,  Paper,  25  cents. 
White  Lies.    Svo,  Paper,  50  cents. 
Peg  Woffiugton  and  Other  Tales.    Svo,  Paper,  50 

cents. 

Put  Yourself  in  His  Place.   Illustrations.   Svo,  Pa- 
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The  Cloister  and  the  Hearth.  Svo,  Paper,  50  cents. 
The  Wandering  Heir.    Ill's.    Svo,  Paper,  25  cents. 
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EDGEWORTH'S  Novels.    10  vols.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50 

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Frank.    2  vols.,  ISrao,  Cloth,  $1  50. 
Harry  and  Lucy.    2  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $3  00. 
Moral  Tales.    2  vols.,  ISmo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 
Popular  Tales.    2  vols.,  ISmo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 
Rosamond.    Illustrations.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 
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ELIOT'S  (George)  Adam  Bede.    Illustrations.   12mo, 

Cloth,  $1  00. 

Middlemarch.    2  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $1  75  per  vol. 
The  Mill  on  the  Floss.    Ill's.   12mo,  Cloth,  $1  00. 
Felix  Holt,  the  Radical.  Ill's.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  00. 
Romola.    Illustrations.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  00. 
Scenes  of  Clerical  Life  and  Silas  Maruer.   Illustra- 
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GASKELL'S  (Mrs.)*  Cranford.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  25. 
Moorland  Cottage.    ISmo,  Cloth,  75  cents. 
Right  at  Last,  &c.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 
Wives  and  Daughters.    Illustrations.    Svo,  Cloth, 

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JAMES'S*  The  Club  Book.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 
De  L'Orme.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 
Gentleman  of  the  Old  School.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 
The  Gipsy.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 
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LOTTIE  DARLING 


&  NroeL 


BY  JOHN  CORDY  JEAFFRESON, 


AUTHOR   OF 


'LIVE    IT   DOWN,"    "NOT   DEAD  YET,"    "OLIVE    BLAKE'S    GOOD    WORK,"  &c,  &c. 


NEW    YORK: 

HARPER    &     BROTHERS,    PUBLISHERS, 

FRANKLIN    SQUARE. 

1874. 


John  Cordy  Jeaflfreson's  Novels. 


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PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK. 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS  will  send  any  of  the  above,  works  by  mail,  postage  prepaid,  to  any 
part  of  the  United  States,  on.  receipt  of  the  price. 


A  WORD  TO  THE  READER. 


WHILE  every  one  admits  that  truth  is  stranger  than  fiction,  novelists  are 
often  censured  for  producing  fictions  which  are  stranger  than  truth.  Against 
my  "Not  Dead  Yet"  (published  in  1864  and  written  in  1863)  it  was  objected 
that  its  principal  incidents  were  too  improbable  for  credence.  Ere  long  the 
famous  Tichborne  case  afforded  facts  which  corresponded  with  singular  ex- 
actness to  the  most  daring  fancies  of  that  story.  In  1867,  while  the  Tichborne 
case  was  in  the  first  stages  of  its  career  in  Chancery,  an  essayist  observed  that 
had  "  Not  Dead  Yet "  followed  the  Claimant's  appearance  by  two  years,  in- 
stead of  preceding  it  by  that  time,  no  critic  would  have  hesitated  to  declare 
it  a  close  reproduction  of  many  incidents  of  that  cause  c'el&bre. 

Again,  the  only  objection  urged  against  my  "Woman  in  Spite  of  Herself," 
by  its  able  and  abundantly  eulogistic  critics,  was  that  Felicia  Avalon's  career 
exceeded  the  limits  of  probability  and  possibility.  It  was  said  that  no  wom- 
an could  achieve  the  particular  imposture  attributed  to  the  heroine.  The  au- 
thor, however,  was  indebted  for  that  part  of  the  romance  to  facts  which  oc- 
curred not  many  years  since  in  a  rural  parish  of  England. 

The  general  interest  in  "  Lottie  Darling  "  will  not  be  lessened  by  the  au- 
thor's assurance  to  the  reader  that  its  strangest  incidents  and  positions  have 
been  taken  from  true  domestic  history* 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


BOOK  I— LOVE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

PACKING     DAY. 

.TN  the  month  of  June,  some  twenty-five  years 
_L  since,  there  was  a  day  of  unusual  excite- 
ment and  bodily    exertion    at    145    Hanover  j 
Square,  Brighton — the  house  of  Miss  Angelica 
Constantino's  school.     Not  a  lesson  was  learn- 
ed or  said  on  that  day  by  any  one  of  Miss  Con- 
stantine's  girls.     It  was  no  day  for  scholastic  I 
exercises   of  any  kind.     The   professors   had  j 
said  good-bye  to  the  seat  of  learning  for  sev- 
eral weeks ;  and  there  would  have  been  a  mild 
mutiny  of  the  pupils  had  Miss  Spider,  or  any 
other  subordinate  person,  told  them  to  open  a 
book  ibr  purposes  of  instruction. 

It  was  "packing  day."  To-morrow  would 
be  "  breaking-up  day,"  when,  to  the  great  an- 
imation of  Hanover  Square,  and  the  lively  in- 
terest of  the  east  cliff,  the  Old  Steyne,  and  the 
whole  route  of  progress,  a  procession  of  eight 
or  nine  flies  —  each  carriage  containing  four 
happy  faces  —  would  convey  "the  Constan- 
tines"  (as  the  girls  of  the  school  were  pleased 
to  call  themselves),  together  with  an  adequate 
staff  of  chaperons,  to  the  Brighton  railway  sta- 
tion, where  two  superb  saloon  carriages  would 
be  ready  for  them. 

Miss  Constantino  has  a  love  of  old  fashions 
and  names.  She  would  as  soon  call  her  school 
"a  college,"  as  call  her  half-years  and  quarters 
"terms"  and  "half-terms."  The  young  peo- 
ple neither  "  relinquish  their  studies"  nor  " re- 
sume" them;  they  "break  up"  and  "begin 
work  again."  She  knows  nothing  of  "  vaca- 
tions" and  "recesses;"  it  is  enough  for  her  to 
have  "holidays,"  and  be  thankful  for  them. 
In  her  affection  for  antiquated  practices  she 
likes  her  children,  toward  the  close  of  each 
half-year,  to  keep  paper  scores  and  wooden 
tallies  of  the  days  till  the  holidays.  Instead 
of  "retiring  from  their  scene  of  mental  devel- 
opment," her  girls  "  go  home."  She  insists  on 
keeping  to  the  ancient  times  and  seasons  for 
holidays.  It  has  been  urged  upon  her  that  it 
would  be  more  convenient  for  those  of  her  girls 
who  have  brothers  at  public  schools  if  she 
made  her  summer  holidays  a  month  or  so 
later.  But  she  will  not  consent  to  the  revo- 
lutionary proposal.  She  must  have  her  Mid- 


summer and  Christmas  "  holidays  " — six  weeks 
at  Midsummer  and  six,  weeks  at  Christmas. 
So  also  at  145  Hanover  Square,  "packing 
day  "  is  "  packing  day."  Any  "  Constantino  " 
in  residence,  who  should  so  far  abuse  its  "En- 
glish privilege"  as  to  call  it  "a  day  of  prepa- 
ration for  departure,"  would  be  laughed  into 
blushes  by  the  whole  school,  almost  before  the 
words  were  out  of  her  mouth. 

It  is  no  easy  matter  to  "pack"  thirty  young 
ladies  —  i.  e.,  pack  their  wearing  apparel  and 
portable  property  in  eight  hours.  Say  that 
each  girl  has  four  boxes,  great  or  small,  of 
wood  or  leather.  One  hundred  and  tv/enty 
boxes  can  not  be  neatly  filled  with  dainty  rai- 
ment and  curious  bits  of  millinery  in  so  brief 
a  time,  unless  each  damsel  goes  to  work  and 
is  her  own  packer.  How  could  the  task  be 
accomplished  properly  by  four  or  five  female 
servants?  If  the  work  could  be  done  by  a 
nurse,  an  under-nurse,  and  three  house-maids, 
would  it  be  right  or  otherwise  than  egregiously 
unjust  that  the  young  ladies  should  be  denied 
the  fun  and .  excitement  of  "  packing  them- 
selves?" Porterage  and  its  exigencies  must 
also  be  considered  in  making  arrangements  for 
the  packing  up  of  a  girl's  school.  It  would 
never  do  to  allow  boxes  of  the  larger  kinds  to 
be  filled  in  upper  rooms  with  whole  hundred- 
weights of  silk  and  linen,  so  that  no  one  but  a 
professional  porter  with  enormous  shoulders 
and  a  knot  on  his  head  could  bring  them  down 
stairs.  It  would  be  in  the  highest  degree  in- 
decorous to  suffer  a  lot  of  clumsy,  rude  men 
porters,  with  huge  boots  on  their  noisy  feet, 
and  preposterous  nails  in  their  thick  soles,  to 
go  climbing  and  clambering  up  stairs  and  down 
stairs,  into  chambers  which  even  the  wander- 
ing goosie-goosie  of  the  nursery  rhyme  would 
not  have  presumed  to  enter.  Clearly,  in  a 
well-ordered  girls'  school  on  packing  day,  all 
ponderous  and  large  receptacles  for  clothing 
must,  in  the  first  place,  be  put  empty  and  open 
on  the  ground-floor  and  first  floor  of  the  house, 
and  be  there  neatly  filled,  so  that,  on  being 
locked  and  corded,  and  "  quite  finished,"  they 
may  be  conveyed  without  riot,  or  risk  of  dam- 
age to  painted  walls,  from  the  said  lower  floors 
to  the  luggage-van  appointed  to  rumble  them 
off  to  the  railwav  station. 


10 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


On  the  certain  bright  day,  of  the  already 
mentioned  twenty-five-years  distant  month, 
Miss  Constantino's  girls  had  been  hard  at  it, 
packing  with  extravagant  zeal  and  enjoyment, 
and  running  up  and  down  long  flights  of  stone 
stairs  with  burdens  of  goods,  light  and  "  fluffy  " 
enough,  no  doubt,  by  nature,  but  still  weighty 
to  young  arms  when  carried  on  vast  tea-trays 
in  prodigious  quantities.  They  had  breakfast- 
ed at  eight  o'clock,  and  packed  energetically 
from  nine  o'clock  till  one,  talking  and  laughing 
till  the  while  in  the  English  style,  as  school- 
girls will  talk  and  laugh  when  "English  priv- 
ilege'1 permits  them  to  use  their  mother-tongue. 
At  one  o'clock  they  had  knocked  off  for  an 
hour,  and  then,  after  a  hasty  dinner,  at  which, 
from  mere  gaycty  of  heart  and  innocent  hila- 
riousness,  they  broke  divers  local  rules  of  deco- 
rum, and  otherwise  misbehaved  themselves  in 
sin  altogether  young  lady-like  fashion,  they  had 
packed  away  again  till  half-past  four  o'clock, 
when  the  labor  of  packing  was  carried  as  near 
completion  as  it  was  possible  to  carry  it  on  the 
eve  of  the  day  of  departure.  Every  box  that 
could  be  ''finished  off,"  and  would  not  be  re- 
quired to  receive  a  "  few  last  things  "  on  the 
following  morning,  had  been  locked  and  corded. 

Fifteen  minutes  later,  seven  girls  might  have 
been  seen  refreshing  their  toilets  and  touching 
up  their  coiffures  iti  a  room  on  the  highest 
floor  of  the  house.  The  room  was  long  and 
lofty,  and  through  its  three  open  windows  came 
the  fresh  breeze  and  the  faintly  audible  music 
of  a  merry  sea.  The  apartment  was  furnished 
with  seven  narrow  single  beds,  canopied  at 
their  heads  with  white  and  blue  draperies.  By 
the  side  of  each  bed  was  a  small  toilet-table, 
with  a  square  looking-glass  fastened  immedi- 
ately over  it  to  the  wall.  On  the  middle  of 
the  carpet,  which  covered  the  space  of  the  floor 
between  the  two  rows  of  beds,  stood  a  grand 
table  for  the  toilet,  provided  with  eau-de-Co- 
logne bottles  and  a  standing  glass,  by  which 
the  wearer  of  a  robe  of  state  could  examine 
and  arrange  its  folds  critically. 

Miss  Constantino  is  a  strong  advocate  of 
looking-glasses,  as  aids  for  the  formfition  of 
style  and  the  development  of  feminine  quali- 
ties. She  maintains  that,  whilS  slatternly  dam- 
sels can  not  be  too  frequently  reminded  of  their 
untidiness  by  mirrors,  good-looking  girls,  who 
take  proper  pride  in  their  appearance,  ought  to 
be  rewarded  by  seeing  at  every  turn  how  well 
they  look.  As  for  the  mirror's  influence  in 
stimulating  personal  vanity,  Miss  Constantine 
is  inclined  to  think  that  a  woman  ought  to  de- 
light in  her  personal  charms.  Experience  has 
tatight  her  to  regard  with  favor  the  pleasure 
which  comely  girls  usually  derive  from  a  con- 
sciousness of  their  attractiveness.  The  maid- 
ens who  have  caused  her  the  most  trouble  and 
anxiety  were  the  few  young  people  whom  she 
could  not  educate  to  set  themselves  oft'  in  daily 
life  to  the  best  advantage.  Of  course  there 
are  inordinately  vain  girls ;  but  no  good  ever 
comes  to  them  from  a  discipline  that  denies 


them  opportunities  of  studying  their  graces, 
and  growing  to  some  extent  weary  of  them  by 
frequent  observation.  Holding  these  views  re- 
specting the  mirror,  the  school-mistress  provides 
her  pupils  with  small  glasses  for  individual  use 
in  matters  of  detail,  and  grand  glasses  for  the 
survey  of  general  effects. 

The  seven  girls  of  this  long,  bright,  freshly 
furnished  dormitory  were  the  eldest  girls  of 
the  school.  It  was  the  last  day  of  their  last 
half-year  at  school.  They  had  been  confirmed 
by  the  Bishop  of  Chichester  three  months  since, 
and  on  returning  to  their  homes  they  would  be 
introduced  to  society  at  parties  of  state,  and 
"  come  out "  as  blooming  candidates  for  matri- 
monial preferment. 

Had  it  not  been  for  that  wild,  prankish  mad- 
cap, Eugie  Bridlemere — a  tall,  showy,  dashing 
girl,  whose  tongue  was  even  longer  than  her 
waist — they  would  have  gone  from  their  toilets " 
to  the  tea-room  with  demure  looks  and  praise- 
worthy orderliness.  But  under  the  excite- 
ments of  packing,  and  of  looking  forward  to 
her  speedy  liberation  from  scholastic  bondage, 
Eugie's  mercurial  spirits  had  risen  to  a  danger- 
ous height;  and  on  leaving  the  "grand  mir- 
ror," in  which  she  had  glanced  approvingly  at 
her  length  of  muslin  skirt,  and  at  the  bright 
ribbon  set  coquettishly  in  her  mouse-colored 
hair,  she  was  bent  on  mischief.  Her  madness 
was  infectious,  and  in  less  than  two  minutes 
these  "privileged  girls,"  who  had  been  allowed 
to  sit  up  till  ten  o'clock  the  whole  half-year 
through,  and  permitted  on  Sundays  to  have  tea 
by  themselves  in  Miss  Constantino's  sumptuous 
drawing-room,  were  in  the  full  enjoyment  of  a 
strange  and  unprecedented  outburst  of  wild- 
ness.  Seven  choice  bits  of  equine  blood,  that 
had  slipped  from  their  stalls  and  escaped  to 
the  park,  could  not  have  enjoyed  more  thorough- 
ly a  free  scamper  over  the  green  turf,  with  none 
to  spur  or  check  them,  than  these  outrageously 
naughty  damsels  enjoyed  their  conversational 
gallop  over  a  piece  of  untried  ground. 

It  was  all  Eugie's  doing,  though  to  this  day 
the  other  six  declare  that  they  were  every  whit 
as  bad  as  their  leader.  She  was  a  terrible 
child.  Miss  Constantine  had  had  many  a  smart 
tussle  with  her.  To  quell  Eugie,  in  times  long 
past,  when  the  girl  was  still  in  her  fourteenth 
year,  Miss  Constantine  had  devised  the  "fear- 
ful punishment  of  the  dinner  napkin,"  a  disci- 
pline that  required  the  offender  to  sit  all 
through  dinner  with  a  white  napkin  on  her  head, 
in  the  presence  of  t"he  whole  school.  It  is  needr 
less  to  say  that  even  Eugie  was  subdued  to  man- 
ageableness  by  some  half-dozen  subjections  to 
this  humiliation,  and  that  so  awful  a  punish- 
ment was  never  employed  for  any  but  extreme 
offenders.  Miss  Constantine  is  no  austere  rul- 
er, prone  to  carry  the  quelling  process  too  far 
on  any  one,  or  likely  to  lessen  the  effect  of  a 
capital  correction  by  injudicious  use.  More- 
over, the  school -mistress  liked  her  pupil  of 
a  difficult  temper,  and,  far  from  wishing  to 
crush  her  spirit,  saw  that  the  girl's  gayety  con- 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


11 


tributed  to  the  moral  health  of  her  companions. 
When  the  general  courage  of  the  school  droop- 
ed, Eugie  Bridlemere  had  often  come  to  the 
relief  of  her  comrades,  and  in  a  trice  had  raised 
them  from  despondency  to  mirth  by  audacious 
speeches  that  no  other  girl  would  have  dared 
to  utter. 

"  Heigh-ho  !"  cried  Eugenie  Bridlemere,  "  so 
this  game  is  played  out.  We  sha'n't  have  an- 
other packing  day.  To-morrow  we  shall  have 
done  with  school.  Our  education  is  finished." 

"Mine  is  not," responded  Josephine  Gough, 
a  short,  thickly  built,  and  severely  practical  girl 
—known,  at  this  present  date  of  her  mature 
life,  for  exertions  to  liberate  womankind  from 
bondage. 

"  Surely, Finny, "retorted  Eugie,  "you  don't 
mean  to  say  that  you  have  not  enough  learn- 
ing, and  that  you  mean  to  burden  yourself  by 
systematic  indulgence  in  sound  literature  when 
you  have  left  school  ?" 

"I  don't  mean  to  burden  myself,  in  any  dis- 
agreeable sense  of  the  word,"  Josephine  (short- 
ened into  Finny)  returned,  pugnaciously;  "but 
I  am  of  opinion  that  a  woman  should  systemat- 
ically train  herself,  so  that  her  mind  may  attain 
all  the  strength,  breadth,  and  depth  of  a  per- 
fect intellect.  When  a  girl  leaves  school,  she 
is  only  at  the  threshold  of  such  an  education 
as  a  woman  should  have." 

"Quite  wrong,  my  dear.  Education  is  a 
mistake,  the  grandest  of  all  mistakes,"  Eugie 
Bridlemere  replied,  saucily,  and  with  an  in- 
tensely comical  air  of  worldly  knowingness. 
"  It  stupefies  women  of  natural  brilliance  ;  and 
enables  dull,  plodding  creatures  to  pass  them- 
selves off  as  better  than  they  really  are.  Of 
course  self-education,  as  it  is  called,  is  the  right 
thing  for  stupid  simpletons  who  have  the  am- 
bition to  figure  as  intellectual  people.  But  as 
I  am  brilliant,  imaginative,  vivacious,  I  have 
had  enough  of  useful  literature.  Henceforth 
I  shall  read  nothing  but  the  best  novels.  Of 
course  I  shall  skim  the  newspapers." 

"I  am  going  to  give  my  mind  for  the  next 
two  years  to  Political  Economy,"  Josephine 
answered,  stubbornly.  She  was  the  daughter 
of  a  hard-headed  capitalist  of  Manchester,  who, 
when  indisposition  or  the  badness  of  the  weath- 
er kept  his  family  from  church  on  Sundays,  was 
accustomed  to  read  them  a  chapter  from  Adam 
Smith's  "Wealth  of  Nations,"  instead  of  a  ser- 
mon. 

"And  I,"  retorted  Eugie,  mimicking  her  op- 
ponent's voice  and  manner,  "  for  the  next  two 
years  mean  to  give  my  mind  to  billiards." 

This  was  too  much  for  the  gravity  of  the 
girl's  hearers,  who  broke  into  a  ringing  peal  of 
silver  laughter.  Etigie's  determination  to  turn 
billiard -player  was  inexpressibly  ludicrous  at 
a  time  when  the  billiard-table  was  no  common 
article  of  domestic  furniture. 

The  laughter  having  subsided,  Eugie,  en- 
couraged by  the  success  of  her  last  sally,  per- 
petrated another  audacity. 

"But  I  am  going  in  for  something  better 


than  billiards.  Girls,  I  have  a  piece  of  news 
for  you.  I  am  going  to  be  married." 

"To  be  married!"  her  six  hearers  exclaim- 
ed in  one  breath.  "  Impossible  !" 

"Why  impossible,  my  dears?  Am  not  I 
good  enough  looking?  or  sufficiently  well  edu- 
cated ?  Must  I  wait  till  I  have  read  Finny's 
great  authors,  Mr.  Adam  Smith  and  Mr.  John 
Stuart  Mill  ?" 

"  Do  tell  us  all  about  it,"  was  the  entreaty 
of  six  voices. 

"  I  want  you  all  to  be  my  brides-maids.  I 
have  no  sisters,  or  any  one  else  I  wish  to  at- 
tend me  to  the  altar ;  and  six  is  such  a  nice 
number — picturesque,  but  not  embarrassing." 

"  How  delightful !"  ejaculated  the  six  brides- 
maids elect. 

"You  all  promise  ?" 

"  Of  course  we  do,"  the  six  exclaimed,  en- 
thusiastically. Lottie  Darling  added,  "  On  the 
understanding  that  mamma  gives  roe  leave." 

"  That's  understood,  Lottie,  as  a  matter  of 
course." 

"  Then  it's  agreed  that,  mammas  and  papas 
approving,  you  six  will  be  my  brides-maids." 

"  Of  course,  of  course — agreed,  agreed  ! " 

"  Then  come  and  join  hands  on  the  bargain.'* 

In  an  instant  the  six  girls  had  leaped  to  the 
middle  of  the  room,  and  joined  hands  with  Eu- 
gie Bridlemere,  who  stood  before  the  high  toilet- 
glass,  half  a  head  taller  than  the  tallest  of  them. 

"Now,  then,"  said  Eugie,  authoritatively, 
taking  six  tender  little  hands  in  her  own  two 
hands,  "repeat  the  promise  after  me — word  by 
word.  *  Out  of  our  love  for  Eugie  Bridlemere, 
spinster,  and  out  of  our  admiration  of  her  brill- 
iance and  many  high  qualities,  and  also  out  of 
our  esteem  for  the  honorable  estate  of  matri- 
mony, we  six  "  privileged  Constantincs  "  do  sol- 
emnly promise  that,  our  papas  and  mammas  ap- 
proving, we  will  attend  as  brides-maids  at  the 
approaching  wedding  of  our  excellent  friend, 
Eugenie.  Amen.'" 

"  Speak  out,  Lottie  Darling,"  insisted  Eu- 
gie, as  the  girls  were  separating  their  hands  ; 
"you  did  not  say  'Amen'  like  the  others." 

"I  whispered  it,  Eugie,"  pleaded  Lottie 
Darling,  blushing  slightly,  while  her  lovely  face 
wore  a  look  of  entreaty. 

"  Why  did  not  you  say  it  out  loud  ?" 

"  Of  course  it  would  not  be  wrong  to  say  it ; 
but — but,  I  don't  like  playing  with  prayer-book 
words,"  Lottie  explained  simplv,  as  she  retired 
from  the  group  and  resumed  her  seat  at  the 
head  of  her  bed. 

"  Well,  as  you  whispered  it,  that  will  do. 
You  are  a  pet  as  well  as  a  darling,  though  you 
are  morbidly  conscientious." 

"But  what  are  we  to  wear?"  inquired  Mil- 
lie Travers,  a  piquant  little  blonde,  who  certain- 
ly was  not  deficient  in  care  for  her  personal 
charms,  and  who  had  already  imagined  "a  per- 
fectly charming  dress  for  the  bridesmaids,"  a 
costume,  of  course,  whose  colors  would  bring 
out  the  witchery  of  light  hair,  blue  eyes,  and  a 
delicately  soft,  pink-and-white  complexion. 


12 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


"It  will  be  time  enough  to  settle  that,"Eu- 
gie  responded,  with  staggering  coolness  and  a 
sudden  assumption  of  indifference  to  the  whole 
matter,  "when  I  shall  be  engaged." 

"  What  ?"  from  live  slightly  indignant  voices, 
"  are  you  not  engaged  ?" 

"  Of  course  not.     I  never  said  that  I  was." 

"You  asked  us  to  be  your  brides-maids." 

"And  I  hope  you'll  keep  your  promise.  I 
shall  soon  prove  what  your  promise  is  good  for. 
In  the  mean  time  I  am  as  engagement  free  as 
ever  Queen  Elizabeth  was." 

"Preposterous!"  urged  Maud  Morrison,  a 
haughty  being,  who  prided  herself  on  her  papa's 
position  in  Cheshire,  and  never  forgot  that  she 
was  great-niece  of  the  Earl  of  Boxhill.  "You 
have  been  trifling  with  us  !" 

"  My  dearest  Maud,  why  preposterous  ?  It 
is  against  the  rules  of  the  school  for  a  girl  to 
be  engaged  while  she  is  at  145  Hanover  Square. 
And  I  hope  that  I  am  far  too  good  a  girl  to 
break  a  law  of  the  school." 

Slight  laughter,  indicating  that  Eugie  would 
not  have  much  difficulty  in  making  her  friends 
forgive  her  for  the  trick  she  had  just  played  them. 

"But,"  urged  Josephine  Gough,  severely, 
"  it  is  not  usual  for  a  girl  to  talk,  or  even  to 
think,  about  marriage,  until  she  is  suitably  en- 
gaged." 

"True,  Finny,"  returned  the  incorrigible  of- 
fender, "  but  then  I  am  not  a  usual  girl.  I  am 
a  damsel  of  a  very  unusual  kind-.  In  point  of 
fact,  I  am  a  social  eccentricity.  And  surely  a 
feminine  professor  of  political  economy  has  no 
right  to  object  to  social  eccentricities!" 

"  I  can't  approve  your  conduct,  Eugie,"  Fin- 
ny replied,  steadily,  but  with  diminished  severi- 
ty. "And  as  I  made  my  promise  on  a  misun- 
derstanding, resulting  from  your  delusive  state- 
ment of  the  case,  I  don't  regard  myself  as  in 
any  way  bound  by  it." 

"  Of  course  not,"  Eugie  admitted  with  frank- 
ness, and  all  the  more  readily  because  she  had 
no  strong  desire  for  the  Gough  to  be  one  of  her 
brides-maids.  "  That's  good  law.  A  promise 
obtained  by  fraudulent  artifice  is  not  binding 
on  the  maker.  That's  precisely  what  my  cous- 
in Tom,  a  barrister  of  the  Temple,  said  when 
he  broke  with  me  last  holidays,  and  would  not 
ride  to  Sharsted  Abbey,  on  discovering  that  I 
had  led  him  by  an  innocent  artifice  into  think- 
ing that  Kate  Nugent  was  there." 

"  Can  artifice  be  altogether  innocent  ?"  in- 
quired Avila  Mildmay,  daughter  of  Mild  may, 
the  Regius  Professor  of  Moral  Philosophy. 

"As  for  the  man  whom  I  shall  vow  to  hpnor, 
and  shall  do  my  best  not  to  disobey,"  contin- 
ued the  flippant  Eugie,  "  I  have  not  the  slightest 
notion  who  he  is  or  where  he  is.  I  have  never 
seen  him,  that  I  am  aware  of.  No  one,  to  my 
knowledge,  has  ever  breathed  a  word  to  him 
about  me.  But  this  much  I  can  tell  you,  he  is 
a  crack  cavalry  colonel,  has  raven-black  hair 
and  piercing  eyes,  a  good  estate,  aristocratic 
face,  and  faultless  taste  in  dress.  I  won't  mar- 
ry a  civilian,  or  a  lout,  or  a  younger  brother,  or 


any  one  who  is  not  of  the  best  style  and  high- 
est fashion." 

It  was  impossible  to  be  angry  with  Eugie  for 
more  than  two  minutes  at  a  time. 

Seeing  that  her  companions  had  completely 
recovered  their  good  humor,  she  cried, 

"  And  now,  girls,  that  you  know  the  kind  of 
man  I  mean  to  marry,  assemble  around  me 
once  again,  and,  sitting  on  the  floor,  tell  to  me 
strange  stories  of  your  future  husbands,  how 
some  are  courtly  priests,  some  counsel  learned 
in  the  law,  some  chiefs  of  Britain's  commerce, 
some  lords  of  ancient  halls,  all  enamored." 

The  proposal  was  acceptable.  Four  of  the 
girls  grouped  themselves  on  the  carpet  round 
their  "spirit  of  fun,"  as  Eugie  was  called  in 
the  school ;  and  though  Josephine  Gough  would 
not  condescend  to  assume  so  lowly  a  position, 
she  almost  made  herself  one  of  the  group  by 
sitting  on  the -foot-end  of  the  bed  nearest  to 
them.  As  for  Lottie  Darling,  she  retained  her 
place  near  her  pillow,  but  her  radiant  face  show- 
ed that,  though  slightly  scandalized  by  the  im- 
proprieties of  the  hour,  she  was  not  unfavorable 
to  Eugie's  proposal  for  more  mischief. 

Seizing  from  the  central  toilet-table  an  ivory- 
handled  hair-brush,  which  she  proceeded  to  use 
as  though  it  were  a  chairman's  official  hammer, 
Eugie  tapped  the  floor  with  the  baton,  as  she 
exclaimed, 

"Attention  —  attention!  I  am  moderator 
of  the  assembly.  Don't  all  speak  at  once.  I 
shall  in  turn  call  upon  each  of  you  by  name 
to  confess  her  designs ;  and  at  my  command, 
confession  —  full,  free,  and  explicit  —  must  be 
made.  Attention!  Avila  Mildmay,  tell  the 
truth,  the  whole  truth,  and  nothing  but  the 
truth." 

Avila  thought  she  would  like  to  marry  a  very 
clever  barrister,  who  would  be  sure  to  rise  to 
be  Attorney-General,  Chief  Justice,  and  Lord 
Chancellor.  Maud  Morrison  meant  to  wed  in 
her  own  country  a  gentleman  of  good  estate ; 
he  might  be  a  baronet ;  she  would  allow  him  to 
enter  Parliament  on  the  Conservative  side  of 
the  House ;  but,  under  any  circumstances,  he 
must  be  a  Master  of  Foxhounds,  give  capital 
hunt-breakfasts,  and  allow  her  a  thousand  a 
year  for  her  own  stable  expenses.  Semolina 
Sackbut,  only  daughter  of  Gregson  Sackbut,  of 
the  house  of  Sackbut  &  Baggage,  West  India 
merchants,  did  not  hesitate  in  her  reply.  Being 
of  the  order  of  beings  who  nowadays  are  call- 
ed Philistines,  Semolina  valued  prosperity  and 
peace  above  all  things,  "light "and  "sweet- 
ness "  included.  Besides  being  very  fond  of 
her,  her  husband  must  be  rich,  liberal,  and  of 
a  temper  as  easy  as  his  circumstances.  She 
had  no  wish  that  he  should  be  a  hero,  or  any 
body  particular.  Her  only  desire  was  that  he 
"  should  be  rich,  and  have  very  little  to  do  for 
it."  Josephine  Gough  had  no  intention  to  mar- 
ry any  one ;  questioned  whether  matrimony  was 
conducive  to  the  development  of  woman's  high- 
er nature;  rather  thought  that  she  should  per- 
sist in  singleness,  and  do  something  for  the  ele- 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


13 


vation  of  her  sex;  if  she  ever  condescended  to 
marriage,  her  husband  would  be  a  manufactur- 
er and  politician,  who  would  pledge  himself  on 
the  nuptial  day  to  put  an  end  to  the  conflict  be- 
tween labor  and  capital.  Whereat  the  moder- 
ator groaned  comically. 

"  Ugh  !  Finny,  your  fate  is  too  terrible  for 
contemplation.  Manufacturer,  politician,  la- 
bor, capital !  Poor  young  woman !  what  will 
become  of  you?  Millicent  Travers,  say  what 
you  will — it  is  impossible  for  you  to  frighten 
me  now !" 

Millie  wished  no  worse  lot  for  herself  than 
that  she  should  marry  a  clergyman.  "* 

"Not  a  poor  curate?"  interposed  Eugie, 
smiling  as  she  thought  how  Millie,  with  her  co- 
quettish looks  and  turns  for  smnptuousness  in 
millinery,  would  figure  as  the  wife  of  an  unben- 
eficed clergyman. 

Bridling  up  at  the  bare  suggestion  of  a  fate 
so  discordant  to  her  tastes  and  estimate  of  her 
own  merits,  Millie  explained  on  what  terms 
she  would  range  herself  among  clerical  ladies. 
Her  husband  should  be  a  High-Church  first- 
class-man  of  Oxford,  and  have  a  prodigious 
country  living,  with  a  grand  church  and  rectory 
house  in  the  centre  of  his  cure,  and  three  or  four 
outlying  hamlets  and  chapelries.  She  should 
give  archery- parties  and  dinner-parties,  and 
have  the  best  gardens  and  greenhouses  in  her 
neighborhood.  She  should  assist  her  husband 
by  superintending  the  education  of  his  paro- 
chial womankind;  and  when  he  was  away  from 
home,  she  would  take  the  control  of  the  parish 
into  her  own  hands,  and  drive  a  team  of  four 
curates.  Her  husband  might  not  accept  a-^pro- 
vincial  deanery,  but  she  would  not  forbid  him 
to  take  his  place  among  the  bishops. 

"Don't  look  away,  Lottie,"  cried  the  mod- 
erator, "I  have  not  forgotten  you.  Now,  my 
dear  child,  leave  off  blushing,  and  say  out  loud 
what  you  mean  to  do  for  yourself." 

"I  have  never  thought  of  the  matter." 

"Then  dispose  of  yourself  without  think- 
ing." 
'    "  I  shall  see  what  mamma  wishes." 

"I  have  no  doubt  you  will.  But  what  do 
you  wish  your  mamma  to  wish  ?" 

Blushing  from  the  curve  of  her  delicately 
rounded  chin  to  the  frontal  line  of  her  rich, 
abundant,  light-brown  hair,  and  altogether  fail- 
ing in  her  attempts  to  hide  the  confusion  which 
caused  her  delicious  pink  lips  to  pout  and  writhe 
with  a  peculiar  curling,  crimpling  action,  as 
though  they  were  things  possessed  of  a  life  dis- 
tinct from  that  of  her  beautiful  face,  she  pro- 
tested that  her  only  wish  was  that  her  mamma 
should  please  herself.  The  pleasure  and  the 
pain  which  Eugie's  question  occasioned  Lottie 
Darling  were  so  evenly  balanced,  and  so  vivid- 
ly expressed  in  her  dimpled  cheeks,  and  laugh- 
ing eyes,  and  mobile  lips,  that  it  was  obvious 
how  easily  her  tormentor  could  have  teased  her 
into  tears,  or  rallied  her  into  convulsive  merri- 
ment. 

"  If  they  wish  me  to  marry,  papa  and  mam- 


ma will  settle  every  thing,  and  my  only  desire 
will  be  to  please  them." 

"The  condition  of  that  dear  child,"  Engie 
exclaimed  grandly,  "  reminds  one  of  the  feudal 
ages,  and  how  the  darlings  of  those  dark  times 
used  to  throw  themselves  into  the  arms  of  steel- 
coated  knights  at  the  command  of  austere  par- 
ents." 

"  Let  it  be,"  implored  Lottie,  using  the 
phrase,  perhaps  a  provincialism,  with  which  she 
was  wont  to  implore  her  persecutors  to  desist 
from  persecuting  her.  Again  and  again  she 
had  been  told  that  she  ought  to  say,  "Leave 
me  alone,"  but  she  adhered  to  her  old  form  of 
entreaty,  "Let  it  be."  Every  one  loved  Lot- 
tie for  the  excellent  reason  that  it  was  impos- 
sible not  to  love  her.  Every  one  teased  her: 
partly  because  her  sweet  temper  never  resent- 
ed maltreatment,  but  chiefly  because  she  never 
looked  so  lovely  and  bewitchingly  kissable  as 
when  she  was  under  persecution.  No  one  who 
had  once  goaded  her  into  imploring  "Let  it 
be,"  could  deny  himself  the  pleasure  of  goad- 
ing her  to  a  repetition  of  the  prayer.  Such 
vexation — as  highly  sensitive  and  amiable  girls 
experience  from  the  banter  of  smart  talkers — 
put  her  features  into  play,  and  gave  them  a 
piquancy  and  expressiveness  that  they  lacked 
in  moments  of  repose.  Just  as  the  fire  brings 
out  the  lines  of  invisible  writing,  the  gentle 
malice  of  teasers  brought  out  some  of  the  finest 
qualities  of  her  beauty.  And  Lottie's  beauty 
was  of  a  kind  that  rewards  study.  Though  it 
arrested  attention  at  first  sight,  its  excellences 
could  not  be  appreciated  till  they  were  regarded 
deliberately,  and  under  favorable  circumstances. 
It  fascinated  the  beholder  by  degrees,  as  he 
watched  the  subtle  changes  of  her  expression, 
and  caught  joy  from  the  fleeting  lights  and 
dimpling  smiles  of  her  gentle  face.  There  was 
no  end  to  the  pleasant  surprises  that  it  afford- 
ed the  critical  observer. 

"Lottie  Darling,"  urged  Eugie  Bridlemere, 
authoritatively,  "  you  are  withholding  informa- 
tion from  the  court,  and  trifling  with  its  august 
president.  If  you  don't  speak  more  fully,  it 
will  be  my  painful  duty  to  commit  you  for  con- 
tempt." 

"  In  which  case  ?"  Lottie  inquired,  archly. 

"The  consequences,"  Eugie  replied,  with 
terrible  sternness,  "will  be  awful  to  contem- 
plate." 

"  Indeed,"  Lottie  asseverated,  slowly  and 
earnestly,  as  though  it  were  of  the  greatest  mo- 
ment to  her  that  the  statement  should  satis- 
fy her  inquisitors,  "I  have  told  the  truth,  the 
whole  truth,  and  nothing  but  the  truth." 

"You  won't  get  any  thing  more  out  of  her," 
Maud  Morrison  remarked  to  Eugie.  "  When 
the  child  purses  up  her  little  mouth  in  that  way, 
it  is  a  sign  that  she  is  going  to  be  mulish.  And 
though  she  is  a  darling  she  can  be  as  obstinate 
as  a  mule,  and  as  close  as  death." 

"My  belief  is  that  she  is  keeping  something 
notable  from  us,"  cried  Semolina,  with  unusual 
sagacity. 


LOTTIE  DAKLING. 


"It  is  as  clear  as  daylight,"  remarked  Eugie,  I 
rising  from  the  floor  to  her  full  height  as  she 
spoke,  "  that  she  has  been  engaged  for  months 
clandestinely — engaged  throughout  this  whole 
half-year,  without  letting  us  know  any  thing 
about  it." 

"  Oh !  do  leave  off  this  nonsense  now !"  Lot- 
tie implored.  "Let  it  be." 

"Girls,"  urged  the  malicious  Eugie,  "be- 
hold her!  Her  confusion  under  my  searching 
eye,  under  our  indignant  gaze,  declares  her 
guilt.  To-night  we  will  try  the  culprit,  and  if 
we  find  her  guilty,  after  a  patient  and  strictly 
impartial  examination  of  the  evidence,  we  will 
repudiate  her." 

As  all  this  lawless  and  absurd  talk  had  been 
spoken  in  a  much  louder  tone  than  the  speak- 
ers used  in  tranquil  seasons,  some  of  it  would 
have  been  heard  beyond  the  room,  even  had  the 
"privileged  Constantines"  taken  the  precau- 
tion to  close  the  door  of  their  apartment.  But 
it  so  happened  that  the  door  was  open  through- 
out the  whole  comedy.  It  happened,  more- 
over, that  the  door  of  the  adjoining  room  was 
open,  and  that  Miss  Spider,  the  English  super- 
intendent of  the  school,  was  then  and  there  busy 
at  needle-work.  A  vigilant  person,  whose  waist 
had  long  since  committed  suicide  by  expansion, 
Miss  Spider  was  a  very  energetic  and  service- 
able assistant  to  a  mistress  who  held  her  in  the 
highest  esteem.  But  the  Spider's  virtues  and 
services  were  not  of  a  kind  likely  to  commend 
her  to  the  good-will  of  the  girls.  It  was  whis- 
pered among  them  that  she  was  capable  of  the 
baseness  of  listening  at  bedroom  doors  after  the 
ringing  of  the  nightly  "  silence  bell."  It  was 
alleged  that  she  was  meanly — not  to  say  wick- 
edly— peevish  to  the  younger  children,  who  were 
greatly  in  her  power.  It  was  remarked  that  she 
was  obsequious  and  mealy-mouthed  to  Miss 
Constantine,  whose  one  and  unaccountable  in- 
fatuation was  that  she  had  a  good  opinion  of  the 
prying  governess. 

On  the  present  occasion  Miss  Spider  certain- 
ly was  not  in  any  way  blameworthy  for  hearing 
what  was  not  meant  for  her  ears.  All  that  she 
had  caught  up  of  the  talk  in  the  "long  room  " 
consisted  of  words  which  she  could  not  help 
hearing.  Of  course  those  words  scandalized  the 
lady.  Not  only  were  they  "  privileged  "  .talk- 
ing and  laughing  bois.terously  in  their  private 
room — no  trivial  offense — but  they  were  talk- 
ing freely  and  flippantly  on  a  most  serious  and 
delicate  topic.  They  were  gossiping  lightly  on 
a  subject  absolutely  interdicted  to  the  young 
ladies  of  Miss  Constantino's  establishment.  For 
a  moment,  in  her  indignation,  Miss  Spider  was 
on  the  point  of  rushing  into  the  "long  room" 
and  upbraiding  the  offenders.  But  prudence 
overcame  the  rash  impulse.  Those  girls  in 
their  last  half-year  were  not  under  her  rule. 
If  she  attacked  them  in  English,  they  might  re- 
tort in  French,  with  phrases  beyond  her  lim- 
ited and  uncertain  knowledge  of  the  Gallic 
tongue.  The  Spider  knew  from  experience 
that  she  was  no  match  in  polite  irony  for  Eugie 


Bridlemere.  How,  then,  could  she  hope  to 
quell  that  sauciest  of  tall  girls,  and  half  a  doz- 
en other  confederates  in  rebellion  ?  In  her 
perplexity  and  anger  Miss  Spider  went  off  at 
full  speed  to  Miss  Constantine,  and  told  her 
how  egregiously  the  seven  girls  were  misbehav- 
ing themselves,  to  their  own  shame  and  the 
discredit  of  the  entire  school.  To  the  subordi- 
nate's surprise  and  chagrin,  her  principal,  in- 
stead of  drawing  a  long  face,  burst  into  laugh- 
ter. Something  in  the  report,  or  the  reporter, 
or  both,  must  have  tickled  the  lady  amazingly. 
When  she  had  had  her  laugh  out,  she  said, 

"Naughty  girls,  they  have  broken  loose  on 
the  last  day,  have  they  ?  Well,  let  them  have 
their  fun.  It  will  be  innocent  girls'-prattle. 
I  can  trust  them ;  and  I  wish  I  could  hear  it 
all  without  being  required  to  stop  it.  Keep 
out  of  their  way,  Miss  Spider,  and  when  I  have 
finished  this  note,  and  written  another,  I  will 
go  up  stairs  and  scold  them." 

If  she  was  not  quite  as  good  as  her  word,  Miss 
Constantine  was  true  to  her  purpose  ;  and,  hav- 
ing dispatched  her  letters,  she  climbed  to  the  top 
of  her  large  house,  and  approached  the  "long 
room  "just  in  time  to  hear  Lottie  Darling's  last 
entreaty  that  her  persecutors  would  "  let  it  be." 

Eugie  Bridlemere  had  scarcely  declared  the 
punishment  which  Lottie  should  undergo  in 
case  she  were  found  guilty,  when,  to  the  as- 
tonishment and  dismay  of  the  seven  girls,  An- 
gelica Constantine,  in  all  the  stateliness  of  her 
forty-fifth  year,  entered  the  room,  and  standing 
midway  between  the  door  and  the  bevy  of  flut- 
tered damsels,  surveyed  them  with  laughing 
eyes. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE    SAME   ASSEMBLY,   WITH   ANOTHER  MODER- 
ATOR. 

Miss  CONSTANTINE'S  unexpected  appearance 
caused  a  commotion  in  the  "  long  room."  Eu- 
gie Bridlemere  "  backed  "  quickly  on  seeing  the 
school-mistress,  who  had  come  within  half  a 
foot  of  her ;  and  having  retired  to  a  respectful 
distance,  she  made  a  profound  reverence,  with 
a  deliberateness  and  grace  which  showed  the 
excellence  of  Madame  Bourbonnade's  instruc- 
tions in  personal  deportment.  The  giiTs,  who 
were  sitting  on  the  floor,  sprang  to  their  feet, 
and  having  composedly  moved  away  from  one 
another,  so  that  each  should  have  sufficient 
space  for  the  execution  of  her  courtesy,  sank 
simultaneously  downward,  and  then  slowly  re- 
sumed the  erect  posture.  Room  having  been 
made  for  them  by  Eugie  and  the  other  four 
makers  of  courtesies,  Lottie  Darling  came  out 
from  the  narrow  space  between  two  beds,  and, 
in  company  with  Josephine  Gough,  who  had 
dropped  from-  her  perch  on  the  foot  of  her  bed, 
performed  a  gesture  of  reverence  that  was  not 
inferior  to  any  of  the  courtesies  that  had  pre- 
ceded it.  It  was  clear  to  Miss  Constantine 
that,  if  her  "privileged  girls"  had  "broken 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


15 


loose  "  in  her  absence,  they  were  incapable  of 
contumacy  in  her  presence.  The  school-girls 
of  this  period  are  less  respectful  in  demeanor, 
if  not  less  dutiful  in  thought,  than  were  the 
voung  ladies  of  five-and-twenty  years  since,  to 
all  persons  placed  in  authority  over  them. 

"And  what  terrible  crime  has  Lottie  perpe- 
trated that  you  think  of  repudiating  her?"  in- 
quired Angelica  Constantine.  "  If  her  counte- 
nance declares  her  guilt,  Eugie,  as  you  say  it 
does,  her  crime  can  be  nothing  worse  than  the 
sin  of  looking  somewhat  prettier  than  usual. 
But  you  can  scarcely  .think  of  punishing  her  so 
severely  for  so  pleasant  and  harmless  an  of- 
fense. What  has  she  been  doing,  girls?" 

"  O-oh  !  dear  Miss  Constantine,"  Lottie  im- 
plored, with  a  comically  doleful  prolongation  of 
the  "oh!"  "dont  make  them  tell  you." 

"  It  must  be  something  very  bad,  if  you  are 
afraid  that  I  should  hear  it." 

"No,  no;  it  is  nothing  very  heinous  or  dis- 
graceful," Lottie  protested,  with  the  cooing, 
quavering,  wheedling  voice  which  seldom  failed 
to  make  her  entreaties  successful ;  "  but  indeed 
it  would  be  cruel  of  you  to  make  us  confess.  It 
is  only  that  we  have  gone  a  little  mad,  and  been 
talking  a  great  deal  of  nonsense." 

"And  I  am  not  to  be  a  sharer  of  the  fun ! 
Well,  girls,  if  you  mean  to  send  me  to  Coventry, 
I  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  submit  to  my  fate." 

Miss  Constantino's  humility  was  irresistible. 
Since  she  took  their  treatment  of  her  so  meekly, 
the  girls  felt  there  was  no  course  open  to  them 
but  a  policy  of  perfect  confidence  and  communi- 
cativeness. 

"  She  is  obstinate,"  Eugie  Bridlemere  blurted 
out,  "and  won't  tell  us  what  kind  of  husband 
she  would  like  to  have." 

"A  husband?" exclaimed  Miss  Constantine, 
interrogatively,  and  with  a  cleverly  assumed  air 
of  surprise. 

"  Just  that,"  Eugie  assented.  "  Every  other 
girl  has  been  frank  and  outspoken,  but  Lottie 
won't  divulge  ;  and  when  we  insisted  on  a  state- 
ment, she  asked  us  to  'let  it  be.'  It  is  too  bad 
of  her !  You  see,  Miss  Constantine,  as  we  shall 
cease  to  be  school- girls  to-morrow,  we  thought 
there  would  be  no  harm  in  having  a  little  con- 
fidential chat  about  matrimony,  and  our  views 
respecting  it." 

"  Indeed  !  indeed !"  cried  Miss  Constantine, 
startling  and  almost  terrifying  the  more  timid 
of  the  privileged  maidens  by  the  sudden  change 
of  manner,  as  she  addressed  them  in  the  voice  of 
mingled  severity  and  sorrow  and  reproachfulness 
which  was  known  in  145  Hanover  Square  as  her 
"  scolding  voice,"  "  this  is  very  extraordinary 
conduct ! — conduct  that  is  foolish,  frivolous,  un- 
seemly !  A  most  improper  topic !  I  will  not 
ask  who  of  you  began  the  folly.  I  shall  regard 
you  as  all  equally  at  fault,  and  allot  the  same 
punishment  to  you  all.  Each  of  you  has  a  re- 
prise de  trois." 

"  Oh !  Miss  Constantine !  oh  !  dear  Miss 
Constantine!"  ejaculated  seven  voices  in  har- 
monious dismay  and  expostulation.  "Not  on 


our  last  day  at  school !  That  is  such  a  disgrace ! 
Don't  give  us  a  reprise  de  trois." 

Until  they  caught  the  mischievous  brightness 
and  twinkling  which  their  vehement  and  clam- 
orous protest  against  the  enormity  of  the  pun- 
ishment brought  to  Angelica's  eyes,  the  seven 
simpletons  imagined  her  to  be  in  earnest,  and 
each  of  them  had  failed  to  see  that,  her  mark- 
book  having  been  made  up  for  the  half-year 
then  ending,  a  reprise  de  trois  could  not  serious- 
ly affect  her  scholastic  position,  and  that  it  would 
not  be  greatly  injurious  to  her  when  she  had 
left  the  school. 

Miss  Constantino's  laughing  eyes,  however, 
reminded  them  of  the  state  of  the  case,  and  at 
the  same  time  assured  them  that  they  had  not 
really  fallen  under  her  displeasure.  A  school- 
mistress's pleasantries  are  likft  a  judge's  jokes. 
They  are  always  well  received  by  the  courtiers 
of  her  own  court.  The  seven  privileged  maid- 
ens had  no  sooner  recovered  from  the  first 
shock  of  their  delight  at  discovering  the  fic- 
titious and  altogether  histrionic  nature  of  the 
lady's  censure  than  they  applauded  rapturously 
the  skill  of  the  actor  who  had  for  the  moment 
so  thoroughly  persuaded  them  that  they  had 
gravely  offended  her.  Moreover,  though  from 
one  point  of  view  the  reprise  de  trois  would 
have  been  an  illusory  sentence,  it  would,  from 
another  aspect,  have  been  a  serious  punish- 
ment. As  Lottie  Darling  most  justly  observed, 
it  would  have  been  a  terrible  disgrace  had  they 
been  sent  from  school,  and  launched  upon  adult 
life,  with  the  shame  and  burden  of  three  black 
marks  set  upon  them. 

Having  playfully  remitted  the  reprise  de 
trois,  Angelica  Constantine  amused  herself  by 
ascertaining  what  each  of  the  girls  had  wished 
for  herself  with  respect  to  matrimony ;  and 
though  every  particular  of  the  ridiculous  con- 
versation was  repeated  to  her,  she  evinced  no 
disapprobation  of  its  wildest  extravagances. 
She  smiled  at  Eugie's  wish  for  a  cavalry  col- 
onel of  the  highest  fashion  ;  smiled  again  at 
Josephine  Gough's  benevolent  intentions  to- 
ward womankind  ;  and  laughed  outright  at  Mil- 
lie's ambition  to  drive  a  team  of  curates. 

"And  what  do  you  advise  us  to  do  in  the  mat- 
ter, dear  Miss  Constantine?"  Eugie  inquired, 
when  the  confessions  had  been  made. 

"  I  am  of  Lottie's  mind,"  returned  the  gov- 
erness, "  and  advise  you  to  leave  the  matter,  as 
you  call  it,  to  your  mammas." 

"But  some  of  us,  perhaps,  will  have  to  de- 
cide for  ourselves,"  suggested  the  practical  and 
self-dependent  Finny  Gough. 

"  In  which  case,"  returned  Angelica,  "  de- 
cide unselfishly — that  is  to  say,  with  no  greater 
care  for  your  strictly  individual  happiness  than 
prudence  enjoins  you  to  have  respecting  so  im- 
portant a  question.  Have  a  regard  for  your 
own  happiness,  but  think  of  the  happiness  of 
other  people ;  consider  the  reasonable  wishes, 
Eugie,  of  your  family,  and  have  also  a  little 
consideration  for  the  well-being  of  the  man 
who  asks  you  to  be  his.  Though  you  should 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


love  him,  if  you  have  reason  to  think  that  your 
acceptance  of  him  would,  in  the  long  run,  be 
hurtful  to  your  suitor,  I  should  say,  *  Don't  be  j 
influenced  at  all  by  desire  for  your  own  happi- 
ness ;  be  unselfish,  and  out  of  your  love  of  him 
place  him  at  a  distance  from  you.'" 

"Not  many  women  could  act  so,"  Maud  ! 
Morrison  interposed. 

"Not many, "Angelica  assented.    "The per-  ! 
feet  unselfishness  of  the  person  who  can  sacri-  ! 
fice  himself  freely  and  completely  for  the  good  | 
of  another  is   perhaps   the  rarest  of  all  vir- 
tues." 

"  Himself !"  Josephine  Gough  exclaimed, 
catching  at  the  word  which  implied  a  senti- 
ment repugnant  to  the  young  lady  who  be- 
lieved that,  if  selfishness  was  the  failing  of 
some  women,  irtJrdinate  selfishness  was  the  uni-  : 
versal  characteristic  of  men.  "No  living  man 
is  capable  of  such  heroism.  Men  are  much 
more  selfish  than  women." 

"I  have  not  found  them  so,"  Miss  Constan- 
tino responded,  dryly. 

"Oh!  Miss  Constantine,"  protested  Avila 
Mildmay  and  Josephine  in  the  same  breath, 
"  you  must  admit  that  men  are  desperately,  out- 
rageously selfish." 

"  Then,  my  dears,"  returned  the  school-mis- 
tress, banteringly,  "you  must  set  them  an  ex- 
ample of  disinterestedness." 

"Even  good  men,"  Josephine  insisted,  stout- 
ly, "  are  apt  to  think  too  much  of  their  own  in- 
terests." 

"And  even  good  women,"  retorted  the  gov- 
erness, with  a  significant  accent,  which  brought 
a  slight  blush  to  the  face  of  her  self-sufficient 
and  self-complacent  pupil,  "  are  apt  to  think 
too  much  of  their  own  goodness." 

Whereat  five  of  the  privileged  girls  laughed 
outright,  and  Lottie Darlingbetrayed  heramuse- 
ment  by  a  mischievous  smile ;  while  Finny, 
who  felt  herself  properly  snubbed,  fell  back  be- 
hind Eugie,  the  tall.  Said  Eugie,  recalling  the 
discussion  to  the  subject  from  which  it  had 
wandered, 

"But  though  self-sacrifice  is  a  sublime  vir- 
tue, Miss  Constantine,  you  would  not  commend 
any  girl  who,  for  her  family's  sake,  married  a 
man  whom  she  hated?" 

"  Certainly  I  should  not  commend  any  girl  for 
vowing  falsely  on  her  bridal  day  that  she  loved 
the  man  whom  she  detested.  Moreover,  the 
girl  of  your  case,  while  sacrificing  herself,  would 
be  sacrificing  the  man  to  whom  she  would  cer- 
tainly prove  an  afflicting  wife.  To  be  admi- 
rable— indeed,  to  be  itself — self-sacrifice  must 
be  scrupulously  considerate  of,  and  honest  to, 
the  feelings  and  rights  of  others.  To  achieve 
self-sacrifice,  it  is  not  enough  that  a  woman 
should  make  herself  miserable  ;  she  must  also 
be  careful  to  sacrifice  no  one  else.  Your  girl, 
whose  conduct  I  should  very  warmly  condemn, 
would  really  be  actuated  by  a  selfish  motive — 
the  desire  to  please  her  family  at  the  expense 
of  the  victim  to  whom  she  would  bind  herself 
for  life." 


"  But,  upon  the  r.-hole,  would  you  advise  girls 
to  make  trials  of  matrimony  ?" 

Miss  Constantine's  face  assumed  a  droll  look 
as  she  answered,  decidedly,  and  also  quizzically, 
"Decidedly,  I  should  advise  girls  to  make 
trial  of  matrimon}r,  bearing  well  in  mind  that 
the  experiment  involves  consequences  from 
which  the  curious  inquirer  can  not  easily  re- 
treat after  having  made  the  trial.  Bearing 
that  fact  in  mind,  no  sensible  or  good  girl  will 
for  any  consideration  marry  any  man,  if  her  af- 
fection for  him  is  nothing  stronger  than  a  gen- 
eral kindliness,  or  if  she  has  any  reason  to  be- 
lieve herself  incapable  of  loving  him^and  hold- 
ing his  love,  throughout  life." 

"  Girls  should  be  cautious,"  put  in  the  moon- 
faced little  Philistine,  Semolina  Sackbut.  "The 
girl  is  a  mere  simpleton  who  accepts  her  first 
oifer." 

"  Indeed !"  rejoined  Miss  Constantine,  on  the 
point  of  wounding  Semolina  by  unreasonable 
merriment,  though  she  replied  with  perfect  grav- 
ity! "Is  it  necessary  that  the  bravest  knight 
should  not  be  the  first  to  appear  in  the  lists? 
A  fisherman  may  catch  a  magnificent  fish  al- 
most as  soon  as  he  has  thrown  his  line  into  the 
water,  and  not  have  another  bite  the  whole  day 
through." 

At  which  apt,  though  indiscreetly  chosen,  il- 
lustration, Eugie  Bridlemere  exclaimed,  saucily, 
"Fie,  fie,  Miss  Constantine;  you  are  com- 
paring husband-catching  to  fly-fishing,  and  sug- 
gesting that  a  girl,  angling  for  a  settlement  in 
life,  should  take  pains  to  hook  her  first  fish, 
and  bring  him  to  land,  if  he  is  a  big  one." 

If  the  girls  were  slightly  scandalized  at  this 
impudent  speech,  it  delighted  Angelica,  who 
forthwith  gave  her  critic  a  kiss,  and  acknowl- 
edged that  she  had  been  properly  called  to 
order. 

Miss  Constantine's  complaisance  causing 
Josephine  Gough  to  feel  that  the  time  had  ar- 
rived for  her  to  come  forth  from  her  place  of 
retirement  behind  Eugie's  skirt,  the  champion 
of  womankind  and  the  political  economists  ob- 
served didactically, 

"But  though  marriage,  under  favorable  cir- 
cumstances, may  be  the  lot  that  a  girl  has  most 
reason  to  desire,  and  may  also  be  the  field  in 
which  she  may  be  most  useful  to  her  species,  as 
well  as  most  happy,  still  woman  may  be  happy 
without  a  husband,  and  demonstrate  by  her 
action  that  singleness  is  not  necessarily  a  des- 
picable condition." 

That  Finny — who  did  not  stand  so  high  in 
her  companion's  esteem  as  in  her  own — should 
have  had  the  audacious  stupidity  to  make  this 
patronizing  defense  of  feminine  celibacy  to  Miss 
Constantine,  appeared  so  inexpressibly  comical 
to  Eugie  Bridlemere  that  she  burst  into  laugh- 
ter, which  carried  all  its  hearers,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  Miss  Constantine  and  poor  Josephine, 
into  a  most  disorderly  outburst  of  merriment. 
Holding  her  waist  lest  it  should  be  snapped  like 
a  piece  of  stick  by  the  violence  of  her  humor- 
ous convulsions,  and  rocking  the  upper  part  of 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


17 


her  figure  to  and  fro,  Eugie  Bridlemere  scream- 
ed with  vociferous  delight;  and  if  her  laugh- 
ter was  not  surpassed  in  loudness,  it  was  excel- 
lently sustained  by  the  peals  of  the  other  five 
laughers.  A  party  of  loungers,  promenading 
on  the  scorched  turf  of  the  shady  side  of  Hano- 
ver Square,  wondered  what  could  account  for 
the  sounds  of  riotous  glee  that  came  to  them 
from  the  highest  windows  of  Miss  Constantino's 
house.  And  they  had  good  reason  for  their 
curiosity  and  amazement ;  for  once  and  again, 
when  the  laughter  had  subsided  to  the  usual 
quietude  of  the  decorous  establishment,  it  rose 
again  as  loudly  and  merrily  as  before.  Though 
she  could  not  refrain  from  joining  in  the  mirth, 
Lottie  Darling  pitied  the  luckless  Josephine. 
Not  that  Josephine  was  a  girl  to  Lottie's  taste. 
More  than  once  Lottie  had  remarked  in  a  coo- 
ing, pitiful  Avay  in  strict  confidence  to  a  partic- 
ular friend,  "Finny  Gough,  with  her  hard  no- 
tions and  knock-down  manner,  is  such  a  mis- 
take ;  notwithstanding  her  good  points,  she  is 
such  a  mistake  in  the  way  of  a  girl."  But  Lottie's 
conscience  pricked  her  while  joining  in  the  mer- 
ciless ridicule  of  the  mistake's  last  mistake.  It 
really  was  too  bad  a  punishment  for  the  poor 
girl,  though  she  had  made  herself  extremely 
ridiculous. 

Mr.  Disraeli,  looking  with  impenetrable 
blankness  at  a  laughing  House  of  Commons, 
and  masking  his  face  with  a  look  of  utter  in- 
ability to  see  the  cause  of  amusement,  is  not  a 
more  interesting  study  than  was  Miss  Constan- 
tine,  while  by  a  prodigious  effort  she  maintained 
an  aspect  of  seriousness,  and  even  glanced  ap- 
provingly at  the  blunderer. 

"She  has  amused  you  in  a  marvelous  de- 
gree," remarked  Angelica,  laying  her  right  hand 
kindly  on  Josephine's  head,  and  taking  the  mor- 
tified girl  under  her  protection,  when  at  length 
the  merriment  had  quite  died  out,  "  but  it  ap- 
pears to  me  that  Josephine  has  closed  the  con- 
versation with  a  very  sensible  remark.  She  is 
quite  right.  A  woman  may  be  very  useful,  and 
also  very,  very  happy,  in  a  state  of  singleness. 
Years  since,  girls — ay,  years  before  the  time 
when  you  were  tiny  creatures  in  the  nursery, 
and  Eugie  was  a  wee  romp  who  had  to  be  put 
in  the  corner  at  least  once  every  hour — I  thought 
that  I  should  live  to  be  a  wife  and  mother. 
But  I  have  not  married,  and  yet  I  am  very  hap- 
py— I  thank  God  for  it — very  happy." 

There  was  something  of  sadness,  something 
of  gentle  regret  for  what  had  only  almost  been 
long  ago,  in  the  serenity  which  pervaded  the 
woman's  countenance,  as  she  thus  addressed 
the  party  of  joyful,  hopeful,  inexperienced  girls, 
who,  in  all  the  gladness  and  innocence  of  vir- 
ginal simplicity,  had  been  looking  forward  to 
the  way  of  life  in  which  she  had  not  been  per- 
mitted to  walk.  Her  momentary  exhibition  of 
a  grief  which  had  long  ago  lost  the  sting  and 
poison  of  sorrow  would  have  prevented  a  re- 
newal of  the  merriment,  even  if  Eugie  and  her 
confederates  in  fun  had  wished  for  another  peal 
of  laughter. 

2 


"And  having  discussed  an  interesting  topic 
!  at  some  length,"  Angelica  observed,  in  a  mat- 
|  ter-of-fact  voice,  "I  think  you  will  agree  with 
me  that  there  is  no  need  to  re-open  the  discus- 
!  sion  this  half-year.  Should  you  think  other- 
j  wise,  before  you  renew  the  debate,  you  had  bet- 
I  ter  shut  the  windows  and  doors,  so  that  you 
j  may  not  be  overheard." 

The  girls  were  vehement  in  assuring  their 
I  dear  Miss  Constantino  that  not  another  syllable 
I  should  be  uttered  by  them  to  re-open  the  dis- 
cussion under  her  roof. 

"  Then  let  us  think  of  another  interesting 
topic,  tea  and  bread-and-butter.  You  mem- 
bers of  a  sentimental  parliament  must  have 
talked  yourselves  hungry  by  this  time.  So, 
Eugie,  run  to  Mrs.  Standish,  and  tell  her  that 
our  tea  is  to  be  a-  'grand  tea,'  with  all  the  pot- 
ted meat,  and  marmalade,  and  fruit  that  she 
can  give  us.  There,  children,  be  off  with  you." 
The  children  departed  ceremoniously,  each 
of  them  pausing  at  the  door  to  make  the  usual 
courtesy  of  withdrawal.  A  quarter  of  a  cen- 
tury since  much  time  was  spent  at  145  Hanover 
Square  in  making  courtesies;  and  Miss  Con- 
stantino maintains  that  none  of  the  time  so 
expended  was  misspent.  Girls  should  be  en- 
couraged to  take  bodily  exercise  indoors  as 
well  as  in  the  open  air ;  and  the  muscular  ef- 
fort requisite  for  the  performance  of  the  state- 
liest and  gracefulest  gesture  of  reverence  is  the 
best  of  all  exercises  for  a  growing  damsel. 
Again,  to  be  proficient  in  the  art  of  courte- 
sying  is  to  possess  an  accomplishment  which 
every  lady  requires,  and  no  woman  can  excel  in 
without  sound  instruction  and  daily  practice. 
Moreover,  in  a  girls'  school  to  require  the  girls 
to  courtesy,  one  after  another,  on  entering  or 
leaving  a  room,  is  to  prevent  them  from  crowd- 
ing together  embarrassingly  at  door-ways,  and 
from  huddling  together  and  tumbling  over  one 
another  in  passages. 

Eugie  Bridlemere  was  the  first  to  courtesy 
and  depart.  Lottie  Darling  was  the  last  of 
the  seven  to  sink  gracefully  to  the  floor,  and 
rise  with  interesting  slowness  under  the  gaze 
of  her  preceptress. 

But  this  young  person,  instead  of  gliding 
out  of  the  long  room,  and  down  the  longer 
corridor,  after  the  reverential  performance, 
glanced  shyly  at  Miss  Constantino  from  be- 
neath the  long  dark-brown  (almost  black)  lash- 
es of  her  burning  blue  eyes  ;  and,  on  receiving 
the  glance  of  encouragement  for  which  the 
blue  eyes  mutely  petitioned,  she  approached 
Angelica  Constantino  with  steps  expressive  of 
timorousness  as  well  as  of  delight. 

She  was  a  girl  of  perfect  shape  and  winning 
— though  somehow  unusual  —  carriage.  She 
was  not  deficient  in  dignity  of  figure  and  bear- 
ing ;  but  no  one  ever  thought  of  applauding 
her  for  her  stateliness.  She  was  never  de- 
scribed by  the  endowments  which  she  uncon- 
sciously withdrew  as  much  as  possible  from 
observation.  She  was  no  girl  to  make  the 
most  of  herself,  and  enter  a  ball-room  with  the 


18 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


"  air  "  and  "  presence"  of  a  belle,  conscious  of 
her  dazzling  properties,  and  ready  to  receive 
admiration  as  her  due.  No  one  failed  to  ob- 
serve that  she  had  an  elegant  and  harmonious- 
ly developed  figure,  a  delicate  and  very  lovely 
profile,  lips  of  bewitching  expressiveness,  deli- 
cious eyes,  a  perfect  forehead,  half  a  hundred 
ravishingly  charming  smiles,  and  an  abundance 
of  warm-brown  tresses,  whose  color,  belonging 
to  the  lightest  hues  of  brown,  was  rendered  all 
the  more  notable  by  its  contrast  with  the  dark- 
er color  of  the  hair  of  her  finely  penciled 
brows,  and  with  the  exceeding  darkness  of  her 
long  eyelashes.  Yet,  with  all  these  striking 
charms,  Lottie  was  not  what  is  ordinarily  call- 
ed a  "striking  girl."  With  not  a  tithe  of 
Lottie's  beauty,  Eugie  Bridlemere  was  much 
more  striking.  "  The  child  would  be  perfect," 
Madame  Bourbonnade  had  repeatedly  observed 
to  Miss  Constantine,  "if  she  could  only  be 
taught  how,  and  made,  to  show  herself  off." 
But  Lottie  never  could  be  taught  how  to  dis- 
play and  emphasize  herself;  and  could  she 
have  been  taught  the  art  of  "  showing  herself 
off,"  she  could  not  have  been  made  to  act  on 
the  knowledge. 

Madame  Bourbonnade  showed  her  good 
sense  in  forbearing  to  improve  Lottie's  figure 
and  style  of  walking ;  and  even  in  coming  to 
like  them,  distinct  though  they  were  from  the 
more  impressive  carriage  which  the  Professor  of 
Deportment  succeeds  in  imparting  to  a  major- 
ity of  her  aristocsatic  pupils.  "  Lottie  Darling 
puzzles  me,';madame  observed  at  the  outset  of 
her  acquaintance  with  the  girl.  "I  can't  make 
out  what  it  is,  that  ought  to  be  done  to  her. 
She  is  as  straight  as  a  line  in  the  back,  delicate- 
ly curved,  elastic,  and  yet  there  is  something 
wrong  about  her.  She  is  not  round-shoulder- 
ed, she  does  not  stoop,  and  she  does  not  poke 
her  chin  out,  like  some  demoiselles,  as  though 
nature  meant  it  for  a  pump  spout ;  but  she 
can't  hold  herself  so  as  to  look  down  on  the 
world.  And  what  is  it  in  her  walk  that  makes 
it  the  walk  of  a  gentle,  petted,  irresistible 
creature — a  rare  puss,  a  wise  cat,  a  delicious 
animal — rather  than  the  walk  of  a  high-bred 
young  lady  ?  She  creeps  up  to  you  like  a  dainty 
creature  and  gentle  animal,  and  just  as  you  are 
on  the  point  of  stroking  her  fur,  she  turns  her 
blue  eyes  up  to  you,  and  becomes  a  young  lady. 
Shd  is  beyond  me.  I  must  leave  her  alone, 
though  I  do  know  she  ought  to  be  somehow 
different.  And,  ma  fol,  if  it  is  not  the  true 
grand  style,  I  am  not  too  sure  that  it  may  not 
be  something  finer.  I  will  leave  that  made- 
moiselle alone,  and  take  my  money  for  teach- 
ing her  nothing.  The  papa  of  such  a  pet  ought 
to  pay  me  double  fees  for  not  trying  to  spoil 
her." 

When  Madame  Bourbonnade's  delicious  ani- 
mal had  made  a  circuit  up  to  Angelica  Con- 
stantine, it  turned  its  face  entreatingly  upward 
to  the  mistress,  and,  purring  in  its  peculiar 
fashion,  remarked,  "  It  is  so  good  of  you  to  let 
us  off  so  easily." 


"And  you  would  not  tell  them  as  much  as 
they  wanted  to  know?"  inquired  Angelica. 

Laughing  pitifully,  out  of  pure  compassion 
for  the  distress  into  which  she  had  been  driven, 
^Lottie  answered  pathetically, 

"Dear  Miss  Constantine,  I  told  them  every 

thing  I  had  to  tell,  but  they  wouldn't  '  let  it  be.' 

!  And  what  more  could  I  say  on  the  spur  of  the 

!  moment — I  who  all  my  life  through  have  never 

had  a  single  thought  about  marrying?" 

"  Take  my  advice,  Lottie,  and  don't  think 
about  it  yet  awhile." 

"  Oh,  dearest "  (the  wheedling  puss  was  the 
only  girl  at  145  Hanover  Square  who  could 
have  addressed  Angelica  as  "dearest  "  without 
adding  "Miss  Constantine"),  "I  don't  mean 
to  think  about  it.  Nothing  would  be  more 
terrifying  or  cruel  to  me  than  to  be  told  that  I 
must  marry  at  once.  I  am  going  home  now ; 
and  I  want  to  live  with  mamma  always,  and 
love  her.  Indeed,  indeed,  I  could  not  bear  to 
be  separated  from  her  again  so  long  as  a  whole 
half-year.  She  is  such  a  very  love." 

And  then,  what  with  filial  excitement  at  a 
vivid  recognition  of  her  mother's  lovableness, 
and  what  with  delight  at  the  thought  of  her 
speedy  return  to  the  home  where  she  would  be 
privileged  to  love  and  caress  her  mother  inces- 
santly, and  what  with  compassionate  tenderness 
for  the  woman  near  her,  who  had  no  child  of 
her  own  to  cosset,  the  girl  was  so  overcome  by 
her  emotions  that  she  threw  her  arms  round 
Miss  Constantine's  neck,  and,  kissing  her  vehe- 
mently, ejaculated, 

"  Oh,  I  do  so  love  her — I  do  so  love  her; 
but  indeed  I  have  room  in  my  heart  for  you 
too!" 

"  To  be  sure  you  have,  Lottie,"  responded 
Angelica,  returning  the  girl's  kisses,  "and  for 
several  besides  me  and  your  mamma.  You 
have  the  faculty  of  loving,  and  one  day  you  will 
see  .that  you  are  more  fortunate  in  having  that 
power  than  in  having  all  the  other  blessings 
God  has  given  you." 

"I  know  it,"  Lottie  replied, raising  her  wet 
blue  eyes  up  toward  Angelica's  thoughtful  face. 
"There  is  more  happiness  in  loving  than  in 
being  loved." 

"On  that  question,  my  pet,"  returned  Miss 
Constantine,  stroking  the  creature's  silken 
brown  hair,  "you  can  speak  from  experience 
of  both  delights,  for,  while  you  love  every  one, 
every  one  loves  you." 

"Do  you  think  it  will  always  be  so?"  Lot- 
tie inquired,  curiously,  and  with  a  beseeching 
tone  which  seemed  to  imply  that,  by  answering 
her  in  the  affirmative,  Miss  Constantine  could 
strengthen  her  hold  on  the  world's  affection. 

"I  hope  it  will  never  be  otherwise." 

"Then  you  are  not  sure?" 

"Yes,  Lottie,  it  will  always  be  so,  if  your  fac- 
ulty of  loving  does  not  diminish,  and  if — if — " 

"If  what?" 

"  If  you  don't  require  too  much  of  others,  and 
never  resent  the  discovery  should  you  find  that 
the  objects  of  your  affection  care  something  less 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


19 


than  you  care  for  them.  To  flourish  in  per- 
fect contentment,  love  must  be  lavish  in  giving, 
and  slow  to  think  itself  slighted.  It  must  be  a 
liberal  paymaster,  and  very  moderate  in  its  ex- 
actions." 

"  My  danger  is  that  I  may  be  jealous  ?" 

"It  is  the  danger  of  all  loving  natures  ;  but 
you'll  avoid  it,  and  other  griefs  also,  if  you  hold 
firmly  to  your  doctrine  that  there  is  more  joy 
in  loving  than  in  being  loved.  But  enough  of 
this,  beauty,  for  the  present.  The  '  grand  tea ' 
will  be  ready  in  a  few  minutes,  and  you  may  not 
come  to  it  with  red  eyes." 

"To  be  sure,"  laughed  Lottie.  "I  have 
been  crying  with  happiness,  and  made  myself 
a  fright.  How  naughty  I  am  to  wear  an  ugly 
face  because  you  are  more  than  usually  good 
to  me." 

At  which  speech  Miss  Constantine  smiled. 

"Yes,  Lottie,  yours  is  an  ugly  face.  But  in 
spite  of  its  ugliness,  I  should  like  to  have  it  al- 
ways near  me ;  and  after  the  holidays  I  shall 
miss  it." 

"Thank  you,  Miss  Constantine,"  exclaimed 
Lottie,  blushing  from  her  pink  lips  to  the  tops 
of  her  tiny  ears  ;  "  but  I  was  not  spelling  for  a 
compliment." 

"Had  you  spelled  for  it,  puss,  you  would  have 
had  a  sharp  speech  instead  of  a  sweet  one,"  An- 
gelica answered,  as  she  hastened  from  the  room. 

Three  minutes  later,  when  Lottie  Darling 
took  her  place  with  a  joyous  face  at  the  longest 
tea-table  in  Brighton,  no  redness  was  observa- 
ble in  the  soft  skin  of  her  eyelids. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE     GREAT    YARD. 

As  the  time  drew  near  for  the  arrival  in 
London  of  the  lO'lO  A.M.  train  from  Brighton, 
on  the  day  following  the  incidents  narrated  in 
the  last  chapter,  there  was  an  unusuaj  commo- 
tion on  and  near  the  platform  of  the  "  Brighton 
side"  of  the  London  Bridge  station.  Carriage 
after  carriage  rolled  up  to  the  platform,  and 
deposited  on  the  platform  a  happily  agitated 
mamma,  or  proud  father,  or  an  elder  sister, 
who  had  driven  to  "  the  City"  from  "  the  West 
End  "  to  meet  one  or  more  of  Miss  Constantine's 
girls.  There  was  Lord  Boxhill's  grand  coach, 
with  its  gorgeous  hammer-cloth,  and  florid  pan- 
els, and  white-wigged  coachman,  and  superbly 
stepping  bay  horses,  whose  black  legs  sprang 
from  the  smooth  surface  of  the  carriage-way  in 
bounding  curves,  as  though  they  were  pieces  of 
India-rubber  machinery.  There  were  elegant 
barouches,  containing  ladies  in  summerly  silks 
and  gossamer  bonnets,  and  sly  broughams,  from 
which  stepped  elderly  gentlemen,  who  had  come 
to  the  terminus  between  breakfast  and  business, 
just  to  have  a  peep  at  the  girls,  before  going 
off  to  prosaic  duties  in  legal  chambers,  or  dingy 
offices,  within  a  stone's  -  throw  of  Lombard 
Street.  Keen -eyed,  hard-featured  Zedekiah 


Bromwich,  who  was  not  credited  with  an  excess 
of  the  finer  sensibilities  by  his  business  acquaint- 
ances, had  found  heart  and  time  to  visit  the 
station,  so  that  he  might  kiss  an  apple-cheeked 
little  girl,  of  whom  he  was  fondly  proud,  and  to 
whom  he  was  giving  the  best  education,  as  he 
expressed  it,  that  "money  could  buy."  And 
Ned  Constantine, of  Oriel  College,  Oxford  (Dean 
Constantine  of  this  present  date),  true  to  an  ap- 
pointment with  his  sister,  came  to  the  ground 
in  a  job-master's  fly. 

The  number  of  the  private  carriages  drawn 
up  in  line,  and  the  number  of  the  gentlemen 
and  ladies  promenading  on  the  boards,  curious- 
ly glancing  at  one  another,  as  strangers  brought 
together  in  public  by  a  common  interest  are 
wont  to  study  one  another  furtively,  were  too 
notable  to  escape  the  attention  of  loungers  who 
had  no  relations  at  Brighton  girls'  schools.  The 
stir  was  so  remarkable  that  even  Cyril  Wyld- 
hurst—  who  had  missed  the  express  train  for 
Folkstone  and  the  Continent  by  exactly  thirty- 
seven  seconds — condescended  to  ask  a  superior 
station  porter  what  had  caused  the  gathering. 
Sleekest-whiskered  and  most  lackadaisical  of 
men-about-town,  Cyril  seldom  deigned  to  no- 
tice any  thing ;  and  he  felt  a  secret  shame  at 
the  weakness  which  caused  him  to  inquire, 
"What's  up?"  On  learning  that  the  next 
train  from  Brighton  was  an  unusually  "heavy 
one,"  and  comprised  two  saloon-carriages  of 
young  ladies,  going  home  from  school  for  "  their 
'ollidies,"  the  unemotional  gentleman  could 
scarcely  find  power  to  say,  superciliously,  "  That 
all?"  But  as  his  misadventure  in  being  too 
late  for  the  Folkestone  Express  required  him 
to  while  away  a  tedious  hour  or  two  at  the 
terminus,  Cyril  decided  that  he  would  not  re- 
turn to  the  Folkestone  platform  until  he  had 
seen  "  what  the  girls  were  like."  Miss  Constan- 
tine would  have  been  gratified  had  she  known 
that,  on  seeing  her  girls  a  few  minutes  later, 
Mr.  Wyldhurst  faintly  admitted  to  himself  that 
they  were  "a  rather  showy  lot." 

The  "showy  lot"  did  not  disperse  without 
much  kissing.  It  was  incumbent  on  them  to 
kiss  repeatedly  their  respective  papas  and  mam- 
mas and  elder  sisters,  amidst  the  distractions  of 
fear  and  triumph  with  which  they  looked  here 
and  there  for  missing  luggage,  and  eventually 
found  it  under  their  very  noses.  The  number 
of  "last  kisses  "which  the  young  people*  ex- 
changed with  one  another,  and  with  their  "dear- 
est, dearest  Miss  Constantine,"  was  prodigious. 
But  the  music  and  hubbub  of  the  meeting  and 
going  away  ended  too  soon  for  the  satisfaction 
of  Mr.  Cyril  Wyldhurst,  who  found  the  station 
strangely  desolate  and  depressingly  ugly,  when 
Angelica  Constantine,  after  restoring  some  of 
her  charges  to  their  natural  guardians,  and 
sending  off  others,  under  the  escort  .of  gov- 
ernesses, to  catch  trains  at  other  stations,  went 
away  in  a  fly  with  her  clerical  brother  of  the 
half-blood  and  whole  heart. 

With  Miss  Spider  for  their  chaperon,  Lottie 
Darling  and  two  of  her  school-fellows,  Clara 


20 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


Mitcham  and  Eva  Douglas,  drove  in  one  of  the 
railway  company's  cabs  to  the  Euston  Square 
Station,  where  Miss  Spider  bade  the  young 
people  "adieu,"  after  seeing  them  packed  safe- 
ly into  a  first-class  carriage,  and  giving  half 
a  crown  to  the  guard,  in  consideration  of  his 
promise  to  see  that  no  harm  preventable  by  the 
most  vigilant  discharge  of  his  duties  should  be- 
fall the  young  ladies.  At  Slingsby  Junction, 
the  half-way  station  between  London  and  Ham- 
merhampton,  it  had  been  arranged  that  Clara 
and  Eva  should  be  met  by  their  jocose  Uncle 
Peter,  who  would  carry  them  off  for  a  hundred 
miles  or  more  in  a  north-eastern  direction,  while 
Lottie  Darling,  under  the  eye  of  another  vigi- 
lant guard,  to  whom  Sir  James  Darling,  Q.C., 
the  Hammerhampton  County  Court  Judge,  had 
spoken  on  the  subject  of  the  young  lady's  jour- 
ney, would  run  down  in  little  more  than  an  hour 
to  Owleybury,  whence  she  would  drive  to  Ar- 
leigh  Manor,  Sir  James's  house,  in  that  most 
picturesque  slip  of  Boringdonshire  that  runs 
into  Flocktonshire  and  Miningshire. 

During  her  passage  from  Slingsby  Junction 
to  Hammerhampton,  Lottie  Darling  had  a  first- 
class  carriage  all  to  herself.  But  the  solitari- 
ness neither  alarmed  nor  irked  her.  She  knew 
nothing  of  the  inconveniences  to  which  an  un- 
attended girl  may  be  subjected  by  the  intrusive- 
ness  of  a  single  traveling  snob  or  vagrant  ruf- 
fian. On  finding  herself  alone,  therefore,  she 
had  no  fear  lest  that  bugbear  of  timid  damsels 
traveling  "  without  an  escort,"  "an  impudent, 
staring  man,"  should  appear  at  the  next  rest- 
ing-station,  and  seat  himself  by  her  side.  And 
when  alone,  Lottie  seldom  wearied  of  her  own 
company.  Indeed,  though  all  England  con- 
tained no  less  self-sufficient  maiden,  she  was, 
in  the  most  agreeable  sense  of  the  term,  on  ex- 
cellent terms  with  herself.  Her  mind  could  al- 
ways yield  itself  congenial  diversion.  It's  only 
your  empty-headed  woman  who  can  not  get 
through  the  hours  of  a  railway  journey  with- 
out chattering  to  her  casual  fellow-travelers, 
if  she  has  any  at  hand  to  pester  with  the  small- 
est talk,  or  without  the  feeble  aid  of  a  silly  nov- 
el, if  she  is  doomed  to  a  brief  period  of  solitary 
confinement.  And  Lottie's  head,  though  it  may 
not  have  been  the  largest  ever  put  on  a  girl's 
shoulders,  certainly  was  not  empty. 

Not  that  she  was  an  unusually  clever  girl,  or 
quick  at  learning.  Though  Miss  Constantine 
had  never  educated  a  more  consistently  indus- 
trious pupil,  Lottie  had  never  in  her  whole 
scholastic  career  gained  a  first  prize  in  any  sin- 
gle department  of  book  study.  She  had  carried 
off  second  prizes  in  French,  and  German,  and 
History,  and  Arithmetic ;  but,  in  every  branch 
of  study  in  which  she  had  competed  for  hon- 
ors, she  had  been  fairly  beaten  and  consider- 
ably surpassed  by  "  the  winner  of  the  first  cup." 
Her  stock  of  knowledge  was  not  contemptible. 
Besides  knowing  all  the  things  which  even  a 
fool  would  not  like  his  wife  to  be  ignorant  of, 
she  had  much  soundly  acquired  information 
respecting  matters  which  the  Mental  Stimulus 


Association  declares,  rightly  or  wrongly,  to  be 
outside  the  range  of  an  average  school-girl's 
acquirements.  But  she  was  no  prodigy  of 
learning  or  intellectual  smartness.  She  was, 
however,  rich  in  mental  endowments  and  qual- 
ities which  no  amount  of  scholastic  cramming 
can  force  into,  and  no  art  of  examiners  can 
bring  out  of,  inferior  girls.  Her  perceptions 
were  delicately  fine,  her  tact  was  perfect ;  and 
what  she  lacked  in  sheer  force  of  brain  was 
made  up  to  her  in  sensitiveness  and  discretion. 
Without  knowing  it,  she  was  a  nice  discerner 
of  character,  and  a  mistress  of  the  art  of  pleas- 
ing. It  was  rare  for  her  to  cause  unintended 
pain  by  touching  a  companion's  weak  or  sore 
points ;  but  when  she  had  the  mischance  to 
say  the  thing  that  should  have  been  left  un- 
said, or  by  an  inadvertent  look  to  occasion  a 
momentary  distress,  she  saw  her  error  instant- 
ly, and  knew  instinctively  whether  it  would  be 
best  for  her  to  retreat  at  once  from  the  difficul- 
ty, or  cover  her  mistake  with  soothing  and  pal- 
liating words.  She  enjoyed  to  sit  on  the  out- 
skirts of  conversation,  and  in  silence  to  watch 
the  faces,  while  she  studied  the  thoughts  of  the 
speakers.  In  like  manner,  in  moments  of  sol- 
itariness, she  liked  to  watch  her  own  mind,  and 
study  her  own  thoughts. 

And  pleasant  thoughts  rose  from  her  mind 
like  violets  from  a  sunny  bank  in  spring-tide. 
She  was  no  longer  a  school-girl,  but  a  young 
lady  on  the  point  of  coming  out,  if  not  quite 
"  come  out "  at  present.  She  wondered  how 
she  should  like  the  conditions  of  the  new  life 
before  her.  At  home,  on  evenings  of  enter- 
tainment, she  would  no  longer  enter  the  va- 
cant drawing-room  by  herself,  and  wait  for  the 
appearance  of  the  ladies,  on  their  retreat  from 
the  dining-room,  but  would  have  a  place  at  the 
banquet  of  state,  and  be  one  of  the  ladies.  She 
would  be  taken  in  to  dinner  by  gentlemen,  with 
whom  she  would  be  expected  to  converse  with 
all  the  self-possession  of  which  she  should  be 
capable.  It  would  devolve  upon  her  to  sing 
and  play  at  the  piano-forte,  and  exert  herself  to 
make  her  mamma's  parties  "go  off"  brilliant- 
ly. She  would  always  accompany  her  father 
and  mother  to  evening  parties,  sometimes  go 
with  them  to  grand  dinners.  She  speculated 
as  to  what  kind  of  persons  she  should  encount- 
er at  her  visits  of  ceremony.  She  should  be 
stupendously  rich,  and  the  management  of  her 
vast  income  would  require  her  conscientious 
attention ;  for  had  not  her  mamma  told  her 
that,  on  leaving  school,  she  would  have  for  her 
personal  expenditure  fifty  pounds  a  year?  She 
wanted  information  on  half  a  hundred  points 
respecting  the  neighborhood  in  which  her  fa- 
ther had  settled  on  being  appointed  the  County 
Court  Judge  of  Hammerhampton,  and  about 
Arleigh  Manor,  the  place  which  he  had  taken 
only  nine  months  since,  and  she  had  seen  only 
in  the  winter  season,  when  the  garden  was  at 
its  worst,  and  the  trees  of  the  park-like  grounds 
had  been  leafless,  and  the  river  Luce,  which 
whirled  and  eddied  round  the  promontory  of 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


21 


the  lower  lawn,  had  looked  so  cold  that  she 
had  shivered  at  the  sound  of  its  rattling  and 
swollen  waters.  Seen  under  these  disadvanta- 
geous circumstances,  the  place  had  greatly  de- 
lighted the  girl,  whose  home  had  heretofore 
been  a  house  of  Upper  Bedford  Place,  Russell 
Square,  in  the  fog  and  smuts  of  Mesopotamia. 
But  of  course  Arleigh  was  far  brighter  and 
more  lovely,  now  that  the  garden  had  been  re- 
stored, and  the  large  conservatory  filled  with 
choice  plants,  and  the  birds  were  singing  blithe- 
ly in  the  murmurous  trees,  and  the  trout  were 
leaping  and  plashing  in  the  Luce.  How,  too, 
about  the  new  carriage?  should  she  like  it? 
and  the  bedroom  (looking  toward  Minehead, 
and  the  blue  range  of  the  Flocktonshire  Hills), 
which  had  been  fitted  up  expressly  for  her  ? 
As  to  its  prettiness  and  tastefulness  there  could 
be  no  question,  for  Lottie's  mamma  had  herself 
chosen  the  paper,  hangings,  and  furniture,  and 
directed  every  effort  for  its  decoration.  And 
what  could  that  new  "feature  of  the  stable  ar- 
rangements "  be  to  which  her  mamma  had  al- 
luded so  mysteriously  in  her  last  letter  as  "a 
change  that  would  occasion  surprise  "  to  Lot- 
tie ?  A  very  unsophisticated  girl,  with  all 
these  and  a  score  other  equally  important  mat- 
ters to  think  about,  might  well  find  the  time 
pass  quickly  as  the  train,  now  pausing  in  its 
course  at  petty  stations,  now  grinding  away, 
through  darksome  tunnels,  and  now  darting 
out  from  the  blackness,  and  speeding  over  rich 
plains  of  sunny  grass-land,  bore  her  onward  from 
Slingsby  Junction  to  the  largest  and  blackest 
of  our  several  "  black  countries." 

To  some  readers  it  may  seem  an  imperti- 
nence to  tell  them  that  the  traveler  by  railway 
from  Slingsby  Junction,  via  Hammerhampton, 
to  Owleybury,  passes  straight  through  the  body 
and  heart  of  the  "  Great  Yard." 

Some  twelve  miles  in  length,  by  four  miles 
in  breadth,  the  Great  Yard  covers  a  considera- 
ble portion  of  the  central  division  of  Boring- 
donshire.  It  comprises  towns  larger  than  some 
Continental  capitals,  and  villages  where  poor 
men  may  grow  to  be  millionaires  in  a  quarter 
of  a  century.  Hammerhampton  and  Lacker- 
edge  are,  of  course,  the  principal  seats  of  the 
Yard's  industry ;  but  Grimeswick,  Blastrock, 
Puddlebank,  Ironstone,  Smithwick,  Pitsfield, 
and  Shaftesborough  lie  within  the  boundaries 
of  the  smoky  region.  The  smallest  of  these 
towns  shelters  a  population  twice  as  numerous 
as  one  of  those  west-country  villages  to  which 
Mr.  John  Bright — speaking,  of  course,  from  the 
electoral  point  of  view  —  used  to  allude  deri- 
sively in  the  House  of  Commons.  And  they 
are  all  connected  with  one  another  by  a  compli- 
cated system  of  interlacing  railways,  by  which 
the  capitalists,  and  projectors,  and  middlemen 
of  the  district  are  incessantly  running  to  and 
fro  between  the  marts  where  they  win  or  lose 
their  thousands  per  day  with  all  the  fierce  ex- 
citement and  outward  coolness  which  gamblers 
of  another  kind  used  to  feel  and  exhibit  at  the 
green  tables  of  Homburg  and  Baden-Baden. 


By  daylight  this  staggering  and  appalling 
country  is  resonant  with  the  mighty  blows  of 
steam-hammers,  the  ringing  taps  of  hand-ham- 
mers, the  roar  of  gasping  furnaces,  the  clatter- 
ing of  metallic  plates,  and  the  cries  of  innumer- 
able workers.  By  night  the  fierce  light  which 
issues  from  the  rumbling,  panting  mouths  of 
the  undying  furnaces,  and  the  tall  necks  of 
countless  shafts,  gives  a  tinge  of  redness  to 
midnight's  deepest  blackness,  and  so  illumines 
the  dimly  visible  landscape  that  the  stranger, 
journeying  through  the  wide  forest  of  flame- 
capped  turrets,  may  readily  imagine  that  the 
nether  fires  are  working  upward  from  the  bow- 
els of  the  earth,  and  that  he  may  at  any  mo- 
ment drop  through  the  thin  crust  of  soil  which 
covers  the  immeasurable  lake  of  glowing  lava. 
Thus  it  is  when  trade  is  brisk,  and  the  Great 
Yard  is  at  full  work.  But  the  case  is  somewhat 
different  when  the  demand  for  iron  slackens ; 
and  very  different  when  the  "  hands,"  that  can 
strike  so  vigorously  and  deftly  for  payment 
with  their  thousands  of  ringing  hammers,  strike 
for  payment  in  another  way,  and,  dropping 
their  tools,  pass  suddenly  from  action  to  list- 
lessness,  from  strenuous  labor  to  sullen,  angry 
idleness.  Then,  by  day  as  well  as  by  night, 
the  vast  workshops  of  the  Great  Yard  are  si- 
lent and  desolate ;  and  in  the  hours  of  dark- 
ness the  majority  of  the  furnaces  emit  a  fainter 
light,  or  die  out  altogether,  so  that  impenetra- 
ble blackness  would  clothe  the  land,  were  it  not 
for  the  unquenchable  fires  of  a  few  towers  that, 
set  like  beacons  at  wide  intervals,  exhibit  im- 
perfectly the  gloom  and  desolateness  of  the  dis- 
mal region. 

A  century  since — ay,  fifty  years  since — the 
ground  covered  by  the  Great  Yard  was  one  of 
the  fairest  and  loveliest  tracts  of  Boringdon- 
shire.  But  the  industrial  enterprise  of  the 
nineteenth  century  has  made  ghastly  havoc  of 
its  beauties.  Man's  hand  has  put  unsightly 
marks  upon  it.  It  is  as  though  a  chimney- 
sweep, covered  with  soot,  and  brutalized  with 
drink,  should  stagger  up  to  a  delicate  Venus, 
freshly  sculptured  out  of  whitest  marble,  and 
strike  its  pure,  smiling  cheek  with  his  grimy 
paw.  It  is  as  though,  having  put  the  imprint 
of  his  unclean  hand  on  her  beauty,  he  should 
repeat  the  blow  again  and  again,  till  all  the  art- 
ist's finest  skill,  and  all  the  work's  most  subtle 
graces,  should  be  barbarously  put  out  of  sight, 
though  not  irrevocably  obliterated.  It  is  as 
though  the  tipsy  ruffian,  having  thus  maltreat- 
ed the  thing  of  beauty,  should  leap  upon  it, 
throw  his  arms  round  its  neck,  rub  his  abom- 
inable lips  over  its  visage,  and  clothe  it  with 
uncleanness  from  head  to  foot  by  his  defiling 
embraces.  But  just  as  the  statue,  thus  assail- 
ed and  dishonored,  would  retain  signs  of  what 
it  had  been  ere  the  blackening  villain  touched 
it,  and  what  it  would  be  again  on  being  re- 
lieved of  the  pollution  imposed  upon  it,  so  the 
Great  Yard  still  exhibits  indications  of  its  for- 
mer picturesqueness,  and  has  certain  indestruc- 
tible attractions  that  even  man's  industry  can 


22 


LOTTIE  CABLING. 


not  utterly  destroy.  Human  labor  has  turned  its 
silvery  streamlets  into  black  ditcbes.  Human 
labor  has  scarred  its  surfaces  with  the  very 
spade  whioh  heretofore  had  only  been  used 
to  enhance  its  loveliness.  Human  labor  has 
scorched  it  with  blackening  fire,  swept  away 
the  foliage  of  its  dells,  converted  its  glades  into 
dusty  kennels,  and  transformed  its  choicest 
nooks  into  corners  for  rubbish.  Human  labor 
has  broken  its  undulating  outlines  with  chim- 
neys of  the  ugliest  structure,  disfigured  its  slopes 
with  "works"  that  are  rivals  in  outward  re- 
pulsiveness,  and  littered  its  once  pastoral  plains 
with  straggling  streets  of  graceless  dwellings. 
Yet,  further,  human  labor  has  covered  the  whole 
district  with  a  poisonous  atmosphere  that  kills 
outright  all  delicate  vegetation,  and  forbids  the 
forest-tree  to  enlarge  its  growth,  or  assume  the 
various  hues  which  nature  designed  it  to  exhib- 
it for  man's  gladness  and  spiritual  benefit.  All 
this,  to  say  nothing  of  other  cruel  things,  has 
the  industry  of  these  iron  times  done  for  the 
scenery  of  the  Great  Yard.  But  the  natural 
conformation  of  the  country  remains  to  declare 
how  picturesque  the  land  once  was,  and  how 
fair  it  might  be  again.  The  boldly  harmonious 
undulations  of  the  soil  are  nature's  own  monu- 
ment of  her  former  beauty.  They  are  also  na- 
ture's promise  that,  when  Mr.  Jevons  shall  have 
been  justified  by  the  failure  of  our  coal-beds, 
and  our  beneficent  manufactures  shall  have  per- 
ished, the  survivors  of  our  national  prosperity, 
and  the  spectators  of  our  national  decay,  will 
find  the  Great  Yard  a  far  more  agreeable  scene 
for  a  summer's  holiday  than  it  is  at  present. 
It  is  something  for  worshipers  of  the  beautiful 
to  know  that  when  Hammerhampton  shall  lose 
her  capitalists,  and  her  hammerers  shall  have 
gone  to  America,  the  Great  Yard  will  be  as 
picturesque  as  ever  it  was.  Lackeredge  may 
swarm  with  beggars,  like  Bruges,  or  another 
city  of  departed  opulence,  but  its  householders 
will  again  be  able  to  boast  of  their  "  delightful 
neighborhood !" 

Dust  and  dirt  are  not  less  conspicuous  con- 
ditions of  life  in  the  Great  Yard  than  noise  and 
fire.  One  expects  to  encounter  dirt  in  shops 
where  nothing  but  unclean  work  is  done ;.  and 
the  student  of  human  ways  must  make  up  his 
mind  to  endure  dust  when  he  enters  iron  foun- 
dries and  descends  coal-mines.  But  the  tour- 
ist of  the  Hammerhampton  country  is  likely 
to  think  that  its  rate-payers  should  water  their 
straggling  thoroughfares  in  dry,  windy  March 
and  scorching  June.  The  rate-payers  think 
otherwise.  Familiarity  with  black  dust  ren- 
ders them  insensible  to  its  unpleasantness. 
They  live  in  the  dust,  breathe  it  with  every 
breath,  eat  it  at  every  meal,  see  it  on  every  ob- 
ject, and  positively  enjoy  it.  The  water-cart 
is  a  thing  unknown  in  their  streets.  When  the 
young  iron-master,  pushing  and  forcing  onward 
to  wealth  made  out  of  "works"  and  "pits," 
spins  about  the  Great  Yard,  from  foundry  to 
pit-head,  in  a  light  trap  at  the  heels  of  a  thor- 
oughbred trotter,  his  wheels  raise  clouds  of 


black  dust,  to  the  vivid  pleasure  of  children, 
who  "  hooray  "  after  the  disappearing  eart.  In 
dry  weather  these  same  children  delight  to  turn 
head  over  heels  on  huge  dust-heaps.  In  wet 
weather  they  show  themselves  clever  at  making 
dirt-pies.  Fresh  light  paint  is  seldom  seen  in 
the  grimy  regions  ;  for  the  man  would  be  ridi- 
culed as  a  madman  who  should  coat  his  doors 
and  window-frames  with  delicate  colors  that 
would  be  covered  with  dust  ere  they  had  time 
to  dry.  For  the  same  reason  one  never  sees, 
even  in  the  brightest  seasons  of  the  year,  a 
woman  of  the  Great  Yard  wearing  a  garment 
of  any  perishable  hue.  Ladies  of  any  kind  are 
seldom  visible  in  the  public  ways  of  the  grimy 
region,  though  some  of  the  managers  of  "  works  " 
are,  in  every  sense  of  the  word,  gentlemen,  and 
have  gentle  wives,  who  endure  the  dust  smiling- 
ly, while  they  look  forward  to  a  "good  time 
coming,"  when  they  will  be  rich  enough  to  re- 
move from  their  official  residences  in  The  Yard 
to  bright  villas  in  The  Yard's  outskirts.  But 
these  gentlewomen  lead  stay-at-home  lives ; 
and  when,  for  urgent  reasons,  they  brave  the 
omnipresent  dust  of  the  thoroughfares,  they 
exhibit  themselves  in  no  colors  but  black  and 
brown  and  the  darkest  greens.  The  children 
have  no  pretty  white  frocks,  or  white  satin  hats, 
trimmed  with  white  plumes.  As  for  the  vulgar 
little  children,  who  play  "leap-frog"  and  "tnm- 
ble-over  "  in  the  public  dust  bins  and  rubbish  cor- 
ners, their  outward  garments  are  indescribable, 
and  their  under-clothing  distressingly  "coaly." 

These  coaly  youngsters  abound  in  every  cor- 
ner of  The  Yard  where  no  work  is  being  done. 
Dogs  also  are  abundant  in  the  district.  And 
the  common  folk  of  the  land  are  accustomed 
to  speak  in  a  very  high  pitch  of  voice — a  habit 
acquired  from  the  exigencies  of  their  hammering 
work,  which  requires  them  to  be  constantly  over- 
bawling  a  deafening  uproar  of  harsh  sounds, 
rhese  loud  speakers  are  sometimes  rough  dia- 
monds— they  are  always  rough.  Your  true  ham- 
merer of  the  Great  Yard  knows  nothing  of 
"light"  or  "sweetness,"  but  he  has  his  good 
qualities.  He  is  heroically  improvident ;  he  is 
roughly  dutiful  to  his  wife,  and  considerate  for 
his  bull-dog,  preferring  the  dog  to  his  wife,  and 
both  to  himself.  In  bad  times,  when  labor 
is  having  one  of  its  disastrous  conflicts  with 
capital,  he  starves  himself  first,  and  then  he 
starves  his  wife  ;  but  times  must  be  much  worse 
than  "bad"  before  he  will  offend  his  finer  na- 
ture by  putting  his  dog  on  half-rations. 

On  her  way  from  the  outskirts  to  the  heart 
of  this  marvelous  district,  Lottie  Darling  made 
good  use  of  her  eyes,  and  while  the  train  staid 
at  a  siding,  some  three  hundred  yards  before 
the  entrance  of  the  Hammerhampton  station, 
for  an  inspection  of  passengers'  tickets,  she  saw, 
for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  a  huge  mass  of 
whitely  glowing  iron,  taken  from  the  furnace 
by  puddlers,  lifted  to  an  anvil,  beaten  into  a 
rectangular  block  by  the  steam-hammer,  and 
then  passed  through  the  presses,  until  it  came 
out  of  the  last  press  in  long  serpentine  red  rib- 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


bons  of  tabbing-iron.  She  saw  the  whole  proc- 
ess from  the  window  of  her  carriage.  It  was 
wonderful — beautiful,  as  an  illustration  of  hu- 
man ingenuity,  acting  on  one  of  the  heaviest 
and  hardest  of  substances !  She  saw  the  pud- 
dlers,  stripped  to  the  waist,  and  streaming  with 
sweat,  pull  the  glowing  ball  with  iron  pincers 
to  the  anvil,  heard  the  dull,  bumping,  unre- 
verberating  thuds  of  the  steam-hammer,  and 
in  three  minutes  beheld  that  same  fiercely  ru- 
tilant  pile  of  metal  transformed  into  leaping, 
winding,  scorching  serpents,  which  a  file  of 
boys  caught  up  with  their  tongs,  and  passed  on 
rapidly  to  a  corner  of  the  vast  darksome,  ham- 
mer-ringing workshop,  where  they  could  lie  out 
of  the  way,  and  cool  gradually. 

As  she  watched  the  process,  it  occurred  to 
Lottie  that  it  resembled  the  process  by  which 
the  forces  of  the  human  mind  are  purified,  dis- 
ciplined, and  fashioned  by  education  into  ideas, 
arguments,  sentiments.  The  rude  ore  re- 
sembled thought  in  its  lowest  state.  The  pig- 
iron  was  thought  relieved  of  its  grossest  dross. 
The  furnace,  the  hammer,  the  presses,  were  the 
educational  contrivances  which  purified  thought 
yet  further,  gave  it  compactness  and  logical 
texture,  imparted  form  and  fineness  to  it,  and 
eventually  offered  it  to  the  world  in  satire,  sen- 
timent, cogent  illustration,  subtile  persuasions, 
binding  principles.  Had  she  known  that  the 
labor  of  the  agile  urchins,  who  caught  up  the 
twisting,  writhing  snakes  of,  red-hot  iron,  was 
attended  with  considerable  danger  to  them, 
and  that  one  of  those  angry  serpents,  clumsily 
handled  by  a  juvenile  operator,  might  leap 
upon  the  next  boy,  and  pass  clean  through  his 
body,  Lottie  w.ould  have  covered  her  blue  eyes 
with  her  hands,  and  uttered  an  exclamation  of 
alarm.  She  would  have  thought  little  about 
the  resemblances,  and  much  of  the  actual  haz- 
ards of  the  process.  As  it  was,  she  was  so  ab- 
sorbed in  the  delight  of  gazing  and  thinking, 
that  the  ticket-collector,  who  had  arrived  to  in- 
spect her  ticket,  was  compelled  to  call  to  her 
in  a  very  loud  voice,  and  for  a  third  time,  be- 
fore he  could  attract  her  attention.  Having 
shown  her  ticket,  Lottie  looked  in  another  di- 
rection, and  saw  a  blasting  furnace  at  full  work. 

"  It  is  very  terrifying,  and  yet  very  fascina- 
ting!" she  said  to  herself,  as  the  train  glided 
slowly  into  the  Hammerhampton  station,  and 
the  noise  of  the  ringing  hammers  grew  fainter. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE     HAPPY     LAND. 

THE  train  rested  for  a  few  minutes  at  Ham- 
merhampton, and,  in  accordance  with  a  habit 
already  mentioned,  Lottie  Darling  scanned  the 
faces  of  people  assembled  on  the  platform.  The 
gathering  consisted  chiefly  of  business  men, 
who  gossiped  with  one  another  about  iron  and 
coal  and  the  prices  of  labor.  They  had  the  air 
of  merchants  on  'Change,  rather  than  of  travel- 


ers waiting  for  the  signal  that  they  should  take 
their  seats  for  a  railway  journey.  Some  of 
them  paused  in  their  talk  with  acquaintances, 
and  taking  out  pocket-books  made  brief  entries 
on  leaves  of  Memoranda. 

There  was  one  person  who  arrested  Lottie's 
attention  for  a  longer  time  than  any  other  in- 
dividual of  the  little  crowd.  He  was  a  tall, 
stout,  well-built  gentleman,  with  a  notably  large 
aquiline  nose,  bushy  black  eyebrows,  and  white 
hair.  His  dress  indicated  that  he  was  pros- 
perous, and  the  general  effect  of  his  portly  fig- 
ure and  comely  face  was  to  declare  him  on  the 
verge  of  seventy  years  of  age.  He  was  saluted 
by  several  of  the  business-like  men ;  and  it 
seemed  to  Lottie's  observant  eyes  that  two  or 
three  of  those,  to  whom  he  nodded  or  spoke 
briefly  as  he  paced  thrice  up  and  down  before 
the  carriages,  exhibited  great  pleasure  at  his 
slight  attentions.  Clearly  he  was  a  man  of 
mark,  and  knew  it.  He  was  dressed  in  the 
style  of  a  country  gentleman,  with  morning 
coat  of  blue  cloth,  gray  trowsers,  white  waist- 
coat, frilled  shirt  front,  and  a  checked  (laven- 
der and  white)  linen  neck-tie  folded  twice  over 
the  band  of  his  stiffly  starched,  old-fashioned 
shirt  collar.  It  being  a  very  warm  morning, 
this  stout  and  stately  gentleman  was  hot ;  and 
to  cool  himself  he  fanned  his  face  with  a  white 
silk  handkerchief. 

Theodore  Hook  once  surprised  a  gentleman 
of  this  imposing  style  by  stopping  him  in  Fleet 
Street,  ancj.  saying,  politely, 

"  Excuse  me,  sir ;  could  you  oblige  me  by 
telling  me  if  you  are  any  body  particular?" 

Had  Lottie  been  a  saucy  young  man,  instead 
of  a  decorous  young  lady,  she  would  have  put 
the  same  question  to  this  gentleman  of  the 
aquiline  profile,  and  beetling  brows,  and  white 
hair,  whose  dignified  bearing  was  characterized 
by  a  certain  pompousness  which  disposed  her 
to  smile  at  him,  though  on  the  whole  she  ap- 
proved him.  Before  many  minutes  had  pass- 
ed her  curiosity  was  gratified,  and  she  learned 
that  he  was  Mr.  Guerdon  of  Earl's  Court,  Bor- 
ingdonshire,  and  the  principal  banker  of  Ham- 
merhampton. 

At  the  ringing  of  a  loud  bell,  the  men  has- 
tened to  their  seats  ;  and  just  before  the  train 
started,  a  man,  nearing  the  middle  term  of  life, 
sprang  quickly  into  the  carriage  which  Lot- 
tie had  had  all  to  herself  during  the  run  from 
Slingsby.  The  intruder  had  scarcely  seated 
himself,  and  Lottie  had  barely  inferred,  from 
his  rather  flash  costume  and  something  in  his 
hard  countenance,  that  he  was  not  of  her  social 
degree,  when  he  said  quickly  to  a  friend  on  the 
platform,  with  offensive  jocoseness, 

"  Here,  Jemmy,  here's  plenty  of  room  here. 
I  am  alone  with  a  young  lady,  and  want  some 
one  to  take  care  of  me,"  a  speech  that  caused 
Lottie  to  flush  indignantly,  and  then  assume  a 
look  of  total  unconsciousness  to  the  rude  man's 
existence. 

In  justice  to  the  object  of  Lottie's  displeas- 
ure, he  had  not  supposed  she  would  hear  his 


24 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


speech.  In  hammer-and-anvil  ringing  work- 
shops, a  man  must  bawl  loudly  to  make  him- 
self heard  by  persons  in  the  direction  of  his 
voice  ;  and  though  he  may  be  audible  to  those 
in  front  of  him,  not  a  word  of  his  utterances  is 
intelligible  to  persons  in  his  rear.  The  rude 
man's  vocal  style  had  been  formed  at  the  forge, 
and  exhibited  the  distinctive  peculiarities  of 
his  metallic  school. 

Acting  on  his  friend's  suggestion,  Jemmy 
succeeded  in  springing  into  the  carriage  when 
the  train  was  actually  moving  ;  and  he  had  no 
sooner  fallen  awkwardly  into  a  seat,  opposite 
his  acquaintance,  than  he  remarked,  with  con- 
genial levity, 

"All  right,  Charley— all  serene!  No  work 
for  the  undertaker  this  time!" 

Jemmy  and  Charley  were  "  risen  men,"  who 
meant  to  rise  higher — {.  e.,  to  be  ten  times  as 
rich  as  they  were  then,  before  twenty  more 
years  had  passed  over  their  heads.  If  they 
were  snobs,  their  snobbishness  was  innocent 
of  any  desire  to  pass  themselves  off  as  gentle- 
men by  birth.  Their  vanity  took  a  different  di- 
rection, and  impelled  them  to  brag  on  all  con- 
venient occasions  how  they  had  "  made  them- 
selves out  of  nothing."  Charley,  whose  father 
had  for  forty  years  been  an  East  Anglian  squire's 
farm  bailiff  (earning  thirty  shillings  a  week, 
besides  cottage  rent  and  perquisites),  liked  it 
to  be  believed  that  he  was  a  "  Suffolk  plow- 
man's son."  Jemmy,  whose  sire  had  kept  a  de- 
cent tripe  shop  in  Liverpool,  and  who  had  made 
his  first  speculation  in  the  Great  Yard  with  £50 
provided  by  the  worthy  victualer,  always  insist- 
ed that  his  success  in  life  originated  in  a  sin- 
gle half-crown  which  he  had  brought  with  him 
to  Lackeredge  from  a  cellar  in  Bermondsey. 
Men  of  the  same  age — young  men  on  the 
border  of  middle  age  —  Charley  and  Jemmy 
had  been  "  chums  "  for  fifteen  years — from  the 
time  when  they  worked  at  the  same  furnace 
with  bared  arms  and  naked  shoulders.  They 
had  been  allies  in  their  fustian  days,  and  they 
were  "mates"  still,  employing  the  same  "first- 
class  "  tailor  of  the  High  Street,  Lackeredge,  to 
make  their  showy  and  expensive  coats  of  the 
best  broadcloth.  In  fact,  they  were  close 
friends,  after  the  fashion  of  friendship  general- 
ly prevalent  in  the  Great  Yard.  Jemmy  was 
ready  at  any  moment  to  cheat  Charley  in  the 
way  of  business.  Charley  never  hesitated  to 
tell  Jemmy  any  lie,  permissible  by  the  usages 
of  "  the  trade"  to  "  get  the  pull  over  him"  in  a 
bargain.  But  they  "stuck  to  each  other,"  and 
helped  one  and  other  in  various  ways.  Each 
threw  to  the  other  such  pieces  of  profitable  busi- 
ness as  he  could  not  execute  for  himself.  Each 
spoke  well  of  the  other  behind  his  back.  Had 
Charley  fallen  into  pecuniary  trouble,  Jemmy 
would  have  done  his  best  to  save  his  chum  from 
insolvency,  and  Charley  was  ready  to  do  as 
much  for  Jemmy. 

Speaking  in  tones  which  they  imagined  to  be 
inaudible  to  the  young  lady  in  the  farther  cor- 
ner of  the  carriage,  and  which  perhaps  would 


have  been  inaudible  to  her  had  her  hearing, 
like  theirs,  been  deadened  by  years  of  ham- 
mer-and-anvil discipline,  these  two  friends  con- 
versed together  to  the  following  effect : 

"Pig  up  ?"  said  Jemmy. 

"No  doubt,"  replied  Charley. 

"Asked  for  at  Lackeredge  and  Grimes- 
wick." 

"In  demand  at  Blastrock  and  Puddlebank." 

"Sheets  well  up?" 

"Better  than  well." 

"How  about  bars?" 

"Steady— and  firm." 

"Plates  lively?" 

"They'll  be  more  lively." 

"Sure  of  that — quite  sure?"  inquired  Jem- 
rny,  in  his  hardest  way. 

"  They  must  go  on  rising,"  returned  Charley, 
with  vehemence. 

"Things  look  well." 

"Yes,  orders  coming  in  fast  from  France, 
Russia,  Germany." 

"  The  'hands"'  will  be  after  a  rise." 

"  Don't  talk  about  them  !  It  puts  my  blood 
up!" 

"They  are  a  bad  lot." 

"We  are  falling  more  and  more  into  their 
power,  and  they  know  it.  Worse  luck  for  the 
country." 

"  Confound  the  whole  lot,  I  say  !" 

"There  would  be  an  end,  then,  to  our  trade. 
By-the-bye,  do  you  want  a  lot  of  plates  at  four- 
ten  ?" 

"  Want  them  ?     Not  at  that  price  !" 

"They'll  be  five  in  two  months'  time." 

"You  had  better  keep  them?" 

"My  hands  are  fullish,  and  I  want  the 
money." 

"  How  much  have  you  ?*' 

"  Just  two  hundred  ton — lying  at  Blastrock." 

"  Can't  touch  them  at  four-ten — do  them  at 
four." 

"Nonsense!" 

"Keep  them,  and  sell  two  months  hence." 

"They are  more  in  your  way  than  mine.  I 
don't  do  much  in  plates." 

"  Well,  then,  say  four." 

"You  wouldn't  offer  four  if  you  didn't  know 
where  to  plant  them  at  four-fifteen." 

"Well,  come,  I'll  split  the.  difference — say 
four-five." 

"  Done.     When  ?  and  where  ?" 

"  Grimeswick— next  week." 

"All  right." 

Whereupon  each  of  the  friends  took  out  his 
memoranda-book  and  noted  down  the  particu- 
lars of  the  bargain,  in  which  each  flattered  him- 
self that  he  had  got  the  advantage  of  the  other. 
Having  exchnnged  slips  of  paper,  Jemmy  and 
Charley  dismissed  affairs  of  business,  and  with 
rising  affection  for  one  another  gossiped  on 
subjects  more  intelligible  and  interesting  to 
their  hearer  at  the  other  end  of  the  carriage. 

"  Mr.  Guerdon  is  in  the  train,"  Charley  ob- 
served. 

"  Got  his  white  silk  'ankercher  in  his  hand  ?" 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


Yes  —  he  was   mopping  his  big  nose,  as 


"  They  tell  me  that  his  gout  is  better." 

"He  looks  tidy;  but  he  isn't  the  man  he 
was." 

"  No  ;  but  he's  good  for  a  few  years  more." 

"  I  don't  want  him  dead.  He  has  always 
been  civil  to  me." 

"  He  is  a  civil  banker — ready  to  oblige  ;  but 
still  not  too  complaisant." 

"  His  son  has  come  home  for  good." 

"  What  kind  of  bird  is  he  ?" 

"  Old  Mr.  Guerdon  has  a  high  opinion  of 
him." 

"  Of  course — he  is  old  Mr.  Guerdon's  son. 
John  Guerdon  never  undervalues  any  thing 
that  belongs  to  John  Guerdon,  Esquy-e,  of 
Earl's  Court.  His  cast-iron  door-scraper  is  al- 
ways worth  more  than  his  neighbor's  copper 
coal-scuttle." 

"  A  man  is  none  the  worse,  Jemmy,  for  be- 
ing on  good  terms  with  himself." 

"  I  have  seen  the  young  'un,  and  spoken  with 
him.  A  goodish-looking  fellow — smaller-boned 
and  better-looking  than  his  father,  with  a  lot 
of  dark  hair  about  his  face." 

"  Is  he  a  college-man  ?" 

"  Not  a  regular  college-man — he  has  been 
educated  abroad  —  at  Bonn,  Heidelberg,  and 
other  outlandish  places." 

"  Oh !  they  don't  count  as  colleges  in  En- 
gland. Does  he  know  business  ?" 

"  First  chop — at  least  his  father  says  so.  He 
has  been  in  houses  at  Paris,  Vienna,  Naples." 

"  Whew  !  he  has  had  advantages  !" 

"  The  old  'un,  according  to  his  own  account, 
has  put  a  lot  of  money  on  him." 

"And  now  he  is  going  to  be  taken  into  part- 
nership ?" 

"  Next  year,  or  the  year  after." 

Charley,  after  thirty  seconds'  consideration, 
asked, 

"  Does  he  seem  a  likely  fellow  to  knock  un- 
der to  Scrivener  ?" 

"He  is  pleasant  and  affable  enough;  and 
he  is  young.  As  a  young  man, "observed  Jem- 
my, "he'll,  no  doubt,  be  guided  by  Scrivener. 
But  I  should  say  he's  a  fellow  to  hold  his 
own." 

"  Stands  on  his  pins,  eh,  and  looks  you  in 
the  face  ?" 

"  Quite  so.  Not  a  man  to  ride  the  high 
horse,  and  yet  not  likely  to  mount  the  small 
pony. " 

"  Then  he  and  Gimlett  Scrivener  won't  work 
together.  Scrivener  is  masterful." 

"No  doubt." 

"And  he  has  the  old  man  under  his  thumb." 

"  Scrivener  is  the  better  man  of  the  two." 

"  By  long  chalks ;  and  he  knows  it ;  and  old 
John  Guerdon  knows  it.  In  spite  of  all  his 
grand  airs  and  patronizing  way,  J.  G.  has  his 
master  in  his  own  bank  parlor." 

"  No  doubt.     The  bank  is  Scrivener's." 

"  Gimlett  Scrivener  is  a  smart  man." 

"And  sound." 


"  Every  man  is  sound  until  he  is  found  out. 
My  brown  mare  was  sound,  till  I  found  out  the 
splinter  that  was  growing  when  I  bought  her." 

"Well,  the  bank  is  sound— I'll  trust  that." 

"A  business  man  uses  his  bank — he  never 
ought  to  trust  it." 

"Not  blindly." 

"He  should  use  it,  praise  it,  and  suspect  it," 
Charley  responded,  in  his  hardest  way. 

"Quite  true,"  assented  Jemmy,  admiringly. 

After  a  pause,  Charley  observed, 

"  The  young  'un  ain't  married,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  No,  he  ain't ;  but  when  he  is  settled,  he'll 
no  doubt  be  looking  out  for  a  wife  with  money." 

"  He  can  suit  himself  in  Boringdon shire.  A 
man  can  marry  well  in  these  parts — a  coal-pit 
or  an  iron-works.  Or  if  he  likes  to  run  into 
Wales,  he  may  pick  out  a  slate-quarry." 

"  I  had  liefest  marry  a  girl  with  a  good  coal- 
pit—I  like  coal." 

"  Well,  young  Guerdon  will  find  a  plenty  of 
young  women  ready  to  oblige  him.  I'll  be 
bound  they'll  be  looking  him  up  before  he  be- 
gins to  hunt  after  them." 

Whereupon  the  friends  laughed  ;  and  as  they 
chuckled  over  their  "'cuieness,"  it  seemed  to 
Lottie  that  they  glanced  significantly  at  her. 

The  men  were  odious  savages,  the  girl 
thought  hotly,  as  she  reddened  again,  and  look- 
ed away  from  the  wretches.  She  wished  that 
the  guard,  or  Miss  Spider,  or  some  one  else 
would  come  to  her  protection. 

Charley,  who  sat  opposite  the  young  lady, 
saw  the  displeasure  of  her  face,  and,  winking 
his  eye  to  Jenimy,  said,  "  Don't  speak  too  loud," 
a  remark  which  the  speaker  pointed  by  nodding 
his  head  significantly  at  Lottie's  averted  head. 

From  this  caution — which,  though  it  was  ut- 
tered in  one  of  Charley's  lowest  tones,  reached 
an  ear  for  which  it  was  not  intended — Lottie 
learned  that  the  men  had  not  meant  to  annoy 
her,  and  had  been  speaking  under  the  impres- 
sion that  she  could  not  overhear  them.  The 
discovery  relieved  her,  and  she  relented  toward 
the  "  quite  common  men,"  feeling  that  she  had 
done  them  a  slight  injustice  in  rating  them  as 
"  odious  savages  "  and  "  wretches." 

On  being  thus  called  to  order,  Jemmy  fell 
back  on  business,  remarking, 

"  Things  are  looking  up." 

"They'll  be  better  next  year,  and  better  stiH 
the  year  after." 

"  I  think  we  are  in  for  a  time  of  it." 

"  Next  year  I'll  buy,  buy,  buy  !  Pig,  plates, 
rusty  tubbing-iron,  old  horse-shoes — any  thing! 
Mark  my  words,  before  'the  time '  is  over,  iron 
will  go  up  to  six — ay,  six-ten." 

"And  then  will  come  the  smash  that  will 
break  thousands." 

"That  won't  matter  to  us.  We  don't  mean 
to  be  smashed." 

"It  will  serve  the  fools  right." 

"  Fools  ought  to  be  broken  up." 

"That's  what  the  Almighty  made  them  for.'* 

As  Jemmy  uttered  this  religious  sentiment, 
the  train  pulled  up  at  Lumpstock,  on  the-  west- 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


crn  border  of  the  Great  Yard ;  at  which  station 
the  two  friends  jumped  from  the  carriage,  be- 
fore it  had  fairly  stopped,  and  went  oft'  at  a 
double  quick  march  to  Gander's  Green,  where 
they  were  joint  speculators  in  a  "little  con- 
cern "  that  promised  to  be  an  interesting  feature 
of  the  Yard. 

Lottie  was  glad  to  be  quit  of  them,  but  she 
could  not  deny  that  they  had  unintentionally 
given  her  a  good  deal  of  interesting  informa- 
tion. Trade  was  brisk  in  the  Great  Yard — a 
fact  that  Lottie  Darling  was  very  glad  to  know, 
for  the  sake  of  the  workmen,  their  wives,  and 
poor  little  children.  The  stout  and  stately  gen- 
tleman in  the  train  was  Mr.  Guerdon,  the  Ham- 
merhampton  banker.  He  had  a  son,  young, 
well-looking,  and  unmarried,  who  had  been  ed- 
ucated on  the  Continent,  and  was  already  re- 
garded as  "  highly  eligible  "  by  mammas  with 
daughters  on  their  hands.  Mr.  Guerdon's  part- 
ner, Gimlett  Scrivener,  was  "masterful,"  and 
likely  to  quarrel  with  young  Mr.  Guerdon.  All 
these  pieces  of  intelligence  Miss  Darling  had 
picked  up  from  the  talk  of  the  "  quite  common 
men." 

There  was  still  a  run  of  twelve  miles  to 
Owleybury.  And  now  the  country  became 
fresh,  joyous,  and  vividly  green ;  churches, 
with  sparkling  spires  and  with  pretty  parson- 
ages near  them ;  villages  nestling  in  the  hol- 
lows of  richly  timbered  slopes ;  white  farm- 
houses, with  large  barns  and  other  appropriate 
buildings,  that  wore  a  pleasant  air  of  pastoral 
prosperity  ;  wheat  fields  and  barley  fields,  with 
their  heavy  corn  ears  swaying  to  and  fro  under 
the  gentle  southern  breeze ;  sunny  meadows, 
whose  verdure  was  flecked  with  cloud  shadows, 
and  dotted  with  white  sheep  and  red  cattle ; 
willow-shaded  streamlets  and  quaint  old  wind- 
mills were  among  the  objects  that  gave  her 
successive  delights.  Glancing  downward  from 
the  Farnborough  ridge,  along  whose  lower 
height  the  railway  ran,  she  saw  the  crystal 
waters  of  the  rapidly  meandering  Luce.  Yon- 
der rose  the  Flocktonshire  Hills,  Minehead  and 
the  Sugar-Loaf  rising  above  the  rest ;  and  look ! 
look  !  there  was  Owleybury  Cathedral !  Tears 
of  intense  ecstatic  happiness — the  joy  of  which 
the  aged  and  aging  have  nothing  but  the  mem- 
ory— rose  to  the  girl's  blue  eyes  as  she  thus 
neared  her  destination  in  the  picturesque 
neighborhood,  which  she  had  before  seen  only 
in  a  bleak,  leafless,  gloomy  winter. 

"To  think  that  I  am  to  live  here  always  in 
this  happy  land!"  she  exclaimed  aloud,  in  her 
unwitnessed  excitement.  "  Oh !  the  happi- 
ness is  too  great — the  world  too  charming!" 

Without  any  preliminary  stopping  for  an- 
other inspection  of  tickets,  the  train  glided 
smoothly  into  the  Owleybury  station,  and  in 
another  moment  the  cup  of  Lottie's  felicity 
was  full  and  brimming.  For  the  instant  she 
had  forgotten  every  thing  about  smoky  Ham- 
merhampton,  and  old  Mr.  Guerdon,  and  the 
"  quite  common  men,"  and  the  lovely  land- 
scapes. She  only  knew  that  she  was  once 


again  in  her  own  mamma's  arms,  and  kissing 
her  own  mamma's  eyes  and  cheeks  and  lips. 
She  did  not  know  that  any  one  was  near  her 
but  the  first  supreme  object  of  her  love.  She 
had  no  thought  for  the  proprieties — no  notion 
that  her  impulsive  behavior  was  being  wit- 
nessed by  a  score  or  more  people,  who  were 
thinking  to  themselves,  "  God  bless  the  girl ! 
— how  pretty  she  is! — and  what  a  charming 
little  'scene'  it  makes!"  As  for  Lady  Dar- 
ling, who  knew  that  the  "scene"  had  specta- 
tors, she  cared  not  a  rush  for  what  the  world 
thought.  It  was  enough  for  her  that  she  again 
had  her  girl  of  all  girls  in  hef  arms,  and  was 
going  to  take  the  pet  home  for  '"good"  and 
all,  if  not  forever  and  a  day. 


CHAPTER  V. 

ANOTHER  LOOK  AT  HER. 

ONE  of  the  several  witnesses  of  Lottie  Dar- 
ling's delight  was  Mr.  Albert  Guerdon,  who 
had  ridden  to  Owleybury  station  to  meet  his 
father,  and  spent  five  minutes  before  the  ar- 
rival of  the  train  in  chatting  with  Lady  Dar- 
ling. Albert  had  already  made  the  acquaint- 
ance of  Sir  James  Darling,  and  won  the  favor- 
able opinion  of  Sir  James's  wife,  who  at  fifty- 
five  years  of  age  retained  enough  of  her  early 
beauty  to  account  for  the  general  opinion  that 
in  her  girlhood  she  had  not  been  less  graceful 
and  winning  than  her  daughter,  now  at  the 
opening  of  her  twentieth  year. 

Even  at  the  distance  of  several  yards,  it  was 
apparent  that  time  had  put  white  threads  in 
Lady  Darling's  brown  hair.  Her  face  was  not 
devoid  of  the  lengthening  lines  and  look  of  gen- 
tle sadness  which  the  countenances  of  delicate 
gentlewomen  often  assume  when  the  spirits  and 
perfect  vigor  of  life's  heyday  have  left  them 
forever.  Not  that  she  was  a  despondent  or 
sickly  being.  Her  voice  was  cheerful  and  mu- 
sical. Though  she  was  quickly  fatigued,  her 
step  was  elastic,  and  her  movements,  resem- 
bling her  figure,  were  girlish.  But  she  was 
no  longer  young.  Power  had  departed  from 
her ;  and  the  tender  seriousness  of  her  face  be- 
trayed that  she  secretly  strove  to  reconcile  her- 
self to  its  departure.  Without  rating  herself 
as  an  invalid,  Mary  Darling  knew  that  she  was 
aging  at  a  time  when  more  fortunate  Avomen 
are  at  the  fullness  of  their  strengt  hand  abil- 
ity to  enjoy  this  life.  And  prematurely  aging 
women  may  be  pardoned  for  smiling  pensively, 
if  they  smile  pleasantly  and  often. 

Mr.  Guerdon,  of  Earl's  Court,  was  met  at 
Owleybury  by  his  groom  and  cob,  as  well  as 
by  his  son.  Albert's  appearance  was  a  sur- 
prise to  the  portly  gentleman ;  but  the  banker 
was  prepared  to  see  his  mounted  groom  and 
his  large  broad-backed,  huge-shouldered  bay 
steed — an  animal  almost  too  large  to  be  called 
a  cob,  and  well  able  to  carry  its  customary  bur- 
den of  sixteen  stone.  Having  glanced  approv- 


LOTTIE  DAELING. 


27 


ingly  at  his  favorite  nag,  and  his  servant's  rak- 
ish blood  hack,  John  Guerdon  condescended  to 
notice  his  heir. 

"  Eh !  Alb,  you  here.  So  you  thought  you'd 
come  round  this  way  to  bear  me  company  ? 
Very  glad  to  see  you,"  observed  the  senior, 
taking  the  most  flattering  view  of  his  son's  con- 
duct. 

"Abraham  told  me  you'd  return  by  the  early 
train,"  answered  the  son,  "and  I  flattered  my- 
self, sir,  that  you  would  allow  me  to  accom- 
pany you." 

"Your  animal  is  in  good  condition — devil- 
ish good  trim,"  remarked  the  banker,  as  he  re- 
garded, with  a  horse-loving  eye,  the  nervous 
and  almost  thorough-bred  creature  (black  with 
a  starred  forehead)  which  he  had  bought  at  a 
high  figure  for  his  son's  use,  on  the  eve  of  the 
young  man's  return  from  the  Continent. 

"I  am  proud  of  him,  sir,  and  I  think  he  is 
beginning  to  be  proud  of  me.  We  flatter  each 
other." 

"  Well,  I  will  climb  into  my  easy-chair." 

This  conversation  took  place  when  Lottie 
Darling,  in  the  seclusion  of  the  ladies'  waiting- 
room,  was  removing  from  her  face  and  dress 
some  of  the  dust  that  had  settled  upon  them 
during  her  passage  through  the  Great  Yard. 
In  his  wish  to  have  another  look  at  Lottie,  Al- 
bert would  fain  have  prolonged  his  talk  with 
his  father  on  the  platform,  until  the  ladies  had 
entered  the  lemon-yellow  chariot  that  was  wait- 
ing for  them  at  the  door  of  the  station.  But 
John  Guerdon  was  bent  on  ambling  homeward 
without  delay,  so  that  he  should. have  a  couple 
of  hours  in  his  hay  fields  before  dinner.  With 
much  help  from  his  man,  and  some  purely  formal 
assistance  from  his  son,  he  planted  himself  in 
his  capacious  Somersetshire  saddle  without  an- 
other word. 

There  was  nothing  for  Albert  but  to  mount 
and  make  a  show  of  readiness  to  accompany 
him. 

The  father  and  son  rode  at  foot-pace  across 
the  station  yard,  and  were  on  the  point  of  turn- 
ing into  the  public  road,  when  a  bright  thought 
struck  the  younger  horseman. 

"  I  will  overtake  you  in  two  minutes,  father," 
he  said,  hastily,  as  he  turned  his  horse's  head  to- 
ward the  point  from  which  he  had  just  come, 
"but  I  must  say  a  word  to  the  station-master 
about  some  cases  that  should  have  come  down 
by  the  last  night's  goods-train." 

In  another  minute  Albert  was  again  at  the 
platform  steps,  and  had  seen  Lady  Darling  en- 
ter her  carriage,  followed  by  her  daughter. 
The  steps  of  the  chariot  were  folded  up,  and 
the  door  was  slammed  by  the  youthful,  pink- 
eyed  lad,  who,  to  his  infinite  pride,  had  recent- 
ly become  Judge  Darling's  footman.  The  car- 
riage, drawn  by  a  pair  of  brown  horses,  rolled 
slowly  over  the  inclosure  before  the  station,  but 
before  the  brown  pair  struck  the  queen's  high- 
way with  their  hoofs  they  were  overtaken  by 
the  rider  of  the  black  horse,  under  circum- 
stances that  caused  Miss  Darling  momentary 


alarm.  As  it  was  in  the  act  of  overtaking 
the  chariot,  the  black  horse  drew  back  on  his 
haunches,  reared  twice,  and  then,  after  lightly 
springing  into  the  air,  curveted  and  caracoled 
in  a  fashion  slightly  terrifying  to  the  ladies, 
who  looked  anxiously  toward  the  rider  as  he 
raised  his  hat  to  Lady  Darling,  and,  letting  go 
his  curb-rein,  passed  onward  at  a  canter.  The 
whole  affair  was,  of  course,  due  to  a  fine  prick 
of  the  spur  on  the  horse's  flank,  and  a  delicate 
application  of  the  curb.  Albert  had  obtained 
another  look  at  Lottie's  profile  and  blue  eyes, 
and,  as  he  rode  up  to  his  father,  the  young 
man  muttered  to  himself, 

"She's  angelic!  She  is  ten  times  as  lovely 
as  her  picture !" 

While  the  horse  leaped  and  caracoled  past 
the  carriage,  Lottie  exclaimed, 

"  Oh !  mamma,  mamma !  the  horse !  the 
horse!" 

"Ah!  ah!"  ejaculated  the  elder  lady,  who 
had  hardly  uttered  the  exclamation  when  she 
smiled,  and  returned  Albert  Guerdon's  bow. 

"  There  is  no  danger,"  she  remarked,  com- 
posedly. "Mr.  Albert  Guerdon  rides  superb- 
ly, and  Emperor  is  manageable,  though  nerv- 
ous." 

"He  is  the  son  of  Mr.  Guerdon,  of  Earl's 
Court  ?"  the  girl  inquired,  recollecting  in  an  in- 
stant all  that  she  had  heard  about  the  young 
man. 

"Yes;  he  has  recently  returned  from  the 
Continent.  He  is  on  his  way  back  to  Earl's 
Court  with  his  father,  whom  he  met  at  the  sta- 
tion." . 

"  He  bowed  to  you  ?" 

"Yes;  your  papa  and  Mr.  Guerdon  are 
friends,  and  Mr.  Albert  has  dined  at  Arleigh." 

"I  don't  think  I  ever  saw  a  more  beautiful 
creature ! " 

"My  dear  child!"  ejaculated  Lady  Darling. 

"Oh!  mamma,"  cried  Lottie,  in  an  expos- 
tulatory  tone,  reddening  as  she  made  the  need- 
ful explanation,  "I  am  speaking  of  the  horse. 
How  could  you,  dearest,  imagine  that  I  was 
speaking  of  any  thing  else  ?" 

Lady  Darling  apologized  for  her  absurd  mis- 
take by  twining  her  arm  round  the  girl's  waist, 
and  kissing  her  bright  cheek,  a  caress  which 
put  Lottie  so  perfectly  at  her  ease  that  her  blue 
eyes  looked  up  roguishly  into  her  mother's  peni- 
tent face. 

"  'Tis  a  gallant  creature,"  observed  Lady 
Darling,  "and  has  a  gallant  master." 

"Emperor  is  the  right  name  for  the  brave 
animal." 

"And  if,"  the  mother  remarked,  "you  had 
been  thinking  of  the  rider  instead  of  the  horse, 
your  praise  would  not  have  been  extravagant. 
He  is  a  very  handsome  young  man,  and  he  is 
a  general  favorite.  Every  one  speaks  well  of 
Mr.  Albert  Guerdon.  He  has  seen  a  great  deal 
of  the  world,  without  losing  the  modesty  which 
is  always  agreeable  in  young  men.  Your  papa 
says  that  he  is  clever,  and  a  delightful  com- 
panion. I  hope  to  see  him  often  at  Arleigh." 


28 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


Having  thus  made  her  child  aware  of  Mr. 
Albert  Guerdon's  title  to  her  good  opinion,  Lady 
Darling  dropped  the  subject  for  the  present, 
and  proceeded  to  speak  of  a  letter  which  she 
had  that  morning  received  from  Lottie's  elder 
sister,  Constance,  then  residing  at  Nice,  under 
the  roof  of  her  uncle,  Walter  Darling,  Her  Bri- 
tannic Majesty's  Consul  at  that  agreeable  port 
of  Southern  Europe.  Connie  was  certainly  in 
better  health  ;  the  signs  of  pulmonary  mischief 
xvere  leaving  her,  and  she  was  delighted  with 
her  uncle's  circle.  That  being  so,  Connie  had 
no  wish  to  return  soon  to  England.  Papa  was 
of  opinion  that  she  had  better  stay  at  Nice  for 
a  year,  or  even  two  years,  until  the  physicians 
should  declare  her  strong  enough  to  endure 
the  rigorous  and  variable  climate  of  her  native 
land. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

FATHER    AND    SON. 

WHILK  Lottie  and  her  mother  gossiped  thus 
happily  on  their  homeward  way,  John  Guer- 
don, of  Earl's  Court,  and  his  only  offspring, 
rode  along  a  winding  lane  to  the  hay  fields,  for 
which  the  banker  was  bound.  Emperor,  being 
a  docile  animal,  and  clever  in  adapting  his  paces 
to  the  speed  of  inferior  creatures,  Albert  had 
no  difficulty  in  riding  beside  the  thick-necked 
cob.  When  the  big  pony  ambled,  Emperor, 
with  the  bridle-rein  lying  loose  over  his  neck, 
walked  with  long  steps ;  and  when  the  banker 
made  his  steed  walk,  Emperor  shortened  his 
steps,  behaving  more  like  a  thoroughly  broken 
circus  horse  than  a  hunter  of  pedigree  and 
ability. 

"  So  you  mnnaged  to  get  another  look  at  the 
young  lady,"  observed  Mr.  Guerdon,  senior, 
winking  his  right  eye  under  its  black,  beetling 
brow. 

Coloring  slightly,  Albert  replied, 

"I  bowed  to  Lady  Darling  as  I  passed  her 
carriage." 

"And  you  didn't  look  at  the  young  lady,  of 
course  ?"  retorted  the  father,  winking  again. 

"  I  saw  Miss  Darling,  sir.  How  could  I  help 
seeing  her?" 

His  right  eye  expressing  extraordinary  intel- 
ligence as  he  gave  his  heir  another  thrust,  the 
elderly  gentleman  asked, 

"  And  how  about  the  cases  that  ought  to  have 
come  by  the  last  night's  goods-train  ?" 

Whereupon  Albert  laughed,  and,  rendering 
a  timely  compliment  to  his  father's  sagacity, 
observed, 

"Ah!  sir,  he  must  be  a  clever  fellow  who 
would  blind  your  eyes." 

"Ah!  boy,"  rejoined  the  veteran,  chuckling 
triumphantly  at  his  cleverness  in  detecting  what 
had  been  obvious  to  his  groom,  to  the  station- 
master,  and  even  to  Lady  Darling,  "you  can't 
bamboozle  the  old  man.  He  is  up  to  a  trick  or 
two  even  yet,  though  his  legs  are  a  bit  groggy. 
Eh  I  eh !  Master  Alb,  I  have  caught  you  out, 


lave  I?  Well,  time  was,  boy,  when  I  was  a 
devil  for  the  girls  ;  and  when,  between  ourselves, 
Alb,  the  girl  I  led  out  to  the  dance  thought  her- 
self lucky.  John  Guerdon,  in  his  young  days, 
lad  a  leg  for  a  silk  stocking  and  a  buckled 
Dump  that  could  not  be  matched  in  Boring- 
donshire." 

"I  have  heard,  sir,"  returned  Albert,  hu- 
moring his  sire's  personal  vanity,  "  that  you 
,vere  considered  the  handsomest  man  in  the 
county  ;  and  I  should  not  know  where  to  look 
for  a  man  of  your  years  who  could  be  compared 
with  you." 

At  that  moment  John  Guerdon  secretly  con- 
gratulated himself  on  his  cleverness  in  selecting 
for  his  heir  the  continental  education,  in  pref- 
erence to  the  training  of  Eton  and  Oxford. 
The  boy  was  a  credit  to  his  remarkable  father. 
He  looked  every  inch  a  gentleman,  and  was  ex- 
cellent company. 

In  his  gratification,  John  Guerdon  remark- 
ed, benignantly, 

"  Well,  Alb,  breed  is  every  thing — qualities 
descend.  You  are  a  monsous  good-looking  fel- 
low, though  you  are  an  inch  or  two  shorter 
than  I ;  and  though  I  can't  say  much  for  the 
hair  which  you  grow  over  your  face.  I  wish 
you'd  buy  a  razor,  and  shave  clean,  and  have 
a  well -trim nfed,  gentleman-like  mutton-chop 
whisker.  An  Englishman  ought  to  look  like 
an  Englishman.  Still  you  are  a  monsous  good- 
looking  fellow." 

The  elderly  gentlemen,  who  five-and-twenty 
years  since  used  to  say  "monsous"  instead  of 
"monstrous,"  and  who  were  from  time  to  time 
"obleeged"to  run  up  to  "Lunnon,"are  fast 
dying  out.  Ten  years  more,  and  the  species 
will  be  as  extinct  as  the  Dodo.  There  is  ono 
of  the  kind  still  living  in  the  heart  of  Dorset- 
shire, at  an  extremely  old  age  (though  Mr. 
Thorns  declares  it  to  be  greatly  overstated) ; 
but  his  doctors  say  that  he  can't  hold  out 
through  another  winter. 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  responded  Albert,  saucily, 
"but  I  can't  repay  your  goodness  by  shaving 
off  my  beard  and  mustaches.  They'll  soon  be 
the  universal  fashion." 

"Bother  your  modern  fashions!"  retorted 
the  senior,  hotly.  "  In  my  young  days  fashion 
and  good  taste  were  the  same  thing." 

"I  wish  they  were  so  now,"  answered  Al- 
bert, who  held  the  obsolete  notion  that  young 
fellows  should  not  argue  needlessly  with  their 
elders,  or  oppose  them  on  trivial  points. 

"And  a  monsous  good-looking  fellow,"  con- 
tinued the  father,  "  who  will  one  of  these  days 
be  master  of  Earl's  Court  and  first  banker  of 
Hammerhampton,  ought  to  marry  well.  And 
now,  my  boy,  while  the  sun  is  shining  is  the 
time  for  you  to  make  your  hay.  You  should 
be  thinking  about  marrying." 

"I  am,  father." 

"  And  of  course  you  would  not  be  such  a  fool 
as  to  marry  without  money." 

Albert  was  silent. 

"  You  wouldn't,"  urged  John  Guerdon,  turn- 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


29 


ing  as  much  as  he  could  in  his  saddle,  in  order 
that  he  might  get  a  good  view  of  his  boy's  face 
— "you  wouldn't  be  such  a  fool?" 

"I  trust  I  am  not  a  fool,  sir!"  answered  the 
diplomatic  Albert. 

John  Guerdon  was  satisfied. 

"Oh !  I  knew  you  would  not  be  dreaming  of 
marrying  a  pauper's  daughter.  Penniless  young 
women  make  the  best  wives  for  poor  men  ;  they 
are  economical,  and  haven't  -extravagant  de- 
sires. The  Almighty  meant  them  to  marry 
poor  men.  '  Like  match  like '  is  the  rule  all 
the  world  over.  Solomon  said  so — didn't  he  ?" 

"Pie  may  have  said  something  like  it,  sir." 

"If  he  didn't,  he  ought  to  have  done — it  was  an 
omission.  And  by  that  rule  it  is  clear  rich  men 
have  a  right  to  rich  women.  When  a  rich  man 
marries  a  girl  without  a  fortune,  he  goes  against 
the  designs  of  Providence.  You  follow  me  ?" 

"Closely,  sir." 

"  And  you  understand  me  ?" 

"  Quite,  father.  You  wish  me  to  marry  a  rich 
woman.  That  is  your  meaning." 

"Exactly.  It  is  not  difficult  to  explain  a 
matter  to  you." 

John  Guerdon  was  delighted  with  his  son's 
intelligence  and  good  principles. 

"Then,"  continued  the  father,  "it  would  be 
better  for  you  not  to  get  too  intimate  at  Arleigh 
just  at  present." 

"Is  Sir  James  Darling  poor?  He  does  not 
live  as  if  he  were  poor." 

"  He  can't  be  exactly  poor,  but  he  is  a  new 
man  in  Boringdonshire,  and  I  can't  make  out 
much  about  him — at  least,  not  so  much  as  you 
ought  to  know  before  you  fall  in  love  with  his 
daughter." 

"Arleigh  is  an  expensive  place.  Sir  James 
could  not  live  there  as  he  does  on  his  judicial 
salary,  which  is  only  £1500  per  annum,  with 
some  extra  allowances.  He  must  have  private 
property." 

"  Oh  !  he  has  some.  He  banks  with  me,  and 
his  account  is  easy  and  handsome.  He  has  the 
dividends  on  some  property  that  is  in  the  hands 
of  trustees — I  suppose  his  wife's  trustees ;  and 
he  has  money  of  his  own  in  safe  investments. 
I  dare  say  that,  one  way  or  other,  he  may  have 
£3000  a  year.  But  I  can't  make  out  whether 
he  has  land  anywhere.  I  have  pumped  him 
once  or  twice,  but  he  can  keep  his  own  coun- 
sel; and  he  is  an  important  man,  with  whom 
I  shouldn't  like  to  take  a  liberty.  You  follow 
me." 

The  portly  veteran  seemed  to  think  that  his 
statement  was  full  of  perplexities,  calculated  to 
puzzle  his  hearer. 

"Put  him  down  as  a  £3000  a  year  man," 
continued  the  banker,  who  would  have  unhesi- 
tatingly computed  the  judge's  income  at  that 
sum,  had  it  been  impossible  for  Sir  James  to 
have  an  account  with  a  London  banker,  as  well 
as  one  with  Guerdon  &  Scrivener.  "  His  sal- 
ary stops  when  he. dies;  and  then  there's  only 
a  property  yielding  £1500  for  division  among 
a  widow  and  four  children." 


"  There  arc  four  children  ?" 

"  Yes ;  two  sons,  officers  in  cavalry  regiments, 
Miss  Darling,  the  eldest  daughter,  who  is  deli- 
cate and  staying  for  her  health  at  Nice  with  her 
uncle,  the  consul,  and  the  young  lady  who  is 
just  home  from  a  Brighton  boarding-school. 
You  see,  there's  enough  for  a  small,  though  a 
|  genteel,  income  to  do ;  and  no  great  property 
to  divide  by  five.  Five  into  forty  don't  go 
more  than  eight.  Well,  a  girl  who  has  not  ten 
thousand  is  no  match  for  a  rich  man,  though 
she  may  be  good  enough  for  a  parson  or  a  bar- 
rister, or  a  fighting  soldier,  struggling  onward 
as  he  best  can." 

"  Money  is  not  every  thing,  sir,"  Albert  sug- 
gested. "Miss  Darling  is  wonderfully  beau- 
tiful." 

"She  is  a  monsous  pretty  filly!"  assented 
John  Guerdon,  who  did  not  hesitate  to  extol 
Lottie's  charms,  as  he  imagined  that  his  sordid 
sentiments  about  marriage  were  acceptable  to 
his  son.  "She  has  a  neat  head,  fine  action, 
and  good  shape  ;  she  is  in  good  condition,  and 
well  groomed.  Gad  !  she  whimpered  charm- 
ingly on  the  platform.  I  wouldn't  have  missed 
the  sight  for  any  thing.  It  was  as  good  as  see- 
ing a  hare  run  into  by  a  greyhound.  Hang  me ! 
Alb,  though  I  am  an  old  'un,  and  groggy  in  the 
ankles,  I  felt  as  if  I  had  come  in  at  the  death 
of  a  fox.  But  that  is  no  reason  why  you  should 
fall  in  love  with  her,  if  she  has  not  a  fortune." 

Obviously  it  was  no  reason.  Albert  was 
complaisant  enough  to  admit  so  much. 

"The  Darlings  are  most  desirable  neighbors," 
continued  the  senior ;  "  and  Sir  James,  though 
quite  a  new-comer,  has  already  a  first-class  posi- 
tion. He  and  Lady  Darling  visit  at  the  palace 
and  deanery,  and  Sir  James  has  been  invited 
to  Castle  Coosie.  The  old  Earl  of  Slumber- 
bridge  and  the  countess  have  called  at  Arleigh. 
Sir  James  lives  quietly,  but  he  lives  in  good 
style,  and  he  has  got  in  with  all  the  best  people. 
But  one  can  know  one's  neighbors  without  wish- 
ing to  marry  the  whole  of  them." 

Again  John  Guerdon  concluded  a  speech,  dis- 
pleasing in  several  particulars  to  Albert,  with  a 
statement  to  which  the  young  man  could  cor- 
dially assent. 

"But  there's  a  wife  ready  made  to  your 
hand,  my  boy,  that  I  should  monsously  like  for 
a  daughter-in-law,"  John  Guerdon  observed, 
after  a  pause,  during  which  he  had  pulled  his 
cob  half  round,  so  as  to  look  backward,  and  sat- 
isfy himself  that  his  groom  was  well  in  the  rear. 

Had  he  not  known  that  a  jest  seldom  failed 
to  irritate  his  slow-witted  sire,  Albert,  replying 
with  an  adaptation  of  Tom  Sheridan's  well- 
worn  retort,  would  have  asked,  "Whose  wife 
is  she?"  Refraining  from  flippancy,  he  mere- 
ly inquired,  "Indeed,  sir!  and  who  may  the 
lady  be?" 

"She  is  a  right  good-looking  girl,"  respond- 
ed the  father. 

"So  far,  so  good." 

"  Not  so  good-looking,  I  admit,  as  the  young 
lady  who  is  driving  to  Arleigh  Manor  with  her 


30 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


mamma,  but  tall,  shapely,  showy,  and  a  gentle- 
woman." 

"  I  am  in  love  with  her  already,"  Albert  ob- 
served lightly. 

"She  has  neither  brother  nor  sister," contin- 
ued John  Guerdon,  setting  forth  the  lady's  fa- 
vorable circumstances  like  an  auctioneer  de- 
scribing an  estate  under  the  hammer,  "so  you 
would  have  no  near  connections  on  her  side, 
getting  you  into  scrapes,  and  bothering  her  for 
money.  There's  many  a  man  who  has  good 
reason  to  wish  his  '  wife's  family '  at  Jericho." 

"Go  on,  sir." 

"  She  has  no  father  to  have  a  voice  about 
the  settlement  of  her  fortune,  and  to  give  you. 
troublesome  advice  after  marriage.  What's 
more,  she  hasn't  a  mother.  Think  of  that,  Alb  ! 
you  may  have  an  heiress,  without  the  incum- 
brance  of  a*nother-in-law!" 

"  She  is  a  prize,  father." 

"  I  believe  you.  She  is  a  prize,  and  no  mis- 
take about  it." 

"  Is  she  a  ward  in  Chancery  ?" 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it.  You  would  not  even  have 
to  ask  the  Lord  Chancellor's  leave.  Come,  will 
you  have  her?" 

"I  must  have  some  more  particulars  before 
I  say  '  yes.'  I  am  a  man  of  business,  and  won't 
make  a  blind  bargain.  Who  on  earth  is  she  ?" 

"My  ward,  Blanche  Heathcote." 

"  Why,  sir,  I  have  not  seen  her  since  she  was 
a  pale-faced  slip  of  a  thing,  not  more  than 
twelve  years  old." 

"  She  is  a  woman  now,  but  not  a  year  too  old 
to  be  your  wife.  She  may  be  something  too 
white  in  the  face,  but  her  money  is  of  the  right 
color — gold !  gold !  gold !  It's  all  monsous  fine 
and  poetical  for  youngsters  to  rave  and  write 
poetry  about  girls  with  golden  hair!  But  give 
me  woman  with  a  golden  fortune !" 

"I  did  not  know  she  was  so  very  rich," Al- 
bert rejoined,  coldly  and  warily. 

"  I  did  not  say  she  was  very  rich,"  responded 
John  Guerdon,  testily.  "I  only  call  her  rich. 
There  are  wealthier  girls  in  the  market,  but  she 
has  the  birth  and  breeding  and  looks  of  a  lady, 
as  well  as  money."  The  banker  added  warmly, 
and  almost  indignantly,  "You  don't  imagine  I 
want  you  to  make  a  mercenary  match,  do  you  ?" 

"I  would  not  suggest  the  thought." 

Again  John  Guerdon  pulled  his  cob  half 
round,  so  that  he  could  look  behind,  and  hav- 
ing satisfied  himself  that  the  servant  on  the  rak- 
ish hack  could  not  overhear  them,  he  observed, 
in  a  lower  voice,  winking  his  eye  once  and  again 
as  he  revealed  the  amount  of  his  ward's  fortune, 

"I  and  Scrivener  are  the  girl's  trustees. 
She  has  £60,000  in  the  Consols,  and  a  nicish 
farm  within  ten  miles  of  the  Great  Yard.  Four 
hundred  and  eighty  acres  of  rich  land  are  worth 
a  goodish  sum  for  agriculture.  But  ere  long 
that  farm  will  be  found  to  be  worth  more  than 
her  money 'in  the  Funds."  Stopping  his  cob, 
and  speaking  in  a  whisper,  which  indicated  the 
importance  of  the  intelligence,  and  the  extent 
of  the  confidence  which  he  was  showing  in  his 


son's  discretion,  John  Guerdon  added,  "  There's 
iron  on  it.  Scrivener  has  found  the  iron.  The 
fat  grass-meadows  and  wheat-fields  lie  over  a 
bed  of  iron  that  will  make  it  one  of  the  best 
mineral  properties  in  Boringdonshire.  Marry 
Blanche  Heathcote,  use  some  of  her  £60,000  in 
working  the  farm  underground,  and  you'll  be 
one  of  the  richest  men  in  the  whole  Hammer- 
hampton  country." 

As  the  tempter  thus  revealed  his  scheme,  a 
pallor  came  over  the  comely  face,  and  a  strange 
light  issued  from  the  dark  eyes  of  the  young 
man  who  was  invited  to  enrich  himself  by  wed- 
ding his  father's  ward.  But  Albert's  agitation 
was  Jn  no  degree  due  to  fear  that  in  a  moment 
of  weakness  he  might  decide  to  sin  against  his 
higher  nature.  It  was  occasioned  by  the  star- 
tling earnestness  of  his  father's  countenance, 
which  seldom  expressed  any  more  vehement 
emotion  than  transient  irritability.  To  Albert 
the  earnestness  was  almost  terrifying,  for  it 
demonstrated  how  strongly  his  father  desired  an 
acquiescence  in  a  proposal  to  which  the  young 
man  had  already  resolved  not  to  consent. 

"You'll  think  about  it,  Alb?"  said  John 
Guerdon,  raising  his  voice,  as  he  kicked  his  cob 
with  his  heel,  and  ambled  away  again  at  his 
customarv  speed. 

"  Yes, "sir,  I'll  think  about  it." 

"The  girl,  as  you  know,"  remarked  the 
father,  "  is  living  with  her  aunt  in  Wales,  in  a 
pretty  place  they  have  on  the  Menai  Straits. 
You  like  fishing,  I  suppose — or.  at  least,  you 
can  pretend  to  like  it.  Nothing  would  appear 
more  natural  to  the  ladies,  and  to  our  neighbors 
here,  than  that  you  should  run  off  to  Wales  for 
a  month's  fishing.  And  being  in  Wales,  you 
would  of  course  run  round  to  the  Straits,  and 
pay  your  respects  to  the  ladies." 

"  I  have  said,  sir,  that  I'll  think  about  the 
matter — at  present  I  can't  say  more,"  Albert 
replied,  with  as  much  coldness  and  stiffness  as 
he  was  capable  of  exhibiting  to  a  father  for 
whom  he  cherished  a  strong  affection,  without 
admiring  or  even  respecting  him. 

John  Guerdon  was  no  quick  or  nice  observer, 
but  from  the  tone  of  the  last  speech  it  was  ob- 
vious to  him  that  Albert  wished  to  hear  no 
more  for  the  present  about  Blanche  Heathcote 
or  her  property,  and,  out  of  a  prudent  regard 
for  his  son's  feelings,  the  banker  dropped  the 
subject.  For  that  morning  he  had  done  enough 
in  the  matter  by  warning  his  boy  not  to  com- 
mit himself  with  Miss  Darling.  But  there  was 
no  reason  why  he  should  not  add  a  few  thought- 
ful and  moral  reflections  on  the  advantages  and 
honor  of  matrimony. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

WILD   OATS   AND   THEIR   SOWERS. 

"EVERY  young  man,"  .said  the  father,  in  an 
oracular  tone,  "should  marry  when  he  has 
sown  his  wild  oats." 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


31 


It  being  implied  by  the  moralist's  silence  that 
he  wished  for  his  son's  opinion  of  this  whole- 
some axiom,  Albert  rejoined, 

"Why  should  he  not  marry  before  he  has 
sown  them?" 

"Because  then  he'd  be  sowing  them  after 
marriage,  and  then  there'd  be  an  awkward  crop, 
and  the  devil  to  pay.  Marriage  is  wheat ;  wild 
oats  are  like  the  tares  of  the  parable.  Wheat 
and  wild  oats  don't  go  well  together." 

"  It  is  not  good  husbandry  to  sow  them  to- 
gether." 

"  Therefore,  experience  says  to  the  young 
man,  'First  sow  your  wild  oats,  and  then  go 
in  for  domestic  virtue  and  business.'  It's  the 
providential  order  of  things." 

After  the  wont  of  stupid  men,  John  Guerdon 
was  in  the  habit  of  fathering  the  world's  blun- 
ders and  his  own  ridiculous  notions  on  Provi- 
dence. 

"But  if  a  young  man  has  no  wild  oats  to 
sow,"  inquired  Albert,  mischievously,  "  what 
should  he  do  ?  Must  he  remain  a  bachelor  till 
he  has  found  a  lot  of  bad  seed,  and  thrown  it 
upon  fertile  ground  ?" 

John  Guerdon,  stubbornly, 

"A  young  fellow  always  starts  out  in  life 
with  a  lot  of  wild  oats  in  his  pockets.  He  does 
not  look  for  them.  Providence  puts  them  in 
his  pockets,  and  a  beard  on  his  chin,  at  the 
same  time." 

"I  have  known  a  few  young  men,"  Albert 
bore  witness,  "  who  never  had  any  wild  oats,  as 
yon  call  them." 

"  Perhaps  so.  Very  likely.  No  doubt  there 
are  milksops  in  Germany  and  France  as  well  as 
in  England." 

"But  these  fellows,"  Albert  insisted,  laugh- 
ing out  merrily,  "  were  not  milksops.  They 
were  the  best  of  good  fellows." 

"  Bah !  If  they  weren't  milksops,  they  were 
humbugs,  who  had  got  rid  of  their  wild  oats  be- 
fore you  knew  them,  and  then  humbugged  you 
into  thinking  they  had  always  been  pinks  of 
propriety." 

"  Alf  right,  sir.  Let  it  be  so.  They  hum- 
bugged me,  and  I  thank  them  for  having  de- 
ceived me,"  Albert  replied,  with  perfect  good 
humor. 

Out  of  the  courtesy  in  which  he  was  not  de- 
ficient, the  father  responded, 

"They  must  have  been  clever  fellows,  though, 
to  bamboozle  you,  for  you  are  not  a  fool." 

"Thank  you,  sir." 

"Anyhow,"  continued  the  father,  bluntly  ap- 
plying his  moral  doctrine,  "you'll  admit  that 
you  have  had  plenty  of  time  for  sowing  your 
wild  oats.  If  you  haven't,  make  the  most  of 
the  next  year  and  half,  for  when  you  are  a  part- 
ner in  *  Guerdon,  Scrivener  &  Guerdon,'  you 
must  be  respectable." 

"I  have  had  quite  enough  time." 

"And  by  sending  you  abroad  for  your  edu- 
cation, I  arranged  it  for  you  that  you  should 
sow  your  wild  oats  where  there  would  be  no 
risk  that  the  crop  should  trouble  you  in  after- 


life. 'Lord,  remember  not  the  sins  of  my 
youth.'  The  Lord  mayn't;  but  the  world  is 
sure  to  remember  a  young  man's  sins,  if  they 
are  not  done  snugly,  so  that  the  world  can't 
find  them  out.  So  I  sent  you  abroad  to  learn 
business,  and  enjoy  yourself  securely.  A  young 
rip's  doings  at  Oxford  and  Cambridge  are  al- 
ways reported  to  his  father's  neighborhood,  and 
made  the  worst  of.  But  Paris,  and  Naples,  and 
Vienna  are  a  long  way  off  Hammerhampton. 
So  I  put  you  out  in  foreign  capitals,  and  gave 
you  a  good  allowance.  One  way  or  other  you've 
cost  me  a  good  many  thousands ;  but  you  were 
welcome  to  the  money,  and  I  never  asked  for 
particular  accounts  as  to  how  you  spent  it. 
Why  should  I  ?  You  are  your  father's  son, 
and  I  remember  what  a  rip  I  was  when  I  was 
on  the  school-house  side  of  five-and-twenty. 
'  Boys  will  be  boys  all  the  world  over.'  And 
as  you  have  come  home  for  good,  a  young  man 
of  the  right  stuft'  and  promise,  it  is  no  business 
of  mine  to  ask  how  you  sowed  your  wild  oats, 
or  where  you  sowed  them,  or  how  many  vari- 
eties there  were  of  them.  It  is  enough  for 
me  that  you  have  got  rid  of  them,  and  that 
you  won't  be  tattled  about  in  the  High  Street 
of  Hammerhampton." 

Albert  knew  well  what  his  father  meant  by 
"Boys  will  be  boys  all  the  world  over."  The 
familiar  adage  implied  that  youngsters  delight- 
ed to  imitate  the  vices  of  libertines  who  were 
no  longer  young.  It  implied  that,  if  they  were 
lads  of  spirit,  they  habitually  drank  more  wine 
than  was  good  for  them,  and  often  carried  the 
indulgence  to  intoxication.  It  implied  tha£,  as 
a  matter  of  course,  they  smoked  excessively, 
and  played  for  higher  stakes  than  they  could 
aflford  to  lose  at  cards  and  billiards.  It  im- 
plied that  they  seized  on  every  occasion  to 
squander  time  and  health  in  gross  pleasure 
with  depraving  companions  of  both  sexes.  It 
implied  that  the  freshness  and  energy  of  youth 
should  be  dissipated  by  sensual  excitements, 
and  that  no  young  fellow  should  place  his  af- 
fections on  a  virtuous  woman  until  his  rakish 
experiences  had  taught  him  the  disadvantages 
6f  familiarity  with  women  who  had  neither  vir- 
tue nor  refinement.  And  Albert  Guerdon  re- 
sented the  imputation  that  he  was  a  boy  whose 
boyhood  had  been  spent  unprofitably  and  vi- 
ciously. Without  being  a  prig,  or  that  most 
irritating  of  social  inflictions,  an  intrusively 
good  young  man,  he  detested  the  puerile  prof- 
ligacy and  scampishness  of  beardless  students 
who  prided  themselves  on  being  "fast  men." 
His  years  between  eighteen  and  twenty -five 
had  been  a  period  of  vivid  enjoyments ;  but 
a  young  man's  pleasures  may  be  vivid,  without 
being  at  the  same  time  feverish  and  enerva- 
ting. 

He  delighted  in  good  music,  and  at  each  of 
the  capitals,  where  he  had  studied  human  man- 
ners and  the  ways  of  commerce,  he  had  been 
an  habitual  frequenter  of  the  opera,  without  de- 
siring to  associate  privately  with  artists  of  sweet 
voices  and  lax  principles.  He  had  studied  the 


32 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


drama  from  the  stalls,  instead  of  corners  be- 
hind the  scenes.  A  perfect  horseman,  he  cared 
more  for  a  gallop  across  open  country  than  for 
waltzing  in  a  ball-room,  though  he  could  acquit 
himself  creditably  in  a  Parisian  salon,  A  sports- 
man, with  no  experience  of  Scottish  grouse 
moors,  he  had  killed  wild  boar  and  deer  in 
German  forests,  and  landed  enormous  salmon 
in  Norway.  His  good  sense  preserved  him 
from  the  affectations  of  studio  haunters,  and 
told  him  that  he  had  no  faculty  for  high  achieve- 
ments with  brush  or  pencil ;  but  he  had  stud- 
ied painting  and  sculpture  in  foreign  galleries, 
and  could  talk  with  artists  on  their  special  af- 
fairs with  intelligence  and  modesty.  At  a  time 
when  Alpine  climbing  was  no  universal  fashion 
of  English  tourists,  he  had  made  pedestrian 
excursions  in  Switzerland,  and  ascended  Mont 
Blanc.  In  addition  to  these  interests,  any  one 
of  which  is  sometimes  influential  in  keeping  a 
youngster  from  evil  courses,  he  had  a  taste  for 
high  literature,  and,  while  altogether  lacking  the 
poet's  creative  genius,  possessed  enough  poetic 
sensibility  to  appreciate  grand  poetry. 

Of  course  he  knew  that  his  life,  in  its  vig- 
orous wholesomeness  and  avoidance  of  gross 
pleasures,  differed  greatly  from  that  of  many 
youngsters  of  his  period.  Brief  though  his  ca- 
reer had  been,  he  was  old  enough  to  have  seen 
old  school-fellows  sink  into  premature  graves, 
after  losing  health  and  character  by  sottish- 
ness.  He  had  seen  drink  convert  jovial  fellows 
into  dull  fellows,  and  put  them  under  the  sod 
at  the  moment  when  their  stronger  or  less  im- 
moflerate  companions  in  license  were  recogniz- 
ing the  nature  of  their  excesses,  and  deciding 
to  undo  as  far  as  possible  the  mischief  of  their 
indiscretions.  Some  of  his  slighter  acquaint- 
ances had  fallen  in  duels  about  women  of  light 
fame.  Of  course,  also,  he  was  aware  that  his 
existence  was  altogether  unlike  the  early  man- 
hood of  his  father,  who  had  no  mental  quick- 
ness or  intellectual  tastes,  and  who  belonged 
to  the  generation  that  selected  Carlton  House 
for  its  school  of  manners,  and  the  Prince  Re- 
gent for  its  model  of  gentlemanly  virtue  and 
accomplishments.  But  he  was  not  the  young 
man  to  pride  himself  on  his  superior  sagacity 
and  goodness.  It  was  not  in  him  to  play  the 
Pharisee  to  dissolute  students  of  his  own  age. 
He  was  even  more  incapable  of  sitting  in  judg- 
ment on  his  own  sire,  and  regretting  censori- 
ously that  the  old  man  had  obvious  failings, 
and  had  spent  his  early  manhood  wildly  and 
gracelessly.  On  the  contrary,  he  could  listen 
with  equanimity  and  amusement  to  John  Guer- 
don's boastful  exaggerations  of  his  youthful  mis- 
demeanors. Indeed,  while  clearly  recognizing 
his  father's  failings,  Albert  regarded  them  with 
tenderness,  and  was  none  the  less  inclined  to 
show  him  respect  because  he  was  not  from  ev- 
ery point  of  view  respectable. 

But  while  he  was  charitable  toward  others 
Albert's  judgment  approved  his  own  way  of  liv- 
ing, and,  without  desiring  to  be  extolled  as  bet- 
ter than  his  neighbors,  he  wished  to  be  taken 


for  what  he  was.  He  was  pained  at  discover- 
ing that  his  father,  regarding  him  as  something 
altogether  unlike  his  real  self,  looked  upon  him 
as  at  the  best  a  young  fellow  who,  after  sowing 
his  wild  oats  in  foreign  lands,  was  ready,  from 
prudential  motives,  to  "settle  down  "into  a  de- 
cent man  of  matrimony  and  business  in  Boring- 
donshire.  The  discovery  was  all  the  more  un- 
pleasant because  his  father's  erroneous  impres- 
sions respecting  his  way  of  living  implied  a  dis- 
belief in  his  truthfulness.  It  was  true  that  John 
Guerdon  had  never  required  his  son  to  give 
minute  accounts  of  his  expenditure.  But 
though  they  had  not  been  demanded,  the  ac- 
counts had  been  voluntarily  rendered  by  Al- 
bert, who,  in  gratitude  for  his  father's  liberal- 
ity, had  never  omitted  to  state  precisely  how 
he  expended  his  income.  He  had  always  been 
singularly  communicative  to  his  sire,  and  would 
have  deemed  himself  guilty  of  odious  deceit 
had  he  qualified  his  statements  to  him  with 
the  slightest  misrepresentation.  He  had  never 
bought  a  costly  piece  of  jewelry,  or  given  a 
bank-note  to  a  needy  friend,  or  picked  up  a 
new  horse,  or  humored  his  youthful  fondness 
for  personal  display  by  purchasing  an  unusu- 
ally expensive  article  of  dress,  without  giving 
his  father  intelligence  of  the  fact.  It  was  the 
same  with  the  cost  of  his  holiday  excursions. 
He  had  never  made  a  trip  without  letting  John 
Guerdon  know  what  had  been  its  expenses. 
Knowing  his  father's  business-like  care  for  pe- 
cuniary details,  he  had  even  sent  him  items  of 
hotel  bills;  and  he  had  always  flattered  him- 
self that,  while  these  exact  communications  had 
amused  their  receiver,  the  motives  which  occa- 
sioned them  were  properly  appreciated  by  the 
munificent  giver  of  money.  After  all,  it  seemed 
that  his  father  must  have  regarded  his  accounts 
as  misstatements.  How  else  was  it  possible 
for  the  old  man  to  imagine  that  his  son  had 
been  squandering  money  as  a  sower  of  wild 
oats  ? 

Albert,  whose  generous  disposition  did  not 
lack  a  spice  of  irritability,  was  for  the  moment 
nettled.  It  was  incumbent  on  his  honor,  and 
necessary  for  the  maintenance  of  an  agreeable 
understanding  between  himself  and  his  father, 
that  he  should  put  his  truth  beyond  suspicion. 
His  father  might,  if  he  liked,  imagine  him  ca- 
pable of  indulgence  in  pleasures  from  which  he 
revolted.  But  the  old  man  should  not  think 
him  a  humbug  and  a  liar. 

"  Indeed,  sir,  you  do  me  injustice,"  the  son 
exclaimed. 

"What  the  deuce  do  you  mean?"  the  father 
inquired. 

"You  have  been  very  liberal  to  me,  sir," 
Alb  explained.  "No  father  could  have  been 
more  generous  in  money  matters.  Indeed,  in 
that  respect,  if  your  treatment  of  me  has  been 
faulty,  it  has  only  erred  in  the  direction  of  ex- 
cessive munificence.  But  I  must  entreat  you 
to  believe  that  I  never  abused  your  goodness 
by  applying  your  gifts  to  disreputable  purposes. 
You  know  how  every  sovereign  of  my  money 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


33 


has  been  spent.  I  have  always  accounted  for 
it,  though  you  never  asked  me  to  do  so." 

"Yes,  yes,"  John  Guerdon  assented,  wink- 
ing his  right  eye,  as  he  chuckled  in  his  reply, 
"you  always  sent  me  your  accounts." 

"  Well,  sir  ?"  asked  Albert,  flushing  scarlet. 

Having  delivered  himself  of  a  running 
chuckle  which  almost  rose  into  a  peal  of 
laughter,  the  banker  continued,  exultingly, 

"  Lord  !  Alb,  how  I  have  laughed  over  your 
accounts !  How  deucedly  well  you  used  to  cook 
them !  How  I  have  laughed  over  them  with 
Ned  Barlow,  whose  boys  have  each  of  them 
spent  twice  as  much  money  as  you  ever  did, 
and  never  treated  him  with  exemplary  can- 
dor of  your  fashion.  Lord  !  those  accounts  ! 
They  were  wonderful !  They  were  so  well 
done  that  I  almost  think  that  they  would  have 
imposed  on  me,  if  they  had  not  been  so  exact. 
Oh !  Barlow  and  I  have  had  many  a  laugh 
over  your  statements  of  expenditure.  The 
very  mention  of  them  makes  Ned  roar  out  so 
you  can  almost  hear  him  from  Hammerhamp- 
ton  to  Minehead.  He  calls  you  '  the  Account- 
ant !'  Now,  Alb,  tell  us  who  put  you  up  to  the 
trick  ?  You're  a  monsous  clever  fellow  for  a 
boy,  but  I  can  hardly  imagine  you  thought  of  it 
all  by  yourself.  Ha !  ha  !  ha !  Wait  a  min- 
ute, I  am  almost  choking  ;  and  it  takes  away 
my  wind  to  laugh  in  the  saddle'." 

John  Guerdon  was  growing  so  alarmingly 
red  in  the  face  with  delight  at  his  own  acute- 
ness  that  Albert  thought  it  best  to  postpone 
his  reply  till  his  father  should  have  become 
calmer. 

"When  I  was  a  boy,"  resumed  John  Guer- 
don, on  recovering  breath,  "  young  fellows 
used  to  do  a  little  in  the  way  of  cooking  ac- 
counts for  their  fathers'  satisfaction.  The  reg- 
ular thing  was  to  enter  under  the  head  of 
'Charity  and  Benevolence'  all  sums  that  had 
been  spent  in  mischief  and  high  jinks.  Ned 
Barlow  says  he  used  to  do  a  great  deal  of  chari- 
ty and  benevolence  to  ladies  in  distressed  cir- 
cumstances ;  but  that  was  too  simple  for  you. 
'  Ten  pounds — a  loan  (that  probably  won't  be 
returned)  to  a  friend  in  difficulties.'  'Expen- 
ses of  trip  to  Switzerland.'  '  Twenty  pounds 
fees  to  Professor  Tolderol  for  lessons  in  crayon 
sketching.'  'Ditto — fees  to  Herr  Folderol  for 
instruction  on  the  flute.'  Ha!  ha!  ha!  you 
look  surprised !  But  you  can't  have  supposed, 
Alb,  that  you  succeeded  in  bamboozling  me  !" 

"  Doubtless  I  look  surprised,  father,"  return- 
ed Albert,  in  his  stateliest  manner,  hoping  by 
his  tone  and  look  to  put  an  end  to  his  sire's 
merriment,  "for  I  am  profoundly  astonished." 

This  statement,  so  grandly  uttered,  failed  to 
have  the  desired  effect,  for  it  appeared  to  Ned 
Barlow's  intimate  friend  to  be  nothing  else 
than  the  utterance  of  an  actor  persisting  in  an 
effort  of  humorous  hypocrisy. 

"At  first  you  astonished  me,  Alb,"  chuckled 
the  senior,  "but  I  got  used  to  it.  You  over- 
did it  rather  in  quantity,  and  also  in  quality. 
You  overdid  it  by  being  so  precise  about  every 
3 


thing,  and  leaving  no  margin  at  all  for  pecca- 
dilloes and  '  charity  '  of  the  general  kind  ;  and 
you  carried  on  the  fun  a  little  bit  too  long. 
But  I  can  forgive  you,  you  young  scoundrel, 
as  you  did  not  make  a  fool  of  me." 

Looking  steadily  into  his  father's  dull  eyes, 
Albert  Guerdon  said  seriously — very  impress- 
ively, but  without  any  sign  of  irritation: 

"  On  my  honor,  father,  you  are  altogether 
mistaken.  I  assure  you,  sir,  on  my  honor,  that 
I  have  never  made  to  you  a  single  statement 
about  money  or  any  other  matter,  in  the  whole 
course  of  my  life,  that  was  not  precisely  true." 

But  the  asseveration  was  futile.  The  slow- 
ness and  emphasis  with  which  it  was  uttered, 
and  the  look  of  earnest  honesty  which  accom- 
panied it,  were  altogether  lost  on  John  Guer- 
don, who  winked  his  right  eye  once  more,  and 
then  responded,  in  a  tone  which  implied  that 
he  was  slightly  scandalized  by  his  son's  fervor, 

"Pooh!  pooh!  don't  try  to  get  over  me  in 
that  way.  You  shouldn't  pledge  your  honor 
in  that  way  for  a  bit  of  fun.  A  joke  is  a  joke, 
and  yours  was  a  monsous  good  one ;  but  it 
mayn't  be  carried  too  far." 

Making  yet  another  vain  attempt  to  set  him- 
self right  with  his  father,  Albert  said,  even  more 
seriously, 

"Indeed  I  am  speaking  the  truth.  Boys 
may  be  boys,  all  the  world  over,  but  I  am  not 
the  boy  you  take  me  for." 

"Don't  be  a  pogram  and  a  humbug,"  retort- 
ed the  father,  testily.  "  I  am  not  such  a  fool 
as  you  take  me  for." 

And  as  he  gave  his  heir  this  demonstration 
of  his  shrewdness  and  reasonableness,  John 
Guerdon's  comely  face  assumed  a  look  of  un- 
conquerable stubbornness  and  lively  derision. 
The  beetling  brows  drew  closely  together,  as 
his  lips  contracted  into  a  disdainful  pout.  In 
another  instant  he  had  thrust  a  rolled-up  tongue 
through  the  protruding  lips,  and  twisted  his 
mouth  slightly  on  one  side.  To  add  force  to 
this  singular  and  very  disfiguring  piece  of  fa- 
cial pantomime,  the  banker  nodded  his  head 
half  a  dozen  times  with  an  air  of  resentful  ob- 
stinacy. 

Albert  was  mortified,  but,  in  spite  of  his  an- 
noyance, amused.  His  momentary  ebullition  of 
temper  having  subsided,  he  was  more  grieved 
than  angry.  It  was  painful  to  him  to  see  how 
completely  his  moral  nature,  as  well  as  his  in- 
tellect, lay  beyond  the  limits  of  his  father's 
comprehension.  It  saddened  him  to  think  that 
his  own  father  deemed  him  a  cautious  libertine 
and  systematic  fabricator  of  lies — a  puerile 
rake,  who  was  chiefly  commendable  for  the 
skill  with  which  he  concealed  his  vices,  and  a 
graceless  son,  who  could  amuse  himself  by  a 
prodigious  series  of  endeavors  to  play  upon  the 
credulity  of  an  indulgent  father.  At  the  same 
time,  the  position  was  extremely  ridiculous,  and 
the  young  man's'sense  of  humor  was  tickled  by 
its  absurdity.  It  being  clear  that  nothing  fur- 
ther could  be  done  to  disabuse  the  paternal 
mind  of  its  misconceptions,  Albert  Guerdon 


34 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


consoled  himself  by  regarding  the  pleasant  as- 
pects of  the  difficulty. 

But  he  had  no  inclination  to  renew  the  chat 
with  his  father. 

Emperor  suddenly  became  restive,  and,  as 
the  animal  persisted  in  starting,  fidgeting,  and 
bucking  about,  with  every  sign  that  he  would 
like  to  stretch  his  limbs  in  a  gallop,  Albert 
bade  his  father  farewell  at  the  entrance  to  the 
Earl's  Court  hay  fields,  and  gave  his  steed  con- 
genial exercise. 

Having  watched  his  boy  canter  up  a  bri- 
dle-path, in  the  direction  of  a  heath,  where  he 
would  find  free  space  for  a  breathing  gallop, 
John  Guerdon  rode  onward  to  his  hay-makers, 
saying  to  himself, 

"  Smart  fellow,  that  boy  of  mine  !  It  was 
very  attentive  of  him  to  meet  me  at  Owley- 
bury  ;  but  it  was  monsous  impudent  of  him  to 
stick  to  those  lies  of  his.  Boys  are  apt  not  to 
see  when  they  have  carried  a  joke  far  enough. 
I  was  very  nearly  provoked  into  giving  him  a 
hot  word  or  two,  for  which  I  should  have  been 
sorry.  Perhaps  I  had  better  keep  clear  of  that 
subject,  for  in  the  main  he  is  a  good  boy,  and 
he  takes  kindly  to  my  scheme  for  marrying  him 
to  Blanche  Heathcote.  That's  a  comfort!" 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER. 

"!T  is  beautiful!"  Lottie  exclaimed,  as  the 
carriage  turned  into  the  grounds  of  Arleigh 
Manor,  and  rolled  over  the  smooth  coach-road 
toward  her  father's  house.  "It  is  a  picture,  a 
poem,  a  work  of  nature  and  art !  It  is  the 
same  place  that  I  saw  last  winter,  but  so  beau- 
tified that  I  should  scarcely  have  recognized  it. 
Look  at  the  trees  —  the  graceful  limes,  those 
magnificent  elms,  and  the  dainty  birches !  There 
is  the  Luce  again,  and  there  are  the  Flockton- 
shire  Hills !  How  grandly  Minehead  stands  out ! 
And  what  a  garden  of  roses,  and  brightness, 
and  greenness !  The  loveliness  of  every  thing 
startles  me  at  every  turn.  Mamma,  the  place 
is  heavenly !"  Seizing  Lady  Darling's  hand, 
and  kissing  it,  the  girl  cried,  "  Mother,  how 
happy  we  shall  be  in  this  charming  home — dear, 
dear  mother!" 

The  word  "  mother  "  never  sounds  more  mu- 
sically and  lovingly  than  when  it  comes  from  a 
pair  of  coy  lips  that  say  "  mamma"  daintily. 

The  girl's  enthusiasm  only  rendered  justice 
to  beauties  which  she  surveyed.  An  antiquated 
manor-house,  that  had  for  centuries  been  the 
homestead  of  a  line  of  gentle  yeomen,  whose 
lineage  gave  them  rank  among  the  squires  of 
the  county,  notwithstanding  the  smallness  of 
their  estate,  Arleigh  had  fallen,  some  five-and- 
twenty  years  since,  into  the  hands  of  an  iron- 
master, of  taste  as  well  as  money.  The  man 
of  iron  had  enlarged  the  residence  with  a  front 
that  accorded  with  the  original  structure  of 
red  stone,  while  affording  its  inmates  two  noble 


rooms  of  reception,  and  a  hall  big  enough  for  a 
castle.  Having  thus  converted  a  modest  though 
highly  picturesque  dwelling  into  a  structure 
which  could  almost  claim  to  be  honored  as  a 
"  country  house,"  the  capitalist  amused  himself 
for  twenty  years  with  adorning  the  grounds,  so 
that,  when  the  good  man  died,  no  place  of  its 
size  within  twenty  miles  of  Owleybury  had  such 
a  show  of  well-grown  and  judiciously  planted 
trees.  The  house,  also,  was  singularly  fortu- 
nate in  its  landscapes  and  natural  defense 
against  cold  winds.  Built  on  the  under  ridge 
of  a  majestic  hill,  it  was  guarded  on  the  north 
and  east  by  the  upper  ridge,  that  rose  abruptly 
behind  it,  while  on  the  south  and  west  it  com- 
manded a  superb  view  of  Flocktonshire  and 
the  Valley  of  the  Luce. 

Sir  James  Darling  congratulated  himself  on 
his  good  fortune  in  getting  possession  of  Arleigh 
Manor  for  a  moderate  rent,  and  on  a  renewable 
lease,  that  would,  as  he  grimly  remarked,  "  fair- 
ly see  him  out."  Having  no  desire  to  acquire 
"land  of  his  own"  in  the  shire  of  his  jurisdic- 
tion, he  was  delighted  on  these  terms  to  become 
a  tenant  of  Lord  Slumberbridge,  who  had 
bought  Arleigh  when  the  iron-master's  deatli 
put  it  in  the  market.  A  place  sufficient  for 
the  domestic  needs  of  a  gentleman  living  at 
the  rate  of  four  or  five  thousand  a  year,  it  was 
not  too  grand  for  the  means  of  a  tenant  with 
only  £2500  per  annum,  the  precise  amount  of 
the  income  which  Sir  James  had  at  his  disposal, 
when  he  had  paid  his  annual  allowance  to  his 
two  military  sons,  each  of  whom  had  a  small 
property  independent  of  his  father's  pleasure. 

It  was  still  broad  daylight  when  Lottie,  at 
the  close  of  her  homeward  journey,  surveyed 
the  foliage  and  flower-beds  of  the  Arleigh  gar- 
dens. But  the  softening  light,  which  at  mid- 
summer precedes  sunset  by  several  hours,  was 
falling  from  the  blue  and  almost  cloudless  sky 
on  the  undulating  lawns  and  bright  parterres. 
The  display  of  roses  was  magnificent.  There 
were  bushes  resting  upon  the  ground,  and  bead- 
ed with  tiny  buds  and  rounded,  pearly  blossoms. 
There  were  standards  of  the  choicest  species 
known  to  rose-gardeners,  that  exhibited  superb 
flowers  of  every  color,  between  the  faintest  am- 
ber and  the  deepest  crimson,  any  one  of  which 
would  have  been  a  worthy  adornment  for  a  ball- 
room belle.  And  the  smooth  turf  of  delicate 
lawn-grass,  enriched  with  the  finest  Dutch 
clover,  was  brightened  with  artfully  disposed 
growths  of  petunias  and  verbenas.  On  alight- 
ing from  the  carriage  at  the  door  of  the  grand 
conservatory,  which  was  in  fact  the  vestibule 
of  the  manor-house,  Lottie  looked  through  an 
avenue  of  geraniums  and  pelargoniums,  fuchsias, 
cactuses,  and  gigantic  ferns. 

The  next  two  hours  were  spent  in  agreeable 
surprises.  Having  refreshed  herself  with  tea — 
a  drink  occasionally  taken  by  ladies  between 
luncheon  and  dinner,  in  days  when  "afternoon 
tea  "  was  no  regular  usage  of  a  luxurious  house- 
hold— Lottie  accompanied  her  mother  through- 
out the  house,  and  inspected  one  by  one  the 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


35 


rooms  which  she  had  left  at  the  end  of  her  last 
holidays  in  disorder  or  incomplete  rehabilita- 
tion. Her  mother  and  father  were  not  deficient 
in  taste ;  and  Sir  James  Darling  had  spared 
no  expense  in  beautifying  the  house  in  which 
he  proposed  to  pass  the  remainder  of  his  days. 
Lottie  was  delighted  with  the  general  effect 
and  details  of  every  apartment  that  she  enter- 
ed. She  greeted  with  enthusiasm,  as  though 
they  were  living  things,  and  could  .respond  to 
her  rapturous  exclamations,  the  old  familiar 
pictures  which,  since  her  last  departure  from 
Brighton,  had  been  brought  down  from  Upper 
Bedford  Place,  Russell  Square,  to  the  south- 
west corner  of  Boringdonshire.  She  gave  a 
perfect  cry  of  joy  as  she  espied,  in  a  corner  of 
her  mother's  elegant  drawing-room,  the  tiny, 
antique  chair — quaintly  carved  and  blackened 
with  age  and  bees- wax  —  which  had  been  her 
peculiar  seat  in  the  "  old  home  "  in  London. 
But  the  girl's  delight  did  not  reach  its  height 
until  she  had  feasted  her  blue  eyes  on  the 
manifold  charms  of  "her  own  room,"  which 
Lady  Darling,  in  welcome  of  her  youngest  off- 
spring, had  made  resplendent  with  bouquets  of 
the  finest  and  sweetest  flowers  that  could  be 
found  in  her  garden  and  green-house. 

"  What  shall  the  girl  do  in  gratitude,"  asked 
Lottie,  in  her  happiest  style  of  cooing  tender- 
ness, as  she  seated  herself  on  the  sofa  of  her 
sleeping-room  by  Lady  Darling's  side,  "  to  the 
mother  who  has  done  all  this  for  her?" 

"Kiss  her,  Lottie — that's  enough,"  answer- 
ed Mary  Darling. 

"  But  kisses  are  such  cheap  things,  and  so 
easily  given,"  rejoined  Lottie,  in  a  tone  of  play- 
ful, dissatisfaction. 

"Then  give  them  freely,  and  never  tire  of 
giving  them,"  the  mother  responded  when  she 
had  taken  a  first  installment  of  the  cheap  en- 
dearments. 

"And  then,  dearest,"  cooed  Lottie,  smooth- 
ing her  mother's  gentle  face  with  a  caressing 
hand,  "  it  is  such  a  gladness  to  give  them.  You 
are  so  very  lovely,  and  so  very  good.  Every 
kiss  I  give  you  increases  my  debt  to  you,  and 
my  desire  to — " 

"  Not  to  make  it  lighter,  child,"  Mary  Dar- 
ling interposed,  gayly.  "  Is  the  debt  too  heavy 
for  your  pride  ?" 

"No,  no,"  Lottie  protested.  "That  is  the 
marvel  of  it,  dearest.  The  debt  is  so  enormous, 
and  yet  light  as  air.  Every  effort  by  which  I 
try  to  diminish  it  only  adds  to  its  largeness ; 
and  the  more  it  grows,  the  lighter  it  becomes." 

"By  all  means,  then,  endeavor  to  pay  the 
debt  off  at  once,"  laughed  the  creditor. 

"  I  wish  I  could  reduce  it  by  some  measures 
that  should  cost  me  trouble  and  pain,"  Lottie 
replied.  "I  wish  that  I  could  prove  my  love 
by  some  way  less  selfish  and  agreeable  than  the 
delight  of  loving  you.  Indeed,  indeed,  dearest, 
I  should  like  to  sacrifice  myself  for  you." 

"And  be  my  benefactor,"  was  the  bantering 
rejoinder.  "Ah !  Lottie,  Lottie,  you  are  a  proud 
girl,  and  would  like  to  patronize  your  mother." 


Whereupon  Lottie  implored,  "  No,  no,  don't 
say  that."  And,  seeing  from  her  mother's 
smile  that  she  was  inclined  to  repeat  the  accu- 
sation, Lottie  slipped  from  the  sofa  to  her 
knees,  and  putting  herself  in  humblest  posture 
of  entreaty,  exclaimed,  with  mingled  drollery 
and  fervor,  "  I  am  at  your  feet,  mamma,  your 
own  docile,  loving  little  girl,  as  I  was  in  the  old 
days,  when  I  was  only  a  very  tiny  one." 

"Those  old  days,"  murmured  the  mother, 
"  that  are  so  far  away,  and  yet  so  near."  And 
then,  as  tears  came  to  her  eyes  at  a  sudden 
flooding  up  of  tenderest  recollections  from  the 
past,  Mary  Darling  suddenly  entreated.  "But 
don't  play  in  that  way— don't  Lottie,  or  I  shall 
be  crying  like  a  simpleton." 

At  the  moment  when  she  was  on  the  point 
of  "crying  like  a  simpleton,"  Lady  Darling's 
eye  fell  on  the  small  time-piece  that  stood  on 
her  daughter's  dressing-table,  and  told  that  in 
another  minute  it  would  be  six  o'clock.  Seven 
was  the  hour  of  dinner,  when  Sir  James  Darling 
would  expect  to  see  his  daughter  in  full  toilet. 

"  It  is  later  than  I  thought,  and  you  must  be 
dressing  for  dinner,"  observed  the  mother,  ris- 
ing hastily  from  her  seat.  "As  soon  as  I  have 
done  with  Hannah,  she  shall  come  to  you  to 
dress  your  hair.  Look  your  very  best,  pet, 
when  you  give  papa  his  first  kiss.  The  box 
we  brought  with  us  from  Owleybury  shall  be 
brought  up  to  you  immediately.  The  rest  of 
your  luggage  will  have  arrived  before  you  go  to 
bed.  You'll  have  enough  to  do  in  the  next 
hour." 

With  Hannah's  assistance,  Lottie  had  set  her- 
self off  to  the  best  advantage  when  she  entered 
the  drawing-room  shortly  before  the  dinner- 
hour.  She  had  donned  a  light  dress,  that  dis- 
played her  delicately  modeled  arms,  small  neck, 
and  the  faultless  shape  of  her  white  shoulders. 
Her  rich  brown  hair  was  decked  with  two  roses 
— one  of  softest  amber  color,  the  other  a  deep 
crimson — that  she  had  selected  from  a  vase  of 
cut  flowers,  each  of  which  might  have  carried 
off  a  prize  at  a  horticultural  show.  Round  her 
throat  she  wore  the  necklace  of  cameos  which 
her  father  had  given  her  on  her  last  birthday. 

"Charming,  charming!  You  are  a  good 
girl !"  observed  Lady  Darling  when,  on  joining 
Lottie  in  the  drawing-room,  she  saw  how  com- 
pletely the  girl  had  obeyed  her  last  maternal  in- 
junction. Lottie's  complexion  brightened  mo- 
mentarily at  her  mother's  approval ;  two  min- 
utes later  it  brightened  again,  and  her  heart 
beat  quickly,  as  she  heard  her  father's  steps  in 
the  hall. 

Though  she  was  not  always  conscious  of  the 
fact,  and  would  have  vehemently  denied  it  had 
the  truth  been  submitted  to  her  in  blunt  terms, 
Lottie  Darling  stood  in  awe  of  her  father.  Of 
course  she  loved  him  in  a  dutiful  and  conven- 
tional fashion ;  she  would  have  regarded  him 
tenderly  had  he  resembled  some  hot-tempered 
and  overbearing  fathers,  and  been  a  domestic 
bully.  As  it  was,  her  affection  for  him,  though 
deep  and  fervent,  was  not  devoid  of  a  certain 


36 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


vague,  ever-present  fear  of  displeasing  him. 
The  mutual  sympathy  of  the  girl  and  her  moth- 
er was  perfect ;  but  there  was  a  distance,  which 
her  historian  can  not  describe  precisely,  and 
which  she  never  permitted  herself  to  recognize, 
between  Lottie's  heart  and  her  father's.  She 
was  inordinately  proud  of  him,  believing  him  to 
be  the  most  learned  of  England's  judges,  and 
in  every  respect  save  bodily  stature  the  grand- 
est of  living  men.  Some  of  the  ways  in  which, 
this  filial  pride  displayed  itself  were  no  less, 
droll  than  pretty,  "  Papa  says  so,"  was  a  form 
of  words  with  which  she  had  often  closed  a  dis- 
cussion on  a  debatable  question.  So  far  as  she 
was  concerned,  every  debate  ended  when  she 
had  declared  her  sire's  judgment  on  it  with  an 
air  of  authoritative  dignity.  Repeatedly  had 
Lottie  stolen  unobserved  into  her  father's  li- 
brary, in  the  old  home  hard  by  Russell  Square, 
and  gazed  with  tranquil  satisfaction  at  the  out- 
ward lettering  on  a  certain  calf-bound  work,  in 
two  octavo  volumes,  entitled  "A  Treatise  on 
the  Law  and  History  of  Church  Rates,  by  James 
Rust  Darling,  M.A.,  Barrister-at-Law,  of  the 
Inner  Temple."  In  these  secret  visits  to  the 
lawyer's  book -room,  Lottie  never  took  from 
their  central  place  in  a  conspicuous  shelf  the 
tomes  which  she  regarded  so  reverentially,  and 
prized  all  the  more  because  they  dealt  with 
matters  altogether  beyond  her  comprehension. 
But,  while  she  thus  kept  the  fifth  command- 
ment, she  feared  slightly  the  father  whom  she 
honored  completely. 

How  had  this  come  to  pass?  James  Rust 
Darling  was  an  amiable  man.  In  all  great 
matters  he  was  a  considerate  and  indulgent  fa- 
ther. He  had  never  whipped  Lottie  when  she 
was  in  the  nursery,  nor  scolded  her  when  she 
was  a  ten-year-old  lass,  nor  snubbed  her  in  her 
riper  girlhood.  In  a  certain  sense  he  had  been 
an  admirably  thoughtful  as  well  as  a  conscien- 
tious parent.  There  had  never  been  an  anni- 
versary of  her  birthday  on  which  he  had  for- 
gotten to  give  her  a  present — a  toy,  or  book, 
or  trinket,  or  piece  of  brave  costume.  At  this 
crisis  of  her  young  life,  the  ending  of  her 
school-days,  there  stood  in  a  certain  stall  of 
his  stables  a  living  example  of  the  forethought 
and  liberality  with  which  he  supplied  her 
wants.  And  yet  she  feared  the  sire  who  had 
never  spoken  an  unkind  word  to  her,  or  put 
himself  into  a  passion  in  her  presence,  or  scolded 
son  or  servant  within  her  hearing.  The  cause 
of  the  distance  between  them  can  be  told  in  a 
brief  sentence.  Sir  James  Rust  Darling  was 
formal,  pedantic,  and  pompous.  Formality 
and  pompousness  are  apt  to  repel  the  timid 
and  loving.  There  are  gentle  and  nicely  sen- 
sitive natures  that  are  affected  by  pedantic 
stiffness,  just  as  harder  dispositions  are  affect- 
ed by  severity.  And  Lottie  was  finely  sensi- 
tive, though  her  temper  was  faultless.  She 
unconsciously  shrank  from  the  frigid,  magiste- 
rial authoritativeness  of  the  gentleman  who 
had  played  the  part  of  judge  under  his  own 
roof,  long  before  he  had  been  invited  to  fill  the 


judicial  seat  in  the  court-house  Of  Purley,  of 
which  lethargic  borough  he  was  the  learned 
recorder.  His  frigid  self-importance  had 
done  more  to  put  her  at  a  distance  from  him 
than  much  positive  harshness  would  have  done 
had  he  in  his  kindly  moments  been  more  ge- 
nial and  emotional.  Sir  James  Darling  was 
very  proud  of  the  girl,  and  desired  her  love  al- 
most to  the  limits  of  jealousy.  But  he  had 
missed  what  he  desired,  because  he  could  not 
see  that,  to  win  the  perfect  and  unconstrained 
love  of  such  a  child,  a  father  must  woo  her  like 
a,  lover,  while  cherishing  her  like  a  good  par- 
ent. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

SIR   JAMES   DARLING  AT   HOME. 

WHEN  Sir  James  Darling  had  crossed  the 
threshold  of  the  drawing-room,  and,  stopping  at 
the  door,  had  drawn  himself  up  to  the  fullness 
of  his  small  stature,  Lottie  Darling  was  in  the 
presence  of  a  well -looking  and  stately  little 
gentleman,  wrhose  height  did  not  exceed  five 
feet  five  inches,  and  whose  florid  countenance 
contrasted  strikingly  with  the  snowiness  of  his 
high  cravat  and  the  whiteness  of  his  high 
forehead.  Had  the  breadth  of  his  frontal  con- 
figuration corresponded  with  its  height,  the 
judge  would  have  had  a  good  head ;  but  the 
narrowness  of  his  forehead  accorded  with  the 
sharpness  of  his  profile,  and  the  general  keen- 
ness of  his  shrewdly  expressive  face. 

His  eyes  were  piercing,  although  age  had 
given  them  tell-tale  rings  ;  his  nose  was  slight- 
ly aquiline,  and  his  finely  modeled  lips  and 
chin  declared  that  he  was  a  gentleman  of  re- 
finement. His  eyebrows  were  strongly  mark- 
ed with  iron -gray  hair,  that  was  bushy  and 
harsh,  and  much  darker  than  the  hair  of  his 
head.  When  he  was  not  wearing  his  profes- 
sional wig,  strangers  saw  at  a  glance  that  Sir 
James  was  more  than  slightly  bald  on-  the 
crown  of  his  head — a  defect  which  he  vainly 
endeavored  to  hide  by  brushing  his  iron-gray 
hair  upward  from  his  temples  into  two  tufts 
that  bore  a  strong  resemblance  to  the  standing 
ears  of  certain  inferior  animals.  These  hirsute 
tufts  were  all  the  more  remarkable  because, 
while  sable  -  silvered  at  the  base,  they  were 
quite  white  at  their  tips.  But  his  rather  gro- 
tesque coiffure  was  less  objectionable  than  the 
sanguine  brightness  of  his  closely  shaven  cheeks 
and  the  vermilion  splendor  of  his  aquiline  nose. 
He  was  a  uniformly  good-tempered  man,  but 
his  complexion  made  the  world  imagine  that 
he  was  irascible  and  overbearing. 

On  seeing  her  father  at  the  entrance  of  the 
long  drawing-room,  Lottie  rose,  and  lowering 
her  figure  by  some  four  inches,  put  herself  in 
position  to  salute  him  with  a  solemn  Hanover 
Square  courtesy.  The  act  was  due  partly  to 
school-girls'  habit,  and  partly  to  timidity.  It 
was  rather  ridiculous,  but,  under  the  circum- 
stances, was  natural.  But  the  girl's  heart  was 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


37 


beating  too  hotly,  and  with  too  impetuous  a 
gladness,  to  allow  her  to  complete  the  move- 
ment of  reverence.  In  another  instant  she 
performed  an  act  of  filial  obeisance  that  was 
more  graceful  and  eloquent  than  any  ceremo- 
nious gesture  taught  by  Madame  Bourbonnade. 
Running  lightly  toward  her  sire,  she  put  a 
trembling  hand  on  each  of  his  shoulders,  and 
kissed  him  timidly,  first  on  one  scarlet  cheek, 
and  then  on  the  other.  Save  that  it  assumed 
a  faint  smile,  the  father's  face  betrayed  no 
emotion  at  the  kisses  which  he  accepted,  with- 
out returning  them  at  once. 

"Ah!  Lottie,  back  from  school?  —  back 
from  school?"  remarked  Sir  James,  kindly  but 
stiffly,  and  with  an  air  of  surprise  at  an  event 
to  which  he  had  been  looking  forward  with  fe- 
verish eagerness  for  at  least  ten  days. 

"Yes,  papa,  and  very  glad  to  be  home 
again,"  responded  Lottie,  still  hovering  over 
her  little  poppy-red  sire,  who  was  a  full  inch 
shorter  than  the  girl. 

"And  have  you  been  a  good  girl  this  half- 
year,  eh  ?" 

"Miss  Constantino  gives  me  a  fair  charac- 
ter, and  I  bring  home  some  prizes,"  Lottie  re- 
plied, with  the  meekness  and  simplicity  of  a 
ten-year-old  infant. 

"That's  well — that's  well,  my  dear!  And 
you  look  in  excellent  and  very  charming 
health.  Ton  my  honor,  yes,  you've  grown 
quite  a  charming  young  lady." 

There  was  much  earnestness,  and  no  sign  of 
a  disposition  toward  mirth,  in  the  daughter's 
voice  and  face,  as  she  answered, 

"It  is  very  good  of  you,  papa,  to  tell  me  so. 
It  is  a  happiness  to  me  to  be  told  that  you  are 
pleased  with  me." 

"Then  be  happy,  my  child,"  the  benign  par- 
ent rejoined,  superbly,  as  he  took  one  of  his 
daughter's  hands  and  led  her  up  the  drawing- 
room,  keeping  her  from  him  at  the  distance  of 
a  full  ai'ms-length,  so  that  he  could  get  a  com- 
plete view  of  her  face  and  figure,  "  for  your 
papa  is  pleased  with  you." 

Having  led  her  to  the  middle  of  the  room, 
Sir  James  stopped,  and  bringing  Lottie  face  to 
face  with  himself,  observed  graciously, 

"  And  now  Lottie  shall  be  kissed,  once  for  a 
welcome"  (kiss  given),  "and  again  for  having 
been  a  good  girl  at  school "  (second  kiss  given), 
"and  a.  third  time  for  coming  home  with  her 
best  looks  upon  her." 

Having  bestowed  a  third  kiss  on  his  smiling 
daughter,  Sir  James  turned  from  her,  glanced 
at  the  French  clock  on  the  mantel-piece,  and 
then,  looking  toward  his  wife,  said,  in  a  tone  of 
mild  expostulation, 

"  'Tis  five  minutes  after  the  hour,  my  dear, 
and  dinner  has  not  been  announced." 

"Probably  Henry  has  waited  to  announce 
dinner  till  you  should  have  entered  the  draw- 
ing-room," Lady  Darling  suggested,  "and  had 
time  to  exchange  greetings  with  Lottie."  A 
suggestion  that  was  countenanced  by  the  op- 
portune appearance  of  pink-eyed  Henry. 


During  dinner  Lottie  Darling  gossiped  to 
her  father  in  girlish  fashion  about  the  incidents 
of  her  long  journey,  as  young  people  fresh  from 
a  few  hours  of  travel  through  unfamiliar  scenes 
are  wont  to  gossip  over  their  latest  adventures. 
She  described  the  bustle  at  the  London  Bridge 
station,  and  how  she  had  seen  iron  rolled  into 
fiery  ribbons  at  Hammerhampton.  Sir  James 
smiled  at  her  vivid  portraiture  of  Mr.  Guerdon, 
senior,  as  he  appeared  on  the  Hammerhampton 
platform  among  his  admirers ;  and  he  laughed 
heartily  as  she  reproduced,  with  the  slightest 
dash  of  malicious  mimicry,  the  conversation 
which  the  two  "quite  common  persons  "had 
held  about  pig-iron,  and  plates,  and  the  rates 
of  labor.  And  when  the  piquant  artist  in  small 
talk  told  how  and  why  it  was  clear  to  her  that 
Charley  and  his  friend  had  been  partially  deaf- 
ened by  the  incessant  hammering  of  their  daily 
haunts,  her  father  laid  his  fork  upon  his  plate, 
and  paused  in  his  enjoyment  of  a  piece  of  green 
apricot  tart,  in  order  that  he  might  indulge  in  a 
fit  of  screaming  merriment.  The  learned  man's 
eyes  sparkled,  and  for  the  moment  his  man- 
ner lost  its  stiffness.  Lady  Darling  had  never 
known  him  condescend  so  completely  to  one  of 
his  children,  and,  like  a  good  wife,  she  began  to 
imagine  the  benefit  he  might  derive  from  the 
girl's  brightening  companionship. 

"Ah!"  thought  Mary  Darling,  with  gentle 
sadness,  "that  is  how  he  used  to  laugh  when 
he  was  a  young  man,  without  a  single  gray 
hair,  and  I  was  a  strong  girl.  I  try  to  be 
cheerful,  but  my  spirits  fail  me  sometimes." 

As  for  Sir  James,  he  mentally  congratulated 
himself,  at  least  half  a  dozen  times  during  din- 
ner, on  having  a  satisfactory  daughter,  and  was 
of  Lady  Darling's  opinion  that  the  manor-house 
would  be  all  the  more  agreeable  for  having  a 
young  and  lovely  girl  in  it.  His  pleasure  was 
so  vivid  and  strong  that  for  a  brief  while  he  al- 
together lost  sight  of  his  dignity,  and  never 
thought  of  asking  himself  whether,  as  an  En- 
glish father,  he  was  justified  in  showing  his 
youngest  offspring  how  vastly  he  was  delighted 
with  her. 

When  he  dined  at  home,  with  only  his  own 
people,  it  was  Sir  James's  wont  to  sip  a  pint  of 
"  good  old  port "  after  his  dinner,  and  then  take 
half  an  hour's  nap,  before  seeking  coffee  in  the 
drawing-room.  To-day  Lottie's  influence 
caused  him  to  modify  the  ordinary  procedure. 
When  his  wife  and  child  had  quitted  the  din- 
ing-room, he  relished  neither  his  solitude  nor 
his  glass  of  '20  port.  The  wine,  good  sample 
though  it  was  of  a  vintage  rapidly  rising  to  the 
fullness  of  its  flavor  and  fame,  seemed  to  have 
lost  its  finest  delicacy.  As  it  passed  his  critic- 
al palate  the  drinker  wondered  what  had  hap- 
pened to  the  drink,  whose  merits  failed  to  en- 
gross his  attention  and  fill  him  with  content- 
ment. He  finished  it  less  for  the  enjoyment's 
sake  than  out  of  nervous  regard  for  his  "  sys- 
tem," which  might  suffer  in  some  mysterious 
way,  if  it  were  not  provided  with  its  habitual 
quantum  of  the  generous  stimulant.  Having 


38 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


done  his  duty  to  his  "system,"  Sir  James  Dar- 
ling threw  a  kerchief  over  his  head,  and  com- 
posed himself  in  his  easy-chair  for  slumber; 
but  sleep  shunned  the  voluptuous  lures  of  the 
bandana.  And  yet  the  restless  knight  forbore 
to  murmur  at  his  wakefulness.  He  brimmed 
over  with  self-complacency  and  paternal  satis- 
faction. 

It  being  a  lovely  evening,  he  determined  to 
carry  Lottie  off  from  her  mother,  and  take  her 
round  the  gardens.  With  this  purpose,  he  put 
the  silk  bandana  in  his  pocket,  placed  a  straw 
hat  on  his  whitened  tufts,  and,  presenting  him- 
self at  an  open  window  of  the  drawing-room,  in- 
vited Lottie  to  accompany  him. 

The  girl  was  pleased  with  the  proposal,  and 
with  her  light  hand  on  his  arm,  and  her  light 
dress  floating  by  his  side,  Sir  James  Darling 
spent  the  next  half-hour  far  more  agreeably 
than  in  snoring  away  under  the  folds  of  his 
handkerchief.  After  going  the  round  of  the 
flower-beds,  the  father  and  daughter  withdrew 
from  the  turf,  on  which  the  evening  dew  was 
falling,  and  took  a  turn  on  the  graveled  terrace. 
"No,  we  won't  look  at  the  stables  to-night," 
said  the  judge,  to  a  suggestion  made  by  the 
young  lady ;  "  but  to-morrow  morning,  before  I 
start  for  Grimeswick,  where  I  hold  a  late  court, 
I  must  take  your  opinion  on  my  latest  purchase 
in  horseflesh.  Let  us  return  now  to  mamma 
— for  coffee  and  music." 

On  re-entering  the  drawing-room,  they  found 
the  apartment  lighted,  and  the  judge's  cup  of 
black  coffee  ready  for  him.  Lottie  was  pro- 
vided with  a  cup  of  weak  tea,  that  would  not 
give  her  troublous  dreams ;  and  when  she  had 
refreshed  herself  with  the  mild  beverage,  she 
seated  herself  at  the  piano,  in  obedience  to 
papa's  orders,  and  played  one  of  her  last  year's 
"  pieces."  That  done,  the  applauded  perform- 
er warbled  two  of  her  father's  favorite  ballads, 
playing  the  instrumental  accompaniment  of  the 
words.  And  then,  at  Lady  Darling's  suggestion 
that  a  girl  who  had  risen  at  six  o'clock,  and 
traveled  from  Brighton  to  Boringdonshire  in 
the  day,  would  do  wisely  to  retire  betimes  for 
the  night,  Lottie  went  off  to  bed. 

It  was  indicative  of  Lottie's  new  power  over 
her  father  that,  on  seeing  her  rise  for  depart- 
ure, the  little  gentleman  sprang  to  his  feet, 
and,  hastening  to  the  end  of  the  long  salon, 
opened  the  door  for  her  in  his  most  gallant 
style.  Had  she  been  a  duchess,  he  could  not 
have  bowed  to  her  more  deferentially  as  she 
sailed  toward  him.  Staying  in  her  retreat, 
when  she  had  come  within  a  yard  of  him,  Lot- 
tie repaid  his  politeness  with  a  courtesy  that 
would  have  made  Madame  Bourbonnade  slap 
her  fat  hands  applaudingly.  Lottie  was  still  at 
the  lowest  point  of  the  graceful  descent,  when, 
looking  upward  with  arch  roguishness  at  the 
receiver  of  the  reverence,  she  gave  him  a  smile 
that  brought  to  his  keen  eyes  a  light  such  as 
the  girl  had  never  before  beheld  in  them.  The 
look  called  her  to  him,  and  she  obeyed  it  im- 
pulsively. In  an  instant  she  had  leaped  from 


her  lowly  posture,  and  thrown  both  her  arms 
round  his  neck.  Ten  seconds  later  she  was 
climbing  the  grand  staircase  which  the  iron- 
master had  raised  in  the  manor-house,  and  was 
thinking  to  herself,  "I  never  knew  till  to-night 
how  he  loves  me.  I  shall  never  be  afraid  of 
him  again." 

On  resuming  his  seat,  Sir  James  Darling 
straightened  his  back,  and,  putting  on  his  most 
consequential  look,  inquired  of  his  wife, 

"  My  dear,  did  you  observe  ?" 

"  I  saw  that  you  opened  the  door  for  Lottie," 
returned  Lady  Darling. 

"I  never  did  such  a  thing  before." 

"My  dear  James,  you  seldom  omit  to  open 
the  door  for  me  when  I  leave  the  room." 

"I  trust,  Mary,  that  I  am  seldom  forgetful 
to  do  so.  But  Lottie  is  only  my  daughter." 

"I  was  pleased  to  see  you  render  her  the 
attention.  She  is  a  girl  to  notice  and  appre- 
ciate it." 

"  There  was  no  harm  in  it?" 

"None." 

"  I  did  not  lay  aside  my  paternal  dignity  too 
completely  ?"  inquired  the  father,  tossing  up  his 
little  chin  with  comical  uppishness. 

"  By  no  means,  James.  A  father's  dignity 
is  never  compromised  by  graciousness  toward 
his  children." 

Re-assured  on  this  point,  Sir  James  Darling 
next  thought  of  the  effects  which  his  condescen- 
sion would  have  on  Lottie. 

"And  it  won't,"  he  asked,  "  do  her  any  harm  ? 
It  won't  '  set  her  up '  too  much,  eh  ?  She  is  a 
charming  girl — in  point  of  fact,  a  very  lovely 
young  woman  ;  but  still  she  must  be  kept-  in  a 
state  of  subordination  to  authority.  It  would 
be  a  great  pity  if  she  should  think  too  much  of 
herself." 

Lady  Darling  smiled  at  the  notion,  as  she 
said, 

"Lottie  will  never  do  that.  She  is  diffident 
and  modest  to  a  fault." 

"A  girl,  my  dear  Mary,  can  never  think  too 
lowly  of  herself. " 

"  I  do  not  altogether  agree  with  yon,  James," 
rejoined  Lady  Darling,  who,  though  she  was 
an  exemplary  wife,  and  liked  to  be  governed 
in  all  important  matters  by  her  husband,  could 
sometimes  find  courage  to  differ  from  him. 

"As  a  general  rule,  it  is  better  to  repress 
grown-up  girls  than  to  inspire  them  with  self- 
esteem." 

"  Some  girls,  doubtless,  need  a  discipline  of 
repression ;  but  Lottie  is  so  nervous,  and  do- 
cile, and  loyally  submissive  to  her  betters,  that 
you  would  do  more  wisely  to  encourage  her  in 
self-reliance  than  to  remind  her  of  her  depend- 
ence on  others." 

"  Then,  Mary,"  Sir  James  asked,  "  you  would 
not  think  me  condescending  too  far  if  1  were  to 
make  it  my  habit  to  open  the  door  for  her?" 

"  Now  that  she  has  left  school,  dear,  I  would 
advise  you  to  treat  her  in  every  particular  with, 
the  politeness  which  you  would  be  sure  to  exhib- 
it to  her  if  she  were  not  your  daughter.  Treat 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


her  as  far  as  possible  as  you  treat  me,  James, 
and  you  will  train  her  to  know  how  a  perfect 
gentleman  should  bear  himself  toward  her." 

"  Ton  my  honor,  Mary,  that's  very  nicely  put. 
You  possess  singular  felicity  of  expression  and 
rare  colloquial  tact."  After  a  pause,  during 
which  the  judge  meditated  on  his  wife's  excel- 
lence in  the  art  of  putting  things,  and  account- 
ed for  it  satisfactorily,  he  added,  "But  then,  you 
have  been  my  wife  for  thirty  years." 

Flattering  him  exquisitely,  because  it  was  ob- 
vious that  she  spoke  from  her  heart,  and  had 
no  intention  to  flatter  him,  Mary  rejoined, 

"  Thirty  years ! — they  have  been  very  happy 
years,  James." 

Sir  James  Darling  made  no  reply.  He  was 
thinking  about  his  charming  daughter,  and  re- 
solving that  he  would  henceforth  treat  her  as 
though  she  were  as  nearly  his  equal  as  a  wom- 
an could  be. 

"But,"  he  observed,  when  ho  had  silently 
considered  this  matter,  "  when  you  see  me  of- 
fering Lottie  all  those  little  daily  attentions 
that  you  have  hitherto  regarded  as  due  to  no 
woman  but  yourself,  you  may  grow  jealous  of 
the  child." 

"Jealous  of  my  own  child! — preposterous!" 
Mary  Darling  exclaimed,  indignantly.  "If  I 
had  the  nerve  to  scold  you,  James,  I  would 
scold  you  now,  for  I  am  quite  angry  enough  to 
do  it." 

"  Is  it  impossible  for  a  fairly  good  woman  to 
be  jealous  of  her  own  daughter  ?" 

"  I  only  spoke  of  myself,  and  no  other  fairly 
good  woman." 

"  Well,  1  can  confess,  Mary,  that  I  was  very 
jealous  of  that  eldest  boy  of  yours,  when  he 
was  a  baby,  and  I  saw  that  it  gave  you  more 
pleasure  to  hover  over  his  cradle  in  the  nursery 
than  to  sit  with  me  in  your  little  drawing-room 
in  the  winter  evenings.  I  was  hotly  jealous 
when  you  deserted  me  again  and  again  for  the 
society  of  a  little  squealing  manikin." 

Mary  Darling's  eyes  brightened,  as  she  ask- 
ed seriously, 

"  Do  you  really  mean  what  you  say  ?  No  ; 
you  are  playing,  James." 

"I  am  speaking  the  thith,"  Sir  James  an- 
swered, vehemently.  "  I  was  thoroughly  jeal- 
ous of  the  boy  before  he  was  twelve  months 
old,  and  I  fancied  that  I  should  never  grow  to 
like  him." 

Mary  Darling's  heart  was  stirred  at  a  newly 
discovered  proof  of  her  lord's  goodness.  The 
foolish  woman  was  always  finding  a  new  in- 
stance of  his  virtue.  Fortunately  for  him,  in- 
stead of  weeping  over  each  fresh  discovery,  she 
was  content  to  smile,  and  exult  over  it  quietly. 

"  I  never  imagined  it,  James  ;  and,  though 
the  merest  suspicion  of  it  would  have  pained  me 
then,  I  am  very  glad  to  know  it  now.  How 
noble  it  was  of  you  to  keep  your  dissatisfaction 
from  my  knowledge,  and  always  to  appear  as 
if  you  loved  the  boy  heartily !  Not  one  man 
in  ten  thousand  could  have  concealed  his  jeal- 
ousy out  of  pure  care  for  his  wife's  happiness." 


"  Tut,  tut !"  responded  the  little  man,  laying 
aside  his  pomposity,  and  for  once  declining  to 
take  one  of  Mary's  readings  of  his  nature,  "  I 
won't  be  a  humbug.  It  was  selfishness  and  pol- 
icy that  made  me  behave  like  a  sensible  man, 
when  I  was  almost  a  fool.  In  my  jealousy  I 
was  deucedly  afraid  that  I  had  lost  your  heart 
forever,  and  certain  that  by  revealing  the  state 
of  the  case  I  should  lessen  my  chance  of  re- 
covering the  first  place  in  your  love.  So  I  held 
my  tongue,  played  the  hypocrite,  and  soon  cut 
out  my  unconscious  little  rival." 

Rising,  when  she  had  heard  this  droll  and 
perfectly  true  confession,  Mary  Darling  said, 

"And  now  I  am  going  to  desert  you  for  an- 
other rival,  who  won't  close  her  eyes,  tired  as 
she  is,  until  she  has  had  a  kiss  from  mamma. 
Pray  don't  trouble  yourself  to  open  the  door  for 
me.  I  give  you  free  leave  to  slight  me,  if  you'll 
only  be  good  enough  to  woo  my  daughter!" 


CHAPTER  X. 

HUSBAND   AND   WIFE. 

LIKE  most  gentlemen  of  his  time,  Sir  James 
Darling  took  snuff.  Unlike  them,  he  was  also 
a  smoker.  The  Bar  led  the  way  in  the  revival 
of  smoking,  which  was  generally  regarded  as  an 
obsolete  and  vulgar  pi-actice  by  the  snuff-takers 
of  the  Regency.  Indeed,  the  Bar  may  be  said 
to  have  brought  the  proper  use  of  the  gentle 
weed  into  fashion  again.  Sir  James  had  never 
put  his  lips  to  meerschaum  or  "  church-warden," 
but  he  enjoyed  a  good  cigar,  and  smoked  one 
every  evening.  When  he  had  no  companion  but 
his  cigar,  it  was  his  wont  to  peruse  a  few  pages 
of  Thucydides,  while  the  benign  herb  tranquil- 
ized  and  quickened  his  mind.  Sir  James  had 
received  his  preliminary  education  at  Oxford, 
and  was  of  opinion  that  an  Oxford  man  ought 
to  "  keep  up  his  classics." 

Having  dispatched  his  cigar,and  paid  less  than 
his  usual  attention  to  the  historian's  luminous 
page,  Sir  James  went  to  his  dressing-room,  and, 
in  due  course,  to  his  sleeping  apartment.  On 
entering  which  luxurious  chamber,  all  that  he 
could  see  of  Lady  Darling  was  a  faint,  gentle 
face,  resting  on  a  pillow,  and  surmounted  by  a 
lace-edged  muslin  cap,  which,  though  a  dainty 
and  rather  coquettish  article  for  its  date  in  the 
nineteenth  century,  would  be  ridiculed  nowa- 
days by  critical  gentlewomen  as  an  outrageous- 
ly "  mobbish  "  contrivance. 

The  room  was  so  lighted  by  tapers  on  the 
toilet-table  and  mantel-piece  that  the  master 
of  Arleigh  Manor  could  see  at  a  glance  that  his 
wife  was  wide  awake.  He  could  also  survey 
his  reflection  in  the  high  cheval-glass. 

Sir  James  had  divested  himself  of  his  black 
integuments  and  starched  cravat,  and  had  en- 
veloped himself  in  a  softly  padded  dressing- 
gown  of  crimson  silk.  His  head  was  crowned 
with  a  yellow  turban,  made  of  a  silk  handker- 
chief deftly  folded,  on  principles  known  only  to 


40 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


the  wearer.  It  is  believed  that  the  judge  did 
not  sleep  in  his  crimson  robe,  but  there  is  good 
authority  for  saying  that  he  wore  his  turban 
throughout  the  hours  of  repose.  Altogether, 
as  he  stood  before  the  mirror,  and  regarded 
himself  with  generous  self-satisfaction,  the  gen- 
tleman looked  more  like  a  gorgeous  wingless 
bird  than  a  judge  of  one  of  Her  Majesty's  coun- 
ty courts. 

"  Yes,  Mary,  our  girl  is  a  very  charming  girl," 
he  observed,  graciously,  while  he  continued  to 
study  his  brilliant  plumage,  and  sharp  features, 
and  little  corrugated  neck,  that  looked  painfully 
like  the  neck  of  a  plucked  fowl. 

"She  is  lovely!"  Lady  Darling  rejoined, 
with  enthusiasm.  "  You  should  have  seen  her 
just  now,  when  she  was  on  the  point  of  falling 
asleep." 

"In  certain  points,"  continued  the  judge, 
"  she  bears  a  very  considerable  resemblance  to 
you.  But  upon  the  whole  she  derives  her  good 
looks  from  her  father's  family.  The  Darlings 
have  never  been  deficient  in  personal  attract- 
iveness. Yes,  Mary,  she  has  your  smile  and 
expression,  but  she  has  my  nose,  my  chin,  my 
lips,  and  my  complexion." 

When  Lady  Darling  was  tempted  to  reply 
saucily  to  her  husband  or  laugh  at  his  foibles, 
it  was  her  wont  to  count  ten  to  herself.  On 
the  present  occasion  she  counted  twenty,  and 
came  victoriously  out  of  a  conflict  with  temp- 
tation. 

"  Of  course,"  remarked  Sir  James,  when  he 
had  admired  himself  deliberately,  and  stated 
the  most  obvious  points  of  his  likeness  to  his 
child,  "the  world  will  make  much  of  her,  for 
her  nature  is  as  faultless  as  her  face.  Ah !  I 
wish  her  sister  had  as  sweet  a  disposition. 
When  we  have  given  Connie  a  sound  pair  of 
lungs,  we  must  do  our  best  for  the  poor  girl's 
temper." 

Though  Connie's  perversity  and  petulance 
had  caused  Mary  Darling  many  bitter  tears  and 
many  a  cruel  heart- ache,  the  mother  would  nev- 
er allow  any  one  to  condemn  the  faulty  girl. 
Connie  had  been  sent  to  her  uncle  at  Nice,  as 
much  for  the  benefit  that  new  influences  might 
do  her  temper  as  for  the  good  that  a  milder 
climate  might  do  her  bodily  health.  In  truth, 
the  doctors  spoke  lightly  of  her  pulmonary 
weakness,  while  her  papa  and  mamma  made 
much  of  it  to  the  world,  in  order  that,  having  a 
sufficient  reason  for  her  absence  from  England, 
their  neighbors  might  not  suspect  the  stronger 
and  more  distressing  cause  of  her  foreign  resi- 
dence. From  her  childhood,  Connie  had  been 
the  "  skeleton  of  the  closet "  of  James  Darlings 
household.  She  had  been  Mary  Darling's 
"cross"  —  a  cross  that  the  mother  strove  to 
bear  in  silence.  One  of  Lady  Darling's  first 
objects  was  to  keep  from  Lottie's  knowledge 
the  extent  of  her  sister's  misdemeanors ;  and 
hitherto  the  mother's  purpose  in  this  respect 
had  been  so  far  successful  that  Lottie  only  re- 
garded the  wayward  Connie  (just  three  years 
her  senior)  as  an  eccentric  invalid,  who  was  at 


times  "quite  queer,  and  rather  difficult  to  deal 
with." 

"  Connie  will  do  well  enough,"  Lady  Dar- 
ling said,  with  a  coldness  which  intimated  that 
she  would  not  allow  even  her  husband  to  speak 
slightingly  of  his  absent  daughter.  "Most 
girls  have  a  few  failings  to  outgrow,  and  Connie 
will  outgrow  hers,  which,  thank  Heaven,  are 
not  so  serious  as  some  girls'.  And  I  am  sure, 
James,  the  letters  we  get  from  Nice — her  aunt's 
letters  as  well  as  her  own  —  warrant  us  in 
hoping  confidently  for  the  best." 

Sir  James  shook  his  head  doubtingly ;  but, 
like  a  good  husband,  he  withdrew  from  the  for- 
bidden ground. 

"Anyhow  we  may  be  proudly  hopeful  for 
Lottie,"  he  said.  "Making  full  allowance  for 
parental  partiality  (an  allowance  that  rny  ju- 
dical  mind  is  well  qualified  to  make),  I  am  of 
opinion,  my  dear,  that  the  girl  is  as  nearly  per- 
fect as  a  girl  can  be.  I  almost  wish  that  her 
excellences  were  less  obvious." 

"Pray  don't  wish  that,  James,"  entreated 
the  face  on  the  pillow. 

"As  it  is,  she  will  be  leaving  us  directly," 
explained  Sir  James,  giving  utterance  to  the 
very  thought  that  had  been  secretly  troubling 
Mary  for  a  full  fortnight,  and  had  caused  her 
at  least  three  quite  sleepless  nights. 

"  Why,  my  dear  James,"  exclaimed  the  gen- 
tle hypocrite,  with  well-acted  surprise,  "  the  girl 
has  not  at  present  a  single  invitation  for  a  stay- 
ing visit." 

Throwing  his  turbaned  head  backward,  the 
judge  replied, 

"But  she  soon  will  have  one." 

"Who  is  going  to  ask  her?" 

"Heaven  knows!  Some  self-sufficient,  in- 
solent young  fellow,  perhaps,  who'll  imagine 
that  he  pays  me  a  great  compliment,  and  lays 
me  under  a  weighty  obligation  by  depriving 
me  of  the  treasure  which  I  value  beyond  all 
my  other  possessions,  with  the  exception  of 
you,  my  dear.  Of  course,  Mary,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  you." 

"  Don't  talk  so,  James,  you'll  frighten  me." 

"That's  the  kind  of  benefactor,"  Sir  James 
continued,  cynically  and  rather  fiercely,  "  who'll 
very  soon — next  year,  next  month,  next  week 
— a'sk  Lottie  to  come  to  him  for  a  staying  visit 
that  won't  end  in  a  hurry.  Perhaps  he'll  be  a 
Scotchman,  who  will  carry  her  off  to  the  High- 
lands, and  graciously  permit  us  to  visit  his  cas- 
tle and  captive  once  in  every  two  or  three 
years ;  or,  may  be,  if  he  is  an  exceptionally  be- 
nignant gentleman,  he'll  be  so  good  as  to  car- 
ry our  pet  off  to  India  or  Japan,  and  keep  her 
there  till  we  are  dead.  It  is  too  bad  that  par- 
ents should  be  required  to  submit  to  such  ma- 
rauders. It  was  better  in  the  days  of  Marriage 
by  Capture  than  it  is  now ;  for  then,  if  a  man 
tried  to  carry  off  your  daughter,  you  might  put 
a  knife  into  him,  or  knock  him  down  with  a 
bludgeon ;  but  nowadays  the  worst  that  you 
may  do  to  him  is  to  ask  him  to  dinner,  and  put 
the  table's-length  between  him  and  his  prey." 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


41 


"You  mean,"  rejoined  the  face  on  the  pil- 
low, "  that,  sooner  or  later,  Lottie  will  mar- 
ry?" 

"Pardon  me,  Mary,"  replied  the  small  gen- 
tleman, drawing  the  skirts  of  his  crimson  dress 
more  closely  over  a  pair  of  not  prodigious  legs, 
and  then  folding  his  arms  over  his  breast,  after 
the  dignified  fashion  of  the  First  Napoleon, 
there's  no  '  later '  in  the  question.  I  wish 
that  so  lovely  a  girl  could  marry  'later,'  and 
to  our  liking.  She'll  be  sure  to  marry  '  soon- 
er,' and  the  great  danger  is  that  she  may  be 
carried  off  by  some  pert  jackanapes,  whom  you 
won't  be  able  to  like,  and  I  shall  detest." 

"The  danger  has  occurred  to  me." 

"Indeed!  Eh?  The  thought  is  not  new 
to  you?" 

"  How  should  it  be,  James  ?  If  you  are  her 
father,  I  am  her  mother.  Of  course  I  fear 
what  you  fear." 

"Well,  we  must  hope  for  the  best,  and  in 
the  mean  time  enjoy  her  company  while  we 
have  it." 

"Would  it  not  be  well,"  suggested  the  pil- 
lowed face,  "that  we  should  anticipate  events, 
and  control  them  as  far  as  possible?  Would 
it  not  be  well  that  we  should  provide  against 
the  danger,  and  choose  a  suitor  to  our  taste 
who  will  make  her  happy  in  this  neighbor- 
hood? Of  course  we  would  not  constrain  her 
aftections,  but  we  might  influence  her  judg- 
ment, and  even  decide  her  choice." 

"  Humph  !  in  this  neighborhood  ?" 

"I  could  not  consent  to  any  match  that 
would  take  her  to  India  or  Japan.  It  would 
almost  break  my  heart  to  think  that,  in  two  or 
three  years'  time,  she  would  be  taken  from  me 
to  a  home  so  far  away  as  the  Highlands." 

In  his  di-iest  and  most  matter-of-fact  tone, 
Sir  James  replied, 

"  Boringdonshire,  though  rich  and  populous, 
has  not  many  young  men  of  the  style  and  qual- 
ity for  our  girl." 

"  Owleybury  is  a  cathedral  town,"  rejoined 
Mary,  "and  a  centre  of  clerical  life,  and, 
through  your  old  friendship  with  the  bishop, 
we  are  well  known  in  the  clerical  circle.  Lot- 
tie would  be  well  enough  placed  if,  with  her 
modest  fortune,  she  were  to  marry  a  rector 
with  good  preferment." 

"Boringdonshire  has  few  good  livings,  and 
in  this  corner  of  the  county  they  are  very  poor." 

"But  rich  men  often  hold  small  livings. 
Of  course  I  don't  wish  to  see  her  a  poor  clergy- 
man's wife." 

"I  don't  wish  her  to  marry  a  clergyman." 

"Neither  do  I." 

Having  made  that  admission,  Lady  Darling 
pointed  to  another  class  of  persons,  among 
Avhom  the  daughter  of  a  county  court  judge 
might  find  a  husband  without  losing  caste. 

"In  this  manufacturing  and  commercial  dis- 
trict," she  said,  "there  is  no  lack  of  gentlemen 
who  have  enriched  themselves  by  the  industries 
of  the  Great  Yard." 

Sir  James  shuddered  as  he  ejaculated, 


"  Good  heavens,  Mary  !  you  don't  want  for 
your  son-in-law  an  iron-master,  who  can  talk 
about  nothing  but  his  pig-iron  and  contracts  ?" 

"Some  of  the  iron-masters  are  in  every  re- 
spect gentlemen;  I  have  heard  you  say  so." 

"  So  I  have ;  so  they  are." 

"  There  is  Mr.  Bloxham,  of  Newton  Court — 
a  most  clever  and  delightful  gentleman.  His 
sons,  who  are  just  now  in  Norway,  are  most 
agreeable  young  men.  Lottie  might  do  worse 
than  marry  one  of  them.  She  would  be  rich, 
and  live  near  us." 

"Pooh!" 

Had  it  not  been  for  the  disdainfulness  of  this 
exclamation,  Lady  Darling  would  have  led  out 
some  other  "eligible  young  men"  for  her  hus- 
band to  consider  and  reject.  But  the  contempt- 
uous sharpness  with  which  he  dismissed  the  sons 
of  Mr.  Bloxham  acted  like  a  spur  on  the  plot- 
ting mother,  and  she  hastened  at  once  to  her 
scheme  for  Lottie's  settlement. 

"  I  like  Mr.  Albert  Guerdon,"  the  pillowed 
face  said,  emphatically. 

"  So  do  I,"  responded  the  wearer  of  the  crim- 
son dressing-gown.  "He  has  pleasant  looks 
and  good  manners." 

"He  is  a  young  man  of  good  principle  and 
high  education." 

"  Has  seen  a  great  deal  of  the  world  for  so 
young  a  man." 

"  He  is  precisely  of  the  right  age — twenty- 
five." 

"Precisely  of  the  right  age,  and  an  only 
child." 

"His  father  is  rich." 

"As  the  wife  of  the  first  banker  in  Boring- 
donshire, Lottie  would  rank  with  the  ladies  of 
*  the  county.' " 

"No  doubt;  and  the  young  man  bears  an 
excellent  character." 

"And  she  would  live  so  near  us  that  we 
could  almost  be  called  next-door  neighbors. 
Mr.  Albert  Guerdon  told  me  the  other  clay 
that  by  the  pathway  over  the  fields  it  is  not 
more  than  three  miles  and  a  half,  or  at  most 
four  miles,  from  Arleigh  to  Earl's  Court." 

"And  Earl's  Court  is  a  charming  place,"  ob- 
served the  owner  of  the  dressing-gown.  "I 
confess,  Mary,  that- you  have  selected  a  young 
man  whom  I  should  welcome  cordially  into  the 
Darling  family." 

"I  am  sure  he  is  a  very  good  young  man," 
said  the  face  on  the  pillow.  "  No  worldly  ad- 
vantages could  reconcile  me  to  a  match  that 
would  link  our  Lottie  to  a  man  unworthy  of 
her." 

"To  tell  you  the  truth,  Mary,"  said  the  judge, 
"  this  is  no  new  thought  to  me.  A  full  month 
since  it  occurred  to  me  that  Mr.  Guerdon's  son 
would  be  a  very  appropriate  match  for  our 
child." 

"The  notion  came  into  my  head  exactly  a 
month  since,  as  we  were  driving  home  from 
the  dinner-party  at  Newton  Court,  when  we 
met  Mr.  Albert  Guerdon  for  the  first  time." 

"Very  singular!     That  was  the  very  time 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


when  the  notion  first  presented  itself  to  my 
mind." 

"I  wish  you  had  told  me  so,  James,"  said 
the  pillowed  face,  "  for  then  we  could  have  had 
the  pleasure  of  talking  the  matter  over  sooner." 

"  Well,  my  dear,  we  will  talk  it  over  fully  as 
soon  as  I  have  put  the  candles  out." 

In  another  minute  Sir  James  Darling  had 
extinguished  the  four  tapers  with  four  puffs. 
Each  puff  was  a  dead  shot.  Each  puff  killed 
its  candle.  As  he  moved  in  the  darkness  to- 
ward the  pillowed  face,  he  commended  the  pre- 
cision of  his  aims,  and  the  success  of  the  shots. 

The  clock  of  Arleigh  church  had  struck  one 
hefore  the  conspirator  in  the  yellow  turban  and 
the  conspirator  in  the  lace-bordered  muslin  cap 
fell  asleep,  after  regarding  their  joint  project 
from  every  point  of  view,  and  agreeing  how 
they  would  act  for  its  achievement  under  ev- 
ery imaginable  contingency. 

And  while  the  two  affectionate  simpletons 
talked  the  matter  over,  Lottie  slept  the  sleep 
of  innocence  and  health. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

LADY   DARLING  PREPARES  HER  DAUGHTER'S 
MIND. 

LADY  DARLING  was  an  habitually  late  riser. 
She  was  no  bird  whom  the  early  worm  had 
reason  to  fear.  Her  ordinary  day  began  full 
two  hours  after  her  husband's  breakfast,  which 
was  never  later  than  nine  o'clock. 

Had  it  not  been  for  Lottie's  return  from 
Brighton,  Sir  James  would  have  breakfasted 
alone  on  the  day  following  the  conversation  re- 
ported in  the  last  chapter.  But  on  entering  his 
breakfast  parlor,  the  learned  man  was  greeted 
with  a  kiss  by  the  young  lady,  who  looked  as 
fresh  as  a  rose  in  her  morning  robe  of  green 
and  white  muslin,  and,  without  asking  permis- 
sion to  do  so,  installed  herself  as  a  matter  of 
course  in  the  tea -maker's  seat  and  office. 
Though  she  had  ascertained  from  the  house- 
keeper how  much  tea  should  be  put  into  the 
pot,  and  how  long  the  infusion  should  be  allowed 
"  to  stand,"  Lottie  was  fearful  lest  she  should 
not  discharge  her  new  functions  to  her  father's 
satisfaction.  But  her  mind  was  soon  set  at 
ease  on  this  point. 

"Capital  tea!"  the  judge  exclaimed,  em- 
phatically. "  Had  you  a  tea-making  class  at 
Hanover  Square  ?" 

1 '  No, "  laughed  Lottie.  * '  My  success  is  due 
to  anxious  conversation  with  Mrs.  Tribe,  and 
servile  obedience  to  her  instructions." 

"You  followed  in  the  steps  of  an  old  practi- 
tioner, eh  ?  Well,  that's  what  I  did  with  my 
first  brief.  By-the-way,  I  must  write  to  Miss 
Constantine  to-day.  Shall  I  say  any  thing  for 
you?" 

"I  send  her  a  kiss." 

"  Very  good  ;  but  I  can't  pass  it  on  till  you 
have  given  it  to  me." 


"You  shall  have  it  before  you  leave  for  your 
court,"  Miss  Lottie  answered,  demurely,  won- 
dering to  herself  how  she  could  respond  in  such 
a  free  and  easy  way  to  her  sire. 

"  I  shall  tell  her  that  you  are  a  naughty  girl." 

"And  a  bad  tea- maker?" 

"  No,  for  your  sake,  I  won't  go  into  partic- 
ulars." After  a  pause,  papa  added,  with  a 
slight  return  of  his  pompousness,  "  I  shall  ex- 
press to  Miss  Constantine  my  sense  of  obliga- 
tion— my  lively  sense  of  a  heavy  obligation — to 
her  for  the  care  she  has  expended  on  your  ed- 
ucation. Ere  long,  I  hope,  she  will  allow  me 
to  express  the  same  feeling  by  words  of  mouth. 
Your  mamma  will  entreat  her  to  visit  us." 

When  Sir  James  had  enjoyed  his  second  cup 
of  "capital  tea,"  he  carried  Lottie  off  to  the 
stables,  and  showed  the  horse  which  he  had 
bought  for  her — a  high-bred,  dapple-brown  an- 
imal, with  black  muzzle,  thin  nostrils,  tiny  head, 
clever  ears,  arching  neck,  and  a  mane  and  tail 
fit  for  a  picture.  High  in  the  shoulder,  deep  in 
the  barrel,  and  standing  just  fifteen  and  a  half 
hands,  Clifton  (so  called  from  the  town  of  its 
birth)  was  a  model  "lady's  steed  ;"and  as  Lot- 
tie saw  the  gentle  creature  move  round  the 
court-yard  of  the  stables,  she  had  no  fear  that 
he  would  be  too  much  for  her.  For  she  had 
taken  regular  riding-lessons  on  the  Brighton 
downs  from  Mrs.  Patterson,  the  fashionable  rid- 
ing-mistress of  the  Sussex  watering-place,  who 
was  so  much  run  after  by  the  fair  "visitors" 
of  the  town  that  she  would  not  teach  her  art 
to  the  girls  of  inferior  schools,  and  affected  to 
attend  on  the  "  Constantines  "  as  a  matter  of 
favor.  And  Lottie  was  a  clever  and  graceful 
horsewoman. 

The  delight  with  which  a  brave  girl  accepts 
her  first  horse  exceeds  the  delight  with  which 
she  accepts  her  first  lover.  It  is  quite  as  vivid 
as  love's  first  transport,  and  is  alloyed  with  no 
undefinable  dread  that  the  prize  may  teach  her 
penitence  by  giving  her  an  ugly  fall.  Lottie's 
pleasure  was  ecstatic.  She  patted  her  horse, 
coaxed  him,  kissed  him,  looked  into  his  eyes, 
and,,  stooping,  measured  the  bones  of  his  jet- 
black  fore  legs  with  a  small  white  hand.  The 
number  of  minute  carrots  and  other  sweet  bits 
that  she  gave  him  slyly  during  the  next  fort- 
night was  prodigious. 

It  was  past  eleven  o'clock  before  Lottie  saw 
her  mother ;  and  when  Lottie  Darling  gave 
her  the  greeting  of  the  day,  the  girl  was  sit- 
ting on  the  lawn,  beneath  the  shade  of  a  clump 
of  elms,  busy  at  work  at  a  piece  of  embroidery. 
Occupant  of  a  low  garden-chair,  with  the  ma- 
terials for  her  work  before  her  on  a  little  table, 
which  she  had  brought  from  the  house,  Lottie 
was  a  picture  of  serene  gladness.  Plying  her 
needle  in  the  open  air,  she  had  been  thinking 
how  pleasantly  time  would  go  with  her  now 
that  her  papa  had  become  so  gracious  and  be- 
nignant ;  and  the  joy  of  her  heart  was  visible 
in  a  happy  face.  When  her  mother,  after  kiss- 
ing her  and  admiring  the  delicate  work  on 
which  her  fingers  were  employed,  had  taken  a 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


43 


seat  by  her  side,  the  girl  felt  that  nothing  could 
heighten  her  felicity. 

With  a  husband's  readiness  to  instruct  his 
wife  on  matters  respecting  which  the  stupidest 
woman  is  usually  qualified  to  teach  the  clever- 
est man,  Sir  James  Darling  had  closed  the  cur- 
tain talk  of  the  previous  night  by  admonishing 
his  confederate  to  say  nothing  to  Lottie  which 
should  prematurely  reveal  their  design  to  her. 
Of  course  Lady  Darling  had  indignantly  as- 
sured the  judge  that  there  had  been  no  need 
for  the  caution.  A  bird-catcher  would  as  soon 
think  of  standing  close  before  the  entrance  of 
the  net  spread  for  his  timid  prey  as  Lady  Dar- 
ling would  have  thought  of  telling  her  girl  that 
she  was  required  to  fall  in  love  with  a  young 
man  whom  she  had  barely  seen.  The  mother 
required  no  one  to  inform  her  that  she  would 
only  shock  the  girl,  and  cause  her  to  shrink 
from  Albert  Guerdon's  attentions,  were  she  to 
give  her  the  slightest  hint  that  her  parents 
wished  his  arms  to  embrace  her.  But  though 
Lady  Darling  was  too  wise  and  womanly  to 
alarm  Lottie  with  unreasonable  gossip  about 
Albert,  or  any  other  person  likely  to  become 
her  suitor,  she  deemed  it  advisable  to  plant  the 
seeds  of  romantic  thought  in  her  daughter's  im- 
agination. 

"You  were  smiling,  Lottie,  before  you  heard 
my  step  on  the  grass." 

"Very  likely  I  was,  mother,  but  they  were 
unconscious  smiles." 

"  Can't  you  remember  what  you  were  smiling 
at?" 

"My  work,  perhaps.  Flattery  usually  wins 
a  smile,  and  a  girl  can  have  no  more  subtle  flat- 
terer than  a  piece  of  embroidery,  which  grows 
more  and  more  lovely  under  her  hands,  and 
whispers  to  her  at  every  pricking  of  the  needle, 
'How  clever  and  skillful  you  are  to  make  me 
look  so  well !'  Just  look  at  that  sprig,  mamma ! 
Is  it  not  well  done  ?  Do  help  my  work  to  flat- 
ter me." 

"Did  the  work  make  any  other  agreeable 
speeches  to  you  ?" 

"No;  that's  about  all  that  work  of  this  kind 
can  say.  But  a  little  praise  satisfies  the  listen- 
er who  is  disposed  to  be  happy.  Here  comes 
the  warm  breeze  again,  playing  over  the  valley, 
and  bringing  us  the  scent  of  the  Flocktonshire 
hay  fields.  Dear  mamma,  how  happy  we  shall 
be  here — you,  and  I,  and  papa!" 

"Very  happy,  as  long  as  you  remain  with 
us." 

"As  long  as  I  remain  with  you! — I  am  go- 
ing to  live  here  forever!" 

"I  wish  you  could.  But, beauty, I  may  not 
allow  myself  to  hope  that  you  will  be  my  daily 
companion  for  many  years.  In  all  human  prob- 
ability, you'll  marry." 

Shuddering  with  surprise  and  distaste  for  the 
thought  of  marriage  as  an  event  that  would  re- 
move her  from  Arleigh,  Lottie  looked  curious- 
ly into  her  mother's  eyes,  which  fell  before  the 
girl's  scrutiny.  Then  Lottie  cooed  expostula- 
tingly, 


"Don't  frighten  me  with  dreadful  anticipa- 
tions. You  have  put  a  chill  into  the  air.  See, 
I  am  shivering.  If  you  must  talk  dolefully, 
dear,  tell  me  a  ghost  story,  or  all  the  particulars 
of  the  last  murder." 

"If  the  mere  thought  of  marriage  terrifies 
you,  you  would  do  well  to  train  your  mind  to 
look  forward  to  it  as  the  happiest  condition  for 
a  woman." 

"But  I  do  not  want  to  be  a  woman  yet. 
Yesterday  I  was  only  a  school-girl,  and  to-day 
you  would  make  me  out  to  be  a  woman.  May  I 
not  have  a  little  time,  mamma,  between  school- 
girlhood  and  womanhood  in  which  to  be  a  girl, 
and  nothing  else  ?  It  will  be  time  enough  for 
me  to  think  of  marriage  when  I  shall  be  a  staid 
woman  on  the  downhill  of  life — say  five-and- 
twenty  years  old." 

"  Ere  long  you'll  be  required  to  think  about 
the  matter,  my  pet,  and  say  '  yea '  or  '  nay '  to 
some  one." 

"Why,  mamma,  you  would  not  have  me 
marry  in  my  teens  ?"  cried  Lottie. 

"Heaven  forbid  it!"  ejaculated  the  mother, 
who,  changing  her  voice  after  uttering  the  ve- 
hement exclamation,  continued,  in  a  lower  tone, 
"  But  I  ought  not  to  say  that.  Your  wedding 
day,  whenever  it  may  be,  will  be  a  sad  one  for 
me ;  but  I  would  not  defer  it  from  the  selfish 
consideration  that  it  will  be  painful  for  me  to 
part  with  you.  While  I  tell  you  to  look  at  mar- 
riage as  your  probable  field  of  duty,  I  am,  as 
you  see,  schooling  myself  to  anticipate  cheer- 
fully the  time  when  you  will  leave  your  mother 
at  duty's  call,  just  as  I  left  mine.  I  feel  toward 
you  and  your  career,  Lottie,  much  as  a  proud 
father  feels  toward  a  son  who  has  entered 
the  queen's  army.  However  much  the  father 
would  like  the  boy  to  be  always  near  him,  he 
knows  that  a  soldier  may  not  shirk  foreign  serv- 
ice or  the  battle-field.  You  may  laugh  at  the 
unaptness  of  the  simile,  but  marriage  is  a  kind 
of  battle-field — it  is  the  field  where  women  win 
their  brightest  victories  and  shine  heroically,  or 
with  honorable,  though  perhaps  unapplauded, 
dutifulness,  discharge  the  highest  duties  of  their 
sex." 

Lottie  sighed.  The  topic  pained  her  so  much 
that  she  fell  back  on  her  old  phrase,  saying, 
"Well,  mamma,  'let  it  be.'  I'll  think  of  it 
when  I  must.  And  I  hope  I  shall  do  my  duty 
in  the  battle-field,  whenever  I  am  required  to 
enter  it.  But  we'll  '  let  it  be '  for  the  present." 
But  though  she  wished  to  dismiss  the  subject 
abruptly,  the  gentle  sadness  and  pensive  affec- 
tionateness  of  her  mother's  face  constrained  her 
to  add,  "If  I  must  marry,  I  do  pray  Heaven 
that  my  home  may  be  near  Arleigh.  Dearest, 
I  could  not  be  happy  under  any  roof  that  was 
far  from  you  and  papa." 

"  May  your  prayer  be  granted!"  Lady  Dar- 
ling 'responded.  After  a  pause,  she  added  with 
earnestness,  which  greatly  impressed  her  hear- 
er, "  Till  I  see  you  married  near  my  own  door, 
I  shall  never  cease  to  dread  that  marriage  may 
take  you  far  away  from  me.  I  am  nervous, 


44 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


and  a  wretchedly  bad  sleeper,  and  in  my  rest- 
less nights  this  dread  sometimes  tortures  me. 
It  would  add  years  of  happiness  to  my  days  to 
see  you  happily  married  under  circumstances 
that  would  enable  me  to  laugh  at  my  old  fear. 
But  it  must  be  as  God  wills  it.  And,  as  you 
say,  for  the  present  we  will  '  let  it  be.' " 

"Seeing  that  she  had  said  enough  for  that 
morning  on  a  delicate  topic,  Lady  Darling  re- 
membered that  she  had  some  letters  to  write, 
and  returned  to  the  house,  leaving  Lottie  under 
the  elms,  musing  over  the  two  thoughts  which 
had  been  planted  in  her  mind  —  the  thought 
that  marriage  was  her  destiny,  and  that  her 
mother  wished,  above  all  things,  that  the  scene 
of  her  wedded  life  should  be  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  Aiieigh. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE   FIRST   IN   THE    FIELD. 

LOTTIE  DARLING  had  put  an  end  to  the  talk 
about  marriage,  but  she  could  not  dismiss  the 
displeasing  subject  from  her  mind,  in  whose 
fertile  soil  two  novel  thoughts  had  been  placed 
l>y  a  skillful  gardener.  For  more  than  half  an 
hour  she  gave  less  heed  to  the  work,  on  which 
she  continued  to  ply  her  fine  needle,  than  to  the 
prospect  of  a  dutiful  life  which  her  mother  had 
exhibited  to  her.  During  the  first  five  minutes 
of  that  time  her  meditations  were  despondent. 
She  wished  that  her  mamma  had  not  touched 
on  the  disturbing  and  gloomy  topic ;  but  the 
soothing  and  exhilarating  influences  of  the 
scene,  the  brightness  of  the  valley,  the  verdure 
of  the  lawn,  the  misty  blueness  of  the  sky,  and 
the  music  of  the  balmy  breeze  passing  gently 
through  the  rustling  leaves  over  her  head,  soon 
|>ut  her  melancholy  to  flight,  and  inspired  her 
to  deal  banteringly  with  the  imaginations  which 
had  for  a  brief  while  disposed  her  to  be  tearful. 
In  this  happier  mood,  Lottie  sang,  in  a  voice 
scarcely  audible  at  a  distance  of  ten  paces  from 
her, 

"And  there  came  a  gallant  knight, 
With  his  hauberk  shining  bright, 
And  his  heart  was  beating  light 
Free  and  gay. 

As  I  lay  a-thinking, 

He  rode  upon  his  way." 

"  Where  do  those  lines  come  from?"  she  ask- 
ed herself,  when  she  had  chanted  the  words  in 
n  silvery  under-tone.  "  They  must  be  part  of 
si  poem  that  I  have  read.  It  is  impossible  that 
I  have  composed  them,  for  they  are  clever  poet- 
ry, and  I  am  a  dull-witted  young  person.  But 
I  can't  recollect  any  thing  that  went  before  or 
after  them. 

'As  I  lay  a-thinking, 

He  rode  upon  his  way.1 

Ah !  she  (/  must  have  been  a  girl)  lay  a-think- 
ing, when  the  gallant  knight  had  passed  on. 
She  did  not  accompany  him.  He  rode  on  his 
way  alone.  That  shall  be  my  case  too.  His 


hauberk  may  shine  ever  so  brightly,  but  I  won't 
mount  '  Clifton,'  and  ride  with  any  knight  in  a 
sleeveless  steel  jacket  who  asks  me  to  come 
with  him,  unless  he  is  a  wonderfully  virtuous 
knight,  and  lives  in  Boringdonshire,  and  prom- 
ises to  love  mamma  as  much  as  he  loves  me." 

Scarcely  had  she  delivered  herself  of  this 
egotistical  comment  on  a  random  reading  from 
one  of  the  Ingoldsby  Legends,  when  she  heard 
steps,  the  rustling  of  a  dress,  and  voices  behind 
her.  Looking  in  the  direction  of  the  sounds, 
she  saw  her  mamma  approaching  her,  and  at- 
tended by  Mr.  Albert  Guerdon,  who  had  come 
over  from  Earl's  Court  on  foot  with  a  sedge 
basket  in  his  hand.  Lady  Darling  delighted 
in  ferns,  and  had  conceived  a  desire  to  make 
her  fernery  the  best  in  the  neighborhood.  Al- 
bert was  no  fern  fancier,  though  he  had  a 
proper  admiration  for  the  loveliest  of  all  nature's 
smaller  growths,  from  the  wild  bracken  of  the 
wood  and  heath  to  the  drooping  hart's-tongue 
and  the  delicate  maiden's  -  hair.  But  though 
he  had  never  examined  a  half  of  the  different 
species  of  the  fern  that  flourish  on  English 
soil,  and  could  not  give  the  botanical  names  of 
any  twelve  of  them,  he  wished  to  ingratiate 
himself  with  the  mistress  of  Arleigh  Manor  by 
displaying  an  interest  in  her  horticultural  pur- 
suit. With  this  object  in  view,  the  young  man 
had,  during  the  previous  ten  days,  ridden  over 
to  Riverdale,  and  Castle  Coosie,  and  Marlow 
Court,  and,  by  means  of  munificent  fees  to  the 
gardeners-in-chief  of  those  principal  "places" 
of  the  south-west  corner  of  Boringdonshire,  had 
gathered  such  a  contribution  to  Lady  Darling's 
fernery  as  caused  her  eyes  to  sparkle  with  un- 
usual animation,  and  made  her  thank  the  giver 
with  cordial  fervor.  Albert  was  delighted  with 
the  lady's  acceptance  of  the  sedge  basket,  and 
his  exertions  in  her  service  were  rewarded  still 
more  agreeably  with  an  immediate  introduction 
to  Lottie. 

For  Mr.  Albert  Guerdon  had  no  intention  to 
profit  by  his  father's  caution,  and  to  avoid  Ar- 
leigh because  Lottie  Darling  was  lovely  without 
being  rich,  while  Blanche  Heathcote  was  an 
heiress,  with  £60,000  in  the  Funds,  a  fat  farm, 
and  an  iron  field  of  incalculable  value.  So  ex- 
cellent a  young  man  had,  of  course,  no  disposi- 
tion to  think  lightly  of  the  fifth  commandment 
as  an  antiquated  precept  that  had  been  good 
for  the  human  race  in  its  infancy,  but  was  in- 
applicable to  the  wisdom  and  strength  of  the 
nineteenth  century.  On  the  contrary,  he  meant 
to  comply  with  the  spirit  of  the  injunction. 
He  would  render  homage  to  his  sire's  virtues, 
and  recognize  his  title  to  filial  gratitude  and 
reverence.  He  would  also  be  a  strictly  obedi- 
ent son  in  all  matters  that  appeared  to  him  to 
lie  within  the  limits  of  paternal  authority.  But 
Albert  held  a  clear  and  firm  opinion  that  his 
choice  of  a  wife,  so  long  as  he  selected  a  girl  of 
suitable  condition  and  character,  was  a  matter 
lying  outside  those  limits.  According  to  the 
young  man's  moral  code,  and  way  of  reading 
the  fifth  commandment,  the  father  who  ven- 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


tured  to  constrain  a  son's  affections  in  matri- 
monial affairs  was  at  best  nothing  more  than 
an  officious  counselor,  whose  wishes  were  devoid 
of  divine  sanction. 

He  had  returned  from  his  educational  course 
to  Hammerhampton  witli  a  resolve  to  marry 
some  one — to  marry  no  one  whom  he  did  not 
love  with  all  the  force  of  his  ardent  nature,  and 
to  regard  his  selection  of  a  bride  as  an  affair  on 
which  his  slightly  imperious  father  would  have 
no  right  to  dictate  to  him. 

He  had  walked  over  from  Earl's  Court  to 
Arleigh,  rejoicing  in  his  newly  formed  purpose 
to  marry  Lottie  Darling.  Though  not  deficient 
in  modesty,  he  did  not,  after  the  fashion  of  some 
youngsters  (remarkable,  by-the-way,  chiefly  for 
their  impudence),  qualify  the  statement  of  his 
purpose  with  any  reference  to  contingencies  and 
painful  possibilities.  He  rejected  such  forms 
as  "I  will  marry  her  «/she  will  have  me ;"  or, 
"  I'll  try  to  win  her  love  if  her  father  and  moth- 
er will  let  me;"  or,  "Tfshe  won't  have  me,  I 
will  marry  no  one  else."  Speaking  to  himself 
of  himself,  he  put  his  intentions  respecting  Lot- 
tie in  the  most  peremptory  and  incisive  terms. 
"  She  shall  be  my  wife ;  she  shall  love  me,  even 
though  she  may  not  love  me  at  first  sight." 
"I  will  many  her  before  she  is  twenty-one." 
These  were  some  of  the  speeches  which  the 
young  man  had  uttered  to  himself  while  stroll- 
ing over  the  pleasant  fields  with  a  propitiatory 
offering  for  Lottie's  mamma  in  his  hand.  For 
Albert  had  fallen  in  love  with  Lottie  at  first 
sight.  Ay,  more,  he  had  given  her  his  heart 
ere  he  had  even  seen  her.  The  young  man 
had  fallen  in  love  with  her  portrait. 

The  portrait  was  the  cleverly  executed  sketch 
in  crayons  which  Lady  Darling  had  shown  him, 
in  the  simplest  manner  imaginable,  on  the  occa- 
sion of  his  first  visit  to  Arleigh  Manor.  Mary 
Darling  did  far  more  than  she  imagined  by  the 
timely  and  artful  display  of  that  picture.  Al- 
bert had  been  dining  with  Sir  James  and  three 
other  gentlemen,  and  he  was  in  the  drawing- 
room  after  dinner,  chatting  with  his  agreeable 
hostess,  when,  to  illustrate  a  question  that  had 
arisen  in  their  talk  about  the  scenery  of  the 
Welsh  hills,  she  opened  a  folio  of  unbound  etch- 
ings and  water-color  sketches  that  lay  on  the 
table.  Having  examined  the  picture  to  which 
his  attention  was  specially  called,  Albert  turned 
over  the  collection  of  works,  and  in  due  course 
came  on  the  portrait,  which  in  a  moment  brought 
color  to  his  face  and  brightness  to  his  eyes. 

"  That  is  lovely !"  he  exclaimed. 

Smiling  at  the  extravagant  praise  of  what 
she  affected  for  the  moment  to  regard  as  a  triv- 
ial and  unsuccessful  performance,  Lady  Darling 
observed, 

"It  is  the  picture  of  my  little  girl,  who  is 
still  at  school;  but  it  does  not  do  her  justice." 

Having  taken  the  sketch  from  Albert's  hand, 
Lady  Darling  glanced  at  it  with  apparent  care- 
lessness, and  in  a  few  seconds  put  it  blank  side 
upward,  on  the  collection  of  drawings,  which  Al- 
bert had  already  examined. 


"Yes,"  the  mother  remarked,  with  an  as- 
sumption of  disappointment,  "Mr.  Nealson  is 
usually  more  successful.  It  does  not  do  my 
little  girl  justice." 

Having  turned  over  the  other  contents  of  the 
folio,  Albert  put  the  book  from  him  ostenta- 
tiously, and,  crossing  the  room,  exchanged  a  few 
words  with  Sir  James  Darling.  But  it  did  not 
escape  the  mother's  warily  observant  eyes  that, 
after  the  lapse  of  twenty  minutes,  the  young 
man  returned  to  the  folio,  and  opened  it  at  the 
place  where  she  had  put  the  girl's  likeness. 

A  thing  of  art,  as  well  as  a  truthful  portrait- 
ure, the  drawing  was  studied  by  a  man  of  artist- 
ic susceptibility.  It  caught  his  fancy  and  stir- 
red his  heart.  Touched  even  more  sensibly  by 
what  the  subtle  limner  had  indicated  than  by 
what  he  had  fully  expressed,  Albert  Guerdon 
gained  from  the  sketch  a  new  ideal  of  girlish 
delicacy  and  winningness  ;  and  from  that  even- 
ing till  the  moment  when  he  saw  Lottie  at  the 
Owleybury  railway  station  he  had,  in  his  wake- 
ful hours,  almost  incessantly  contemplated',  with 
agitations  of  vivid  surprise  and  romantic  delight, 
the  radiant  face  and  matchless  shape  of  the 
creature  who  had  been  thus  made  to  live  in  the 
imagination  which  she  fascinated.  Had  Lottie's 
actual  appearance  disappointed  the  hopes  which 
her  portrait  had  called  into  existence  it  is  prob- 
ably that  Albert  would  not  have  rendered  jus- 
tice to  her  attractiveness.  Riding  homeward 
with  his  father,  he  would,  perhaps,  have  mentally 
laughed  at  the  illusion  of  his  fancy,  and  at  his 
folly  in  surrendering  himself  so  completely  to 
the  trick  of  a  lying  pencil.  Had  she  failed  to 
realize  his  anticipations,  he  would  probably 
have  so  completely  dismissed  her  from  his  sen- 
timental life  that  Lady  Darling  would  have  la- 
bored in  vain  to  win  him  for  a  son-in-law.  But 
it  happened  that  Lottie  fulfilled  with  wonderful 
exactness  the  expectations  roused  by  Mr.  Neal- 
son's  suggestive  treatment  of  her  beauty. 

When  his  eye  saw  her,  Albert's  fancy  was 
satisfied.  As  she  sprang  forward  to  her  moth- 
er, with  an  ineffable  light  of  gladness  in  her 
countenance,  and  a  passion  of  purest  love  visi- 
ble in  her  writhing  lips  and  tearful  eyes,  he 
transferred  his  homage  from  a  creature  of 
fancy  to  the  girl  of  flesh  and  blood,  of  gentle 
mien  and  musical  intonations,  who  stood  be- 
fore him,  overflowing  with  sensibility  and  af- 
fectionateness.  As  he  regarded  her,  his  heart 
said  "  She  is  mine !"  The  spectacle  of  her  re- 
turn to  her  mother's  arms  made  him  incapable 
of  desiring  any  other  woman.  Had  Blanche 
Heathcote  possessed  ten  iron  farms,  and  ten 
times  £60,000  in  the  Consols,  her  wealth  and 
heart  would  have  been  mere  dust  in  the  bal- 
ance against  the  charms  of  his  "  chosen  one." 

Of  course  he  would  have  felt  and  acted  more 
conventionally,  and  to  the  taste  of  consistent 
admirers  of  the  commonplace,  had  he  deemed 
himself  altogether  unworthy  of  her,  and  so,  un- 
dervaluing himself,  had  trembled  under  her 
gaze,  and  accused  himself  of  inordinate  pre- 
sumption in  daring  to  desire  her.  Some  read- 


46 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


ers  of  this  page  arc  doubtless  Hoping  that  he 
may  be  reproved  for  his  overweening  confidence 
by  a  resolute  rejection  of  his  suit.  But  they 
may  not  accuse  him  of  masculine  insolence  and 
self-sufficiency  of  the  common  kind.  His  con- 
fidence was  quite  innocent  of  those  offensive 
qualities.  It  was  the  offspring  of  self-respect 
and  a  quiet  conscience.  Abounding  in  respect- 
fulness for  all  persons,  Albert,  after  the  wont  of 
men  who  honor  their  neighbors,  was  not  defi- 
cient in  respect  for  himself.  Moreover,  one  of 
the  felicitous  results  of  the  natural  wholesome- 
ness  of  his  life  was  the  assurance  that  his  his- 
tory comprised  nothing  that  would  cause  a  sen- 
sitive girl  to  shrink  from  him.  Your  over-dif- 
fident suitor,  who  exalts  his  mistress  into  a  god- 
dess, and  scorns  himself  for  being  a  soulless, 
sensual  ruffian,  is  often  much  nearer  the  truth 
in  the  latter  than  in  the  former  judgment.  He 
apprehends  failure,  because  he  knows  himself 
to  be  unworthy  of  success.  He  fears  refusal, 
because  his  conscience  tells  him  that  no  gentle- 
woman of  refinement  and  religious  training 
would  hesitate  to  reject  him  if  she  could  pene- 
trate his  disguises,  and  see  his  real  character. 

Without  self-righteousness,  or  priggish  impu- 
dence, or  any  lack  of  genuine  modesty,  Albert 
Guerdon  could  aver  that  his  love  was  an  offer- 
ing meet  for  her  whom  he  desired.  In  feeling 
this,  he  rated  himself  highly,  and  knew  that  he 
did  so  ;  for  he  had  no  disposition  to  undervalue 
the  prize  which  he  meant  to  win.  It  is  not  in 
the  power  of  a  libertine,  with  youth  slipping 
through  his  trembling  fingers,  to  imagine  the 
joyful  fervor  with  which  this  young  man,  who 
had  never  sown  his  wild  oats,  magnified  the 
graces  and  virtues  of  his  heroine.  She  was 
his  deity,  and  he  would  worship  her.  This 
knowledge  was  a  spring  of  gladness  to  him ; 
but  its  fullest  joy  was  felt  only  when  he  reflect- 
ed that  she  would  repay  his  service  with  a  cor- 
responding devotion.  The  same  Hand  that 
had  fashioned  her  had  made  him ;  and  if  she 
was  a  perfect  type  of  virginal  purit}T,  he  was  no 
tarnished  image  of  the  Creator.  Why,  then, 
should  he  fear  to  claim  her  ? 

On  introducing  Albert  Guerdon  to  her  daugh- 
ter, Lady  Darling  explained  to  her  that  Mr. 
Guerdon  had  brought  a  collection  of  ferns, 
which  he  had  gathered  with  much  trouble  from 
several  quarters  for  the  new  fernery.  Lottie 
was  also  informed  that  Mr.  Guerdon  had  walk- 
ed over  from  Earl's  Court,  and  would  stop  to 
luncheon. 

Miss  Darling  received  the  visitor  most  gra- 
ciousjy —  not  indeed  with  a  Hanover  Square 
courtesy,  but  with  a  slight  inclination  of  her 
figure,  that  was  more  appropriate  to  the  occa- 
sion, and  no  less  graceful  than  the  solemn  rev- 
erence. To  indicate  also  that  she  received  him 
as  a  recognized  "  friend  of  the  house,"  she  put 
forth  her  right  hand  cordially,  and  allowed  him 
to  press  it. 

"I  trust  my  horse  did  not  frighten  you  yes- 
terday, Miss  Darling?"  said  Albert,  when  he 
had  touched  the  proffered  hand. 


"It  startled  me  for  a  moment — but  only  for 
a  moment." 

"  When  you  saw  that  there  was  neither  mal- 
ice nor  mischief  in  his  capers." 

"He  looked  splendidly  as  he  rose  and  cara- 
coled by  the  side  of* the  carriage." 

"When  I  return  to  Earl's  Court,  I  will  tell 
him  that  you  admire  him.  He  will  be  proud- 
er than  ever." 

"  I  must  show  you  my  horse— a  new  acquisi- 
tion." 

"  I  congratulate  you  on  gaining  it." 

"It  is  my  first  horse.  Papa  gave  him  to  me 
this  morning,  and  I  shall  mount  him  this  after- 
noon, for  a  canter  over  Stroud  Common,  and  a 
walk  in  the  shady  lanes." 

"  You  are  a  good  horsewoman  ?" 

"Pretty  well.  I  rode  twice  a  WCCK  at 
Brighton." 

"With  companions?" 

"  With  such  a  brave  troop  of  girls !  Some- 
times we  were  out  in  full  force  on  the  Downs, 
with  all  Mrs.  Patterson's  twenty  horses." 

"  You  won't  have  so  many  companions  here." 

"No.  But  there  are  several  riding-girls  in 
this  neighborhood.  Christina  Marsh  will  be 
glad  to  ride  with  me.  Do  you  know  her  ?" 

"  I  met  her  at  Mrs.  Monkton's  three  days 
since  at  a  dinner-party,  and  had  the  pleasure  of 
taking  her  in  to  dinner." 

"She  is  very  amusing." 

"Is  she?"  " 

"  She  is  a  sprightly  and  brilliant  talker." 

"  Certainly  dullness  is  not  her  fault." 

Had  Lottie  cared  much  to  know  whether  Al- 
bert Guerdon  liked  Christina  (commonly  called 
Tiny)  Marsh,  she  would  not  have  failed  to  no- 
tice that  the  tone  of  his  replies  to  her  commen- 
dations of  Christina  implied  that  the  "fastest" 
young  lady  of  the  neighborhood  was  not  alto- 
gether to  his  taste.  But  the  significant  tone 
was  lost  on  Lottie,  who  forthwith  proposed  that 
her  mamma  and  Mr.  Guerdon  should  accom- 
pany her  to  the  stables,  for  a  critical  exami- 
nation of  "  Clifton."  There  would  be  time  for 
the  visit  to  the  dappled- brown  steed  before 
luncheon. 

On  their  way  round  the  house  to  the  stables, 
Lottie  took  occasion  to  glance  shyly  at  Albert, 
while  his  attention  was  withdrawn  from  her  and 
fixed  on  Lady  Darling. 

She  saw  that  he  was  decidedly  handsome, 
had  dark,  thoughtful  eyes,  which  now  and  then 
brightened  merrily,  and  had  a  pair  of  dark  arch- 
ing eyebrows,  that  were  separated  from  his  long 
lashes  by  long,  almond-shaped  lids,  that  rose 
and  fell  with  a  peculiar  slowness  and  composure. 
She  observed  that  his  nose,  unlike  his  father's 
aquiline  feature,  was  straight  and  finely  shaped, 
and  that  his  high  forehead  rose  perpendicularly 
from  the  lower  frontal  line,  and  stood  out  bold- 
ly to  the  right  and  left.  It  did  not  escape  her 
that  his  dark  hair  was  rich,  silken,  and  curly, 
and  that  a  line  of  its  bright,  short  curls  over- 
shelved  the  broad  forehead  with  waves  of  shad- 
ow. He  was  not  less  than  five  feet  ten  inches 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


47 


high,  and  his  figure,  remarkable  rather  for  its 
elegance  than  its  sufficient  evidence  of  strength, 
was  expressive  of  dignity.  Even  if  she  had 
not  teen  an  habitual  scrutinizer  of  faces,  Lottie 
would  not  have  failed  to  remark  the  delicacy 
and  brightness  of  his  well-kept  mustache  and 
beard,  and  of  his  ample,  though  by  no  means 
bushy,  whiskers.  It  was  equally  apparent  to 
the  young  lady,  though  less  obvious  to  his  or- 
dinary and  comparatively  unobservant  acquaint- 
ances, that  the  least  comely  parts  of  his  coun- 
tenance were  those  which  reminded  beholders 
of  his  father's  prominent  cheek-bones.  At  these 
points  Mr.  Albert's  face  was  too  broad  and  prom- 
inent. Had  he  been  a  stout  man,  the  upper 
curves  of  his  cheeks  would  have  been  puffy  as 
well  as  prominent.  But  the  young  man,  at  the 
opening  of  his  twenty-sixth  year,  was  in  excel- 
lent condition,  and  he  has  not  to  this  day  qual- 
ified himself  to  rank  with  "  the  heavy-weights." 

"Clifton"  was  critically  inspected  by  the  la- 
dies and  their  friend.  The  groom  in  attend- 
ance brought  the  animal  out  of  the  stable,  and 
led  him  round  the  court.  Having  eyed  the 
horse's  points,  touched  his  legs  and  fetlocks, 
examined  his  teeth,  and  done  every  thing  else 
which  the  occasion  required  of  a  critic,  Albert 
delivered  a  highly  favorable  verdict  on  Lottie's 
acquisition.  The  saddle  and  bridle  were  also 
exhibited  to  the  visitor,  and  received  his  ap- 
proval. 

"And  where  is  the  new  whip?"  Albert  in- 
quired, as  he  left  the  harness-room. 

"My  old  whip,  that  I  have  used  at  Brighton, 
is  lying  on  my  riding-habit.  It  is  a  neat  little 
whip,  and  will  do  well  enough,"  Lottie  replied, 
in  a  tone  which  implied  that  the  instrument  of 
correction,  though  good  enough,  was  inferior  to 
the  rest  of  her  riding  equipment. 

"  I  suppose  you  don't  wear  a  spur  ?" 

"Dear  me,  no,"  Lottie  responded,  quickly, 
shuddering  at  the  thought  of  what  she  deemed 
a  barbarous  instrument  —  at  least  for  a  girl's 
heel. 

At  the  garden  gate,  where  Lady  Darling  pre- 
ceded her  companions  by  a  few  paces,  Albert 
Guerdon,  looking  at  Lottie  with  matter-of-fact 
seriousness,  observed, 

"  If  your  brothers  were  at  Arleigh,  Miss  Dar- 
ling, I  should  ask  you  to  allow  me  to  join  them 
and  you  in  your  riding  excursions." 

"How  very  nice  that  would  be!  How  I 
wish  they  were  here !  They  will  come  to  Ar- 
leigh in  October,"  returned  the  girl,  her  face 
lighting  up  at  the  mention  of  her  brothers'  in- 
tended visit. 

"And,  as  it  is,"  Albert  continued,  deferen- 
tially, "  I  hope  that  the  time  is  not  far  distant 
when,  without  getting  a  snub  for  my  impudence, 
I  may  offer  to  attend  you  as  your  mounted  cava- 
lier." 

Lottie  smiled  as  she  replied, 

"  We  must  hear  what  mamma  says  to  that 
proposal." 

"Of  course— of  course!"  the  young  man  said, 
quickly. 


Without  another  word,  Lottie  walked  onward 
to  the  house.  She  felt  that  her  countenance 
had  for  the  moment  assumed  a  color  scarcely 
to  be  accounted  for  by  Albert's  words.  Of 
course  it  would  not  do  that  Miss  Darling,  of 
Arleigh  Manor,  should  be  riding  about  the 
country  with  a  young  man,  who  was  neither 
her  brother  nor  her  cousin,  but  only  a  "quite 
new  acquaintance."  Mr.  Albert  Guerdon,  how- 
ever, had  taken  no  liberty;  Lottie  was  just  to 
him  in  this  respect.  He  had  only  hinted  at 
what  might  happen  in  the  future,  when  he  had 
been  so  fortunate  as  to  win  her  good  opinion. 

Luncheon  over,  Mr.  Albert  Guerdon  took  his 
departure,  saying  good-bye  to  Lottie  in  the 
hall  of  the  manor-house,  and  finding  an  oppor- 
tunity in  his  retreat  to  speak  a  few  words  to 
Lady  Darling,  who  put  her  parasol  over  her 
head,  and  graciously  attended  her  departing 
guest  to  the  first  gate. 

Late  in  the  evening  of  the  following  day, 
there  was  brought  to  Arleigh  Manor  by  special 
messenger  a  note  and  an  extremely  attenuated 
package,  both  of  which  were  addressed  to  Miss 
Charlotte  Constance  Darling. 

"  What  on  earth  can  that  long  tapering  pack- 
age be?"  inquired  Judge  Darling,  who  knew 
well  enough  the  contents  of  the  white  tissue- 
paper.  "And  who  is  likely  to  send  you  a 
note?" 

Lady  Darling  regarded  her  girl  intently,  as 
she  opened  the  note,  and  glanced  at  its  contents. 
Astonishment  was  the  prevailing  expression  of 
the  girl's  perplexed,  and  blushing,  and  slightly 
pleased  face  as  she  perused  the  letter,  which 
she  immediately  exhibited  to  her  parents. 

"  How  extraordinary  of  him  !"  ejaculated  the 
young  lady,  who  added,  by  way  of  showing  that 
she  did  not  accuse  her  correspondent  of  ex- 
traordinary presumption,  "  But  it  is  verv  kind 
of  him." 

On  receiving  the  opened  letter  from  Lottie, 
Sir  James  Darling  read  aloud, 

"  MY  DEAR  Miss  DARLING, — Pardon  the  dar- 
ing which  enables  me  to  entreat  you  to  accept 
a  trifling  addition  to  your  riding  equipment, 
which  I  should  not  have  ventured  to  offer  you, 
had  I  not  obtained  your  mamma's  permission 
to  do  so.  Believe  me  to  be,  yours  very  sincere- 
ly and  respectfully,  ALBERT  GUERDON." 

"  Upon  my  word,  a  very  deferential  and  gen- 
tleman-like, and  altogether  appropriate  letter," 
observed  the  reader,  holding  up  the  note  for 
Mary  Darling's  inspection.  "Nothing  could 
be  in  better  taste.  He  intimates  very  frankly 
that  he  relies,  Lottie,  on  your  kindness  not  to 
regard  his  attentions  as  a  scarcely  warrantable 
freedom,  and  then  justifies  himself  modestly  by 
pleading  mamma's  sanction." 

"  Mr.  Albert  Guerdon,"  Lady  Darling  re- 
marked, enthusiastically,  "could  not  do  any 
thing  that  would  be  in  bad  taste.  He  is  a 
gentleman,  and  a  most  agreeable  young  gentle- 
man." 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


"But  let  us  look  at  the  'trifling  addition,'" 
Sir  James  cried,  with  animation. 

Whereupon  Lottie's  trembling  fingers  broke 
the  seals  affixed  to  the  tissue-paper,  and  snapped 
some  encircling  threads.  In  a  trice  she  held 
in  her  hand  the  daintiest  of  little  riding-whips. 
The  tiny  switch  of  whalebone  and  white  silk 
had  a  handle  of  smooth  white  ivory,  that  was 
surmounted  by  a  golden  knob,  and  was  sepa- 
rated from  the  lower  part  of  the  whip  by  anoth- 
er knot  of  the  precious  metal.  On  the  white 
handle  were  tricked  in  scarlet  the  judge's  shield 
and  crest.  llDulce  decus  meum,"  the  motto  of 
the  arms,  was  also  bitten  into  the  ivory  in  scar- 
let lettering.  Sir  James,  who,  like  most  En- 
glishmen of  gentle  but  not  highly  patrician  de- 
scent, prided  himself  vastly  on  his  family,  was 
delighted  with  Albert  Guerdon's  graceful  refer- 
ence to  the  quality  of  the  Darlings. 

"Then,  of  course,  I  may  accept  the  present, 
and  thank  him  for  his  kindness?"  Lottie  ob- 
served. 

"Why  on  earth,  my  dear  child,"  exclaimed 
her  father,  "should  you  hesitate  to  do  so?" 

"I  am  in  your  hands,  papa,"  rejoined  Miss 
Darling,  with  delicious  sedateness ;  "but  1 
thought  that  a  young  lady  should  not  receive 
presents  from  any  gentleman  who  is  neither  her 
near  relation  nor  her  accepted  suitor." 

"She  should  not  receive  them,  my  dear," 
responded  the  judge,  stating  the  exact  law  of 
the  case,  "without  her  parents'  knowledge  and 
approval." 

"To  be  sure," assented  Lottie,  with  docility, 
and  an  air  of  gratitude  for  full  light  on  a  serious 
question,  "  that  is  the  rule. "  Suddenly  adopting 
a  lighter  and  almost  hilarious  tone,  she  glanced 
joyously  at  the  by  no  means  formidable  contri- 
vance for  torture,  and  exclaimed,  "  It  is  a  beau- 
ty ! — a  perfect  lady's  whip  ! — and  the  nob  is  so 
nice  to  put  against  one's  lips!  I  shall  always 
be  kissing  it."  The  young  lady  was  not  aware 
that  Albert  had  already  put  a  kiss  on  the  golden 
device,  saying,  as  he  did  so,  "  I  will  kiss  it,  for 
it  will  often  touch  her  lips." 

Her  excitement  subsiding  quickly,  Lottie  said, 
with  amazing  coolness, 

"Well,  as  I  ought  to  send  Mr.  Guerdon  a 
line  of  thanks,  I  will  write  the  note  at  once,  and 
then  it  will  be  off  my  mind." 

And,  even  as  she  spoke  the  words,  Lottie 
seated  herself  at  her  mother's  Davenport,  and 
dashed  oft'  this  brief  missive : 

"DEAR  MR.  GUERDON, — Papa  and  mamma 
are  delighted  with  the  very  pretty  whip  that 
you  have  been  good  enough  to  give  me,  and  I 
am  no  less  pleased  with  it.  Accept  my  cordial 
thanks  for  your  present,  and  believe  me,  dear 
Mr.  Guerdon,  to  be  yours,  very  sincerely, 

"LOTTIE  DARLING." 

For  an  instant  she  debated  whether  she  should 
sign  herself  in  full,  Charlotte  Constance  Darling, 
but  she  felt  that  her  statelier  signature  would 
be  formal  and  frigid.  She  was  "  Lottie  Dar- 


ling" and  nothing  else  to  her  friends,  and  Mr. 
!  Albert  Guerdon  was  one  of  her  very  good  friends. 
So  she  finished  off,  with  her  usual  signature,  the 
first  letter  that  she  had  ever  penned  to  any  man- 
creature,  with  the  exception  of  her  papa,  uncle, 
and  brothers. 

"  There,  mamma,  I  suppose  that  will  do,"  she 
observed,  handing  the  note  to  Lady  Darling, 
and  then  proceeding  to  direct  an  envelope  to 
Albert  Guerdon,  Esq.,  of  Earl's  Court. 

An  hour  or  so  later,  on  retiring  for  the  night, 
Lottie  carried  her  whip  up  stairs,  and  placed  it 
in  a  certain  wardrobe  of  her  private  room,  un- 
der the  folds  of  her  dark -blue  cloth  riding- 
habit. 

"It  is  a  beauty!"  she  remarked  aloud  to 

herself,  taking  the  toy  switch  from  the  place 

of  concealment  where  she  had  put  it  a  moment 

before,  and  drawing  its  smooth  white  handle 

over  her  lips.      Albert  would  have  exulted  had 

he  seen  the  tenderness  of  the  endearment  thus 

lavished  on  a  lifeless  object.      But  he  would 

not  have  cared  to  know  how  little  she  thought 

!  of  him.     In  her  delight  at  the  gift,  she  had  al- 

|  most  quite  forgotten  the  giver. 

Having  restored  the  whip  to  its  appointed 
resting-place,  and  closed  the  doors  of  her  ward- 
robe, Lottie  destroyed  Albert's  letter,  tearing  it 
into  small  pieces,  and  putting  them  into  her  lit- 
ter-basket. Lottie  was  of  opinion  that  people 
were  unwise  to  keep  letters,  unless  they  were 
epistles  of  importance,  and  were  the  writing  of 
very  particular  personages — such,  for  instance, 
as  her  papa  and  mamma. 

When  it  came  into  his  possession  on  the  fol- 
lowing day,  Albert  Guerdon  treated  her  brief 
note  in  a  very  different  fashion.  The  happy 
fellow  reperused  it  at  least  a  hundred  times  be- 
fore he  went  to  bed,  and  at  each  reading  he 
gave  the  sacred  paper  a  score  of  kisses. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 
TINY  MARSH'S  "THEORY  OF  LIFE." 

THOUGH   he  was    rich    in    expedients,  and 
would  have  scorned  to  play  too  often  on  the 
same  string,  Albert  Guerdon  made  Lady  Dar- 
ling's fernery  a  pretext  for  a  second  visit  to  Ar- 
leigh  Manor.     Having  planted  the  new  ferns, 
it  was  only  natural  that  he  should  wish  to  see 
how  they  fared  in   their  new  quarters.     His 
anxiety  for  them  was  all  the  more  reasonable, 
as,  on  the  occasion  of  his  visit  to  Hammer- 
hampton  to  buy  Lottie's  whip,  he  encountered 
the  Earl  of  Slumberbridge's  gardener-in-chief, 
and  learned  from  him  that,  as  an  inexperienced 
cultivator  of  ferns,  Lady  Darling  was  likely  to 
fall  into  the  common  mistake  of  keeping  her 
favorite  plants  in  too  high  a  temperature.    The 
overt  purpose  of  his  third  call  at  the  manor- 
!  house  was  to  bring  Lady  Darling  a  number  of 
!  Frasers  Magazine,  which  contained  an  article 
I  that  she  was  especially  desirous  to  see.     And 
'  as  the  ladv,  on  receiving  "  the  Fraser,"  desired 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


49 


to  know  what  could  be  urged  against  the  arti- 
cle of  interest,  Albert  naturally  offered  to  pro- 
cure for  her  the  current  number  of  Blackwood, 
in  which  the  topic  of  the  article  was  considered 
from  another  point  of  view. 

On  the  day  following  Albert's  third  call  at 
Arleigh,  Lottie  mounted  "  Clifton,"  for  a  ride 
to  Drayton-Combermere,  to  call  on  her  friend 
Tiny  Marsh,  niece  of  Sir  Frederick  Marsh, 
Bart.,  rector  of  that  wide  parish.  The  repre- 
sentative of  an  old  and  impoverished  Boring- 
donshire  family,  Sir  Frederick  would  have  been 
a  needy  man,  had  it  not  been  for  his  lucrative 
living ;  but  the  fine  preferment  enabled  him  to 
live  with  dignity  in  the  best  society  of  his  dis- 
trict. A  gentleman  in  ecclesiastical  orders, 
rather  than  a  parish  priest,  the  baronet  follow- 
ed Lord  Slumberbridge's  hounds  twice  a  week 
during  the  hunting  season,  bestirred  himself  in 
politics  on  the  Conservative  side,  and  lived  with 
a  profuseness  that  made  prudent  folk  wonder 
what  would  become  of  the  little  heir  to  the 
baronetcy,  should  untoward  events  exclude  him 
from  the  succession  to  his  father's  rectory.  Sir 
Frederick  had  married  twice,  and  enriched  so- 
ciety with  two  families  of  children.  His  first 
lot  of  girls  the  baronet  had  placed  out  fairly 
well  in  matrimony;  but  it  was  improbable  that 
he  would  live  to  see  his  second  group  of  chil- 
dren float  out  on  life.  The  eldest  girl  of  this 
younger  family  was  only  in  her  twelfth  year ; 
and  the  one  boy  of  the  party  (the  heir  to  the 
baronetcy)  was  scarcely 'four  years  of  age.  As 
for  Christina— the  orphan  child  of  a  fast  caval- 
ry officer,  who  had  left  her  without  a  penny  to 
his  elder  brother's  care — she  was  a  young  lady 
of  undefinable  status.  Her  uncle  had  been 
very  good  to  her,  and  she  was  a  sparkling  fact 
of  his  social  "  set ;"  but  she  was  not  a  daugh- 
ter of  the  rectory,  and  needed  no  one  to  re- 
mind her  of  the  insecurity  of  her  position.  In 
case  her  uncle  should  die  before  her  settlement 
in  marriage,  she  might  be  compelled  to  earn 
her  bread  as  a  governess  or  a  rich  gentlewom- 
an's companion.  In  the  mean  time,  she  was 
Miss  Tiny  Marsh  of  Drayton-Combermere, 
cetat.  22,  charming  at  archery  parties,  brilliant 
at  balls,  and  relying  on  her  own  abilities,  rath- 
er than  on  her  aunt's  assistance,  for  the  attain- 
ment of  matrimonial  honors.  Miss  Marsh  al- 
ways had  partners  in  a  ball-room,  and  the  young 
men  of  "  society  "  in  the  south-west  corner  of 
Boringdonshire  extolled  her  for  being  "capi- 
tal fun  ;"  but  hitherto  her  perfect  waltzing  and 
smart  tongue  had  not  won  her  an  offer  that 
she  cared  to  accept. 

Followed  by  Benjamin,  the  judge's  coach- 
man, who  had  donned  a  short-coat  and  looked 
very  much  like  a  groom,  Lottie  was  on  her  way 
to  Drayton-Combermere,  when,  just  as  she  was 
turning  at  foot-pace  off  Broomsgrove  Heath,  a 
black  horse  leaped  the  high  fence  which  skirted 
the  common.  The  rain  of  the  previous  night 
had  softened  the  ground,  so  that  Albert  could 
canter  over  half  a  dozen  paddocks,  and  take 
as  many  leaps  in  his  way,  without  subjecting 


"  Emperor"  to  any  serious  risks.  It  seemed  to 
Lottie  that  she  might  not  pass  a  day  without 
encountering  the  gentleman.  Not  that  she  was 
sorry  to  see  him,  or  wished  to  avoid  him.  On 
the  contrary,  if  he  would  give  her  no  more 
than  half  a  dozen  words  of  greeting,  the  meet- 
ing would  be  agreeable  enough.  But  she 
would  not  allow  him  to  accompany  her  for  so 
much  as  a  hundred  paces.  Her  apprehension 
that  he  might  try  to  fasten  himself  on  her  was 
groundless.  Albert  was  not  the  man  to  take 
a  lady  at  a  disadvantage.  And  of  all  women, 
Lottie  was  the  last  on  whom  he  would  have 
liked  to  intrude,  to  her  embarrassment.  It  was 
enough  for  him  to  raise  his  hat  and  give  her  a 
grand  bow  as  he  trotted  past  her,  at  a  distance 
which  made  it  easy  for  her  to  invite  him  to  join 
her,  if  she  wished  him  to  do  so.  On  the  other 
hand,  it  was  enough  for  Lottie  to  repay  his 
greeting  with  a  smile,  and  a  scarcely  percepti- 
ble elevation  of  the  ivory  handle  of  his  present, 
as  she  went  onward  to  Drayton-Combermere. 
The  young  people  had  been  pleasantly  remind- 
ed of  each  other. 

"That's  fortunate!"  Albert  said  to  himself, 
as  he  rode  on  his  way.  "  She  will  think  about 
me  for  a  minute  or  two.  Any  how,  she  has 
seen  that  I  am  still  in  the  land  of  the  living. 
If  it  had.  been  Miss  Tiny  Marsh  (as  they  call 
her),  she  would  have  hailed  me  at  the  top  of 
her  voice,  and  invited  me  to  a  galloping  flirta- 
tion." 

Lottie  had  not  covered  more  than  another 
mile  of  the  way  to  Sir  Frederick  Marsh's  rec- 
tory, when  at  a  turning  of  the  road  she  encount- 
ered another  equestrian,  who  came  upon  her 
at  a  rapid  trot,  and,  recognizing  her  at  once, 
exclaimed, 

"  Oh,  Lottie,  well  met,  my  dear  !  I  am  man- 
hunting,  and  perhaps  you  have  caught  sight 
of  him." 

The  speaker  of  these  words  was  mounted  on 
a  long-legged  chestnut  blood  screw,  with  a  wild 
eye  and  four  white  stockings.  It  was  Tiny 
Marsh,  riantly  mischievous  and  dazzlingly  pret- 
ty, as  she  made  her  fretful  steed  stamp  the 
ground  viciously  under  the  irritating  pressure 
of  the  curb.  Younger  in  appearance  than  her 
age,  Sir  Frederick's  niece  had  a  wealth  of 
glossy  hair  that  was  a  compromise  between 
light  brown  and  golden,  and  a  face  whose  fea- 
tures were  singularly  expressive  of  cleverness 
and  vivacity.  Her  gray  eyes  were  defective  in 
color,  but  they  overflowed  with  animation  ;  her 
lips  were  small  and  enticing,  her  complexion 
bright  and  sanguine  without  being  ruddy.  Her 
smile  was  ravishing ;  and  when  she  laughed, 
she  displayed  a  set  of  excellently  white  and 
regular  teeth.  But  her  strongest  point  was  her 
figure.  Small  in  the  waist,  she  had  a  shape 
whose  configurations  were  seen  to  advantage 
under  the  restraint  of  a  tightly  fitting  riding- 
habit. 

"Are  you  looking  for  your  uncle?"  Lottie  in- 
quired, with  a  simplicity  which  made  her  friend 
break  into  a  peal  of  rippling  laughter. 


50 


LOTTIE  DAKLING. 


"No,  no,  child.     I  don't  hunt  about   the  I 
country  for  my  uncle,"  answered  the  chestnut's  j 
diminutive   rider,  shaking  with  glee   in   her 
dark-green  riding-habit,  and  laughing  again  so 
that  the  green  plume  danced  over  her  hat  like 
a  living  thing. 

"They  told  me  half  an  hour  since  at  Farn- 
combe  Court  that  Mr.  Albert  Guerdon  had 
left  them,  to  ride  homeward  by  Boxmore  and 
Broom sgrove  Heath.  So  I  slipped  away  in 
pursuit.  But  I  am  afraid  he  has  escaped  me. 
I  ought  to  have  fallen  in  with  him  at  the  Trav- 
erse." 

Lottie  was  astounded;  but  she  answered 
with  composure, 

"You  won't  overtake  him  now,  for  he  pass- 
ed me  nearly  a  quarter  of  an  hour  since  on 
Broomsgrove  Heath,  and  by  this  time  he  is 
within  two  miles  of  Earl's  Court." 

"You  headed  him,  of  course?" 

"I  can't  imagine  what  you  mean,  Chris- 
tina?" 

"You  did  not  allow  him  to  pass  you  with- 
out speaking  to  him  ?" 

"Indeed  I  did.  I  had  nothing  to  say  to 
him." 

"You  sweet  little  simpleton!  How  long 
have  you  been  back  from  Brighton  ?" 

"  Only  ten  days  or  so." 

"Ah,  that  accounts  for  it.  You  are  still 
only  a  school-girl,  and  are  behindhand  in  the 
gossip  of  the  neighborhood.  Why,  my  pet, 
you  have  thrown  away  the  chance  for  which  I 
have  ridden  in  vain  four  miles.  Mr.  Guerdon 
is  our  new  'catch.'  All  the  girls  are  mad 
about  him.  He  is  the  only  son  of  Mr.  Guer- 
don of  Earl's  Court,  and  he  is  quite  as  hand- 
some as  his  father  is  rich." 

"Allow  me,  my  dear,"  Lottie  cooed  mis- 
chievously, "to  condole  with  you  on  your  dis- 
appointment." 

"Well,  since  I  have  missed  him,  Lottie,  I'll 
go  with  you.  Let  us  turn  our  horses'  heads, 
and  ride  round  by  Sir  Andrew  Carrick's,  and 
see  how  they  are  getting  on  with  the  new 
buildings  at  Countess  Court.  As  I  can't  have 
my  gallant  knight,  I  will  console  myself  with  a 
guileless  maiden.  By-the-way,  you  are  amaz- 
ingly pretty.  You  have  come  on  wonderfully 
since  Christmas." 

"  So  mamma  tells  me." 

"And  your  looking-glass.  How  long  have 
you  had  that  horse  ?" 

"Papa  gave  him  to  me  on  the  day  after  my 
return  from  Hanover  Square." 

"How  delighted  you  must  be  to  have  done 
with  Hanover  Square,  and  black  marks,  and 
thick  bread-and-butter!" 

"I  was  very  happy  at  school,"  returned  the 
loyal  "old  Constantino." 

"You'll  be  happier  now,  for  your  papa  and 
mamma  have  been  accepted  by  *  the  neighbor- 
hood,' and  every  one  in  'the  set'  likes  them 
prodigiously.  You  will  have  more  invitations 
than  you'll  be  able  to  accept.  And  I  am  sure 
Sir  James  will  give  you  a  good  allowance. 


He  may  be  a  trifle  too  stiff,  but  I  am  sure  he  is 
not  at  all  stingy." 

Whereto  Lottie  responded  with  much  state- 
liness,  and  not  a  little  of  her  sire's  stiffness, 

"Papa  is  very  fortunate,  Miss  Marsh,  to 
have  your  good  opinion." 

"Very  well  answered.  And  now  that  you 
have  snubbed  Miss  Marsh  for  sauciness,  for- 
give her,  and  call  her  Tiny." 

"  Last  Christmas  I  used  to  call  you  Chris- 
tina." 

"  Of  course  you  did,  for  then  you  were  only 
a  school-girl ;  but  now  we  are  equals.  I  hope 
that  we  shall  never  be  rivals,  for  you  would  be 
a  dangerous  rival.  Myself  excepted,  Lottie, 
you  are  by  far  the  prettiest  girl  in  this  corner 
of  the  county." 

"I  am  glad  you  made  that  exception,  for  it 
is  not  in  my  modesty  to  like  to  hear  myself 
rated  too  highly." 

"Here  we  are  at  the  corner  of  Mr.  Cam- 
pion's wood — Mr.  Campion  of  Pool  Hill.  You 
know  the  place  ?" 

"No;  I  have  never  seen  it." 

"Then  let  us  dismount.  I  will  lead  you 
down  a  foot-path  that  will  take  us  to  the  Lake 
Head,  where  we  can  get  a  charming  view  of 
the  water  and  park,  and  the  house  at  the  far- 
ther end  of  the  lake.  Shall  we  leave  our 
horses  ?" 

"By  all  means." 

In  a  trice  Tiny  Marsh  had  slipped  from  her 
saddle,  and  whistled  up  her  groom  with  a  small 
silver  whistle  which  she  took  from  the  pocket 
of  her  riding-habit. 

Having  consigned  their  steeds  to  their  serv- 
ants, at  the  crown  of  the  steep  hill,  the  girls 
gathered  up  their  long  skirts,  and  walked  down 
the  road  for  twenty  yards  to  a  stile  that  afford- 
ed foot  passengers  an  ingress  to  Mr.  Campion's 
wood.  Christina  led  the  way,  and  as  she 
climbed  the  stile,  with  a  momentary  display  of 
a  pair  of  trimly-booted  feet,  the  spur  on  her 
left  heel  was  visible  to  Lottie,  who  exclaimed, 
reproachfully, 

"Are  you  so  cruel,  Tiny,  as  to  wear  a  spur?" 

Tiny  laughed. 

"Ay,  and  to  use  it  too,  as  my  peevish  ani- 
mal would  tell  you,  if  he  could  speak." 

"The  spur  is  a  barbarous  thing,"  Lottie  re- 
marked, with  firmness,  but  in  no  degree  pug- 
naciously. "No  girl  should  use  one." 

"  No  girl  should  use  it  immoderately.  One 
can  have  a  cruel  contrivance  to  assist  one  in 
moments  of  difficulty,  without  caring  to  use  it 
cruelly.  You  might  as  well  tell  me  to  cut  out 
my  tongue  because  it  can  give  pain,  as  to  for- 
bid me  to  wear  a  spur  because  it  can  punish  a 
waspish  brute." 

"  If  I  caught  you  wounding  people  with  your 
tongue,  perhaps  I  should  wish  you  to  cut  it  out, 
or  at  least  clip  off  its  tip." 

These  words  were  exchanged  as  the  com- 
panions descended  the  steep  and  narrow  foot- 
way that  in  two  minutes  brought  them  out  of 
the  wood  on  a  piece  of  carefully  kept  lawn  at 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


51 


/he  head  of  the  lake.  The  verdure  of  the  un- 
dulating grass-plot  was  brightened  with  flow- 
ers, and  in  the  middle  of  the  small  garden 
stood  the  large  and  rather  cockneyfied  summer- 
house,  which  the  people  of  the  neighborhood 
were  permitted,  on  certain  conditions,  to  use 
for  picnic  luncheons.  Fortunately  there  was 
on  the  present  occasion  no  "party"  of  excur- 
sionists at  the  Lake  Head,  and  the  young  la- 
dies had  the  green-painted  arbor  to  themselves. 
Christina  Marsh  took  possession  of  a  high  and 
roomy  chair ;  while  Lottie,  who  had  a  taste  for 
lowly  places  and  attitudes,  seated  herself  on  a 
four-legged  stool  at  her  friend's  feet. 

"I  have  conceived  a  liking  for  you,  Lottie," 
Tiny  observed,  in  a  tone  of  comical  and  inof- 
fensive patronage,  when  she  had  allowed  Lottie 
a  minute  or  two  for  silent  admiration  of  the 
scenery,  the  curving  surfaces  of  the  over-tim- 
bered park,  and  the  spectacle  of  Mr.  Campion's 
turreted  mansion,  which  was  visible  in  the  dis- 
tance between  the  two  islets,  raised  in  the  lake 
for  benefit  of  the  water-fowl.  "We  shall  be 
good  friends,  and  play  the  game  of  life  with 
mutual  confidence,  and  proper  regard  for  one 
another's  'hands.'  We  won't  flatter  each  oth- 
er stupendously ;  and  neither  of  us  shall  be  of- 
fended at  free  speech  from  the  other.  I  took 
your  scolding  very  good-naturedly  just  now, 
when  you  called  me  cruel  for  wearing  a  little 
steel  ornament  in  my  heel.  When  I  scold 
you,  you  must  imitate  my  amiability." 

"And  also  your  readiness  to  amend  the  er- 
ror of  your  ways  ?"  Lottie  suggested. 

"  Oh !  I  sha'n't  discard  my  spur.  No  one 
ever  takes  good,  wholesome  advice.  By  acting 
on  your  counsel,  I  should  show  my  disesteem 
for  it,  for,  like  the  rest  of  the  world,  I  never  do 
the  right  thing  at  another  person's  dictation." 

"You  won't  pledge  yourself  to  profit  by  my 
censure,  but  you  promise  never  to  be  offended 
at  it?" 

"That's  just  it." 

"Then  I'll  put  your  promise  to  the  test  at 
once." 

"Go  on.  What  is  amiss?  Is  my  hat  too 
high,  or  my  feather  on  the  wrong  side  ?" 

Taking  courage  to  play  the  censor,  Lottie 
inquired,  in  her  most  persuasive  and  irresistibly 
gentle  style, 

"  Is  it  well  for  a  girl,  Tiny,  to  ride  in  a  har- 
um-scarum way  about  the  world  after  the  mar- 
riageable gentlemen  of  her  acquaintance?  Is 
it  a  good  and  advisable  course  for  a  girl  ?" 

"  It  depends  on  whether  she  has  a  horse  that's 
up  to  its  work,  a  figure  that  looks  to  advantage 
in  the  saddle,  and  a  complexion  that  does  not 
turn  scarlet  when  she  takes  violent  exercise," 
Tiny  returned,  with  imperturbable  effrontery 
and  good  humor. 

"Does  she  do  well  to  proclaim  herself  a  man- 
hunter?" 

"  On  the  contrary,  very  ill,  if  she  makes  the 
confession  to  any  person  on  whose  discretion 
and  fidelity  she  can  not  rely.  But  toward  the 
friends  whom  she  can  trust,  a  girl  does  well  to 


be  frank,  and  to  show  herself  in  her  true  col- 
ors." 

"  You  won't  see  my  meaning,"  returned  Lot- 
tie, cooing  more  and  more  gently,  as  she  push- 
ed her  reproof  more  closely  home.  "I  will 
be  more  explicit.  Does  a  girl  do  well  to  be  a 
man-hunter  at  all?  I  have  always  supposed 
that  a  girl,  instead  of  seeking  admirers,  should 
be  sought ;  that  she  should  live  content  with 
maidenly  happiness  until  a  suitor  has  approach- 
ed with  delicate  homage  and  fit  entreaties  ?" 

"  My  dear  child,  your  innocence  is  delight- 
ful; it  is  positively  refreshing.  Is  it  possible 
that  you  have  left  school  for  ten  whole  days, 
and  still  hold  such  charmingly  antiquated  no- 
tions ?  You  are  a  refic  of  the  feudal  ages. 
But  pray,  for  Heaven's  sake,  disabuse  your 
mind  as  quickly  as  possible  of  such  ridiculous 
notions." 

"Are  they  indeed  so  ridiculous?" 

"As  much  out  of  fashion,  my  dear,  as  the 
farthingale  or  the  Elizabethan  ruff.  You  are 
a  damsel  of  the  true  feudal  type,  and  would 
have  been  an  exemplary  young  person  in  the 
days  before  the  Reformation,  when  girls  were 
bought  and  sold  in  the  matrimonial  market 
like  cattle,  and  when  a  young  woman  was  held 
to  break  the  fifth  commandment  if  she  declined 
to  wed  a  gouty  old  man  at  her  father's  bidding." 

"Do  be  serious  for  a  moment,  Tiny." 

"Your  father,  sitting  in  one  of  his  courts, 
could  not  be  more  serious  than  I  am,  Lottie. 
Your  views  are  altogether  unsuited  to  the  nine- 
teenth century.  They  belong  to  the  period  of 
pack-horses  and  pilgrimages,  not  to  the  age  of 
steam  and  the  electric  telegraph.  They  are 
preposterous  in  this  epoch  of  woman's  freedom. 
Women  began  to  take  the  initiative  in  their 
affairs  of  sentiment  shortly  after  the  fall  of  the 
Stuarts ;  and  at  the  present  day  any  man  who 
imagines  that  he  may  choose  a  wife  for  him- 
self is  a  masculine  eccentricity,  and  a  flagrant 
repudiator  of  the  rights  of  our  sex.  Are  you 
wanting  in  womanly  spirit  ?" 

"I  am  afraid  I  must  be,"  said  Lottie,  with 
an  affectation  of  shame  for  herself. 

"No,  you  are  not,"  Miss  Marsh  returned,  en- 
couragingly. "  You  only  need  to  be  enlight- 
ened, and  to  embrace  the  new  '  theory  of  life !'  " 

"What  a  grand  phrase,  Tiny!  'The  new 
theory  of  life  ! ' " 

"  It  is  more  than  a  phrase,  it  is  a  grand  fact ! 
And  I  will  expound  it  to  you.  We  women  are 
hunters — man  is  our  prey.  When  she  has  cap- 
tured the  prize  on  which  she  has  set  her  affec- 
tions, a  woman  of  high  principle  ceases  to  be  a 
hunter,  and,  leaving  the  sport  to  the  unmarried 
women,  reposes  on  her  matronly  dignity,  and 
superintends  the  industry  of  her  white  slave." 

"Her  white  slave!"  Lottie  ejaculated,  with 
surprise. 

"Precisely  so.  Every  husband  is  the  slave 
of  the  woman  who  owns  him.  He  toils — she 
.receives  the  fruits  of  his  industry,  and  spends 
them.  When  he  is  indolent,  she  whips  him 
with  her  tongue;  when  he  works  sedulously, 


52 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


and   to  good  purpose,  she  rewards  him  with  ; 
praise.     In  the  more  fortunate  ranks  of  life  the  > 
slave  frequently  leads  an  idle  life,  because  he  j 
has  inherited  an  estate  from  his  father.     In 
that  case  his  estate  passes  by  marriage  to  his 
captor;   and  she  enjoys  it  —  with  a  grateful 
consideration  for  the  creature  who  brought  it 
into  her  possession.     In  any  case,  the  owner  of 
a  white  slave,  if  she  is  sagacious,  and  worthy 
of  her  position,  takes  a  good  deal  of  pains  to 
make  him  contented  with  his  lot ;  and  usually 
the  white  slave  is  a  happy  creature.     Some- 
times he  is  treated   so  leniently  and  artfully 
that  he  imagines  himself  to  be  the  master  of  his 
fair  proprietor." 

Scandalized  though  she  was  at  her  compan- 
ion's shameless  flippancy,  Lottie  could  not  re- 
frain from  laughing  at  it. 

Tiny  continued  her  exposition  with  the  grav- 
ity of  a  scientific  lecturer.  She  entered  into 
the  details  of  her  theory  of  life,  and  exhibited 
the  advantages  of  the  new  relation  of  the  sexes. 
"This  white  slavery,"  she  concluded,  "is 
the  *  peculiar  institution '  of  England  in  the  j 
nineteenth  century.  At  present  I  am  a  man- 
hunter.  Wait  a  year  or  two,  and  you'll  see  me 
the  proprietor  of  a  handsome,  docile,  charming 
white  slave,  who  will  imagine,  perhaps,  that  I 
am  his  obsequious  creature,  while  I  shall  gov- 
ern him  completely.  In  the  mean  time,  don't 
be  shocked  if  Tiny  hunts  more  boldly  and  law- 
lessly than  girls  who  have  mammas  to  aid  them 
in  the  sport.  Tiny  Marsh  must  help  herself, 
for  she  is  an  orphan.  There's  my  aunt,  you 
say.  Well,  she  is  not  a  bad  aunt,  but  she  is 
not  clever  at  any  thing  except  trimming  chil- 
dren's frocks ;  and  in  man-hunting  she  is  a 
mere  simpleton.  Perhaps  she  will  display 
more  aptitude  for  the  sport  when  her  own  girls 
have  come  to  marriageable  years." 

"And  have  you  decided  who  is  to  be  your 
slave?"  Lottie  inquired. 

"Quite.  My  mind  is  settled,"  returned 
Tiny,  with  mingled  drollery  and  resoluteness. 
"I  have  marked  my  prey,  and  was  hunting  him 
down  when  you  met  me.  Every  day  is  not 
lucky.  I  shall  be  more  fortunate  next  week. 
You  see,  I  can't  marry  into  the  army,  for  I  have 
no  money.  I  can't  marry  into  the  Church,  for 
I  am  a  thoroughly  worldly  little  creature ;  more- 
over. I  should  go  clean  mad  with  fury,  if  I  had 
a  clerical  white  slave,  and  he  were  to  rebel, 
and  preach  at  me,  with  chapter  and  verse,  about 
the  duty  of  wives  to  submit  themselves  to  their 
husbands.  And  I  can't  marry  just  any  pros- 
perous Tubal-cain  of  this  metallic  part  of  the 
world ;  for  noblesse  oblige,  and  I  am  Sir  Fred- 
erick Marsh's  niece.  But  Mr.  Albert  Guerdon 
— young,  rich,  handsome — is  precisely  the  an- 
imal that  I  have  been  looking  out  for  ever 
since — " 

"Ever  since  you  first  went  man-hunting," 
said  Lottie,  finishing  her  companion's  sentence. 
"  That's  it — ever  since  I  first  went  man-hunt- 
ing." 

"You  are  a  strange  girl,"  Lottie  remarked, 


with  a  little  sigh.  "I  dare  say  you  are  not  so 
bad  as  you  make  yourself  out  to  be.  But  I 
won't  scold  you,  for  that  would  not  make  you 
better." 

"Anyhow,  Lottie,  there  is  no  hypocrisy  about 
me.  You  will  never  discover  me  to  be  worse 
than  my  saucy  talk,"  Miss  Marsh  responded, 
with  an  approach  to  seriousness.  "By-the- 
way,  child,"  she  added,  quickly,  in  an  altered 
voice,  taking  Lottie's  whip  from  her  hand, 
"  this  is  a  lovely  little  whip.  Where  did  you 
buy  it  ?" ' 

"  It  was  a  present." 

"From  your  papa?" 

"No."  * 

"Your  mamma,  then,  or  one  of  your  school- 
fellows?" 

"No,  no ;  it  was  given  me  by  a  friend — quite 
a  new  friend — no  one  particular." 

"  Indeed !     Why  are  you  blushing  ?" 

"  Because,  after  your  ridiculous  talk  about 
Mr.  Guerdon  and  man-hunting,  I  hardly  know 
how  to  tell  you  the  simple  truth.  Mr.  Guerdon 
gave  it  to  me." 

"Mr.  Albert  Guerdon  gave  it  to  you !"  Tiny 
Marsh  exclaimed,  with  amazement. 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Albert  Guerdon,  and  it  was  very 
kind  of  him.  He  was  at  Arleigh  on  the  morn- 
ing on  which  papa  gave  me  *  Clifton,'  and  he 
said  that  I  ought  to  have  a  new  switch  to  match 
my  new  saddle  and  bridle ;  so  he  sent  me  the 
whip,  with  mamma's  approval." 

"  Had  you  ever  seen  him  before?" 

"Never." 

Tiny  Marsh  was  relieved  by  Lottie's  confes- 
sion, though  not  altogether  freed  from  a  pain- 
ful suspicion.  After  all,  the  gift  might  be,  and 
probably  was,  nothing  more  than  a  young  man's 
courtesy  to  a  school-girl,  for  whom  he  had  con- 
ceived no  very  strong  regard — an  attention  to 
her  parents  rather  than  to  her.  Lottie's  con- 
fusion was  so  transitory  that  it  could  not  have 
proceeded  from  any  dee])  emotion  or  tender 
feeling.  Moreover,  while  it  lasted,  it  differed 
from  the  overwhelming  embarrassment  of  a 
timid  girl  suddenly  discovered  in  a  love  affair. 
Still,  Tiny  disliked  the  position. 

Returning  the  whip  to  its  owner,  Tiny  Marsh 
observed,  with  her  sprightliest  levity, 

"  Here,  take  your  whip,  Lottie.  It's  a  beau- 
ty, but  a  trumpery  thing  compared  with  the 
switch  Mr.  Guerdon  shall  give  me  before  he  is 
twelve  months  older.  The  gold  head  of  my 
whip  shall  be  set  with  brilliants."  After  a 
pause,  she  added,  "And  now,  if  you  have  seen 
enough  of  Lake  Head,  let  us  get  back  to  our 
horses."  • 

Having  resumed  their  saddles,  the  girls  can- 
tered through  the  lanes  to  Countess  Court,  and 
made  a  circuit  to  the  point  Avhere  they  had  met 
each  other  two  hours  earlier.  There  they  join- 
ed hands  and  said  adieu,  before  setting  their 
horses'  heads  in  opposite  directions. 

As  she  rode  toward  the  rectory-house  of 
Drayton-Combermere,  Miss  Marsh  thought  to 
herself, 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


53 


"  Lottie  is  a  sweet  pet,  and  I  shall  get  on 
capitally  with  her.  As  for  the  whip,  I  don't 
think  I  need  trouble  myself  about  it.  No,  no, 
Lottie  won't  trouble  me.  I  have  fascinated 
her.  She  is  not  the  girl  to  throw  flies  'for  the 
fish  which  she  knows  me  to  be  working  for." 

Miss  Marsh  was  an  egotist,  and  she  had  mis- 
taken as  a  peculiar  tribute  to  her  own  powers 
of  pleasing  the  courteous  winningncss  which 
qualified  Lottie's  manner  and  speech  toward 
every  one. 

Far  from  having  been  captivated  by  Tiny's 
"fastness"  and  brilliance,  Lottie,  while  treating 
her  with  politeness,  and  even  with  affectionate- 
ness,  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  Miss 
Marsh  was  a  "  sad  mistake,"  or,  at  least,  "  a 
girl  of  whom  she  should  not  care  to  see  much." 

At  the  same  time,  Lottie  the  Gentle  was  too 
staunch  and  loyal  a  girl  to  be  capable  of  say- 
ing aught  to  any  third  person  to  the  discredit 
of  her  uncongenial  acquaintance.  She  deter- 
mined that  she  would  not  repeat  to  any  one — 
not  even  to  her  mamma — a  single  word  of  Tiny's 
reprehensible  speeches  about  man  -  hunting. 
She  would  keep  away  from  Tiny  without  being 
unkind  to  her;  but  there  was  no  need  that  she 
should  tell  her  mamma  why  she  thought  Chris- 
tina "a  mistake." 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

WHEREIN  TINY  MARSH  OUTSHINES  HERSELF. 

HITHERTO  every  thing  that  affected  his  rela- 
tions with  Lottie  had  happened  agreeably  to 
Albert  Guerdon's  wishes.  He  had  seen  her 
several  times,  and,  though  he -was  not  vain 
enough  to  imagine  that  he  had  made  an  im- 
pression on  her  heart,  it  was  clear  that  his  ap- 
pearance and  manner  were  not  displeasing  to 
her.  Circumstances  had  already  deprived  their 
acquaintanceship  of  formality,  and  given  it  some 
of  the  qualities  of  familiar  friendship.  Events 
had  also  caused  her  to  think  about  him  in  his 
absence  more  often  than  he  supposed.  His 
felicitous  gift  of  the  riding-whip,  by  recalling 
him  to  her  memory  at  least  half  a  dozen  times 
in  as  many  days,  had  achieved  even  more  than 
he  had  hoped  it  would  accomplish.  His  acci- 
dental meeting  with  her  on  Broomsgrove  Heath 
was  another  piece  of  good  fortune.  It  was  to 
his  advantage,  also,  that  Tiny  Marsh's  impudent 
declaration  of  her  designs  upon  him  had  justi- 
fied a  part  of  the  conversation  held  by  Jemmy 
and  Charley  in  the  railway  carriage,  and  had 
shown  Lottie  that  the  heir  of  Earl's  Court  and 
rhe  Hammerhampton  bank  was  an  object  of 
lively  interest  to  the  young  ladies  of  the  neigh- 
borhood. Had  Albert  overheard  the  talk,  and 
witnessed  the  scene  at  Lake  Head,  recorded  in 
the  last  chapter,  he  would  have  seen  his  advan- 
tage in  the  freedom  with  which  Miss  Marsh 
spoke  of  him.  He  might  have  resented  the 
momentary  pain  which  Tiny's  notice  of  the 
whip  occasioned  her  companion  ;  but  on  reflec- 


tion he  would  have  not  regretted  an  incident 
which  showed  Lottie  that  she  had  received  from 
him  an  attention  open  to  more  than  one  con- 
struction. 

Truth  to  tell,  long  after  the  outward  signs  of 
her  embarrassment  had  vanished,  Lottie  was 
troubled  by  Christina's  words  about  the  switch. 
It  was  not  probable  that  Tiny  would  allude  to 
the  subject  again.  But  at  any  moment  anoth- 
er admirer  of  Mr.  Guerdon's  gift  might  repeat 
Christina's  question,  and  ask  its  owner  how  it 
came  into  her  possession.  Lottie  saw  this,  and 
she  had  no  wish  to  satisfy  every  one's  idle  cu- 
riosity about  the  trivial  matter.  For  a  few 
moments,  on  her  homeward  way  after  parting 
with  Tiny,  Clifton's  mistress  was  resolved  to 
take  her  old  whip  again  into  favor,  and  keep 
Albert's  present  out  of  sight.  But  on  reflec- 
tion she  saw  that  she  could  not  carry  out  this 
determination  without  exhibiting  disrespect  for 
Albert's  courtesy,  and  provoking  him  to  seek 
for  the  reason  of  her  conduct.  Lottie  blushed 
again  at  this  thought,  and  wished  that  Mr.  Al- 
bert's whip  was  at  the  bottom  of  the  deepest 
mine  in  Boringdonshire.  On  reconsideration, 
she  decided  to  give  no  more  heed  to  Tiny's  idle 
talk.  She  would  continue  to  use  the  toy  which 
had  ceased  to  afford  her  unqualified  satisfac- 
tion, now  that  she  saw  the  discomforts  which  it 
might  bring  upon  her.  The  switch  had  stung 
her  far  more  than  it  could  sting  Clifton.  It 
had  revealed  to  her  that,  if  Mr.  Albert  Guerdon 
were  to  make  her  an  offer,  the  world  would  not 
deem  his  behavior  unaccountable  or  very  ex- 
traordinary. 

And  at  this  point  in  her  history,  Lottie  Dar- 
ling was  so  far  from  loving  Albert  Guerdon,  or 
at  least  so  far  from  knowing  herself  to  be  in 
the  way  to  love  him,  that  she  was  prepared  to 
derive  amusement  from  watching  Tiny  Marsh's 
attempts  to  catch  him,  and  had  no  strong  hope  or 
fear  for  the  man-hunter's  success.  On  the  whole, 
Lottie  was  disposed  to  wish  failure  for  Chris- 
tina's design;  for,  holding  that  Tiny  was  "a 
mistake,"  and  that  Albert  was  a  very  agreeable 
young  man,  she  thought  him  deserving  of  a  bet- 
ter fate  than  to  be  Christina's  white  slave.  On 
the  other  hand,  if  he  were  to  admire  Christina's 
flippancy,  and  surrender  himself  to  her  unfem- 
inine  advances,  he  would  not  be  so  good  a  fel- 
low as  Lottie  thought  him,  and  after  all  would 
only  merit  the  white  slave's  portion.  In  that 
case,  Lottie  would  have  overvalued  him,  and 
he  would  only  have  his  deserts.  Miss  Darling 
was,  therefore,  ready  for  'the  drama  about  to  be 
enacted  before  her,  and  however  it  should  ter- 
minate, she  meant  to  smile  approvingly  on  the 
fall  of  the  curtain. 

In  the  course  of  the  next  five  or  six  days, 
she  knew  more  of  Albert,  and  saw  how  the 
play  would  end,  in  so  far  as  Tiny's  hopes  were 
concerned. 

On  the  second  day  after  the  excursion  to 
Lake  Head,  Lottie  accompanied  her  papa  and 
mamma  to  a  small  dinner-party  at  Beech 
Court.  This  entertainment  made  a  lasting 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


impression  on  the  young  lady ;  for  it  was  her 
"  first  dinner-party,"  and,  besides  enlarging  her 
knowledge  of"  the  neighborhood,"  afforded  her 
one  or  two  vividly  agreeable  insights  into  Al- 
bert Guerdon's  character.  The  party  number- 
ed twelve  persons,  who  fairly  represented  the 
tone  and  culture  of  "society  "  within  five  miles 
of  Arleigh  Manor.  Mr.  Barlow  of  Beech  Court 
was  a  squire  of  gentle  lineage  and  a  modest 
estate  that  yielded  him  four  thousand  a  year ; 
and  the  company  assembled  at  Beech  Court 
consisted  of  the  Marshes,  Darlings,  Mr.  Am- 
brose Dockett,  M.P.  for  Hammerhampton,  and 
two  or  three  other  members  of  a  coterie  that, 
without  being  extremely  exclusive  or  intolera- 
bly snobbish,  declined  to  visit  with  rich  iron- 
masters and  other  colossal  workers  in  metal, 
who  had  nothing  but  wealth  and  energy  and 
commercial  success  to  distinguish  them  from 
the  multitude  of  less  fortunate  hammerers  of  the 
Great  Yard. 

Toward  the  close  of  the  dinner,  when  the 
ices  were  on  the  point  of  appearing,  and  the 
time  drew  nigh  for  claret  and  peaches,  the  con- 
versation turned  on  Miss  Nailsworth's  doings  at 
Clumpton. 

An  aged  spinster,  with  a  large  income,  which 
she  spent  as  her  very  High-church  rector,  Mr. 
Swinnick,  told  her  to  spend  it,  Miss  Nailsworth 
of  Clumpton  was  a  notability  in  the  south-west 
corner  of  Boringdonshire.  To  the  younger 
ladies  of  the  district  her  costume  appeared  de- 
lightfully comical ;  for  in  her  seventy  -  sixth 
year  she  adhered  to  the  feminine  adornments 
that  were  fashionable  in  the  closing  decade 
of  the  last  century,  and  never  appeared  in  a 
ball-room  without  a  preposterous  head-cover- 
ing, which  she  called  her  "toque."  But  the 
antiquated  and  hard-featured  gentlewoman  was 
less  famous  for  the  dress  which  Tiny  Marsh 
thought  supremely  ridiculous  than  for  the  ec- 
clesiastical proceedings  that  divided  clerical 
opinion  at  Owleybury. 

The  talk  about  the  new  chantry  in  Miss 
Nailsworth's  park  was  animated  and  slightly 
fervent  at  Mr.  Barlow's  dinner-table.  Clump- 
ton  and  its  lady  were  not  in  high  favor  at  Beech 
Court.  Speaking  as  a  clergyman  of  the  Estab- 
lishment, and  also  as  a  country  gentleman  of 
Conservative  principles,  the  Rector  of  Drayton- 
Combermere  objected  to  any  thing  that  caused 
a  stir,  and  implied  dissatisfaction  with  the  or- 
dinary working  of  an  ancient  institution.  He 
believed  that  Mr.  Swinnick  (Miss  Nailsworth's 
confessor)  was  a  well-intentioned  man,  but  was 
of  opinion  that  he  would  do  well  to  sell  his 
singing-boys,  and  replace  them  with  a  pack  of 
beagles.  Hunting  parsons  had  done  more  for 
the  Church  than  ascetic  priests  would  ever  ac- 
complish for  her.  Mr.  Dockett,  who  had  been 
sent  to  Parliament  by  a  combination  of  Low- 
churchmen  and  zealous  dissenters,  was  more 
vehement.  He  would  like  to  see  Mr.  Swinnick 
flogged  through  every  town  in  Boringdonshire, 
and  then  hanged  at  Hammerhampton — a  desire 
that  was  all  the  more  piquant  because  it  ema- 


nated from  the  lips  of  a  senator  who  was  pledg- 
ed to  exert  himself  in  Parliament  for  the  abo- 
lition of  flogging  in  the  army  and  all  capital 
punishments.  As  an  Oxford  man,  Sir  James 
Darling  spoke  respectfully  of  an  ecclesiastical 
movement  which  had  originated  in  his  Univer- 
sity. A  judge  and  the  author  of  a  famous  trea- 
tise on  church-rates,  he  professed  affection  for 
the  Church,  and  jealousy  for  the  preservation 
of  her  legal  rights.  His  continental  education 
having  disqualified  him  for  feeling  strongly  on 
the  subject,  Albert  Guerdon  listened  silently  to 
the  discussion,  until  Tiny  Marsh  gave  him  an 
opening  for  a  few  words  on  points  remote  from 
the  chief  issues  of  the  debate. 

Miss  Marsh  was  amusing  and  impartial. 
Regarding  the  Clumpton  doings  from  jocular 
or  lightly  conversational  points  of  view,  she  de- 
fended or  ridiculed  them  as  she  saw  an  oppor- 
tunity for  displaying  her  smartness.  Having 
driven  over  to  Clumpton  on  the  previous  Sun- 
day morning,  and  attended  at  a  celebration,  she 
could  speak  as  an  eye-witness.  She  could  as- 
sure her  hearers  that  the  whole  thing  was  very- 
lively  and  picturesque,  and  done  in  the  best  pos- 
sible taste. 

"The  choristers,"  remarked  the  young  lady, 
"are  charming  little  fellows,  with  such  angelic 
faces  that  it  is  difficult  to  imagine  them  capa- 
ble of  eating  toffee,  and  playing  at  marbles,  and 
fighting  one  another,  like  Dr.  Watts's  dogs,  that 
delighted  to  bark  and  bite.  By-the-way,  one 
of  them  had  the  remains  of  a  black  eye.  I  re- 
marked it  to  aunt  as  we  came  out  of  the  chant- 
ry. But  the  choristers  are  commonplace  by  the 
side  of  the  curates." 

"Indeed!  do  tell  us  about  them  !" inquired 
Mrs.  Dockett,  who  wished  to  bring  Tiny  "  out," 
in  order  that  her  excited  husband  might  have 
time  to  recover  his  equanimity. 

"  Oh !  Mrs.  Dockett,  they  are  indescribably 
picturesque,  with  their  dainty  little  surplices, 
worn  open,  and  falling  no  lower  than  the  knee, 
so  that  their  long  black  skirts  may  be  seen  to 
advantage.  Instead  of  the  old-fashioned  B.  A. 
and  M.A.  hoods,  they  wear  narrow  scarfs  of 
white  silk,  embroidered  with  gold  thread.  Their 
'  get  up'  is  faultless,  and  they  intone  like  profes- 
sional singers.  To  hear  them  is  to  imagine  that 
they  were  educated  at  the  opera-houses,  instead 
of  Oxford  and  Cambridge.  The  handsomest 
and  most  dandified  of  them,  whose  scarf  ended 
with  tags  ever  so  long,  of  gold  braid,  preached 
us  a  sermon  in  the  middle  of  the  service.  In. 
its  way  it  was  a  model  sermon — short,  pithy, 
and  deliciously  personal.  It  was  addressed  to 
the  fairer  side  of  the  congregation,  and  enjoined 
us  ladies  to  avoid  vain  display  in  our  dress." 

A  light  laugh,  from  three  or  four  of  her  au- 
ditors, rewarding  Tiny  for  this  "hit,"  for  the 
historic  part  of  which  the  narrator  was  entirely 
indebted  to  her  imagination  (as  the  preacher 
had  not  alluded  to  feminine  costume),  she 
raised  her  hands  dramatically,  and  continued 
in  the  same  vein, 

"  Oh !  he  was  delightful  on  that  point!     He 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


55 


positively  looked  me  full  in  the  face  when  he 
said,  '  Do  not  ask  yourselves,  when  purchasing 
an  article  of  raiment,  "Is  this  the  fashion?" 
but  rather  inquire,  "  Will  it  become  me  as  a 
member  of  the  church  ?" '  I  do  really  believe 
that  he  would  like  every  girl  to  dress  like  a  Sis- 
ter of  Mercy,  with  an  outrageous  poke-bonnet, 
and  an  inexplicable  combination  of  dinner-nap- 
kins on  her  head." 

"I  don't  think,"  Lottie  Darling  observed, 
"  that  the  head-dress  of  a  sister  is  unbecoming. 
I  have  often  been  very  agreeably  impressed  by 
a  pair  of  thoughtful,  womanly  eyes  gazing  ten- 
derly at  me  from  beneath  the  delicate  white 
coif." 

Albert  was  on  the  point  of  saying,  "  I  agree 
with  you,  Miss  Darling," when  the  loquacious 
Tiny,  who  meant  to  play  as  long  as  possible  with 
the  conversational  ball,  struck  in  : 

"My  dear  Lottie,  you  are  a  mistress  in  the 
art  of  putting  things  !  None  but  an  artist  could 
venture  to  call  that  dinner-napkin  device  'a 
delicate  white  coif.'  Anyhow,  you  will  allow 
that  a  woman  is  not  better  than  other  women 
because,  instead  of  wearing  a  pretty  bonnet  or 
a  feathered  hat,  she  covers  her  head  with  a 
thing — a  delicate  white  coif,  if  you  like  to  term 
it  so — fashioned  for  the  sole  purpose  of  render- 
ing its  wearer  conspicuous,  and  calling  atten- 
tion to  her  profession  f 

Tiny  laid  a  malicious  accent  on  the  last  word 
of  this  speech. 

"Of  course," Lottie  assented,  "a  woman's 
goodness  is  independent  of  her  dress,  though  it 
is  well  that  her  dress  should  be  in  harmony  with 
her  character  and  vocation." 

"But  may  I  venture  to  suggest,"  observed 
Albert,  coming  to  Lottie's  relief,  "  that,  instead 
of  being  devised  to  draw  attention  to  its  wearer, 
the  sister's  head-dress  was  at  first  selected  for 
her  because  it  was  an  orderly  and  common- 
place covering,  that  would  save  her  from  being 
conspicuous?  Like  the  Quaker's  garb,  which 
in  the  seventeenth  century  was  the  ordinary 
dress  of  simple  men,  and  only  became  peculiar 
as  it  gradually  fell  out  of  fashion,  the  religious 
woman's  coif  was  for  generations  the  regular 
head-dress  of  her  sex,  and  has  grown  to  be 
conspicuous  because  secular  women  have  relin- 
quished it." 

"But,  Mr.  Guerdon,  you  don't  think  it  taste- 
ful?" urged  Tiny,  looking  at  Albert  in  her  sweet- 
est way. 

"  I  can't  say  that  I  altogether  like  it,"  re- 
plied Albert.  "  It  has  an  antiquated  appear- 
ance ;  and  we  are  apt  to  prefer  for  our  com- 
panions an  ugly  costume  that  is  the  mode,  to  a 
picturesque  one  which  has  fallen  out  of  vogue, 
and  with  which  we  have  no  strong  personal  as- 
sociations. But  though  I  might  not  select  it 
for  a  secular  gentlewoman  of  the  present  date, 
I  have  seen  fashionable  bonnets  that  are  far 
less  tasteful  than  the  coif." 

"Don't  bring  our  bonnets  into  the  discus- 
sion. Let  us  keep  to  the  coif,  which  is  distinct 
from  them." 


"Pardon  me — the  coif,  in  its  simplest  form, 
is  nothing  but  a  folded  kerchief,  and  every  va- 
riety of  the  lady's  bonnet  had  its  origin  in  one 
or  two  folded  kerchiefs.  In  the  market-place 
of  the  old  German  towns  on  the  Rhine,  you  may 
see  on  the  heads  of  the  humbler  women  arrange- 
ments of  kerchiefs  that  indicate  every  style  of 
modern  bonnet.  A  clever  peasant  girl  with  a 
pair  of  head  kerchiefs  will  produce  from  them 
twenty  different  fashions  of  the  bonnet  in  as 
many  minutes.  By  pulling  the  lower  kerchief 
more  or  less  forward,  she  gives  herself  more 
or  less  of  the  sun-shade,  whose  extreme  devel- 
opment is  the  poke-bonnet.  By  letting  the  up- 
per kerchief  fall  more  or  less  about  her  neck, 
she  gives  you  diversities  of  the  bonnet  frill, 
that  a  little  millinery  of  ribbons  and  lace  would 
make  highly  ornamental." 

"Capital  —  capital!"  exclaimed  Christina, 
whose  applause  was  not  mere  banter  and  po- 
lite adulation.  "  I  wish  I  could  repay  you  for 
your  notes  on  bonnets  by  lecturing  as  learnedly 
on  the  archaeology  of  the  hat.  Of  course  you 
can  make  bonnets  as  well  as  talk  about  them?" 

"Allow  me,  Miss  Marsh,  to  come  over  to 
Drayton-Combermere  in  the  course  of  next 
week,  and  give  you  a  practical  lesson  in  bon- 
net-making." 

"Pray  come,"  responded  Tiny,  with  eager 
cordiality. 

Albert  flattered  himself  that  he  had  drawn 
Miss  Marsh  away  from  Clnmpton  chantry  and 
"Miss  Nailsworth's  doings,"  a  topic  on  which 
Tiny  had  talked  with  a  flippancy  that  he  saw 
was  by  no  means  acceptable  to1  Lottie  Darling, 
who,  being  little  more  than  a  school-girl,  of 
course  regarded  clerical  men  and  things  rev- 
erentially, and  was  more  thoroughly  convinced 
than  ever  that  Christina  was  "  a  mistake." 

But  Albert  congratulated  himself  too  soon. 

Returning  instantly  to  a  subject  out  of  which 
she  saw  that  more  fun  could  be  made,  Tiny  re- 
sumed her  satire  on  the  chantry : 

"Anyhow,  it  must  be  admitted  that  the 
dress  of  the  Clumpton  nuns  is  not  picturesque, 
and  that  it  contrasts  strikingly  with  the  elegant 
attire  of  the  officiating  clergy  of  the  chantry. 
Indeed,  it  seems  to  be  a  maxim  with  Mr.  Swin- 
nick  and  his  friends  that,  while  religious  wom- 
en should  clothe  themselves  in  the  ugliest  ways 
conceivable,  men  should  demonstrate  their  pi- 
ous zeal  by  foppery.  Not  that  I  disapprove  of 
the  Clumpton  service.  It  is  very  enlivening, 
and  it  is  instructive  to  see  how  our  dear  old 
friend,  the  Church  Service,  may  be  re-arranged, 
and  redressed,  and  sung  so  completely  out  of 
its  old  style  that  it  is  scarcely  possible  to  recog- 
nize it.  It  is  like  meeting  one's  grandmother, 
without  her  cap  and  stick,  in  the  full  ball-dress 
of  a  belle  in  her  twentieth  year." 

"Umph  !"  said  Mr.  Dockett,  again  growing 
purple  in  the  face.  "  It  is  all  very  well  for  the 
young  ladies  to  speak  up  for  enlivening  serv- 
ices, but — " 

"Now,  my  dear  Mr.  Dockett,"  Miss  Marsh 
entreated  pathetically,  holding  up  her  white 


56 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


hands,  and  showing  off  her  delicate  little  arms, 
"  don't  say  any  thing  in  behalf  of  simplicity  of 
observances.  Simplicity  means  dullness  ;  and 
if  you  become  the  champion  of  devout  dullness, 
I  shall  be  forced  to  describe  how  we  are  bored 
twice  a  week  with  Protestant  simplicity  at 
Drayton-Combermere. " 

"Tut,  tut,  Tiny,  don't  tell  tales  out  of  school," 
Miss  Marsh's  uncle  observed,  with  the  good-hu- 
mor that  was  never  ruffled  by  his  niece's  sauci- 
est sallies. 

"Don't  be  alarmed,  uncle,"  rejoined  Tiny, 
"I  shall  deal  leniently  with  the  rector  of  our 
parish.  And  how  can  any  one  say  any  thing 
against  the  orthodoxy  of  your  sermons  ?  How 
should  they  be  otherwise  than  sound,  from  a 
theological  point  of  view,  as  they  were  all  writ- 
ten by  my  right  reverend  grandpapa,  the  Bish- 
op of  Owleybury,  in  George  the  Third's  time? 
But  they  do  want  sprightliness  and  point.  You 
should  put  your  valuable  collection  of  MS.  ser- 
mons by  a  deceased  prelate  (as  they  say  in 
newspaper  advertisements)  into  my  hands,  un- 
cle, and  ask  me  to  touch  them  up  for  you." 

The  rector  of  Drayton-Combermere  laughed 
with  noisy  glee  ;  and  while  the  reverend  baron- 
et was  thus  rewarding  his  niece  for  displaying 
her  smartness  at  his  expense,  Lottie  glanced 
shyly  at  Albert  Guerdon,  and  was  pleased  to 
see  that  he  did  not  encourage  Tiny  with  even 
the  faintest  smile. 

Fortunately  the  peaches  and  grapes,  which 
were  now  submitted  to  the  critical  attention  of 
Mr.  Barlow's  guests,  became  the  topic  of  con- 
versation ;  and,  as  the  host  never  neglected  an 
opportunity  to  vaunt  the  merits  of  his  garden, 
and  expatiate  on  the  arrangements  of  his  hot- 
houses, the  talk  passed  from  ritualism  to  horti- 
culture. 

On  the  following  Sunday,  Albert  Guerdon 
breakfasted  early,  and  rode  over  to  Clumpton 
for  the  morning  service.  There  is  no  need  to 
ask  whether  he  would  have  done  so  had  not  Sir 
James  Darling,  while  sipping  his  coffee  after 
the  ladies  had  withdrawn  from  the  Beech  Court 
dining-room,  intimated  to  the  young  man  his 
intention  to  visit  the  chantry  on  the  earliest  op- 
portunity. It  is  enough  to  say  that  on  taking 
a  seat  in  the  congregation,  Albert  was  not  sur- 
prised to  find  himself  next  the  judge,  and  to  see 
Lottie  and  Lady  Darling  among  the  women  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  chapel. 

On  the  dispersion  of  the  assembly,  Albert 
and  Lottie  retired  from  the  church  in  a  frame 
of  mind  very  different  from  the  temper  in  which 
Tiny  Marsh  had  quitted  the  same  place  on  the 
previous  Sunday.  They  had  seen  nothing  to 
ridicule,  and  much  to  admire  in  the  celebra- 
tion. The  music  of  the  noble  organ  and  well- 
disciplined  choir  had  affected  them,  as  h'ne  sa- 
cred melody  is  wont  to  affect  sensitive  hearers. 
They  had  not  derived  much  pleasure  from  the 
show  of  surplices  and  ecclesiastical  vestments  ; 
but  they  had  listened  with  satisfaction  to  a 
thoughtful  and  admirably  delivered  sermon, 
from  the  same  preacher  whom  Tiny  Marsh  had 


also  heard  in  the  pulpit,  and  had  described  as 
"the  most  dandified  of  the  curates."  More- 
over, it  had  not  escaped  the  notice  of  Albert 
and  Lottie  that  the  congregation,  which  filled 
every  seat  of  the  chapel,  consisted  chiefly  of 
poor  people,  many  of  whom  appeared,  from 
their  dress  and  style,  to  be  workers  in  the  por- 
celain factories  of  Rigvvorthy. 

"I  don't  think,"  Lottie  observed  to  Albert, 
as  they  walked  together  through  the  park  to  the 
gate  where  the  Arleigh  pony  phaeton  was  await- 
ing them,  "  that  Christina  Marsh  gave  us  a  fair 
descripton  of  the  Clumpton  chantry." 

As  the  young  people  were  several  paces  in 
the  rear  of  Sir  James  and  Lady  Darling,  these 
words  were  audible  to  no  one  but  Albert. 

"People  often  say  unfair  things,"  returned 
Albert,  "  when  their  object  is  to  shine  as  brill- 
iant talkers.  In  a  certain  way  Miss  Marsh  is 
very  amusing;  but  she  often  makes  speeches 
which  might  as  well  be  unsaid." 

Urging  nothing  in  defense  of  the  absent 
"mistake,"  but  forbearing  to  say  any  thing  to 
put  her  still  lower  in  Albert's  esteem,  Lottie 
observed, 

"I  do  not  say  that  the  Clumpton  celebration 
is  precisely  for  my  frame  of  mind.  There  is 
too  much  stir  and  music.  It  lacks  repose.  It 
may  be  due  to  habit  and  association  that  I  pre- 
fer a  more  tranquilizing  form  of  worship  ;  but 
I  think  I  would  not  habitually  attend  a  church 
whose  services  wanted  quietude,  and  afforded 
me  no  opportunities  for  prayerful  meditation." 

"You  must  remember,"  replied  Albert, 
"  that,  by  reason  of  its  novelty,  this  service 
excites  you  more  than  it  does  persons  who  are 
familiar  with  its  arrangements.  Probably  it  is 
not  less  soothing  than  impressive  to  the  regular 
frequenters  of  the  chantry." 

"That is  very  likely,"  Lottie  assented.  She 
added,  after  a  pause,  "Anyhow,  Mr.  Swinnick 
is  doing  a  good  work.  The  chapel  was  crowd- 
ed, and  it  contained  a  large  proportion  of  the 
people  whom  it  is  most  difficult  to  draw  to 
places  of  worship.  So  long  as  people  are 
brought  to  a  church,  it  is  not  well  for  any  one 
to  be  censorious  respecting  the  influences  which 
bring  them  together  for  religious  exercise. 
To  rouse  heedless  natures,  and  make  the  world 
better  than  it  is,  Mr.  Guerdon,  if  I  were  a  cler- 
gyman, I  would  walk  barefoot,  or  perpetrate 
any  eccentricity  which  would  help  to  accom- 
plish my  purpose." 

The  earnestness  with  which  Lottie  delivered 
this  simple  speech  caused  Albert  to  respond 
with  corresponding  fervor, 

"And  though  you  are  not  a  clergyman,  you 
would  like  to  do  something  to  make  the  world 
better?" 

"How  can  I  feel  otherwise,"  Miss  Darling 
replied,  with  seriousness,  and  an  agreeable  free- 
dom from  self-righteousness,  "at  this  moment 
when  we  are  walking  away  from  the  c'hurch 
where  we  have  been  praying  ?" 

"  It  pleases  me  to  hear  you  say  so." 

Looking  at  him  with  an  expression  of  sur- 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


57 


prise,  Lottie  said,  "Surely  you  did  not  imagine 
that  I  could  feel  otherwise  !" 

Albert  smiled  as  he  answered, 

"No,  no.  Of  course,  I  knew  your  mind. 
But  it  is  always  pleasant  to  hear  right  feeling 
rightly  expressed." 

By  which  reply  Lottie  Darling  was  gratified, 
though  she  did  not  see  that  the  words  were 
complimentary  to  herself.  Her  pleasure  was 
of  a  very  simple  and  unegotistic  kind.  Mr. 
Guerdon's  words  made  her  feel  that  he  was  a 
young  man  of  good  principles  ;  and  Lottie  en- 
joyed thinking  well  of  her  friends. 

During  her  drive  back  to  Arleigh  in  the  bas- 
ket carriage  with  her  papa  and  mamma,  Lottie 
said  little  and  thought  much.  She  thought  a 
good  deal  about  Albert  Guerdon,  then  canter- 
ing homeward  to  Earl's  Court ;  and  as  the 
pony  carriage  turned  into  the  grounds  of  the 
manor-house,  a  smile  brightened  her  face  when 
it  occurred  to  her  that  he  was  not  likely  to  fall 
a  prey  to  the  man-hunter.  Albert  had  become 
an  object  of  interest  to  her,  though  she  was 
not  aware  of  it.  When  she  thus  rejoiced  se- 
cretly that  a  particular  girl  would  not  win  Al- 
bert's love,  Lottie  was  moving  quickly  and  un- 
consciously to  the  state  of  feeling  in  which  she 
would  desire  him  for  herself. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

A  PROFESSOR   WHO   KNEW  JUST  NOTHING 
ABOUT  IT. 

THE  course  of  true  love  bids  fair  to  run 
smoothly  when  a  young  man  has  rendered  him- 
self generally  acceptable  to  the  object  of  his 
affections,  and  when,  besides  being  quite  free 
from  penchant  for  another  admirer,  the  girl  of 
his  choice  has  a  papa  and  mamma  who  cordial- 
ly desire  that  his  suit  may  be  successful.  For 
n  while  Albert's  romance  promised  to  falsify  a 
familiar  Shakspearean  adage.  Lottie  smiled 
upon  him,  though  she  was  still  unaware  of  his 
hopes.  Sir  James  and  Lady  Darling  encour- 
aged him  to  be  their  almost  daily  visitor,  and 
to  protract  his  calls  to  Arleigh  Manor  to  a 
most  unfashionable  length.  Under  these  cir- 
cumstances, had  he  been  a  diffident  lover,  he 
would  not  have  failed  to  think  himself  on  the 
highway  to  triumph.  But,  as  the  readers  of 
this  page  are  aware,  Albert,  while  perfectly  in- 
nocent of  insolence,  was  altogether  free  from 
conventional  fears  for  the  result  of  his  opera- 
tions. At  the  same  time,  the  joyous  hopeful- 
ness of  the  pursuer  did  not  diminish  the  pleas- 
ure of  the  pursuit,  or  cause  him  to  omit  a  sin- 
gle precaution  that  he  would  have  taken  for 
the  attainment  of  his  end,  had  he  been  less 
blissfully  confident,  or  striving  for  the  prize 
against  desperate  odds. 

Had  it  not  been  for  Blanche  Heathcote,  and 
his  father's  wishes  respecting  her,  Albert  would 
have  been  quire  content  with  his  prospects  and 


shine  of  present  felicity  he  foresaw — or  rather, 
let  it  be  said,  he  secretly  strove  not  to  foresee — 
difficulty  and  trouble  arising  from  his  sire's  am- 
bition for  his  enrichment  by  marriage.  Again 
and  again  he  wished  that  Blanche  Heathcote 
would  put  herself  conveniently  out  of  his  way. 
He  did  not  want  her  to  drown  herself  in  the 
Menai  Straits,  or  die  opportunely  of  a  rapid 
consumption.  He  only  thought  that  she  would 
be  acting  in  accordance  with  the  fitness  of 
things  if  she  would  fall  in  love  with  a  tall  sol- 
dier, and  announce  to  her  guardians  that  she 
would,  with  their  sanction,  relinquish  her  maid- 
en surname  before  Christmas.  If  Blanche 
would  only  dispose  of  herself  in  this  pleasant 
and  innocent  fashion,  Albert  was  sure  that  his 
father  would  cordially  welcome  Lottie  to  his 
arms  as  an  unexceptionable  daughter-in-law. 
But  as  long  as  Blanche  and  her  fortune  were  in 
the  market,  Albert  was  afraid  that  Sir  James 
Darling's  daughter  would  not  appear  to  the 
great  banker  of  Hammerhampton  a  fit  mistress 
for  Earl's  Court.  But  enough  for  the  day  is  the 
evil  thereof,  especially  when  the  day  is  quite 
devoid  of  evil.  Albert  would  be  happy  while 
he  could.  He  would  win  Lottie's  love,  and 
then  find  out  some  way  whereby  to  render  his 
choice  acceptable  to  his  purse-proud  sire.  Of 
course,  if  he  had  been  perfectly  unselfish,  he 
would  have  shrunk  from  the  thought  of  draw- 
ing Lottie  into  an  engagement  that  might  ex- 
pose her  to  unkindness  and  insult  from  his  fa- 
ther. But  Albert  was  not  completely  unselfish. 
He  was  a  man — and,  moreover,  a  young  man. 
Though  he  had  never  sown  any  wild  oats,  the 
devil  had  a  lien  on  his  moral  nature. 

Albert  soon  discovered  that  he  might  spare 
himself  the  trouble  of  inventing  pretexts  for 
calling  at  Arleigh  Manor.  The  welcome  guest 
needs  no  excuse  for  showing  himself  where  he 
gives  pleasure.  The  gladness  which  such  a 
visitor  occasions  is  a  sufficient  justification  of 
his  presence ;  and  Mary  Darling,  who  knew 
right  well  the  purpose  of  Albert's  daily  appear- 
ances at  Arleigh  long  before  Lottie  condescend- 
ed to  look  for  the  reason  of  them,  never  saw  the 
young  man  approach  her  drawing-room  win- 
dow without  experiencing  a  renewal  of  her  joy. 
Her  girl  would  not  be  taken  from  her  by  mar- 
riage. Moreover,  every  additional  day  of  in- 
tercourse with. Albert  confirmed  Lady  Darling 
in  her  high  opinion  of  the  young  man's  clever- 
ness and  goodness.  The  same  was  the  case 
with  Sir  James  Darling.  Under  these  circum- 
stances it  would  have  been  egregiously  ridicu- 
lous had  Albert  continued  to  bring  Lady  Dar- 
ling magazines  which  she  had  no  wish  to  read, 
or  plants  which  her  gardener  could  obtain  at 
her  bidding.  So  Albert  scorned  to  use  needless 
fictions,  and  went  over  the  fields  with  buoyant 
heart  and  light  steps  to  Arleigh,  because  he  was 
welcome  there,  and  wanted  there ;  and,  above 
all,  because  he  wished  to  be  there.  As  for  Lot- 
tie, the  frequency  of  his  visits  did  not  for  some 
weeks  rouse  her  astonishment,  or  provoke  her 


the  state  of  his  aflmrs.      But  in  the  full  sun- 1  curiosity,  or  give  her  a  single  alarming  sus- 


58 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


picion.  In  their  inexperience,  young  people 
are  apt  to  regard  the  strangest  occurrences  as 
mere  matters  of  course ;  and  Lottie,  being  a 
young  and  inexperienced  maiden,  merely  look- 
ed on  Albert's  visits  as  incidents  in  the  ordi- 
nary way  of  existence.  She  was  unfamiliar 
with  rural  life,  and  presumed  that  a  country 
house  always  had  a  young  man  loitering  about 
it,  just  as  it  had  a  watch-dog  in  the  stable-yard, 
and  a  hawk  with  a  tied  wing  in  the  kitchen 
garden. 

Under  these  same  circumstances,  also,  it  was 
not  surprising  that  Lady  Darling  and  Sir  James 
said  it  was  a  bright  thought  when  Albert  Guer- 
don suggested  that  it  would  be  well  for  the 
judge  to  put  up  a  couple  of  targets  in  the 
"  promontory,"  where  Lottie  might  go  through 
a  regular  course  of  archery  discipline.  Sir 
James  was  so  struck  by  the  merits  of  the  pro- 
posal that  he  wondered  how  he  had  not  sooner 
and  spontaneously  thought  of  the  plan  for  giv- 
ing his  girl  another  lady-like  accomplishment. 
When  the  judge  ordered  the  targets,  and  bought 
Lottie  a  bow  and  arrows  at  Hammerhampton, 
he  did  so  on  the  understanding  that  Albert 
would  teach  the  "young  lady  how  to*  shoot," 
and  qualify  his  pupil  to  carry  off  a  prize  at  the 
Owleybury  archery  club  before  the  end  of  the 
archery  season. 

Croquet  was  unknown,  and  "  Les  Graces  "  out 
of  fashion,  in  the  days  when  Albert  and  Lottie 
fell  in  love  with  one  another ;  but  archery  was 
in  high  favor  with  the  "  neighborhood."  The 
Owleybury  Toxophilites,  notwithstanding  the 
exclusiveness  of  the  club,  numbered  in  all  a 
hundred  and  twenty  members;  and  there  was 
scarcely  a  single  country  house  of  prosperity 
and  refinement,  within  ten  miles  of  Arleigh, 
that  had  not  its  butts  in  a  safe  and  convenient- 
ly adjacent  paddock.  An  invitation  to  a  gar- 
den party  at  Beech  Court  or  Countess  Court, 
or  any  other  gentleman's  court  of  the  district, 
implied  archery  for  the  archers,  and  idleness 
among  the  flower-beds  for  those  who  could  not 
speed  the  arrow  to  its  mark. 

On  the  arrival  of  the  targets  at  Arleigh,  Sir 
James  Darling  was  on  the  point  of  ordering 
his  gardener  to  fix  them  at  once  in  the  lower 
paddock,  known  as  "the  promontory."  But 
Lady  Darling  interposed  with  a  suggestion 
that  they  had  better  wait  till  Albert  should 
arrive  in  the  morning,  and  select  the  shooting- 
ground. 

"  Oh  yes,  we  must  wait  for  Mr.  Albert 
Guerdon,"  Lottie  cooed.  "  He  will  be  here 
in  the  morning  to  give  me  my  first  lesson." 

There  was  a  pleasant  school-girl's  serious- 
ness in  Lottie's  face  as  she  spoke  of  her  "  first 
lesson." 

As  Sir  James  had  no  court  anywhere  on  the 
following  day,  he  was  at  home  when  Albert  se- 
lected the  site,  measured  out  the  ground,  and 
raised  the  butts. 

"Are  you  a  member  of  the  Owleybury  Tox- 
ophilites?" inquired  Sir  James  of  the  young 
man. 


"I  was  elected  last  week;  and  I  hope  that 
Lady  Darling  and  Miss  Darling  will  allow  me 
to  enter  their  names  in  the  candidates'  book." 

"You have  never  won  a  prize  there  yet  ?" 

"No;  nor  anywhere  else." 

" But  you  are  a  crack  shot  with  the  bow?" 

"I  don't  think  I  ever  drew  a  bow  in  all  my 
life." 

Siv  James  burst  out  laughing,  as  he  patted 
Albert  lightly  on  the  shoulder,  and  said, 

"  Think,  think — have  you  never  drawn  the 
long-bow?  Why,  you  offered  to  be  Lottie's 
instructor." 

Albert  reddened  slightly  under  Sir  James's 
merriment,  and  the  ladies'  looks  of  amusement 
and  surprise.  But  he  was  equal  to  the  occa- 
sion. 

"Surely  I  did;  but  at  present,"  the  young 
man  observed,  gravely,  while  his  eyes  twinkled 
with  fun,  "  I  know  just  nothing  about  the  sport. 
The  best  teachers  are  those  who  learn  as  they 
teach,  and  are  only  ten  minutes  in  advance  of 
their  pupils.  In  the  present  instance  the  teach- 
er won't  be  even  that  much  ahead  of  his  pupil  ; 
for,  as  I  tell  you  frankly,  I  know  just  nothing 
about  it,  except  what  I  have  picked  up  from 
'  The  Toxophilites'  Manual,'  a  most  entertain- 
ing little  work,  and  from  seeing  people  shoot. 
But  I'll  undertake  to  say  that  my  pupil  will  do 
me  credit,  and  carry  off  a  prize  at  Owleybury, 
before  ever  I  win  one." 

Throwing  aside  all  thought  for  his  judicial 
dignity,  Sir  James  screamed  himself  purple 
with  laughter  before  he  cried  out, 

"Oh!  your  frankness !  oh,  your  impudence, 
Albert !  You  are  a  sheer  impostor !  You  of- 
fered to  be  Lottie's  instructor,  and  now  you  are 
compelled  to  confess  that  you  know  nothing 
about  it !  You  are  a  sheer  impostor,  Albert." 

Sir  James  had  never  before  called  the  young 
man  by  his  Christian  name. 

"No,  no,  James,"  interposed  Lady  Darling, 
merrily,  "  don't  make  him  out  worse  than  he 
is.  He  only  confesses  that  he  knows  just  noth- 
ing about  it." 

"But,  Mary,"  ejaculated  the  judge,  in  the 
middle  of  another  burst  of  laughter,  "he  palmed 
himself  off  upon  us  a  perfect  master  of  the  art !" 

"I  protest  against  the  charge  of  imposture. 
I  never  said,"  cried  Albert,  "that  I  had  han- 
dled a  bow.  All  that  I  ventured  to  say  was  that 
I  should  have  great  pride  in  doing  my  best  to 
be  Miss  Darling's  efficient  instructor." 

"It  won't  do," rejoined  Sir  James,  when  he 
had  recovered  his  breath.  "Your  incompe- 
tence is  admitted  by  yourself;  and  I  must  look 
elsewhere  for  a  teacher  for  Lottie." 

"I  am  quite  competent,"  Albert  insisted, 
stoutly.  And  then  turning  to  Lottie,  who  all 
this  while  had  been  shedding  smiles  and  pour- 
ing forth  ripples  of  laughter  on  the  merry  group, 
he  asked,  "  Does  my  pupil  repudiate  me?" 

"No,  Mr.  Guerdon,"  returned  Lottie,  with 
appropriate  fervor  and  seriousness,  "  your  pupil 
does  not  reject  her  professor  who  knows  just 
nothing  about  it.  She  accepts  him,  with  per- 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


59 


feet  confidence  that  he  will  prove  her  very  ef- 
ficient teacher  in  the  mystery  of  archers.  To 
the  best  of  her  ability  she  will  do  every  thing 
that  he  bids  her  do  ;  and  she  will  do  it  in  per- 
fect faith  that  it  is  the  very  thing  which  ought 
to  be  done." 

"  She  has  faith  in  you,"  exclaimed  Sir  James, 
"  in  spite  of  your  detection.  It  is  a  triumph 
of  faith  over  knowledge." 

"I  have  perfect  confidence  in  him, "Lottie 
repeated,  "  as  a  teacher  of  archery,  and,  like  a 
docile  pupil,  I  will  submit  myself  to  his  disci- 
pline." 

"  It  is  a  bargain,  Miss  Darling,"  cried  Albert. 
"Let  us  observe  an  old  sacred  custom,  and  join 
hands  upon  it,  in  the  presence  of  witnesses." 

"By  all  means," Lottie  assented,  approach- 
ing her  professor,  and  extending  to  him  her 
fair  right  hand. 

As  Albert  took  her  hand,  a  bright  color  sud- 
denly flushed  the  usually  bloodless  surface  of 
his  cheeks  and  temples  ;  for  the  thought  seized 
him  that  the  time  was  not  far  distant  when  he 
would  venture  to  kiss  the  girl's  tender,  blue- 
veined  palm. 

And  Albert  proved  Lottie's  efficient  instruct- 
or in  archery.  Day  after  day  the  young  man 
slipped  slyly  over  the  fields  from  Earl's  Court 
to  Arleigh,  under  the  cover  of  green  hedge- 
rows and  murmurous  trees ;  and  morning  after 
morning  he  gave  Lotfie  her  lessons  in  speeding 
winged  shafts  to  the  bull's-eye.  And  if  he  was 
a  clever  teacher,  she  was  a  quick  pupil.  They 
were  both  of  them  fit  players  of  the  nice  pastime. 
Lottie,  though  she  was  delicately  formed,  was 
much  stronger  than  she  looked.  She  had  a 
firm  hand  and  strong  wrist  for  a  maiden ;  a  good 
eye  for  measuring  distances,  and  nice  discern- 
ment of  the  varying  influences  of  breeze  and 
atmosphere  which  affect  an  arrow's  course. 
She  had  also  the  temper  that  could  endure  dis- 
appointments with  patience,  and  an  intelli- 
gence that  caught  quickly  the  lessons  of  fail- 
ures. Ere  long  she  never  failed  to  make  an 
inner  ring  without  seeing  the  reason  of  her 
misadventure.  And  when  she  sent,  as  she 
often  did,  a  shaft  into  the  bull's-eye,  the  hit 
was  never  a  lucky  accident,  but  the  result  of 
fine  perception,  nice  calculation,  and  delicate 
application  of  force. 

When  the  archery  practice  had  continued 
for  a  fortnight,  Albert  Guerdon  brought  over 
to  Ai-leigh  a  fresh  supply  of  arrows,  and  a  new 
quiver  for  his  pupil,  who  accepted  the  present 
with  pleasure,  remembering  her  papa's  state- 
ment of  a  certain  social  law.  She  was  sure 
that  her  acceptance  of  the  green  and  gold 
sheath  would  meet  with  her  mamma's  approval. 

A  few  days  later,  Albert  said, 

"  Miss  Darling,  you  are  shooting  splendid- 
ly!" 

"Ho\v  soon,"  she  asked,  "shall  I  be  fit  to 
exhibit  my  prowess  at  Owleybury  ?" 

"I  was  at  the  * Toxophilites '  last  night, 
when  you  and  Sir  James  and  Lady  Darling 
were  elected  members  with  acclamation." 


"Mamma!"  cried  Lottie  to  Lady  Darling, 
who  was  sitting,  after  her  wont  during  the 
archery  lessons,  under  an  elm,  out  of  the  way 
of  danger,  and  hard  by  the  cool,  gurgling  wa- 
ter of  the  Luce,  "you  are  a  toxophilite!" 

In  acknowledgment  of  which  gratifying 
news,  Mary  Darling  smiled  and  waved  her 
hand  over  her  quiet  brows.  The  mother  was 
very  happy  in  her  distant  seat,  meditating  over 
the  joys  in  store  for  her  child,  while  they  had 
their  game  and  innocent  gossip  beyond  her 
range  of  hearing. 

"  Was  the  shooting  good  ?"  Lottie  asked. 

"Ton  my  honor,"  Albert  replied,  vehe- 
mently, "there  was  not  a  girl  on  the  ground 
who  shot  much  better  than  you!" 

"Were  the  good  shots  there?" 

"All  the  crack  ones;  and  in  another  fort- 
night you  will  be  able  to  hold  your  own  with 
the  best." 

Lottie's  face  crimsoned  with  girlish  exulta- 
tion. 

"You  are  not  flattering  me?"  she  asked,  as 
the  suspicion  seized  her  that  he  might  be  pay- 
ing her  a  compliment  scarcely  justified  by  facts. 

"Trust  me!"  Albert  rejoined,  gravely. 

"I  will  trust  you.  But  has  not  your  kind- 
ness, and  a  wish  to  please  me,  influenced  your 
judgment  too  much  ?" 

"  No ;  Miss  Henderson,  who  has  carried  off 
the  first  ladies'  prize  in  three  successive  years, 
was  there ;  and,  though  every  one  said  she  was 
shooting  fairly  well  for  her,  if  not  at  her  best, 
she  did  not  make  a  larger  score,  centres  and 
inners,  than  you  have  made  this  morning." 

"What  delightful  news !" 

"  I  will  never  mislead  you  in  any  thing  by 
excessive  praise." 

"  Thank  you.    I  do  not  like  to  be  flattered." 

After  a  few  seconds'  silence,  Lottie  inquired, 

"Shall  we  go  to  the  next  meeting?" 

"Of  the  club?" 

"  Yes— of  the  Owleybury  Toxophilites. " 

"I  would  rather  you  did  not." 

"Why?" 

"At  present  no  one  beyond  the  bounds  of 
Arleigh  knows  of  our  shooting  ?" 

"No  one.  We  agreed  to  keep  it  secret  till 
we  had  educated  ourselves  up  to  a  respectable 
proficiency ;  and  I  have  told  none  of  our  friends 
about  our  proceedings.  The  Marshes  and 
Hillsboroughs  and  Newingtons,  and  several 
other  people,  have  been  here  during  the  last 
fortnight;  but  though  they  walked  round  the 
garden,  they  did  not  see  the  targets.  You  see, 
they  are  fixed  so  close  to  the  fence,  and  under 
the  dip  of  the  hill,  that  people  in  the  upper 
grounds  don't  get  a  sight  of  them." 

"I  did  not  mean  them  to  be  seen.  I  select- 
ed the  ground  with  a  view  to  secrecy." 

"  You  had  that  in  view  from  the  first  ?" 

"From  the  first." 

A  look  of  amusement  and  surprise  came  to 
Lottie's  face  at  this  confession.  She  did  not 
blush  again ;  but  she  colored  slightly  at  dis- 
covering how  her  professor  had  done  with  a 


CO 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


definite  purpose  what  she  had  supposed  him  to 
have  done  without  consideration,  or,  at  least, 
with  no  undeclared  object.  She  had  a  vague 
feeling  that  she  was  in  some  mysterious  way 
passing  out  of  her  own  keeping  into  his  hands. 

"And  you  think  the  secrecy  may  as  well  he 
maintained  a  little  longer?" 

"Let  us  keep  our  shooting  dark,"  urged  Al- 
bert, lowering  his  voice  to  a  tone  of  mystery, 
"till  the  last  day  of  August — the  day  for  the 
grand  contest  of  the  Owleyhury  Toxophilites, 
when  we  will  appear  as  novices  among  the 
practiced  archers,  and  carry  off  the  first  two 
prizes.  You  shall  carry  off  the  'prize  quiver,' 
with  its  golden  belt,  which  will  have  a  jeweled 
clasp.  I  will  win  the  bow  with  silver  tips,  the 
prize  to  be  shot  for  by  the  men." 

"It  is  impossible  that  we  should  succeed  !" 
ejaculated  Lottie.  "  You  may  be  the  conquer- 
or of  the  men,  but  it  would  be  ridiculous  pre- 
sumption in  me  to  hope  to  vanquish  Florence 
Henderson — the  victor  of  three  successive  sea- 
sons." 

"Both  of  us  shall  triumph!"  responded  Al- 
bert, warmly. 

"Your  voice  gives  me  courage  and  hope." 

"The  event  shall  realize  the  hope  !" 

Lottie  was  almost  breathless  with  excite- 
•  ment  at  the  ambitious  project. 

"Only  we  must  work  hard,"  continued  Al- 
bert. "Your  eye  needs  no  further  training, 
and  it  must  be  no  common  breeze  to  baffle 
-.  .your  discernment  and  knowledge  of  the  wind. 
I^u't  you  want  a  little  more  strength  of  muscle. 
Your  fingers  and  wrist  lose  their  steadiness 
after  exertion." 

"They  do,"  the  pupil  admitted,  meekly. 

"  You  would  do  well  to  work  an  hour  a  day 
at  your  'digitorium,'  "  suggested  the  professor, 
"  to  strengthen  your  fingers." 

"  I  will  do  so,"  Lottie  promised,  obediently. 

"And  in  the  mean  time  we  will  be  dark," 
insisted  Albert. 

"Very  dark"  said  the  fair  girl,  in  a  solemn, 
almost  in  a  sepulchral  tone. 

"Not  a  soul  is  to  know  of  our  purpose," 
urged  the  adviser. 

"Oh!  Mr.  Albert,"  pleaded  Lottie,  raising 
her  voice  to  a  higher  key,  as  she  protested 
against  such  utter  "  darkness,"  "you  must  not 
bind  me  not  to  tell  mamma  and  papa.  At 
least  I  must  tell  mamma.  I  never  had  an  im- 
portant secret  from  her  in  all  my  life." 

There  was  a  new  joy  in  Albert's  heart  as  the 
girl  thus  implored  that  he  would  not  bind  her 
to  be  "  dark"  to  her  mamma.  Clearly  he  was 
getting  on  with  her,  and  she  was  fast  falling 
under  his  dominion,  if  she  felt  that  she  might 
not  without  his  permission  impart  their  design 
to  Lady  Darling. 

"Of  course,  we  will  take  Sir  James  and 
Lady  Darling  into  our  counsel.  We  will  work, 
and  they  shall  encourage  us," he  said.  "Three 
persons  are  enough  for  a  conspiracy  in  the  eye 
of  the  law  ;  but  our  plot  shall  have  four  con- 
spirators." 


"It  is  delightful!" 

"And  it  would  not  add  to  our  enjoyment  to 
have  more  accomplices  and  spectators  of  our 
preparations.  Our  secret  shootings  have  been 
very  agreeable." 

"They  have  been  enjoyable  beyond  expres- 
sion," Lottie  assented,  emphatically,  and  with  a 
smile  of  thanksgiving. 

She  felt  toward  her  companion  something 
of  the  gratitude  which  a  school-girl  feels  for  a 
favorite  professor  of  her  favorite  accomplish- 
ment. 

So  Lottie  and  Albert  went  on  shooting  at 
their  butts,  morning  after  morning,  throughout 
the  joyous  weeks  of  July  and  the  earlier  part  of 
August.  The  conspirators  against  Miss  Hen- 
derson's supremacy  were  "dark"  —  dark  as 
death.  And  while  the  archers  shot  their  ar- 
rows to  and  fro  with  a  delicious  sense  of  secre- 
cy, Albert — shooting  darkly  with  a  bow  not 
made  of  wood— sent  many  a  shaft  into  Lottie's 
heart.  But  the  heart  did  not  feel  the  "  hits  " 
as  they  were  made ;  for  each  dart  was  tipped 
with  a  subtle  poison  that  blinded  Lottie  to  the 
archer's  purpose,  and  made  her  unconscious  of 
the  wounds  he  gave  her.  She  thought  that  her 
companion,  while  training  her  for  victory,  was 
only  preparing  himself  to  win  the  first  prize  for 
gentlemen  at  Owleybury.  Once  only  Curing 
the  course  of  August,  and  then  only  for  a  few 
foolish  minutes,  toward  the  month's  close,  did 
she  suspect  that  her  professor  was  compassing 
her  defeat,  and  seeking  something  far  more 
precious  than  a  silver-tipped  bow.  It  was  not 
Albert's  intention  that  she  should  see  his  real 
aim  until  she  had  carried  off  the  quiver  with 
the  jeweled  clasp. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

A  JAR   WITHOUT  A   QUARREL. 

THE  practice  at  the  butts  brought  Albert  and 
Lottie  into  familiar  friendship,  and  caused  them 
to  address  one  another  with  confidential  free- 
dom. They  behaved  to  each  other  more  like 
brother  and  sister,  or  first  cousins,  who  had 
lived  from  childhood  in  affectionate  intimacy, 
rather  than  like  two  young  people  whose  ac- 
quaintanceship had  existed  only  for  a  few 
weeks.  They  did  not,  like  brother  and  sister 
or  near  cousins,  address  one  another  by  their 
Christian  names;  but  they  were  fast  advan- 
cing to  the  intercourse  when,  without  asking 
or  formally  granting  permission  for  the  liberty, 
they  would  begin  to  call  one  another  Lottie  and 
Albert.  Already  it  appeared  to  Albert  to  be 
formal  and  inconsistent  with  his  brotherly  de- 
meanor to  her  that  he  should  address  as  "  Miss 
Darling"  the  girl  whom  his  heart  and  fancy 
called  "  Lottie  Darling,"  or  simple  "  Lottie." 

Now  and  then  he  unconsciously  addressed 
her  by  the  only  name  which  her  papa  and  mam- 
ma accorded  to  her ;  but  hitherto  he  had  nev- 
er omitted  to  prelude  the  diminutive  Avith  a 


LOTTIE  DAKLING. 


Gl 


"  Miss."  And  while  he  was  thus  setting  aside 
the  restraints  of  frigid  etiquette,  he  was  pleased 
to  observe  that  Lottie  was  beginning  to  famil- 
iarize her  lips  to  the  utterance  of  his  Christian 
name  by  calling  him  Mr.  Albert.  Miss  Dar- 
ling was  not  herself  aware  of  this  approach  on 
her  part  to  sisterly  freedom.  Her  father  and 
mother  held  fallen  into  the  habit  of  calling  the 
young  man  "Albert;"  and  following  their  ex- 
ample at  a  distance,  and  up  to  the  limits  of 
maidenly  propriety,  she  was  gradually  and  in- 
sensibly substituting  Mr.  Albert  for  the  less  fa- 
miliar address.  Having  learned  to  think  of 
Mr.  Guerdon  as  Mr.  Albert,  she  was  nearing 
the  time  when,  with  equal  simplicity  and  un- 
observance,  she  would  call  him  "Albert." 

There  was  one  occasion  toward  the  close  of 
August — an  occasion  alluded  to  in  a  line  of  the 
last  chapter — when  Albert,  taken  unawares  by 
a  flood  of  tender  feeling,  was  on  the  point  of 
revealing  to  her  prematurely  the  desire  of  his 
heart.  For  a  moment  he  trembled  on  the  fine 
line  that  divided  the  delicately  cautious  suitor 
from  the  eloquent  and  accepted  lover.  Had  he 
yielded  to  the  impulse  which  nearly  vanquish- 
ed his  resolve,  and  would  have  slightly  changed 
the  plan  of  his  campaign,  he  would  in  anoth- 
er instant  have  overstepped  the  boundary,  and 
snapped  the  yielding  bands  which  had  hitherto 
held  him  in  the  position  of  Lottie's  professor 
of  archery  and  undeclared  admirer. 

His  visits  to  Arleigh  had  usually  been  paid 
in  the  early  part  of  the  day,  when  his  father 
had  "  gone  to  business"  at  Hammerhampton. 
In  the  afternoons  he  rode  with  his  sire ;  and  on 
most  days,  if  no  social  engagement  interfered 
with  their  ordinary  way  of  life,  the  banker  and 
his  son  dined  together.  While  John  Guerdon 
drank  his  bottle  of  '20  port,  and  spoke  disdain- 
fully of  the  lighter  wines  of  France,  Albert  sip- 
ped the  claret  which  his  Continental  training 
had  taught  him  to  prefer  to  the  Methuen  drink. 
The  conversation  at  the  after-dinner  sittings  of 
the  sire  and  son  does  not  merit  commemora- 
tion ;  though  it  seldom  wearied  or  offended 
Albert,  who  liked  to  hear  his  father  descant  on 
the  merits  of  England  in  "  the  good  old  days," 
and  magnify  the  virtues  of  "  the  only  wine  fit 
for  an  Englishman."  Now  and  then,  it  must  be 
admitted  that  the  senior  told  a  story  which  his 
companion  was  prig  enough  to  put  in  the  same 
category  with  Tiny  Marsh's  lighter  achieve- 
ments in  table-talk,  and  to  classify  with  speech- 
es that  might  as  well  have  been  unsaid.  And 
once  or  twice,  when  the  veteran  inquired  sig- 
nificantly why  his  heir  delayed  to  go  off  for  his 
fishing  excursion  in  Wales,  it  must  also  be  con- 
fessed that  Albert  did  not  find  his  father  good 
company.  But  as  John  Guerdon  forbore  to 
mention  Blanche  Heathcote's  name,  and  never 
expatiated  on  the  metallurgical  virtues  of  her 
fat  farm,  Albert  conceived  no  strong  dislike  for 
the  Earl's  Court  dinners,  and  behaved  like  a 
dutiful  son  at  "the  mahogany-tree." 

But  on  the  occasion  to  which  this  chapter 
draws  special  attention,  Albert,  taking  advan- 


tage of  his  father's  absence  from  home  at  the 
house  dinner  of  the  Hammerhampton  Club, 
had  dined  at  Arleigh  Manor  with  Sir  James 
Darling  and  the  ladies.  No  second  guest  be- 
ing present,  Albert  had  of  course  no  fault  to 
find  with  the  entertainment  or  the  party.  With- 
out being  dull,  the  table-talk  was  agreeably 
dqvoid  of  brilliance.  The  Darlings  at  home 
never  overflowed  with  epigrams,  or  tried  to 
sparkle  in  the  style  of  commonplace  people  en- 
deavoring to  be  playful  and  clever.  And  on 
the  evening  under  consideration  they  enjoyed 
themselves  and  their  dinner  without  fretting 
one  another  with  paradoxes  and  jeux  d esprit. 
Indeed,  there  was  nothing  said  between  soup 
and  dessert  that  made  a  greater  impression  on 
Albert  than  Lottie's  avowal  that  she  had  never 
heard  the  winding,  chain-like  notes  of  the  night- 
jar. The  London-and-Brighton-bred  girL  was 
ignorant  of  many  rural  things  familiar  as  day- 
light and  starlight  to  country  folk ;  but  her  ig- 
norance was  rapidly  diminishing  under  her  in- 
cessant and  intelligent  observation  of  the  novel 
sounds,  and  creatures,  and  doings  submitted  to 
her  curiosity.  Lottie  had  eyes  and  ears;  and 
she  already  knew  more  about  wild  birds  and 
wild  flowers,  and  farming,  and  fresh-water  fish 
than  many  a  flashily  taught  girl  who  has  lived 
all  her  days  in  the  country  without  an  eye  for 
the  marvels,  or  ear  for  the  music,  of  nature. 
She  was  familiar  with  the  voice  of  the  corn- 
crake, but  she  had  never  heard  the  peculiar, 
rattling,  interminable  chattering  of  the  night- 
jar's throat,  which  had  been  described  to  her 
only  the  other  day  by  Jane  Hillsborough. 

"Your  curiosity  shall  be  satisfied  to-night," 
said  Albert. 

"Don't  promise  too  much,"  returned  Lottie, 
"for  Jane  Hillsborough  says  that  the  night-jar 
can  only  be  heard  once  in  a  long  while.  Her 
home  has  always  been  in  the  country,  and  yet 
she  has  heard  the  night-jar  only  a  few  times." 

"Miss  Hillsborough  is  wrong,"  returned  tli3 
young  man.  "  She  would  have  been  right  hml 
she  said  that  the  bird  can  only  be  heard  in  ono 
out  of  ten  thousand  places ;  but  where  the 
night-jar  has  once  wound  out  his  long  chain 
of  pattering  tap-tap  notes,  he  is  sure  to  do  it 
again,  hundreds  of  times,  night  after  night. 
And  there's  a  most  loquacious  fellow  that 
haunts  the  lower  paddock.  I  heard  him  a  few 
nights  since." 

"A  few  nights  since  ?"  said  Lady  Darling, 
inquiringly.  "  You  have  not  dined  with  us  for 
ten  days." 

Albert  colored ;  for  his  incautious  admission 
had  nearly  disclosed  the  fact  that,  not  content 
with  walking  over  from  Earl's  Court  to  Arleigh 
once  a  day  in  the  morning,  he  often  indulged 
himself  with  a  nocturnal  ramble  through  the 
meadows  that  surrounded  Lottie's  home. 

"I  happened  to  be  walking  round  this  way 
a  night  or  two  since,"  he  said,  dryly.  And 
Mary  Darling,  who  divined  the  truth,  was  not 
so  maladroit  as  to  press  for  a  fuller  explanation. 

On  the  contrary,  Lady  Darling  put  an  end 


62 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


to  her  guest's  transient  embarrassment  by  dis-  appearing  at  one  of  the  open  windows  of  the 
missing  the  night-jar  from  the  conversation  drawing-room,  and  sending  his  voice  into  the 
with  an  opportune  reference  to  a  forth-coming  quiet  room. 


horticultural  show  where  her  gardener  would 
exhibit  some  grapes  and  a  melon. 

After  dinner  there  was  music  in  the  draw- 
ing-room. 

Lottie's  voice  was  not  powerful ;  but  it  had 


"  What,  Albert !"  asked  the  judge,  "  are  you 
back  again,  like  a  bad  shilling  ?" 

"There's  my  night-jar,"  said  Albert,  "grind- 
ing and  winding  away  at  full  play  in  the  prom- 
ontory. If  you  will  come  out  with  me  into 


sweetness,  flexibility,  and  an  agreeable  richness    the  garden,  over  the  lawn,  as  far  as  the  ha-ha, 
in  the  lower  notes.     Her  organ  had.  moreover,    Miss  Darling,  you  may  hear  a  songstress  less 
been  well  trained  at  Brighton,  so  that  she  made    tuneful,  but  far  more  persevering  than  yourself, 
the  most  of  its  ability.     No  prima  donna  for  a    Do  come." 
crowded  assembly,  she  was  a  charming  song- 
stress for  the  hearth  ;  and  almost  every  even- 
ing she  was  required  to  exercise  her  vocal  skill 
for  the  gratification  of  her  father,  who  delight- 
ed to  hear  her  warble  simple  ballads  that  had 
been  fashionable  in  the  London  drawing-rooms 
of  his  early  manhood.     Sir  James  had  also  a 


whimsical  taste  for  making  her  sing  pathetic  or 
humorously  romantic  songs  that  were  written 
for  vocalists  of  the  sterner  sex.  Her  execution 
of  "Kathleen  Mavourneen"  he  declared  inimi- 
table ;  and  the  stately  little  man's  enthusiasm 
had  more  than  once  caused  him  to  reward  her 
rendering  of  "Bonny  Annie  Laurie"  with  ve- 
hement "encores "and  clappings  of  his  chumpy 
hands. 

On  the,  particular  evening  toward  the  end  of 
August,  Lottie  was  not  allowed  to  leave  the 
piano  until  she  had  given  her  hearers  at  least 
half  a  dozen  lyrical  trifles.  She  sang  them 
"Go,  deceiver,  go," and  then, putting  her  heart 
in  the  Highlands,  pursued  the  wild  deer  with 
liquid  melodies.  Two  of  her  ballads  were  of 
the  humorously  romantic  sort,  and  she  render- 
ed them  admirably,  bringing  out  the  fun  of 
their  laughable  points  with  a  delicate  emphasis 
and  piquant  drollery  that  were  charmingly  re- 
mote from  the  exaggerations  and  burlesque  ef- 
fects of  a  commonplace  comic  songstress.  Of 
course  the  fastidious  connoisseurs  of  harmony 


That's  delightful!  I  will  come,"  Lottie 
responded,  gleefully. 

"My  dear  child,"  interposed  the  thoughtful 
mother,  "  the  dew  is  on  the  grass.  Surely,  Al- 
bert, the  grass  is  too  wet!" 

"But  my  shoes  are  thick  enough  to  keep 
the  wet  out.  Look  at  them,"  cried  the  girl, 


gathering  up  the  skirt  of  her  dress,  and  putting 
one  of  her  tiny  slippered  feet  on  Lady  Dar- 
ling's knee  for  inspection. 

"Well,  you  may  go,"  assented  Mary  Dar- 
ling, when  she  had  satisfied  herself  that  Lot- 
tie's kid  shoes  were  water-proof,  at  least  for  a 
few  minutes,  "but  put  this  wrapper  over  your 
head." 

In  another  minute  Lottie  had  stepped  through 
the  open  window,  and,  having  crossed  the  grav- 
el of  the  terrace,  was  walking  over  the  lawn  to 
the  ha-ha,  with  her  right  hand  on  Albert's  arm. 

On  the  disappearance  of  the  young  people 
from  the  drawing-room,  Sir  J;imes,  who  did  not 
like  to  be  left  out  of  the  fun,  observed  to  his 
wife, 

"Let  us  follow  them,  Mary.  I  have  not 
heard  the  night-jar  since  I  was  a  school-boy." 

"  No,  no,  James,"  responded  Mary  Darling  ; 
"  leave  the  boy  and  girl  alone.  They  will  come 
to  no  harm  for  a  few  minutes  out  of  our  sight. 
Perhaps  "  (and  here  Mary  blushed,  and  lower- 
ed her  voice  almost  to  a  whisper) — "perhaps 


would  have  derided  all  this  melody  as  mere  [  Albert  wishes  her  to  hear  something  besides  the 

kitchen  music  ;  but  the  kitchen  music  of  super-  j  night-jar." 

ficial  connoisseurs  has  its  recommendations  for        The  judge  caught  her  meaning  at  once. 


auditors  of  feeling  and  cultivated  taste.  Al- 
bert understood  music,  and  had  heard  the  best 
operas  and  artists  of  Europe,  and  yet  he  was 
greatly  delighted  by  Lottie's  skillful  treatment 
of  simple  things.  When  she  sang  "Molly 
Bawn  "  with  equal  feeling  and  fun,  he  was  in- 
expressibly pleased.  During  the  utterance  of 
this  humorous  absurdity,  Sir  James  sought  the 
young  man's  eye;  but  Albert  was  regarding 
the  singer  intently  as  she  warbled, 

"The  cruel  watch-dog's  at  me  barking; 

He  takes  me  for  a  thief,  you  gee : 
For  he  knows  I'd  steal  you,  Molly  Darling, 
And  then  transported  I  should  be." 

Sir  James  had  special  memories  and  associations 
that  caused  him  to  think  this  trifle  the  best  of 
all  his  daughter's  songs. 

It  was  past  eleven  before  Albert  bade  his 


It 

would  have  been  strange  if  he  had  not  caught 
it, 

"Bless  me!"  ejaculated  Sir  James,  "that 
never  occurred  to  me !  You  women  are  very 
quick  at  seeing  things." 

"  A  mother,"  Lady  Darling  replied,  gravely, 
"  ought  to  be  quick  at  seeing  things  which  con- 
cern her  daughter's  happiness." 

"  Well,  I'll  give  them  five  minutes,"  said  the 
judge,  looking  at  his  watch. 

"  If  they  have  not  returned  in  ten  minutes," 
his  wife  replied,  "I'll  give  you  leave  to  go  out 
and  look  for  them,  if— if— " 

"  Go  on,  Mary.     Let  me  hear  the  condition. " 

"If  you  promise  not  to  come  upon  them  too 
suddenly,"  was  the  answer. 

Sir  James  Darling  gave  a  short,  low  laugh, 
expressive  of  good-natured  mischief  and  kind- 


friends  farewell  for  the  night ;  and,  when  he  had  ;  ly  cynicism. 

left  the  manor-house  for  his  moonlight  walk  to  j      Raising  her  gentle  face  toward  her  husband, 

Earl's  Court,  he  startled  them  by  suddenly  re-    and  regarding  him  with  a  look  of  fondness  and 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


63 


pride  that  reminded  him  vividly  of  old  times, 
Mary  Darling  observed,  with  quaint  frankness, 

"We  liked  to  be  alone  sometimes,  James, 
when  we  were  young  people." 

"And,  thank  God,  Mary,"  exclaimed  Sir 
James,  flushing  scarlet  and  speaking  hotly,  "  to 
tli is  day  we  like  our  own  society  better  than 
any  other  company." 

Whereupon  the  brightness  of  happy  emotion 
came  into  Mary  Darling's  eyes  as  she  mur- 
mured, 

"  Oh  !  James,  what  a  fortunate  girl  I  was  to 
win  your  love !  What  a  happy  woman  I  have 
been  as  your  wife  !" 

While  the  two  old  fools  were  billing  and  coo- 
ing in  this  fashion  on  a  drawing-room  sofa,  the 
two  young  fools  were  standing  on  the  pitch  of 
the  Arleigh  lawn,  where  the  sunk  fence  divided 
the  garden  of  the  manor-house  from  the  strip 
of  grass  which  lay  between  the  ha-ha  and  the 
lower  paddock.  At  their  feet,  on  the  other  side 
of  the  fence,  were  the  judge's  score  of  sheep, 
huddled  together  in  a  knot,  some  of  them  rest- 
ing on  the  ground,  while  the  others  bit  the  fine 
herbage  audibly.  At  the  distance  of  ten  paces 
farther  down  the  hill-side,  the  Alderney  cows 
were  visible  under  the  huge-armed  elms,  whose 
configuration  stood  out  darkly  and  boldly  against 
the  starry  sky,  in  which  the  full  moon  was 
shining  with  mild  effulgence.  Lottie  had  her 
right  hand  raised  over  her  ear,  and,  as  she  caught 
the  night-jar's  chain-like  rattle,  she  looked  be- 
fore her  and  downward  to  the  misty  meadow, 
from  which  the  sound  ascended.  Albert,  also, 
was  listening  to  the  bird's  peculiar  and  scarcely 
musical  notes ;  but,  as  he  caught  the  mechan- 
ical windings  of  the  chirming  noise,  he  gazed 
at  Lottie,  on  whose  face  the  moon  shed  an  un- 
speakably beautifying  radiance.  She  had  nev- 
er appeared  more  lovely  to  her  lover — never  so 
gentle  and  spiritual,  so  pure  of  earthly  dross, 
and  rich  in  heavenly  grace.  It  may  be  a  feeble 
commonplace  to  repeat  a  cruelly  abused  word, 
and  to  say  that  for  a  moment  she  appeared  to 
him  angelic — a  creature  who  had  come  to  him, 
for  one  brief,  sacred  hour,  from  the  silent  and 
sinless  heavens,  rather  than  the  girl  of  veritable 
flesh  and  blood,  who  had  been  his  companion, 
morning  after  morning,  for  several  weeks.  But 
though  the  historian  may  shrink  from  paying 
his  heroine  a  vulgarly  hackneyed  compliment, 
he  must  discharge  his  functions,  even  though 
they  require  him  to  call  her  an  angel. 

For  a  minute  the  soothing  rays  of  the  state- 
ly moon  clothed  her  face  with  such  a  supernat- 
ural loveliness,  and  glorified  her  presence  with 
an  effulgence  so  ineffably  pure,  that  Albert  al- 
most feared  that  he  had  lost  what  he  loved, 
while  gazing  on  a  being  still  more  lovely.  The 
light,  and  stillness,  and  magic  of  the  hour  had 
transfigured  her  to  the  young  man's  imagina- 
tion, and  given  her  eyes  a  glamour  that  thrill- 
ed him  with  a  fearful  ecstasy.  There  was  her 
pure  brow  surmounted  by  the  folds  of  rich  brown 
hair,  on  which  she  had  put  a  light  cloud  of 
whitest  wool.  He  saw  the  dark  silken  arches 


of  her  brows,  and  the  fine  black  lashes,  showing 
in  wondrous  contrast  with  the  whiteness  of  her 
eyelids  and  frontal  curves.  There  were  her 
thin  lips  and  delicate  profile;  her  rounded 
chin  and  tiny  throat ;  her  exquisitely  moulded 
bust  and  soft,  tapering  arms  ;  and  the  flowing 
robe  that  veiled  her  maidenly  figure.  He  had 
seen  all  these  charms  before  ;  but  the  witchery 
of  moonlight  made  them  other  than  they  had 
been  in  former  times.  Would  she  ever  be  her- 
self again,  so  that  he  would  dare  once  more  to 
speak  to  her  ?  Would  the  awfully  fascinating 
transfiguration  progress,  until  she  should  rise  to 
her  proper  home,  and  leave  him  nothing  but  the 
memory  of  a  desolating  illusion? 

Her  voice  relieved  him  of  a  torturing  happi- 
ness, and  restored  him  to  himself. 

"  It  is  silent,"  she  said.  "  The  sound  is  not 
musical — it  is  almost  very  unmusical — and  yet 
it  holds  the  fancy.  I  think  it  almost  touches 
the  heart.  Its  charm  is  that  it  expresses  hap- 
piness in  a  new  language.  I  wish  the  bird 
would  begin  again." 

"  If  we  wait  a  minute,  we  shall  very  likely 
hear  him  once  more." 

But  though  they  waited  the  minute,  and 
something  more,  in  unbroken  and  expectant  si- 
lence, they  were  not  rewarded  for  their  patience 
with  another  song.  The  uncivil  bird  would  not 
renew  his  monotonous  winding. 

"How  lovely  the  night  is! — this  place,  the 
distant  landscape,  the  luminous  firmament!" 
said  Albert. 

"  Look  at  the  sheep,"  responded  Lottie,  who, 
on  bringing  her  gaze  from  the  distance  to  the 
ground  immediately  at  her  feet,  was  surprised 
to  see  the  small  flock  so  near  her.  "  They  are 
enjoying  themselves  this  cool,  blissful  night." 

"  So  are  the  Alderneys  yonder ;  look  at  them 
under  the  elms." 

"They  are  too  far  off  for  me  to  be  able  to 
sympathize  with  them.  But  I  am  near  enough 
to  see  the  happiness  of  this  cozy  group  of  ewes 
and  yearlings.  I  should  like  to  be  one  of 
them." 

Whereat  Albert  laughed  lightly,  as,  altogeth- 
er liberated  from  superstitious  fancies,  he  said, 
"I  know  some  people  to  whom  I  should  be  im- 
pudent enough  to  say,  in  answer  to  such  words, 
'You  need  not  go  far  to  get  your  wish.'  Some 
people  are  strangely  like  sheep  in  their  minds, 
and  their  faces  also." 

"  The  sheep  is  not  a  foolish  creature.  Pop- 
ular prejudice  does  him  an  injustice.  He  is 
clever  to  those  who  take  the  trouble  to  under- 
stand him." 

"  Hitherto,  perhaps,  I  have  not  studied  sheep 
with  sufficient  care.  Which  of  that  lot  can  you 
introduce  me  to  as  especially  worthy  of  consid- 
eration ?"  Albert  inquired,  mockingly. 

Replying  with  proper  jauci ness  to  his  tone  of 
satire,  Lottie  said,  "  If  you  will  approach  him 
without  levity,  and  regard  him  seriously,  you 
may  learn  something  from  the  stupidest  of 
them." 

"At  least  they  are  clever  enough  to  know 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


that  we  are  near  them.     See  how  our  voices 
are  disturbing  them  !" 

"The  goose  is  another  creature,"  continued 
Lottie,  "  that  I  have  learned  to  respect  since  I 
have  lived  in  the  country,  and  have  had  oppor- 
tunities for  making  his  acquaintance." 

By  this  assurance  Albert  was  so  vastly 
amused  that  he  uttered  a  loud  laugh,  which  was 
heard  in  the  drawing-room,  and  disturbed  Con- 
rad, the  big  mastiff,  in  the  stable-yard. 

The  dog  gave  a  yelp  and  a  growl  at  the  un- 
timely sound  of  merriment. 

"  Indeed,"  added  Lottie,  who  was  not  to  be 
laughed  out  of  her  views,  or  deterred  from,  ex- 
pressing them  by  vulgar  ridicule,  "I  am  dis- 
posed to  think  that  there  is  not  an  animal,  from 
the  horse  to  the  rat,  and  from  the  rat  to  the 
hedgehog,  that  will  not  be  found  to  have  a  won- 
derful sagacity,  by  those  who  take  pains  to  learn 
its  ways." 

Whereupon  Conrad,  having  made  up  his 
mind  that  something  highly  reprehensible  was 
being  done  by  some  one  or  other  on  the  prem- 
ises, gave  tongue  in  earnest,  and,  springing  the 
full  length  of  his  chain,  barked  indignantly  and 
savagely  for  at  least  a  minute. 

"There  is  suitable  applause  for  your  vindi- 
cation of  the  lower  animals.  Conrad,  Miss  Dar- 
ling, is  demonstrating  his  sagacity  by  roaring 
out  'Hear,  hear !' in  canine  fashion." 

"What  is  it  that  disturbs  him?"  Lottie  ask- 
ed, wonderingly,  as  the  animal  made  the  valley 
resound  with  another  series  of  barks. 

"  Oh  !  he  is  only  baying  at  the  moon — an  un- 
profitable amusement  to  which  dogs  are  pro- 
verbially addicted." 

"And  there,"  rejoined  the  defender  of  ani- 
mals, "folk-lore  commits  another  injustice 
against  the  humbler  creatures.  If  dogs  bark 
more  on  moonlight  than  on  dark  nights,  it  is 
only  because  the  light  renders  them  wakeful, 
and  enables  them  to  see  more  things  than  they 
can  behold  in  the  darkness  that  are  worthy  of 
comment.  Mr.  Conrad  is  not  so  foolish  as  to 
bay  at  the  moon." 

"Anyhow,  he  is  baying  at  something.  What 
a  prodigious  row  he  is  making!" 

"Perhaps  he  is  barking  at  us." 

"  He  would  know  us  even  at  this  distance, 
though  we  are  out  of  his  sight." 

"Is  there  a  stranger  prowling  about  the  ! 
yard  ?" 

Lottie  put  this  question  with  a  slight  timor- 
ousness.  Not  that  she  was  afraid,  for,  Albert 
being  with  her,  she  knew  that  no  harm  could 
be  done  her  by  tramp  or  poacher.  But  no 
young  girl  likes  the  thoughts  of  midnight  stran- 
gers sneaking  about  her  rural  home. 

In  her  transient  agitation  of  surprise  and  ti- 
midity, she  came  nearer  to  Albert,  and  evinced 
no  disapprobation  whei^he  took  her  right  hand 
in  his  right  hand. 

"  He  was  barking  at  a  thief,"  he  said,  ten-  ; 
derly. 

"What  thief?     Where?" 

"And  he  was  also  barking  at  me,  and  no 


|  one  else.  Ah !  he  is  a  wise  animal.  There 
he  goes  at  it  again!" 

Lottie  trembled,  not  from  fear  of  robbers, 
but  on  account  of  the  change  in  Albert's  voice. 
What  could  that  tone  mean?  Why  was  he 
pressing  her  hand  so  strongly! 

"What  thief?" said  Albert,  with  earnestness 
in  his  voice,  though  his  words  seem  jocular  in 
print.  "  Remember  your  song,  which  tells  the 
truth  of  me  and  Conrad, 

'  The  cruel  watch-dog's  at  me  barking ; 
He  takes  me  for  a  thief,  you  see ; 
For  he  knows  I'd  steal  you — ' " 

It  was  then  that  he  was  on  the  point  of  call- 
ing her  "Lottie  Darling."  Had  he  finished 
the  line,  he  would  have  added,  "Oh,  Lottie,  I 
am  a  thief,  and  must  steal  you  !  I  am  trans- 
ported already  :  don't  let  me  be  punished  for 
nothing!" 

But  Albert  paused  abruptly,  for  Lottie's  hand 
was  suddenly  withdrawn  from  his  grasp,  and 
though  he  could  no  longer  feel  the  tremor  of 
her  nerves  and  the  beatings  of  her  pulse,  he 
knew  well  that  his  words  had  suddenly  and  pro- 
foundly shaken  her. 

Drawing  herself  up  to  her  full  height,  Lottie 
observed,  with  an  air  of  dignity  which  warned 
him  to  proceed  no  further,  and  with  a  freezing 
politeness  which  punished  him  more  than  he 
deserved  for  his  audacity, 

"I  think,  Mr.  Guerdon,  you  had  better  take 
me  back  to  the  drawing-room." 

The  voice  of  Albert  the  fearless  quavered  per- 
ceptibly as  he  said,  beseechingly, 

"You  will  not  refuse,  Miss  Darling,  to  take 
my  arm?" 

Lottie  could  not  resist  the  pleading  tone, 
which  she  had  never  heard  before.  Relenting 
instantly,  she  placed  her  right  hand  lightly  on 
his  arm,  and  allowed  him  to  conduct  her  back 
to  the  drawing-room  window. 

They  crossed  the  lawn  in  silence.  Conrad 
barked  no  longer.  He  had,  perhaps,  caught 
the  notes  of  their  last  words,  and  learned  from 
them  that  his  disturbers  were  neither  thieves 
nor  vagabonds.  Or  it  may  be  that,  with  super- 
canine  cleverness,  he  had  apprehended  the  par- 
ticular danger  which  threatened  his  mistress, 
and,  having  done  his  best  to  avert  it  by  admon- 
itory barkings,  was  well  pleased  to  repose  in  si- 
lence, and  with  an  approving  conscience,  at  the 
door  of  his  kennel,  in  the  rays  of  the  moon. 

"Well,"  asked  Sir  James,  as  he  helped  Lot- 
tie to  climb  in  at  the  window,  "  have  you  heard 
the  night-jar?" 

"Very  distinctly,"  Lottie  answered,  with 
her  usual  self-possession,  "and  Conrad  also. 
What  a  naughty  fellow  he  has  been,  to  make 
such  a  noise  at  nothing !" 

"  Miss  Darling  is  of  opinion,"  cried  Albert, 
gayly,  "  that  the  night-jar  is  less  melodious 
than  the  nightingale,  but  quite  as  musical  as  a 
roasting-jack !  I  am  off  now.  Good-night, 
Sir  James.  Good-night,  Lady  Darling.  And 
good-night — " 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


Go 


Before  he  could  include  her  name  in  the 
farewell,  Lottie  put  her  arm  out  of  the  draw- 
ing-room window,  and  shook  his  hand  cordial- 
ly. The  tender-hearted  simpleton  was  already 
accusing  herself  of  having  treated  him  unkind- 
ly, and  of  having  exhibited  more  of  girlish 
foolishness  than  of  womanly  discretion  in  re- 
pulsing him. 

"You'll  be  at  the  butts  to-morrow?"  she 
cooed,  entreatingly. 

"  Of  course,  of  course.  We  may  not  miss 
a  single  morning's  practice  till  the  thirty-first," 
he  replied,  as  he  grasped  her  hand,  before  turn- 
ing on  his  heel. 

As  soon  as  he  had  departed,  Lottie  kissed 
her  papa  and  mamma,  and  went  off  to  bed. 
Her  manner  made  it  clear  to  them  that,  at 
least  for  the  present,  they  were  to  know  noth- 
ing of  what  had  taken  place  in  the  garden  be- 
tween herself  and  Albert. 

"  Good-night,  papa,"  she  said  to  her  sire,  as 
she  gave  him  the  kiss  of  farewell.  "I  am 
glad  to  have  heard  the  night-jar;  but  I  am 
very  tired,  and  must  have  a  good  night's  rest." 

To  her  mamma  the  young  lady  said,  "  Good- 
night, dearest.  As  it  is  so  late,  of  course  you 
won't  come  and  see  me  when  I  am  in  bed  " — a 
speech  which  Lady  Darling  construed  as  an 
intimation  that  Lottie  had  had  enough  of  even 
her  dear  mamma's  society  for  that  night. 

When  the  door  had  closed  on  the  retiring 
girl,  Sir  James  observed, 

"Something  has  happened — I  am  sure  of  it 
— I  could  see  it  in  her  eyes.  And  her  cheeks 
are  flushed." 

"Of  course  something  has  happened,"  Mary 
Darling  returned  answer.  "  He  has  frightened 
her  by  some  foolish  speech." 

"She  has  not  refused  him  !"  the  judge  said, 
excitedly — "that  is  impossible!  You  saw 
how  she  shook  hands  with  him,  and  asked  him 
to  come  over  to  the  butts  to-morrow." 

"Oh!  nothing  like  that  has  taken  place. 
If  she  had  either  accepted  or  refused  him,  she 
would  have  wished  me  to  come  to  her  room. 
Depend  upon  it,"  the  mother  observed  re-as- 
suringly,  and  with  womanly  discernment,  "  that 
he  has  alarmed  her  by  a  sudden  and  slightly 
premature  hint.  Don't  you  remember,  James, 
how  you  frightened  me  one  evening,  about  a 
week  before  I  accepted  you  ?" 

Sir  James  recollected  the  incident  well,  and 
the  reminiscence  raised  his  spirits. 

"  To  be  sure  I  did."  he  assented  ;  "  and  the 
scare  that  I  gave  you  helped  my  suit  prodig- 
iously. It  forewarned  you  of  what  was  com- 
ing, and  made  it  all  the  easier  for  you  to  say 
'Yes,'  when  I  was  deucedly  afraid  that  you 
would  say  'No.'  I  am  very  glad  that  Albert 
has  frightened  her." 

"But  I  am  not,"  retorted  Mary  Darling, 
warmly  and  pitifully.  "No  one  ought  to  ter- 
rify my  timid  pet.  I  won't  allow  any  young 
man — no,  not  even  Albert,  who  is  the  best  of 
young  men — to  alarm  her.  My  dear  James, 
she'll  be  crying  half  the  night.  Young  men 
5 


are  so  impetuous  and  blundering.  They  know 
nothing  of  a  girl's  sensitiveness." 

"  They  know  all  about  it  in  time,"  Sir  James 
observed,  coldly. 

"I  wish  I  could  find  courage,"  continued 
the  mother,  "  to  warn  Albert  of  the  dangers 
of  precipitancy.  He  has  done  excellently  up 
to  this  point,  but  even  now  he  may  reap  disap- 
pointment from  rashness.  I  must  speak  to 
him." 

"My  dear  Mary,"  urged  Sir  James,  solemn- 
ly, "I  do  entreat  you  to  leave  him  alone. 
You  are  a  clever  woman,  but  Albert  is  a  cler- 
er  young  man — a  very  clever  fellow — and  can 
do  very  well  without  advice.  Do  you  think, 
beauty,  it  would  have  helped  matters  thirty 
and  more  years  since,  if  your  dear  mother 
(God  bless  her  above  all  his  other  angels!) 
had  pulled  me  this  way  and  that  way  with  in- 
structions on  the  case  ?  Leave  Albert  alone. 
Every  man  knows  best  how  to  make  his  own 
bear  dance  ;  and  Lottie  will  dance  very  pretti- 
ly in  another  fortnight,  if  Albert  is  left  to  teach 
her  in  his  own  way." 

For  a  minute  Mary  Darling  was  so  distract- 
ed with  maternal  affection  and  fears  and  anx- 
iety that  she  was  on  the  point  of  crying.  But 
she  was  an  excellent  wife,  and  made  it  a  rule 
never  to  shed  tears  in  her  husband's  presence ; 
so  she  fought  the  disposition  toward  weeping 
with  a  brave,  though  scarcely  successful,  at- 
tempt at  gayety. 

"What  a  wretched  man  you  are,  James," 
she  exclaimed,  half  laughing  and  half  sobbing, 
"  to  call  that  beautiful  girl  of  ours  a  bear,  and 
to  compare  her  lover  to  a  bear-trainer!  If 
your  own  child  is  a  bear,  what  must  you  be  ?" 

Having  uttered  this  playful  reproof,  the  lady 
rose  hastily  and  went  up  stairs.  As  Lottie 
had  expressed  so  clearly  her  wish  to  be  alone, 
the  mother  did  not  intrude  upon  her;  but  as 
she  passed  the  entrance  of  the  girl's  room, 
Mary  Darling  looked  longingly  at  the  closed 
door,  and  breathed  a  prayer  for  the  occupant 
of  the  chamber. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

FKIGHTENED,  BUT   NOT  HIT. 

WHEN  Mr.  Albert  Guerdon,  on  his  home- 
ward way,  had  passed  the  limits  of  Sir  James 
Darling's  demesne,  and  found  himself  on  the 
familiar  footway  that  would  lead  him  to  Earl's 
Court,  he  had  so  completely  recovered  from 
the  shock  which  Lottie's  spirited  behavior  oc- 
casioned him  that  he  could  review  the  inci- 
dents of  the  previous  half-hour  with  his  usual 
self-complacence.  No  longer  the  Albert  who 
had  anxiously  entreated  Lottie  to  take  his  arm 
again,  he  was  once  more  the  lover  whose  over- 
weening confidence  has  earned  for  him  the  dis- 
approbation of  several  readers  of  this  page. 

"Nothing  could  have  been  better  for  me," 
the  young  man  thought  to  himself.  "I  have 


66 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


gone  just  far  enough,  and  not  an  inch  too  far ; 
whereas,  if  she  had  not  drawn  back  and  pulled 
me  up  sharply,  I  should  have  made  her  an  oft'er 
on  the  spot,  and  disturbed  her  whole  system,  so 
that  she  would  not,  perhaps,  have  recovered  her 
nerve  and  coolness  for  several  days.  That 
would  have  been  a  disastrous  mistake,  for  she 
may  not  remit  her  practice  at  the  butts ;  and 
she  will  require  all  her  nerve  for  the  contest  on 
the  thirty -first.  And,  by  heavens!  how  su- 
perbly she  looked  as  she  drew  away  from  me 
with  freezing  dignity,  and  awed  me  back  in  a 
moment  to  prudence  and  the  region  of  the  pro- 
prieties !  I  would  run  the  risk  of  offending  her 
outright,  for  the  pleasure  of  seeing  that  aspect 
again.  She  was  a  Queen  of  Earth !  Three 
minutes  before  she  was  a  visitant  from  heaven 
— a  ministering  angel  clothed  in  the  human 
shape  and  semblance,  by  which  the  fairest  of 
the  sacred  spirits  render  themselves  visible  to 
mortal  eyes.  How  fearfully  lovely  she  was 
then !  But  I  prefer  her  when  she  is  only  a 
thing  of  human  kind,  and  does  not  charm  me 
into  fancying  her  an  inhabitant  of  the  sky. 
Ah !  there  are  her  chimney-pots  and  trees.  I 
sha'n't  see  them  again  for  a  few  hours.-  May 
all  God's  angels  hover  over  them  throughout 
this  heavenly  night !  Lottie,  dear  Lottie,  I  am 
praying  for  you!" 

While  uttering  these  last  words,  Albert  stood 
near  a  stile  at  a  point  that  afforded  him  a  view 
of  the  elms  and  roofs  of  Arleigh  Manor.  He 
had  paused  in  his  walk,  and  turned  half  round, 
in  order  that  he  might  take  a  last  fond  'look 
at  the  house,  some  of  whose  upper  windows 
were  distinctly  visible  to  him  in  the  moonlight. 
But  Albert  was  mistaken  in  thinking  that  the 
particular  casement  to  which  he  kissed  his  hand 
belonged  to  Lottie's  sleeping-room.  The  win- 
dow admitted  light  to  the  closet  in  which  Sir 
James  Darling  stowed  away  his  old  boots  and 
discarded  wardrobe. 

In  another  minute,  Albert  had  leaped  the. 
stile,  and  was  walking  briskly  down  hill,  hum- 
ming, as  he  went,  a  verse  of  a  song  which  he 
had  caught  up  from  a  corner  of  his  memory,  and 
had  adapted  to  his  special  case — 

"For  Lottie  is  my  darling, 

Lottie  is  my  joy ! 

And  ere  another  month  nas  passed 
I'll  be  her  own  dear  boy." 

Albert  knew  much  more  of  the  womanly  na- 
ture than  is  ever  known  by  a  young  man  who 
is  familiar  with  the  charms  and  foibles  of  bad 
women,  or  whose  vanity  impels  him  to  loiter 
about  the  skirts  of  any  inferior  person  in  petti- 
coats, whom  he  can  amuse  by  vapid  flattery,  or 
win  by  appeals  to  self-interest.  He  had  never 
loved  till  he  loved  Lottie.  It  had  never  oc- 
curred to  him  in  foreign  lands  to  regard  any 
woman  as  a  creature  on  Avhom  it  would  be  well 
for  him  to  place  his  affections.  Marriage,  and 
arrangements  for  it,  were  among  the  several 
important  concerns  whose  consideration  the 
student,  living  in  Continental  capitals,  had  un- 
consciously deferred  till  he  should  have  return- 


ed to  his  native  country,  on  the  completion  of 
his  education.  But  he  had  not  lived  apart  from 
womankind.  On  the  contrary,  there  were  la- 
dies in  Vienna  and  Paris  who  had  admitted 
him  to  their  intimacy,  and  would  not  have  re- 
sponded coldly  had  he  asked  them  to  give  him 
more  than  their  friendship.  But  his  knowledge 
of  the  gentler  sex,  in  so  far  as  it  was  the  result 
of  experience  and  personal  observation,  was  al- 
together gained  from  the  study  of  gentlewomen. 
It  is  not  wonderful,  therefore,  that  he  under- 
stood Lottie,  and  saw  precisely  how  to  treat  her, 
though  his  domestic  nurture  had  been  unlike 
that  of  young  men,  whose  surest  knowledge 
and  finest  perceptions  of  the  feminine  charac- 
ter are  due  to  the  influence  of  their  mothers 
and  sisters. 

He  was  right  in  thinking  that  he  had  not 
gone  too  far  with  Lottie,  while  they  stood  to- 
gether in  the  moonlight  near  the  ha-ha.  He 
had  not  fully  revealed  his  love  to  her.  He  had 
almost  displayed  the  secret  of  his  heart,  and 
had  alarmed  her  with  a  suspicion  that  his  feel- 
ing for  her  was  something  warmer  than  friend- 
ship, and  might  become  love.  But  the  alarm 
was  short-lived,  and  the  suspicion  too  faint  to 
be  more  than  a  step  toward  knowledge.  Had 
he  on  that  night  retired  from  the  drama  of  her 
life,  he  would  have  left  her  heart-whole,  and 
she  might  never  have  learned  her  conquest,  of 
his  affections.  For  a  few  days  she  would  have 
been  unconsciously  saddened  by  his  disappear- 
ance ;  for  several  weeks  she  would  have  missed 
the  enlivening  influence  of  his  thought  and 
presence ;  for  months  she  would  occasionally 
have  remembered  him  as  a  congenial  compan- 
ion, with  whom  she  had  spent  many  hours  of 
serene  enjoyment.  But  she  would  not  have 
pined  for  him,  as  a  forsaken  girl  pines  for  the 
absent  face  which  used  to  smile  upon  her,  and 
which  she  can  not  banish  from  her  memory  at 
the  instigation  of  resentment  or  the  command 
of  pride.  She  would  have  known  nothing  of 
unsatisfied  desire,  or  of  the  anguish  that  springs 
from  blighted  hopes. 

To  the  readers  who  are  asked  to  believe  this, 
it  must  be  admitted  that  Lottie  differed  in  some 
important  respects  from  a  considerable  propor- 
tion, perhaps  from  the  majority,  of  guileless  and 
inexperienced  English  girls.  Many  a  girl's 
heart  has  been  wrung,  and  imbittered  for  life,  by 
the  careless  utterance  of  a  far  less  explicit  dec- 
laration of  love  than  the  intimation  Albert  had 
given  Lottie  of  his  passion  for  her.  And  many 
a  masculine  flirt — the  most  contemptible  and 
barbarous  of  all  liars — after  planting  the  seeds 
of  ineradicable  sorrow  in  the  heart  of  a  recent- 
ly liberated  school- girl  by  whispering  in  her 
ear  some  less  forcible  expression  of  devotion, 
has  gone  on  his  way  of  selfish  vanity,  cherish- 
ing the  memory  of  her  joyous  blush  as  one  of 
his  choicest  triumphs,  and  chuckling  over  the 
egregious  simplicity  of  the  pretty  little  fool,  who 
was  so  ignorant  of  the  world  as  to  mistake 
him  for  an  honorable  gentleman.  Some  of  the 
scoundrels  who  thus  find  their  congenial  pas- 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


67 


time  in  lying  away  the  peace  of  mind  of  wom- 
anly children,  and  torturing  their  victims' 
simple  hearts  with  falsehoods  uttered  in  cold 
blood,  may  be  occasionally  heard  to  recommend 
the  penal  lash  for  the  shoulders  of  an  unrefined 
criminal  who,  in  a  moment  of  heat,  had  struck 
his  drunken  and  abusive  wife  with  his  fist. 

But  Lottie  Darling  was  so  constituted  that 
she  could  listen, without  concern  or  peril,  to  lan- 
guage which  would  quicken  the  imagination  and 
fire  the  heart  of  many  a  maiden  no  less  gentle 
and  good.  Though  highly  nervous  (in  the  best 
sense  of  the  term),  she  was  at  all  ordinary  times 
so  completely  the  mistress  of  her  own  mind, 
and  had  her  moral  forces  so  perfectly  in  hand, 
that  superficial  observers  were  apt  to  imagine 
that  she  was  unemotional,  if  not  positively 
chargeable  with  coldness.  It  was  only  on  rare 
occasions  —  such,  for  instance,  as  the  occasion 
of  the  impulsive  greeting  which  she  accorded 
to  her  mother  at  the  Owleybury  railway  station 
— that  the  depth  and  fervor  of  her  feelings  were 
exhibited  to  casual  beholders.  And  these  rare 
occasions  were  always  times  when  some  extraor- 
dinary and  overpowering  stimulus  had  been  ap- 
plied to  her  quickest  and  strongest  feelings. 
She  was  not  readily  excited,  though  she  pos- 
sessed the  mental  activity,  and  generous  nature, 
and  fine  sensitiveness  that  are  usually  associa- 
ted with  a- dangerous,  if  not  morbid,  excitabil- 
ity. Her  habitual  mood  was  equanimity;  and 
even  at  moments  of  sharp  agitation  she  seldom 
lost  the  repose  which  was  a  distinguishing  char- 
acteristic of  her  intellectual  and  moral  nature. 
Had  she  been  as  liable,  as  many  thoroughly 
good  girls  are,  to  suffer  from  the  treacherous 
flatteries  of  a  male  flirt,  she  would  not  have  re- 
buffed Albert  so  promptly  and  decidedly  when 
he  was  on  the  point  of  making  her  an  offer. 
It  was  consistent  with  her  demeanor  at  so 
stirring  a  crisis  that,  with  her  imagination  sub- 
servient to  her  excellent  common  sense,  and 
with  a  mind  habitually  obedient  to  her  will,  she 
was  less  disposed  to  magnify  the  significance 
of  his  words  than  to  charge  herself  with  hav- 
ing misconstrued  them,  as  soon  as  the  agitation 
caused  by  them  had  begun  to  subside. 

For  some  minutes,  however,  after  Albert's  de- 
parture, her  alarm  was  distressing,  and  Her  con- 
science sorely  troubled.  On  gaining  her  room, 
already  lighted  for  her  by  Lady  Darling's  per- 
sonal servant,  she  barred  the  door,  and,  sitting 
down,  proceeded  to  "think  it  all  over."  What 
could  he  have  meant  ?  Had  she  attached  ex- 
cessive importance  to  a  few  careless  words,  a 
change  of  voice,  a  strong  pressure  of  his  hand  ? 
These  were  the  questions  which  she  put  to  her- 
self again  and  again,  as  tremor  followed  tremor 
from  her  head  to  her  feet,  and  blush  followed 
blush  over  her  face.  He  had  called  himself  a 
thief,  said  that  he  wanted  to  steal  her,  and,  while 
holding  her  hand  with  a  vehement  pressure, 
had  almost  called  her  "Lottie  Darling."  How 
had  her  hand  come  into  his  hand  ?  And  why 
had  he  spoken  in  that  imploringly  tender  voice  ? 
When  she  had  put  each  of  these  questions  to 


herself  about  half  a  hundred  times,  she  grew 
something  calmer,  though  her  hands  and  feet 
were  still  twitching  with  excitement. 

She  thought  that  it  would  help  her  to  recov- 
er her  equanimity  if  she  found  some  employ- 
ment for  her  hands.  And  as  no  employment 
was  more  obvious  and  suitable  for  them  at  so 
late  an  hour  than  the  labor  of  preparing  their 
owner  for  rest,  Lottie  determined  that  she  would 
make  her  toilet  for  the  night,  and  go  to  bed. 
She  could  think  the  whole  matter  over  in  the 
dark  ;  and  perhaps,  when  the  candles  were  out, 
and  her  head  on  her  pillow,  the  affair  would  be 
less  terrifying. 

So  Lottie  assumed  her  dressing-gown,  and, 
seating  herself  before  her  toilet-table,  loosened 
the  rich  tresses  of  her  brown  hair,  and  with  ex- 
emplary attentiveness  to  what  she  was  doing 
made  herself  ready  for  her  bed.  The  exertion 
quieted  her.  And  she  was  still  further  sooth- 
ed by  her  religious  exercises.  According  to 
her  wont,  she  read  a  chapter  in  the  New  Testa- 
ment, and  said  her  prayers. 

Her  head  had  not  been  five  minutes  on  the 
pillow  when  she  found  it  easy  to  persuade  her- 
self that  she  had  not  had  sufficient  grounds  for 
her  recent  alarm.  After  all,  Mr.  Albert  had 
said  nothing  but  what  he  might  have  said  jest- 
ingly, and  what,  of  course,  she  was  bound  to 
believe  him  to  have  said  jestingly.  Conrad's 
barking  had  reminded  him  of  the  cruel  watch- 
dog that  belonged  to  Molly  Bawn's  papa,  and, 
playing  with  the  thought  thus  put  into  his  head, 
he  had  said  that  he  would  steal  her,  and  be 
transported  for  it.  He  had  done  nothing  more, 
said  nothing  more,  than  young  men  in  novels 
and  elsewhere  were  continually  doing  and  say- 
ing, out  of  pure  lightness  of  heart,  and  with  no 
serious  meaning,  to  the  girls  of  their  acquaint- 
ance. 

For  a  few  minutes  it  was  very  comforting 
to  Lottie  to  think  all  this.  But  ere  long  the 
very  comfort  thrust  a  spear  into  her  self-respect 
that  caused  her  to  utter  a  cry  of  pain.  If  he 
had  only  been  playing  with  innocent  gayety, 
what  an  egregious  and  contemptible  little  sim- 
pleton she  had  been  to  misconstrue  his  pleas- 
antry, and  force  upon  it  a  significance  which  a 
girl  should  be  very  slow  to  attach  to  the  light- 
hearted  utterances  of  a  young  man !  Yet 
worse,  she  had  allowed  him  to  see  her  mistake  ! 
She  had  permitted  him  to  see  that  she  had  put 
the  erroneous  construction  on  his  words  and 
behavior,  and  had  imagined  him  to  be  making 
love  to  her  when  no  thought  of  love  was  in  his 
heart.  And  far,  far  worse  than  all,  she  had 
punished  him  for  the  crime  of  which  he  had 
not  been  guilty,  and  behaved  to  him  with  a 
rudeness  that  must  have  appeared  to  him  to  be 
inexpressibly  ridiculous  and — and — indelicate. 
How  he  must  pity  her !  and  despise  her  !  As 
this  view  of  her  behavior,  and  Mr.  Albert's 
necessary  estimate  of  it,  occurred  to  poor  Lot- 
tie, she  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  so  that 
the  very  darkness  might  not  see  her  blushes, 
and  sobbed  passionately  under  the  anguish  of 


88 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


self-scorn,  and  her  agonizing  imaginations  of 
Albert's  contempt  for  her. 

There  is  no  self-accusation  more  afflicting  to 
a  sensitive  and  thoroughly  good  girl,  who  is 
absolutely  incapable  of  ungentle  thought  or  in- 
decorous act,  than  a  charge  of  indelicacy  pre- 
ferred against  herself  by  her  own  conscience  ; 
and  nothing  can  heighten  the  anguish  of  such  a 
charge  more  cruelly  than  the  fancy  that  her 
sin  has  been  perpetrated  against  a  man  whom 
she  respects,  and  that  in  consequence  of  her 
misbehavior  she  has  become  the  object  of  his 
pitiful  disdain,  as  well  as  the  mark  of  her  own 
scorn.  Lottie  would  have  writhed  and  wept 
under  a  consciousness  of  having  perpetrated  an 
indelicacy  of  which  none  save  herself  knew ; 
but  the  thought  that  her  unmaidenly  offense 
had  been  committed  against  Albert,  and  that 
her  professor  was  aware  of  it,  and  compassion- 
ately despising  her  for  it,  was  unendurably 
humiliating.  How  should  she  ever  recover 
her  own  self-respect?  What  could  she  do  to 
regain  his  good  opinion?  How  should  she  find 
courage  to  meet  him  at  the  butts  in  the  morn- 
ing? 

Anyhow,  since  it  was  impossible  for  her  to 
apologize  to  him  for  her  misconduct,  or  to  miti- 
gate his  displeasure  at  it  by  any  form  of  words 
that  would  not  magnify  its  enormity  in  his  eyes 
and  print  it  more  deeply  in  his  memory,  she 
would  by  a  strenuous  effort  demean  herself  to- 
ward him  so  that  nothing  in  her  deportment 
should  aggravate  her  fault,  or  remind  him  of 
the  embarrassment  which  had  risen  between 
them.  To  atone  for  the  rudeness  with  which 
she  had  repelled  him,  she  would  greet  him  in 
the  morning  with  rather  more  than  her  usual 
cordiality ;  and  then  she  would  do  her  very 
best  to  behave  as  though  she  were  quite  un- 
conscious that  any  thing  had  occurred  to  dis- 
turb their  friendship. 

Albert's  happy  heart  would  have  pulsated 
still  more  lightly  had  any  feathered  gossip 
whispered  in  his  ear  how  anxious  Lottie  was 
to  win  his  good  opinion,  and  how  glad  she 
would  be  to  know  that  he  regarded  her  favor- 
ably. But,  had  he  at  the  same  time  been  in- 
formed of  the  pain  which  had  brought  her  to  a 
state  of  mind  so  accordant  with  his  wishes,  he 
would  have  thought  his  advantage  purchased 
at  far  too  high  a  price. 

The  event  scarcely  justified  Lady  Darling's 
prediction  that  her  child  would  pass  half  the 
night  in  tears.  The  girl's  grief  was  less  obsti- 
nate than  violent.  She  wept  copiously  for  the 
greater  part  of  an  hour;  and  then  the  grand 
soother  of  the  afflicted,  who  is  wont  to  comfort 
the  most  forlorn  of  wretches  for  several  out  of 
every  twenty-four  hours,  took  her  to  his  merci- 
ful arms,  and  closed  her  wet  eyelids  in  profound- 
est  slumber. 

When  Lady  Darling  and  Lottie  met  Albert 
again  at  the  butts,  he  saw  no  sign  of  recent 
trouble  in  the  girl's  serene  face.  Her  sorrow 
had  not  endured  for  the  night,  and  content- 
ment covered  her  in  the  morning.  That  she 


had  forgiven  him  for  his  precipitate  and  too 
demonstrative  behavior  on  the  previous  even- 
ing, he  was  assured  by  the  frankness  and  hearty 
warmth  with  which  she  responded  to  his  greet- 
ing. So  they  sent  their  arrows  to  and  fro, 
shooting  darkly,  and  gossiping  innocently  about 
the  Owleybury  Toxophilites  and  their  chances 
of  success  on  the  thirty-first,  as  though  no  night- 
jar had  ever  lured  them  to  the  border  of  the  ha- 
ha,  and  Conrad  had  never  barked  at  the  thief. 
Albert  enjoyed  the  morning  too  much  not  to 
regret  that  an  appointment  with  his  father  pre- 
vented him  from  staying  to  luncheon  at  Ar- 
leigh.  As  for  Lottie,  her  mind  was  so  agree- 
ably relieved  of  an  oppressive  misapprehension 
by  Albert's  easily  courteous  bearing  toward  her, 
that  she  returned  with  her  mother  from  the 
butts  in  elated  spirits.  It  was  clear  to  her  that 
she  had  been  frightening  herself  about  nothing, 
and  that  Mr.  Albert,  instead  of  having  put  the 
true  and  worst  possible  construction  on  her 
conduct,  had  only  thought  that  she  had  asked 
him  rather  stiffly  to  lead  her  back  to  the  draw- 
ing-room. It  was  a  gladness  to  her  to  be  as- 
sured that  he  had  never  even  hinted  love  for 
her.  It  was  a  far  greater  joy  to  know  that  he 
had  not  observed  the  foolishness  of  which  she 
was  so  unutterably  ashamed. 

It  is  thus  that  a  maiden,  fresh  from  govern- 
esses and  the  school-room,  may  breathe  an  at- 
mosphere surcharged  with  love  and  chivalric 
admiration  for  her,  and  not  discover  her  power 
over  her  companions,  or  suspect  the  source  and 
nature  of  the  new  joys  which  gladden  her.  It 
is  thus  that  she  may  live  under  the  gaze  of 
adorative  eyes,  and  never  catch  the  meaning 
of  their  glances,  or  the  purport  of  the  homage 
which  is  rendered  to  her  at  every  turn,  until 
the  moment  comes  when  her  worshiper  snatch- 
es her  hand,  and  implores  hotly,  "  Oh  !  be  mine 
wholly  and  forever,  for  I  am  yours  already  and 
irrevocably ! " 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

LOTTIE    SEES   THE   WIND. 

THERE  was  sensation  in  the  committee-room 
of  the  Owleybury  Toxophilites  when  Albert,  on 
the  afternoon  of  the  27th  of  August,  appeared 
before  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  of  the  commit- 
tee, and  requested  Captain  Sackville,  the  club's 
honorary  secretary,  to  enter  his  name  in  the 
list  of  competitors  for  the  silver-tipped  bow. 
Twirling  one  of  his  black,  leech-like  mustaches, 
and  turning  his  eyes  upward  from  the  papers 
on  his  official  desk,  the  captain  remarked, 

"By  all  means;  but  you  don't  shoot,  do 
you? — at  least,  you  have  never  shot  with  us; 
and  on  the  evening  of  your  election  you  told 
us  that  you  had  never  pulled  a  bow." 

"  I  have  been  at  work  since  then,"  replied 
the  new  member ;  "  and  I  will  even  venture  to 
compete  with  so  consummate  a  marksman  as 
Captain  Sackville." 

"Ah!  you  have  been  practicing  at  Earl's 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


69 


Court  privately  ?"  suggested  the  secretary,  who 
had  been  betting  heavily  on  his  own  chance  in 
the  approaching  tournament,  and  did  not  like 
this  unexpected  appearance  of  a  competitor  who 
had  never  exhibited  his  skill  to  the  club. 

"I  have  been  practicing,"  replied  Albert, 
without  revealing  to  his  hearers  the  scene  of  his 
preparations  for  the  conflict.  "  Perhaps  I  over- 
rate my  proficiency,"  he  added,  with  a  bow  to 
the  ladies  of  the  committee,  who  were  delight- 
ed at  the  incident  which  had  given  a  shock  to 
their  secretary's  self-confidence ;  "  but  1  shall 
enter  the  lists  with  the  modesty  appropriate  to 
a  novice." 

"We  shall  w^tch  you,"  said  Carry  Hillsbor- 
ough,  who,  without  being  a  man-hunter  of  Miss 
Marsh's  impudent  type,  was  on  the  lookout 
for  a  white  slave,  and  concurred  with  Tiny  in 
thinking  that  the  heir  of  Earl's  Court  and  the 
Hammerhampton  Bank  was  just  then  the  most 
eligible  young  bachelor  of  the  neighborhood — 
"  we  shall  watch  you  with  the  intensest  inter- 
est ;  for  you  will  be  onr  mysterious  knight, 
who  appears  on  the  ground  with  his  visor  down, 
and  a  shield  innocent  of  device." 

"In  being  an  object  of  interest  to  Miss  Hills- 
borough  for  a  few  minutes,  I  shall  be  truly  for- 
tunate," Albert  returned,  gallantly,  "and  have 
a  sufficient  reward  for  my  daring,  even  though 
she  should  accuse  me  of  presumption  when  my 
poor  prowess  is  exhibited  to  her." 

If  the  excitement  of  ladies  in  council  was 
great  on  hearing  Albert  enter  himself  for  the 
grand  prize  of  the  male  Toxophilites,  their  agi- 
tation at  his  next  announcement  was  far  strong- 
er and  more  apparent. 

Insolent  with  her  three  years'  success,  and 
trembling  for  the  endurance  of  her  supremacy, 
Flo  Henderson  uttered  a  little  cry  of  surprise. 
She  could  not  believe  her  ears.  And  Lady 
Rossiter —  no  relation  to  the  inventor  of  the 
hair  dye,  but  the  wife  of  Baron  Rossiter,  of  the 
Peerage  of  Ireland,  and  Coome  Castle,  county 
of  Wicklow — put  her  astonishment  and  incre- 
dulity in  words,  and  gained  a  courteous  assur- 
ance that  the  herald  of  strange  tidings  acted  on 
sufficient  authority.  No,  there  was  no  mistake 
either  as  to  the  name  of  the  lady  or  as  to  her 
purpose.  Miss  Darling,  of  Arleigh  Manor,  had 
resolved  to  make  her  debut  at  "The  Toxophi- 
lites "  on  the  occasion  of  the  approaching  tour- 
nament, and  to  do  her  best  to  win  the  jeweled 
quiver.  She  had  authorized  Mr.  Guerdon  to 
beg  the  committee  to  put  her  in  the  list  of  the 
fair  competitors.  As  the  Perpetual  President 
of  the  Ladies'  Committee,  Lady  Rossiter  ex- 
pressed the  satisfaction  with  which  she  'com- 
plied with  Miss  Darling's  wish. 

Ere  the  day  had  closed,  the  news  was  known 
to  every  Toxophilite  of  the  neighborhood.  Cap- 
tain Sackville  scented  mischief,  and  prudently 
modified  the  scheme  of  "his  book,"  so  that,  in 
case  he  missed  the  bow,  he  should  not  also  lose 
an  inconveniently  large  sum  of  money.  Miss 
Henderson  was  seized  with  a  panic  which  fore- 
boded her  failure  on  the  day  of  trial.  She  de- 


clared that  the  whole  affair  was  unaccountable, 
and  in  her  heart  stigmatized  it  as  underhand. 
She  abhorred  secrecy,  and  darkness,  and  covert 
practice.  It  was  true  that  Miss  Darling  had 
never  declared  herself  inexperienced  in  archery. 
But  though  she  had  appeared  at  Beech  Court, 
Abbess  Court,  and  half  a  score  of  other  courts 
at  archery  parties,  she  had  always  avoided  the 
butts,  and  spent  her  time  among  the  flower- 
beds. To  entreaties  that  she  would  take  a 
bow,  and  make  a  trial  of  the  pastime,  her  eva- 
sive form  of  answer  had  been,  "  No,  thank  you  ; 
I  won't  make  a  trial  to-day."  The  girl,  *Miss 
Henderson  admitted,  had  not  fibbed  positively ; 
but  her  conduct  had  been  unendurably  sly  and 
deceitful.  She  had  fibbed  by  implication  ;  and, 
in  her  detestation  of  underhand  ways,  Florence 
insisted  to  herself  that  fibbing  by  implication 
was  the  most  crafty  and  treacherous  kind  of 
deceit  of  which  a  girl  could  be  guilty.  Of 
course,  the  covert  girl  had  been  practicing. 
But  where  ?  There  were  no  butts  at  Arleigh. 
If  Lottie  Darling  were  not  a  skillful  marks- 
woman,  bent  on  carrying  off  the  quiver  by  a 
surprise,  why  had  she  been  "so  dark?" 

On  receiving  the  intelligence  which  had 
roused  Florence  to  a  fever  of  uncharitableness, 
Christina  Marsh,  with  a  man-hunter's  quickness 
of  perception  and  suspicious  cleverness,  saw  the 
whole  position  and  plot.  Tiny  had  called  on 
the  Darlings  that  very  afternoon,  and  while 
walking  with  Lottie  in  the  Arleigh  Gardens 
had  caught  a  sight  of  the  butts.  In  answer  to 
her  exclamation  of  surprise  at  the  presence  of 
the  targets,  Lottie  had  remarked  coolly,  "Oh 
yes ;  they  have  been  there  for  some  weeks  now, 
and  I  have  been  practicing  for  my  dtbut  at  Ow- 
leybury.  I  think  I  am  getting  on  satisfactorily." 
Tiny  remembered  that  the  sly  little  puss  had 
not  whispered  a  word  of  her  intention  to  shoot 
for  the  quiver,  though  she  must  have  already 
commissioned  Albert  to  enter  her  for  the  con- 
test. Worse  still,  the  secretive  girl  had  not 
spoken  a  syllable  about  Albert,  who,  it  was 
clear  as  daylight  to  Tiny,  had  been  using  the 
Arleigh  butts  as  his  habitual  practicing  ground. 
Throughout  the  weeks  which  had  afforded  the 
man-hunter  barely  six  opportunities  for  the  ac- 
complishment of  designs  on  the  heir  of  Earl's 
Court,  Mr.  Albert  Guerdon  had,  of  course,  been 
a  daily  visitor  at  Arleigh,  shooting  away  at 
Lottie  and  the  targets  at  the  same  time.  Tiny 
was  enlightened  and  amazed.  She  was  also 
very  much  annoyed.  Her  chance  of  catching 
Albert  was  gone,  since  he  had  made  himself 
Lottie's  ally  under  circumstances  that  could 
not  fail  to  put  him  in  love  with  her.  It  was 
mortifying ! 

For  ten  minutes  Tiny  could  have  cried  with 
chagrin.  She  was  not  in  love  with  'Albert ; 
but  he  was  so  precisely  the  animal  for  which 
she  had  been  looking  that  it  pained  her  acute- 
ly to  see  that  so  eligible  a  white  slave  would 
not  fall  to  her  possession.  But,  in  spite  of  her 
levity  and  world liness,  Tiny  had  some  good 
qualities.  Spitefulness  certainly  was  not  one 


70 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


of  her  faults.  Even  in  the  first  smart  of  her 
vexation,  she  never  suspected  Lottie  of  having 
lured  Albert  to  her  side  by  any  of  the  uninaid- 
enly  artifices  which  Christina  herself  would 
not  have  hesitated  to  employ  for  his  capture. 
Lottie  had  been  sly  and  odiously  reticent  about 
the  butts  and  the  shooting,  and  for  those  faults 
Miss  Marsh  resolved  to  punish  her  appropriate- 
ly ere  forgiving  her  generously.  But  Tiny  was 
not  more  sure  that  her  friend  had  "  caught " 
Albert  than  sure  that  he  had  been  "caught "by 
an  nndesigning  charmer.  "Ah!"  she  thought, 
with  a  sigh,  "it  does  happen  so  sometimes! 
The  biggest  fish  of  the  river,  after  passing  the 
flies  of  the  wariest  anglers,  swallows  the  un- 
baited  hook  that  was  not  thrown  out  for  him. 
How  furious  the  Hillsboroughs  and  all  the  ex- 
pert fishers  will  be  when  they  learn  that  a  mere 
child,  who  was  a  school-girl  yesterday,  has  tak- 
en the  prize  from  them  unintentionally !  They 
won't  credit  her  with  innocence  of  design. 
They'll  pull  her  to  pieces !  What  fun  it  will  be 
to  hear  Flo  Henderson's  outpourings  of  virtu- 
ous indignation !  Well,  they  may  vent  their  dis- 
appointment in  smart  speeches,  and  I  won't  stop 
them,  if  they  don't  go  too  far.  But  if  they  ex- 
ceed the  limits  of  legitimate  malice — the  mal- 
ice which  any  Christian  girl  may  feel  for  a  pro- 
vokingly  fortunate  friend — I  will  check  them 
up  sharply,  and  give  Florence  Henderson  a  les- 
son in  her  own  virtuously  indignant  art.  For 
Lottie  is  a  good  girl.  Ah,  me !  I  wish  I  were 
like  her.  Perhaps  I  should  have  been  less  un- 
like her  if  my  mother  had  lived,  or  if  I  had 
been  sent  to  Miss  Constantino's  school." 

Whereupon  the  girl,  who  had  not  shed  a  tear 
of  vexation  at  her  mishap  in  man-hunting,  be- 
came tearful  at  the  thought  of  how  much  better 
she  might  have  been  had  her  training  been  bet- 
ter. With  all  her  amiability,  Lottie  could  judge 
a  friend  too  severely.  In  spite  of  her  faults, 
Tiny  Marsh  was  not  quite  "  such  a  sad  mistake  " 
as  Lottie  imagined  her. 

The  Owleybury  Toxophilites,  who  were  curi- 
ous to  ascertain  how  much  Lottie  and  Albert 
knew,  and  could  do,  in  the  way  of  archery,  had 
not  to  wait  long  for  the  gratification  of  their 
curiosity. 

The  thirty-first  was  precisely  the  kind  of  day 
which  most  of  the  Toxophilites  desired  it  to 
be,  and  which  the  weather  prophets  of  all  the 
almanacs  of  the  year  declared  it  would  not 
be.  Five-and-twenty  years  since  one  always 
had  considerate  usage  from  the  weather,  which 
nowadays  will  persist  in  raining,  or  sending  us 
a  cold  wind  from  the  east,  whenever  we  have 
made  arrangements  to  lie  out  on  the  grass,  and 
lunch  off  Champagne  and  lobster  patties  in  the 
open  air.  The  sun  shone  from  a  cloudless  blue 
sky,  and  the  breeze  in  the  forenoon,  without 
being  strong  or  irregular  enough  to  give  the 
archers  more  than  a  little  pleasurably  manage- 
able difficulty,  came  up  from  the  sou'-west-by- 
south  with  gladdening  music  and  coolness  on 
the  thirty-first.  And  never  had  the  paddock 
of  the  Owleybury  bowyers  appeared  to  greater 


advantage  than  on  that  day.  The  elms  be- 
neath which  the  luncheon  marquee  had  been 
pitched  were  in  the  perfection  of  their  beauty, 
and  the  spaces  of  the  meadow  in  which  the  loi- 
tering spectators  of  the  contest  were  permitted 
to  promenade  and  listen  to  the  music  of  a  mili- 
tary band  wore  an  aspect  of  picturesque  ani- 
mation. 

The  men  shot  in  the  morning,  the  ladies  in  the 
afternoon,  when  their  cavaliers,  having  found 
out  who  was  their  best  man,  had  drunk  his 
health  in  Champagne.  Let  it  be  told  in  a  line 
that  their  captain  on  this  occasion  was  Albert. 
The  fighting  was  between  him  and  Captain 
Sackville,  who  shot  well  enough  to  put  their 
competitors  clean  out  of  the  betting  before  the 
clock  of  Owleybury  Cathedral  struck  twelve. 
And  ere  the  horn  sounded  for  luncheon,  at  the 
close  of  the  first  part  of  the  day's  proceedings, 
Albert  had  come  out  the*  conqueror  by  seven 
marks. 

Before  luncheon  there  were  three  men  on 
the  ground  to  every  lady.  But  after  the  repast 
the  show  of  ladies  increased  with  every  success- 
ive ten  minutes,  until  the  wearers  of  flowing 
silks,  and  light  muslins,  and  gossamer  bonnets 
were  in  a  strong  majority.  Carriage  after  car- 
riage drove  into  the  meadow,  and  added  to  the 
number  of  matrons  and  girls.  Mrs.  Blindhurst 
and  the  clerical  ladies  from  the  Close  were  pres- 
ent in  full  force,  and  Lady  Eossiter,  who  had 
hoped  that  it  would  devolve  on  her  to  present 
the  prizes  to  the  winners  at  the  end  of  the  day, 
was  not  a  little  disappointed  to  see  the  Count- 
ess of  Slumberbridge  drive  her  pair  of  white 
ponies  into  the  field.  In  the  absence  of  the 
Countess,  Lady  Eossiter  was  a  very  great  per- 
sonage at  the  gatherings  of  the  neighborhood  ; 
but  she  could  only  claim  a  subordinate  place  in 
the  social  foreground  when  the  mistress  of  Cas- 
tle Coosie  came  forth  to  smile  upon  her  neigh- 
bors. Lottie  arrived  on  the  ground  with  her 
mamma,  barely  in  time  to  take  her  place  with 
eleven  other  fair  competitors.  Excitement  had 
given  her  face  just  the  right  amount  of  addi- 
tional color,  and  a  certain  animating  piquan- 
cy of  expression  which  never  brightened  it  at 
times  of  ordinary  composure.  Surveying  the 
elegant,  fine  -  featured  girl  for  the  first  time, 
Lady  Slumberbridge  was  so  delighted  with  her 
appearance  that  she  determined  not  to  invite 
her  to  Coosie  Castle.  Viscount  Snoring,  the 
heir-apparent  of  the  Slnmberbridge  Earldom, 
was  still  unmarried ;  and  he  had  not  yet  prom- 
ised to  wed  the  woman  whom  his  mamma  had 
wooed  for  him. 

For  the  first  six  rounds,  the  shooting  of  the 
twelve  contendents  was  so  even  that  the  scores 
afforded  no  strong  indication  of  the  result  of 
the  contest.  It  was  not  till  rivalry,  and  the 
exhaustion  consequent  on  several  efforts,  had 
begun  to  affect  the  steadiness  of  small  wrists 
and  the  action  of  delicate  fingers",  that  some  of 
the  markswomen  failed  to  do  themselves  jus- 
tice ;  but,  when  a  nervous  girl  had  made  a  wild 
or  imperfectly  successful  shot,  the  conscious- 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


ness  of  misadventure  lessened  her  confidence, 
diminished  her  self-possession,  and  told  against 
her  in  several  ways. 

Albert  for  a  while  watched  Lottie  with  keen 
anxiety.  His  only  fear  for  her  was  that  the 
novelty  of  her  position,  and  the  knowledge  of 
the  nice  vigilance  with  which  her  display  of 
prowess  was  regarded,  would  agitate  her  un- 
duly at  the  outset  of  the  game.  If  panic  seized 
her  in  the  earlier  rounds,  she  was  not  likely  to 
recover  herself;  but,  if  she  escaped  stage  fever 
at  the  commencement  of  the  proceedings,  she 
would  shoot  with  coolness  and  precision  to  the 
last.  She  was  in  perfect  training  and  "  form," 
her  wrists  and  fingers  having  heen  raised  to 
admirable  strength  by  assiduous  practice.  But 
how  would  she  endure  at  first  the  gaze  of  hun- 
dreds of  critical  observers,  whose  curiosity  re- 
specting her  proficiency  had  been  whetted  by 
the  secrecy  of  her  preparations  ?  As  he  put 
this  question  to  himself,  Albert  regretted  that 
he  had  not  allowed  her  to  practice  once  or 
twice  with  the  Club,  in  order  that  she  might 
accustom  herself  to  the  distraction  of  public 
shooting  before  the  grand  trial.  To  his  great 
relief,  he  saw  that  her  self-possession  did  not 
desert  her.  Her  first  arrow  made  an  inner 
ring ;  her  second  caught  the  outer  ring  on  the 
inner  side  ;  her  third  hit  the  bull's-eye ;  of  all 
her  first  six  shafts  no  one  missed  the  target. 

That  would  do.  The  danger  of  an  attack 
of  stage  fever  was  over.  Albert  knew  that  her 
nerve  would  not  fail  her,  and  that  her  shooting 
would  improve  with  every  turn.  As  the  fair 
archers,  after  each  "  turn,"  walked  with  state- 
ly deliberateness  the  length  of  the  butts,  to  iden- 
tify and  recover  their  arrows,  and  take  up  posi- 
tions for  the  next  "  turn,"  Albert  never  failed 
to  approach  Lottie,  and  give  her  a  word  of  en- 
couraging praise.  He  was  her  bottle-holder  ; 
but  she  paid  him  scarcely  any  attention  during 
the  walkings  to  and  fro.  Once  he  said, 

"  There  is  a  large  number  of  people  here." 

"Is  there?"  she  replied,  without  raising  her 
eyes  from  the  sward.  "  I  did  not  know  it.  I 
do  not  see  the  spectators ;  and  I  will  not  even 
think  about  them.  I  see  nothing  but  my  bow 
and  arrow,  the  distance  between  me  and  the 
target,  and  the  place  in  the  target  to  which  I 
try  to  send  my  shaft."  Three  seconds  later  she 
added,  with  a  smile,  "Yes,  I  see  something 
else  —  I  see  the  wind.  It  sha'n't  play  me  a 
mischievous  trick."  The  girl's  whole  mind 
was  in  her  work. 

When  the  shooting  at  measured  distances 
was  over,  Lottie  and  Flo  Henderson  were  be- 
yond the  reach  of  their  competitors ;  but  the 
two  favorites  (for  Lottie's  achievements  had 
made  her  a  "favorite")  were  close  together 
in  the  score.  Only  three  marks  separated 
them ;  but  this  slight  difference  in  the  two 
scores  was  in  Flo  Henderson's  favor.  So  far 
Florence  had  beaten  Lottie ;  but  Albert  was 
hopeful  that  Lottie  would  put  herself  ahead  of 
Flo  in  the  final  shootings,  made  at  irregular 
and  unmeasured  distances  selected  on  the  mo- 


ment by  the  marshal  of  the  competitors.  Miss 
Henderson  the  young  man  knew  to  be  at  her 
best  when  she  shot  by  rule  under  known  con- 
ditions, whereas  Lottie  was  greatest  when  she 
had  to  rely  on  her  fine  perception  of  distances, 
and  her  tact  in  dealing  with  disturbing  influ- 
ences. Miss  Henderson  was  the  mechanical 
archer,  excellently  sure  so  long  as  she  was  car- 
rying out  instructions ;  but  Lottie  was  the  marks- 
woman  of  genius,  feeling,  resource.  Fortunate- 
ly for  the  younger  lady,  "  the  twelve  "  were  no 
sooner  marched  out  by  Lady  Rossiter,  who  dis- 
charged the  functions  of  marshal,  than  the  soutb- 
Avest  wind  rose  considerably,  as  it  is  apt  to  do 
toward  evening.  As  the  light  breeze  sprung 
up,  Albert  knew  that  it  Avas  all  over  with  Flor- 
ence Henderson,  who  could  combat  by  rule  the 
force  of  a  steady  wind,  but  could  never  catch 
the  humors,  and  adapt  herself  sympathetically 
to  the  frolicsome  caprices  of  the  wanton  air. 
At  this  moment  each  of  the  twelve  girls  had 
to  make  twelve  shots.  Ten  of  the  quivered 
damsels  shot  away  their  final  shafts  carelessly, 
for  mere  form's  sake,  knowing  that  they,  for  all 
practical  purposes,  were  out  of  the  game.  But 
it  was  otherwise  with  the  two  favorites.  Turn- 
ing pale  as  the  wind  rose  (for  she  saw  her  dan- 
ger), Flo  let  go  her  string  at  the  word  of  com- 
mand, having  aimed  without  allowing  for  the 
fitfulness  of  the  breeze.  As  the  shaft  flew  from 
her  string,  there  was  a  sudden  lull,  and  the  ar- 
row went  a  yard  wide  of  the  target.  At  the 
same  moment  Lottie,  who  saw  the  breeze  stop 
at  the  last  fraction  of  the  last  instant  of  her 
aiming  time,  sent  her  whizzing  shaft  clean  into 
the  bull's-eye  with  a  smart  tap.  Again  and 
again,  in  their  last  twelve  shots,  Florence  failed, 
and  Lottie  won  in  the  same  way.  Failure  ir- 
ritated Miss  Henderson,  while  success  exhila- 
rated Lottie,  and  quickened  her  perceptions. 
The  girl  could  see  the  wind ;  she  knew  all 
about  it ;  for  a  moment  in  her  heart  she  de- 
fied it.  Of  Flo's  last  twelve  arrows,  seven 
missed  the  target,  and  five  barely  managed  to 
fix  themselves  on  its  border.  Of  Lottie's  final 
dozen  shafts  not  one  missed  the  target,  and 
five  were  bull's-eyes.  As  the  girl  made  her 
last  shot  and  bull's-eye,  a  round  of  cheers 
went  up  from  the  spectators,  who  followed  up 
their  vocal  applause  with  vehement  hand-clap- 
ping. 

"How  provoking  it  was  of  the  wind!"  the 
defeated  favorite  ejaculated,  pitching  her  bow 
to  her  brother.  "The  south-west  wind  always 
rises  in  this  way  toward  the  evening.  The  la- 
dies ought  to  have  shot  in  the  morning." 

"It  was  extremely  provoking  for  you,  Flo  !" 
said  Lottie,  who  overheard  the  petulant  speech, 
and  hastened  with  her  sweetest  smile  and  most 
cooing  voice  to  alleviate  the  anguish  of  the  van- 
quished, "and  it  was  very,  very  fortunate  for 
me.  You  are  much  the  better  shot  when  the 
air  is  quiet;  and  I  shoot  my  best  in  a  light 
breeze.  It  was  the  accident  of  the  weather 
that  gave  me  the  victory ;  and  I  really  feel  as 
though  I  had  taken  a  mean  advantage  of  you 


72 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


in  making  the  most  of  my  special  gift  of  seeing 
the  wind." 

Miss  Henderson's  annoyance  was  mitigated 
by  this  pretty  speech.  Moreover,  her  chagrin 
did  not  blind  her  to  the  excellence,  discretion, 
and  skill  which  her  victor  had  displayed.  Like 
a  true  Toxophilite,  she  admired  the  superior 
force  that  had  defeated  her ;  and  she  had 
enough  generosity  and  good  taste  to  say  so. 

"  You  were  fortunate  to  have  the  conditions 
which  baffled  me,  while  they  only  gave  you  an 
opportunity  for  displaying  your  wonderful  clev- 
erness," Flo  replied ;  "but  you  have  won  no  less 
fairly  than  brilliantly.  You  are  the  best  shot 
in  the  club ;  and  the  quiver,  Lottie,  will  suit 
your  figure  and  style  precisely." 

"  It  is  the  first  Jirst  prize  that  I  have  ever 
won,"  Lottie  rejoined,  with  gleeful  simplicity. 
"  At  school  I  never  could  carry  off  a  first  prize." 

In  another  moment  Lottie  found  herself  the 
heroine  of  the  club,  the  centre  of  a  crowd  of 
people  who  deafened  her  with  congratulations, 
while  they  bantered  her  about  the  "  darkness  " 
of  her  preparations  for  success. 

"Lottie,  my  darling,"  exclaimed  Tiny  Marsh, 
grasping  the  victor's  hand,  "you  deserve  the 
prize.  Your  shooting  was  superb  —  it  raised 
archery  to  the  level  of  the  high  arts.  None  but 
a  girl  of  genius  could  have  fought  the  wind  so 
cunningly.  Moreover" — and  here  the  man- 
hunter  lowered  her  voice,  as  she  made  ready  to 
put  a  sting  into  Lottie's  ear — "your  training 
does  credit  to  your  teacher!" 

The  malicious  significance  of  the  tone  in 
which  Tiny  spoke  those  concluding  words  was 
altogether  lost  on  Lottie,  who  staggered  and 
completely  routed  her  assailant  by  the  delicious 
frankness  and  simplicity  of  her  reply. 

With  the  gratefulness  of  a  warm-hearted  girl 
fresh  from  school,  Lottie  said,  in  a  voice  audible 
to  half  a  score  of  by-standers  : 

"I  am  so  glad  to  hear  you  say  so.  Mr. 
Guerdon  has  been  so  very  good  to  me !  He  has 
come  over  to  Arleigh,  morning  after  morning, 
to  train  me.  My  success  is  all  due  to  him. 
Oh,  Mr.  Albert!"  she  cried,  gleefully,  as  her  pro- 
fessor came  through  the  throng,  "let  us  shake 
hands  and  congratulate  each  on  our  common 
triumph.  I  was  this  moment  telling  Christina 
that  I  have  to  thank  you  for  my  good  fortune. 
How  very,  very  kind  you  have  been  to  give  me 
so  much  of  your  time  !" 

"  My  goodness,"  replied  Albert,  with  a  laugh 
and  a  blush  on  his  cheeks,  as  he  playfully  em- 
phasized the  word,  "  has  been  fully  repaid,  Miss 
Darling.  You  have  rewarded  me  by  winning 
the  quiver,  and  now  you  are  going  to  make  me 
famous.  I  have  done  good  by  stealth,  and 
blush  to  find  it  fame !" 

When  Lady  Slumberbridge,  ten  minutes 
later,  gave  Lottie  the  prize,  with  an  appropriate 
speech,  she  was  so  taken  with  the  girl's  beauty 
that  she  begged  her  to  give  her  a  kiss. 

A  comely  dame,  with  a  noble  profile  and 
presence,  though  she  was  slightly  oppressed  by 
the  weight  of  her  personal  attractions,  as  ladies 


of  high  degree  are  apt  to  be  when  they  have 
passed  the  middle  line  of  life's  middle  term, 
the  countess  overflowed  with  graciousness  to 
Judge  Darling's  daughter. 

"Do  kiss  me,  dear,"  she  said,  good-natured- 
ly. "I  like  to  be  kissed  by  pretty  girls.  The 
time  was,  Miss  Darling,  when  my  face  was  al- 
most as  lovely  as  yours,  and  the  belt  of  that 
quiver  would  have  encircled  my  waist." 

Flattering  the  benign  peeress  by  the  obvious 
sincerity  of  her  words,  Lottie  observed,  when 
she  had  put  two  light  kisses  on  the  lady's  lips, 
"You  must  have  been  a  charming  girl." 

Whereupon  Lady  Slumberbridge  laughed 
pleasantly  at  her  flatterer,  and,  with  an  amiable 
insolence  which  her  high  position  and  obvious 
kindliness  rendered  quite  inoffensive,  rejoined  : 

"And  you  are  a  charming  girl.  You  must 
come  and  stay  with  me,  my  dear,  at  Castle 
Coosie,  as  soon  as  my  son  is  engaged.  You 
mayn't  come  sooner,  or  he'll  be  falling  in  love 
with  you,  and  that  would  never  do." 

"Then  I  hope,  Lady  Slumberbridge,"  re- 
turned Lottie,  who  was  vastly  tickled  by  the 
great  lady's  condescension  and  droll  candor, 
"that  he  will  be  engaged  before  the  end  of 
next  month." 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later,  Lottie,  the  tri- 
umphant, was  on  her  way  back  to  Arleigh,  sit- 
ting bodkin  on  the  low  seat  of  the  yellow  char- 
iot, between  her  papa  and  mamma,  with  her 
bow  in  her  hand,  and  her  jeweled  quiver  on  her 
knees.  "I  shall  keep  this  grand  thing  as  a 
trophy,"  she  said  to  her  mamma,  as  they  near- 
ed  the  manor-house,  "  and  continue  to  use  the 
green-and-gold  sheath  which  Mr.  Albert  gave 


CHAPTER  XIX. 
ALBERT'S  PRAYER  AND  LOTTIE'S  ANSWER. 

THE  next  day  being  the  first  of  September, 
from  early  dawn  until  dusk  the  valley  of  the 
Luce  resounded  with  the  frequent  reverbera- 
tions of  guns ;  and  many  partridges  fell  beneath 
the  deadly  aim  of  sportsmen,  who  returned  to 
their  homes  in  the  afternoon  laden  with  spoil, 
and  pleasantly  fatigued  with  walking  over  tur- 
nips and  stubbles. 

It  was  a  day  of  dinner-parties  in  the  south- 
west corner  of  Boringdonshire  ;  and  Sir  James 
and  Lady  Darling  drove  to  a  dinner,  eight  miles 
from  Arleigh,  where  the  guests  were  regaled 
with  partridges,  which,  though  of  course  they 
had  been  alive  in  the  morning,  came  to  table 
with  the  flavor  of  full  keeping,  as  though  they 
had  been  hanging  in  the  larder  by  their  legs  for 
a  week  or  more.  Lottie  had  received  an  invi- 
tation to  this  same  dinner.  But,  after  consul- 
tation with  her  daughter,  Lady  Darling  had  on 
good  grounds  decided  that  it  would  be  better 
for  the  girl  to  remain  at  home.  The  mother 
was  of  opinion  that  an  excess  of  gayety  was 
bad  for  all  young  people,  and  that  a  particular 
young  person  ought  not  to  follow  up  the  excite- 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


73 


ments  of  the  archery  tournament  with  a  grand 
dinner  and  "late  hours"  on  the  next  day.  It 
was  the  easier  for  Lottie  to  concur  in  this  view, 
as  she  was  not  yet  of  an  age  to  enjoy  thorough- 
ly the  chief  festivity  of  the  aging  and  the  aged, 
though  she  fully  appreciated  the  dignity  of  be- 
ing a  come-out  young  lady,  who  was  entitled  to 
participate  in  the  stateliest  banquets  of  her  eld- 
ers. Whether  Lady  Darling  had  any  reason, 
besides  those  already  mentioned,  for  declining 
the  invitation  for  her  daughter,  it  is  the  busi- 
ness of  this  chapter  to  show. 

As  it  was  no  longer  needful  for  her  to  prac- 
tice at  the  butts,  or  likely  that  Albert  would 
visit  the  promontory  between  breakfast  and 
luncheon,  Lottie  spent  the  morning  quietly  at 
home,  writing  tp  one  or  two  of  the  several  "  old 
Constantines "  whom  her  conscience  pricked 
her  for  having  treated  with  epistolary  neglect 
since  her  return  from  Brighton.  At  midday 
she  dined,  when  papa  and  mamma  had  their 
luncheon ;  and  then  she  whiled  away  the  af- 
ternoon with  her  music  and  a  book,  in  the  de- 
fault of  callers,  and  in  the  absence  of  her  par- 
ents, who,  wishing  to  pay  some  visits  of  cere- 
mony on  the  way  to  the  dinner,  left  home  soon 
after  their  luncheon.  Her  groom  being  re- 
quired to  play  the  part  of  coachman  on  the  box 
of  the  yellow  chariot,  she  could  not  have  taken 
a  canter  on  "Clifton,"  even  if  the  excessive 
heat  of  the  day  had  not  indisposed  her  for  ex- 
ercise on  the  saddle.  So  she  spent  the  after- 
noon by  herself;  and  after  her  wont  she  en- 
joyed the  solitariness,  which  afforded  her  an 
opportunity  for  reflecting  how  little  she  had 
done  of  late  to  carry  out  the  excellent  scheme 
for  pursuing  her  graver  studies  with  which  she 
had  started  on  her  homeward  journey  from 
Hanover  Square.  Like  most  girls  when  they 
are  leaving  school,  Lottie,  on  saying  good-bye 
to  Brighton,  was  deeply  impressed  with  a  sense 
of  her  duties  to  her  intellect,  and  had  formed 
virtuous  resolutions  for  enlarging  her  knowl- 
edge of  history  and  the  sciences. 

The  time,  spent  thus  wholesomely  in  regret- 
ting omissions  of  duty,  and  in  reforming  broken 
resolutions,  was  followed  by  tea  and  thick 
bread-and-butter.  Lottie  had  given  special 
directions  concerning  the  thickness  of  the 
slices,  in  her  determination  to  be  once  again  a 
school-girl  all  by  herself;  and  in  the  execution 
of  this  childish  piece  of  "make-believe,"  she 
enjoyed  herself  prodigiously. 

The  sun  having  fallen  and  the  heat  subsided, 
when  the  bread-and-butter  had  vanished,  Lottie 
left  the  house,  and  strolled  about  the  upper  gar- 
den, humming  stray  snatches  of  familiar  songs, 
and  revolving  half  a  hundred  happy  thoughts, 
as  she  went  the  round  of  the  flower-beds,  which 
were  much  less  gaudy  on  this  first  of  Septem- 
ber than  they  had  been  ten  weeks  earlier,  but 
still  were  bright  with  petunias  and  verbenas, 
as  every  garden  ought  to  be  in  early  autumn 
after  a  genial  summer.  The  statelier  roses 
had  shed  their  honors,  and  the  show  of  gerani- 
ums was  meagre  ;  but  their  brilliant  lights  had 


been  replaced  with  the  milder  glow  of  asters 
and  chrysanthemums.  Having  stood  for  a  few 
minutes  near  the  ha-ha,  listening  in  vain  for 
the  night-jar,  Lottie  went  round  to  "  the  nook," 
her  favorite  resting-place  in  all  the  grounds. 

A  circular  patch  of  lawn,  hedged  by  ever- 
greens and  garnished  with  slender  sprays  of 
weeping  birch,  this  secluded  corner  had  in  the 
middle  of  its  green  plot  a  marble  tank  for  gold- 
fish, and  a  rustic  chair  on  which  Lottie  had 
passed  some  happy  hours  with  one  of  Tenny- 
son's volumes  in  her  hand. 

Tranquil  at  all  times,  the  water  of  this  tiny 
pool  seemed  unusually  still  to  Lottie,  as  she 
examined  the  broad  leaves  of  a  water-lily  that 
lay  extended  on  its  surface,  and  saw  the  crim- 
son forms  of  the  toy  fish  lying  lazily  in  its  mid- 
depth.  The  reflections  from  the  mirror  were 
strangely  vivid,  and  Lottie,  trained  at  Hanover 
Square  to  regard  her  semblance  in  looking- 
glasses,  gazed  pensively  at  herself,  standing 
there  in  loneliness.  As  she  did  so,  the  solitari- 
ness of  her  position  occurred  to  her.  It  seem- 
ed to  her  that  her  father  and  mother  had  left 
her  for  a  long  journey  and  time,  instead  of  a 
few  miles  and  hours  ;  and  it  suddenly  struck 
the  girl,  who  had  never  known  weariness  of 
herself,  that  it  would  be  sad  to  live  without  the 
sympathy  of  companions,  even  in  so  delightful 
a  spot  as  Arleigh.  And  then  the  thought  rose 
that  the  parents,  whom  she  loved  so  entirely 
and  strongly,  would  perhaps  one  day  pass 
away,  and  leave  her  in  enduring  solitude.  In 
later  days  it  seemed  to  her  very  strange  that 
this  mournful  reflection  was  still  distressing 
her,  when  she  saw  Albert's  face  and  form  on 
the  same  mirror  that  reflected  her  own  fea- 
tures. It  seemed  that  his  eyes  were  looking 
into  her  countenance. 

With  a  cry  and  a  start  she  raised  her  glance, 
and  saw  Albert  before  her. 

"Don't  be  frightened,"  he  said.  "Do  par- 
don me  for  alarming  you. " 

"I  am  not  frightened;  I  am  only  startled 
for  an  instant.  I  did  not  hear  your  step,  and 
you  came  upon  me  just  as  I  was  thinking  it 
was  not  well  for  me  to  be  alone.  The  thought 
had  saddened  me ;  and  my  friends  should  only 
see  me  at  my  happiest." 

"I  could  not  have  come  more  opportunely," 
he  replied,  advancing  to  her  and  gazing  with 
prayerful  eyes  into  the  light  that  burned  be- 
tween her  long  black  lashes  ;  "  for  I  am  here, 
Lottie,  to  ask  you  to  save  me  from  the  weari- 
ness of  loneliness,  and  to  let  me  be  your  com- 
panion forever." 

For  ten  seconds  her  wondering  expression 
seemed  to  indicate  that  she  could  not  catch  the 
full  meaning  of  his  words. 

"Lottie,"  he  entreated,  "do  tell  me  that  I 
am  not  asking  too  much." 

The  day  was  near  when  they  laughed  merri- 
ly at  the  first  words  that  Lottie  uttered  in  re- 
sponse to  this  burning  prayer,  after  she  had 
caught  the  purport  of  his  supplication,  and  at 
the  same  moment,  reverting  to  his  behavior  on 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


a  previous  evening,  nad  seen  that  her  first 
judgment  of  it  had  not  been  faulty. 

"Then  I  was  right,"  she  said,  "and  it  is  as 
I  thought." 

Before  ten  days  had  passed,  Albert  accused 
Lottie  of  having  spoken  these  words  in  a  tone 
of  compassionate  reproachfulness,  a  tone  im- 
plying that  she  had  tried  to  think  better  of 
him,  and  to  her  grief  found  herself  compelled 
to  think  the  worst.  But,  though  she  admitted 
that  she  might  in  her  first  surprise  have  made 
some  such  silly  speech,  she  declared  that  the 
compassionately  reproachful  tone  was  the  mere 
fiction  of  his  malicious  fancy. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  Albert  answered,  seeing  how 
the  present  had  brought  the  past  to  Lottie's 
mind;  "the  other  night  I  was  on  the  point  of 
telling  you  my  hope,  and  imploring  you  to  give 
it  encouragement,  when  your  look  of  displeas- 
ure caused  me  to  forbear.  You  are  not  angry 
with  me  now  ?" 

"No,  no;  and  I  was  scarcely  at  all  angry 
then." 

"  Thank  you  for  that,"  ejaculated  Albert,  tak- 
ing her  right  hand,  and  observing  with  satisfac- 
tion that  she  showed  no  wish  to  withdraw  it. 
"  But  though  you  are  not  displeased  with  me, 
you  have  not  said  'yes.'  Lottie,  my  own  dear 
girl,  do  promise  to  love  me." 

"Go  away  now,  Albert,"  the  girl  said,  kind- 
ly, blushing  as  she  addressed  him  so  familiar- 
ly, "you  may  not  remain  here  this  evening,  for 
mamma  is  not  at  home.  Don't  think  me  un- 
kind. Leave  me  alone  till  to-morrow." 

"  I  knew  that  your  father  and  mother  were 
away  from  Arleigh.  Lady  Darling  told  me 
that  you  would  be  alone — that  I  might  come  to 
you,  to  tell  you  of  my  love." 

"  Then  mamma  knows  ?'' 

"  She  sanctions  my  visit  and  my  entreaty. 
I  may  not  say  that  she  wishes  you  to  be  mine, 
for  she  told  me  that  she  would  not  influence 
you  in  any  way.  But  she  has  been  so  good  to 
me,  in  sympathizing  with  me,  and  in  arranging 
for  me  to  see  you  this  evening,  that  I  am  sure 
she  will  be  glad  to  hear  you  have  given  me  the 
promise  which  I  entreat  you  to  make." 

While  these  words  were  being  spoken,  Lot- 
tie, without  taking  her  hand  from.  Albert's 
grasp,  had  withdrawn  a  few- .paces  from  the 
marble  tank  in  the  direction  of  the  rustic  seat. 
Seeing  her  purpose,  Albert  led  her  to  the  chair, 
and  allowed  her  a  minute  of  silence  in  which 
to  recover  her  composure. 

In  that  minute  she  saw  the  full  significance 
of  the  feelings  with  which  he  had  inspired  her, 
and  by  which  her  conduct  to  him  in  a  hundred 
trivial  matters  had  been  determined  for  several 
weeks.  She  knew  that  her  captain  had  come 
to  claim  her,  and  her  heart  went  forth  to  bless 
him. 

Then,  bending  over  her,  Albert  said,  with  a 
vehemence  which  was  all  the  more  mysterious- 
ly impressive  because  the  voice  which  clothed 
his  fervent  words  was  irresistibly  gentle, 

"  I  know  you  love  me,  Lottie  ;  and  you  know 


you  love  me.  Then  do,  in  mercy  to  me,  find 
courage  to  say  that  you  will  be  mine." 

"Five  minutes  ago,  Albert,"  she  said,  slow- 
ly and  clearly,  raising  from  the  depths  of  a  pure 
soul  her  own  sacred  recognition  of  her  recent- 
ly discovered  love,  and  placing  it  with  pathetic 
solemnity  on  the  words  whereby  she  conveyed 
herself  to  her  suitor — "  five  minutes  ago  I  did 
not  know  I  loved  you.  But  I  do  love  you,  and 
I  see  that  my  love  for  you  is  no  new  thing,  but 
the  flower  of  a  plant  which  you  placed  in  my 
heart,  and  have  been  feeding  with  smiles  and 
kindness.  Oh,  Albert,  I  may  not  be  selfish  in 
my  happiness  !  May  my  love  be  the  joy  to 
you  that  your  love  is  to  me  !" 

As  she  spoke  thus  thankfully  and  seriously, 
she  looked  up  into  his  face,  with  a  glowing 
splendor  in  her  large  blue  eye's  that  declared 
more  forcibly  than  her  language  how  complete- 
ly she  surrendered  herself  to  him.  But  when 
he  bent  down,  and  put  his  lips  upon  her  white 
forehead,  her  eyes  fell,  and  crimson  joy  sprang 
to  the  face  which  she  turned  toward  the  ground. 

Then,  seating  himself  by  her  side,  and  put- 
ting his  right  arm  round  her  little  waist,  Albert 
drew  her  toward  him,  and  poured  into  her  ear 
streams  of  sacred  speech,  which  it  would  be  a 
kind  of  profanity  to  report  upon  a  page  penned 
for  the  amusement  of  readers  in  their  hours 
of  idleness.  And  Lottie's  tongue  was  no  less 
eloquent  and  musical.  They  received  one  an- 
other into  the  secret  places  of  their  hearts,  so 
that  each  saw  that  a  mere  selfish  happiness, 
living  on  sympathies  bounded  by  their  mutual 
love,  would  never  satisfy  the  other.  They 
would  pass  their  years  in  joy  ;  and  they  would 
express  their  gratitude  for  their  own  felicity, 
and  for  God's  immeasurable  goodness  to  them, 
by  efforts  for  the  benefit  of  those  to  whom  for- 
tune had  been  less  bounteous. 

The  twilight  was  deepening  into  darkness 
ere  Albert,  rising  from  his  seat,  said, 

"  But,  Lottie,  I  may  stay  no  longer  now,  for 
I  am  here  under  conditions,  put  upon  me  by 
your  mamma,  and  I  must  observe  them." 

"  Were  they  very  hard  terms  ?"  Lottie  in- 
quired, with  an  affectation  of  pitiful  concern. 

"I  may  not  murmur  at  them,  though  they 
compel  me  to  leave  you  now.  Lady  Darling 
told  me  that,  if  I  could  not  find  you  in  the  gar- 
den, I  might  seek  you  in  the  house,  and  invite 
you  to  stroll  with  me  in  the  grounds.  But  she 
enjoined  me,  under  any  circumstances,  to  leave 
you  before  it  became  dark." 

"The  terms  were  not  very  hard.  I  don't 
think,  Albert,  she  was  very  cruel  to  you." 

"  The  power  to  be  unkind,  Lottie,  is  not  in 
your  mother.  She  has  been  very  good  to  me, 
and  I  love  her  very  much — as  much  as  your 
husband  ought  to  love  her.  When  you  see  her 
to-night,  do  tell  her  that  I  told  you  of  her  kind- 
ness to  me." 

Deferring  their  separation  for  a  few  more 
minutes,  Lottie  accompanied  her  lover  to  the 
boundary  of  the  inner  garden  ;  and  ere  he  went 
away  for  Earl's  Court,  she  allowed  him  to  put 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


another  kiss  on  her  eheek.  Indeed,  when  she 
saw  what  the  thief  was  after,  she  turned  the 
round  cheek  a  little  upward,  so  that  Albert's 
softly  furred  lips  and  chin  might  get  at  it  easi- 
ly. At  present,  however,  she  had  no  courage 
to  return  the  endearment.  But  as  they  stood 
beside  a  standard  rose,  which  placed  directly 
under  her  eyes  two  twin  buds  growing  from 
the  same  stalk,  it  occurred  to  her  that  she 
would  not  he  treating  Albert  according  to  his 
desert  if  she  dismissed  him  without  any  thing 
of  the  nature  of  a  kiss.  So  she  plucked  one  of 
the  twin  buds,  and,  having  kissed  it  ostenta- 
tiously, put  it  with  her  own  hands  into  a  but- 
ton-hole of  his  coat. 

A  minute  more,  and  Albert  had  passed  from 
her  sight. 

When  she  could  no  longer  see  him,  Lottie 
returned  slowly  to  the  house  ;  and  she  was  on 
the  point  of  crossing  its  threshold,  when  she 
suddenly  changed  her  purpose,  and  retraced 
her  steps  to  the  rose-tree  from  which  she  had 
shortly  before  taken  her  last  gift  to  Albert. 
Having  robbed  the  standard  of  the  remaining 
one  of  the  twin  buds,  Lottie  kissed  it  caressing-  I 
ly,  and  put  it  in  the  bosom  folds  of  her  dress. 
In  thus  taking  one  of  her  own  flowers,  and  put-  [ 
ting  it  on  her  own  breast,  Lottie  felt  a  vague 
consciousness  of  clandestine  misdemeanor.  Be-  j 
fore  she  plucked  the  bud,  she  looked  round 
about  her  furtively  and  anxiously,  to  assure 
herself  that  no  human  eye  was  upon  her ;  and 
when  she  was  again  on  the  point  of  entering 
her  father's  house,  she  checked  a  sudden  im- 
pulse to  throw  away  the  stolen  bud,  by  saying 
to  herself, 

"Nonsense,  it  is  only  a  flower,  and  no  one 
will  know  what  it  means." 

Alone  in  the  lighted  drawing-room,  Lottie 
spent  the  next  two  hours  with  her  own  thoughts. 
The  fast,  strong  stream  of  life  seemed  to  be 
carrying  her  onward  very  quickly.  She  had 
seen  and  done  and  felt  so  very  much  since  she 
was  "only  a  school-girl,"  that  whole  years 
seemed  to  lie  between  her  and  her  old  time  at 
Brighton.  In  truth,  not  three  months — barely 
ten  weeks,  to  be  accurate — had  passed  since  she 
learned  lessons  and  took  "reprises"  at  Han- 
over Square  ;  and  already  she  had  been  loved, 
had  fallen  in  love,  and  had  promised  some  day 
or  other  to  be  some  one's  wife.  Ten  weeks ! 
They  must  have  been  ten  years.  And  yet  ev- 
ery incident  of  her  last  hours  at  Brighton,  and 
her  subsequent  life,  was  remembered  by  her 
distinctly,  as  trivial  matters  never  are  remem- 
bered when  they  have  fallen  under  the  mist  of 
much  time.  She  recalled  Eugie  Bridlemere's 
wild  talk  about  brides  and  bridals  in  the  "  long 
room,"  and  how,  when  the  other  girls  had  de- 
clared a  preference  for  this  or  that  kind  of  hus- 
band, she  had  only  blushed,  and  committed  the 
whole  question  to  her  mamma,  and  implored 
the  girls  to  "  let  it  be."  All  that  Miss  Constan- 
tine  had  said  about  the  obligation  of  girls  to  be 
unselfish  in  their  love  affairs  was  remembered  ; 
every  word  of  it  recurred  to  Lottie,  whose  clear 


retrospect  enabled  her  to  see  how  scores  of  in- 
cidents had  helped  her  onward  into  her  love  of 
Albert.  The  "  quite  common  persons  "  in  the 
railway  carriage  had  gossiped  in  her  hearing 
about  Albert,  and  the  reasons  which  the  Bor- 
ingdonshire  girls  had  for  thinking  well  of  him. 
She  had  not  driven  from  the  Owleybury  sta- 
tion before  she  saw  him,  and  heard  her  mother 
praise  him.  Then  came  her  mamma's  speech- 
es, which  had  done  so  much  to  make  marriage 
a  familiar  thought  to  her;  and  then  followed 
Tiny  Marsh's  impudent  boastings  of  her  skill 
in  man-hunting.  And  from  the  time  when  he 
first  greeted  her  under  the  elms  till  only  a  few 
minutes  since,  when  he  kissed  her  forehead, 
Albert  had  been  her  daily  companion,  teaching 
her  to  love  him,  while  all  the  time  she  had  sup- 
posed herself  to  be  regarding  him  as  nothing 
more  than  an  adult  playmate.  It  was  not  won- 
derful that  she  had  traveled  far  away  from 
childish  simplicity  to  womanly  knowledge  in 
those  ten  weeks. 

When  the  clock  pointed  toward  eleven,though 
she  felt  no  inQlination  for  slumber,  Lottie  re- 
tired for  the  night,  in  order  that  she  might  have 
a  necessary  interview  with  her  mamma  under 
the  most  agreeable  circumstances,and  also  avoid 
a  needless,  and  possibly  embarrassing  encount- 
er with  her  papa,  on  that  eventful  night.  So 
Lottie  went  to  bed,  having  first  left  a  sealed  en- 
velope in  a  place  where  she  knew  it  would  catch 
her  mamma's  eye  immediately  she  re-entered 
the  house.  The  epistle  was  brief,  and  to  the 
point ;  it  was  also  sufficiently  explicit,  though 
it  had  neither  date  nor  signature.  "Do  come 
to  me,  dearest,  to-night.  He  has  been  here, 
and  I  am  so  very  happy. "  That  was  the  whole 
of  the  letter. 

Within  two  minutes  of  her  receipt  of  this 
note,  Lady  Darling  was  in  her  child's  room,  and 
Lottie,  sitting  up  in  her  bed,  had  thrown  her 
arms  round  her  mother's  neck. 

"Dear,  dear  mother,"  said  the  girl,  "he  has 
been  here.  He  tol*d  me  you  had  given  him 
leave  to  come  :  and  I  told  him  all  that  he  want- 
ed me  to  tell  him.  I  am  so  very  happy,  moth- 
er. I  find  that  I  have  been  loving  him  for 
days  and  weeks  without  knowing  it.  And  the 
love,  which  sometimes  separates  while  it  joins, 
and  tears  asunder  while  it  binds  together,  will 
not  take  me  from  you.  Dearest,  do  say  that 
you  do  not  love  me  less  because  I  love  him." 

If  Lottie  had  managed  to  say  all  to  him  that 
Albert  wanted  her  to  say,  Mary  Darling  was 
no  less  successful  in  giving  Lottie  all  the  as- 
surances which  were  needful  for  the  completion 
of  the  girl's  happiness.  When  she  left  her 
child  for  the  night,  there  were  two  unspeakably 
joyful  women  in  the  manor-house. 

Trifling  matters  are  apt  to  put  themselves  in 
the  mind  side  by  side  with  grand  affairs ;  and 
as  Lottie  fell  asleep  she  smiled  to  think  how 
she  had  exulted  not  many  hours  before  at  her 
good  fortune  in  carrying  off  the  jeweled  quiver 
— the  first  first  prize  that  she  had  ever  won.  It 
seemed  an  age  since  her  debut  in  the  archers' 


76 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


paddock  at  Owleybury;  and  the  winning  of 
the  quiver  was  so  ridiculously  trivial  a  matter 
for  her  to  have  been  so  delighted  about  it! 
The  victory  of  that  night  had  rendered  all  her 
other  triumphs  insignificant. 

May  we  congratulate  Lottie  on  her  felicity 
without  a  misgiving  ?  Do  the  teachings  of 
this  perplexing  world  justify  us  in  feeling  con- 
fident that  her  happiness  will  endure  for  a  great 
while,  and  yield  no  fruit  of  sorrow?  We  say 
that  grief  endures  for  a  night,  and  that  joy 
comes  in  the  morning ;  and  our  way  of  utter- 
ing the  familiar  words  implies  that  woe  is  the 
parent  of  bliss.  But  does  it  not  as  often  hap- 
pen that  joy  perishes  in  a  night,  and  that  grief 
comes  with  the  dawn  ?  Are  our  delights  less 
fleeting  than  our  sorrows  ?  Does  not  the  glad- 
ness of  an  hour  often  give  birth  to  wretchedness 
which  ends  only  with  the  grave  ?  The  preach- 
er's doctrine  may  be  unpalatable  to  those  who 
exult  in  unstable  felicity,  but  it  has  consolation 
for  those  who  droop  and  weep  beneath  woes 
which  are  no  less  vain  than  our  sweetest  vani- 
ties. The  refrain  of  vanitas  vanitatum  may 
be  mournful  to  the  dwellers  in  life's  sunny 
places,  but  it  is  cheerful  music  to  those  who 
inhabit  the  homes  of  sorrow,  and  are  moving 
painfully  onward  through  the  valley  of  the 
shadow  of  death.  Let  not  this  chapter,  how- 
ever, conclude  with  lugubrious  predictions  for 
Lottie,  of  whose  changeful  fortunes  much  re- 
tnains  to  be  told.  What  will  be,  will  be.  For 
the  present  it  is  enough  to  know  that  she  is 
happy,  and  that  it  really  matters  little  whether 
people  are  joyful  or  wretched  in  this  brief  ex- 
istence, whose  pleasure  and  sorrows  are  alike 
transitory. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

JOHN  GUERDON  HEARS  ABOUT  IT. 

THE  infirmities  of  age  having  disqualified 
him  for  the  pursuit  of  partridges,  and  indeed 
for  any  manlier  exercise  than  that  of  riding  at 
an  easy  pace  on  his  stout  cob,  John  Guerdon 
spent  the  first  of  September  in  his  bank  par- 
lor, doing  the  ornamental  business  of  the  firm, 
whose  affairs  had  of  late  years  fallen  under  the 
despotic  control  of  Mr.  Gimlett  Scrivener.  To 
ordinary  clients  the  senior  partner  of  Guerdon 
&  Scrivener's  Bank  was  a  very  great  man. 
They  were  impressed  profoundly  by  his  white 
waistcoat  and  large  nose,  his  silk  pocket-hand- 
kerchief and  air  of  benign  condescension.  The 
shrewder  and  stronger  men  of  the  Great  Yard 
had,  indeed,  lost  faith  in  his  oracular  utterances 
for  many  a  day,  and  did  not  need  to  be  told 
the  name  of  the  great  man's  master.  But  the 
commonalty  of  small  tradesmen  and  petty 
speculators  still  stood  in  awe  of  him ;  and  to 
console  himself  for  his  exclusion  from  the 
pastime  of  the  day,  John  Guerdon,  sitting  in 
the  large  easy-chair  of  his  private  office,  be- 
haved with  unusual  pomposity  to  the  persons 


who  approached  him  with  requests  that  they 
might  overdraw  their  accounts. 

Not  that  Mr.  Guerdon  had  altogether  drop- 
ped out  of  the  circles  of  sportsmen.  He  had 
taken  out  a  shooting  license,  and  he  meant,  ere 
many  days  had  passed,  to  invite  some  of  his 
neighbors  to  kill  the  Earl's  Court  partridges, 
while  he  watched  their  proceedings  from  the 
back  of  his  pony,  and  occasionally  fired  a  bar- 
rel in  the  direction  indicated  by  a  game-keep- 
er, at  objects  which  his  dim  vision  could  not 
perfectly  see.  In  courteous  remembrance  of 
old  times,  and  in  consideration  of  their  privi- 
lege of  walking  over  his  stubbles,  two  or  three 
of  his  younger  and  more  stalwart  comrades 
had,  also,  asked  him  to  "  go  out  with  them  on 
the  first."  But  John  Guerdon,  fully  alive  to 
his  physical  failings,  had  prudently  declined 
their  invitations,  and  arranged  to  dine  at  the 
Hammerhampton  club  with  his  old  chum,  Ned 
Barlow. 

One  of  the  Beech  Court  Barlows,  and  second 
cousin  to  the  present  squire,  Edward  Barlow, 
had  a  coal-mine,  and  shares  in  more  than  one 
thriving  concern  of  the  Hammerhampton  dis- 
trict. Like  all  prosperous  Englishmen  of  the 
stupid  sort,  who  have  some  slight  color  of  an- 
cestral gentility,  John  Guerdon  rendered  ex- 
cessive homage  to  blood  ;  and  he  consequently 
valued  his  friend  for  being  a  Barlow  of  Beech 
Court  even  more  than  he  respected  him  for  be- 
ing rich,  and  able  to  stow  away  his  two  bottles 
of  port  per  diem  without  discomfort.  Mr.  Bar- 
low also  stood  high  in  the  banker's  esteem  as  a 
rare  teller  of  a  good  story.  As  Mr.  Barlow's 
repartees  and  choicest  anecdotes  would  suffer 
from,  repetition,  and  offend  the  taste  of  polite 
drawing-rooms,  specimens  of  them  shall  not  be 
given  on  this  page.  It  is  enough  to  say  that 
they  all  possessed  certain  broad  and  pungent 
characteristics,  which  proved  the  gentleman  to 
be  "one  of  an  old  school"  of  humorists. 

At  the  Hammerhampton  club,  John  Guerdon 
and  Ned  Barlow  were  allowed  to  take  liberties. 
The  sole  survivors  of  the  original  founders  of 
the  House,  they  were  practically  irremovable 
members  of  the  committee,  and  had  the  cellar 
pretty  well  in  their  own  hands.  At  least  once 
in  three  weeks  it  was  their  custom  to  dine  at 
the  club  in  a  little  private  room,  and  by  excess- 
ive indulgence  in  port-wine  preserve  themselves 
in  an  interesting  condition  of  chronic  gout. 

For  more  than  a  week  John  Guerdon  had 
looked  forward  to  meeting  his  boon-companion 
at  the  club  for  "a  dinner  and  a  set-to"  on  the 
first  of  September.  But  his  pleasant  antici- 
pations were  inadequately  realized.  For  the 
friends  had  scarcely  dispatched  their  soup  and 
"  bit  of  fish,"  when  Ned  Barlow  began  to  banter 
the  banker  about  Albert's  assiduous  attentions 
to  Miss  Darling  of  Arleigh.  His  eldest  grand- 
daughter having  been  one  of  the  eleven  ladies 
defeated  by  Lottie  on  the  previous  day,  Mr. 
Barlow  had  heard  the  whole  story  of  Miss  Dar- 
ling's victory  at  the  butts,  and  of  her  grateful 
transference  of  the  honors  of  her  triumph  to 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


77 


the  young  man  who  had  come  over  to  Arleigh, 
morning  after  morning,  to  instruct  her  in  the 
use  of  the  bow.  Of  course  the  affair  was  com- 
mon gossip  in  the  neighborhood ;  but  John 
Guerdon,  though  ranking  as  one  of  "the  neigh- 
borhood "  of  Owleybury,  had  not  heard  any 
thing  of  his  son's  now  notorious  doings  at  Ar- 
leigh, when  they  were  disclosed  to  him  by  Ned 
Barlow,  with  an  abundance  of  jocular  exagger- 
ation. 

As  John  Guerdon  listened,  he  drank  his 
wine  faster,  and  his  black  eyebrows  exhibited 
his*excitement  by  ominous  twitchings. 

"  Humph !"  growled  the  nettled  father,  "  the 
world  appears  to  know  much  more  of  my  boy's 
affairs  than  he  condescends  to  tell  me  about 
them." 

The  topic  being  obviously  offensive  to  his 
friend,  it  may  appear  strange  to  some  readers 
that  so  "  good  a  fellow  "  as  old  Ned  Barlow  did 
not  replace  it  with  a  more  agreeable  subject. 
But  it  was  the  rule  of  "the  old  school,"  which 
Mr.  Barlow  adorned,  to  hit  a  man  again,  if  he 
winced  under  a  conversational  thrust,  and  to 
show  cleverness  by  striking  him  precisely  on 
the  point  covered  by  the  former  blow.  No 
talker  could  surpass  Mr.  Barlow  in  the  rough 
play  which,  under  the  color  of  good-fellowship, 
accomplishes  every  thing  that  small  spite  de- 
lights to  effect.  And  on  the  present  occasion 
he  excelled  himself.  ^ 

"You  don't  like  the  thought  of  such  a 
match,  eh,  Guerdon  ?''  inquired  the  tormentor. 

"What  match?  I  don't  know  any,"  re- 
sponded the  victim,  twitching  his  black  brows 
in  answer  to  the  stab. 

"Well,  old  friend,  of  course  there  is  not 
much  money ;  but  there  is  nothing  else  to  be 
said  against  the  young  lady,  who  comes  of  a 
good  stock,'  has  been  trained  carefully,  and  is 
about  as  pretty  a  girl  as  can  be  found  between 
this  place  and  Brighton  pier." 

"I  have  not  said  any  thing  against  the 
young  lady ;  though  I  may  not  think  overwell 
of  her,"  growled  the  victim,  "if  she  and  her 
people  have  been  throwing  bait  to  catch  my 
youngster,  without  consulting  me." 

"As  to  consulting  you,  John  Guerdon,"  re- 
joined the  old  friend,  \\ith  the  malice  of  which 
only  old  friends  are  capable,  "  it  does  not  strike 
me  that  Sir  James  Darling  was  bound  to  talk 
to  you  about  the  matter  till  you  mentioned  it 
to  him.  As  the  young  man's  father,  it  falls  to 
you  to  open  the  discussion,  if  either  of  you 
should  speak  before  you  are  spoken  to  by  the 
young  people  themselves.  For  my  part,  I 
think  that  fathers  can't  say  too  little  about 
their  children's  love  affairs." 

"Indeed!  That  may  be  good  doctrine  for 
a  man  whose  children  have  pleased  themselves 
in  marrying,  as  well  as  in  other  matters,"  re- 
torted John  Guerdon,  showing  fight,  as  he 
pointed  thus  bluntly  to  his  friend's  domestic 
troubles.  "But  as  my  boy  is  my  only  child, 
and  has  been  trained  to  respect  his  father,  I 
expect  to  have  a  voice  in  his  arrangements. 


At  least,  if  he  does  not  allow  me  a  word  in 
them,  he  may  not  be  surprised  if  I  pull  my 
purse  strings  tight." 

"Anyhow,  he  is  old  enough  to  be  his  own 
master ;  and,  if  he  has  shown  more  good  taste 
than  prudence  in  running  after  Miss  Darling,  I 
don't  see  that  Sir  James  is  in  fault.  It  is  only 
reasonable  to- suppose  that  he  thinks  you  able 
to  take  care  of  yourself  without  his  assistance. 
Of  course  he  never  imagined  that  you  were  ig- 
norant of  Albert's  daily  visits  to  Arleigh." 

"Who  says  the  visits  have  been  daily?" 

"Every  body.  Bless  you,  my  boy,  all  the 
women  within  ten  miles  of  Owleybury  are  talk- 
ing about  the  Arleigh  butts  and  Miss  Lottie's 
teacher." 

"  What  may  be  said  by  chattering  women  is 
nothing  to  me,"  John  Guerdon  rejoined,  hotly. 
"I'll  hold  my  tongue  till  my  son  condescends 
to  take  me  into  his  confidence.  And  in  the 
mean  time,  Ned,  I  think  we  had  better  drink 
our  wine,  and  leave  his  affairs  alone.  Anyhow. 
you  needn't  bother  yourself  about  them.  Ho 
isn't  your  son." 

"  I  should  wish  he  was,"  responded  Mr.  Bar- 
low, who  saw  that  he  had  gone  rather  too  far 
in  amusing  himself  at  his  old  chum's  expense, 
"if  I  hadn't  sons  enough  of  my  own,  for  he 
is  a  very  pleasant,  gentleman-like  youngster. 
There  is  not  a  likelier  lad  in  our  part  of  Bor- 
ingdonshire." 

Appeased  by  this  tribute  to  his  paternal  pride, 
John  Guerdon  said, 

"  He  is  a  good  enough  boy,  and  up  to  this 
point  has  never  disappointed  me  in  any  thing. 
Shall  we  have  a  bottle  of  the  'yellow-seal,'  to 
begin  with  after  dinner  ?" 

Dropping  the  disagreeable  topic,  Mr.  Bar- 
low, during  the  rest  of  the  dinner,  exerted  him- 
self to  restore  his  friend  to  good  humor;  but, 
though  John  Guerdon's  resentment  against  his 
boon-companion  subsided,  he  could  not  relish 
the  flavor  of  the  "yellow-seal;"  and  when  1m 
had  taken,  without  contentment,  his  full  share 
of  three  bottles,  he  declined  to  join  his  comrade 
in  drinking  a  fourth.  The  disturbing  intelli- 
gence had  decided  him  to  have  an  explanation 
with  Albert.  Instead  of  sleeping  at  the  bank, 
as  he  was  wont  to  do  after  his  club  dinners,  he 
would  catch  the  last  train  for  Owleybury,  and 
drive  from  the  cathedral  down  to  Earl's  Court 
in  a  fly.  He  should  by  that  way  reach  his  house 
before  midnight ;  and.  if  his  son  were  at  home, 
he  would  speak  to  him  before  they  went  to  rest. 
Old  Ned  Barlow  pleaded  cogently  for  a  fourth 
bottle  of  "yellow-seal,"  but  the  banker  was  ob- 
stinate, and  went  off  for  the  late  train. 

On  the  way  to  Owleybury,  Mr.  Guerdon  de- 
cided on  the  course  which  he  would  take,  under 
each  of  several  contingencies.  But,  though  he 
prepared  himself  for  half  a  dozen  possible  posi- 
tions, it  never  occurred  to  the  father  that  Albert 
was  already  Miss  Darling's  accepted  suitor. 
That  his  son  had  been  too  much  at  Arleigh 
Manor  ;  that  he  was  in  danger  of  fixing  his  af- 
fections on  the  judge's  daughter;  that  he  had 


78 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


even  fallen  in  love  with  her — John  Guerdon 
could  believe.  But  that,  in  defiance  of  a  pa- 
ternal warning,  so  well  principled  a  boy  should 
have  actually  offered  his  hand  to  the  young  lady, 
was  a  thing  too  monstrous  and  incredible  for  the 
banker's  unimaginative  mind  to  place  it  among 
the  possibilities  of  the.  case. 

Had  Albert  been  at  home  when  his  sire  ar- 
rived at  the  door  of  his  country  house,  it  is 
probable  that  the  two  would  have  had  a  painful 
and  stormy  altercation ;  and  that  in  the  heats 
of  discussion  John  Guerdon  would  either  have 
conceived  an  implacable  hostility  against  Lot- 
tie, or  have  given  utterance  to  an  intemperate 
speech  which  would  have  separated  him  from 
his  §on  forever.  It  was  fortunate  for  both  of 
them  that  Albert  was  enjoying  his  recent  tri- 
umph in  solitude  and  the  open  air,  at  a  distance 
of  several  miles  from  Earl's  Court. 

On  hearing  of  his  son's  absence  from  the 
court,  Mr.  Guerdon  grunted  half  a  dozen  times 
snappishly,  and  went  off  to  bed,  comforting  him- 
self with  the  reflection  that  to-morrow  would 
afford  him  an  opportunity  for  giving  the  boy  "  a 
bit  of  his  mind." 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

A  ROARING   CHAPTER. 

AT  all  times  a  great  and  heavy  sleeper,  when 
he  was  not  suffering  from  a  paroxysm  of  the 
gout,  John  Guerdon  did  not  wake  early  on  the 
second  of  September ;  and  when  he  at  length 
entered  his  breakfast  parlor,  he  found  Albert  in 
the  act  of  finishing  his  morning  meal.  It  was 
not  their  custom  to  wait  for  one  another  at 
breakfast.  Each  of  the  men  had  his  separate 
tea-pot;  and  the  son  had  been  told  expressly 
that,  by  delaying  his  own  breakfast  till  his  fa- 
ther should  appear,  he  offered  no  mark  of  filial 
respect  that  was  either  required  or  desired  from 
him.  But  entering  the  room  in  a  quarrelsome 
humor,  and  seeing  no  other  pretext  for  adopting 
a  tone  of  grievance,  the  banker,  after  nodding 
sulkily  to  his  heir,  said, 

"  Humph !  then  you  have  not'had  the  civility 
to  wait  for  me?" 

Instead  of  arguing  the  case,  and  offering  the 
obvious  reply  to  the  charge  of  incivility,  Albert, 
who  managed  his  father  almost  as  cleverly  as 
he  had  managed  Lottie,  replied,  with  concilia- 
tory heartiness, 

"I  would  have  waited  for  you,  sir,  had  I 
thought  it  probable  that  you  would  be  down  by 
this  time.  You  came  home  from  Hammer- 
hampton  so  late  last  night  that  I  gave  you  yet 
another  hour  for  your  bedroom." 

Having  received  this  dutiful  speech  in  silence, 
John  Guerdon  relieved  his  very  unusual  irrita- 
bility by  assailing  his  man-servant.  The  man 
was  told  that  the  eggs  were  not  so  fresh  as  they 
ought  to  be,  and  that  the  tea  was  slop. 

"Go  and  tell  those  people  in  the  kitchen," 
the  master  exclaimed,  setting  the  water  an  ex- 


ample in  the  art  of  boiling  over,  "that,  if  they 
won't  see  that  the  water  boils  before  they  pour 
it  on  the  leaves,  they  may  look  out  for  a  master 
who  has  a  liking  for  slops.  Here,  take  the 
beastly  stuff  away,  and  bring  me  a  pot  that's  fit 
to  drink.  Now  be  quick !" 

Having  thus  petulantly  dismissed  the  butler, 
who,  after  a  lapse  of  three  minutes,  placed  the 
same  tea-pot  and  the  same  infusion  of  the  Chi- 
nese leaf  before  his  employer,  John  Guerdon 
unfolded  a  London  paper  of  the  previous  even- 
ing, and  proceeded  to  glance  at  its  money  arti- 
cle. 

Thinking  that  it  would  be  best  for  him  to 
leave  his  father  alone,  and  give  him  time  to 
compose  himself,  Albert  rose  from  his  chair, 
and  was  walking  to  the  door  of  the  breakfast 
parlor,  when  he  was  arrested  by  his  father  say- 
ing, 

"I  am  going  to  Hammerhampton  by  the 
twelve  o'clock  train,  and  I  wish  to  have  a 
word  or  two  with  you,  after  my  breakfast,  be- 
fore I  start." 

"By  all  means,  sir,"  returned  Albert,  look- 
ing at  his  watch.  "It  is  now  half-past  nine ; 
shall  I  meet  you  in  the  library  at  half -past 
ten  ?" 

"  Yes,  that  will  do.  No,  make  it  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  earlier ;  for  I  might  miss  my  train, 
and  I  may  have  a  good  deal  to  say  to  you.  Be 
in  the  library  "at  a  quarter-past  ten." 

From  his  father's  testiness,  and  the  ominous 
twitching  of  his  dark,  beetling  eyebrows,  Albert 
saw  that  a  storm  was  brewing  for  him,  while  the 
tea  was  brewing  for  his  sire.  It  was  clear  to 
him  that  something  of  his  recent  doings  at  Ar- 
leigh  had  come  to  his  father's  ears  ;  and  that, 
when  the  storm  burst,  it  would  hurl  at  him  an 
order  to  start  at  once  for  a  certain  villa  on  the 
Menai  Straits,  unless  he  took  the  bull  by  the 
horns,  and  anticipated  the  command  by  show- 
ing that  circumstances  precluded  him  from  pay- 
ing his  addresses  to  Blanche  Heathcote. 

While  he  spent  the  next  half-hour  pacing  to 
and  fro  on  the  terraces  of  the  Earl's  Court  gar- 
den, Albert  saw  that  he  would  do  well  to  have 
the  first  word  in  the  library.  By  allowing  his 
father  to  open  the  discussion,  he  would  only 
allow  him  to  take  up  a  position  from  which 
it  would  be  necessary  to  drive  him  before  the 
real  battle  could  be  begun. 

On  entering  the  library  at  the  appointed  time, 
Albert  saw  that  his  father  was  already  there, 
sitting  in  his  easy -chair,  and  surrounded  by 
many  hundreds  of  gorgeously  bound  volumes, 
which  their  owner  had  never  opened.  Hav- 
ing closed  the  door  behind  him,  the  young  man 
opened  the  game  by  saying, 

"I  also,  father,  want  to  speak  to  you  about 
my  relations  with  a  young  lady  whom  I  hope 
ere  long  to  make  my  wife." 

"Indeed!  eh!  your  wife?"  ejaculated  the 
senior,  instantly  turning  scarlet  in  the  face,  as 
he  fidgeted  about  in  his  chair.  Having  thrown 
off  a  little  steam  with  those  utterances,  the 
banker,  making  a  violent  effort  to  appear  calm, 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


while  his  long  fingers  twitched  with  excitement, 
remarked,  "  I'll  listen  to  what  you  have  to  say; 
hut  mind  me  first — just  a  word  or  two  from 
me  first — let  us  understand  our  positions.  In 
another  day  or  two  your  mother's  trustees  will 
pay  you  the  £5000  now  lying  in  the  Consols, 
and  up  to  that  amount  you'll  be  independent 
of  me  ;  but  otherwise  it  depends  on  me  wheth- 
er your  '  expectations '  are  satisfied.  I  am  mas- 
ter of  my  own  property,  and  it  is  a  rule  of  Prov- 
idence that  every  man  may  do  what  he  likes 
with  his  own.  My  money  is  my  own ;  my  share 
in  the  bank  is  my  own  ;  Eai'l's  Court  is  my  own ; 
and,  if  you  venture  to  marry  a  girl  whom  I  re- 
fuse to  acknowledge  as  a  daughter,  you  shaVt 
have  a  share  in  my  bank,  nor  a  shilling  of  my 
money,  nor  a  single  acre  of  my  land.  There,  I 
am  frank  with  you.  And  now,  what  have  you 
to  say?" 

"That  I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  you  say  so, 
sir,  for  I  am  in  love  with  a  young  lady  whose 
fortune  (I  really  do  not  know  what  it  is)  may 
perhaps  appear  to  you  insufficient.  On  no  oth- 
er score  can  you  object  to  her.  I  am  in  love 
with  Lottie  Darling." 

"Pooh!  pooh!  then  get  out  of  love  with 
her  as  soon  as  you  have  written  the  proper 
amount  of  poetry  to  her  eyebrows.  Don't 
blame  me  for  being  hard,  because  you  have 
run  your  head  against  the  very  post  that  I 
warned  you  from.  I  ordered  you,  sir,  not  to 
flirt  with  her,  and  yet  I  hear  you  have  been 
flirting  with  her  every  morning  for  the  last 
two  months,  under  my  very  nose,  without  let- 
ting me  have  a  suspicion  of  your  disobedience. 
Well,  boys  will  be  boys,  and  I  am  not  going 
to  say  any  thing  about  your  contempt  for  your 
father's  express  orders.  But  if  I  overlook  your 
disobedience,  you  mustn't  talk  any  nonsense  to 
me  about  love  and  fiddlesticks.  Pooh !  I  am 
a  business  man,  sir,  and  I  can't  spare  time  to 
listen  to  trash  of  that  sort.  Now  take  your 
orders ;  be  off  to  Wales  this  very  afternoon — 
pack  your  traps,  and  be  off.  You  know  what 
I  mean.  If  you  want  money,  call  at  the  bank 
as  you  go.  No,  that  will  be  out  of  your  way. 
Hammerhampton  is  not  on  the  road  to  Wales. 
I  have  some  notes  in  my  pocket,  if  you  want 
them." 

"Thank  you,  sir,  I  don't  want  them." 

"Well,  then,  be  off,  and  don't  let  me  see 
you  when  I  return  from  business." 

"Sir,  I  shrink  from  offending  you,  but  I  can 
not  comply  with  your  request." 

"You  refuse  to  go  to  Wales?"  asked  the 
father,  raising  his  face. 

"I  must  decline  to  call  on  Miss  Heathcote." 

"That  means,  you  won't  marry  her?" 

"It  does,  for  I  am  engaged  to  Miss  Dar- 
ling." 

Turning  purple  with  fury  at  the  stupendous 
announcement,  John  Guerdon  rose  from  his 
chair,  and  screamed  at  his  heir, 

"What!  what!  engaged!  Did  you  dare  to 
say  *  engaged  ?' " 

"Yes;  sir,"  Albert  answered,  quietly,  and  with 


perfect  self-possession;  "I  made  my  offer  to 
her  last  night,  and  she  accepted  me." 

"  Then,  confound  youK'  exclaimed  the  fa- 
ther, using,  however,  a  shorter  and  more  forci- 
ble word  than  "  confound  "  to  point  the  choicest 
periods  of  a  speech  which  he  roared  out  scream- 
ingly, "for  an  impudent,  unnatural,  false-heart- 
ed young  rascal !  Confound  you,  sir !  Do  you 
hear  me  ?  Confound  you,  I  say !  Confound 
you  for  an  ungrateful,  treacherous,  smooth- 
tongued reprobate !  You  have  dared  to  dis- 
obey my  orders  under  my  very  nose,  and  to 
sit  chuckling  over  the  knowledge  of  your  abom- 
inable conduct,  while  you  kept  on,  speaking 
me  fair,  and  playing  the  part  of  a  dutiful  son! 
You're  a  confounded  hypocrite,  sir — a  black, 
poisonous,  confounded  hypocrite,  sir !  I'll  make 
no  terms  with  you.  Go — go  out  of  my  house ! 
— out  at  once,  if  you  don't  wish  to  carry  a  fa- 
ther's curse  with  you!" 

John  Guerdon  sincerely  believed  that,  if  he 
cursed  his  rebellious  offspring,  the  consequences 
of  the  anathema  would  be  awful.  Therefore, 
even  in  the  madness  of  his  rage,  he  forbore  to 
utter  the  awful  malediction  that  would  pursue 
its  object  to  the  grave.  True,  he  had  con- 
founded him  several  times,  and  meant  to  con- 
found him  again,  with  frequent  reiterations  of 
a  vulgar  monosyllable  ;  but  he  had  not  yet  said, 
with  withering  accents,  "  My  curse ! — a  father's 
curse  be  upon  you!"  The  banker  had  heard 
many  a  son  cursed  in  these  terms  on  the  stage  ; 
and  he  knew  a  father  in  private  life  who  had 
repudiated  his  first-born  with  the  same  mystic 
form,  and  blasted  him  so  effectually  that  the 
young  man  died  of  delirium  tremens  within  a 
twelvemonth.  Differing  vastly  from  the  tragic 
"curse,"  the  vulgar  monosyllables  might  be 
hurled  at  any  offender  any  number  of  times, 
without  serious  injury  to  his  health  and  gen- 
eral welfare. 

The  storm  had  burst,  and  for  a  time  it  raged 
furiously.  It  was  fortunate  that  its  most  ter- 
rifying fierceness  expended  itself  in  angry 
denunciations  of  all  wicked  sons,  and  that,  in 
his  wrath,  the  stormer  made  no  insulting  refer- 
ence either  to  Lottie  or  her  parents.  In  this 
respect  he  might  have  been  less  temperate  had 
not  Ned  Barlow  shown  him  that  it  was  not  Sir 
James  Darling's  business  to  prevent  his  daugh- 
ter from  getting  a  better  offer  than  her  future 
father-in-law  desired  for  her.  Anyhow,  the 
furious  and  screaming  gentleman  forbore  to 
apply  to  Lottie's  papa  and  mamma  the  terms 
of  disapproval  in  which  he  might  with  some 
justice  have  spoken  of  them,  had  Albert  been 
a  sixteen-years-old  stripling,  instead  of  a  young 
man  who  had  completed  his  twenty-fifth  year, 
and  had  long  been  his  own  master  in  foreign 
capitals.  So  far  as  the  Darlings  were  concern- 
ed, Mr.  Guerdon  evinced  a  moderation  which 
was  consistent  with  the  general  decency  of  the 
domestic  tyrant,  who,  though  an  arrant  bully 
and  blusterer  under  provocation,  had  too  much 
self-respect  to  slander  a  worthy  neighbor,  or  as- 
perse gentlewomen  with  suggestions  of  dishonor. 


80 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


And  while  the  storm  raged,  Albert  Guerdon, 
prudently  bending  his  head  toward  it,  said  noth- 
ing to  exasperate  the  -anger  which  it  was  his  ob- 
ject to  mitigate. 

Upon  the  whole,  the  elder  Mr.  Guerdon  raged 
dramatically,  and  in  a  style  not  unworthy  of 
his  intelligence.  He  scolded  with  the  extrav- 
agant piquancy  of  the  almost  extinct  school  of 
elderly  gentlemen  who  used  to  run  up  to 
"  Lunnon  "  at  the  "  monsous  "  speed  of  ten 
miles  an  hour.  His  mention  of  his  gray  hairs, 
and  the  grave  to  which  sorrow  would  speedily 
bring  them,  was,  in  the  highest  degree,  pathetic. 
But  irascible  orators  are  apt  to  spoil  the  effect 
of  their  strongest  points  by  following  them,  up 
with  ludicrously  weak  admissions.  It  was  so 
on  the  present  occasion  with  the  master  of 
Earl's  Court.  Having  uttered  many  strong 
things,  and  risen  to  a  sublime  height,  when,  fur 
the  tenth  time,  he  held  the  utterable,  but  un- 
uttered,  paternal  curse  in  terrorem  over  the 
dauntless  Albert,  he  sank  into  comical  bathos 
by  wondering  "what  the  deuce  Scrivener  would 
say  to  it  all." 

From  the  moment  of  this  absurd  utterance, 
the  game  passed  into  Albert's  hands.  Had  it 
been  John  Guerdon's  purpose — which  it  cer- 
tainly was  not — to  give  his  son  an  opportunity 
for  .winning  an  easy  victory,  he  could  have  done 
nothing  more  conducive  to  his  end  than  this 
inopportune  and  ridiculous  mention  of  his  part- 
ner. 

Not  altogether  devoid  of  his  father's  warmth 
of  temper,  Albert  could  sometimes  boil  over 
with  indignation.  And  though  he  was  capable 
of  enduring  patiently  almost  any  provocation 
from  his  father  which  had  no  savor  of  disre- 
spect for  Lottie,  the  young  man  fired  at  the 
suggestion  that  he  owed  obedience  to  Gimlett 
Scrivener,  a  man  whom  he  suspected  and  dis- 
liked. 

"Scrivener!"  he  ejaculated,  firing  up  in  the 
paternal  manner. 

"Ay,  Scrivener — my  partner,"  returned  the 
father,  improving  Albert's  position  for  an  ener- 
getic reply.  "  He  has  always  set  his  heart  on 
a  match  between  you  and  Blanche  Heathcote : 
it  was  his  notion,  in  the  first  instance.  And, 
ten  weeks  since,  when  you  bamboozled  me  into 
thinking  you  liked  the  scheme,  I  told  Scrivener 
that  all  would  go  pleasantly." 

Whereupon,  standing  well  on  his  pins,  and 
looking  his  father  full  in  the  face,  with  fire 
flashing  from  his  black  eyes,  Albert  "  let  fly" 
— not  at  his  sire,  but  at  the  absent  Scrivener. 

"  Scrivener !— his  impudence  !"  cried  Albert, 
uttering  the  vulgar  monosyllable  with  such  a 
vehement  emphasis  that  it  would  be  unfair  to 
the  absent  ejaculation  to  substitute  "confound" 
for  it.  "  How  dare  he  interfere  in  my  most 
private  affairs,  and  presume  to  dictate  to  me 
whom  I  shall  marry  ?  Sir,  that  man  was  your 
clerk  before  he  was  your  partner;  and  has  he 
now  the  prodigious  insolence  to  command  you 
on  the  most  sacred  matters?  Is  the  former 
servant  so  forgetful  of  what  is  due  to  his  bene- 


factor that  he  can  presume  to  order  you  how 
to  exercise  your  authority  over  your  only  child  ? 
Oh !  father,  I  don't  say  respect  me  too  highly 
to  think  me  a  fit  pawn  for  Mr.  Scrivener  to  play 
with,  but  I  do  beg,  sir,  that  you  will  respect 
yourself  enough  to  forbid  that  upstart  to  offer 
you  indignities.  Anyhow,  I  will  tell  the  man 
my  mind  when  I  see  him  in  Hammerhampton 
this  afternoon." 

"Don't  say  any  thing  rash  to  Scrivener,"  in- 
terposed the  father  quickly,  with  a  voice  that 
quavered  even  while  it  aimed  at  commanding. 
"  If  you  make  him  your  enemy,  you  will  have 
a  dangerous  enemy." 

"Pooh  !  a  fig  for  the  danger!"  cried  Albert, 
the  wrath  of  his  countenance  suddenly  passing 
from  the  crimson  to  the  pallid  stage.  "If 
there's  danger,  so  much  .the  better.  I'll  make 
him  my  enemy  this  very  day,  and  know  the 
worst  as  soon  as  possible.  It  is  right  that  we 
should  understand  one  another  before  we  be- 
come partners.  It  is  needful  he  should  know 
that,  when  I  am  his  partner,  he  will  find  me  a 
man  with  whom  he  may  not  presume  to  take 
liberties.  The  man  dared  to  make  up  a  match 
for  me — did  he  ?  By  heavens,  if  he  does  not 
make  me  proper  apology  for  his  insolence,  I'll 
horsewhip  him  this  very  afternoon." 

John  Guerdon  was  so  veritable  a  bully  that, 
had  Albert  stormed  at  him  in  this  style,  instead 
of  only  storming  before  him  at  the  absent  Scriv- 
ener, he  would  have  been  cowed  by  his  boy's 
superior  vehemence  and  loudness,  and  would 
have  sobered  quickly  down  into  a  state  of  sub- 
missiveness.  But  he  would  also  have  conceived 
resentment  against  the  son  who  had  beaten  him 
with  his  own  weapons.  As  it  was,  Albert's 
noisy  wrath  gave  him  advantage  over  his  sire, 
without  wounding  the  old  man's  sensitive  self- 
love.  He  admired  the  flashing  eyes  and  ter- 
rifying violence  of  the  young  man,  whom  he 
had  never  before  seen  in  a  passion.  Moreover, 
he  saw  that  Albert  meant  to  do,  and  had  the 
courage  to  do,  what  he  said ;  that  he  was  no 
bellowing  bullock,  but  a  very  lion,  whose  bite 
would  on  an  emergency  fulfill  all  the  promise 
of  his  roar.  There  was  pluck  in  his  attitude, 
and  impetuous  intonations,  and  livid  face.  And 
the  father,  who  had  long  writhed  in  impotent 
petulance  under  a  sense  of  his  ignominious 
subjugation  to  his  partner,  was  delighted  to  see 
that  his  youngster,  on  coming  into  the  bank, 
would  be  a  match  for  Gimlett  Scrivener,  and 
in  divers  ways  strengthen  the  hands  of  the  sen- 
ior partner. 

The  young  man's  outburst  of  anger  having 
thus  created  in  his  father's  mind  a  favorable 
diversion  of  feeling,  he  was  still  further  assist- 
ed to  victory  by  an  incident  which  he  might 
have  anticipated,  though  it  surprised  him. 
Like  most  aging  sufferers  from  chronic  gout, 
John  Guerdon  had  a  heart  that  would  not  have 
won  the  confidence  of  a  Life  Assurance  Office. 
It  often  played  him  terrifying  and  painful  tricks. 
Its  most  frequent  misdemeanor  was  to  cease 
beating  for  a  few  moments,  until  the  banker 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


81 


had  turned  giddy  .and,  qualmish,  and,  stagger- 
ing to  a  chair,  had  called  faintly  for  brandy. 
But  sometimes  the  failing  heart  declined  to 
resume  its  functions  until  the  patient  had  al- 
together lost  consciousness.  On  the  present 
occasion,  misconducting  itself,  not  without  prov- 
ocation, the  organ  ceased  to  pulsate  ;  and  John 
Guerdon,  gasping  for  hard  life,  dropped  into  his 
chair,  with  pallor  and  pain  in  his  countenance. 
He  did  not  "go  off"  altogether,  but  he  almost 
fainted. 

In  a  trice  Albert  threw  open  the  windows, 
and  admitted  fresh  air  into  the  library  from 
the  garden.  In  less  than  a  minute,  without 
alarming  a  single  servant,  he  had  procured  bran- 
dy and  water  from  the  dining-room,  and  mixed 
a  strong  dose  of  the  needful  stimulant  for  the 
invalid.  All  of  a  sudden  Albert  became  very 
gentle,  almost  womanly  in  his  tenderness  of 
demeanor.  He  knelt  on  one  knee  by  his  fa- 
ther, and  raised  the  tumbler  of  brandy-and- 
water  to  his  lips.  When  John  Guerdon  had 
nearly  emptied  the  glass,  and,  reclining  again 
in  his  chair,  had  closed  his  eyes,  Albert  left  him 
for  three  minutes,  while  quiet  assisted  the  drink 
to  work  a  cure.  But,  though  Albert  retired 
from  the  library  from  fear  that  his  presence  in 
the  room  might  retard  his  father's  recovery  by 
occasioning  him  hurtful  unrest,  he  kept  his  pa- 
tient in  sight.  Passing  into  the  garden  by  one 
of  the  recently  opened  windows,  he  stood  at  a 
point  where  he  could  watch  the  veteran's  white 
head,  and  hear  his  faintest  cry. 

A  few  minutes  later,  on  "coming  round," 
John  Guerdon  was  delicately  touched  by  the 
sympathetic  gentleness  of  his  boy,  who  again — 
not  because  it  was  a  picturesque  and  dramatic 
posture,  but  simply  because  it  was  the  most 
convenient  attitude  for  his  purpose — knelt  on 
his  right  knee  and  looked  anxiously  into  his 
father's  eyes. 

"Not  gone  this  time,  Alb,"  said  the  veteran, 
in  his  kindest  fashion. 

"By  heavens,  sir,"  returned  the  son,  "if  it 
had  been  a  serious  attack,  I  should  not  have 
forgiven  myself!  I  am  prodigiously  sorry  to 
have  excited  you  so  much." 

"  Tut,  tut,  Alb !  no  apologies.  There,  there, 
wait  a  minute.  I  can't  talk  quite  yet." 

"  We'll  talk  no  more  this  morning,  sir,  about 
Miss  Darling." 

"  Yes,  we  will — in  a  minute." 

The  father  was  defeated,  and  he  was  glad 
to  know  it.  The  faintness  had  reminded  him 
opportunelly  of  the  weakness  of  the  tenure 
by  which  he  held  his  possessions  and  life. 
Who  was  he  that  he  should  threaten  to  curse 
his  own  son  ? — he,  an  old  man,  who  might  at 
any  moment  be  in  the  next  world,  imploring 
the  Father  of  all  fathers  to  forgive  him  for  his 
innumerable  sins  ?  No,  he  could  not  quarrel 
with  the  only  flesh  and  blood  in  the  whole 
world  that  had  proceeded  from  his  loins.  Af- 
ter all,  the  boy  had  done  no  wrong.  He  had 
only  given  his  young  heart  and  hopeful  life  to 
the  lovely  girl  who  had  cried  so  prettily  on  see- 
6 


ing  her  mother  at  the  railway  station.  It  oc- 
|  curred  to  John  Guerdon  how  he  loved  the  boy's 
mother,  whom  he  married  in  despite  of  his  fa- 
ther's dissuasions ;  and  he  remembered  that 
their  wedded  life  had  been  the  brightest  and 
freshest  part  of  his  existence.  Though  he 
prized  money  at  its  full  worth,  he  always  con- 
gratulated himself  on  having  had  enough  firm- 
ness to  resist  the  father  who  tried  to  impose 
upon  him  a  richer  bride.  What  should  he  gain, 
and  how  much  should  he  lose,  from  a  conflict 
with  his  son  on  a  point  respecting  which  a  man 
ought  to  be  allowed  to  please  himself?  So, 
drawn  toward  the  unselfish  course  by  his  sel- 
fishness, as  well  as  by  natural  affection,  John 
Guerdon  yielded,  and  determined  to  avoid  a 
contest  in  which  his  years,  and  weakness,  and 
paternal  impulses  would  fight  against  him.  The 
brandy  may  perhaps  have  helped  to  bring  him 
to  the  right  decision,  for  strong  drink  was  apt 
to  stir  his  benevolence,  and  Albert  had  mixed 
a  stiff  tumbler. 

"  Father,"  said  Albert,  with  simple  truth  and 
fervor,  "I  have  never  disobeyed  you  before  in 
the  whole  course  of  my  life,  and,  so  may  God 
help  me  in  this  world  and  pardon  me  in  the 
next,  I  will  never  disobey  you  in  any  other 
matter  than  this  choice  of  a  wife.  Lottie  must 
be  my  bride.  She  is  my  bride  already.  We 
have  plighted  our  troth." 

"And  you  sha'n't  be  a  disobedient  boy  in 
this  business,"  responded  John  Guerdon,  rising 
from  his  chair  on  the  return  of  his  usual  energy, 
and,  like  a  sensible  man,  giving  in  completely 
and  at  once,  since  he  had  resolved  to  give  in 
eventually,  "  for  I  give  you  my  leave  to  marry 
the  girl ;  and  I'll  go  over  to  Arleigh  as  soon  as 
possible,  and  give  her  an  old  man's  blessing 
and  kiss." 

Taking  the  old  man's  hand,  Albert  wrung  it 
warmly,  and  tried  to  put  his  thanks  into  words ; 
but,  his  gratitude  to  his  father  proving  less  elo- 
quent than  his  indignation  against  Mr.  Scrive- 
ner, he  hastened  from  the  room  without  utter- 
ing a  complete  sentence.  But  no  words  could 
have  strengthened  the  declaration  of  his  wet 
eyes  and  passionate  grasp. 

Having  recovered  his  composure  in  the  gar- 
den, Albert  came  round  to  the  chief  entrance 
of  the  house,  in  time  to  see  his  father  start  for 
Owleybury  in  his  pony-phaeton. 

"Can  you  manage  to  get  over  to  Hammer- 
hampton  to-day  ?"  the  sire  asked  benignly,  be- 
fore he  seated  himself  in  the  low  carriage. 

"  Certainly  I  can,  sir,  if  you  would  wish  me 
to  do  so." 

"Then  call  at  the  bank  between  two  and 
three,  and  we'll  go  out  together  and  buy  a  gim- 
crack  for  Miss  Lottie." 

Albert  expressed  his  approval  with  a  smile. 

"And,"  added  the  veteran,  who  was  no  less 
lavish  in  graciousness  than  extravagant  in  rage, 
"  though  you  won't  spend  it  in  a  trip  to  Wales, 
I  may  as  well  give  you  the  check  which  would 
have  followed  you  to  Bangor.  As  soon  as  I 
|  get  to  Hammerhampton,  I  shall  tell  Scrivener 


82 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


of  your  engagement.  No  doubt  he  will  be  of- 
fering his  congratulations  when  you  drop  in. 
You  must  do  your  best  to  be  civil  to  him,  eh  ?" 

"Bless  you,  sir!  I'll  be  civil  to  him,  for  now 
I  have  no  grudge  against  him." 

Lowering  his  voice  to  a  very  confidential  tone, 
and  throwing  a  droll  air  of  malicious  knowing- 
ness  into  his  face,  John  Guerdon  said, 

"It  will  be  time  enough  for  you  to  punch 
his  head  when  I  ask  you  to  do  it." 

"  I  am  not  a  pugilist,  father,"  Albert  respond- 
ed, adopting  his  father's  jocular  tone;  "but 
should  you  ever  order  me  to  hit  out  at  him 
right  and  left,  I  shall  carry  out  your  instructions 
to  the  best  of  my  ability,  for  henceforth  I  am 
going  to  be  your  most  obedient  son  in  every 
thing." 


CHAPTER  XII. 

DANGER    AHEAD. 

HAVING  crossed  once  more  the  threshold  of 
his  banking-house  in  George  Street,  Hammer- 
hampton,  John  Guerdon,  before  he  looked  over 
the  "  morning's  letters,"  went  straight  to  his 
partner's  parlor.  Mr.  Scrivener— a  slightly 
built,  pale-faced,  and  rather  dandified  gentle- 
man, with  a  look  of  crafty  resoluteness  in  his 
bloodless  countenance,  and  with  dark  iron-gray 
hair,  appropriate  to  a  man  in  his  fifty-fourth  year 
— was  at  work  in  his  office,  reading  and  answer- 
ing letters.  An  energetic  and  indefatigable  man, 
Mr.  Gimlett  Scrivener  worked  early  and  late. 
He  seldom  allowed  himself  a  day's  holiday ;  and 
fifteen  years  had  passed  since  he  indulged  him- 
self with  a  trip  of  pleasure.  Besides  managing 
the  bank,  in  matters  of  detail  as  well  as  in  great- 
er undertakings,  he  found  time  and  strength  to 
be  the  toilsome  director  of  half  a  score  of  the 
joint-stock  concerns  of  the  Great  Yard. 

Cautious  financiers,  who  looked  beneath  the 
surface  of  things,  and  could  see  a  few  years 
into  the  future,  whispered  that  he  had  a  hand 
in  too  many  things,  and  would  sooner  or  later 
wish  that  he  had  confined  himself  to  his  proper 
business.  Other  observers  of  his  incessant  in- 
dustry were  anticipating  a  time  when  the  over- 
worked man  would  "break  down"  in  health. 
There  were  other  censors,  who,  without  predict- 
ing his  commercial  or  physical  failure,  said  that 
his  life  was  a  mistake,  because  a  rich  man,  who 
never jspent  a  guinea  on  idleness  and  diversion, 
might  just  as  well  be  a  poor  clerk.  But,  scorn- 
ful of  suggestions  that  he  was  "overdoing  it," 
Mr.  Scrivener  persisted  in  his  devotion  to  busi- 
ness. No  clerk  in  the  employment  of  Guerdon 
&  Scrivener  even  entered  the  bank  five  min- 
utes after  opening  hour  unless  the  junior  part- 
ner was  known  to  be  absent  from  the  Great 
Yard  on  business.  For  when  in  town—/,  e., 
Hammerhampton — Mr.  Scrivener  seldom  failed 
to  enter  16  George  Street  within  three  min- 
utes of  nine  A.M.  ;  and  he  was  not  the  man  to 
overlook  the  slightest  delinquency  in  any  of  his 
servants.  On  the  present  occasion,  he  had  been 


at  his  desk  for  fully  four  hours  when  the  or- 
namental and  senior  partner  arrived  from  his 
country  house. 

"Ah!  how  d'ye  do,  Guerdon! "Mr.  Scriv- 
ener  remarked,  in  an  off-hand  and  sufficiently 
pleasant  fashion,  pausing  in  the  middle  of  a 
letter  which  he  was  writing.  "You  are  late. 
But  there  is  just  nothing  for  you  to  do,  except 
to  sign  a  few  checks  and  memoranda.  You 
took  '  another  bottle '  with  Mr.  Barlow  at  the 
club  last  night  ?  Was  the  '  yellow  seal '  in 
good  order  ?" 

"  I  slept  at  Earl's  Court  last  night,"  the  sen- 
ior partner  explained. 

"Indeed!  Then  you  changed  your  plans. 
You  told  me  yesterday  that  you  meant  to  dine 
at  the  club,  make  a  night  of  it,  and  sleep  in 
town." 

"I  ran  into  the  country  by  the  late  train  to 
see  my  boy." 

"  Indeed !  How's  he  ?  Nothing  the  matter 
with  him,  I  hope  ?" 

"  He  is  in  a  fever.  Don't  be  alarmed, 
Scrivener;  it  ain't  a  catching  fever — at  least, 
to  men  at  your  time  of  life.  He  is  in  love." 

"  What !  without  going  to  Wales  ?"  inquired 
tlje  junior  partner,  laying  down  his  pen,  and  dis- 
playing a  sudden  increase  of  interest  in  his  vis- 
itor's words. 

"Just  so." 

"Miss  Heathcote  has  not  been  staying  at 
Earl's  Court,  or  elsewhere  in  the  neighborhood 
of  Owleybury,  has  she  ?" 

"Not  that  I  know  of.  But  she  is  not  the 
lady  who  has  caught  my  boy." 

"I  am  sorry  to  hear  it." 

"  He  has  fallen  in  love  with  Sir  James  Dar- 
ling's daughter." 

Mr.  Scrivener's  bloodless  face  became  ghast- 
ly white  at  this  announcement ;  but  he  was  so 
much  the  master  of  his  feelings,  and  was  so 
habitual  an  employer  of  the  means  by  which 
wary  men  suppress  and  veil  their  emotions,  that 
the  display  of  agitation  was  over  in  ten  seconds. 

"  Of  course,"  rejoined  the  junior  partner,  with 
a  clever  though  rather  overacted  assumption 
of  carelessness,  "  you  have  blown  him  up,  or- 
dered him  off  to  Wales  with  a  flea  in  his  ear, 
and  twenty  pounds  in  his  pocket,  and  told  him 
to  see  Miss  Heathcote  at  once  ?" 

"I  did  all  that." 

Mr.  Scrivener's  mind  was  slightly  relieved  as 
he  answered,  ' '  That's  all  right.  He's  a  boy,  and 
will  come  to  his  senses  in  six  weeks." 

"But,"  continued  John  Guerdon,  "he  De- 
fused to  go  point-blank,  and,  what's  more,  gave 
me  a  very  good  reason  for  his  refusal.  He  is 
not  only  in  love  with  Miss  Darling,  but  he  is 
engaged  to  her ;  so  there  was  nothing  more 
for  me  to  do  than  to  forgive  him,  and  wish  him 
happiness  without  Blanche's  money." 

Again  the  white  face  of  the  younger  partner 
became  whiter ;  but  Mr.  Scrivener  had  it  so 
much  under  command  that  he  could  conceal 
his  alarm  at  the  news,  if  not  his  contempt  for 
his  partner's  want  of  firmness.  Rising  from  his 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


80 


chair   slowly,  and  drawing  himself  to  the  full , 
height  of  his  slim  figure,  Mr.  Scrivener  looked  , 
his  partner  steadily  in  the  eyes,  and  then  de-  j 
liberately  smoothed  his  own  thin  dark  whiskers 
to  indicate  his  coolness  and  perfect  freedom 
from  emotion. 

"Well?"  John  Guerdon  ejaculated,  having 
observed  the  movements  with  which  his  part- 
ner usually  preluded  a  statement  that  he  wish- 
ed to  be  very  impressive. 

"You  don't  mean  to  tell  me,  Guerdon,"  said 
Mr.  Scrivener,  in  a  hard,  wiry,  biting  voice, 
"that  you  have  permitted  your  son, a  mere  boy 
in  years,  to  defy  your  authority  without  show- 
ing your  displeasure,  and  using  proper  firm- 
ness !  You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  are  go- 
ing to  be  so  weak  as  to  let  him  throw  away  a 
fine  fortune,  and  marry  a  girl  with  only  a  few 
thousands  to  come  to  her  at  her  parents1  death  ? 
Surely  you  can't  mean  to  let  him  injure  him- 
self for  life  without  trying  to  save  him  from  his 
folly?  It  is  incredible  !" 

Mr.  Scrivener  had  hoped  that  this  speech 
would  make  the  old  man  bluster,  and  put  him 
into  one  of  those  fits  of  transient  fury  which,  on 
their  subsidence,  always  left  him  in  a  manage- 
able frame  of  mind. 

But  Mr.  Guerdon,  having  already  boiled  over 
enough  for  many  a  day,  declined  to  resent  his 
partner's  impertinent  dictation.  To  his  lively 
chagrin — one  might  almost  say,  to  his  dismay 
— Mr.  Scrivener  saw  that  John  Guerdon  was  not 
to  be  irritated  just  then  by  impertinent  taunts. 
He  saw  also  that  his  partner  was  fully  resolved 
to  sanction  Albert's  marriage  with  Miss  Dar- 
ling ;  and,  knowing  that  no  ordinary  measures 
subdued  John  Guerdon  when  he  was  in  one 
of  his  moods  of  good-humored  obstinacy,  Mr. 
Scrivener  determined  to  say  nothing  more 
against  the  match. 

"  But  it  is  credible !  For  I  mean,"  rejoined 
John  Guerdon,  "  to  call  at  Arleigh  Manor  this 
very  afternoon,  and  pat  the  young  lady  on  the 
head." 

"Very  good !  If  that  is  so,  it  is  so — and  I 
have  nothing  further  to  say." 

"  Quite  right,  Scrivener,  you  have  nothing 
further  to  say.  He  is  my  son  ;  and  if  I  choose 
to  let  him  marry  for  love,  I  may  do  so  without 
asking  your  leave." 

Mr.  Scrivener  laughed  a  not  unpleasant  little 
laugh,  as  he  rejoined,  lightly, 

"  Of  course,  of  course ;  and,  had  it  not  been 
for  my  affectionate  interest  in  Albert,  I  should 
never  have  thought  of  urging  you  to  make  him 
marry  Blanche  Heathcote,  with  her  £60,000 
and  her  land,  with  the  iron  in  it.  No  doubt, 
as  he  will  he  my  partner,  I  should  have  liked 
to  see  him  marry  a  lady  whose  wealth  would 
be  useful  in  the  bank.  But,  as  his  friend  and 
future  partner,  and  as  his  father's  partner  and 
intimate  friend,  I  have  no  right  to  express  dis- 
satisfaction with  his  choice  of  Miss  Darling, 
who  is,  I  hear,  an  extremely  beautiful  young 
lady.  It  is  enough  for  me  to  wish  him  happiness 
in  his  marriage,  as  well  as  in  every  thing  else." 


"  That's  true,  Scrivener.  And  as  for  Blanche's 
money,  which,  of  course,  I  don't  like  to  see  slip 
out  of  my  hands,  Albert  will  have  enough  with- 
out it.  You  know  what  the  bank  yields  us  as 
well  as  I  do  ;  and  then  my  farms  round  Earl's 
Court  bring  me  in  very  nearly  two  thousand  a 
year,  and  Albert  is  my  only  child.  Moreover, 
the  boy  is  clever  enough  to  make  a  fortune  for 
himself." 

In  acknowledgment  of  the  justice  of  these 
remarks,  and  to  show  his  reconciliation  to  a 
new  aspect  of  affairs,  Mr.  Scrivener,  smiling  his 
politest  smile,  and  extending  his  right  hand, 
observed, 

"  Well,  my  dear  Guerdon,  let  us  join  hands 
while  I  wish  you  joy  of  your  daughter-in-law. 
Every  body  says  that  she  is  a  most  charming 
creature ! " 

When  John  Guerdon  had  warmly  shaken  the 
proffered  hand,  and  quitted  his  partner's  par- 
lor, Mr.  Scrivener  resumed  his  seat  before  the 
unfinished  letter,  thinking  to  himself,  "  Stupid 
old  fool !  even  he  sees  enough  of  our  affairs  to 
know  that  they  require  every  additional  ten 
thousand  pounds  of  capital  on  which  we  can  lay 
our  hands.  There  are  signs  of  coming  trouble 
in  the  trade  of  this  district,  and  in  the  money 
market  of  the  whole  country,  and  a  crisis  may 
arise  sooner  than  John  Guerdon  imagines,  when 
we  may  want  more  credit  than  we  can  get.  I 
had  thought  him  more  alive  than  he  seems  to 
be  to  our  emergencies ;  and  yet  I  have  been 
as  candid  with  him  as  it  is  possible  for  me  to 
be  to  an  old  fool,  whom  I  am  compelled  to  keep 
altogether  in  the  dark  with  respect  to  half  a 
dozen  matters  in  which  he  is  slightly  interest- 
ed. If  he  knew  all  that  I  know — well,  if  he 
did,  what  then  ?" 

A  sardonic  smile  rose  to  Mr.  Scrivener's  keen, 
clever,  bloodless  face  as  he  pondered  over  these 
questions  and  answered  them  mentally,  "  Well, 
in  that  case,  he  would  say  some  rather  uncivil 
things  of  me,  and  then,  probably,  would  burst  a 
blood-vessel !  If  I  were  to  make  a  clean  breast 
of  it  to  him,  he  might  die  on  the  spot ;  but  he 
certainly  would  not  be  so  anxious  as  I  have  tried 
to  make  him  for  a  match  between  Albert  and 
Miss  Heathcote.  Umph !  that  scheme,  then,  is 
at  an  end.  The  danger  ahead  must  be  provided 
for  in  some  other  way ;  or,  it  may  be,  I  shall 
retire  from  the  scene,  and  leave  my  old  friends 
to  take  care  of  themselves.  Why  not  ?" 

As  Mr.  Scrivener  meditated  in  this  manner, 
he  had  the  appearance  of  a  thoughtful,  keeji- 
witted,  well-kept  gentleman.  But  he  did  not 
look  like  a  good  man. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

GIMCKACKS   FOR   LOTTIE. 

WHEN  John  Guerdon  and  his  son,  in  the  later 
part  of  the  day,  walked  down  the  broad  pave- 
ment of  George  Street,  and  turned  into  the  chief 
thoroughfare  of  Hammerhampton,  on  their  way 


84 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


to  the  jeweler's  shop,  where  they  bought  a  "gim- 
crack  "  for  Lottie,  the  senior  made  merry  on  the 
absurdity  of  his  conduct.  It  was  egregiously 
ridiculous  that  an  old  man  with  one  foot  in  the 
grave  should  spend  time  and  money  in  choos- 
ing adornments  for  a  young  lady.  He  profess- 
ed total  ignorance  of  the  prevailing  fashions  of 
jewelry  for  women,  and  asked  whether  a  min- 
iature snuff-box,  set  with  brilliants  —  such  as 
his  grandfather  had  given  Albert's  great-grand- 
mother Guerdon  on  her  bridal  day — would  be 
an  appropriate  offering  to  Sir  James  Darling's 
child  from  her  future  father-in-law. 

Famous  chiefly  for  its  cumbrous  and  inele- 
gant products  in  iron  —  such  as  street  lamp- 
posts, kitchen  ranges,  steam  locomotives,  ma- 
rine boilers,  rails  for  iron  roads,  plates  and 
girders  for  iron  bridges  —  Hammerhampton 
also  manufactures  many  knickknackeries,  from 
buckles  to  buttons,  for  whose  making  the  cheap- 
er metals  are  used.  And  the  Hammerhampton 
retailers  of  these  lighter  products  of  the  Great 
Yard  exhibit  their  goods  in  shops,  whose  dis- 
play of  the  richest  and  most  fashionable  mod- 
ern jewelry  would  endure  comparison  with  the 
show  of  the  same  merchandise  in  the  windows 
of  London  goldsmiths. 

John  Guerdon,  therefore,  had  no  difficulty  in 
procuring  in  the  High  Street  of  Hammerhamp- 
ton a  suitable  present  for  Lottie ;  and  as  he 
held  that  things  should  be  done  handsomely 
or  not  at  all,  he  made  his  choice  of  an  opal  and 
emerald  necklace,  without  regard  to  economy. 
Albert  at  the  same  time  selected  from  the  jew- 
eler's stock  a  plain  gold  bracelet,  brightened 
with  a  single  diamond,  somewhat  smaller  than 
a  marrow-fat  pea. 

With  their  purchases  in  their  pockets,  the 
father  and  son  hastened  to  the  railway  station, 
and,  catching  the  afternoon  train,  ran  down  to 
Owleybury,  where  the  Earl's  Court  carriage  had 
been  ordered  to  meet  them. 

Their  reception  at  Arleigh  accorded  with  the 
beneficent  temper  of  the  banker,  who  was  bent 
on  impressing  Lottie  favorably.  In  the  absence 
of  Sir  James,  who  would  return  in  time  for 
dinner,  Mary  Darling  insisted  that  the  visitors 
should  stay  and  dine  at  Arleigh ;  and  ere  an- 
other hour  had  passed  the  banker  was  calling 
Lottie  by  her  Christian  name,  and  rallying  her 
about  her  "  dark  practice"  at  the  butts,  as  though 
he  had  known  her  from  her  infancy. 

His  presentation  of  the  necklace  took  place 
in  the  drawing-room,  a  few  minutes  before  din- 
ner. His  guests  being  in  morning  dress,  Sir 
James  had  not  donned  the  costume  which  he 
usually  wore  in  the  evening;  but  Lottie  and 
her  mother  appeared  in  full  toilet.  The  bank- 
er having  never  encountered  Lottie  in  society. 
Lady  Darling  thought  he  ought  to  see  her  pet 
to  the  best  advantage.  Lottie's  toilet,  there- 
fore, was  grander  than  the  occasion,  but  not 
more  sumptuous  than  maternal  pride,  demand- 
ed. Florence  Henderson  would  perhaps  have 
thought  her  "ridiculously  overdressed "  for  a 
family  dinner;  but  the  banker,  appreciating 


the  motive  of  the  display,  was  pleased  by  the 
attention  to  himself,  and  occasioned  no  embar- 
rassment by  the  frankness  of  his  allusion  to  it. 

"My  dear  young  lady,"  said  the  old  man, 
in  his  grandest  style  of  pompous  benignity,  as 
Lottie  entered  the  room,  with  a  fear  that  Mr. 
Guerdon,  senior,  might  not  approve  her  toilet, 
"you  have  paid  me  a  very  pretty  compliment 
in  letting  me  see  your  brave  plumage  and  dain- 
ty figure.  And  will  you  allow  an  old  man,  who 
still  has  eyesight  enough  to  enjoy  the  spectacle 
of  feminine  beauty,  to  put  a  finishing  touch  to 
a  toilet  which  is  so  perfect  that  I  fear  my  final 
touch  may  lessen  its  effect  ?" 

With  this  speech,  made  after  the  fashion  of 
the  "old  school,"  John  Guerdon  displayed  his 
present  to  a  circle  of  admiring  beholders  ;  and, 
Lottie  having  offered  her  neck  to  his  hands,  he 
encircled  her  throat  with  the  precious  stones, 
and  clasped  the  chain  securely. 

The  operator  was  fitly  rewarded  by  Lottie, 
who  placed  a  hand  on  each  of  his  broad  shoul- 
ders, and,  standing  on  tiptoe,  put  her  lips  with 
deliberate  tenderness  first  on  the  one,  and  then 
on  the  other,  of  the  broad  cheeks,  which  he  low- 
ered to  receive  the  salutes. 

"You  are  very,  very  kind  to  me,  sir,"  the 
girl  said,  with  a  bright  color  in  her  affection- 
ate face,  and  a  corresponding  brightness  in  her 
dark-blue  eyes,  when  she  had  kissed  the  donor 
of  the  necklace ;  "  and  if  Albert's  father  had 
not  been  very,  very  kind  to  me,  I  should  have 
felt  it  here."  The  precise  spot  where  she  would 
have  felt  it  Lottie  indicated  by  putting  her  left 
hand  with  dramatic  simplicity  on  her  heart. 

"My  dear  Lady  Darling,"  John  Guerdon 
exclaimed,  enthusiastically,  "she  is  charming. 
She  is  even  prettier  than  when  she  cried  about 
your  neck  at  the  Owleybury  railway  station." 

"Ah,"  rejoined  Mary  Darling,  exulting  in 
the  effect  of  her  child's  beauty  and  graceful  ways 
on  Albert's  sire,  "you  know  from  experience 
that  Lottie  has  tears  as  well  as  smiles." 

"Indeed,  I  only  cry  once  in  a  long  while," 
Lottie  urged,  gayly,  "  and  then  it  is  when  I  am 
overpowered  with  happiness.  Mr.  Guerdon,  if 
you  don't  wish  to  see  me  in  tears,  you  must  not 
be  too  kind  to  me." 

"  My  dear,"  cried  the  veteran,  "  when  yon 
come  and  live  with  us  at  Earl's  Court,  you  shall 
cry  of  joy  every  day,  until  Albert  and  I  between 
us  kill  you  with  kindness." 

The  ladies  had  not  retired  from  the  dining- 
room  full  five  minutes,  when  Albert,  following 
in  their  steps,  left  the  two  fathers  to  talk  about 
money  over  the  wine,  which  John  Guerdon  had 
declared  to  be  better  port  than  any  in  his  own 
well-reputed  cellar. 

The  talk  about  money  over  this  choice  vint- 
age could  not,  under  the  circumstances,  fail  to 
be  satisfactory.  John  Guerdon  was  pleased  to 
discover  how  nearly  he  had  guessed  Lottie's 
fortune.  Her  share  in  her  mother's  settled 
property,  and  the  legacy  which  Sir  James  in- 
tended to  leave  her,  would  together  amount  to 
£10,000.  And  Sir  James  had  no  amendment 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


to  make  to  John  Guerdon's  proposal  that  Lot- 
tie's settlement  should  consist  of  this  sum,  and 
a  life  interest  of  £1000  a  year,  secured  to  her 
on  the  Earl's  Court  rental. 

Having  found  that  he  and  his  host  held  pre- 
cisely the  same  views  respecting  port -wine, 
John  Guerdon  was  in  the  next  place  delighted 
to  find  that  their  tastes  in  music  were  no  less 
identical.  The  banker  declared  that  Lottie's 
songs  were  worth  all  the  operas  in  the  world. 
But  no  one  of  Lottie's  strains  delighted  the  old 
man  so  much  as  her  manner  of  bidding  him 
farewell. 

"It  was  monsous  pretty  of  her,  Albert,"  he 
remarked,  as  he  drove  .homeward  at  a  late 
hour,  "to  kiss  me  again  in  that  simple,  birdie- 
birdie  way,  like  a  dove  cooing  in  your  breast, 
just  before  we  went  off.  Of  course,  she  was 
bound  to  kiss  me  when  I  gave  her  my  '  gim- 
crack,'  and  she  did  it  monsous  nicely ;  but  that 
good-night  of  hers  was  outside  etiquette,  and 
came  from  her  heart." 

Albert's  cup  of  triumph  was  full. 

"Lottie,"  he  had  whispered  to  his  darling, 
on  leaving  her  ten  minutes  before,  "you  have 
won  my  father's  heart ;  there  was  no  need  for 
you  to  trouble  yourself  so  much  to  win  it.  I 
do  thank  you  for  your  pains  to  plcuse  him." 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

CONGRATULATIONS. 

THE  next  nine  months  of  Lottie's  existence 
were  the  happiest  that  she  had  ever  known,  and, 
upon  the  whole,  the  happiest  that  she  has  known 
to  this  day.  Engaged  girls  are  usually  satis- 
fied with  themselves  and  the  whole  world  ; 
and  Lottie's  time  of  betrothal  was  a  season  of 
beatitude,  from  the  hour  in  which  she  accepted 
Albert  to  the  opening  of  the  month  selected 
for  her  wedding.  Every  day  had  its  pleasura- 
ble events,  every  hour  its  joys. 

Congratulations  poured  in  upon  her  from  ev- 
ery quarter  of  the  Owleybury  district,  and  from 
the  womankind  of  the  "set"  from  which  her 
father  had  retired  on  leaving  Bedford  Place, 
Russell  Square.  Much  to  her  surprise,  and  a 
little  to  her  annoyance,  Tiny  Marsh  found  no 
opportunity  for  standing  up  in  her  friend's  be- 
half, and  silencing  her  detractors.  There  was 
no  malice  for  the  man-hunter  to  keep  within 
legitimate  bounds.  Christina  herself  was  not 
more  generous  and  sympathetic  to  the  fortunate 
damsel  than  were  the  two  score  other  girls  of 
the  neighborhood  who  regarded  Albert  Guer- 
don as  a  "  grand  prize."  Even  Flo  Henderson 
admitted  that  her  victor  at  the  butts  bore  her 
triumphs  so  gracefully  and  unassumingly  that  it 
was  impossible  to  resent  her  successes.  And 
while  the  girls  of  her  own  degree  behaved  thus 
amiably  to  Lottie,  the  grandest  ladies  of  the 
south-west  corner  of  Boringdonshire  conde- 
scended to  evince  their  approval  of  her  good 
fortune.  The  most  potent  Countess  of  Slum- 


berbridge  lost  no  time  in  driving  over  to  Ar- 
leigh,  and  entreating  her  to  come  at  once  for 
a  visit  to  Castle  Coosie,  since  her  opportune 
engagement  qualified  her  for  an  immediate  in- 
troduction to  Viscount  Snoring. 

Of  course,  some  of  the  half-hundred  letters 
which  Lottie  sent  about  the  country  to  announce 
"a  piece  of  intelligence  that  will  surprise  you 
very  greatly  "  were  addressed  to  our  old  friends 
of  Hanover  Square  ;  and  of  course  she  derived 
infinite  delight  from  the  replies  which  she  re- 
ceived from  each  of  the  "old  Constantines " 
who  figured  at  the  beginning  of  this  narrative 
as  the  "privileged  girls  of  the  Long  Room." 
In  a  letter  of  exuberant  gayety,  Eugie  Bridle- 
mere  called  her  correspondent  a  sly  little  puss, 
and  insisted  that,  even  when  she  declared  her 
intention  to  "leave  it  all  to  mamma,"  Lottie 
was  an  engaged  girl.  It  would  be  useless  for 
Lottie  to  deny  it.  She  had  sinned  against  the 
proprieties,  and  broken  the  most  sacred  law  of 
her  old  school,  by  accepting  an  offer  before  she 
had  left  college.  Finny  Gough's  letter  was 
in  a  different  but  equally  characteristic  vein. 
Though  she  congratulated  Lottie  on  an  event 
which  occasioned  her  present  gratification,  and 
might  not  result  to  her  disadvantage,  Finny  re- 
gretted that  her  friend  had  decided  so  quickly 
to  walk  in  the  way  of  "  ordinary  women." 
The  more  that  she  thought  on  the  subject,  the 
more  convinced  was  she  that  marriage,  under 
existing  circumstances,  was  not  favorable  to 
the  finer  instincts  and  higher  capabilities  of 
"woman."  It  might  be  otherwise  some  few 
years  hence,  when  wives  would  be  allowed  to 
retain  their  maiden  surnames  after  marriage, 
and  should  be  invested  with  wholesome  powers 
over  the  disposal  of  their  husband's  property. 
But  for  the  present  it  .was  best  for  "woman" 
to  avoid  the  thralldom  of  wedlock,  and  to  la- 
bor steadily  for  "woman's  political  enfran- 
chisement." Still  Finny  hoped  the  best  for 
Lottie's  too  hasty  choice  of  a  career ;  and,  if 
Lottie  really  desired  her  to  officiate  as  one  of 
her  brides-maids,  she  (Finny)  would  control  her 
repugnance  to  matrimonial  frivolities,  and  ap- 
pear at  the  humiliating  ceremony.  But  the 
letter  of  the  "Brighton  series"  which  pleased 
Lottie  most  was  Angelica  Constantino's  con- 
gratulatory epistle.  Though  she  was  engaged, 
Lottie  was  still  school-girl  enough  to  think  her 
school-mistress  the  best  woman  in  the  whole 
world — after  her  own  mamma.  The  letters 
from  Nice  also  gave  Lottie  vivid  delight. 
Consul  Darling  and  his  wife  wrote  epistle  after 
epistle  on  the  interesting  topic ;  and  Sister 
Connie,  in  terms  which  proved  her  to  be  in  ex- 
cellent spirits,  declared  her  impatience  for  the 
wedding,  at  which  it  would  devolve  on  her,  as 
the  elder  sister,  to  dance  barefoot,  in  accordance 
with  ancient  custom. 

To  heighten  Lottie's  felicity,  "  the  boys  "— 
i.  e.,  brothers  Rupert  and  Owen — came  over  to 
Arleigh  on  the  last  day  of  September,  and  spent 
a  full  month,  shooting  pheasants  with  the 
squires  of  the  district,  and  riding  with  the 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


West  Boringdonshire  fox-hounds.  The  two 
captains  of  cavalry  "  got  on  "  so  well  with  their 
future  brother-in-law  that  they  were  good 
enough  to  call  him  repeatedly,  and  in  Lottie's 
hearing,  the  best  fellow,  "for  a  civilian,"  that 
they  had  met  for  many  a  day.  Lottie's  sense 
of  humor  was  all  the  more  agreeably  tickled  by 
this  strictly  limited  commendation,  as  she  knew 
that,  coming  from  her  brothers'  lips,  it  implied 
a  very  high  degree  of  admiration  for  her  lover. 
It  meant  that  Albert  only  missed  perfection 
from  not  being  in  "the  service."  Instead, 
therefore,  of  resenting  the  faintness  of  the 
praise,  Lottie  made  herself  merry  with  it,  and 
now  and  then  saucily  affixed  the  qualifying 
words  to  her  own  praise  of  the  non-belliger- 
ent. 

When  Albert  rode  up,  one  afternoon,  to  the 
manor-house,  on  his  homeward  way  from  hunt- 
ing, and  gave  Lottie  "the  brush,"  which  he 
had  borne  off  from  her  brothers  and  half  a 
score  other  hard  riders,  she  turned  a  roguish 
face  to  Rupert  and  Owen,  as  she  said, 

"By  your  own  admission,  my  brothers,  it 
appears  that  Albert  does  not  ride  badly — for  a 
civilian." 

In  the  course  of  two  more  months,  when  win- 
ter, driving  horsemen  from  the  open  fields,  had 
covered  the  country  with  snow  and  the  ponds 
with  ice,  Albert  provided  Lottie  with  a  pair  of 
skates,  and  taking  her  daily  to  Lake  Head,  be- 
came her  efficient  instructor  in  another  wom- 
anly pastime.  It  was  fortunate  for  Lottie 
that,  on  undertaking  to  be  her  professor  in 
skating,  he  knew  much  more  than  "just  noth- 


ing about  it."  He  was  an  excellent  skater; 
his  "spread  eagles,"  and  the  other  devices 
which  he  graved  on  the  crystal  plane  with  the 
inner  and  outer  edges  of  his  tools,  were  things 
of  high  art ;  and  ere  the  sharp  winter  broke  up, 
Lottie  could  run  on  her  skates  with  equal  grace- 
fulness and  security,  and  even  produced  on 
the  ice  some  miserably  inadequate  "figures 
of  eight."  Ah!  how  musically  the  cries  and 
shouts  of  the  Lake  Head  skaters  sounded  in 
the  frosty  air,  whether  the  sun  shone  forth  with 
cold  brilliance,  or  vainly  strove  to  dispel  the 
white  mists  which  sometimes  multiplied  the 
surprises,  without  lessening  the  pleasure,  of  "  a 
morning  on  the  ice!''  And  even  better  than 
the  merry  noise  of  the  skaters  was  the  clear 
ringing  of  their  skates  as  they  struck  and  cut 
the  hardened  water.  Until  she  had  those 
days  on  the  ice,  Lottie  had  never  known  the 
delicious  warmth  which  comes  from  violent 
exercise  in  frosty  air;  nor  had  she  ever  had 
an  opportunity  of  deciding  how  far  a  sanguine 
ruddiness — an  almost  crimson  brilliance  of  col- 
or— suited  her  style  of  beauty. 

Yes,  they  were  happy  days !  And  so  were 
the  days  of  spring,  when,  on  Clifton's  back,  she 
accompanied  Albert  to  "meets,"  or  rode  by 
his  side  over  down  and  moor,  and  through  the 
winding  lanes  of  the  Valley  of  the  Luce,  in 
their  systematic  explorations  of  the  scenery  of 
West  Boringdonshire.  They  were  the  days  of 
the  love  which  brightened  her  beauty  and  glad- 
dened her  heart  for  a  while.  They  were  the 
days  of  the  love  to  which  this  first  part  of  Lot- 
tie's story  is  indebted  for  its  title. 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


87 


BOOK  II— MARRIAGE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

A    GRAND    CATASTROPHE. 

IT  was  arranged  that  Lottie  and  Albert 
should  be  married  in  the  last  week  of  June, 
in  the  next  year  after  that  of  her  engagement 
— rather  more  than  twelve  full  months  after 
her  retirement  from  Hanover  Square.  And 
as  June  drew  near  and  nearer,  Mary  Darling, 
exhibiting  nothing  of  the  sadness  often  appar- 
ent in  the  face  of  an  affectionate  mother  on 
the  approach  of  a  favorite  daughter's  wedding, 
bestirred  herself  with  preparations  for  the  nup- 
tial day.  A  chief  element  of  Lottie's  many- 
joyed  felicity,  at  this  crisis  of  her  life,  was  the 
gratification  which  she  derived  from  witnessing 
the  growing  gladness  of  her  mother's  voice  and 
smiles.  For  a  while  the  aging  lady  was  insen- 
sible to  the  touches  of  time.  It  seemed  that 
her  perfect  vigor  had  revisited  her,  even  as  the 
falling  sun  sometimes  glorifies  a  landscape  with 
beams  brighter  than  its  noontide  rays,  just  be- 
fore it  sinks  and  dies  out  quickly.  Exertion 
no  longer  fatigued  her.  Youth  threw  its  old 
lights  into  her  countenance,  and  her  buoyant 
spirits  expressed  themselves  in  drolleries  of 
speech.  Again  and  again  in  those  joyous  days 
she  surprised  her  husband  with  bursts  of  rip- 
pling laughter  that  caused  him  to  exclaim,  "  It 
makes  me  a  youngster  again  to  hear  you, 
Mary."  To  give  her  mother  such  happiness, 
Lottie,  under  no  strong  pressure,  would  have 
sacrificed  herself  to  the  extent  of  marrying  a 
man  whom  she  loved  only  a  little.  She  thought 
herself  a  strangely  fortunate  girl  in  being  able 
to  occasion  the  delight  by  giving  herself  to  the 
man  whom  she  loved  entirely. 

It  having  been  decided  that  the  young  peo- 
ple should  marry  into  Earl's  Court,  the  chief 
rooms  of  the  house  were  redecorated  and  alto- 
gether refurnished  for  the  bride,  who  would  be 
the  mansion's  mistress.  The  trousseau  had 
been  bought,  the  bridal  wreath  ordered,  and 
the  wedding-guests  invited.  Consul  Darling, 
and  Aunt  Darling,  and  sister  Connie  (not  a 
whit  jealous  of  her  sister's  preferment)  had 
fixed  the  day  on  which  they  would  start  from 
Nice,  so  as  to  spend  a  few  days  in  Boringdon- 
shire  before  the  marriage.  Of  course  Connie 
had  received  the  "  first  brides-maid's  "  commis- 
sion, and  it  was  settled  that  she  should  be  as- 
sisted in  her  ministering  office  by  eleven  oth- 
er damsels,  in  a  uniform  of  daintiest  millinery. 
With  the  exception  of  Josephine  Gougli,  whose 
rapidly  increasing  contempt  for  matrimony 
caused  her  at  the  last  moment  to  cry  off  from 
her  compact,  all  the  "  Old  Constantines"  of  the 
long  room  had,  in  letters  of  gushing  effusive- 


ness, declared  the  delight  it  would  give  them 
to  keep  their  plighted  word. 

With  her  usual  levity,  Eugie  Bridlemere  had 
assumed  the  part  of  a  feminine  moralist,  and, 
burlesquing  the  tone  of  an  extremely  discreet 
person,  had  written  a  series  of  epistles,  in 
which  she  pretended  to  prepare  Lottie  for  the 
duties  and  trials  of  wedlock,  and  to  give  her 
sound  instruction  on  matters  of  housekeeping. 
"Above  all  things,  my  dear  young  friend," 
Eugie  concluded  one  of  her  notes,  in  a  style 
worthy  of  Mrs.  Chapone,  "avoid  the  inexpe- 
rienced wife's  most  common  and  disastrous 
mistake,  and  do  not  be  so  elated  by  your  Al- 
bert's commendations  and  endearments  as  to 
imagine  yourself  an  all-sufficient  companion 
for  him.  The  complaisance  of  a  grateful  hus- 
band will  be  likely  to  mislead  you  into  suppos- 
ing that  he  can  detect  no  sameness  in  your 
conversation  or  monotony  in  your  addresses. 
Do  not  natter  yourself  with  the  fond  belief  that 
familiarity  will  not  diminish  his  satisfaction 
with  your  wit  and  personal  fascinations.  The 
rose  loses  much  of  its  perfume  to  him  who, 
smelling  it  incessantly,  inhales  the  odor  of  no 
other  flower.  To  defer  as  long  as  possible  the 
mournful  day  on  which  he  will  awake  from  his 
illusion,  and  find  you  very  much  like  other  per- 
sonable girls,  welcome  to  your  home  those  of 
your  old  schoolmates  whose  humor  and  vivaci- 
ty may  aid  you  in  your  endeavors  to  amuse 
him.  To  reward  them  for  their  zealous  co- 
operation, you  will,  of  course,  not  omit  to  en- 
tertain young  and  unmarried  guests  of  the 
sterner  sex.  In  my  next  epistle,  my  dear 
young  friend,  I  shall  speak  about  the  table  and 
the  cook,  two  most  important  topics,  that  can 
not  be  considered  too  seriously  by  a  young 
woman  on  the  threshold  of  wedlock.  For  the 
present,  I  remain  your  anxious  and  sincere 
well-wisher, — EUGENIA  BRIDLEMERE." 

But  the  bridal,  for  which  the  preparations 
had  been  made,  and  the  invitations  dispersed, 
was  deferred  in  consequence  of  an  event  that 
occurred  within  a  fortnight  of  the  day  appoint- 
ed for  its  celebration. 

On  a  certain  day  in  the  second  week  of  June, 
Albert  had  ridden  over  from  Earl's  Court  to 
Arleigh  in  the  afternoon,  with  the  intention  of 
accompanying  Lady  Darling  and  Lottie  in  a 
drive;  and  he  was  standing  with  the  two  la- 
dies on  the  lawn,  when  he  saw  his  father's  groom 
come  at  full  gallop  up  the  carriage-way  to  the 
entrance  of  the  manor-house.  The  horseman's 
speed,  and  the  flecks  of  foam  on  his  animal's 
glossy  coat,  showed  that  he  had  come  on  ur- 
gent business. 

Before  the  servant  had  fairly  dismounted, 


88 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


and  ere  he  could  find  time  to  pull  the  door- 
bell, Albert  was  by  his  side,  asking  the  cause 
of  his  excitement  and  haste. 

"  My  master  wants  you  directly,  sir,  at  Earl's 
Court,"  was  the  man's  answer. 

"  Indeed  !  He  has  returned  from  Hammer- 
hampton  sooner  than  he  intended." 

' '  Came  back,  sir,  by  the  earjy  afternoon 
train,  instead  of  the  later  train,  which  I  was 
ordered  to  meet  with  the  cob  at  Owleybury. 
Drove  over  from  Owleybury,  sir,  in  a  fly,  and 
meeting  me  at  the  Court  gates,  just  as  I  was 
starting  for  the  station,  told  me  to  go  oft'  at 
once  for  you." 

"  Did  he  send  no  message,  except  that  he 
wished  to  see  me  without  delay  ?" 

"No,  sir.  He  put  his  head  out  of  the  fly 
window,  and  called  out  at  his  loudest,  'Where's 
Mr.  Albert?'  Says  I,  'Sir,  he's  rid  out  on 
Emperor,  and  gone,  I  think,  to  Arleigh  Man- 
or.' He  calls  out,  'Then  off  after  him  at 
once,  and  tell  him  to  come  to  me  instantly.' 
I  touched  my  hat,  sir,  in  taking  instructions, 
and  then,  as  I  was  leading  the  cob,  I  turned 
round  toward  the  stables  to  get  rid  of  the 
pony." 

"Well,  be  quick!" 

"'Where  are  you  going  ?' master  cries  out 
hotly.  And  then,  seeing  what  it  was,  before 
I  could  answer,  he  burst  open  the  fly  door,  and 
hurrying  up  to  me,  catches  hold  of  the  cob. 
;  Here!'  he  cries  out,  '  I  have  the  cob — let  go 
his  rein.  Now  you  go  off  to  Arleigh! — use 
your  spurs ! — ride  like  hell !'  They  were  mas- 
ter's orders,  sir,  and  I've  obeyed  them." 

"  My  father  must  have  been  very  excited." 

"He  were  a  trifle  hotter  than  usual,  sir; 
and  he  wouldn't  have  ordered  me  to  ride  like 
hell — it  was  master's  word,  sir — along  the  hard 
roads,  unless  he  had  meant  it." 

"Of  course  not,  John — you  are  all  right." 

For  an  instant  Albert  was  on  the  point  of 
asking  the  groom  if  he  knew  what  had  oc- 
curred to  bring  his  master  back  from  Hammer- 
hampton  so  soon,  and  in  such  excitement.  But 
he  refrained  from  putting  the  inquiiy,  for  he  felt 
that  the  cause  was  some  important  matter  re- 
specting which  he  should  not  exchange  words 
with  a  servant.  In  half  an  hour  he  would 
learn  every  thing  from  his  father's  lips. 

"Emperor  is  in  the  stables,"  he  observed. 
"  Fetch  him  to  the  door  instantly." 

While  this  order  was  being  executed,  Al- 
bert returned  to  the  ladies,  and  hastily  explain- 
ed the  circumstances  which  required  him  to  go 
back  at  once  to  Earl's  Court. 

"  Something  must  have  gone  wrong  at  Ham- 
merhampton,"  he  observed  to  Lottie  and  her 
mother. 

"  Not  at  the  bank  ?"  Lady  Darling  rejoined. 

"  That  is  my  fear.  But  say  nothing  till  you 
hear  from  me.  Before  night  you  shall  know 
what  has  taken  place." 

"  Send  a  messenger  to  me,"  Lottie  entreat- 
ed, "  as  soon  as  you  have  learned  that  we  have 
no  reason  for  alarm." 


"Of  course,  dear;  or  as  soon  as  I  have 
learned  the  mishap.  Good-bye,  pet ;  and  good- 
bye, Lady  Darling." 

Emperor  had  already  been  led  round  to  the 
front  of  the  house ;  and  in  a  trice  Albert  was 
mounted  and  "  off."  Remembering  his  father's 
injunction  to  the  groom,  he  took  no  thought 
for  any  thing  but  speed.  If  Emperor  only 
carried  him  like  lightning  to  Earl's  Court,  he 
might  turn  up  lame,  and  recover  at  his  leisure. 
Lottie,  with  a  pale  face  and  fluttering  heart, 
heard  Emperor's  hoofs  clatter  down  the  steep, 
hard  carriage  -  way,  and  in  two  minutes  she 
caught  a  momentary  sight  of  her  lover  riding 
along  the  homeward  road  at  racing  speed. 

What  can  have  happened  ?  What  has  gone 
wrong  ?  were  the  questions  which  she  asked 
herself,  and  which  Emperor's  rider  at  the  same 
time  put  to  himself,  again  and  again. 

Albert's  suspense  did  not  last  many  minutes. 

Dropping  from  his  saddle  at  the  very  mo- 
ment when  he  checked  his  panting  animal  at 
the  front  door  of  Earl's  Court,  and  throwing 
his  bridle  rein  to  a  stable-man,  who  was  at 
hand  in  anticipation  of  his  young  master's  re- 
turn, Albert  ran  into  the  entrance  hall,  where 
he  was  encountered  by  his  father,  whose  coun- 
tenance exhibited  the  signs  of  an  overpowering 
agitation. 

"  By  heavens,  I  thought  you'd  never  be 
here !  The  man  could  not  find  you,  eh  ? 
Thank  God  you're  here  at  last !  Quick,  come 
this  way !  I  want  a  word  with  you,"  the  old 
man  observed,  hurriedly  and  impatiently,  but 
with  no  querulousness,  as  he  led  the  way  to  the 
library,  where  we  have  before  seen  father  and 
son  in  conference. 

Until  he  had  closed  the  door  behind  him, 
and  seen  that  the  windows  were  shut  against 
listeners,  Albert  did  not  say  a  word  ;  and  then 
he  merely  asked,  "What  is  it,  father?" 

Turning  suddenly  from  white  to  purple  in 
his  anguish  and  humiliation,  while  a  palsy  seiz- 
ed his  hands,  John  Guerdon  answered,  "The 
bank  has  stopped !  I  am  a  bankrupt !  That 
— scoundrel  Scrivener!" 

"Where  is  he  ?  Has  he  returned  from  Lon- 
don?" 

"The  villain  will  never  show  again  in  the 
Great  Yard.  He  has  fled  the  country  and  jus- 
tice. God  knows — no,  no,  the  devil  knows 
where  the  rascal  is!  I  don't.  No  one  does. 
But  I'll  hunt  him  down,  and  put  him  in  a  fel- 
on's dock.  You  know  it  all  now,  Alb.  The 
bank  has  stopped,  and  I  am  ruined !  Thank 
God,  you  were  not  in  it !  Thank  God,  you've 
got  your  £5000,  and  youth,  and  strength,  and 
cleverness.  You  may  yet  work  up  again.  But 
I — I  am  a  bankrupt!" 

The  Power  that  reads  the  mysteries  and  con- 
trols the  course  of  every  human  life,  alone  can 
tell  the  torture  of  shame  which  the  pompous 
old  man  experienced  as  he  thus  avowed  his  ruin 
and  disgrace ;  admitting,  with  furious  maledic- 
tions on  his  treacherous  partner,  that  he  had 
failed  utterly  in  the  only  way  of  life  in  which 


LOTTIE  DAKLING. 


89 


he  ever  tried  to  succeed — the  way,  moreover, 
in  which  success  had  been  made  so  easy  for 
him.  As  he  heard  the  bitter  acknowledgment 
of  ignominious  defeat,  Albert  was  less  afflict- 
ed by  the  sudden  disappearance  of  his  own 
prosperity  than  touched  by  the  fatherly  affec- 
tion expressed  by  the  old  man's  satisfaction  at 
the  safety  of  his  son's  small  maternal  inherit- 
ance. 

"  Come,  come,  father,"  he  said,  gently,  as  he 
took  his  sire's  hand,  and  led  him  to  his  easy- 
chair,  "  be  calm  and  brave,  even  if  we  can't  be 
hopeful.  Compose  yourself;  for  you  have 
much  more  to  say  to  me.  You  must  tell  me 
all  about  it.  Stay,  sir,"  he  added,  when  the 
veteran  had  dropped  into  his  customary  seat, 
"you  need  refreshment,  and  may  not  speak 
another  word  until  you  have  had  a  biscuit  and 
some  brandy-and-water.  I  will  fetch  them  for 
you  myself,  sir,  so  that  we  may  have  no  fuss  of 
servants  about  us." 

When  the  old  man,  who  from  that  moment 
fell  obediently  into  his  son's  considerate  govern- 
ment, had  got  the  better  of  his  sharper  agita- 
tions, and  taken  some  of  the  urgently  needed 
refreshments,  Albert  gained  from  him  a  com- 
plete picture  of  the  morning's  incidents  at  the 
bank,  and  learned  also  several  circumstances 
which  had  led  up  to  the  day's  disaster. 

Though  he  had  not  anticipated  any  such 
catastrophe  as  the  total  collapse  of  the  bank, 
John  Guerdon  had  for  months  been  anxious 
about  his  affairs,  and  known  that  his  business 
was  in  an  unsatisfactory,  if  not  urgently  peril- 
ous, state.  He  had  more  than  once  been  on 
the  point  of  revealing  his  troubles  to  Albert ; 
but  the  necessity  for  strict  silence  had  been  im- 
posed upon  him  by  his  partner.  Moreover, 
while  he  could  hope  that  "  things  would  right 
themselves,"  he  had  shrunk  from  disturbing  Al- 
bert's felicity  with  apprehensions  of  disaster. 
On  the  other  hand,  engrossed  by  the  pleasures 
of  his  daily  intercourse  with  Lottie,  by  the  so- 
cial diversions  of  the  neighborhood,  and  by  the 
preparations  for  his  marriage,  Albert  had  of 
late  seen  comparatively  little  of  his  father,  and 
thought  just  nothing  about  Hammerhampton 
and  Mr.  Scrivener.  Apart  from  his  knowledge 
that  Hammerhampton  had  a  bank  which  duly 
honored  his  checks,  and  of  which  he  would  in 
the  course  of  a  few  months  be  a  partner,  he  had 
given  scarcely  a  thought  to  the  house  in  George 
Street.  He  had  a  faculty  for  deferring  subjects 
to  convenient  seasons,  and  dismissing  them  al- 
together from  his  mind  until  the  proper  time 
came  for  deliberating  about  them.  Until  he 
should  have  become  a  partner  in  the  bank,  there 
was  no  need  for  him  to  trouble  about  its  doings. 
When  he  had  returned  from  his  wedding  trip 
to  Switzerland  and  the  Italian  lakes,  he  would 
give  due  attention  to  business.  So  the  bank 
had  been  going  rapidly  to  ruin,  and  the  father 
had  been  concealing  his  anxieties,  while  the 
young  man  enjoyed  himself  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  Owleybury.  But  now  that  the  crash 
had  come,  Albert  quickly  recalled  words  and 


'  looks  which  his  father  had  spoken  or  given  in- 
advertently, that  ought  to  have  roused  his  sus- 
picions. 

For  many  months  difficulties  had  been  ac- 
cumulating in  George  Street.  During  the  last 
fortnight  the  Great  Yard  had  been  alive,  and 
daily  growing  more  lively,  with  ugly  suspicions 
and  strange  rumors  about  Guerdon  and  Scrive- 
ner. Mr.  Scrivener  had  run  up  to  town  just 
as  certain  heavy  bills,  which  he  had  accepted 
in  the  interest  of  his  private  affairs,  were  com- 
ing due.  This  was  not  of  itself  remarkable; 
for  the  busy  man  was  in  the  habit  of  leaving 
Hammerhampton  abruptly,  and  making  long 
journeys  by  express  trains.  But  several  gen- 
tlemen of  affairs  became  uneasy  when  Mr. 
Scrivener  failed  to  return  within  forty-eight 
I  hours  of  the  full  time  for  the  presentation  of 
the  bills,  for  which  the  absent  speculator  had 
made  no  provision.  The  holders  of  the  paper 
spoke  to  Mr.  Guerdon,  who  could  only  assure 
j  them  that  his  partner  would  return  in  a  day  or 
two  from  distant  scenes  of  business.  Not  less 
surprised  than  the  applicants  for  information 
at  his  partner's  behavior,  John  Guerdon  had 
sent  letters  and  telegrams  to  a  score  of  places, 
hotels  and  offices,  in  different  parts  of  the  coun- 
try, where  it  seemed  probable  that  Mr.  Scrive- 
ner would  come  upon  one  of  them.  The  sud- 
den and  unexplained  absence  of  such  a  man  as 
Mr.  Scrivener  from  the  ordinary  scenes  of  his  in- 
dustry  was  an  event  that  could  not  fail  to  occa- 
sion gossip  and  wonderment  in  the  Great  Yard. 
If  it  continued  for  many  days,  it  could  not  fail 
to  draw  suspicious  attention  to  every  one  of  the 
concerns  of  which  he  was  a  conspicuous  man- 
ager. It  would  necessarily  provoke  inquiries, 
and  strike  at  confidence  in  the  bank  of  which 
the  junior  partner  had  for  many  days  been  the 
real  master. 

Knowing  this,  and  cognizant,  moreover,  of 
several  pieces  of  business  that  urgently  required 
Mr.  Scrivener's  presence  in  his   bank  parlor, 
John  Guerdon  had  for  days  been  in  a  state  of 
bewilderment  and  fever.     At  first,  it  never  oc- 
curred to  the  ornamental  partner  that  his  bank 
was  on  the  point  of  falling,  and  that  Mr.  Scrive- 
ner had  fled  to  avoid  the  spectacle  and  em- 
barrassments of  its  collapse.     It  Avas  not  the 
first  time  that  Scrivener,  with  characteristic  en- 
ergy and  secrecy,  had  run  from  Hammerhamp- 
ton at  a  critical  moment,  and,  after  covering 
thousands  of  miles  in  a  few  days,  had  returned 
to  the  Great  Yard  with  valuable  information, 
gathered  by  personal  observation  from  several 
j  remote  spots.     But  as  day  followed  day,  and 
I  yet  the  absentee  neither  re-appeared  nor  wrote 
I  an  account  of  himself,  John  Guerdon  passed 
from  bewilderment  and  fever  to  rage  and  panic. 
During  the  last  two  or  three  entire  days  of  his 
suspense  accounts  had  been  withdrawn  from 
i  the  bank,  with  ominous  reticence,  by  men  who 
i  had  trusted  him  for  years ;  and  on  the  day 
I  when  the  bank  fell,  John  Guerdon  had  gone 
|  into  Hammerhampton  with  the   intention    of 
calling  on  one  or  two  old  and  powerful  friends, 


90 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


such  as  Ned  Barlow,  and  revealing  his  distress 
to  them. 

On  arriving  at  George  Street,  barely  ten 
minutes  after  the  usual  hour  for  opening  the 
bank,  he  found  before  his  place  of  business  a 
dense  crowd,  that  eyed  him  angrily,  and  hum- 
med resentfully  as  it  made  way  for  him.  See- 
ing that  it  would  be  useless  for  him  to  try  to 
force  an  entrance  into  his  own  parlor,  through 
the  throng  that  occupied  the  vestibule,  the  pas- 
sage, and  open  spaces  of  the  chief  office,  he 
entered  the  house  by  a  private  door,  and  in 
another  minute  was  closeted  with  Mr.  Jacob 
Coleman,  an  elderly,  hard-featured  man,  who 
had  for  many  years  been  chief  clerk  and  chief 
cashier  of  the  falling  house. 

"A  run  on  the  bank  ?"  said  John  Guerdon, 
with  an  effort  to  maintain  an  appearance  at 
calmness. 

"I  need  not  say  'yes'  to  you,"  grimly  re- 
turned the  hard-featured  clerk,  who,  seeing  his 
only  means  of  livelihood  slipping  from  his  rin- 
gers, was  naturally  resentful  against  the  fugi- 
tive partner,  and,  in  the  absence  of  the  real 
author  of  tne  calamity,  was  ungenerously  dis- 
posed to  wreak  his  wrath  on  the  scoundrel's 
chief  victim. 

"Any  thing  been  heard  of  Scrivener?"  was 
the  master's  next  inquiry. 

"  Nothing,  except  that  every  one  is  inquiring 
for  him.  The  Shipping  News  shows  that  it  was 
open  to  him  to  choose  between  half  a  dozen 
ports  of  America,  if  he  meant  to  cross  the  At- 
lantic. He  may  be  on  the  Continent  or  in  his 
own  coal-cellar,  for  all  I  know. " 

It  did  not  escape  the  pompous  banker,  in 
his  hour  of  humiliation,  that  Mr.  Coleman,  who 
had  hitherto  been  consistently  obsequious  to 
his  employers,  forebore  to  address  him  as  "  sir," 
or  with  any  sign  of  respect.  Mr.  Coleman 
knew  that  the  bank  was  broken  irretrievably, 
and  having  made  no  provision  against  a  rainy 
day,  he  was  enraged  against  the  man  who  had 
hitherto  given  him  good  wages  for  steady  work. 

"  Seen  any  thing  of  Mrs.  Scrivener  ?" 

"  Saw  her  again  as  I  came  here.  She  knows 
nothing  about  her  husband — at  least,  she  says 
so." 

"  How  long  can  we  stand  out  with  what  we 
have  in  the  house  ?" 

"  Not  two  hours.  This  is  how  it  stands  with 
Guerdon  &  Scrivener,"  replied  Mr.  Coleman, 
exhibiting  an  open  ledger,  and  pointing  with 
his  forefinger  to  two  columns  of  arithmetical 
statement. 

"  Much  can  be  done  in  two  hours,"  John 
Guerdon  rejoined,  running  his  eyes  over  the  fig- 
ures submitted  to  his  notice.. 

"Much  need  be  done,"  returned  the  clerk, 
bitterly.  "  The  cashiers  have  been  told  to 
pay  out  as  slowly  as  possible,  and  they'll  obey 
the  order.  Poor  fellows  !  it  is  to  their  interest 
to  give  you  as  much  time  as  possible.  Ah ! 
poor  fellows,  there  are  hard  times  in  store  for 
them !" 

Jn  pitying  the  poor  clerks,  the  hard-featured 


Mr.  Coleman  was  pitying  himself.  The  selfish 
can  compassionate  in  edifying  terms  the  mis- 
fortunes in  which  they  are  themselves  sharers. 
Indeed,  if  we  all  felt  for  the  troubles  of  others 
as  we  do  for  our  own,  the  pulpits  might  cease 
to  enforce  the  first  of  Christian  duties. 

"  Humph  !"  ejaculated  John  Guerdon — "  an- 
other £6740  withdrawn  yesterday  after  I  left !" 

"Precisely  so,  if  we  say  nothing  of  odd 
shillings  and  pence." 

"  Send  a  messenger  immediately  to  Mr.  Ed- 
ward Barlow,  and  ask  him  to  come  round  to 
me." 

A  sardonic  grin  of  vindictive  derision  bright- 
ened Mr.  Coleman's  features  as  he  said, 

"  If  he  does,  he  won't  bring  any  money  with 
him.  He  drew  his  balance  and  closed  his  ac- 
count yesterday  afternoon,  just  after  you  left. 
You  see,  he  is  a  delicate  and  feeling  gentle- 
man, and  did  not  come  in  till  he  knew  that  you- 
had  started  for  the  train." 

John  Guerdon's  face  grew  pale,  and  his  cheeks 
longer,  at  this  announcement  of  his  old  chum's 
desertion  of  the  falling  house. 

"  Umph !  something  must  be  done,  Mr. 
Coleman,"  the  ornamental  partner  remarked, 
with  an  air  of  ludicrous  helplessness. 

"You  said  much  about  the  same  thing  be- 
fore, Mr.  Guerdon." 

"I  will  telegraph  for  supplies — anyhow,  I'll 
do  something." 

"  The  telegraph !  pooh !  /  shall  have  to 
put  the  shutters  up  before  the  telegrams  are 
delivered." 

For  an  hour  and  more,  however,  John  Guer- 
don exerted  himself  to  do  something  with  an 
energy,  if  not  with  a  discretion,  worthy  of  his 
position.  He  sent  off  half  a  dozen  notes  to 
intimate  friends,  who  were  among  the  chief 
capitalists  of  the  Great  Yard  ;  and  he  dispatch- 
ed three  telegraphic  messages  to  London  bank- 
ers whom  he  had  assisted  in  their  seasons  of 
trial.  Having  done  this,  John  Guerdon,  com- 
ing forth  from  his  bank  parlor  into  the  of- 
fice, which  was  densely  crowded  with  quaking 
clients,  assured  the  assembly  that  there  was  no 
cause  for  alarm.  The  run  would  not  exhaust 
the  resources  of  the  bank,  though  there  might 
be  a  brief '  cessation  of  payments  toward  the 
middle  of  the  day,  till  supplies  of  cash  and  notes 
should  arrive  by  the  afternoon  train.  The  self- 
sufficient  manner  in  which  he  had  trained  him- 
self for  half  a  century,  and  his  stately  presence, 
enabled  him  to  make  this  hopeful  and  falla- 
cious statement  in  a  style  that  caused  a  few  of 
his  auditors  to  think  that  he  was  telling  them 
the  truth.  Having  done  thus  much  to  restore 
public  confidence,  John  Guerdon  retired  to  his 
parlor,  and  paced  to  and  fro,  while  he  counted 
the  minutes  until  the  looked  for  supplies  should 
arrive. 

The  run  soon  extinguished  the  bank.  A 
fight  between  a  prize-fighter  and  a  fat  baker 
would  be  a  fairer  contest  than  the  battle  be- 
tween the  Great  Yard  and  the  tottering  con- 
cern. The  house  lived  barely  long  enough  to 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


91 


witness  the  arrival  of  supplies  from  London  in 
the  shape  of  two  telegrams  from  two  of  the 
banks  to  which  John  Guerdon  had  applied  for 
assistance.  "  Can  not  comply  with  your  re- 
quest," and,  "Regret  to  say  it  is  impossible, 
were  the  two  answers  to  the  entreaties  for  in- 
stant help.  Four  out  of  the  six  gentlemen  to 
whom  the  letters  were  sent  had  by  this  time 
come  round  to  the  scene  of  excitement ;  but 
knowing  the  desperate  condition  of  the  estab- 
lishment, and  suspecting  that  Scrivener's  spec- 
ulations would  involve  his  bank  partner  in  pro- 
digious losses,  they  neither  brought  money,  nor 
held  out  hope  that  they  would  furnish  any,  un- 
til an  examination  of  accounts  had  satisfied 
them  that  the  house  was  solvent. 

But  they  did  what  was  better.  They  made 
their  luckless  friend  see  that  it  was  bootless  for 
him  to  continue  the  fight  with  his  many-head- 
ed antagonist.  If  he  should  find  himself  in  a 
position  to  do  so,  he  could  resume  business 
next  week,  or  on  the  very  next  day.  But  as 
there  were  no  available  funds  wherewith  to 
meet  instant  demands,  he  must  put  up  his  shut- 
ters, together  with  an  appropriate  expression 
of  sorrow  at  being  compelled  to  stop  payment 
temporarily.  One  of  the  visitors  who  thus 
urged  the  banker  to  take  at  once  the  only 
course  open  to  him  drew  up  the  requisite  an- 
nouncement in  conciliatory  and  buoyant  terms, 
that  declared  the  banker's  confidence  in  his 
ability  to  liquidate  all  claims,  and  resume  his 
business  at  an  early  date.  The  paper,  with 
John  Guerdon's  signature  attached  to  it,  had 
no  sooner  been  pasted  on  a  wall  of  the  large 
office,  and  been  read  aloud  by  one  of  the  ex- 
cited assembly,  than  cries  arose  from  several 
voices  that  no  one  should  leave  without  his 
money.  But  the  clamor  of  the  throng  inside 
and  outside  the  bank  was  as  impotent  to  af- 
fect the  course  of  events  as  had  been  poor  Mr. 
Guerdon's  brave  resolve  to  "do  something." 
In  a  trice  the  iron  shutters  were  rolled  upward 
with  mechanical  exactness  by  a  servant  work- 
ing a  crank  that  was  neither  in  the  reach  nor 
the  sight  of  the  malcontents,  who,  recognizing 
their  weakness  as  soon  as  daylight  had  been 
excluded  from  the  chamber,  saw  that  they 
might  as  well  carry  off  their  unpaid  notes  and 
checks,  and  their  bitter  disappointment,  to  a 
place  more  suitable  to  the  resentful  discussion 
of  grievances. 

Slipping  away  from  his  friends,  who  began 
to  encumber  him  with  invitations  to  dinner,  and 
with  professions  of  their  unalterable  regard  for 
his  virtues,  poor  John  Guerdon  escaped  from 
the  premises  by  a  back  yard,  and,  catching  the 
early  afternoon  train,  ran  down  to  Owleybury. 
Such  was  the  story  the  broken  man  told  to 
Albert  by  degrees,  with  many  outbreaks  of  pas- 
sionate feeling,  and  not  a  few  pathetically  pro- 
lix descriptions  of  the  trivial  circumstances  of 
"the  run  on  Guerdon  &  Scrivener's  bank." 
The  tale  of  disaster  might  have  been  told  with 
greater  dignity  and  less  diffuseness  ;  but  Albert 
gathered  from  it  a  sufficiently  clear  view  of  the 


morning's  incidents  in  George  Street,  and  of 
the  position  of  his  father's  aft'uirs.  Indeed,  all 
that  it  was  needful  for  him  to  know  lie  had 
le'arned  in  a  very  brief  time.  For  the  moment 
it  was  enough  for  him  to  realize  that,  instead 
of  being  a  rich  man's  heir,  he  was  the  son  of  a 
bankrupt,  of  whom  the  world  would  doubtless 
speak  with  the  disdain  and  resentment  which  it 
is  wont  to  express  for  a  bankrupt  whose  failure 
is  attended  with  wide-spread  misery  to  the 
needy  and  industrious. 


CHAPTER  II. 

JOHN  GUERDON   "  DRIVES  DULL  CARE  AWAY." 

HAVING  made  a  clean  breast  of  it  to  his  son, 
John  Guerdon  became  calmer.  His  eyes,  in- 
deed, flashed  vindictively,  and  the  wrath  of  his 
breast  vented  itself  in  fierce  maledictions  when- 
ever the  treacherous  Scrivener's  name  or  con- 
duct rose  in  the  conversation ;  but  the  broken 
man  was  soon  able  to  talk  with  outward  com- 
posure, as  well  as  with  frankness,  of  the  disas- 
ter that,  even  in  his  imperfect  knowledge  of  the 
magnitude  of  Scrivener's  defalcations,  and  of 
the  extent  to  which  those  defalcations  affected 
the  bank,  he  recognized  as  tantamount  to  his 
utter  ruin.  When  the  old  man  had  talked 
himself  into  a  kind  of  familiarity  with  his  mis- 
fortunes, Albert  left  him  for  a  few  minutes,  to 
write  and  dispatch  by  messenger  the  following 
letter  to  Lottie : 

"  You  have  probably  heard  by  this  time,  my 
dear  Lottie,  the  cause  of  my  sudden  summons 
to  Earl's  Court.  Doubtless,  your  father  has 
already  told  you  that  my  father's  partner  has 
fled  from  Hammerhampton,  and  that  a  run  on 
the  bank  has  caused  its  collapse.  The  extent 
of  the  misfortune  I,  of  course,  can  not  say  at 
present,  and  shall  not  know  for  many  days. 
My  father,  yielding  to  the  infirmities  of  age, 
lias  of  late  years  left  the  bank  so  much  to  Mr. 
Scrivener  that  it  would  be  strange  if,  within  a 
few  hours  of  its  failure,  he  could  state  precise- 
ly the  amount  of  its  liabilities,  and  the  measure 
of  its  inadequate  means  to  meet  them.  But, 
from  his  necessarily  incomplete  revelations,  it 
s  obvious  that  his  bankruptcy  precludes  all 
grounds  for  hoping  that  the  business  may  be 
restored.  It  would  be  cruelty  and  dishonor  for 
me  to  bid  you  to  think  hopefully  about  affairs 
that  are  beyond  hope.  You  are  brave  enough 
o  endure  the  shock  of  learning  that  the  blow, 
which  makes  my  dear  father  a  bankrupt,  has 
deprived  me  altogether  of  the  prosperity  which 
t  was  our  purpose  to  enjoy  with  thankfulness, 
and  use  to  good  ends.  Instead  of  being  rich, 
[  have,  in  a  few  hours,  become  so  poor  that, 
vere  I  only  an  apparent  suitor  for  your  love, 
-our  father  might  reasonably  refuse  to  give 
rou  to  so  poor  a  man.  To  my  own  exertions, 
and  power  of  making  a  position  for  myself, 
,vith  very  little  aid  from  external  resources,  I 


92 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


must  henceforth  trust  for  giving  you  a  fit  home 
when  we  marry.  Under  these  circumstances, 
my  beauty,  you  must  prepare  yourself  for  a 
postponement — not  a  long  one — of  our  wed- 
ding. Of  course,  on  this  point,  I  am  altogeth- 
er in  your  hands,  and  you  are  altogether  in  the 
hands  of  your  father,  who,  out  of  the  love  which 
he  has  always  shown  you,  will  make  your  hap- 
piness his  first  thought,  before,  out  of  the  affec- 
tion and  generous  considerateness  which  have 
governed  his  treatment  of  me  throughout  our 
engagement,  he  will  think  how  he  can  make  his 
decision  agreeable  to  my  wishes.  Perhaps  he 
may  think  there  is  no  need  for  a  long  postpone- 
ment of  our  marriage  ;  perhaps  he  will  even  be 
of  opinion  that  our  wedding  may  be  celebrated 
in  strict  privacy  on  the  day  appointed  for  our 
union. 

"  But  there  are  so  many  weighty  and  obvious 
reasons  for  a  decision  which  would  defer  for  a 
considerable  period  the  realization  of  our  sweet- 
est hopes,  that  I  entreat  you,  my  beautiful  one, 
to  prepare  yourself  for  a  heavy  disappointment. 
Whatever  may  be  your  father's  conclusion  on 
this  matter  of  first  interest  to  us,  you  may  be 
sure  that  he  will  arrive  at  it  out  of  pure  love 
for  you,  and  a  proper  regard  for  his  responsi- 
bilities. And  should  it  occasion  me  dissatis- 
faction, or  even  a  sharper  pain,  you  may  com- 
fort yourself  by  reflecting  that  the  judgment 
will  not  cause  me  to  overlook  his  kindness  to 
me,  or  question  his  affection  for  me.  Were  not 
you  the  first  of  my  personal  interests,  I  should 
blush  for  my  selfishness  in  giving  them  so  much 
prominence  in  a  letter  occasioned  by  my  dear 
father's  worldly  ruin,  under  circumstances  that 
will,  alas !  make  him  appear  the  enemy  and 
betrayer  of  those  who  have  trusted  him.  It 
agonizes  me  to  see  the  fine  old  man  brought 
so  low,  and  striving  so  bravely  to  endure  his 
misfortunes  with  dignity.  It  cuts  me  through 
the  heart,  and  through  it  again,  to  know  that 
his  calamity  involves  ruin  to  hundreds  of  in- 
nocent persons,  and  serious  misadventure  to 
thousands.  But  don't  think  of  my  wretched- 
ness, pet.  Sorrow  is  good  for  all  of  us ;  and 
the  knowledge  that  it  is  so  is  the  best  of  all 
consolations  for  the  sorrowful.  It  was  a  wise 
and  merciful  man  who  said  that,  the  world  be- 
ing what  it  was,  misery  was  about  the  best 
thing  in  it.  As  it  will  devolve  on  me  for  sev- 
eral days  to  be  my  father's  constant  companion, 
and  the  comforter  of  his  affliction,  ten  minutes 
in  every  four-and-twenty  hours  is  as  much  time 
as  I  shall  be  able  to  spend  in  your  society  dur- 
ing the  next  week.  But,  come  what  may,  I  will 
endeavor  to  see  you  for  a  few  moments  every 
day.  To-morrow  I  shall  probably  be  required 
to  spend  in  Hammerhampton  ;  in  that  case,  if 
I  can  with  propriety  leave  my  father,  I  will  ride 
over  to  Arleigh  in  the  evening.  Give  my  love 
to  your  mamma,  and  tell  her  that  she  can  do 
me  no  unkinder  thing  than  to  fret  overmuch 
about  our  troubles.  My  love  also  to  Sir  James ; 
assure  him  that  I  wish  him,  in  deciding  for  us, 
to  think  only  of  you.  What  is  for  your  good 


must,  in  the  long  run,  be  for  my  happiness. 
Good-bye  again,  beauty.  Mind,  no  tears  in  the 
darkness !  Be  cheerful  by  night  as  well  as  by 
day.  The  black  clouds  are  over  us  just  now, 
but  there's  a  sun  that  will  break  through  them 
in  an  hour  or  two.  There  is  a  kiss  for  you  on 
our  usual  corner  of  the  paper.  ALBERT." 

When  Albert  had  dispatched  this  letter,  the 
Earl's  Court  dinner  hour  had  arrived,  at  which 
meal,  though  he  had  no  appetite  for  food,  it 
was  incumbent  on  him  to  bear  his  father  com- 
pany. Unlike  his  son,  John  Guerdon  went  to 
the  table  with  a  manifest  desire  to  find  diver- 
sion and  solace  in  its  pleasures.  At  all  times 
a  hearty  feeder,  the  old  man  now  ate  greedily, 
and  drank  with  proportionate  freedom.  Hav- 
ing taken  two  large  glasses  of  Madeira  with  his 
fish,  he  called  for  more  of  the  wine  with  his 
cutlet,  and  rallied  his  son  on  his  temperance. 
It  was  the  same  throughout  the  later  courses 
of  the  meal ;  and  when  the  white  cloth  had 
been  removed,  and  the  glasses  were  reflected 
from  the  burnished  surface  of  the  dark  mahog- 
any board,  the  banker,  whose  bank  had  expired 
in  the  morning,  clutched  the  decanter  of  '20 
port  as  though  it  were  a  life-buoy  flung  out  to 
save  him  from  drowning.  At  first  his  father's 
obvious  purpose  affected  Albert  with  a  sense 
of  lively  repugnance.  He  would  have  prefer- 
red a  stouter  and  more  stoical  demeanor  in  the 
defeated  veteran.  But,  compassion  in  a  few 
minutes  overcoming  every  other  feeling,  Albert 
was  reconciled  to  the  unedifying  spectacle ; 
and  filling  his  claret  glass  with  an  affectation 
of  hilarity,  he  even  encouraged  his  sire  to  drink 
away  his  care  and  sense  of  humiliation. 

As  he  gulped  down  the  second  bottle  of  '20, 
which  he  ordered  on  the  plea  that  he  needed  to 
be  cheered  up,  John  Guerdon  talked  huskily 
about  the  morrow,  and  proposed  that,  while  he 
remained  at  Earl's  Court,  Albert  should  go  into 
Hammerhampton  and  request  certain  persons 
— such  as  Mr.  Jacob  Coleman,  Mr.  Greaves 
(the  solicitor),  and  other  persons  connected 
with  Guerdon  &  Scrivener's  affairs — to  come  at 
once  to  Earl's  Court. 


CHAPTER  III. 

SIR  JAMES  DARLING'S  DECISION. 

ALBERT  was  right  in  presuming  that  his 
etter  would  not  reach  Lottie  before  she  had 
icard  of  the  fall  of  the  bank.  As  Sir  James 
Darling  held  a  court  on  that  day  in  the  me- 
tropolis of  the  Great  Yard,  he  was  aware  of  the 
run  on  the  bank  before  it  had  broken  the  bank- 
er. The  tradesmen,  on  whose  petty  claims  he 
adjudicated  in  the  County  Court,  were  well 
aware  of  what  was  going  on  in  George  Street. 
Some  of  them  had  sent  their  strongest  clerks 
o  join  in  the  "  rush  for  immediate  payment." 
Others  of  them  were  themselves  in  the  crowd 
jefore  the  bank,  while  attorneys  represented 


LOTTIE  DAKLING. 


them  before  Sir  James's  tribunal.  The  knowl- 
edge that  his  account  made  him  a  creditor  of 
the  falling  bank  for  more  than  £800  did  not 
help  the  judge  to  maintain  his  usual  equanimi- 
ty on  the  seat  of  justice.  But  the  loss  of  such 
a  sum  was  a  flea-bite  in  comparison  with  the 
apprehension  that  he  would  be  found  to  have 
chosen  a  bankrupt's  son  for  his  pretty  daughter. 

On  his  way  from  his  court  to  the  railway 
station  in  the  afternoon,  Sir  James  Darling  en- 
countered several  acquaintances  who  gave  him 
alarming  accounts  of  Mr.  Scrivener's  defalca- 
tions. At  the  station  the  iron -masters  and 
manufacturers,  awaiting  the  arrival  of  the  down 
train,  were  in  a  state  of  lively  and  loquacious 
excitement.  There  were  half  a  score  enter- 
prises in  which  the  fugitive  had  speculated  to 
his  loss.  He  had  dropped  money  on  slate- 
quarries  and  lead-mines,  on  bad  iron-workings 
and  unprofitable  borings  for  coal.  He  had  suf- 
fered largely  in  the  railway  panic,  and  made 
frantic  endeavors  to  recover  his  losses  on  the 
Stock  Exchange.  He  had  held  shares  in  the 
West  London  Universal  Building  Society,  which 
collapsed  six  months  since,  and  had  lent  heavy 
sums  to  bubble  Life  Insurance  Associations. 
Had  every  thing  which  Sir  James  Darling 
heard  at  the  railway  station  been  true,  Mr. 
Gimlett  Scrivener  would  have  made  away  with 
a  million  sterling  more  than  the  creditably  large 
sum  of  £170,000,  which  ultimately  proved  to 
be  the  total  of  his  debts  and  defalcations.  But 
in  an  atmosphere  surcharged  with  fear,  sus- 
picion, and  resentment,  the  quidnuncs  of  the 
Great  Yard  were  in  no  humor  to  be  nicely  ac- 
curate in  what  they  said,  or  nicely  critical  of 
what  they  heard.  It  was  an  hour  of  wild  state- 
ments and  unlimited  credulity.  The  scoun- 
drel's flight  and  crimes  were  the  one  topic  of 
the  several  towns  of  the  vast  region  of  work- 
shops. As  Sir  James  Darling  stood  on  the 
platform  in  a  babbling  throng,  the  newsboys 
of  the  evening's  Iron  Times  were  crying  at  the 
top  of  their  metallic  voices,  "  Gigantic  Bank 
Failure !  Crash  of  the  Hammerharnpton  Bank ! 
Enormous  frauds  of  the  absconding  partner!" 
Fraud !  It  was  an  ugly  word !  The  small 
judge  of  a  small  court  shrugged  his  little  shoul- 
ders, and  shivered  (hot  day  though  it  was)  from 
the  white  patch  of  his  bald  crown  down  to  his  ab- 
surdly minute  feet,  as  his  ears  caught  the  reit- 
erations of  "enormous  frauds."  What  if  John 
Guerdon  should  be  implicated  in  his  partner's 
felonious  acts  ?  What  if  the  man  whom  he 
(Sir  James  Darling,  Q.C.,  and  all  the  other  let- 
ters) had  chosen  for  a  son-in-law,  should  bear 
a  name  tainted  with  felony  ?  As  these  thoughts 
occurred  to  the  judge,  selfish  fear  blanched  his 
cheeks  and  made  his  knees  tremble. 

"  If  so  ?"  he  murmured.  "  Good  heavens, 
if  so  ?  What  an  escape  for  my  child  !  And, 
even  though  she  is  not  married,  what  a  scandal!" 

Before  the  judge  again  arrived  at  Arleigh,  he 
had  decided  that  Lottie's  marriage  must  be  de- 
ferred. If  it  should  appear  that  John  Guerdon 
had  not  participated  in  his  partner's  nefarious 


proceedings,  the  wedding  could  take  place  when 
Albert  had  breasted  the  waves  of  adverse  circum- 
stance, and  should,  in  some  honorable  calling, 
be  making  an  income  sufficient  for  the  suitable 
maintenance  of  a  wife.  If,  on  the  other  hand, 
it  should  be  found  that  Mr.  Guerdon,  senior, 
had  perpetrated  any  grievous  commercial  mis- 
demeanor, or  had  in  any  way  seriously  com- 
promised his  honor,  Lottie  must  be  required  to 
sacrifice  herself  for  her  family,  and  dismiss 
Mr.  Guerdon,  junior.  Should  this  extreme  and 
painful  measure  be  necessary,  Albert  would,  of 
course,  like  an  honorable  man,  relieve  an  inno- 
cent girl  and  her  family  of  their  embarrassment 
by  retiring  from  a  position  which  he  had  gained 
through  a  misunderstanding.  Anyhow,  the  wed- 
ding must  be  postponed.  Under  the  distressing 
circumstances,  it  would  be  a  flagrant  scandal 
for  a  wedding  to  take  place  in  Mr.  Guerdon's 
family,  while  his  outraged  creditors  were  seiz- 
ing and  selling  his  estate.  As  one  of  Her  Maj- 
esty's judges,  and  a  representative  of  public 
morality,  Sir  James  Darling  felt  himself  bound 
to  stifle  his  gentler  feelings,  and  prevent  a  scan- 
dal in  which  he  would  figure  as  a  principal  act- 
or. The  obligations  of  his  office  required  him 
to  be  firm.  When  public  duty  and  private  in- 
terest recommend  a  mean  and  selfish  course, 
men  are  often  extraordinarily  zealous  in  doing 
their  duty  to  society. 

Sir  James  Darling's  first  act,  after  recrossing 
his  threshold,  was  to  inform  his  wife  of  the  disas- 
ter in  George  Street.  At  the  same  time  he  bade 
her  lose  not  a  minute  in  telling  Lottie  that  her 
marriage  was  postponed.  He  gave  the  news  and 
the  order  in  quick,  sharp  sentences,  uttered  in 
an  authoritative  tone,  which  he  had  not  used 
for  several  months  to  any  member  of  his  family. 
The  genial  father  and  husband  had  disappeared, 
and  been  replaced  by  the  stiff,  straight-backed, 
imperious  little  despot.  The  bank  had  failed. 
He  had  doubtless  lost  the  greater  part  of  his  de- 
posit. Mr.  Guerdon,  senior,  was  a  bankrupt. 
There  was  no  doubt  that  Mr.  Guerdon  was 
completely  ruined,  that  Earl's  Court  would  pass 
at  once  into  the  possession  of  his  creditors,  and 
that  Albert  would  have  to  work  hard,  like  any 
other  almost  penniless  young  man,  for  his  liv- 
ing. There  was,  of  course,  no  blame  attaching 
to  the  young  man,  whose  misfortune  demand- 
ed compassion.  But  it  was  a  fact  that  he  was 
not  in  a  position  to  marry ;  and  his  union  with 
Lottie  would  therefore  be  put  off  sine  die.  It 
was  best  that  Lottie  should  be  told  so  at  once. 
Lady  Darling  would  be  good  enough  to  tell  her 
the  truth  immediately.  There  would  be  no 
good  in  withholding  the  painful  fact  from  the 
dear  girl,  or  in  palliating  it  to  her.  She  had 
better  be  told  before  dinner,  and  be  at  the  same 
time  instructed  to  appear  at  dinner  as  though 
nothing  particular  had  happened.  Sir  James 
Darling  "  hated  scenes,"  and  he  hoped  his  dear 
Lottie  would  behave  bravely,  and  spare  her 
father  the  discomfort  of  "  a  scene."  After  din- 
ner he  would  go  to  work  in  the  library,  writing 
letters  of  explanation  to  the  many  persons  who 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


must  be  informed  at  once  that  the  wedding,  to 
which  they  had  been  invited,  was  deferred.  It 
would  be  well  if  Lady  Darling  assisted  him  in 
this  troublesome  work. 

Mary  Darling  began  to  plead  for  a  few 
hours'  reprieve.  The  mother  felt  that  she  could 
break  the  dismal  tidings  to  Lottie  more  gently, 
and  no  less  effectually,  if  she  told  them  to  her 
when  the  poor  girl  had  retired  to  her  bed.  She 
could  then  find  time  to  put  her  arms  round  the 
child's  neck,  and  console  her  with  motherly 
kisses.  Lady  Darling  was  on  the  point  of  say- 
ing this  ;  she  had  even  hazarded  the  opinion 
that  Lottie  should  not  be  spoken  to  till  the 
close  of  the  evening,  when  she  was  silenced  by 
a  quick,  sharp  glance,  and  the  icy  fixedness  of 
a  pair  of  thin  lips.  Lady  Darling  knew  that 
expostulation  was  in  vain  when  her  lord  as- 
sumed that  look,  and  setting  of  the  lips.  The 
judge  and  lawgiver,  under  his  own  roof,  was 
ready  to  assert  himself,  and  bear  down  all  re- 
sistance to  his  will.  Knowing  her  place,  and 
the  extent  of  her  powers,  Mary  Darling  retired 
at  once  to  execute  James's  bidding. 

Twenty  minutes  later,  when  Sir  James  en- 
tered the  drawing-room,  dressed  in  his  black 
clothes,  white  tie,  and  pumps  fitted  with  bows 
of  black  ribbon,  Lottie  and  her  mamma  were 
ready  to  receive  him.  The  girl  was  pale,  and 
there  was  a  barely  perceptible  redness  in  her 
eyelids.  Her  lips,  also,  quivered  slightly  as  her 
eyes  fell  under  her  father's  observation.  At  a 
glance  he  saw  that  Mary  had  obeyed  her  in- 
structions, and  that  Lottie,  having  taken  the 
cue,  with  her  usual  docility,  was  bent  on  play- 
ing the  part  of  a  brave  girl.  For  a  few  short 
moments  there  was  danger  of  "  a  scene,"  when 
Lottie,  advancing  to  her  father,  kissed  him,  and 
essayed  to  whisper  a  few  words  into  his  ear. 
But  there  was  a  something — an  austere,  pedant- 
ic coldness — in  the  little  man's  dry,  hard  face, 
which  cut  the  whisper  short,  and  put  down  her 
rising  heart  with  an  icy  influence.  She  could 
not  have  said  in  what  the  change  consisted,  but 
he  was  strangely  altered  from  what  he  had  been 
in  the  morning.  No  longer  the  gracious, 
frank,  sympathetic  companion  that  he  had  been 
to  her  ever  since  her  return  from  school,  he 
was  once  again  the  good  but  awe-inspiring 
father  before  whom  she  had  trembled  in  her 
childhood.  She  was  once  again  fearing  his 
displeasure,  though  he  had  never  in  the  whole 
course  of  his  life  expressed  even  a  transient 
disapproval  of  her  with  harshness. 

There  was  little  conversation  at  the  dinner- 
table.  Of  the  one  topic  which  engrossed  the 
thoughts  of  the  parents  and  their  child,  no  one 
of  the  three  cared  to  speak  in  the  hearing  of 
servants ;  and,  when  the  mind  is  full  of  a  pain- 
ful subject,  it  is  not  easy  to  manufacture  trivial 
table-talk.  The  dismal  and  silent  meal  was 
in  its  last  stage,  and  Sir  James  Darling  had 
filled  his  glass  with  port  for  the  second  time, 
when  a  servant,  entering  the  dining-room, 
brought  Lottie  the  letter  which  we  have  pe- 
rused. 


Having,  with  a  speechless  movement  of  her 
head,  asked  her  father's  permission  to  open  the 
envelope  at  once,  the  girl  read  the  note,  and 
reperused  it  deliberately.  And  then,  thinking 
that  her  father  had  better  see  the  epistle,  she 
handed  it  to  him  without  a  word. 

"A  very  appropriate  letter — in  every  respect 
the  letter  of  a  young  man  of  right  principles 
and  honorable  sentiments,"  he  observed,  stiffly, 
when  he  had  slowly  studied  the  note.  After  a 
pause,  the  small  man  added,  with  a  less  freez- 
ing benignity,  "Whatever  may  be  the  result 
of  this  grievous  catastrophe,  I  am  confident 
that  Albert's  conduct  will  justify  our  high 
opinion  of  him.  My  dear  Mary,  you  should 
read  what  Albert  says  with  equal  delicacy  and 
dutifulness." 

This  speech  was  meant  to  afford  Lottie  grat- 
ification, and  it  did  not  fail  in  its  purpose, 
though  her  heart  fluttered  with  a  chilling  sen- 
sation at  the  opening  words,  "Whatever  may 
be  the  result."  Was  it  possible  that  the  griev- 
ous catastrophe  could  have  any  worse  result 
than  a  brief  postponement — say  for  a  whole 
year,  or  even  two  years — of  her  wedding  ? 

"He  will  like  to  hear  that  you  approve  the 
letter,  papa,"  she  observed.  "May  I  tell  him 
what  you  say  ?  I  shall  send  him  a  short  reply 
by  the  messenger,  who  is  waiting  for  an  an- 
swer." 

"  I  will  write  him  a  line  or  two,  which  you 
can  inclose  in  your  note,  Lottie." 

"Thank  you,  papa — that  is  very  kind  of 
you." 

"And  now,  my  dear  Mary,"  observed  the 
judge,  pompously,  when  he  had  drunk  his  sec- 
ond glass  of  port,  "  we  will  go  off  at  once  to 
the  library,  for  we  have  a  great  many  letters  to 
write,  so  that  they  may  be  posted  at  Hammer- 
hampton  to-morrow,  in  time  for  the  early  mail. 
Henry  may  bring  my  wine  and  glass  to  my 
writing-table.  Let  me  go  to  work  at  once. 
When  you  have  written  your  reply  to  Albert, 
come  to  me  in  the  library  for  my  few  lines." 

On  entering  his  chamber  of  study,  from 
which  the  rays  of  the  falling  sun  had  been  ex- 
cluded, Sir  James  seated  himself  at  his  desk- 
table,  on  which  a  shaded  lamp  threw  an  artful- 
ly disposed  light ;  and  dipping  his  pen  in  ink, 
he  prepared  to  write  "the  line  or  two"  to  Al- 
bert. 

"Be  very  kind  to  him,  James,"  Mary  Dar- 
ling entreated. 

"There  is  no  need,"  Sir  James  replied,  in 
his  stateliest  fashion,  looking  up  from  his  desk, 
"  for  you,  Mary,  to  urge  me  to  be  properly  con- 
siderate to  our  young  friend." 

"I  know  that,  James.  But,  indeed,  you 
must  be  very  kind.  Poor  boy,  he  is  to  be  pit- 
ied, even  more  than  Lottie  ;  and  I  am  sure  his 
beautiful  letter  deserves  a  generous  response." 

Declining  to  notice  this  second  entreaty  for 
especial  kindness,  Sir  James  Darling,  who  had 
donned  a  pair  of  spectacles,  lowered  his  face  to 
his  blotting-pad,  and  wrote  thus  on  a  sheet  of 
note-paper : 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


95 


"You  are  quite  right,  my  dear  Albert,  in 
supposing  that  the  postponement  of  your  mar- 
riage would  be  one  of  the  necessary  conse- 
quences of  the  sad  affair  of  this  morning ;  and 
you  were  very  right  in  urging  my  dear  child  to 
commit  herself  unreservedly  to  my  authority. 
Your  counsel  to  her,  and  the  very  appropriate 
terms  in  which  it  is  given,  accord  altogether 
with  my  good  opinion  of  your  principles  and 
discretion.  It  is  needless  to  say  that  we  here 
are  all  deeply  affected  by  a  calamity  that  con- 
cerns us  almost  as  nearly  as  yourself.  Receive 
my  warmest  assurances  of  sympathy  ;  and,  my 
dear  Albert,  convey  assurances  of  the  same 
kind  from  me  and  Lady  Darling  to  your  wor- 
thy father.  Yours  very  sincerely, 

"JAMES  DARLING." 

"  Perhaps  you  would  like  to  see  what  I  have 
said,"  observed  the  writer,  handing  the  note  to 
his  wife. 

"  Oh,  James,"  moaned  Mary,  "  do  write 
more  kindly." 

"  Is  it  not  kind  enough  ?" 

"Indeed,  indeed  it  is  not,  James.  You  give 
no  assurance  that  the  postponement  will  be 
only  for  a  short  time,  nor  any  hint  that  his  loss 
of  wealth  will  only  heighten  Lottie's  devotion 
to  him,  and  strengthen  the  ties  of  affection 
which  bind  him  to  us.  You  draw  a  hard,  un- 
feeling distinction  between  him  and  us,  as 
though  he  and  we  were  not  already  one  and 
the  same  family." 

"Precisely  what  I  meant  to  do,  Mary,"  re- 
plied Sir  James,  with  magisterial  coldness. 
"Under  the  circumstances,  it  is  consolatory  to 
know  that  we  are  not  yet  one  family." 

A  look  of  alarm  came  to  Mary  Darling's  face 
at  these  words.  It  was  the  look  of  a  timid, 
gentle  creature,"  startled  and  frightened  by  a 
terrible  discovery. 

"Surely,  surely,  James,"  she  ejaculated  fer- 
vidly, "you  would  not  dismiss  him,  and  sepa- 
rate him  from  Lottie  forever,  simply  because 
he  has  become  poor?" 

"Certainly  not,  my  dear,"  Sir  James  an- 
swered firmly,  but  without  emotion,  the  quiet 
steadiness  of  his  wiry  voice  indicating  clearness 
of  purpose  and  resoluteness.  "I  should  not 
think  of  breaking  off  the  engagement  because 
of  his  poverty.  Things  have  gone  too  far  for 
me  to  regard  loss  of  fortune  as  a  sufficient  rea- 
son for  telling  our  girl  to  dismiss  him.  But 
there  may  arise  circumstances  which  would 
decide  me  to  take  that  extreme  step."  * 

"Oh,  James,"  Mary  Darling  pleaded,  blush- 
ing slightly,  as  \vith  a  feeling  of  shame  and 
penitence  she  bade  her  husband  remember  that 
they  were  peculiarly  bound  to  be  true  to  Albert 
in  his  season  of  adversity,  "  we  may  not  forget 
that  our  ready  countenance  of  his  addresses  to 
Lottie  gives  him  a  title  to  no  ordinary  measure 
of  generosity  from  us.  If  he  was  quick  in 
coming  forth  to  seek  our  daughter,  we  showed 
no  reluctance  in  welcoming  him  to  Arleigh." 

"True,  my  dear.      I  shall  bear  in  mind  what 


you  refer  to,"  rejoined  the  husband,  with  the 
composure  and  courtesy  that  he  always  displayed 
when  he  was  most  bent  on  bearing  down  oppo- 
sition. "  He  shall  never  have  reason  to  com- 
plain of  my  generosity.  But  should  it  appear 
that  Mr.  Guerdon,  the  elder,  has  forfeited  his 
title  to  social  respect  by  abetting  or  conniving 
at  his  partner's  flagitious  proceedings,  my  wish 
to  be  generous  to  our  young  friend  must  be  re- 
strained by  proper  concern  for  the  honor  of  the 
family — by  regard  for  the  good  fame  of  all  my 
children.  I  have  sons,  who  should  not  be  made 
to  blush  for  their  sister's  alliance  with  dishon- 
ored people.  Lottie  is  very  dear  to  me  —  but 
she  is  not  my  only  child.  Moreover,  Mary,  it 
would  not  be  for  her  happiness,  in  the  long  run, 
to  be  linked  to  a  man  whose  name  had  become 
a  reproach." 

"  But  there  is  no  imputation  on  Mr.  Guer- 
don." 

"  Not  at  present.  It  is,  however,  certain  that 
his  partner  is  a  prodigious  scoundrel." 

"  Mr.  Scrivener's  villainy  does  not  touch  Al- 
bert's honor." 

"Not  if  his  father  has  had  no  part  in  it." 

"  Even  then,  James,  who  are  we  that  we 
should  visit  the  sins  of  the  father  on  the  son  ?" 

"We  are  parents,  my  dear  Mary,  and  bound 
to  provide  for  the  welfare  of  all  our  offspring  at 
any  sacrifice  of  our  own  feelings." 

During  this  conversation  Mary  Darling's 
countenance  was  overtaken  by  a  sadness  that 
never  left  it.  The  gentle  melancholy,  which 
for  a  brief  season  had  disappeared  on  the  reviv- 
al of  her  drooping  spirits,  re-occupied  the  pale, 
worn  face  of  the  prematurely  aging  lady.  The 
lights  of  joy  passed  quietly  from  it  forever,  and, 
like  a  dutiful  woman  awakening  from  a  pleasant 
dream  that  had  for  a  short  while  lured  her  into 
idleness,  she  bestirred  herself  to  accomplish  the 
work  assigned  to  her  by  misfortune. 

"Let  us  begin  to  write  the  letters,"  she  said. 

"Let  me  see  ;  shall  I  write  to  Sarah  ?" 

"  Yes ;  write  to  your  sister-in-law  at  Nice. 
The  letter  will  perhaps  reach  them  before  they 
have  started.  But  to  give  them  every  chance 
of  timely  intelligence,  I  will  direct  a  line  to  my 
brother  at  his  Paris  hotel,  and  another  to  him. 
at  the  Calais  hotel.  If  we  can  not  prevent  them 
from  starting,  we  must  stop  them  on  the  road. 
It  would  worry  us  both  to  have  them  here  un- 
der the  present  circumstances." 

Three  minutes  later,  when  she  entered  the 
library,  Lottie  saw  her  father  and  mother  plying 
their  pens  quickly — her  papa  at  his  escritoire, 
her  mamma  at  the  large  table. 

"  I  have  come  for  your  note  to  Albert,  papa'." 

"  Here  it  is,  my  dear  girl." 

Glancing  furtively  at  her  husband  and  daugh- 
ter, as  the  latter  took  the  note  from  his  hand, 
Mary  Darling  was  relieved  to  see  that  he  put 
the  "  line  or  two"  into  a  closed  envelope,  so  that 
Lottie  should  not  see  it. 

Re-entering  the  room  in  another  minute, 
when  she  had  dispatched  the  note  for  Albert, 
Lottie  took  a  seat  at  the  large  table,  opposite  to 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


her  mother,  saying,  "  Let  me  lielp  you,  mamma. 
All  this  trouble  may  not  be  taken  for  me,  while 
I  do  nothing  to  diminish  it.  Anyhow,  I  can 
write  to  my  brides-maids  and  Miss  Constan- 
tine." 

Lottie  had  no  intention  to  play  the  heroine  ; 
and  she  was  agreeably  surprised  by  the  warmth 
and  emphasis  with  which  both  her  parents  com- 
mended her  for  what  they  called  her  "brave 
conduct." 

So  Lottie,  for  a  few  minutes  comforted  by  her 
parents'  praise  almost  into  indifference  to  her 
disappointment,  went  to  work  on  a  packet  of 
note-paper.  Like  the  epistles  thrown  off  by  the 
senior  scribes,  her  letters  were  brief  and  to  the 
point ;  and,  ere  the  time-piece  over  the  library 
door  struck  the  hour  of  midnight,  she  had  pen- 
ned the  requisite  intelligence  to  several  persons 
besides  Miss  Constantino,  and  the  girls  who  had 
promised  to  wait  upon  her  at  her  marriage. 

Sir  James  and  Lady  Darling  had  been  no 
less  industrious.  And  as  the  twelfth  stroke 
was  given  by  the  clock,  they  also  laid  down  their 
pens,  and  congratulated  themselves  on  the  com- 
pletion of  their  depressing  task. 

"  That  will  do,"  said  the  judge,  when  he  had 
counted  the  letters  and  tied  them  in  three  pack- 
ages, after  reading  their  directions.  "No  one 
has  been  forgotten  whom  we  ought  to  remem- 
ber. To-morrow  I  will  be  up  early,  catch  the 
7.50  train  at  Owleybury,  and  post  the  letters 
at  Hammerhampton,  so  that  they  will  be  off 
to  London  by  the  midday  mail.  And  now  to 
bed,  for  we  are  tired !  Ah,  Mary,  my  dear, 
how  tired  you  look !  And  you,  too,  Lottie,  are 
ready  for  your  pillow.  Kiss  me,  my  child — 
my  good,  brave  child — and  be  off  to  bed." 

Feeling  again  almost  at  ease  with  the  fa- 
ther, under  whose  eyes  she  had  trembled  with 
fear  before  dinner,  Lottie  kissed  him,  and  then, 
turning  to  her  mother,  gave  her  a  longer  and 
more  caressing  embrace. 

There  was  not  a  tear  in  the  eyes  of  either  of 
the  women  as  they  bade  each  other  farewell  for 
the  night. 

Nor  did  Lottie  cry  herself  to  sleep.  Excite- 
ment and  work  had  so  thoroughly  fatigued  her  I 
that  she  fell  into  a  deep  slumber  almost  before  i 
she  had  composed  herself  on  her  couch.  But  j 
when  the  bright  sun  of  the  summerly  morrow 
roused  the  poor  girl,  a  vivid  recollection  of  the 
events  of  the  previous  day  drew  from  her  an 
exclamation  of  anguish,  and  caused  her  to  weep 
passionately.  It  was  not  grief  alone  for  as- 
certained calamity  that  subdued  her  fortitude. 
The  fear  that  held  her  was-  more  agonizing  than 
her  sorrow  for  what  had  happened  only  yester- 
day. A  dread  had  seized  her  that  the  worst 
was  still  to  be  learned  ;  that  her  present  disap- 
pointment was  but  the  forerunner  of  unutterable 
woe.  Yesterday  having  deferred  her  wedding, 
might  not  to-day  produce  a  sharper  grief?  She 
had  already  in  a  few  short  hours  passed  from 
gladness  to  gloom.  Could  it  be  that  in  a  few 
short  days  she  would  pass  from  wretchedness 
to  despair  ?  Poor  girl,  it  was  thus  that  she 


began  the  day  which  followed  the  postpone- 
ment of  her  marriage ;  it  was  thus  that  she 
began  many  later  days  with  bitter  tears. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  DAY  AFTER  THE  CRASH. 

SIR  JAMES  DARLING  and  Albert  went  to  Ham- 
merhampton, on  the  morning  after  the  fall  of 
the  bank,  by  the  same  early  train ;  but,  hap- 
pening to  get  seats  in  two  different  carriages, 
they  could  not  exchange  words  until  they  greet- 
ed each  other  at  the  Hammerhampton  Station. 
In  shaking  hands  with  his  son-in-law  elect,  and 
bidding  him  good-morning,  the  judge  was  polite, 
without  being  cordial.  If  not  frigid  and  stu- 
diously distant,  his  manner  was  stiff,  cautious, 
and  unsympathetic.  Adding  no  word  to  his  writ- 
ten expressions  of  regret  for  the  previous  day's 
misfortune,  and  forbearing  to  make  any  refer- 
ence to  Mr.  Guerdon,  senior,  beyond  a  civil  in- 
quiry for  his  health,  Sir  James  spoke  directly 
of  the  steps  he  had  taken,  and  would  take,  for 
the  postponement  of  the  wedding.  Saying  how 
he  and  Lady  Darling  and  Lottie  had  worked 
with  their  pens  from  8.30  to  midnight,  he  held 
up  the  letter-bag  which  he  carried  in  his  right 
hand,  adding,  almost  cheerily, 

"And  now  I'll  drive  to  the  post-office,  on 
my  way  to  my  court,  and  post  the  letters  my- 
self." 

If  he  felt  distaste  for  the  business,  he  did  not 
show  it.  In  reply  to  Albert's  inquiry  for  Lot- 
tie's health,  Sir  James  reported  that,  though 
profoundly  shocked  by  what  had  taken  place, 
and  naturally  disappointed  at  the  delay  of  her 
marriage,  she  was  bearing  up  bravely,  and  wsis 
as  well  as  any  one  could  expfect  her  to  be  un- 
der the  afflicting  circumstances.  Her  father 
thought  that  perfect  rest  and  quietude  would 
be  beneficial  for  her  ;  and  he  advised  Albert  to 
keep  away  from  Arleigh  Manor  for  the  next  two 
or  three  days ;  or,  at  least,  if  he  went  there,  to 
be  careful  to  say  nothing  that  would  aggravate 
Lottie's  anxiety,  or  occasion  Lady  Darling  fur- 
ther distress. 

Respecting  which  advice,  Albert  asked  wheth- 
er he  was  to  regard  it  as  a  prohibition,  or  only 
as  a  suggestion.  Of  course  he  would  not  ap- 
proach Arleigh  Manor  in  defiance  of  Sir  James's 
wish  that  he  should  keep  away  altogether  for  a 
few  days ;  but  he  hoped  that  he  might  be  al- 
lowed to  see  Lottie  before  night. 

"A  prohibition,  my  dear  Albert!  Not  a 
bit  of  it,"  Sir  James  replied,  with  a  distant  ap- 
proach to  kindliness,  seeing  that  he  might  with 
safety  be  more  cordial  to  the  young  friend  who 
exhibited  a  proper  disposition  to  obey  orders. 
"  My  suggestion  is  only  a  suggestion,  and  noth- 
ing more.  You  can't  suppose  that  any  one  at 
Arleigh  wishes  to  see  you  less  often  there.  I 
was  only  thinking  of  what  would  be  best  for 
my  dear  wife  and  daughter,  who,  after  the  ter- 
rible agitation  and  labor  of  last  night,  are  in 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


97 


urgent  want  of  repose.  Well,  well,  let  us  say 
that  you  give  them  another  twenty-four  hours, 
in  which  to  recover  their  scattered  spirits  and 
energy.  Don't  call  this  evening ;  but  come 
over  to-morrow  evening,  unless  you  hear  from 
me  to  the  contrary.  Eh  ?  Then  I'll  tell  Lot- 
tie that  she  may  expect  to  see  you  to-morrow 
evening.  If  you  can  come  over  for  dinner, 
there  will  be  a  hearty  welcome,  and  a  knife 
and  fork  for  you.  But  good-bye.  Here,  I'll 
take  this  cab.  God  bless  you,  my  dear  boy  ! 
Remember  me  to  your  father.  By-the-bye, 
you  may,  perhaps,  like  to  tell  him  that,  as  far 
as  my  trifling  account  is  concerned,  the  stop- 
page of  the  bank  will  occasion  me  no  serious 
inconvenience." 

But  in  spite  of  Sir  James  Darling's  assurance 
to  the  contrary,  it  was  obvious  to  Albert  that 
at  least  one  of  the  chief  residents  of  Arleigh 
would  prefer  him  to  be  a  less  frequent  visitor 
at  the  manor-house.  The  young  man  had  duly 
observed  every  trick  of  manner  and  verbal  arti- 
fice by  which  Lottie's  father  had  kept  him  at 
a  distance,  and,  excluded  him  from  the  girl's 
home  for  at  least  another  day,  without  showing 
him  discourtesy  or  positive  unkindness.  It  did 
npt  escape  Albert  that  the  judge,  who  had  hith- 
erto neglected  no  opportunity  for  courting  his 
companionship,  omitted  to  offer  him  a  seat  in 
his  cab,  though  the  direct  route  to  the  post- 
office  and  the  County  Court  was  through  George 
Street.  But  he  felt  no  resentment  at  the  signs 
of  coldness,  and  caution,  and  selfish  purpose  in 
the  demeanor  of  Lottie's  father,  whom  he  had 
never  for  a  single  moment  regarded  as  a  hero, 
and  who,  moreover,  might  be  excused  for  feel- 
ing and  showing  chagrin  at  the  altered  circum- 
stances of  his  child's  accepted  suitor.  Indeed, 
having  no  suspicion  of  the  pains  which  Lottie's 
parents  had  taken  to  catch  him,  and,  with  the 
partial  blindness  of  a  lover,  having  seen  only 
his  own  part  of  the  game  in  which  he  had  been 
a  winner,  he  felt  that  he  had  imposed  himself 
and  his  misfortunes  on  an  otherwise  prosperous 
family.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  owed  Sir 
James  and  Lady  Darling  an  apology  for  mak- 
ing them  the  sharers  of  his  private  misadven- 
ture, and  that  they  would  be  very  generous  if 
they  forgave  him  completely  for  the  injury  he 
had  unwittingly  done  them. 

Albert  spent  the  whole  day  at  Hammerhamp- 
ton,  conferring  with  Mr.  Jacob  Coleman  and 
several  of  his  father's  principal  creditors ;  giv- 
ing Mr.  Greaves  instructions  on  sundry  matters 
of  business ;  and  arranging  for  a  meeting  of 
the  many  persons  to  whom  the  bankrupt's  es- 
tate was  indebted.  In  the  intervals  between 
the  receptions  of  callers  in  George  Street,  he 
glanced  at  the  local  and  London  papers,  and 
learned  from  them  that  the  directors  of  public 
opinion  were  not  disposed  to  judge  either  part- 
ner of  the  fallen  house  with  leniency.  The 
morning's  edition  of  the  Hammerharnpton  Iron 
Times,  after  inveighing  fiercely  against  the  ab- 
sent Scrivener,  ridiculed  the  notion  that  John 
Guerdon  should  not  be  regarded  as  morally  ac- 
7 


countable  for  the  fugitive's  reckless  specula- 
tions. The  senior  partner  must  have  known 
what  his  junior  was  doing  with  the  resources 
of  the  bank.  He  had  certainly  connived  at 
the  swindler's  proceedings ;  and  it  would  be 
well  for  him,  since  he  had  not  fled  beyond  the 
reach  of  justice,  if  it  should  appear  that  he 
had  not  actively  and  knowingly  co-operated  in 
them.  The  London  journalists  were  more  tem- 
perate and  cautious.  They  were  waiting  for 
facts,  and  would  suspend  their  judgment  of  the 
bankruptcy  until  they  should  receive  full  in- 
formation respecting  its  most  suspicious  fea- 
tures. As  it  was,  they  would  only  stigmatize 
the  collapse  of  a  once  prosperous  and  well-es- 
tablished bank  as  the  deplorable  result  of  gross 
mismanagement.  This  was  the  substance  of 
London  opinion  concerning  an  event  which 
was  less  interesting  in  Lombard  Street  than  in 
the  Great  Yard.  But  the  phrases  of  the  studN 
ously  cautious  journalists  indicated  to  Albert 
that  they  were  preparing  to  use  much  stronger 
and  hotter  language,  as  soon  as  they  should 
find  themselves  in  a  position  to  use  it  with  se- 
curity. 

From  Mr.  Coleman,  who  had  for  years  known 
as  much  about  the  doings  of  Guerdon  & 
Scrivener  as  the  junior  partner  had  allowed 
Guerdon  to  know  of  them,  Albert  learned 
enough  to  convince  him  that,  in  regarding  the 
bank  as  fallen  beyond  recovery,  he  had  not  tak- 
en too  gloomy  a  view  of  affairs.  He  had  a  still 
surer  and  larger  source  of  information  in  the 
books  of  the  bankrupt  house,  which  were  exhib- 
ited to  him  by  the  chief  clerk.  The  later  en- 
tries of  the  ledger  displayed  the  course  of  ruin 
to  Albert,  whose  commercial  education  enabled 
him  to  see  the  meaning  of  statements  and  coun- 
ter-statements of  arithmetical  figures,  which 
would  have  been  almost  unintelligible  to  the 
majority  of  young  men  fresh  from  their  train- 
ing at  Eton  and  Oxford. 

It  is  needless  to  weary  the  peruser  of  these 
pages  with  the  details  of  Mr.  Scrivener's  pro- 
ceedings. The  fugitive  was  a  clever  scoundrel, 
of  a  common  type  of  industrious  rascality;  and 
the  measures  by  which  he  had  wrecked  a  fine 
business  and  utterly  ruined  his  addle-pated 
benefactor  present  no  very  exceptional  aspects 
or  instances  of  knavery.  A  keen-witted  and 
ambitious  young  man,  who  had  received  a  bet- 
ter education  than  is  ordinarily  given  to  clerks, 
he  entered  the  service  of  John  Guerdon,  short- 
ly after  the  latter,  at  the  opening  of  life's  mid- 
dle term,  succeeded  to  the  sound  and  rapidly 
growing  business  which  his  shrewd  father  had 
raised  from  an  insignificant  concern  to  an  im- 
portant house.  John  Guerdon  had  not  long 
occupied  the  place  bequeathed  to  him  by  his 
sire  when  his  vanity  and  love  of  patronizing  his 
neighbors  exposed  him  to  the  arts  of  several 
mooth-tongued  adventurers,  who,  by  flattering 
his  foibles,  of  which  self-esteem  was  the  most 
perilous,  induced  him  to  assist  their  rotten  spec- 
ulations with  large  loans.  At  this  time  Mr. 
Scrivener  won  his  partnership  by  doing  his 


98 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


employer  an  important  service.  Prudently 
using  certain  information  which  he  had  gained  j 
by  craft,  he  saved  the  bank  from  perilous  em- 
barrassment, and  rescued  a  considerable  portion 
of  its  capital  from  the  clutches  of  adventurers. 
John  Guerdon  was  not  the  man  to  forget  to  re- 
ward such  fidelity  in  a  servant.  Moreover,  his 
selfishness  instigated  him  to  attach  to  himself 
by  strong  ties  the  clerk  who  had  preserved  him 
from  great  loss,  if  not  from  absolute  ruin. 
Doubtless  his  vanity  caused  him  to  overrate 
the  sagacity  of  the  man  who  had  proved  him- 
self John  Guerdon's  superior  in  shrewdness 
and  wisdom.  It  was  natural  in  John  Guerdon 
to  magnify  thus  egotistically  the  endowments 
of  his  own  instructor.  Moreover,  with  all  his  ar- 
rogance and  overweening  self-esteem,  the  bank- 
er had  a  secret  knowledge  of  some  of  his  defi- 
ciencies—  a  vague  sense,  rather  than  a  clear 
perception,  that,  for  his  safety  against  the  swin- 
dling projectors  and  blacklegs  of  the  Great  Yard, 
he  required  the  protection  of  an  able  partner. 
Hence  gratitude  and  self-interest  combined  to 
make  him  exalt  Gimlett  Scrivener.  In  doing 
so,  he  never  admitted  to  himself  that  he  wished 
to  place  himself  under  Mr.  Scrivener's  care. 
He  persuaded  himself  that  he  was  only  render- 
ing a  proper  though  munificent  acknowledg- 
ment of  a  benefit,  and  was  at  the  same  time 
attaching  to  his  interests  a  subordinate  who 
could  be  trusted  to  look  after  matters  of  impor- 
tance during  his  superior's  absence.  He  con- 
ceived also  that,  after  his  elevation,  Mr.  Scrive- 
ner would  be  content  to  remain  his  obsequious 
servant,  and  to  honor  him  as  the  patron  "who 
had  made  him." 

John  Guerdon  soon  discovered  that,  if  he 
had  appreciated  rightly  Mr.  Scrivener's  clever- 
ness and  fidelity,  he  had  rendered  less  than 
justice  to  the  gentleman's  self-respect  and  ap- 
petite for  authority.  On  becoming  his  former 
master's  partner  and  equal,  Mr.  Scrivener  laid 
aside  the  submissiveness  appropriate  to  his  pre- 
vious position,  and  showed  that  nature  had 
qualified  him  to  govern  as  well  as  to  obey. 
Not  that  he  exhibited  any  thing  like  insolence 
to  his  benefactor,  or  systematically  wounded 
his  feelings.  On  the  contrary,  he  humored  his 
senior's  self-love,  and  responded  with  exem- 
plary patience  to  his  frequent  ebullitions  of  tem- 
per. Mr.  Scrivener  never  annoyed  any  one, 
unless  policy  required  him  to  do  so ;  and  his 
interests  required,  above  all  things,  that  he 
should  live  on  friendly  terms  with  Mr.  Guerdon 
until  that  gentleman  should  be  altogether  in  his 
power.  But  from  the  date  of  their  first  arti- 
cles of  partnership,  John  Guerdon  lost  all  com- 
mand over  the  man  to  whose  stronger  will  and 
greater  knowledge  he  was  compelled  to  yield 
on  some  question  of  business  at  least  once  in 
every  week.  By  degrees  the  abler  man  became 
more  and  more  absolute  in  George  Street ;  but 
to  the  last  he  rarely  forgot  to  treat  his  partner 
with  a  show  of  politeness. 

In  justice  to  Mr.  Scrivener,  rather  than  to 
his  partner,  it  must  be  admitted  that  John 


Guerdon  selected  for  his  coadjutor  a  man  of  no 
mean  capacity.  Though  Mr.  Scrivener  proved 
eventually  a  flagrant  knave,  and  John  Guer- 
don was  his  chief  victim,  it  may  be  questioned 
whether  the  former  did  not  suffer  from  his  part- 
ner's deficiencies  quite  as  much  injury  as  he 
inflicted  on  his  senior.  Had  he  been  matched 
with  an  ally  who  was  his  equal  in  intelligence 
and  resoluteness,  the  younger  man  might  have 
been  restrained  from  the  courses  in  which  he 
came  to  ruin  while  ruining  others.  His  ex- 
travagant confidence  in  his  own  cleverness,  and 
his  perilous  eagerness  to  arrive  at  wealth  by 
brilliant  coups,  instead  of  by  an  infinite  number 
of  small  successes,  might  have  been  corrected 
by  a  comrade  of  different  temper  and  average 
mental  capacity.  A  clear-headed,  prudent,  and 
firm  partner  would  have  "  kept  him  straight." 
As  it  was,  in  finding  a  mere  tool  for  his  ambi- 
tion, instead  of  a  competent  associate,  Gimlett 
Scrivener  only  acquired  a  weapon  wherewith 
to  commit  suicide.  In  truth,  each  of  the  two 
men  required  to  be  protected  from  himself. 
If  John  Guerdon  needed  to  be  .saved  from  his 
own  stupidity,  Mr.  Scrivener  needed  to  be  pre- 
served from  the  forces  of  a  delusive  imagination 
and  sanguine  temperament.  A  mor.e  ill-assort- 
ed pair  it  would  be  difficult  to  imagine.  Each 
was  deficient  in  qualities  which  the  other  espe- 
cially required  in  an  ally.  Mr.  Scrivener's  chief 
deficiencies  were  moral  failings  ;  Mr.  Guerdon 
lacked  every  requisite  mental  endowment,  and 
all  the  necessary  moral  qualifications,  with  the 
single  exception  of  honesty.  John  Guerdon 
was  no  rogue.  But,  while  his  pitiful  incapacity 
placed  him  altogether  at  the  mercy  of  an  un- 
scrupulous comrade,  it  converted  into  instru- 
ments for  his  own  undoing  the  very  powers  for 
which  his  partner  was  chiefly  commendable. 

Bearing  in  mind  the  contrary  natures  of  the 
two  men,  readers  can  imagine  for  themselves 
the  course  by  which  the  partners  came  to  ruin. 
There  is  no  need  to  tell  how  the  younger  of 
the  two,  bent  on  rapidly  enriching  himself,  dis- 
dained the  comparatively  modest  gains  of  his 
proper  business,  and  endeavored  to  gratify  his 
ambition  by  hazardous  speculation.  Nor  is  it 
needful  to  describe  how,  on  the  failure  of  suc- 
cessive projects,  and  as  his  power  over  his  weak 
ally  became  greater,  he  used  more  and  more 
rashly  for  his  private  undertakings  the  resources 
of  the  bank  and  of  his  partner.  Such  details 
would  only  burden  the  narrative,  without  con- 
tributing to  its  romantic  interest. 

Of  course  Mr.  Gimlett  Scrivener  had  not  left 
behind  him  any  adequate  records  of  his  many 
transactions  in  which  his  partner  had  no  share. 
All  that  Albert  learned  respecting  the  state  of 
affairs  in  George  Street  was  gained  from  the 
books  in  Mr.  Coleman's  custody.  The  view 
which  they  afforded  was  gloomy,  but  not  de- 
void of  consolation.  It  was  obvious  that  the 
bank  was  gone  beyond  all  hope  of  recovery. 
Not  that  its  liabilities  were  in  a  prodigious  ex- 
cess of  the  resources  available  for  the  satisfac- 
tion of  its  creditors,  but  because  the  circum- 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


stances  of  the  collapse  had  given  an  irremedia- 
ble shock  to  the  credit  of  the  house.  But  for 
the  effect  of  Mr.  Scrivener's  flight  and  ascer- 
tained defalcations,  the  books  showed  no  rea- 
son why  the  business  should  not  be  re-opened. 
On  the  contrary,  it  was  apparent  that  the  bank 
would  not  have  fallen,  and  might  have  survived 
the  various  causes  of  its  embarrassment,  had 
it  not  been  for  the  junior  partner's  scandalous 
and  alarming  disappearance,  which  was  the  im- 
mediate cause  of  "  the  run."  For  three  years 
the  business  had  been  carried  on  with  an  inade- 
quate "reserve,"  and  had  been  struggling  with 
serious  though  surmountable  difficulties.  But 
many  a  concern  of  the  same  kind  had,  under 
skillful  management,  and  in  the  absence  of  a 
sudden  and  overpowering  strain  on  its  powers, 
outlived  far  greater  troubles,  and  in  the  course 
of  years  enriched  its  proprietors.  The  stop- 
page was  due  to  a  panic,  the  panic  to  the  col- 
lapse of  a  single  individual,  who,  though  the 
chief  power  in  the  business,  was  not  himself  the 
bank. 

Anyhow,  it  could  not  be  asserted  that  the 
senior  partner  had  egregiously  abused  public 
confidence.  He  had  muddled  his  affairs,  and 
been  a  swindler's  dupe ;  but  he  was  no  reckless 
trader  or  fraudulent  bankrupt.  His  honor  was 
untarnished,  though  he  had  lost  his  money  and 
professional  reputation.  Taking  a  hopeful  view 
of  affairs,  Albert  thought  that  the  assets  of  the 
business,  together  with  the  sum  attainable  by 
the  sale  of  Earl's  Court,  and  the  sum  which 
some  rival  bank  might  offer  for  the  "connec- 
tion" of  the  fallen  firm,  would  be  almost  enough 
to  pay  the  creditors  twenty  shillings  in  the 
pound.  Even  if  the  creditors  should  lose  some- 
thing— say  five  shillings  in  the  pound — they 
would,  on  the  subsidence  of  passion,  say  noth- 
ing worse  of  John  Guerdon  than  that  he  had 
lost  his  business  and  money  through  want  of 
commercial  capacity. 

Taking  this  view,  which  was  justified  by  the 
books,  Albert  was  surprised  that  Gimlett  Scrive- 
ner had  not  persevered  a  few  months  longer  in 
his  desperate  game;  indeed,  he  almost  attrib- 
uted moderation  to  the  gambler  who  had  fled 
the  country,  while  the  bank  was  still  in  a  posi- 
tion to  afford  him  means  for  staving  off  the  day 
of  ruin  and  exposure,  if  not  for  carrying  out  his 
projects  to  a  successful  issue.  But  when  he  was 
thus  inclined  to  regard  the  speculator's  with- 
drawal as  premature,  Albert  was  not  aware  of 
the  magnitude  of  the  fugitive's  liabilities,  or  of 
the  felonious  nature  of  some  of  his  acts.  Be- 
fore the  end  of  the  week,  he  saw  that  Mr.  Scrive- 
ner had  retired  none  too  soon  for  his  safety. 
On  the  contrary,  the  scoundrel  had  displayed 
marvelous  coolness  and  daring  in  remaining  at 
Hammerhampton  to  so  recent  a  day. 


CHAPTER  V. 

ALBERT  RUNS  UP  TO  LONDON. 

AT  the  close  of  his  long  day's  work  in  George 
Street,  Albert  returned  to  Earl's  Court,  carry- 
ing with  him  more  than  forty  letters  which  had 
arrived  at  the  bank  for  his  father.  As  all  these 
epistles  were  addressed  to  "John  Guerdon, 
Esq., "and  several  of  them  were  marked  "pri- 
vate," Albert  thought  his  father  had  better 
open  them  himself.  The  letters  which  had 
come  to  the  bank  with  the  address  of  the  firm 
upon  them  had  been  opened  and  duly  answer- 
ed by  Mr.  Coleman,  who  was  authorized,  under 
certain  circumstances,  to  open  the  letters  of  the 
firm  in  the  absence  of  his  employers. 

The  hour  for  dinner  having  arrived  when  Al- 
bert dismounted  from  his  horse  at  Earl's  Court, 
it  was  decided  that  he  and  his  father  should 
not  read  the  budget  of  papers  until  they  had 
dispatched  the  meal,  which  the  father  desired 
for  his  diversion,  and  the  son  needed  for  his  re- 
freshment. Solitude  and  idleness  had  created 
in  the  elder  a  yearning  for  the  excitement  of 
conversation.  Already  familiar  with  his  dis- 
grace, he  asked  for  the  news  of  the  town,  and 
the  journals ;  and,  in  referring  to  his  son's  re- 
cent occupation,  he  betrayed  at  times  almost  as 
much  insensibility  as  eagerness  for  gossip.  He 
had  arrived  at  the  period  of  life  when  men  oft- 
en exhibit  a  childish  vehemence  of  grief  at  new 
misfortunes,  and  then,  with  childish  submissive- 
ness  and  fickleness  of  temper,  adapt  themselves 
quickly  to  their  altered  circumstances.  Yes- 
terday he  had  sobbed  and  wept  over  the  disas- 
ter, whose  details  now  afforded  him  an  almost 
agreeable  entertainment.  He  surprised  Albert 
by  asking  what  the  papers  said  of  the  bank- 
ruptcy, and  on  hearing  the  reluctant  admission 
that  their  comments  were  neither  generous  to 
the  firm  nor  sympathetic  for  its  senior  partner, 
he  astonished  his  son  in  a  still  higher  degree 
by  expressing  his  contempt  for  public  opinion. 
"Pooh!" he  exclaimed,  contemptuously,  "what 
care  I  for  the  abuse  of  a  pack  of  scribblers  ?  I 
am  an  old  man,  and  there  are  scarce  ten  per- 
sons left  in  the  whole  world  for  whose  good 
word  or  ill  word  I  care  a  rush."  But  the  boast 
was  so  qualified  by  the  previous  convulsion  of 
body  and  change  of  countenance  that  it  did  not 
mislead  Albert,  who  appreciated  its  old-boyish 
bravado,  and  saw  that  the  veteran,  in  spite  of 
his  almost  shameless  indifference  to  disgrace 
which  was  a  few  hours  old,  felt  acutely,  for  a 
few  minutes,  each  fresh  demonstration  of  his 
disrepute.  That  he  would  succumb  to  the  mere 
burden  of  his  great  misfortunes,  and  die  of  slow 
distress  at  the  overwhelming  vastness  of  the 
entire  bulk  of  his  accumulated  troubles,  there 
was  no  longer  any  ground  for  fearing.  But  Al- 
bert, who  had  observed  the  sudden  spasm  and 
crimson  blush  which  preceded  the  utterance  of 
disdain  for  scribblers,  was  reasonably  afraid  that 
the  man  of  many  years  and  broken  health  might 
encounter  death  in  one  of  his  equally  sharp  and 
transient  paroxysms  of  anguish  and  anger. 


100 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


Of  the  forty  and  more  letters  which  the  two 
men  opened  after  dinner,  as  they  sat  over  their 
wine,  some  were  from  writers  ignorant  of  the 
crash,  and  a  few  were  notes  of  condolence,  but 
at  least  half  of  them  were  epistles  that  remind- 
ed their  recipient  of  his  fall  in  more  or  less  pain- 
ful terms.  There  were  insolently  formal  notes 
from  business  men,  who  wished  for  prompt  infor- 
mation respectihg  the  amount  which  they  would 
probably  lose  from  the  fall  of  the  mismanaged 
bank  ;  and  there  were  vulgarly  vindictive  let- 
ters from  angry  creditors,  who  upbraided  the 
broken  banker  for  his  incompetence  and  treach- 
ery. Each  of  these  insulting  missives  brought 
the  scarlet  fury  for  a  few  moments  to  John 
Guerdon's  face.  But  there  were  two  notes 
which  caused  him  especial  pain.  One  of  these 
came  from  Blanche  Heathcote,  who,  on  the 
first  intelligence  of  the  flight  of  one  of  her  trus- 
tees, and  the  bankruptcy  of  both,  wrote  to  John 
Guerdon  in  the  following  terms  : 


MR.  GUERDON,  —  Pardon  me  for 
troubling  you  about  my  affairs  at  a  moment 
when  you  are  doubtless  assailed  with  a  thou- 
sand irritating  letters,  and  are  overwhelmed 
with  anxieties.  I  am  horrified  by  the  intelli- 
gence of  what  has  taken  place  at  Hammer- 
hampton,  and  need  some  assurance  that  I  am 
no  participator  in  the  general  misfortune.  Of 
course  I  am  aware  that  my  money  ought  to  be 
all  safe  in  the  Consols  ;  but  still  trustees  some- 
times exceed  their  powers  in  dealing  with  trust 
funds,  and,  though  I  have  the  most  perfect  con- 
fidence in  your  honor,  I  am  naturally  alarmed 
for  myself,  by  what  the  papers  tell  me  of  Mr. 
Scrivener's  fraudulent  behavior.  If  there  is 
bad  news  for  me,  let  me  know  the  worst  at 
once  ;  for  if  a  young  person,  who  has  been 
taught  to  regard  herself  as  an  heiress,  must 
turn  governess  or  needlewoman,  it  is  as  well 
that  she  lose  no  time  in  looking  out  for  em- 
ployment. So  let  me  have  a  line  by  return  of 
post.  Again  apologizing  for  thus  pestering 
you  at  this  grievous  crisis,  and  begging  you  to 
accept  my  cordial  expressions  of  sympathy  for 
your  misfortunes,  I  remain,  my  dear  Mr.  Guer- 
don, 

"  Your  affectionate  and  grateful  ward, 

"  BLANCHE  HEATHCOTE. 

"P.S.—  Will  my  Consols  be  in  any  way  li- 
able for  the  debts  of  the  bank  ?  Don't  forget 
to  answer  this  question.  I  am  dying  to  know." 

"By  heavens!"  screamed  the  old  banker, 
flinging  the  open  letter  on  the  table,  when  he 
had  mastered  its  dontents,  "it  is  not  enough 
for  me  to  be  a  bankrupt,  but  the  world  must 
make  me  out  a  swindler,  scoundrel,  common 
thief  as  well  !  Blanche  Heathcote  wants  to 
have  my  assurance  that  I  am  not  an  utter 
villain.  Lord  !  Lord  !  her  father,  poor  Jack 
Heathcote,  thought  me  a  fit  man  to  have  the 
half-charge  of  his  child's  money.  She  might 
have  waited  till  —  " 

A  convulsion  of  the  muscles  of  his  chest  and 


throat  here  seized  the  infuriated  trustee,  who 
could  not  speak  another  word  until  he  had 
spent  three  minutes  in  coughing  himself  pur- 
ple, and  gasping  for  hard  life. 

"  My  dear  father,  Albert  expostulated,  when 
he  had  glanced  at  the  offensive  letter,  and  saw 
that  his  sire  was  again  accessible  to  reason, 
"she  draws  a  very  clear  line  between  you  and 
Scrivener,  and,  while  assigning  her  alarm  to  his 
notorious  rascality,  expresses  undiminished  con- 
fidence in  your  honor.  Her  letter,  I  must  say, 
exhibits  the  good  feeling  and  delicacy  of  a  gen- 
tlewoman, although  it  was  penned  in  a  panic." 

"How  the  devil,"  screamed  the  victim  of 
distrust,  "  could  she  imagine  me  rogue  enough 
to  move  the  money  and  employ  it  in  my  own 
business  ?  She  is  an  intelligent  woman,  and 
knows  enough  of  business  to  be  aware  that  the 
money  couldn't  be  moved  without  my  permis- 
sion and  signature.  She  might  as  well  have 
taken  me  at  her  father's  valuation  until  she 
could  prove  me  a  villain. " 

The  last  sentence  of  this  speech  was  spoken 
in  a  lower  and  less  wrathful  tone — a  voice  of 
reproachful  indignation  and  self-pity,  which  Al- 
bert heard  with  relief,  as  it  indicated  that  the 
paroxysm  of  rage  was  subsiding,  and  that  the 
sufferer  would  soon  be  himself  again,  after 
shedding,  perhaps,  a  few  tears  of  senile  grief. 

But  John  Guerdon  had  scarcely  recovered 
his  outward  composure,  when  the  smouldering 
fires  of  his  breast  burst  forth  again  in  flaming 
wrath  and  furious  imprecations  on  the  head  of 
the  writer  of  the  next  and  final  letter  of  the 
budget. 

"Sir,"  wrote  Mr.  Samuel  Heathcote,  gun- 
smith, of  Tower  Hill  and  the  Strand,  London, 
and  Pipe  Lodge,  Richmond,  "as  the  uncle  of 
your  ward,  Miss  Blanche  Heathcote,  and  the 
person  to  whom  she  will  come  for  advice  on 
learning  how  her  father's  friends  have  justified 
his  confidence  in  them,  I  beg  that  you  will  in- 
form me  by  telegraph  in  what  real  or  other  se- 
curities you  and  your  absconding  partner  have 
invested  the  £63,428  18s.  2d.  which  you  real- 
ized three  years  since  by  the  sale  of  the  stock, 
previously  invested  in  Consols,  and  standing  in 
your  names,  as  trustees  of  my  said  niece.  It 
has  only  just  come  to  my  knowledge  that  stock 
was  sold  by  you  and  your  co-trustee.  Had  I 
heard  of  the  matter  before,  you  would  have 
heard  from  me  sooner.  I  remain,  sir,  with 
whatever  respect  for  you  that  you  deserve, 
"SAMUEL  HEATHCOTE." 

A  harsh,  overbearing,  vulgar  man,  who  had 
quarreled  with  his  brother,  and  displayed  inor- 
dinate chagrin  at  the  consequent  omission  of 
his  name  from  John  Heathcote's  last  will,  the 
writer  of  this  letter  had  on  several  occasions  in- 
censed John  Guerdon  by  exhibitions  of  impla- 
cable animosity.  Any  epistle  from  so  insolent 
an  enemy  would  have  been  unacceptable  to  the 
fallen  capitalist ;  but  this  letter,  so  staggering  in 
its  facts,  and  so  truculent  in  its  expressions,  was 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


101 


an  outrage  which  nearly  killed  him  outright 
with  the  violence  of  the  emotions  that  it  occa- 
sioned him. 

"  It  is  a  lie  !  a  dark,  hellish  lie,  penned  only 
to  insult  and  infuriate  me!"  screamed  the  old 
man,  springing  to  his  feet,  and  tottering  about 
the  room,  as  he  poured  torrents  of  unreportable 
oaths  and  imprecations  on  the  heart,  hearth, 
fame,  life,  of  the  vindictive  gunsmith.  "The 
money  is  safe  in  the  Consols,  where  we  put  it 
within  two  years  of  poor  Jack  Heathcote's 
death.  The  slandering  villain  has  had  no  in- 
telligence of  its  removal,  for  the  money  is  there 
— there  in  the  Consols !  The  liar  invented  the 
lie,  and  then  used  it  as  a  pretext  for  his  insin- 
uations against  my  honesty.  Pooh !  the  wretch- 
ed liar's  aim  is  to  goad  me  into  answering  him. 
I'll  answer  him!  I'll  answer  him!  But  he 
sha'n't  humiliate  me  into  giving  hrm  my  word 
that  I  am  an  honest  man.  Sam  Heathcote  is 
not  my  judge  yet.  But  I'll  tell  him  to  mind 
his  own  business,  and  remind  him  ivhy  his  broth- 
er did  not  care  to  trust  him  with  Blanche's  mon- 
ey. I'll  tweak  his  nose  with  a  reply  which  will 
make  him  wish  that  he  had  left  me  alone." 

While  his  father  raved  in  this  style,  stagger- 
ing up  anct  down  the  dining-room,  and  swearing 
out  his  fury  like  the  proverbial  trooper,  Albert 
gave  the  letter  his  careful  and  painful  consider- 
ation. It  appeared  to  him  incredible  that  the 
scribe  had  penned  the  insulting  and  libelous 
missive  on  the  strength  of  a  mere  fiction  of  his 
spiteful  imagination.  It  was  highly  improba- 
ble that  he  had  received  no  information  of  the 
alleged  sale  of  stock.  The  information  might 
be  erroneous,  the  sale  might  never  have  taken 
place ;  but  Albert,  in  spite  of  his  indignation  at 
Samuel  Heathcote's  brutal  tone,  was  too  cool  to 
accept  his  father's  mode  of  accounting  for  the 
accusation.  Mr.  Heathcote  must  have  spoken 
on  authority  of  some  sort.  On  the  other  hand, 
it  was  possible  that  Scrivener  had  effected  the 
sale,  and  transferred  the  money,  without  his 
partner's  knowledge,  by  means  of  a  forged  sig- 
nature to  a  power  of  attorney.  In  that  case,  it 
was  quite  credible  that  the  London  gunsmith 
might  have  made  inquiries  at  the  Bank  of  En- 
gland on  the  news  of  Guerdon  &  Scrivener's 
failure,  and  have  written  by  the  light  of  official 
information.  It  was  a  horrible  thing  to  imag- 
ine. But  the  fear  seized  Albert  that  the  alle- 
gation was  only  too  true,  and  that,  as  a  forger's 
victim,  his  father  would  appear  to  have  vio- 
lated a  sacred  trust,  and  would  be  universally 
denounced  as  a  prodigious  scoundrel.  There 
was,  indeed,  no  Fraudulent  Trustees  Act  at  the 
time  of  John  Guerdon's  bankruptcy;  but  social 
opinion  awarded  to  a  fraudulent  trustee  the 
penalty  of  indelible  shame.  Though  no  judge 
declared  such  a  delinquent  guilty  of  felony, 
society  put  the  felon's  brand  on  him,  and  ren- 
dered him  as  infamous  as  any  convict  enduring 
slavery  in  a  penal  settlement.  The  ignominy 
of  the  offender  was  shared  by  his  children,  so 
that  honest  men  avoided  them  as  creatures  of 
criminal  quality. 


As  he  realized  vividly  the  hideous  position  to 
which  Samuel  Heathcote's  letter  pointed,  Al- 
bert saw  that,  as  the  son  of  a  man  believed  to 
be  guilty  of  an  enormous  breach  of  trust,  he 
could  not  hope  that  Sir  James  Darling  would 
allow  him  to  wed  Lottie.  He  saw  also  that, 
clothed  with  domestic  disrepute  and  social 
scorn,  he  would  be  no  fit  mate  for  a  girl  of 
stainless  birth  and  honest  story.  Ay,  more, 
rather  than  draw  Lottie  down  to  his  degree  of 
shame,  and  impose  his  degradation  upon  her, 
he  felt  that,  at  the  cost  of  his  reason  or  his  life, 
he  would  separate  himself  from  her.  Even  at 
this  time  of  ghastly  fears  and  hideous  imagi- 
nations he  was  not  selfish.  So  far  as  his  rela- 
tions with  Lottie  were  concerned,  he  thought 
much  less  of  himself  than  of  her ;  and  ere  his 
mind  had  recurred  to  her,  he  thought  of  and 
for  his  father,  thus  threatened  with  a  blow 
which,  depriving  him  of  his  good  name  when 
he  had  already  lost  his  purse,  would  leave  him 
poor  indeed. 

In  either  case,  it  was  important  that  he  and 
his  father  should  know  whether  Samuel  Heath- 
cote's assertion  had  a  basis  of  truth.  Blanche's 
uncle  could  not  be  properly  contradicted  and 
silenced,  unless  they  could  disprove  his  state- 
ment by  the  testimony  of  the  bank.  On  the 
other  hand,  if  the  stock  had  been  fraudulently 
sold,  it  was  urgently  needful  that,  for  the  vin- 
dication of  his  honor,  John  Guerdon  should 
lose  no  time  in  denouncing  the  transaction,  and 
declaring  that  he  had  not  authorized  the  sale. 

Afraid  to  say  any  thing  which  should  exas- 
perate his  father  yet  more  violently,  or  suggest 
to  his  mind  the  hideous  possibility  that  his  as- 
sailant's statement  was  true  as  to  its  main  fact, 
Albert  concealed  his  agonizing  fears,  while 
making  a  proposal,  in  order  that  he  might  learn 
as  quickly  as  possible  whether  they  were  ground- 
less. His  purpose  was  to  go  at  once  to  Lon- 
don, and  ascertain  at  the  Bank  of  England 
whether  the  stock  had  been  transferred.  If  to 
his  infinite  relief  he  should  find  that  the  alleged 
sale  had  never  taken  place,  he  would  proceed 
instantly  to  Samuel  Heathcote,  and  silence  him 
with  a  crushing  answer.  On  the  other  hand, 
should  it  appear  that  Mr.  Scrivener  had  ob- 
tained possession  of  his  ward's  fortune,  the 
journey  to  London  would  not  have  been  boot- 
less. It  would  have  ascertained  by  the  speed- 
iest means  the  perpetration  of  a  villainy  which 
it  concerned  his  father's  honor  to  publish  with- 
out a  moment's  needless  delay.  It  would  be 
absurd  and  highly  impolitic  to  give  a  public  de- 
nial to  Samuel  Heathcote's  private  accusation 
if  its  main  assertion  were  false.  But,  if  the  al- 
legation were  true,  it  was  obvious  that  John 
Guerdon  should  not  lose  a  minute  in  declaring 
to  the  whole  world  his  innocence  of  every  kind 
of  complicity  in  his  partner's  crime. 

When  John  Guerdon,  after  storming  and 
scolding  till  he  was  hoarse  arid  giddy,  dropped 
from  sheer  exhaustion  into  silence  and  his  easy- 
chair.  Albert  seized  the  opportunity  for  making 
a  prudent  suggestion. 


102 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


"  No  doubt,  father,  the  man  is  an  odious  j 
ruffian." 

"Ay,  Alb,  and  a  liar — a  hellish  liar!" 

"No  doubt— no  doubt,  sir.  He  is  all  you 
say,  and  worse." 

"He  is  a  black,  Satanic  slanderer!"  roared 
the  old  man. 

"But  ruffian  and  slanderer  though  he  is,  he 
must  be  answered.  At  this  crisis  we  can  not 
afford  to  let  a  calumny  go  unanswered.  Even 
at  the  sacrifice  of  our  pride  and  sense  of  dig- 
nity, we  must  silence  Mr.  Pleathcote." 

"Where  is  your  spirit,  Alb?"  the  veteran 
expostulated,  pathetically,  in  the  milder  and 
whining  tone  which  indicated  the  subsidence 
of  the  storm.  "Would  you  have  your  old 
gray-headed  father  go  cap  in  hand  to  Samuel 
Heathcote,  who  in  time  past  was  none  too  hon- 
est and  nice  in  money  matters,  and  say,  '  In- 
deed, sir,  you  are  mistaken  in  thinking  me  a 
thief;  here  is  my  certificate  of  honesty,  signed 
by  a  clerk  of  the  Bank  of  England,  testifying 
that  I  have  not  stolen  your  niece's  money?' 
Are  you  going  to  order  me  to  eat  that  kind  of 
dirt?" 

"No,  sir.  Believe  me,  you  shall  undergo 
no  such  indignity  as  you  imagine.  My  wish 
is  that  you  should  silence  the  man  without 
either  seeing  him  or  condescending  to  write 
him  a  line." 

"That's  what  I  mean  to  do,  Alb,"  rejoined 
the  veteran,  stubbornly.  "  I  mean  to  silence 
him  by  holding  my  tongue."  Then,  reverting 
quickly  to  his  previous  decision,  John  Guerdon 
declared  again  that,  while  answering  not  a  word 
to  his  defamer's  accusation,  he  would  "tweak 
his  nose  "  with  an  abusive  letter. 

"  I  agree  with  you,  sir,  that  it  would  ill  be- 
come you  to  exchange  words  with  the  fellow 
on  the  subject  of  the  trust.  But  he  must  be 
answered,  lest  his  mendacious  talk  should  hurt 
you  and  me;  and  as  it  concerns  me  quite  as 
much  as  you  that  he  should  be  silenced,  allow 
me  to  muzzle  him." 

"  You !  ay,  you  ?  I  had  not  thought  of  that," 
John  Guerdon  rejoined,  assentingly. 

The  proposal  that  his  son  should  eat  the 
dirt,  and  abase  himself  so  far  as  to  hold  an  in- 
terview with  Samuel  Heathcote,  being  obvious- 
ly less  repugnant  to  the  veteran  than  the  bare 
thought  of  undergoing  the  humiliation  in  his 
own  person,  Albert  at  once  disclosed  his  pur- 
pose in  terms  so  decisive  and  resolute  that  his 
father  could  only  agree  with  it. 

"I  must  settle  this  matter  at  once,"  he  said. 
"  I  must  be  quicker  than  post  or  telegraph.  I 
must  be  at  the  Bank  of  England  to-morrow  by 
opening  hour,  and  as  soon  as  I  have  ascertain- 
ed that  no  incredible  error  or  confusion  at  the 
bank  is  the  cause  of  Mr.  Heathcote's  alleged 
belief,  I  must  go  at  once  to  the  man  himself, 
and  teach  him  a  lesson  in  veracity  and  good 
manners.  In  all  probability  I  shall  be  back 
again  in  time  for  seven  o'clock  dinner." 

"  Can't  manage  it  so  quickly,  Alb,"  returned 
the  father,  wonderfully  soothed  by  the  slight 


diversion  given  to  his  thoughts  by  Albert's 
statement  of  intention.  Already  the  young 
man's  project  of  running  up  to  town,  and  crush- 
ing the  obnoxious  gunsmith,  had  become  a 
mere  question  of  time  to  his  father.  "At  least, 
to  manage  it  you  must  send  over  to  Owleybury, 
and  arrange  for  a  special  train  to  run  into  Lon- 
don before  breakfast.  And  so  you  won't  have 
long  in  bed." 

"  Pooh  !  no  bed  for  me  to-night,  nor  a  spe- 
cial train  to-morrow.  I  shall  be  off  in  ten  min- 
utes," replied  Albert,  taking  out  his  watch  as 
he  spoke,  and  ascertaining  that  he  still  had 
time  to  catch  the  night  up-mail  train  at  Owley- 
bury. In  a  trice  he  had  rung  the  bell  sharply. 
"  Have  the  dog-cart  and  the  brown  mare  round 
to  the  door,  "he  said  to  the  butler,  who  answer- 
ed the  summons.  "  Tell  Nesling  to  look  sharp, 
for  I  must  catch  the  mail  for  London  at  Owley- 
bury. He  must  see  to  his  lamps,  for  there  is 
no  mo9n  to-night,  and  it  has  clouded  over." 

As  soon  as  the  servant  had  retired  with  the 
order,  Albert  turned  to  his  father,  and  said, 

"You  know  Mr.  Farncombe,  of  Lombard 
Street.  He  is  one  of  the  Governors  of  the 
Bank  of  England.  Give  me,  sir,  a  line  of  in- 
troduction to  him — it  may  be  useful.*  And,  by- 
the-way,  put  his  private  address  on  it  —  Park 
Lane,  isn't  it?  for  I  had  better  see  him  be- 
fore he  will  be  going  into  the  City.  Write  me 
only  ten  words,  saying  that  I  am  your  son,  and 
want  his  assistance  in  an  important  matter. 
Write  at  once,  my  dear  father,  so  that  the  note 
may  be  ready  for  me  in  five  minutes." 

Thus  speaking,  Albert  left  the  dining-room 
quickly,  to  equip  himself  for  his  journey.  In 
less  than  five  minutes  he  re-appeared,  with  a 
small  traveling-bag  in  his  hand,  and  an  overcoat 
on  his  arm.  The  mare  and  dog-cart  were  al- 
ready at  the  door. 

"  Good-bye,  sir,"  the  young  man  said,  putting 
his  hands  affectionately  on  his  father's  shoul- 
ders, as  he  gave  the  old  man  a  filial  kiss.  "Ah  ! 
this  is  the  introduction  to  Mr.  Farncombe  ? 
Thanks.  Keep  up  your  heart  till  you  see  me. 
You'll  have  enough  occupation  in  answering 
those  letters,  and  seeing  Greaves  and  Coleman, 
who  will  be  with  you  soon  after  breakfast  to- 
morrow. Greaves  will  perhaps  bring  with  him 
Sims  or  Vacheson,  from  Princes  Street,  Cheap- 
side.  He  says  they  are  the  men  to  look  into 
the  accounts  for  us,  and  he  telegraphed  to  their 
office  to-day.  Of  course  you'll  dispel  Miss 
Blanche's  alarm  with  a  few  kind  words.  As 
for  Mr.  Samuel  Heathcote — leave  him  to  me." 

"Aigh!  aigh!"  ejaculated  the  veteran,  vin- 
dictively. "  Give  it  to  him  hot — devilish  hot, 
Alb !" 

Albert  smiled  pleasantly,  as  he  answered, 

"  Don't  fear  that  I  shall  forget  to  punish  him, 
sir.  He  shall  have  it  hot." 

"And  strong — mind,  hot  and  strong!" 

"  The  dose  shall  be  in  accordance  with  the 
prescription.  It  shall  be  hot  and  strong." 

"  God  bless  you,  my  boy !  You're  a  fine  boy, 
Alb,  and  a  great  comfort  to  me." 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


103 


Seeing  that  the  veteran  was  giving  way,  un- 
der the  combined  excitements  of  port-wine  and 
paternal  emotion,  and  the  nervous  exhaustion 
consequent  on  successive  fits  of  violent  rage, 
Albert  thought  it  best  to  run  off,  lest  in  anoth- 
er moment  the  old  man  should  be  exhibiting 
his  agitation  in  an  unseemly  fashion  before  his 
servants. 

"Thank  you,  father," he  exclaimed,  running 
across  the  hall  to  the  open  door,  through  whicli 
the  yellow  and  crimson  light  of  his  gig  lamps 
was  visible.  "And  good-bye  again,  till  dinner- 
time to-morrow." 

"Yes,  yes,"  the  elder  ejaculated,  following 
the  son  to  whom  adversity  and  humiliation  had 
in  a  few  brief  hours  taught  him  to  look  for  sup- 
port, comfort,  and  guidance.  "  But  don't  dis- 
appoint me,  Alb — do  be  back  for  dinner.  It's 
your  doing  that  you  leave  me  now  for  so  long. 
To-morrow  evening  I  shall  want  you  for  a  hun- 
dred matters  ;  so  do,  do  come  back." 

"  Quick,"  said  Albert,  addressing  the  groom, 
and  turning  a  deaf  ear  to  his  father's  last  words 
of  querulous  and  anxious  entreaty.  "  Let  the 
mare  trot  her  best,  Nesling.  She  will  do  it, 
with  three  minutes  and  a  half  to  spare,  if  you 
give  her  every  chance." 

The  mare  did  her  work  with  five  minutes  to 
spare ;  and,  when  Albert  had  taken  his  ticket 
for  London,  he  had  just  time,  before  the  arrival 
of  the  train,  to  pen  and  post  to  Sir  James  Dar- 
ling this  brief  note : 

"  DEAR  SIR  JAMES, — I  am  off  for  town,  and, 
as  I  shall  not  return  to  Earl's  Court  till  late  in 
the  afternoon  of  to-morrow,  it  will  be  impossi- 
ble for  me  to  dine  to-morrow  at  Arleigh,  in  ac- 
cordance with  your  kind  invitation.  Tell  dear 
Lottie  how  it  grieves  me  to  defer  the  pleasure 
of  seeing  her  till  the  day  after  to-morrow.  My 
best  love  to  her  and  her  dear  mother,  both  of 
whom  are  continually  in  my  mind.  Heaven 
bless  and  protect  them !  My  dear  father  is 
fairly  well,  but  sadly  harassed.  Your  affection- 
ate ALBERT  GUERDON." 

When  Sir  James  Darling  had  read  this  note 
at  his  breakfast-table  on  the  following  morning, 
he  put  it  into  his  waistcoat,  and  then  observed 
frigidly  to  his  tea-maker, 

"Albert  Guerdon  is  in  London.  He  won't 
dine  with  us  to-day." 

Tears  came  to  the  eyes  of  the  tea-maker  at 
this  announcement  ;  and  her  pale,  sad  face 
trembled  for  a  few  seconds  with  the  pain  that 
seized  her  heart  and  agitated  her  whole  body. 
But  with  a  great  effort  Lottie  suppressed  her 
emotion. 

After  a  pause,  the  brave  girl  said,  timidly, 

"  Dear  father,  you'll  let  me  see  his  note  ?" 

"  It  contains  little  to  interest  you,  my  dear," 
was  the  cold  reply,  "  except  a  line  of  remem- 
brances to  you  and*  your  mother.  I  should  have 
shown  you  the  letter  had  I  thought  it  advisable 
to  do  so." 

"But  when  will  he  come  ?" 


"That  must  depend  on  the  nature  of  the 
business  which  calls  him  to  London." 

Whereupon  Sir  James  Darling  rose  from  his 
chair,  gave  Lottie  a  formal  kiss,  and  went  off 
to  Hammerhampton  without  showing  her  Al- 
bert's letter. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

ANOTHER   TERRIBLE    DISCOVERT. 

PHILIP  FARNCOMBE,  of  44  Park  Lane,  and 
Brookfield  Lodge,  county  Surrey,  in  the  "  Court 
Guide,"  and  of  Lombard  Street,  in  the  "  Com- 
mercial Directory,"  was  equally  well  known  in 
the  east  and  west  of  the  town.  In  the  City  he 
was  a  bill  discounter ;  in  Park  Lane  he  was  a 
connoisseur,  a  buyer  of  modern  pictures,  and  a 
giver  of  excellent  dinners  to  men  who,  like  him, 
were  bachelors,  or  rendered  homage  to  celibacy 
by  keeping  their  wives  at  a  respectful  distance. 
A  handsome  old  man  who  belonged  to  two  aris- 
tocratic clubs,  and  dressed  in  a  careful  style  of 
exploded  foppishness,  he  had  friends  in  wide- 
ly different  circles  of  society.  He  was  on  gos- 
siping terms  with  Cabinet  ministers,  and  gave 
breakfasts  to  the  notabilities  of  the  London  sea- 
son. The  Rothschilds  and  Barings  addressed 
him  by  his  Christian  name  with  fraternal  famil- 
iarity ;  and  yet,  when  he  strolled  about  town, 
staring  at  the  windows  of  print-shops  and  chi- 
na-shops, and  strolling  into  auction-rooms,  he 
would  chat  easily  with  clerks  and  petty  trades- 
men, and  shake  hands  with  mildewed  gentle- 
men, whose  dress  betokened  their  extreme  pov- 
erty. Knowing  nearly  every  one  in  London, 
it  was  not  wonderful  that  the  wealthy  bache- 
lor, whose  prosperity  was  sustained  by  his  op- 
erations in  the  money-market,  should  number 
among  his  acquaintances  the  Boringdonshire 
banker. 

No  less  a  man  of  business  than  of  pleasure, 
Philip  Farncombe,  Esq.,  J.P.,  D.L.,  F.R.S., 
was  an  early  riser.  If  he  enjoyed  himself  in 
Mayfair  and  his  clubs  in  the  afternoon,  he  nev- 
er omitted  to  visit  Lombard  Street  in  the  morn- 
ing. And  he  was  already  breakfasting  in  a 
parlor  of  his  town-house,  when  Albert  Guer- 
don knocked  and  rang  at  the  door  of  44  Park 
Lane.  Trained  to  witness  strange  occurrences 
with  dignified  composure,  Mr.  Farncombe's  hall 
porter  exhibited  no  surprise  at  the  earliness  of 
Albert's  call.  Accepting  the  gentleman's  card 
and  letter  of  introduction  without  emotion,  the 
janitor  sent  them  in  at  once  to  his  master,  and 
directed  a  second  footman  to  conduct  the  visit- 
or to  a  waiting-room. 

Albert  did  not  wait  long  for  his  audience. 
In  less  than  two  minutes  he  was  shown  into 
the  breakfast  parlor,  where  Mr.  Farncombe  was 
taking  his  morning  meal,  surrounded  by  costly 
paintings  and  works  of  sculpture. 

Seeing  at  a  glance  that  his  early  visitor  was 

a  genlbman  with  personal  titles  to  courteous 

entreatment,  Mr.  Farncombe,  who  was  civil  to 

I  every  one,  rose   from   his  chair,  and   having 


104 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


shaken  John  Guerdon's  son  cordially  by  the 
hand,  pressed  him  to  take  a  seat  and  breakfast. 
Declining  the  latter  part  of  the  invitation,  on 
the  plea  that  he  had  already  breakfasted,  Al- 
bert took  a  chair,  and  said  that  he  would  not 
trouble  his  entertainer  to  attend  to  the  business 
which  had  brought  him  so  untimely  a  caller 
until  he  had  also  breakfasted. 

"Don't  wait,  my  dear  sir,"  was  Mr.  Farn- 
combe's  rejoinder,  "but  talk  away  at  once. 
To  listen  to  you  will  help  me  to  enjoy  my  sec- 
ond egg." 

In  half  a  dozen  brief  sentences,  Albert  stated 
the  circumstances  and  object  of  his  visit  without 
uttering  one  superfluous  word. 

Smiling  courteously,  while  he  made  an  un- 
timely speech  that  would  have  been  very  rude 
had  it  not  been  qualified  by  the  complaisant 
smile  and  a  polite  tone,  Mr.  Farncombe,  having 
listened  with  silent  attentiveness  to  his  visitor's 
clear  statement,  remarked, 

"That's  enough.  Now  I  know  all  about 
your  business.  So  you  are  John  Guerdon's 
son.  I  can  scarcely  believe  it,  for  you  express 
yourself  so  clearly  and  precisely.  You  have  a 
clear  head  and  good  address — two  things  which 
your  father  always  wanted. " 

Flushing  slightly  at  this  disrespectful  refer- 
ence to  his  sire's  failings,  but  keeping  his  tem- 
per, Albert  replied, 

"  Now  that  my  dear  father  has  shown  him- 
self an  inefficient  man  of  business,  the  world, 
I  fear,  will  not  render  justice  to  his  many  fine 
qualities." 

Reminded  by  the  dignified  tone,  rather  than 
by  the  substance  of  these  words,  that  his  last 
utterance  had  been  deficient  in  courtesy,  Mr. 
Farncombe,  being  a  gentleman,  experienced  no 
difficulty  in  apologizing  frankly. 

"You  are  quite  right,  sir,"  the  old  man  ob- 
served;  "I  should  not  have  said  that  to  you. 
Pardon  me,  and  let  me  atone  for  my  bad  man- 
ners by  assuring  you  that  I  will  do  whatever 
you  ask  of  me." 

"My  warmest  thanks  to  you,  Mr.  Farn- 
combe!" 

"Well,  let  me  see.  You  did  not  tell  me 
how  your  father  heard  of  the  alleged  sale  of 
stock,  which  he  declares  can  not  have  taken 
place." 

"An  old  enemy  wrote  him  a  brutal  letter, 
reproaching  him  with  the  transaction." 

"And  the  old  enemy  is  Miss  Blanche  Heath- 
cote's  uncle,  Sam  Heathcote,  the  gunsmith — 
eh?" 

Evincing  astonishment  by  a  quick  change  of 
countenance,  Albert  answered, 

"Yes,  that  was  the  man." 

"Ah!"  rejoined  Mr.  Farncombe,  quietly, 
"  he  is  a  spiteful,  ill-conditioned  fellow,  and  I 
regret  that  I  assisted  him  to  discover  a  fact 
which  he  has  used  so  ungenerously.  But  I 
can't  disguise  from  you  that  he  has  told  the 
truth.  The  news  of  Scrivener's  flight  and  your 
father's  bankruptcy  had  not  been  known  an 
hour  in  the  city,  when  Sam  Heathcote  (he  is 


one  of  my  business  connections)  entered  my 
Lombard  Street  parlor,  and  asked  me  to  ac- 
company him  to  the  bank,  and  find  out  for 
him  whether  his  niece's  trustees  had  taken  her 
money  out  of  the  Consols.  I  consented.  We 
went  over  to  the  bank,  and  soon  learned  the 
truth.  It  is  an  ugly  business.  The  stock  was 
sold  just  three  years  since  by  Scrivener  and 
your  father." 

"Not  by  my  father,"  ejaculated  Albert,  who 
had  turned  ghastly  white  at  this  realization  of 
his  worst  fear. 

"I  should  have  said,"  observed  Mr.  Farn- 
combe, amending  his  statement,  "that  the 
bank  has  evidence  that  the  stock  was  sold  by 
the  trustees.  Of  course,  if  your  father  can 
prove  that  he  never  authorized  the  sale,  and 
that  Scrivener  is  a  forger,  he  will  upset  our 
evidence,  i:nd  show — what  every  man  of  busi- 
ness knows — how  easily  gigantic  frauds  may 
be  perpetrated  by  a  small  minority  of  the 
scoundrels — that  is  to  say,  by  the  scoundrels 
with  exceptional  opportunities." 

"  But,  sir,  you  can't  believe  that  my  father 
had  any  share  in  the  transaction  of  which  he 
declares  himself  ignorant?" 

"My  dear  young  friend,"  Mr.  Farncombe 
answered,  kind'ly,  "  as  my  belief  can  not  affect 
the  value  of  the  evidence,  why  ask  about  it? 
To  tell  you  the  truth,  1  have  no  belief  in  the 
matter.  I  am  too  old  a  man  of  business  and 
of  the  world  to  believe  or  disbelieve  any  thing, 
except  on  the  surest  testimony.  All  I  can  say 
is  that  the  stock  was  sold  three  years  since,  on 
the  authority  of  a  power  of  attorney,  which 
bears  what  purports  to  be  your  father's  signa- 
ture. If  that  signature  is  spurious,  the  forger 
who  executed  it  is  a  master  of  his  art." 

"Let  me,"  Albert  asked,  in  a  voice  of  an- 
guish and  fervent  entreaty,  "  see  the  power  of 
attorney.  I  shall  be  able  to  demonstrate  that 
the  signature  is  a  forgery.  Am  I  asking  you 
too  much,  sir,  when  I  beg  you  to  do  me  the 
same  service  that  you  rendered  to  Samuel 
Heathcote?  Do  enable  me  to  see  the  power 
of  attorney  this  very  hour!" 

Having  considered  for  half  a  minute,  Mr. 
Farncombe  answered,  coldly, 

"  Yes,  I  will  do  that  for  you.  I  should  not 
be  exceeding  my  privileges  in  letting  you  see 
the  document  which  your  father  means  to  de- 
clare spurious.  Yes,  if  that  is  all  you  want  me 
to  do,  it  shall  be  done  this  morning." 

"Thank  you,  sir.  When  may  I  meet  you 
at  the  bank  ?"  Albert  asked,  rising  to  take  his 
departure. 

"We  will  go  to  the  bank  together/' 

"  No,  no,  sir ;  you  are  too  good,  too  gener- 
ous, to  a  man  of  whom  you  know  nothing  save 
his  shame!"  Albert  answered,  passionately. 
"  The  son  of  a  man  suspected  of  having  perpe- 
trated an  unutterable  villainy  is  no  fit  person 
to  accompany  an  honorable  gentleman  through 
the  streets  of  London." 

"Tut,  tut!  Be  calm,  my  dear  boy,"  the 
other  returned,  gently  and  compassionately. 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


105 


"  Yours  is  a  hard  case  ;  but  be  brave  and  calm, 
there's  a  good  boy." 

Soothed  by  his  companion's  seasonable  kind- 
ness, Albert  dropped  again  into  the  chair  which 
he  had  occupied  during  the  interview. 

"Oblige  me,"  continued  the  master  of  the 
house,  "  by  touching  the  bell-handle  that  is 
within  a  foot  of  your  left  hand.  Thank  you." 

To  the  servant  who  answered  the  summons 
Mr.  Farncombe  said, 

"I  want  the  brougham  directly;  be  quick, 
for  I  must  drive  to  the  City  at  once.  Tell  Ar- 
thur that  I  don't  ride  this  morning,  but  he  must 
bring  my  horse  to  Lombard  Street,  as  usual,  at 
2.30." 

On  arriving  at  "the  Bank, "Mr.  Farncpmbe 
led  Albert  to  an  office,  where  they  examined, 
in  the  presence  of  a  superior  officer  of  the  es- 
tablishment, all  the  documents  which  had  been 
preserved  in  Threadneedle  Street  as  evidence 
relating  to  the  sale  of  Blanche  Heathcote's  Con- 
sols. Albert  saw  the  form  whereby  Mr.  Dove, 
stock-broker,  Warneford  Court  (of  the  firm  of 
Green,  Dove  &  Swainson),  had  applied  for  a 
power  of  attorney,  for  the  use  of  Messrs.  John 
Guerdon  and  Gimlett  Scrivener,  bankers,  of 
George  Street,  Hammerhampton.  He  saw  the 
usual  evidence  that  the  broker  had  made  the 
application  on  the  instruction  of  his  client, 
Scrivener.  His  attention  was  called  also  to 
the  official  record  of  the  notice,  sent  to  John 
Guerdon,  informing  him  that  the  power  had 
been  applied  for.  Then  the  power  of  attorney 
was  placed  in  his  hands.  It  was  in  every  re- 
spect formal.  There  was  the  signature  of  Gim- 
lett Scrivener,  duly  attested  by  Jacob  Coleman 
and  William  Markworthy.  Clearly  written,  in 
his  father's  full,  free,  and  very  legible  hand- 
writing, appeared  the  signature  of  John  Guer- 
don, also  duly  attested  by  the  same  witnesses. 
The  records  of  the  transfer  of  the  stock  were 
of  no  interest,  after  the  exhibition  of  this 
damnable  power ;  but  still  they  were  placed 
under  the  eyes  of  Albert,  who,  obeying  instruc- 
tions given  him  by  Mr.  Farncombe  on  their 
way  from  Park  Lane  to  Threadneedle  Street, 
said  nothing  to  reveal  to  the  clerk  in  attend- 
ance that  the  several  documents  were  being 
exhibited  to  John  Guerdon's  son. 

In  accordance  with  permission,  ceremonious- 
ly sought  and  granted,  Albert  entered  in  his 
note-book  the  several  dates  of  the  documents, 
and  the  names  and  descriptions  of  the  persons 
who  attested  his  father's  signature  to  the  pow- 
er of  attorney. 

When  Albert  had  finished  his  inspection  of 
the  papers,  the  clerk  withdrew  from  the  room. 

"  Well  ?"  Mr.  Farncombe  inquired  of  Albert, 
when  they  were  again  without  a  third  compan- 
ion. 

"  It  is  a  perfect  forgery.  t  The  signature  is 
perfect.  No  wonder  it  imposed  on  the  bank." 

"  You  still  think  it  a  forgery?" 

"I  know  it  is  a  forgery!  My  father  could 
not  have  forgotten  his  part  in  so  important  a 
transaction  as  the  sale  of  the  stock  ;  and  I  have 


his  word  that  he  never  authorized  the  sale — the 
word,  Mr.  Farncombe,  of  a  man  who  never  told 
a  lie  in  the  whole  course  of  his  life." 

"Anyhow,  Scrivener's  signature  is  genuine." 

"  No  doubt ;  and  probably  he  forged  the  sig- 
natures of  my  father's  clerks,  as  well  as  that 
of  his  partner.  William  Markworthy  is  dead. 
But  Jacob  Coleman  and  my  father  will,  be- 
tween them,  be  able  to  prove  the  spuriousness 
of  the  document.  I  must  return  to  them  at 
once.  My  business  in  London  is  over  for  to- 
day. Had  I  found  that  Mr.  Samuel  Heathcote 
had  no  authority  for  his  statement,  I  should 
have  given  him  a  call." 

"  Can  I  do  any  thing  else  for  you  ?" 

"  Nothing — I  think,  nothing."  After  a  pause, 
Albert  added,  a  thought  having  suddenly  oc- 
curred to  him,  "  If  I  should  need  them,  Mr. 
Farncombe,  could  you  let  me  have  fac-si miles 
of  the  signatures  on  that  power  of  attorney, 
which  I  should  be  at  liberty  to  exhibit  to  ex- 
perts ?" 

"  Hm,  hm !  my  young  friend,  I  scarcely 
know  what  to  say  to  that." 

"They  could  be  made  by  one  of  the  en- 
gravers in  the  employment  of  the  bank." 

"  Of  course — no  one  else  would  be  allowed 
to  make  them." 

"The  originals  would  never  leave  the  cus- 
tody of  the  bank." 

"  Well,  I  will  think  of  your  request,  and 
answer  you  by  letter.  I  have  your  address  ?" 

"It  is  on  my  card." 

"To  be  sure,  on  your  card,  which  is  in  my 
pocket-book.  I'll  write  to  you.  And  now, 
good-bye.  Give  my  regards  to  your  father, 
and  say  to  him  that  I  wish  him  well  through 
his  troubles.  I  can't  say  more." 

Having  expressed  his  gratitude  for  Mr.  Farn- 
combe's  goodness  in  cordial  words,  Albert  left 
him,  and  in  another  minute  was  outside  the 
Bank  of  England. 

Though  he  had  wasted  no  time  since  he 
knocked  at  Mr.  Farncombe's  door  in  Park 
Lane,  it  was  already  so  late  that  he  could  not 
catch  the  morning  train  for  Boringd.onshire. 
It  would,  therefore,  be  impossible  for  him  to 
leave  town  and  get  back  to  Earl's  Court  sooner 
than  he  had  promised. 

It  was  his  ill  luck  that  he  could  not  get  away 
from  town  so  soon  as  he  had  intended.  On 
arriving  at  the  Euston  Square  terminus  in  time 
for  the  usual  afternoon  train  to  Boringdonshire, 
he  learned  that  a  disastrous  collision  of  trains 
had  taken  place  on  the  line,  midway  between 
Slingsby  Junction  and  the  Great  Yard.  The 
accident  had  blocked  the  road,  and  occasioned 
such  damage  to  the  way  that  the  line  could  not 
be  cleared  and  restored  to  the  public  service 
before  the  evening.  Consequently  Albert  was 
compelled  to  wait  for  a  slow  train,  which  would 
not  bring  him  to  Owleybury  before  eleven 
o'clock,  when  his  father  would  have  passed  a 
long  evening  in  solitude,  impatience,  and  anx- 
iety. 

The  hours  of  waiting  were  tedious  and  af- 


106 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


flicting ;  but  at  length,  after  taking  an  early 
and  comfortless  dinner  at  the  Euston  Hotel, 
Albert  found  himself  once  again  in  a  first-class 
railway  carriage,  moving  homeward. 

During  the  tedious  hours  of  waiting  in  town, 
and  the  long  journey  from  town  to  Boringdon- 
shire,  the  traveler  found  more  than  enough 
time  for  reflection.  Working  upon  ascertained 
facts,  and  recollections  of  the  way  in  which  he 
had  been  pressed  to  make  Blanche  Heathcote 
an  offer,  he  imagined  with  sufficient  accuracy 
the  exigencies  which  had  driven  Scrivener  to 
perpetrate  his  greatest  villainy,  the  means  by 
which  he  had  kept  it  from  his  partner's  knowl- 
edge throughout  three  years,  and  the  measures 
by  which  he  had,  till  the  date  of  Lottie's  en- 
gagement, hoped  to  conceal  his  delinquency 
from  the  public. 

Albert's  thoughts  took  this  course. 

To  encounter  the  urgent  consequences  of  the 
failure  of  some  of  his  desperate  speculations, 
Scrivener  had  obtained  possession  of  the  trust- 
money.  Had  the  breach  of  trust  been  the  work 
of  both  trustees,  it  would  have  been  a  stupen- 
dous crime,  but  still  an  act  of  dishonesty  only 
too  common  in  a  wicked  world.  It  was  chief- 
ly remarkable  because  it  had  been  done  by  the 
scoundrel  without  the  knowledge  of  his  co- 
trustee.  The  forger  had  probably  executed  his 
work  without  a  confederate.  He  had  himself 
ordered  the  application  for  the  power  of  attor- 
ney ;  that  was  certain.  He  had  doubtless  in- 
tercepted the  notice,  sent  by  the  bank  to  John 
Guerdon,  informing  him  of  the  application. 
Hence  the  broker  had  obtained  the  form  of  the 
power  without  John  Guerdon's  cognizance.  On 
receiving  the  form  from  his  agent,  Scrivener 
had  probably  filled  it  in  with  the  names  of  him- 
self and  his  partner  and  the  attesting  witnesses. 
On  obtaining  the  check  for  the  stock,  the  bro- 
ker had  either  handed  it  to  Scrivener,  or  paid 
it  to  the  private  account  which  his  employer 
kept  at  some  bank.  It  might  even  be  that  the 
broker,  carrying  out  the  instructions  of  the  only 
trustee  with  whom  he  had  been  in  personal  ne- 
gotiation, paid  the  money  to  Gimlett  Scrivener's 
private  account  in  the  bank  of  which  he  was 
partner.  In  that  case,  the  magnitude  of  the 
check  would  not  have  occasioned  him  much 
astonishment,  or  any  curiosity  among  the  clerks 
of  the  office,  as  even  larger  sums  were  contin- 
ually passing  through  the  junior  partner's  pri- 
vate account. 

Albert,  however,  could  not  hope  that  he 
should  find  any  traces  of  the  transaction  in  the 
books  at  George  Street.  It  appeared  to  him  most 
probable  that,  on  speaking  to  Mr.  Dove,  he 
should  find  that  the  broker  had  given  into  the 
forger's  hand  a  check  which  the  robber  had 
himself  presented  at  the  Bank  of  England,  or 
at  the  broker's  banker.  It  was  not  likely  that 
the  cautious  rogue  had  taken  any  needless  step 
which  might  call  attention  to  his  fraud.  Doubt- 
less he  had  personally  obtained  payment  of  the 
check  in  large  notes,  so  that  no  record  or  trace 
of  his  negotiation  with  Green,  Dove  &  Swainson 


should  appear  in  any  accounts  that  would,  in 
the  ordinary  course  of  business,  be  inspected  by 
his  partner.  It  was  easy  to  see  how  the  bold 
forger  had  plundered  the  bank.  It  was  no  less 
easy  to  imagine  half  a  dozen  ways  in  which  the 
forger  might  have  manipulated  the  £63,428 
18s.  2d.,  so  as  to  avoid  suspicion  or  curious  ob- 
servation in  George  Street. 

Blanche  Heathcote  being  his  ward  as  well 
as  the  ward  of  his  partner,  Gimlett  Scrivener, 
without  seeming  to  intrude  upon  the  proper 
province  of  John  Guerdon,  could  have  under- 
taken to  manage  the  ordinary  routine  business 
of  the  trust,  and  to  transmit  her  dividends  and 
rent  to  Blanche  Heatlicote  as  they  came  to  his 
hands.  Acting  thus  in  the  capacity  of  her  agent, 
he  would  have  taken  care  to  remit  punctually 
her  half-yearly  income.  As  long  as  she  re- 
ceived her  expected  payments,  no  suspicion  of 
the  transference  of  her  stock  would  have  occur- 
red to  her ;  and  as  long  as  her  mind  was  at  rest, 
nothing  would  have  taken  place  to  make  John 
Guerdon  nicely  watchful  of  his  co-trustee's 
proceedings  respecting  the  trust.  As  these 
thoughts  struck  Albert,  he  deemed  it  likely  that 
Scrivener  had,  in  time  prior  to  the  appropriation 
of  the  money,  arranged  that  the  dividends  of 
the  Consols  should  be  paid  to  his  separate  ac- 
count in  George  Street,  either  by  the  Bank  of 
England  or  the  London  agents  of  Guerdon  & 
Scrivener.  Anyhow,  there  were  several  obvi- 
ous modes  of  proceeding  by  which  Scrivener 
could  have  preserved  his  fraud  from  discovery, 
and,  after  the  sale  of  the  stock,  have  furnished 
Blanche  Heathcote  with  her  income  from  liis 
private  resources,  while  his  unsuspecting  pai-tner 
continued  to  think  that  her  dividends  were  still 
being  paid  by  the  Bank  of  England.  Ten  min- 
utes' talk  with  his  father  would,  Albert  hoped, 
throw  abundant  light  on  the  forger's  later  do- 
ings in  the  matter. 

Like  most  rogues  when  they  commit  a  fla- 
grant breach  of  trust,  Scrivener  had  probably  in- 
tended to  replace  the  Consols  at  an  early  date, 
by  some  means  or  other.  On  despairing  of  his 
ability  to  do  so,  he  had  hoped  that  the  seasona- 
ble conjuncture  of  a  marriage  and  a  death  might 
preserve  his  gravest  crime  altogether  from  de- 
tection, and  keep  his  breach  of  trust  from  all 
the  world  save  Albert.  He  had  done  his  ut- 
most to  bring  about  a  marriage  between  Albert 
and  Blanche,  and  he  had  calculated  on  the  pos- 
sibility of  his  partner's  opportune  death  within 
a  few  weeks  of  the  wedding.  This  conjuncture 
of  events  would  afford  him  a  chance  of  securi- 
ty. In  anticipation  of  the  lady's  marriage,  a 
settlement  of  the  Earl's  Court  estate  might  be 
made  on  her,  in  consideration  of  the  large  per- 
sonal property  which  she  would  bring  her  hus- 
band. If  she  stood  out  for  a  larger  settlement, 
her  own  farm  coiddbe  added  to  the  settlement 
of  the  real  estate.  Such  a  settlement  would 
give  the  schemer  a  few  months'  grace.  The 
young  couple  might  be  induced  to  make  a  long 
wedding  tour  in  the  south  of  Europe  ;  in  which 
case  Albert  would  not  care  to  look  after  his  re- 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


107 


cent  acquisition  in  the  Consols  until  he  had  re- 
turned from  his  bridal  trip.  During  that  trip, 
John  Guerdon,  whose  health  had  been  failing 
fast  for  some  time,  might  have  the  civility  to 
die.  Means  even  might  be  formed  to  acceler- 
ate his  decay,  so  that  he  should  not  greet  the 
bride  on  her  return.  In  that  case,  Gimlett 
Scrivener  saw  how  he  might  escape  from  a  des- 
perate position.  He  would  pretend  to  make  a 
clean  breast  of  it  to  Albert,  telling  him  how  his 
wife's  Consols  had  been  sold  and  appropriated 
by  her  trustees.  In  the  absence  of  the  only  per- 
son who  could  expose  the  forgery,  Albert  would 
not  suspect  the  real  nature  of  the  transaction, 
but  believe  that  his  father  had  been  a  party  to 
the  breach  of  trust.  Never  imagining  that  the 
transference  of  the  stock  had  been  effected  by 
a  forgery  of  the  dead  man's  signature,  Albert 
would  not  be  likely  to  inform  the  world  of  the 
breach  of  trust,  since  to  do  so  would  be  to  ac- 
knowledge that  his  marriage  had  not  enriched 
him — and  yet  more,  to  declare  himself  the  vic- 
tim and  son  of  a  preposterous  rogi^e.  The 
young  man  would  keep  the  secret  of  the  scan- 
dalous transaction,  out  of  regard  for  his  wife's 
feelings,  his  dead  father's  memory,  and  his  own 
interests.  Of  course  it  would  be  repugnant  to 
Mr.  Scrivener's  kindliness  and  generosity  to 
inspire  Albert  with  contempt  for  and  abhorrence 
of  his  father ;  but  self-preservation  would  re- 
quire the  forger  to  be  alike  pitiless  to  the  dead 
father  and  the  living  son.  As  for  his  own  fu- 
ture, knowing  that  no  legal  penalty  attached  to 
the  only  offense  of  which  he  would  be  supposed 
guilty,  Mr.  Scrivener  was  not  uneasy  if  only  Al- 
bert would  marry  Blanche,  and  John  Guerdon 
die  during  their  honey-moon.  Albert  could 
not  expose  the  fraudulent  action  of  the  living 
trustee  without  blackening  the  memory  of  the 
dead  one,  and  announcing  himself  the  son  of  a 
rascal.  He  could  not  publish  the  affair  with- 
out doing  the  George  Street  bank  an  irrepara- 
ble injury.  Perhaps  he  would  quarrel  with  the 
surviving  trustee  in  a  way  that  would  terminate 
their  intercourse.  In  that  case,  Mr.  Scrivener 
was  ready  to  retire  from  Hammerhampton  and 
the  Great  Yard,  on  receiving  a  fair  considera- 
tion for  his  share  in  the  George  Street  business. 

So  long  as  Mr.  Scrivener  could  hope  for  a 
marriage  between  Albert  and  Blanche,  followed 
by  John  Guerdon's  timely  death,  he  did  not  de- 
spair of  being  able  to  hold  his  own,  and  more, 
in  the  Great  Yard.  But  the  announcement  of 
the  young  man's  engagement  to  Lottie  con- 
vinced the  man  of  clever  wits  and  hopeless  for- 
tunes that  his  game  in  the  Great  Yard  could 
not  be  prolonged  for  more  than  another  year. 
To  save  himself  from  premature  exposure,  and 
to  gain  every  chance  of  a  favorable  retreat  from 
an  untenable  position,  he  resisted  successfully 
Mr.  Guerdon's  desire  to  take  Albert  at  once 
into  the  George  Street  business. 

Though  he  did  not  perceive  all  the  points 
and  hopes  of  Scrivener's  perilous  game  so  fully 
and  exactly  as  readers  of  the  last  few  pages  can 
not  fail  to  do,  Albert  would  have  been  want- 


ing in  his  ordinary  discernment,  had  he,  on  his 
homeward  journey,  failed  to  detect  the  consid- 
erations and  motives  which  had  caused  Mr. 
Scrivener  to  desire  a  marriage  between  his  plun- 
dered ward  and  his  co-trustee's  son.  Remem- 
bering how  the  project  for  that  marriage  had 
originated  with  the  forger,  the  young  man  saw 
how  its  accomplishment  would  have  restrained 
him  from  proclaiming  the  shameful  breach  of 
trust.  He  saw  also  that  he  should  have  cer- 
tainly regarded  his  father  as  a  participator  in 
the  fraud,  had  the  old  man  died  prematurely  in 
ignorance  of  his  partner's  villainy. 

It  was  well  for  Albert  that  his  mind  busied 
itself  with  scrutinizing  the  circumstances  under 
which  the  forger  had  accomplished  his  crime, 
and  had  guarded  it  three  years  from  discovery. 
The  employment  which  thus  occupied  his  brain 
withdrew  his  mind  from  more  afflicting  sub- 
jects for  meditation.  So  long  as  he  thought 
of  his  father  and  Scrivener,  and  imagined  possi- 
ble discoveries  by  which  the  old  man  might  de- 
monstrate his  good  faith  toward  Blanche  Heath- 
cote,  he  was  spared  the  anguish  of  thinking 
about  Lottie,  and  the  probability  that  his  en- 
gagement to  her  would  be  broken.  But  again 
and  again,  during  his  journey  by  the  slow- 
train,  the  diversion  of  his  thoughts  was  abruptly 
checked  by  sharp  recollections  of  Arleigh  Man- 
or, and  of  the  dangers  which  menaced  his  in- 
tercourse with  the  daughter  of  the  house. 

On  reaching  Owleybury  at  last,  he  was  not 
surprised  to  find  Nesling  and  the  dog-cart  in 
attendance,  though  he  had  thought  it  possible 
that,  in  the  absence  of  one  of  the  Earl's  Court 
carriages,  he  would  have  to  engage  a  fly  for  the 
remainder  of  his  journey. 

"How's  your  master,  Nesling!"  Albert  in- 
quired, when  he  had  lit  a  cigar  and  mounted 
the  cart. 

"  Well,  sir,  he  has  been  worrying  a  deal 
about  you.  He  was  looking  for  you  to  be  back 
again  by  dinner.  And  when,  instead  of  you, 
sir,  he  only  got  the  news  of  the  sma^,h  to  the 
midday  up  train,  he  was  put  out  dreadful." 

"  Has  he  had  any  callers  to-day  ?" 

"  Lots  of  visitors,  sir.  Mr.  Greaves,  and  Mr. 
Coleman,  and  another  gentleman  were  with 
him  in  the  morning  for  two  or  three  hours. 
And  in  the  afternoon,  several  gentlemen — more 
than  twenty  of  them,  as  I  hear — came  over 
to  the  Court  from  Owleybury  and  elsewhere. 
There  has  been  coming  and  going  at  the  Court 
all  day.  But  master  dined  without  company, 
and  I  suppose  he  is  alone  now." 


CHAPTER  VII. 

STAY    OF    ARREST. 


THOUGH  the  brown  mare  threw  out  her  legs 
in  a  style  worthy  of  the  fastest  trotter  of  the 
neighborhood,  Albert  did  not  reach  his  father's 
door  before  midnight.  The  morning's  collision 
had  occasioned  slowness  of  movement  all  down 


108 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


the  line.  It  had  made  guards  timid,  drivers 
cautious,  and  station-masters  tardy.  The  slow 
train,  on  arriving  at  Owleybury,  was  more  than 
half  an  hour  late. 

On  entering  the  house,  Albert  encountered 
his  father  in  the  hall,  and  saw  at  a  glance  that 
the  old  man  was  grievously  distressed  by  the 
agitations  "of  the  day.  Indeed,  John  Guerdon 
•had  passed  a  troublous  time  in  his  son's  ab- 
sence. His  long  interview  with  his  solicitor, 
chief  clerk,  and  the  London  accountant  had 
bothered  and  worried  him.  It  had  painfully 
humiliated  the  broken  banker  to  exhibit  the 
proofs  of  his  incompetence  to  the  lawyer  whom 
he  had  hitherto  been  wont  to  patronize  pomp- 
ously, and  to  the  arithmetician  whom  he  had 
never  seen  before.  Mr.  Jacob  Coleman's  in- 
solence had  infuriated  the  fallen  master  almost 
beyond  endurance.  The  subsequent  callers — 
capitalists  of  the  Great  Yard,  or  managers  of 
Guerdon  &  Scrivener's  branch  banks — had  ag- 
gravated the  wretched  bankrupt  yet  further. 
Each  visitor  had  given  him  a  prick  or  stab,  and 
some  of  the  wounds  had  been  inflicted  out  of 
sheer  cruelty.  Under  any  circumstances  Al- 
bert's non-appearance  at  the  dinner  hour  would 
have  caused  the  veteran  keen  disappointment ; 
but  the  annoyance,  following  on  a  series  of 
provocations,  and  attended  with  the  alarming 
intelligence  of  the  frightful  accident  on  the  line, 
threw  him  into  a  panic,  lest  some  other  mortal 
mishap  should  have  prevented  his  boy's  return. 

At  his  lonely  dinner  he  ate  greedily,  and  had 
recourse  to  his  usual  means  for  driving  away 
care ;  and,  while  drinking  his  port-wine  copi- 
ously, but  without  enjoyment,  he  had  spent 
the  evening  imagining  half  a  score  ways  by 
which  Albert  might  have  come  to  harm.  The 
boy  had  been  killed  in  a  railway  accident ;  he 
had  been  run  over  in  a  London  thoroughfare 
and  taken  to  a  hospital ;  he  had  been  murder- 
ed by  Samuel  Heathcote  in  a  fit  of  fury.  It 
was  just  half-past  ten,  when  an  even  more  hor- 
rible imagination  seized  the  father's  fevered 
brain.  Albert  had  been  to  the  bank,  discover- 
ed that  the  stock  had  been  sold,  and,  driven  to 
despair  by  what  he  deemed  to  be  the  proofs  of 
his  father's  iniquity,  had  rushed  off  and  com- 
mitted suicide.  Hitherto  it  had  not  occurred 
to  John  Guerdon  how  the  Consols  could  have 
been  sold  without  his  knowledge.  But  he  had 
HO  sooner  entertained  the  possibility  that  Sam 
Heathcote  had  written  on  sufficient  authority 
than  the  terror-distraught  bankrupt  saw  how,  by 
a  forgery,  Scrivener  might  have  sold  the  funds, 
and  appropriated  the  more  than  sixty  thousand 
pounds.  From  that  moment  the  wretched  old 
man  lost  all  self-control,  and  had  spent  his 
time  in  pacing  about  the  house,  and  scolding 
every  one  whom  he  encountered.  Sending 
Nesling,  with  the  mare  and  dog-cart,  off  to  meet 
the  late  train,  he  had  scandalized  and  slightly 
frightened  the  groom  by  screaming  at  him, 

"And,  you  dog,  if  you  don't  bring  your 
young  master  back  with  you,  I'll  shoot  you — 
by  heavens,  I'll  shoot  you  I" 


As  soon  as  he  saw  his  son  once  more,  the  old 
man  seized  his  hand  with  a  spasmodic  clutch, 
and  pulled  him  toward  the  dining-room,  ex- 
claiming, 

"  Here,  here,  be  quick  !  I  have  been  want- 
ing you  for  hours.  How  came  you  to  miss  your 
train  ?  Now  be  quick — tell  me  every  thing  at 
once." 

Closing  the  door  of  the  dining-room,  so  that 
their  words  might  not  be  overheard,  Albert  re- 
sponded slowly, 

"Well,  sir,  I  have  so  much  to  tell  you  that 
I  can't  say  it  all  at  once.  You  must  compose 
yourself,  sir,  and  prepare  yourself  for  a  long 
conversation.  Here,  father,  let  us  sit  down ; 
for  I  am  tired  out,  and  you  look  fatigued." 

Under  the  influence  of  his  boy's  soothing, 
though  authoritative,  voice  and  manner,  John 
Guerdon  became  less  excited,  and  sank  back- 
ward obediently  into  his  easy-chair. 

To  make  time,  in  which  the  sufferer  should 
recover  something  of  his  ordinary  quietude,  and 
show  himself  capable  of  enduring  the  hideous 
disclosures  which  must  be  made  to  him  that 
night,  Albert  was  about  to  speak  at  length  of 
the  earliest  and  unimportant  part  of  the  morn- 
ing's adventures. 

"  Well,  sir,  on  reaching  London  I  went  to 
your  old  hotel  in  Bond  Street,  and  when  I  had 
had  a  bath,  and  made  my  toilet,  and  taken  a 
good  breakfast,  I  called  on  Mr.  Farncombe  in 
Park  Lane,  who — " 

"Never  mind  Farncombe,"  interposed  the 
father,  sharply.  "Are  the  Consols  all  right? 
*And  have  you  seen  Sam  Heathcote,  and  given 
him  a — good  thrashing  ?" 

"  Well,  sir,  I  cant  say,"  Albert  returned,  with 
an  effort  to  seem  cool,  and  with  a  dismal  at- 
tempt at  a  smile,  "  that  I  have  thrashed  him  as 
soundly  as  he  deserves." 

"  Have  you  seen  him  ?" 
•   "  No,  sir,  I  have  not." 

"Then  the  money  is  not  safe  !"  cried  the  old 
man,  rising  quickly  from  his  chair,  and  extend- 
ing his  hands,  as  he  proceeded  to  stagger  across 
the  hearth-rug  to  Albert,  who  as  quickly  rose 
and  put  forward  his  hands.  "Alb,  Alb,  don't 
say  that  the  villain  has  forged  my  signature, 
and  got  hold  of  Blanche  Heathcote's  money ! 
Don't  say  it !  Dear  Alb,  my  boy,  my  only  boy, 
do  say  the  stock  is  safe  ?  Speak — speak — the 
only  words  that  can  save  me." 

It  was  a  pitiable  spectacle  —  the  broken  fa- 
ther imploring  with  words  and  prayerful  hands 
that  his  loving  son  would  speak  the  only  words 
which  the  young  man  might  not,  dared  not, 
could  not  utter. 

Since  passionately  pathetic  words  could  not 
extort  the  assurance,  the  old  man  had  recourse 
to  speechless  eloquence,  and  gave  his  boy  an 
agonizing  look  of  supplication  —  a  look  which 
Albert  can  remember  at  this  day,  and  to  which 
he  could  give  no  gentler  reply  than  murderous 
silence. 

That  cruel  silence  gave  John  Guerdon  the 
blow  which  Albert  had  for  forty-eight  hours 


LOTTIE  DAELING. 


109 


feared  would  fall  upon  the  old  man  from  some 
hostile  force. 

Like  a  soldier  struck  mortally  by  a  bullet  in 
the  field  of  action,  John  Guerdon  tottered,  reel- 
ed, and  fell  upon  the  ground,  speechless  and  un- 
conscious. 

He  was  not  dead,  for  he  breathed  heavily, 
with  the  ominous,  stertorous  loudness  of  which 
Albert  had  often  read,  though  he  had  never  be- 
fore heard  the  sound. 

In  a  trice  Albert  caught  up  two  cushions  from 
the  adjacent  sofa,  and  put  them  under  his  fa- 
ther's head;  and  then,  kneeling  on  the  floor  by 
the  prostrate  figure,  he  pressed  its  unresisting 
right  hand  to  his  lips,  and  implored  the  dull  vis- 
age to  speak. 

"  Father,  father,"  the  son  prayed,  "  do  speak 
to  me !  There  is  so  much  that  you  must  say ; 
do  speak  !  Oh !  father,  do  speak  to  me  !" 

But  the  prayer  was  as  vain  as  the  stricken 
man's  last  entreaty. 

With  retaliating  dumbness,  John  Guerdon 
was  in  his  turn  silent.  No  sound  but  that  of 
the  struggling,  stertorous  respirations  came  from 
his  lips,  which  were  disfigured  with  clammy 
whiteness. 

Rising  quickly  to  his  feet,  Albert  summoned 
the  servants  by  ringing  the  bell  violently,  and 
calling  to  them  in  his  loudest  tones. 

"  Tell  Nesling,"  he  cried  to  the  first  of -them 
who  made  his  appearance,  "  to  go  off  to  Owley- 
bury  for  Dr.  Margetson.  Order  him  to  ride  at 
the  gallop.  Your  master  is  in  a  fit.  And  then 
all  of  you  come  and  assist  me  to  carry  him  to 
his  bed." 

An  hour  later,  when  the  doctor  arrived  from 
the  cathedral  town,  John  Guerdon  was  lying  on 
the  outside  of  his  bed,  to  which  Albert,  with 
the  aid  of  six  servants,  had  with  difficulty  con- 
veyed him. 

One  of  those  scientific  and  highly  educated 
physicians,  who  were  less  common  in  our  pro- 
vincial towns  five-and-twenty  years  since  than 
they  are  at  the  present  date,  Dr.  Margetson  had 
the  style,  and  culture,  and  nice  discernment 
which  distinguish  representative  members  of  the 
medical  faculty. 

On  his  way  to  his  patient's  side,  he  touched 
Albert's  hand  courteously,  and  then  for  sever- 
al minutes  gave  his  undivided  attention  to  the 
sick  man. 

Having  made  his  observations,  told  the  house- 
keeper how  to  support  the  patient's  head  with 
pillows,  and  ordered  the  other  servants  to  leave 
the  room,  Dr.  Margetson,  turning  to  Albert, 
said  kindly,  "  Come  with  me  to  another  room. 
I  will  return  to  your  father  when  we  have  had 
a  few  words." 

Having  conducted  the  physician  to  a  room 
on  the  same  floor — the  room  which  had  been 
furnished  and  decorated  for  Lottie's  boudoir — 
Albert  began  the  brief  conversation  which  he 
and  the  doctor,  without  sitting  down,  held  by 
the  light  of  a  single  taper. 

"What  is  it?" 

"Apoplexy — there  is  no  doubt  of  that." 


"Will  he  lie  in  that  state  long?" 

"  Not  very  long— but  probably  some  hours." 

"  When  will  he  recover  his  consciousness  ?" 

"My  dear  sir,"  responded  the  doctor,  serious- 
ly and  very  gently,  putting  a  light  hand  on  one 
of  Albert's  shoulders,  "  he  will  never  recover 
his  consciousness  in  this  world.  So  far  as  the 
intellect  goes,  he  is  dead  to  you  already.  The 
body  will  follow  the  mind  —  perhaps  to-night  ; 
perhaps  after  twenty-four,  or  even  forty-eight, 
hours'  suffering.  It  may  undergo  convulsions, 
more  distressing  to  beholders  than  to  him,  be- 
fore it  yields  its  last  breath.  The  best  thing, 
then,  we  may  hope  for  that  mindless  body  is  that 
it  may  expire  in  the  course  of  a  few  hours,  with- 
out any  muscular  trouble  that  it  would  afflict 
you  to  witness." 

"  Can  nothing  be  done  ?" 

"Nothing  which  would  benefit  him.  Old- 
fashioned  and  ill-informed  doctors  would  bleed 
him,  put  blisters  to  his  temples,  and  cauteries 
to  sensitive  parts  of  the  body.  By  such  means 
they  would  appear  to  be  doing  something, 
though,  in  fact,  they  would  only  be  adding 
slightly  to  the  discomfort  which  he  endures, 
without  being  conscious  of  it.  If  I  perpetrated 
any  such  charlatanries,  they  would  only  trouble 
him  a  little,  and  pain  you  very  much.  Are  you 
satisfied?" 

"  I  want  him  to  speak,"  Albert  answered,  bit- 
terly and  piteously,  for  a  moment  exhibiting 
feminine  weakness. 

"Ah  !  miracles  are  not  wrought  nowadays." 

In  his  anguish  making  a  confidant  of  the 
man  whom  he  knew  but  slightly,  Albert  said, 
tremulously, 

"He  was  struck  dumb,  Dr.  Mnrgetson,  at 
the  very  moment  when  he  would  have  told  me 
how  to  disprove  a  slander  which  no  one  else 
can  answer,  and  which,  if  it  is  unanswered,  will 
render  him  hateful  to  all  the  world.  His  part- 
ner has  perpetrated  a  forgery  that  will  cover 
my  innocent  father  with  infamy.  If  he  die 
without  speaking,  the  world  will  call  him  chenr, 
rogue, thief,  villain.  Oh!  he  must  speak  again, 
to  me,  Dr.  Margetson !  The  world  may  not  be 
so  unjust  to  him!" 

"A  few  hours  more,"  replied  the  physician, 
tenderly  and  firmly,  "he  will  be  where  this 
world's  injustice  will  not  trouble  him,  and  where 
justice  is  qualified  by  nothing  but  mercy.  Let 
the  world  babble  of  him  falsely — God  will  take 
care  of  him." 

"  Yes,  yes,  it  is  God's  will,"  Albert  observed, 
with  simplicity.  "  I  was  a  fool  to  forget  that." 

The  time  of  his  weakness  had  passed,  and  Al- 
bert assumed  the  stoicism  which  is  the  proper 
mourning-robe  for  a  brave  man  in  trouble. 

Having  returned  to  John  Guerdon's  side,  and, 
after  watching  him  for  three  minutes,  ordered 
that  every  opportunity  should  be  taken  to  put 
brandy  between  his  teeth,  Dr.  Margetson  took 
his  leave  of  Albert,  promising  to  call  on  him 
again  in  the  morning. 

Throughout  the  night  John  Guerdon  contin- 
ued to  breathe  heavily,  under  his  son's  incessant- 


110 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


ly  watchful  eyes.  He  did  not  appear  to  grow 
weaker,  but  no  sign  of  returning  consciousness 
caused  Albert  to  question  Dr.  Margetson's  judg- 
ment of  the  case.  The  mind  had  perished.  It 
mattered  little  whether  the  body  yielded  its 
last  breath  in  a  few  minutes  or  after  another 
brief  day. 

When  the  dawn  had  broadened  into  full  day- 
light, and  another  summer's  morning  had  bright- 
ened hill  and  vale,  and  was  inspiring  the  wild 
birds  to  sing  their  blithest  songs,  Albert  left  his 
father's  room  for  a  few  minutes,  and  sent  off  by 
a  messenger  to  Arleigh  Manor  this  brief  note 
for  Lottie's  papa : 

"DEAR  SIR  JAMES, — I  am  back  from  Lon- 
don. My  dear  father  is  dying  in  unconscious- 
ness of  an  apoplectic  seizure,  that  struck  him 
down  a  few  hours  since,  shortly  after  midnight. 
Dr.  Margetson  says  that  there  is  no  hope  of  a 
return  of  the  lost  intelligence,  even  for  a  single 
moment.  I  have  no  good  news  to  tell  you 
about  George  Street.  What  bad  news  I  could 
tell  you,  the  papers  will  declare  in  a  few  hours. 
Tell  Lottie  that  she  may  not  hope  to  see  me  till 
after  my  dear  father's  funeral,  My  love  to  her, 
and  also  to  dear  Lady  Darling.  Your  affec- 
tionate ALBERT." 

In  obedience  to  orders,  the  messenger,  who 
took  this  note  to  Arleigh,  waited  at  the  manor- 
house  for  a  reply.  Shortly  before  ten  o'clock, 
when  John  Guerdon's  condition  had  in  no  out- 
ward respect  altered  since  his  seizure,  Albert  re- 
ceived this  answer  from  Arleigh  : 

"My  DEAR  SIR, — Accept  my  expressions  of 
sincerest  sympathy  for  your  troubles.  May  God 
give  you  strength  to  bear  them!  I  pity  you 
from  my  heart.  Don't  afflict  yourself  by  put- 
ting on  paper  the  details  of  any  calamitous  dis- 
closures. I  shall  learn  them  soon  enough  from 
the  press.  Last  night's  dole  prepared  me  for 
more  ill  news  about  George  Street.  With  warm- 
est regards,  I  remain,  ever  sincerely  yours, 
"JAMES  DARLING." 

As  he  read  this  note  hastily,  in  the  presence 
of  his  father's  expiring  body,  it  did  not  escape 
Albert  that  he  was  no  longer  "  My  dear  Albert," 
but  "My  dear  Sir,"  to  the  judge  of  the  Boring- 
donshire  County  Court. 

Two  hours  more,  and  still  no  change  in  the 
dying  man's  state.  The  hall  clock  was  striking 
twelve,  when  the  front-door  bell  of  the  mansion 
was  rung  loudly. 

"  See,  James,"  Albert  observed  to  the  butler, 
who  was  just  leaving  his  master's  bedroom, 
"  that  no  caller  is  admitted,  with  the  exception 
of  Dr.  Margetson.  All  visitors  but  the  doctor 
must  be  told  that  3rour  master  is  dying.  Tell 
them  the  time  of  his  seizure,  and  that  he  will 
probably  expire  in  the  course  of  the  day." 

After  the  lapse  of  five  minutes,  the  butler  re- 
entered  the  room  with  a  look  of  displeasure  on 
his  countenance,  and  an  envelope  in  his  hand. 


"If  you  please,  sir,"  the  man  said,  "  there 
are  two  persons — gentlemen,  they  may  be,  for 
all  I  know,  in  the  library — who  insisted  on  com- 
ing into  the  house,  although  I  told  them  of  Mr. 
Guerdon's  state.  They  asked  for  master,  sir ; 
and  when  I  told  them  why  he  could  not  see 
them,  they  answered,  *  Ay,  but  all  the  same  for 
that,  we  must  see  him!'  I  told  them  again 
what  my  orders  were.  But  they  pushed  past 
me  into  the  house,  and  then  one  of  them  said, 
'  Now  lead  us  up  to  your  master's  room  ?'  I 
told  them  I  would  not,  as  you  were  there  with 
master.  '  Then,'  said  the  same  one,  taking  out 
a  card  and  putting  it  in  this  envelope,  '  take 
my  card  up  to  Mr.  Guerdon's  son,  and  show  us 
into  a  room  of  some  sort,  or  we  can  wait  here. 
Young  Mr.  Guerdon  will  see  us  !" 

Taking  the  envelope  and  the  servant's  ex- 
planation at  the  same  time,  Albert  opened  the 
former  and  glanced  at  the  card,  which  contain- 
ed the  printed  words  :  "Mr.  Manson,  Sergeant 
of  Detectives,  Municipal  Constabulary,  Lon- 
don." It  was  no  official  card,  but  the  placard 
by  which  Mr.  Manson  announced  his  quality  and 
degree,  in  the  manner  most  agreeable  to  him- 
self, to  the  members  of  his  own  social  circle. 

Quitting  his  father's  bedside  without  a  word, 
Albert  hastened  to  the  library,  and  confronted 
the  two  policemen  in  plain  clothes.  They  were 
intelligent  men,  and  the  spokesman  of  the  two 
had  something  of  the  voice  and  bearing  of  a 
gentleman. 

Addressing  the  superior  of  the  two  unwel- 
come visitors,  Albert  said, 

"You  are,  I  suppose,  Mr.  Manson  ?" 

"  I  am,  sir — of  the  London  detective  police, 
on  duty." 

"As  Mr.  Guerdon's  son,  may  I  ask  you  your 
business  ?" 

"  I  am  here,  sir,  with  a  warrant  for  the  arrest 
of  your  father,  whom  you  must  permit  me  to 
see  at  once,  in  order  that  I  may  make  him  my 
prisoner." 

"But  he  is  dying  —  can  not  live  for  many 
hours." 

"So  the  servant  told  me,  sir;  but  all  the 
same,  duty  requires  me  to  make  the  arrest.  If 
he  is  not  in  a  state  to  be  removed,  why,  he  must 
lie  here  for  the  present.  But  I  must  make  him 
my  prisoner." 

"  May  I  ask  you  what  is  the  charge  on  which 
your  warrant  authorizes  you  to  arrest  him  ?" 

"Forgery,  sir,  that  is  the  charge,"  replied 
Mr.  Manson,  lowering  his  voice  to  a  hoarse 
whisper. 

"  On  whom  !     What  are  the  particulars  ?" 

"  Well,  sir,  I  am  not  bound  to  tell  you  them. 
It  is  not  always  that  I  know  the  particulars  of 
the  case  on  which  I  have  to  make  an  arrest." 

"Of  course,  sir,"  Albert  returned,  politely, 
and  with  much  feeling,  "  you  are  under  no  ob- 
ligation to  communicate  to  me  any  part  of  your 
instructions.  But  I  rely  on  your  courtesy  to  be 
communicative  within  the  limits  of  your  duty. 
My  dear  father,  as  you  will  see  in  a  few  min- 
utes, is  past  telling  me  any  thing.  So  I  am  com- 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


Ill 


pelieo.  to  ask  you  for  the  information  which  his 
lips  can  no  longer  afford  me.  You,  sir,  were  a 
son  once.  Perhaps  yon  have  a  father  still.  In 
that  case,  my  prayer  is  that  you  may  never  suf-* 
for  as  I  do  now." 

Priding  himself  on  being  a  gentleman,  al- 
though he  was  a  policeman,  the  detective  seized 
the  opportunity  for  displaying  his  quality  to  a 
gentleman  in  trouble,  who  addressed  him  so 
fairly — not  to  say  deferentially.  Moreover,  Mr. 
Manson  was  a  better  fellow  at  heart  than  most 
presuming  persons ;  and  his  good  feelings  were 
roused  by  Albert's  wretchedness  and  courteous 
dignity  of  bearing. 

Mr.  Manson  became  communicative  almost 
to  loquaciousness. 

The  case  was  just  this :  Two  months  since 
Messrs.  Guerdon  &  Scrivener,  bankers  of  Ham- 
merhampton,  had  borrowed  the  small  sum 
of  £15,000  of  Messrs.  Pittock  &  Murphy,  bill- 
discounters,  King  William  Street,.  City  of  Lon- 
don, and,  together  with  other  securities  for  the 
payment  of  the  sum,  had  deposited  with  Messrs. 
Pittock  &  Murphy  a  bill  for  two  thousand 
four  hundred  odd  pounds,  accepted  by  Mr.  Jo- 
sias  Radley,  of  the  Vulcan  Iron  Works,  Blast- 
rock.  Mr.  Guerdon  had  himself  negotiated  the 
business  with  Messrs.  Pittock  &  Murphy ;  and, 
on  indorsing  the  bill,  he  had  requested  that 
Messrs.  Pittock  &  Murphy  would  not  let  it  go 
out  of  their  hands  until  it  should  have  fallen 
due— as  Mr.  Guerdon  did  not  like  the  notion 
that  paper  bearing  his  indorsement  should  be 
floating  about  the  city  and  country.  Messrs. 
Pittock  &  Murphy  having  had  frequent  deal- 
ings with  the  Hammerhampton  bankers,  prom- 
ised to  observe  so  reasonable  and  common  a  re- 
quest. But  as  soon  as  the  bankers  had  failed, 
Messrs.  Pittock  &  Murphy,  becoming  alarmed, 
had  put  themselves  in  communication  with  Mr. 
Josias  Radley,  of  the  Vulcan  Iron  Works,  Blast- 
rock,  who  had  immediately  repudiated  the  sig- 
nature of  acceptance  as  a  forgery. 

So  far  as  penal  consequences  were  concern- 
ed, forgery  was  a  far  graver  offense  than  the 
breach  of  trust  which  John  Guerdon  would 
have  committed  had  he  been  Scrivener's  coad- 
jutor in  the  misappropriation  of  Blanche  Heath- 
cote's  fortune.  In  the  eye  of  the  law  it  was  a 
far  more  heinous  misdeed.  Leaving  the  break- 
er of  trust  to  the  punishment  of  social  scorn, 
the  law  awarded  to  the  forger  a  convict's  doom 
and  felon's  stigma.  And  ordinary  men,  whose 
notions  of  right  and  wrong,  of  honor  and  dis- 
honor, were  strictly  conventional,  accepted  the 
legal  distinction  as  a  measure  of  the  respective 
enormity  of  the  two  wrongs.  There  are  degrees 
of  extreme  turpitude ;  and  popular  sentiment 
naturally  expressed  a  profounder  horror  for  the 
offense  which  the  law  corrected  with  heavy  pen- 
alties than  for  the  offense  which  it  left  to  the 
tribunal  of  social  opinion.  Albert  was  no  or- 
dinary man.  His  conceptions  of  right  and 
wrong  were  not  conventional.  To  him  the  loss 
of  honor  was  not  less  ignominious  than  the  en- 
durance of  legal  infamy.  But  even  he,  with 


his  deep  and  vivid  sense  of  the  traitor's  perfidy, 
was  horrified  at  learning  that  his  father,  in  his 
powerlessness  to  defend  himself,  would  be  deem- 
ed a  forger,  as  well  as  a  fraudulent  trustee. 
The  sweat  of  mental  agony  rolled  down  his  fore- 
head as  he  saw  this  heavy  addition  made  to  the 
burden  of  disgrace  put  upon  his  father's  fame. 
Not  that  he,  for  an  instant,  deemed  his  father 
capable  of  indorsing  an  acceptance  which  he 
knew  to  be  fictitious.  Nothing  could  shake  his 
confidence  in  the  old  man's  commercial  hon- 
esty. The  spurious  acceptance  had  been  fab- 
ricated by  the  same  villain  who  forged  his  part- 
ner's signature  on  the  power  of  attorney.  In 
good  faith,  and  with  perfect  confidence  in  the 
genuineness  of  the  paper  placed  in  his  hands 
by  his  treacherous  partner,  John  Guerdon  had 
indorsed  the  spurious  bill,  and  given  it  as  valid 
security  for  borrowed  money.  Even  yet,  the 
dying  man's  honor  should  be  purged  of  the 
stains  set  upon  it  by  another's  villainies.  He 
might  perish  in  disgrace,  but  his  memory  should 
be  made  white  as  virtue.  Thus  Albert  thought 
and  resolved. 

In  the  mean  time,  while  the  dishonored  man 
was  drawing  his  last  breath  in  the  chamber 
above,  the  son  stood  face  to  face  with  the  po- 
liceman. 

"And  it  is  necessary  that  you  should  see  him 
at  once,  although  you  have  my  assurance  that 
he  is  unconscious  and  sinking?"  Albert  in- 
quired, in  a  tone  which  betrayed  his  wish  to 
preserve  his  father's  person  from  the  indignity 
of  an  arrest. 

"I  must  do  my  duty,"  Mr.  Manson  replied, 
civilly  but  firmly,  bowing  to  the  wretched  ques- 
tioner. 

"  Of  course,  you  must  do  your  duty  ;  but  is 
it  needful  that  you  should  execute  your  war- 
rant immediately  ?  Can  not  you  wait  an  hour, 
or  even  a  few  minutes  ?" 

"No,  sir;  I  must  do  my  work  at  once. 
And,  Lord  bless  you,  sir,  if  the  gentleman  is  so 
far  gone  as  you  say,  I  sha'n't  disturb  him." 

"  Disturb  him  ?  Oh  no,  you  won't  trouble 
him." 

"  It  is  only  a  form,  sir.  The  servant  can  be 
sent  out  of  the  room,  and  then  I  shall  only  put 
my  hand  on  the  gentleman's  shoulder,  and  say 
the  words,  *  John  Guerdon,  I  arrest  you  on  a 
charge  of  forgery.  You  are  my  prisoner ' — 
that's  all  I  shall  do.  It  won't  hurt  him." 

Albert  shuddered  at  this  brief  and  dramatic 
description  of  "all"  that  the  policeman  would 
do. 

"  Then,  gentlemen,  I  will  conduct  you  to  my 
father's  bedside,"  he  said,  calmly. 

Turning  to  his  subordinate,  Mr.  Manson  said, 

"  Hurrell,  you  may  wait  here.  I  will  go 
with  this  gentleman.  It  will  be  pleasanter  to 
young  Mr.  Guerdon  that  only  one  of  us  should 
go  into  the  room." 

Having  thus  shown  his  desire  to  make  things 
as  pleasant  as  possible,  Mr.  Manson  followed 
Albert  up  stairs,  and  in  another  minute  crossed 
the  threshold  of  John  Guerdon's  bedroom. 


112 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


Glancing  at  the  prostrate  figure  on  the  bed, 
and  then  addressing  the  woman  who  was  lean- 
ing over  it,  Albert  said, 

"Mrs.  Johnson,  have  the  goodness  to  leave 
the  room  for  a  minute.  This  gentleman  and  I 
wish  to  be  alone  with  my  father.  Why  !  Mrs. 
Johnson,  he  is  very  quiet!  He  does  not 
breathe!" 

Kaising  her  eyes  from  the  face  which  she  had 
been  watching  intently,  and  turning  them  to  her 
young  master,  Mrs.  Johnson  said,  seriously, 

"  Sir,  your  father  is  no  longer  here.  \He  died 
at  the  very  moment  when  you  entered  the  room. 
His  soul  met  you  at  the  door." 

Turning  sharply  round  on  the  unwelcome  vis- 
itor by  his  side,  Albert  bowed  slightly  and  said, 
with  cold,  biting  irony, 

"Sir,  your  prisoner  has  escaped  you.  You 
must  follow  him  to  another  country." 

"  What !  gone  just  a  minute  too  soon  ?" 

"  Nay,  sir ;  gone  not  a  moment  too  late.  My 
father  is  beyond  your  reach,  Mr.  Manson.  If 
you  follow  him  to  the  land  to  which  he  has  es- 
caped, your  warrant  will  be  powerless  there." 

Mr.  Manson  was  annoyed.  Ho  felt  like  a 
sportsman  who  has  just  missed  his  bird  ;  like  a 
singer  whose  finest  notes  have  been  taken  from 
him  by  a  sudden  hoarseness  in  the  middle  of  a 
song ;  like  an  orator  who  at  the  last  moment 
has  lost  the  occasion  for  a  telling  speech ;  like 
a  courtier  checked  in  the  performance  of  a 
graceful  gesture  by  a  sharp  jerk  of  rheumatism. 
He  was  on  the  point  of  showing  young  Mr.  Guer- 
don with  what  ease,  and  delicacy,  and  regard 
for  the  finer  sensibilities  a  gentleman-like  po- 
liceman could  deprive  a  dying  gentleman  of  his 
liberty,  when,  lo,  the  almost  arrested  man  had 
escaped  under  the  very  nose  of  his  pursuer,  and 
started  in  freedom  on  the  longest  and  last  of 
all  journeys. 

Yes,  John  Guerdon — bankrupt,  as  he  was,  in 
truth  ;  scoundrel  and  forger,  as  he  would  be  in 
the  world's  esteem — had  passed  beyond  the  lim- 
its of  all  human  jurisdiction.  In  no  court  of 
our  sovereign  lady  the  Queen  would  he  be  ar- 
raigned on  a  charge  of  felony.  No  jury  of 
twelve  gentlemen  in  a  box  would  ever  be  au- 
thorized to  examine  the  evidence  of  his  guilt, 
and  to  decide  whether  he  had  forged  the  sig- 
nature of  Josias  Radley,  of  the  Vulcan  Iron 
Works,  Blastrock.  The  only  judge  before 
whom  he  would  appear  was  the  Judge  to  whom 
all  men  must  sooner  or  later  plead  "  guilty." 
The  only  tribunal  that  could  now  take  cogni- 
zance of  his  crimes  was  the  tribunal  before  which 
the  best  of  us  and  the  worst  of  us  will,  ere  very 
long,  kneel  side  by  side,  meekly  confessing  sins 
and  asking  pardon  for  trespasses. 

Now  that  the  everlasting  spirit  had  left  it, 
Death  and  human  sentiment  gave  to  the  soul- 
less tenement  a  sacredness  to  which  Mr.  Man- 
son  was  constrained  to  render  homage.  He 
had  entered  the  room  to  seize  John  Guerdon's 
body.  The  body  lay  there,  silent,  and  incapa- 
ble of  resistance.  But  the  constable  dared  not 
lay  a  finger  on  it. 


.      CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE  BURIAL  OF   THE   DEAD. 

WITH  promptness  Albert  took  the  requisite 
steps  for  his  father's  funeral.  And  in  taking 
them  he  received  at  least  one  painful  proof  of 
the  suspicion  with  which  he  was  regarded  by 
the  humbler  people  of  the  Great  Yard.  On 
receiving  orders  for  a  strictly  private  interment, 
the  undertaker,  who  had  been  summoned  from 
Hammerhampton  to  Earl's  Court,  inquired  sig- 
nificantly to  whom  he  was  to  look  for  the  pay- 
ment of  his  bill.  Whereupon,  concealing  his 
annoyance  at  the  not  unreasonable  inquiry,  Al- 
bert dispelled  the  tradesman's  doubts,  and  pur- 
chased his  obsequious  smiles  by  giving  him  a 
Bank  of.England  note. 

In  acknowledgment  of  a  letter  which  an- 
nounced to  him  the  banker's  death,  Sir  James 
Darling  wrote  to  the  dishonored  son  a  few  civ- 
il but  studiously  cautious  words  of  condolence. 
Mr.  Fairbank,  the  rector  of  Ewebridge,  the  par- 
ish in  which  Earl's  Court  stood,  replied  more 
sympathetically  to  the  note  that  informed  him 
of  Albert's  wish  to  place  his  father's  coffin  in 
the  vault  of  Ewebridge  church,  which  had  long 
guarded  the  body  of  the  dead  man's  wife.  But 
though  the  rector  expressed  himself  with  court- 
esy and  gentleman-like  kindness,  his  letter  was 
characterized  by  a  constraint  and  stiffness  which 
showed  that  the  writer  felt  how  recent  events 
had  affected  the  quality  and'  status  of  John 
Guerdon's  son. 

Some  of  the  sharpest  anguish  which  Albert 
experienced  in  the  interval  between  his  father's 
death  and  interment  came  to  him  from  the  pe- 
rusal of  the  articles  that  the  London  and  Bor- 
ingdonshire  press  discharged  over  the  unbur- 
ied  body  of  the  bankrupt,  scoundrel,  forger. 
Of  course  the  journalists  took  the  worst  view 
of  John  Guerdon's  failure  and  alleged  crimes. 
It  would  have  been  strange  had  they  taken  any 
other  in  the  face  of  the  damnatory  evidence. 
They  can  not  be  censured  severely  for  speaking 
of  the  disastrously  inopportune  death  as  a  "  con- 
venient and  suspicious  event."  They  were 
only  doing  their  duty  to  the  public  when,  in 
spite  of  Dr.  Margetson's  conclusive  evidence  as 
to  the  cause  of  death,  they  insinuated  that  the 
forger  had  added  suicide  to  his  other  crimes. 
His  extinction,  at  the  very  moment  when  Jus- 
tice was  on  the  point  of  laying  her  hand  upon 
him,  being  highly  melodramatic,  it  was  only 
natural  that  smart  writers  should  make  the 
most  of  the  theatrical  position  in  their  graphic 
leaders.  On  the  other  hand,  the  reasonable- 
ness and  apparent  justice  of  their  comments 
on  the  "Tragic  End  of  the  Hammerhampton 
Banker  "  did  not  render  them  less  afflicting  to 
"the  forger's"  only  child. 

Throughout  this  period  of  distress  Albert 
never  heard  from  Lottie.  He  did  not  resent 
her  silence,  or  deem  it  expressive  of  unkind- 
ness  ;  though  he  construed  it  as  a  proof  that 
she  had  been  told  to  regard  their  engagement 
as  a  wretched  affair  of  the  past.  Imagining 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


113 


vividly  the  tortures  which  were  rending  her 
heart,  and  perhaps  shattering  her  intellect,  Al- 
bert's one  feeling  for  the  girl  who  might  not  be 
his  wife  was  a  state  of  intense  and  harrowing 
commiseration.  His  regret  for  his  father's 
death,  his  sense  of  his  own  unutterable  desola- 
tion, his  incessantly  galling  recollections  of  the 
infamies  put  upon  him,  were  trivial  pains  in 
comparison  with  the  mental  agonies  which  re- 
sulted from  his  pity  for  Lottie,  and  from  his 
maddening  recognition  of  his  inability  to  do 
any  thing  for  her  comfort.  The  thought  of  the 
misery  which  he  had  been  the  innocent  means 
of  bringing  upon  her,  again  and  again  goaded 
him  into  a  fury  of  remorseful  despair,  border- 
ing on  the  frenzy  of  suicides. 

Nor  did  Albert  exaggerate  the  sufferings  of 
the  miserable  girl.  For  three  days  she  vague- 
ly apprehended  her  doom.  She  felt  the  cold 
chill  of  the  coming  storm,  and  drooped  in  dumb 
terror  under  the  blackness  of  the  impending 
clouds  before  they  burst  forth  in  the  thunder 
and  deluge  which  swept  Albert  from  her.  It 
was  not  till  the  evening  after  John  Guerdon's 
death  that  Sir  James  Darling  took  Lottie  to 
his  library,  and,  in  her  mother's  absence,  in- 
formed her,  by  brief  but  not  needlessly  un- 
kind words,  that,  however  much  she  might  con- 
tinue to  love  him,  she  might  not  marry  the  son 
of  a  cheat  and  forger.  It  would  be  hard  for 
Albert,  cruel  for  her,  grievous  to  all  who  cared 
for  her,  but  the  course  of  honor  was  the  only 
one  open  to  a  good  and  dutiful  girl.  In  justice 
to  the  little  judge,  it  must  be  recorded  that  he 
nearly  broke  down  in  the  performance  of  his 
barbarous  task;  but  he  accomplished  it,  with 
all  the  greater  difficulty,  and  keener  compunc- 
tion at  his  own  cruelty,  because  Lottie  answer- 
ed never  a  word  until  he  had  set  forth  all  the 
reasons  why  she  must  dismiss  Albert,  and  for- 
get him. 

"Forget  him  !"  the  girl  ejaculated,  gasping 
for  breath  in  her  giddiness  and  faintness,  as 
she  stood  by  the  side  of  the  library-table,  op- 
posite to  her  father,  who  was  also  on  his  feet — 
"  forget  him!  It  is  impossible!  I  can't  for- 
get him — but  I  can  die !  Oh !  yes,  dear  father, 
I  can  die!" 

Though  he  dared  not  even  glance  at  the 
whiteness  of  her  woeful  cheeks  or  the  anguish 
of  her  writhing  lips,  Sir  James  Darling/e&  that 
she  was  in  peril  of  falling  to  the  ground. 

In  five  seconds  he  had  caught  her  in  his 
arms,  and  extended  her  on  a  sofa,  where  she 
lay  trembling  and  in  silence  for  several  minutes. 
She  did  not  lose  her  consciousness.  The  very 
intensity  of  her  pain  denied  her  the  natural  re- 
lief of  extreme  agony. 

Rising  from  the  sofa,  as  soon  as  she  felt  that 
her  limbs  would  bear  her,  she  hastened  toward 
the  door.  Seeing  that  she  was  bent  on  leaving 
him  thus  abruptly,  without  a  word  of  forgive- 
ness to  her  torturer,  Sir  James  Darling  put 
forth  his  arms,  with  the  show  of  a  wish  to  de- 
tain her.  The  movement  fired  the  few  rebell- 
ious elements  of  the  docile  girl's  nature,  and, 
8 


turning  sharply  round  upon  him,  with  flashing 
eyes  and  such  anger  as  had  never  before  flamed 
in  her  face,  she  caused  him  to  fall  away  from 
her. 

"  Father,  don't  dare  to  touch  me.  You  have 
been  cruel  enough — barbarous  enough,"  she 
exclaimed.  "  If  you  dare  to  follow  me,  I  will 
never  forgive  you.  If  you  dare  to  tell  my 
mother  how  ill  you  have  made  me,  I  will  never 
forgive  you.  If  you — " 

But  there  was  no  need  for  Lottie  to  say 
more.  In  sheer  astonishment  and  dismay  at 
this  outburst  of  rage  from  a  girl  notable  for 
sweetness  of  temper,  her  father  had  retreated 
several  yards  from  her. 

Seizing  her  opportunity,  Lottie  slipped  from 
the  room,  and  in  another  minute  was  at  the 
door  of  her  private  apartment. 

Lottie  could  not  remember  on  the  following 
day,  and  she  never  learned  exactly  what  took 
place  during  the  remainder  of  that  evening  in 
her  sleeping-room.  The  next  day,  when  she 
had  struggled  to  consciousness  through  a  series 
of  doleful  dreams,  she  could  recall  how  she  had 
thrown  herself  on  her  bed,  thinking  and  hop- 
ing that  she  would  die  at  once.  She  fancied 
that  her  mother  had  visited  her,  and  cried  over 
her ;  and  she  had  misty  recollections  of  a  strange 
gentleman,  who  had  perplexed  her  with  ques- 
tions which  she  could  not  answer,  for  the  suffi- 
cient reason  that  she  could  not  understand  a 
word  of  them,  and  only  knew  that  they  were 
questions  from  the  look  of  his  face.  The  in- 
cident, of  which  she  had  the  clearest  remem- 
brance, was  that  this  gentlemanly  stranger  had 
compelled  her  to  drink  something  out  of  a  wine- 
glass. Readers  may  take  it  for  granted  that 
the  gentleman  was  Dr.  Margetson,  who  had 
been  summoned  from  Owleybury  to  see  the 
girl,  when  her  wild  talk  and  passionate  excla- 
mations had  alarmed  her  parents  very  greatly. 

Lottie  was  not  allowed  to  leave  her  bed  all 
that  next  day  after  John  Guerdon's  death.  It 
would  have  been  ill  for  her  had  she  rebelled 
against  her  two  nurses  —  her  mother  and  her 
mother's  maid  —  and  insisted  on  rising;  for, 
truth  to  tell,  she  was  very  ill.  Mental  agony 
had  weakened  her  surprisingly  in  the  course  of 
a  few  hours ;  and  for  more  than  forty-eight 
hours  her  perilous  condition  exhibited  no  signs 
of  improvement.  Passing  quickly  from  fits  of 
silent  weeping  to  fits  of  angry  speaking,  she  af- 
flicted Mary  Darling  alike  by  the  vehemence 
of  her  grief  and  the  extravagance  of  her  indig- 
nation. 

"What  wrong  has  he  done?"  she  exclaimed, 
in  one  of  her  talkative  moods.  "  If  he  is  bad, 
tell  me  so.  But  you  know  he  is  good.  Oh, 
mother,  mother,  can  you  say  any  evil  of  Albert, 
except  that  he  is  miserable,  and  poor,  and  load- 
ed with  obloquy  for  the  sins  of  others  ?  The 
crimes  were  done  by  others ;  and  all  the  pun- 
ishment is  his.  Mamma,  do  you  hear  me  ? 
I  am  talking  to  you.  Can  you  tell  me  of  a  sin- 
gle evil  thing  that  Albert  has  done  ?  Can  yoa  ? 
Do  tell  me  if  you  can." 


in 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


To  which  heart-rending  inquiries  Mary  Dar- 
ling was  compelled  to  reply  by  bearing  testimo- 
ny to  Albert's  goodness. 

"I  was  not  the  only  one  to  love  him,"  the 
sick  girl  continued.  "  Mother,  you  loved  him  ?" 

"Lottie,  dear  Lottie,  I  love  him  still." 

"  You  wished  him  to  love  me  before  he  had 
ever  seen  me!  and  you  hoped  that  I  might  love 
him.  When  I  was  a  mere  school-child,  without 
a  thought  of  love  such  as  I  bear  him,  you  en- 
couraged me  to  think  about  him,  and  speak  to 
him  frankly,  and  treat  him  like  a  familiar  cous- 
in. Yeu  know  you  did,  mamma.  If  you  had 
not  wished  me  to  love  him,  ay,  and  if  you  had 
not  sought  his  love  for  me,  you  would  not  have 
let  us  shoot  at  the  butts,  happy  morning  after 
happy  morning.  And  now  that  my  heart  has 
grown  into  his  heart,  you  are  tearing  us  apart. 
God  has  joined  us,  and  wicked  people  are  pull- 
ing us  asunder.  I  won't  forget  him — I  can't. 
He  is  my  Albert — my  own,  own  Albert — more 
mine  than  ever,  now  that  I  alone  have  the  cour- 
age to  love  him.  Oh,  dear  mamma,  would 
you  have  me  desert  him,  whom  I  took  for  bet- 
ter or  for  worse,  when  you  are  compelled  to  own 
that  he  is  as  good,  and  true,  and  noble  as  he 
was  when  you  taught  me  to  love  him  ?" 

"If  you  were  his  wife,  Lottie,"  Lady  Dar- 
ling answered,  "I  would  encourage  you  to 
cleave  to  him,  if  he  were  even  a  worse  man  than 
his  father.  But  you  only  promised  condition- 
ally to  be  his  wife." 

"There  were  no  conditions,"  Lottie  exclaim- 
ed, fiercely,  "  to  the  free  gift  of  my  whole  heart 
that  I  made  him !  He  gave  himself  to  me,  I 
gave  myself  to  him,  and  from  that  moment  I  be- 
came his  wedded  wife — as  much  his  wife  as  if 
our  marriage  had  been  celebrated.  And  now 
you  say.  '  But  he  is  poor,  he  is  sick,  he  is  slan- 
dered, and  therefore  desert  him,  though  he  is 
good  thoroughly.'  Oh,  mother,  is  that  the  cold 
way  in  which  you  loved  my  father,  and  he  you  ? 
I  can  believe  it  of  him ;  but  you  have  always 
seemed  to  love  me  wholly. " 

"  Child,"  the  mother  urged,  beseechingly, 
"do  not  speak  so  to  me.  Albert's  grief  trou- 
bles me  almost  as  much  as  your  sorrow  does. 
You  know  I  love  you.  All  that  I  have  ever 
said  to  you  of  my  affection  for  him  was  uttered 
truly ;  and  he  has  done  nothing  to  make  him 
less  dear  to  me.  He  is  my  Albert  still." 

"Then  why  urge  me  to  be  false  and  barba- 
rous to  him  ?  Your  Albert !  He  is  not  yours ! 
He  is  mine— my  own  !  Oh,  Albert,  Albert,  they 
shall  not  separate  us !  Mother,  why  do  you 
try  to  torture  me  into  the  wickedness  of  per- 
fidy ?" 

"Why?"  the  mother  answered,  gently  and 
very  earnestly.  "Lottie,  I  am  the  mother  of 
other .  children  besides  you.  I  love  you  more 
than  any  of  them — more  than  all  of  them.  You 
were  my  last  babe,  you  are  the  child  who  nev- 
er gave  me  cross  words  or  unkind  look,  who 
have  strengthened  me  in  my  weakness,  and 
gladdened  me  in  my  sorrow.  You  have  been 
so  very  tender  and  good  to  me.  But  though 


you  are  my  dearest  child,  I  must  think  of  my 
other  children.  For  their  sakes,  I  implore  you 
to  be  brave,  and  unselfish,  and  self-sacrificing. 
Don't  cause  them  to  blush  and  turn  faint  with 
shame  at  the  mention  of  their  sister  who  mar- 
ried the  forger's  son." 

"  It  is  not  myself  only  that  you  ask  me  to 
sacrifice,"  the  girl  returned.  "You  ask  me  to 
sacrifice  Albert.  You  want  me  to  strike  him, 
now  he  is  forlorn,  and  desolate,  and  shame-bur- 
dened. Oh,  mother,  take  your  barbarous  love 
from  me  ! "  she  cried,  madly.  "  It  is  worse  than 
any  hate !  It  covers  me  with  fire,  and  is  eat- 
ing away  my  heart.  Are  there  no  limits  to  a 
loving  mother's  cruelty  ?" 

At  which  bitter,  burning  words,  Mary  Dar- 
ling, who  had  borne  the  girl's  previous  re- 
proaches with  equal  fortitude  and  meekness, 
broke  down.  Her  strength  yielding  to  the 
successive  blows  given  her  by  an  adversary, 
too  madly  wretched  to  be  aware  of  the  enormi- 
ty of  her  unfilial  behavior,  the  mother  cried, 
"  Oh,  Lottie,  Lottie,  that  I  should  have  lived 
to  hear  such  words  from  you !  Is  my  love,  in- 
deed, so  hateful  and  cursed  ?"  And,  having 
thus  spoken,  she  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands  and  sobbed. 

The  spectacle  of  her  mother's  violent  grief 
did  Lottie  good.  It  startled  her  out  of  her 
selfish  sorrow,  and  for  a  few  moments  put  Albert 
out  of  her  mind.  It  scared  her  with  a  sudden 
revelation  of  her  own  cruelty  to  her  mother. 
For  a  brief  while  she  saw  nothing  but  her  own 
undaughterful  wickedness,  and  the  woe  which 
it  had  occasioned. 

The  strong  and  fervid  affection  for  her  gen- 
tler parent,  which  had  been  the  mightiest  force 
of  her  nature  until  it  had  been  surpassed  by  her 
love  of  Albert,  asserted  itself,  and  in  another 
moment  the  poor  girl,  springing  from  her  recum- 
bent posture,  threw  her  arms  round  her  moth- 
er's neck,  and  covered  her  wan  cheeks  with 
kisses  and  tears. 

"Pardon  me,"  she  implored — "oh,  mother, 
pardon  me !  Indeed  I  am  not  so  bad  a  girl  as 
my  wild  words  make  you  think  me ! — indeed, 
indeed  I  love  you,  though  grief  is  maddening 
my  brain,  and  filling  my  heart  with  wickedness. 
Oh,  say  you  do  not  love  me  less  for  my  naugh- 
tiness !  Oh,  that  I  should  have  lived  to  be  a 
bad  daughter  to  you !" 

The  kisses  and  tears,  without  the  words, 
would  have  won  Mary  Darling's  complete  for- 
giveness. Her  grief  had  no  resentment  against 
its  cause.  Lottie's  words  did  too  much  ;  they 
caused  her  mother  to  accuse  herself  of  impa- 
tience and  unkind  vehemence  to  the  child, 
whose  cruel  speeches  only  showed  that  their 
utterer  was  beside  herself  with  grief. 

"My  pet,"  the  mother  answered,  returning 
the  tears  and  caresses,  "you  were  not  naughty, 
but  only  wildly  wretched  ;  and  it  is  even  hard- 
er for  me  to  see  you  wretched  than  to  think 
you  unkind." 

Having  received  this  assurance,  Lottie  fell 
back  again  on  her  pillows,  faintly  protesting, 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


115 


"But  I  am  wicked  —  very  wicked!  Oh, 
dear  God,  help  me  to  be  good,  till  my  heart 
breaks,  and  I  die!" 

There  were  other  scenes,  scarcely  less  violent 
and  distressing,  between  Lady  Darling  and  her 
child.  But,  in  the  course  of  five  or  six  days, 
Lottie  grew  calmer  and  more  reasonable.  She 
could  listen  with  silent  attention  while  her 
mother  showed  her  tenderly  and  cogently  why 
her  marriage  with  Albert  would  be  very  hurt- 
ful to  her  sister  and  brothers,  as  well  as  un- 
speakably painful  to  her  father.  She  even 
held  some  conversations  on  the  subject  with 
her  father,  who,  though  his  words  were  not 
devoid  of  a  tone  of  unyielding  hardness,  per- 
formed his  repulsive  task  with  considerable  dis- 
cretion and  some  delicacy.  With  equal  pru- 
dence and  justice,  he  spoke  of  Albert  with  un- 
qualified approval  and  compassion,  while  en- 
treating Lottie,  out  of  sisterly  love  for  her  broth- 
ers, to  refrain  from  a  marriage  which  would 
cover  them  with  discredit  in  the  opinion  of  their 
comrades  in  the  army.  So  Lottie  was  brought 
by  degrees  to  see  that,  if  love  and  duty  on  the 
one  hand  required  her  to  be  true  to  Albert,  love 
and  duty  on  the  other  hand  enjoined  her  to  re- 
frain from  marrying  him.  Pulled  in  opposite 
directions  by  two  mighty  forces — devotion  to 
Albert,  and  unselfish  affection  for  her  family — 
she  was  grievously  perplexed.  Remembering 
how  Miss  Constantino  had  told  her  that  a  good 
girl  should  be  especially  heedful  to  avoid  selfish- 
ness in  her  love  affairs,  and  should  be  ready  to 
sacrifice  much  of  her  own  wishes  for  the  happi- 
ness of  her  nearest  kindred,  Lottie  came  to  the 
conclusion  that  no  mere  selfish  regard  for  her 
own  felicity  should  make  her  carry  out  her  en- 
gagement to  Albert  in  opposition  to  the  entreat- 
ies of  her  pai'ents.  But  she  had  obligations  to 
him,  as  well  as  to  them.  For  them  she  could 
sacrifice  herself,  even  though  by  doing  so  she 
would  earn  life -long  wretchedness.  But  she 
could  not  sacrifice  him — she  could  not  be  faith- 
less and  cruel  to  Albert. 

And  so  she  passed  an  entire  week  in  anguish, 
and  tears,  and  secret  lamentations,  and  much 
prayer  to  God  for  help,  until  Albert  had  seen 
his  father's  coffin  placed  in  the  vault  of  Ewe- 
bridge  church. 

The  bankrupt's  funeral  was  simple  and  un- 
ostentatious. Decent  and  reverential,  it  was 
devoid  of  the  display  which  would  have  ill  be- 
seemed the  obsequies  of  a  man  who  had  died 
in  debt  and  shame.  No  old  friends  were  in- 
vited to  feign  respect  for  him  whom  they  had 
ceased  to  esteem.  The  only  followers  of  the 
hearse  were  Albert  and  the  Earl's  Court  serv- 
ants, and  they  went  on  foot  to  the  picturesque 
church,  which  stands,  out  of  sight  of  human 
dwellings,  at  the  meeting  of  three  ways,  where 
the  rippling  Purl,  after  winding  round  two  sides 
of  the  church-yard,  flows  under  a  rustic  bridge, 
on  its  way  to  the  Luce. 

But  though  none  of  the  banker's  many  ac- 
quaintances had  been  summoned  to  his  inter- 
ment, curiosity  brought  a  considerable  assembly 


of  gazers  to  the  secluded  church.  The  tenants 
of  the  Earl's  Court  estate,  and  many  other 
farmers  of  the  district,  were  there.  Half  a 
hundred  manufacturers  and  smaller  traders  had 
come  out  from  the  Great  Yard  to  witness  what 
they  harshly  termed  "  the  last  of  the  old  vil- 
lain!" And  Ilammerhampton  had  sent  over 
two  newspaper  reporters  to  watch  the  pro- 
ceedings, and  describe  them  for  the  benefit  of 
readers  of  the  local  journals.  Indeed,  the  church 
was  so  crowded  that  the  funeral  train  had  some 
difficulty  in  working  its  way  up  to  the  open 
vault,  in  which  John  Guerdon's  plain  coffin  was 
placed, near  the  costlier  chest  that  contained  his 
wife's  body. 

Mr.  Fairbank  read  the  service  for  the  burial 
of  the  dead  in  solemn  tones.  But  the  chief 
mourner  gave  small  heed  to  the  not  always 
consolatory  words  of  the  beautiful  office.  He 
shuddered  as  the  priest  said,  "  Forasmuch  as  it 
hath  pleased  Almighty  God  of  his  great  mercy 
to  take  unto  himself  the  soul  of  our  dear  broth- 
erhere  departed,  we  therefore  commit  his  body 
to  the  ground.'*  Not  that  he  doubted  the  as- 
surance that  his  father's  soul  was  in  God's  keep- 
ing, nor  that  he  undervalued  the  mercy  display- 
ed in  his  timely  removal,  but  because  he  real- 
ized horribly  the  shame  and  sorrow  from  which 
the  dead  man  had  been  merqifully  taken. 

As  Albert,  after  escaping  from  the  curious 
throng,  and  separating  himself  from  the  serv- 
ants who  had  followed  their  late  master  to  the 
grave,  walked  back  to  Earl's  Court  by  a  pri- 
vate path,  he  repeated  to  himself  the  words  of 
one  of  the  initiatory  passages  of  Scripture  with 
which  the  rector  had  opened  the  ceremony : 
"  We  brought  nothing  into  the  world,  and  it 
is  certain  we  can  carry  nothing  out.  The 
Lord  gave,  and  the  Lord  hath  taken  away, 
blessed  be  the  name  of  the  Lord !"  Yes,  John 
Guerdon  had  taken  nothing  away  from  the 
world.  He  had  left  behind  him  his  pleasant 
house  and  fair  acres.  He  had  left  behind  him 
the  world's  enmity  and  injustice.  He  left  be- 
hind him  a  memory  blackened  with  dishonor, 
and  the  burden  of  infamy,  which  had  brought 
him  to  the  grave.  The  shame  from  which  he 
had  escaped  was  his  son's  heritage.  The  whole 
weight  of  that  enormous  disgrace  had  been 
taken  from  the  dead  sire  and  placed  upon  his 
boy. 

Knowing,  from  the  tone  of  Sir  James  Dar- 
ling's latest  letters,  and  from  the  silence  which 
Lottie  had  been  required  to  observe  toward 
him  since  his  last  abrupt  departure  from  her 
presence,  what  were  the  wishes  of  her  parents, 
Albert  was  already  meditating  the  steps  by 
which  he  should  withdraw  forever  from  the 
domestic  circle  where  he  would  no  longer  be 
welcome.  Knowing,  from  fine  sympathy  with 
all  the  forces  of  her  loving  nature,  what  Lottie 
had  endured  throughout  the  days  of  her  silence 
to  and  separation  from  him,  he  was  thinking 
how  he  could  end  their  luckless  engagement  in 
a  way  least  likely  to  aggravate  her  wretched- 


116 


LOTTIE  DAKLING. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

AS   APPOINTMENT  FOR   A    LAST   INTERVIEW. 

TOWARD  the  close  of  the  day  following  that 
of  John  Guerdon's  interment,  Sir  James  Dar- 
ling, after  dismissing  his  clerks,  was  about  to 
leave  his  private  office  in  the  rear  of  the  Ham- 
merhampton  County  Court-house,  when  he 
was  startled  by  the  unannounced  appearance 
of  Albert  Guerdon,  who  had  sought  the  judge 
at  that  place  and  time,  in  order  that  he  might 
speak  with  him  on  particular  business,  under 
circumstances  which  would  preserve  their  inter- 
course from  interruption,  and  also  enable  Sir 
James  to  withhold  the  interview  from  Lottie's 
knowledge,  if  he  should  think  it  best  to  do  so. 
"  My  dear  Albert,"  exclaimed  the  judge, 
who,  on  rinding  himself  startled  into  using  the 
familiar  form  of  address,  retreated  quickly  and 
awkwardly  from  the  too  cordial  position  by  an 
amendment  of  the  greeting  — "or  rather — 
ahem  !  my  dear  Mr.  Guerdon,  I  had  not  looked 
for  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  to-day ;  but  I 
am  glad  of  an  opportunity  to  express,  more 
fitly  than  I  could  do  in  my  notes,  the  concern, 
the  very  deep  concern,  which  your  recent  trou- 
bles have  occasioned  me.  I  have  felt  for  you. 
All  of  us  at  Arleigh  have  been  sharers  of  your 
grief.  These  words  come  from  my  heart,  be- 
lieve me,  my  dear  Al — ahem !  my  dear  Mr. 
Guerdon  !" 

There  was  sadness,  but  no  discourtesy,  in 
the  smile  that  passed  over  Albert's  face  as  he 
replied,  "Call  me  Albert  in  the  old  way,  Sir 
James.  Don't  be  less  hearty  to  me,  in  what 
will  probably  be  our  last  conversation,  than  you 
used  to  be  in  ray  happier  days.  Do  not  fear 
that  I  would  misconstrue  mere  kindness,  or 
that  you  would  compromise  yourself  by  contin- 
uing to  observe  the  pleasant  forms  of  an  inti- 
macy which  is  at  an  end." 

"  There  is  no  need,  Albert,"  returned  Lot- 
tie's father,  "  for  you  to  assure  me  that  you  are 
as  delicate  in  feeling  as  you  have  always  shown 
yourself  honorable  in  action.  I  have  never 
been  tempted  to  persuade  myself  that  you  are 
in  any  way  accountable  for  the  disturbance  of 
our  affectionate  intercourse  —  for  the  embar- 
rassment that  has  unfortunately  arisen  between 
us.  Since  your  last  visit  to  Arleigh,  your  con- 
duct has  been  characterized  by  a  fine  delicacy," 
and  the  little  man's  rubicund  face  became  more 
vividly  scarlet  as  he  added,  "and  a  noble  un- 
selfishness." 

"I  am  glad  you  think  so,"  Albert  rejoined  ; 
"  for  your  approval  of  the  line  which  I  have 
taken  during  the  last  eight  or  nine  gloomy  days 
renders  it  easier  for  me  to  ask  you  to  let  me 
pay  another  visit  to  Arleigh." 

At  these  words  Sir  James  lost  something  of 
his  color,  and  he  was  reverting  to  his  stiff  and 
distant  style,  as  he  said  with  hesitation,  "  To 
visit  Arleigh? — ahem!  Under  existing  cir- 
cumstances, there  are— ahem  ! — there  are  rea- 
sons why — " 

"You  altogether  misapprehend  my  purpose, 


Sir  James  Darling,  and  you  misjudge  me,"  Al- 
bert interposed,  quickly,  "  if  you  suppose  that  I 
need  to  be  reminded  of  circumstances  which  en- 
title you  to  say  that  my  engagement  with  Miss 
Darling  is  at  an  end.  Regarded  as  an  agree- 
ment, subject  to  the  execution  of  certain  condi- 
tions, which  my  father  lost  the  power  and  I  am 
quite  unable  to  perform,  the  contract  for  my 
marriage  has  become  a  mere  project  of  the  past. 
Events  have  canceled  it.  It  is  binding  on  no 
one.  Do  not  imagine  that  I  need  enlighten- 
ment on  this  point,  or  cherish  any  delusive  and 
selfish  hopes." 

Re-assured  again,  Sir  James  Darling  ex- 
claimed, "My  dear  Albert,  you  relieve  me  im- 
mensely by  talking  in  this  sensible  and  very 
honorable  way." 

"  Moreover,  Sir  James,  you  misunderstand 
me,"  continued  Albert,  "  if  you  think  that  I 
would  visit  Arleigh  again  for  my  own  sake. 
Indeed,  though  I  am  as  selfish  as  most  men,  I 
am,  have  ever  been,  shall  always  be,  altogether 
unselfish  toward  Lottie — let  me  call  her  Lottie 
still.  I  shall  always  think  of  her  as  Lottie. 
Am  I  not  right  ?  Though  she  has  been  shown 
that  by  becoming  my  wife  she  would  afflict  you 
and  her  mamma,  and  would  do  her  sister  and 
brothers  a  cruel  injury,  she  wavers  between 
love  of  her  family  and  love  of  me,  between  loy- 
al dutifulness  to  them  and  loving  fidelity  to  me  ? 
She  would  sacrifice  herself,  but  she  can  not 
bring  herself  to  sacrifice  me  ?  I  know  this 
must  be  her  present  state  of  mind.  Through- 
out all  this  week  I  have  neither  heard  her  voice 
nor  seen  her  face,  except  in  fancy,  nor  had  a 
written  word  from  her.  We  have  had  no  com- 
munication. But  I  know  her  condition  of  dis- 
tracting affections  as  precisely  as  I  should  have 
known  it  had  she  written  to  me  or  talked  with 
me  to-day.  You  can  not  deny  that  I  have  de- 
scribed her  trouble,  at  least  its  chief  perplexity. " 

For  a  moment  Sir  James  Darling  was  on  the 
point  of  giving  an  evasive  reply,  or  at  least  a 
guarded  answer,  of  caution  and  reserve.  But 
on  second  and  better  thought  he  answered 
frankly:  "You  have  stated  her  case  exactly. 
It  may  be  imprudent  of  me  to  admit  as  much 
to  you,  though  I  have  the  fullest  confidence 
in  your  generosity  and  high  principle.  But 
I  make  the  admission.  She  is  so  good,  and 
brave,  and  magnificently  unselfish  a  girl,  that 
she  would  not  hesitate  to  sacrifice  herself.  But 
she  can't  bring  herself  to  desert  you.  Rather 
than  be  what  she  calls  cruel  and  false  to  you, 
I  believe  that  she  would  marry  you,  in  spite  of 
my  injunctions,  her  mother's  prayers,  and  her 
brothers'  displeasure.  There,  Albert,  I  have 
said  it.  I  have  placed  myself,  in  a  certain 
sense,  at  your  mercy.  But  I  feel  safe  in  hav- 
ing done  so." 

"Listen  to  me,  Sir  James,  and  you  will  see 
that  your  generosity  and  candor  have  not  been 
misplaced." 

"I  am  giving  heed  to  every  word  you  say." 

"You  do  not  exaggerate  my  power  over  her. 
You  are  not  able  to  separate  us.  We  rev  ,1  to 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


117 


use  my  influence  over  her  selfishly,  without 
regai'd  for  her  happiness  or  my  own  honor,  I 
could  take  her  from  you.  At  a  word  from  me 
she  would  become  my  wife,  on  coming  of  legal 
age,  and  then  every  reproach  you  should  de- 
liver against  her  or  me  would  only  strengthen 
the  barriers  of  division  between  you  and  your 
child." 

"In  what  I  have  said,  I  have  admitted  as 
much." 

"Bat  at  what  a  price  should  I  have  obtain- 
ed possession  of  her!  She  would  be  the  mis- 
tress of  my  humble  home,  and  she  would  have 
the  consolation  of  my  companionship.  But 
she  would  pine  away  slowly  to  her  death  in  the 
agonizing  consciousness  of  her  disobedience  to 
you  and  her  unkindness  to  her  sister  and  broth- 
ers. Having  brought  my  shame  to  them,  she 
could  not  live  long  under  the  ignominy  which 
would  be  her  portion  as  my  wife,  and  which, 
enormous  and  black  though  it  would  be,  she 
would  endure  bravely  and  cheerfully,  if  she  had 
neither  parents,  nor  brothers,  nor  sister.  Sir 
James,  I  know  the  limits  of  my  power  over 
her.  I  could  make  her  my  wife,  but  I  could 
not  extinguish  her  affection  for  her  mother  and 
nearest  kindred.  That  affection  would  sur- 
vive our  marriage ;  and  the  remorse  it  would 
engender,  if  she  were  to  marry  me,  would  slow- 
ly kill  her.  And  believe  me,  if  my  power  were 
far  greater,  so  that  I  could  pluck  love  of  her  old 
home  and  her  own  kindred  out  of  her  breast,  I 
would  not  be  so  wicked  and  inhuman  as  to  do 
so.  As  my  wife,  she  would  be  utterly  wretch- 
ed, and  lose  the  larger  part  of  her  goodness; 
and,  after  enduring  a  few  years  of  misery,  that 
would  gnaw  out  the  fairest  beauties  of  her 
moral  nature,  she  would  perish,  leaving  me  to 
undying  remorse  for  my  selfishness  in  having 
taken  her  from  you.  So  you  see,  I  have  no 
purpose  to  make  her  mine  by  marriage.  In- 
deed, if  you  and  Lady  Darling  and  her  broth- 
ei's  would  consent  to  the  fulfillment  of  the  mar- 
riage contract — ay,  if  you  were  all  to  entreat 
Lottie  to  marry  me,  I  should  urge  her  to  liber- 
ate me  from  my  engagement,  and  let  me  go  my 
way." 

"And  yet  you  wish  to  see  her?"  Sir  James 
Darling  observed,  when  he  had  listened  atten- 
tively to  Albert's  full  and  accurate  statement 
of  a  strange  case  of  woeful  love. 

"  Yes,  in  order  that,  for  her  sake,  I  may 
have  an  opportunity  of  persuading  her  that 
kindness  to  me,  no  less  than  duty  and  affection 
to  her  kindred  by  blood,  requires  her  to  free 
me  from  my  promise  to  her.  I  alone  can  make 
her  see  that  by  dismissing  me  she  would  show 
confidence  in  and  love  for  the  man  whom  noth- 
ing would  induce  her  to  treat  with  falseness 
and  cruelty." 

"If  only  you  could  succeed  in  making  her 
take  this  view  of  the  sacrifice  which  is  re- 
quired of  her,  you  would  lay  me,  Albert,  under 
a  heavy  debt  of  gratitude  to  you." 

"Sir,"  Albert  returned,  confidently,  "I  shall 


succeed  in  my  object.  Fear  no  failure.  May 
I  see  her  to-morrow  afternoon  ?" 

"To-morrow  it  will  be  impossible  for  me  to 
be  at  home  to  receive  you." 

"So  much  the  better,  Sir  James.  Of  you  I 
would  rather  take  leave  this  afternoon — for- 
ever. And  surely  you  can  trust  me  enough  to 
allow  me  to  visit  Arleigh  Manor  once  again  in 
your  absence." 

A  far  harder  and  more  selfish  man  than  Sir 
James  Darling  would  have  been  touched  by 
Albert's  magnanimity  and  forgetfulness  of  self. 
But  Sir  James  was  neither  of  a  stern  nor  alto- 
gether ungenerous  nature.  He  was  vain,  fear- 
ful of  the  world's  opinion,  meanly  sensitive  for 
his  gentility,  and  consequently  a  craven  cow- 
ard toward  dangers  that  threatened  him  with 
social  disesteem.  But  he  was  capable  of  grati- 
tude and  friendship  and  love.  He  could  also 
admire  virtues  which  he  did  not  possess.  Ho 
was  enough  of  a  true  gentleman  to  value  the 
chivalric  qualities  of  men  who  surpassed  him  in 
gentlemanly  worthiness. 

"  Upon  my  honor,  Albert,"  the  little  man 
ejaculated,  "you  speak  and  act  so  nobly  that 
you  make  me  feel  ashamed  of  myself.  Trust 
you?  I  would  trust  you  with  any  thing  but 
my  daughter ;  and  I  almost  blush  for  myself 
that  I  dare  not  give  her  to  you."  After  a  pause, 
he  added,  hotly,  "  Give  her  to  you,  trust  her  to 
you !  Why,  at  this  very  moment  I  rely  on  you 
to  give  her  again  to  me." 

Taking  the  hand  which  Sir  James  extended 
during  the  utterance  of  these  last  words,  and 
grasping  it  cordially,  Albert  said, 

"  Then  tell  Lottie  that  she  may  expect  to  see 
me  at  Arleigh  between  two  and  three  o'clock 
to-morrow.  You  had  better  inform  her  of  the 
object  of  my  visit.  Indeed,  you  had  better  tell 
her  what  I  have  been  saying  to  you.  And,  Sir 
James,  rely  upon  it,  when  yon  return  to  your 
home  to-morrow,  Lottie  will  tell  you  with  calm- 
ness that  she  has  said  good-bye  to  me  forever." 

"Albert,  God  bless  you!"  responded  the 
judge  of  the  Boringdonshire  County  Court. 
"You're  a  noble  fellow,  and  you'll  come  to 
honor,  whatever  field  it  may  be  to  which  you 
take  your  intellect,  and  energy,  and  high  prin- 
ciple." 

"  Ere  I  think  of  winning  honor,  Sir  James," 
Albert  answered,  gravely,  "I  must  disperse  the 
clouds  of  shame  which  cover  me.  My  first 
work  in  life  must  be  to  get  money,  and  pay  my 
father's  debts.  If  it  is  God's  purpose  to  bless 
me  in  this  life,  he  will  sooner  or  later  enable 
me  to  prove  that  my  poor  father  was  neither 
the  cheat  nor  forger  which  men  declare  him. 
There,  there,  Sir  James,  good-bye.  Take  my 
best  thanks  for  your  many  kindnesses  to  me." 

With  these  words  Albert  left  Lottie's  father, 
who  no  sooner  found  himself  alone  than  he 
turned  redder  in  the  face  than  ever,  and,  taking 
out  his  big  yellow  handkerchief,  proceeded  to 
polish  up  his  eyelids  as  though  they  were  pieces 
of  furniture. 


118 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


CHAPTER  X. 
"GOOD-BYE,  LOTTIE!" 

ON  entering  Lady  Darling's  morning-room, 
whither  he  was  conducted,  on  his  arrival  at  Ar- 
leigh  Manor  on  the  following  afternoon,  by  a 
servant  who  had  been  instructed  that  no  other 
visitor  should  be  shown  into  the  same  room, 
Albert  noticed  that  Lottie  was  dressed  in  deep 
mourning.  Never  was  garb  of  woe  more  fitly 
worn  by  a  young  woman  in  the  prime  of  early 
loveliness  than  by  this  girl  on  whom  sorrow  had 
laid  a  heavy  hand.  Partner  in  Albert's  misfor- 
tunes, she  had  assumed  the  dismal  dress  in  to- 
ken of  her  grief  for  his  father's  death  ;  but  there 
were  woes,  nearer  to  her  heart,  and  far  deeper 
than  regret  for  Albert's  domestic  bereavement, 
that  would  have  justified  her  melancholy  cos- 
tume. Knowing  that  he  had  come  to  bid  her 
farewell  forever,  she  mourned  for  the  ending  of 
their  tender  companionship,  and  for  the  death  of 
all  her  hopes  of  earthly  felicity.  But  she  did  not 
bewail  the  death  of  his  love  for  her,  or  her  own 
love  for  him.  Her  heart  knew  that  he  was  its 
captain  forever,  and  she  needed  no  assurance 
that  he  could  never  love  another  as  he  had 
loved  her.  All  the  more  poignant  her  grief, 
and  all  the  more  her  need  of  visible  expressions 
of  her  despair,  since  their  mutual  affection  was 
undiminished,  and  their  hearts  could  never  be 
severed,  though  merciless  fate  required  them  to 
dwell  apart  from  each  other,  and  to  pass  away 
forever  from  one  another's  sight. 

She  was  alone  when  he  entered  the  room. 
Again,  in  the  absence  of  all  curious  eyes,  they 
were  together ;  but  it  was  to  be  their  last  meet- 
ing, and  in  one  brief  hour  they  would  have 
parted.  With  both  her  hands  she  held  his  right 
arm,  and  when  he  gently  put  his  other  arm  over 
her  trembling  shoulders,  she  buried  her  face  in 
his  breast,  and  wept  quietly. 

"Is  it  'indeed  best  that  we  say  'farewell,' 
when  neither  of  us  can  ever  forget  the  other,  or 
love  the  other  less  ?"  she  asked,  when  she  could 
control  her  emotions  so  as  to  be  able  to  speak 
distinctly. 

His  answer  was  of  many  words.  Seating 
himself  on  a  sofa  and  drawing  her  to  his  side, 
he  placed  before  her  mind  in  clear  and  irresist- 
ible phrases  all  the  weighty  reasons  why,  for 
the  sake  of  her  parents  and  sister  and  brothers, 
she  should  bravely  free  him  from  his  promise. 
At  the  risk  of  stirring  her  pity  for  him  to  its 
depth,  and  thereby  increasing  her  reluctance  to 
release  him,  he  displayed  the  hideous  shame- 
fulness  and  enormous  turpitude  of  the  offenses 
which  his  father  was  believed  to  have  perpetra- 
ted. Imploring  her  never  to  imagine  his  father 
capable  of  committing  the  crimes  laid  to  his 
charge,  Albert  insisted  that  the  dead  man's  real 
innocence  did  not  affect  the  social  consequences 
of  the  dishonor  which  rested  on  his  memory. 
To  the  world  John  Guerdon  was  a  thief  and 
felon — the  plunderer  of  his  ward,  and  the  prac- 
ticer  of  forgery ;  and  he,  Albert,  was  the  son 
of  a  rogue  and  forger.  By  marrying  him  she 


would  impart  a  felonious  taint  to  her  family 
history,  and  so  exasperate  her  brothers  that,  if 
they  did  not  repudiate  her  as  a  cruel  sister  and 
false  daughter,  they  would  only  endure  her  with 
thinly  veiled  repugnance.  Cut  to  their  hearts 
by  the  spectacle  of  the  domestic  severance 
which  would  inevitably  follow  on  her  union 
with  a  forger's  son,  her  father  would  lose  all 
relish  for  life,  and  die  slowly ;  her  mother 
would  droop  and  die  quickly.  No  fanciful  ter- 
rors or  mere  fictions  of  a  fastidious  refinement 
caused  her  father  and  mother — an  incompara- 
bly loving  pair  of  parents — to  shrink  with  hor- 
ror from  the  thought  of  her  union  with  a  for- 
ger's son.  They  would  be  wanting  in  all  the 
finer  sensibilities  of  parental  affection,  and  would 
show  themselves  regardless  oftheir  obligations 
to  all  their  offspring,  if  they  permitted  one  of 
them  to  make  so  scandalous  an  alliance,  not 
less  to  her  own  hurt  and  degradation  than  to 
the  injury  and  shame  of  every  other  member 
of  her  family. 

Having  spoken  thus  cogently  of  the  enor- 
mous wrongs  she  would  work  her  own  kindred 
by  marrying  him,  Albert  begged  her  to  imag- 
ine the  injury  that  would  come  to  herself  from 
so  disgraceful  a  match.  Of  the  poverty  which 
awaited  her  as  his  wife,  he  said  nothing ;  for 
such  a  consideration  would  not  have  helped  to 
bring  her  to  the  conclusion  at  which  he  desired 
her  to  arrive.  He  barely  glanced  at  the  dis- 
comfort and  pain  which  would  come  to  her 
from  the  world's  scorn  of  the  felon's  daughter- 
in-law  ;  for  Albert  knew  full  well  that  he  should 
not  further  his  purpose  by  any  appeals  to  her 
self-interest.  But  he  was  very  explicit  and 
strenuous  in  his  pictures  of  the  moral  hurt 
which  would  come  to  her  from  a  consciousness 
that  she  had  shamed  her  father,  conferred  a 
color  of  infamy  on  her  brothers — ay,  and  killed 
her  own  dear  mother  by  a  course  of  action 
which  a  few  years  hence  she  herself  would  con- 
demn as  selfish  and  disloyal.  Were  she  to  be- 
come his  wife,  the  world  would  brand  her  as  a 
bad  daughter  and  bad  sister,  and  ere  long  her 
own  conscience  would  indorse  the  judgment  of 
social  opinion ;  and  when  once  her  own  con- 
science had  condemned  her  of  unfilial  and  un- 
sisterly  behavior,  she  would  become  the  victim 
of  a  fiery  remorse  that  would  dry  up  all  her 
springs  of  natural  goodness,  and,  after  consum- 
ing her  moral  nature,  would  assail  her  reason. 

And  then  Albert  asked  her  whether  she  could 
continue  to  love  him — at  least,  continue  to  think 
him  worthy  of  her  love  —  if  he,  foreseeing  all 
the  disastrous  results  of  her  marriage  with  him, 
should  seek  to  make  her  hie  wife  ?  He  asked 
that,  for  his  sake  as  well  as  for  her  own,  she 
would  liberate  him.  Moreover,  he  told  her  that 
his  misfortunes  had  created  for  him  a  duty,  on 
the  accomplishment  of  which  he  must  expend 
all  his  mental  and  physical  powers  for  many 
years.  It  devolved  on  him  to  undo,  as  far  as  pos- 
sible, the  consequences  of  his  dear  father's  com- 
mercial remissness  and  incompetence.  First, 
he  must  pay  all  the  old  man's  lawful  debts  to 


LOTTIE  DAKLING. 


119 


the  uttermost  farthing,  and  compensate  fully  all 
those  who  had  lost  by  the  failure  of  the  bank. 
Then  he  must,  for  the  satisfaction  of  his  own 
sensitiveness  for  his  father's  fame,  compensate 
every  one  who  had  lost  money  through  any  of 
those  villainies  in  which  the  dead  man  was 
wrongfully  believed  to*  have  been  Scrivener's 
coadjutor;  and  having,  as  his  father's  natural 
executor,  paid  in  full  every  pecuniary  claimant 
on  the  bankrupt's  estate  and  honor — having  re- 
stored her  plundered  fortune  to  Blanche  Heath- 
cote,  and  paid  Messrs.  Pittock  &  Murphy  the 
money  which  they  had  lost  by  the  spuriousness 
of  the  acceptance  which  his  father  had  indorsed 
in  good  faith,  he  must  exercise  all  his  ingenu- 
ity and  detective  talents  in  discovering  the  ev- 
idence of  his  father's  innocence  of  complicity  in 
his  partner's  crimes. 

"And  when  you  have  cleared  his  memory 
of  shame,"  Lottie  suggested,  clinging  to  a  hope 
that  she  might  live  to  be  the  wife  of  the  lover 
whom  she  was  dismissing,  "you  will  have  re- 
moved the  only  obstacle  to  our  marriage.  My 
'  father  and  brothers  will  then  rejoice  to  see  me 
bearing  your  name  and  sharing  your  fortunes. 
And,  in  the  mean  time,  I  shall  have  lived  cher- 
ishing my  love  of  you,  and  feeding  it  with  an- 
ticipations of  the  joy  which  will  be  ours  when  we 
marry,  with  every  one's  approval." 

But  Albert  was  too  unselfish  and  generous 
to  omit  to  dissuade  her  from  entertaining  a 
hope  that  would  make  her  heart -sick,  and 
might  not  be  fulfilled  even  when  time  should 
have  whitened  his  hairs. 

"  No,  no,  Lottie,"  he  pleaded,  in  his  noble 
forgetfulness  of  self,  "  let  us  not  fetter  ourselves 
with  pledges  which  it  is  too  probable  that  we 
shall  not  be  able  to  fulfill  on  this  side  of  our  old 
age.  Let  me,  on  leaving  you,  go  forth  to  ac- 
complish my  duty  in  life,  strengthened  by  the 
hope  that,  while  retaining  to  your  last  breath 
a  gentle  recollection  of  me,  you  may,  in  the 
course  of  years,  outgrow  your  love  of  me,  and 
so  outlive  your  present  self  as  to  be  able  to  give 
your  heart  to  a  man  more  fortunate  than  my- 
self, and  no  less  worthy  of  your  affection." 

"Oh,  Albert,"  she  answered,  reproachfully, 
in  the  same  cooing  style  of  speech  that  in  old 
times  used  to  clothe  her  happy  thoughts,  "you 
would  not  think — you  can  not  think  my  love 
so  shallow,  my  heart  so  fickle,  my  nature  so 
mean,  as  to  deem  me,  under  any  circumstances, 
capable  of  marrying  any  one  but  you.  No,  no, 
do  not  imagine  me  capable  of  such  levity  and 
falseness.  Do  not  attribute  such  poverty  of 
spirit  to  the  woman  who,  twenty  years  hence, 
will  be  as  much  yours  as  she  ever  has  been." 

"Years  hence — say  five,  or  ten,  or  more  if 
you  will — you  will,  I  hope,  look  back  on  the 
joys  of  these  last  twelve  months  as  no  more 
than  the  pleasant  incidents  of  your  passage 
from  girlhood  to  womanly  ripeness.  You  will, 
I  hope,  recall  without  bitterness  the  sharp  griefs 
which  ended  the  period  of  joy,  and  regard  them 
with  gratitude  rather  than  regret,  as  elements 
of  a  discipline  which  wounded  your  nature  in 


order  to  give  it  strength,  and  crushed  your 
spirit  in  order  that  it  should  be  ever  sweeter 
and  braver.  And  when  you  can  so  reflect  on 
the  past,  remembering  me  only  as  the  well- 
loved  actor  of  a  time,  fruitful  to  us  both  of 
hopes  that  died  in  the  blossom,  may  you  be- 
come a  bride,  a  wife — a  mother  of  children  who 
will  never  hear  my  name  !  Years  hence,  Lot- 
tie, when  I  hear  of  the  accomplishment  of  this 
hope,  I  shall  not  charge  you  with  meanness  of 
nature  or  poverty  of  spirit.  No,  believe  me ; 
I  shall  think  of  you  as  a  woman  who  has  ful- 
filled all  the  promise  of  her  noble  girlhood." 

Three  seconds  after  he  had  uttered  these 
words,  Albert  repented  that  he  had  spoken  so 
fully  and  firmly ;  for,  throwing  her  arms  round 
his  neck,  Lottie  sobbed  with  a  passionate  vio- 
lence which  showed  how  deeply  his  speech  had 
distressed  her. 

But  her  grief  lost  something  of  its  vehe- 
mence when  she  had  wept  for  ten  minutes,  and 
then,  nestling  in  his  arms  like  a  frightened 
bird,  she  found  heart  and  voice  to  assure  him 
that  no  conceivable  circumstances  would  ever 
render  it  possible  for  her  to  love  another  man. 
Out  of  dutiful  love  for  her  kindred,  she  would 
forego  the  hope  of  ever  being  his  wife,  and 
would  make  him  free  of  spousal  promise,  as 
though  he  had  never  known  her ;  but  she 
would  not  relinquish  the  love  of  him — which 
had  been  so  planted  in  her  heart  that  it  was 
ineradicable.  She  would  do  her  best  to  wear 
a  cheerful  face  at  home  and  to  the  world.  She 
would  find  solace  for  secret  wretchedness  in 
rendering  the  services  of  affection  to  her  moth- 
er and  her  mother's  children.  She  would  be 
a  good  woman,  and  have  the  appearance  of  a 
happy  one.  But  regarding  herself  as  his  wife, 
although  their  marriage  had  never  been  cele- 
brated, she  would  in  all  things  behave  as  be- 
came a  wife  separated  from  a  husband  who 
would  return  to  her  in  God's  time. 

"When  you  asked  me  to  be  yours,"  she  as- 
sured him,  repeating  a  view  of  her  case  which 
she  had  given  almost  in  the  same  words  to  her 
mother,  "I  gave  myself  to  you  wholly  and  un- 
conditionally. From  that  hour  I  have  been 
your  wife ;  and  your  faithful  wife  I  will  be  till 
death,  as  well  as  misfortunate  life,  shall  part 
us.  To  you,  with  respect  to  your  future  life,  I 
say  what  you  a  minute  since  said  to  me.  If, 
years  hence,  I  shall  hear  that  you  are  married, 
I  shall  not  think  you  fickle  or  false.  Indeed, 
I  should  wish  you  to  marry ;  for  your  heart  is 
so  great  and  royal  that  there  is  room  in  it  for 
two  loves.  You  will  never  love  any  woman  as 
you  have  loved  me ;  but  the  woman  will  be 
fortunate  who  is  taken  to  the  second  place  in 
your  heart,  and,  if  she  be  a  good  and  generous 
woman,  worthy  of  any  entertainment  in  it,  she 
will  not  repine  or  be  jealous  on  finding  herself 
my  subordinate  in  her  husband's  breast.  Far 
from  grudging  me  my  throne,  she  will  love  me 
out  of  homage  to  the  lord  who  placed  me  there. 
But  I  can  not  do  this  thing  which  I  wish  you 
to  do.  Mine  is  only  a  woman's  heart ;  and 


120 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


the  heart  of  simple^  faithful  woman  can  receive  the  lovers  in  this  meeting  for  parting,  the  writ- 
only  one  dweller."  ••  er  of  this  page  would  make  disclosures  for  which 
On  this  point  Albert  was  compelled  to  yield  the  purposes  of  his  story  would  afford  no  jus- 
to  Lottie's  equally  irresistible  and  illogical  tification.  Itather  let  each  reader,  knowing 
pleadings.  He  had  not  anticipated  that  he  their  great  love  and  bitter  sorrow,  imagine  for 
would  extort  from  her  a  promise  that,  after  himself  with  what  pathetic  sadness  they  spoke 
liberating  him  from  his  engagement,  she  would  j  words  of  comfort  to  each  other,  until  Lottie, 
try  to  forget  him ;  but  he  had  hoped  that  her  j  feeling  that  her  self-control  had  been  taxed  to 


manner  of  bidding  him  farewell,  if  not  the  very 
words  of  her  valediction,  would  afford  signs  of 


its  utmost,  and  fearing  that  its  complete  over- 
throw might  in  another  minute  plunge  Albert 


a  disposition  to  regard  herself  as  about  to  be  !  into  deeper  misery,  implored  him  to  go  while 
absolutely  severed  from   him,  in  affection  no  |  she  had  power  to  give  him  a  smile  with  her  last 


than  in  circumstances.  His  desire  was 
that,  in  relinquishing  her  title  to  his  hand,  she 
would  recall  her  vows  of  fidelity  to  him,  and 
imply  her  willingness  to  look  forward  to  a  time 


lingering  kiss. 

"Go,  Albert  —  go  now,"  she  said,  softly. 
"Every  minute  added  to  these  last  minutes 
will  only  make  the  anguish  of  separation  more 


when,  in  her  indifference  to  him,  she  would  be  j  intense.  You  can  say  nothing  more  to  comfort 
accessible  to  another  suitor.  That  she  could  me ;  I  can  say  nothing  more  to  make  it  easier 
not  satisfy  this  desire,  he  learned  from  the  pa- 
thetic firmness  with  which  she  declared  her  in- 


tention to  be  his  faithful  spouse  unto  her  life's 
end,  unless  his  death  should  make  her  his  wid- 
ow. Though  he  regretted,  he  could  not  com- 
bat this  purpose ;  for  it  corresponded  precisely 
with  his  own  resolve  to  wed  no  other  woman. 
Fate  having  denied  her  companionship  to  him, 
he  had  determined  that  he  would  pass  his  days 
in  wifeless  wedlock.  His  heart  should  en- 
shrine her  love ;  no  rival  or  feeble  imitator  of 
her  devotion  should  enter  it.  Could  he  com- 
plain, or  feel  surprise,  that  in  this  sad  purpose 
he  found  her  nature  in  harmony  with  his  own  ? 
How  could  he  dissuade  her  from  living  as  he 
himself  meant  to  live  ?  At  least,  there  were 
no  arguments  which  he  could  venture  to  oppose 
to  her  intention,  at  a  moment  when  she  ur- 


for  you  to  go.     O  God!  since  we  must  go  by 
different  ways  to  heaven,  I  am  thankful,  even  in 


this  bitter  hour,  that  we  part — not  because  our 
love  has  grown  cold,  but  because  our  love  is  too 
strong  and  pure  to  blind  us  to  our  duty.  Oh ! 
go  now,  dear  Albert !" 

At  which  entreaty  Albert  took  Lottie  in  his 
arms,  as  though  she  were  a  little  child,  and  laid 
her  gently  on  the  sofa ;  and  then,  having  kissed 
her  fondly  on  the  lids  of  her  large  dark-blue 
eyes,  he  walked  quickly  from  the  room,  without 
daring  to  look  behind  him. 

But  there  was  still  another  woman — a  woman 
altogether  forgotten  by  him  in  the  last  minutes 
of  his  interview  with  Lottie — whom  Albert  had 
to  bid  farewell. 

He  had  descended  from  the  higher  floor,  on 
which  Avas  Lady  Darling's  room,  and  in  anoth- 


gently  required  the  solace  and  encouragement    er  minute  he  would  have  been  in  the  garden  of 


of  the  consciousness  of  her  unalterable  fidelity. 

But  though  he  might  say  nothing  to  weaken 

her  resolution,  he  forebore  to  strengthen  it  by 


the  manor-house,  when,  as  he  paced  from  the 
foot  of  the  staircase  to  the  outward  threshold 
of  the  mansion,  Mary  Darling  opened  the  draw- 


avowing  his  own  corresponding  purpose.  Rath- i  ing-room  door  and  hastened  toward  him  with 
er  than  utter  words  the  memory  of  which  might,  '  extended  arms.  Putting  a  hand  on  each  of  his 
in  the  future,  exclude  her  from  the  joys  of  mar-  shoulders,  she  kissed  him  tenderly  and  passion- 
riage,  he  preferred  to  conceal  his  intention  to  ;  ately,  as  though  he  had  been  one  of  her  own 
be  wifeless  throughout  life,  since  she  might  !  boys  going  forth  to  a  scene  of  war.  Drawing 
not  be  his  wife.  He  preferred  to  be  silent,  j  him  within  the  room  from  which  she  had  issued 
even  though  his  reticence  should  cause  her  to  j  a  moment  before,  the  excited  woman  kissed  him 
undervalue  the  completeness  of  his  devotion  to  again,  and  then,  while  the  tears  ran  down  her 
her.  Rather  than  say  aught  which  would  en-  j  faded  cheeks,  she  said,  with  almost  prophetic 
courage  her  to  exist,  as  he  meant  to  exist,  in  vehemence, 
sunless  celibacy,  cherishing  regretfully  hopes  "  Albert,  be  brave  and  trustful.  Lottie  shall 


that  had  survived  the  possibility  of  fulfillment, 
he  was  willing  that  she  should  misjudge  his 
loyalty,  and  deem  his  affection  for  her  less  deep, 
and  constant,  and  unchangeable  than  her  pas- 
sionate regard  for  him.  So,  while  she  pro- 


be your  wife  even  yet.  My  heart  —  a  power 
above  us  both,  speaking  to  my  heart  and  through 
it — assures  me  that  you  will  live  to  marry  her. 
I  shall  not  be  alive  to  dress  her  for  the  wedding, 
for  my  strength  is  leaving  me,  and  I  am  on  my 


tested  that  no  circumstances  should  induce  her  !  way  to  the  heaven  where  the  faint  and  weary 
to  marry-any  man  but  him  so  long  as  he  should .  go  when  all  their  earthly  strength  is  done.  But 
live,  Albert  guarded  his  secret  jealously,  and  j  I  shall  be  with  you  on  your  bridal-day  ;  and, 
persisted  in  a  reserve  which  occasioned  her  a  when  you  kneel  in  church  by  Lottie's  side,  I 
consolatory  hope  that,  at  some  distant  time,  '  shall  be  near  you.  Think  of  me  then  ;  for,  Al- 
when  his  grief  for  their  separation  should  have  bert,  then  the  spirit  of  the  woman  who  brought 
subsided,  she  would  be  told  of  his  marriage  to  Lottie  into  this  strange,  sad  world,  and  loved 
a  woman  worthy  of  his  love,  and  therefore  you  as  dearly  as  she  loved  her  own  sons,  will 
qualified  to  make  him  happy.  bring  you  a  blessing  from  the  brightest  garden 

Were  he  to  record  all  that  passed  between    of  paradise!" 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


121 


Scarcely  had  Albert  put  a  kiss  on  the  brow 
of  the  speaker  of  these  words  when  he  was  once  ! 
more  alone.     The  utterer  of  the  prediction  and 
the  promise  had  slipped  from  his  embrace  and  ! 
vanished  as  soon  as  she  had  accomplished  her 
purpose. 

Then  Albert,  escaping  from  the  house,  passed 
through  its  fair  gardens  in  the  direction  of  Earl's  ' 
Court.  It  was  thus  that  he  bade  Lottie  "  fare- 
well," and  went  from  her  home,  on  the  afternoon 
of  the  very  day  that  had  been  chosen  for  their 
wedding. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

ALBERT   RETIRES   FROM   IJORINGDONSHIRE. 

WHEN  he  had  bidden  Lottie  adieu,  it  was 
still  necessary  for  Albert  Guerdon  to  spend  sev- 
eral days  in  Boringdonshire  before  he  could 
withdraw  from  the  scene  of  his  domestic  mis- 
adventures. 

Earl's  Court  and  the  remnants  of  the  bank- 
rupt's personal  property  had  already  passed  into 
the  hands  of  the  assignees,  who  were  appoint- 
ed to  realize  the  estate  of  Messrs.  Guerdon  & 
Scrivener  for  the  benefit  of  their  creditors. 
But  ere  herfelt  himself  at  liberty  to  retire  from 
the  Great  Yard,  John  Guerdon's  son  was  re- 
quired to  hold  several  conferences  with  the 
liquidators,  and  give  them  information  which 
no  other  person  could  have  afforded  them  so 
readily. 

There  were  also  several  other  persons  living 
near  Owleybury,  or  in  the  Great  Yard,  with 
whom  it  was  needful  for  him  to  transact  busi- 
ness or  exchange  words  of  courtesy,  ere  he 
could  turn  away  forever  from  his  old  home. 

At  some  expense  of  time,  as  well  as  of  mon- 
ey, he  was  careful  to  pay  all  the  debts  which 
he  had   incurred  to   tradesmen   of  Hammer-  ! 
hampton  or  of  the  cathedral  town.     He  wrote 
also  at  considerable  length  to  Blanche  Heath-  ' 
cote,  expressing  his  profound  sorrow  at  her  loss 
of  fortune,  stating  his  hope  to  replace  her  plun- 
dered wealth  in  the  course  of  years,  and  in-  ! 
forming  her  that  her  farm  was  a  mineral  prop- 
erty, and  therefore  much  more  valuable  than  | 
she  had  hitherto  supposed  it  to  be.     In  reply  i 
to  this  letter,  he  received  from  Blanche  an  epis-  ' 
tie  that  was  equally  creditable  to  her  good  taste 
and  womanly  feeling.     Thanking  him  for  his  j 
information  respecting  her  land,  which  might 
soon  yield  her  a  larger  income  than  the  revenue 
of  her  transferred  Consols,  she  assured  Albert 
that  she  was  quite  rich  enough,  and  begged  him 
to  relinquish  his  purpose  of  laboring  to  indem- 
nify her  for  an  injury  for  which  she  held  his 
father  to  have  been  in  no   way  accountable. 
Besides  expressing  her  confidence  in  the  integri- 
ty of  her  father's  closest  friend,  she  declared  in 
simple  words  her  regard  for  his  good  qualities, 
and  her  grateful  recollection  of  his  many  kind- 
nesses to  her. 

To  weaken  the  force  of  testimony  against 
his  father's  memory,  Albert  could  not  at  pres-  , 


ent  do  all  that  he  hoped  to  accomplish.  But 
on  withdrawing  from  the  Owleybury  neighbor- 
hood, he  carried  with  him  some  papers,  and 
pieces  of  information,  which  he  hoped  would 
assist  him  to  accomplish  one  part  of  his  filial 
undertaking.  Through  Mr.  Farncombe's  influ- 
ence in  Threadneedle  Street,  he  had  obtained 
a  fac-simile  of  the  spurious  power  of  attorney. 
Messrs.  Pittock  &  Murphy,  of  King  William 
Street,  London,  had  furnished  him  with  an  ex- 
act lithographic  copy  of  the  forged  acceptance  ; 
and, together  with  these  specimens  of  Mr.Scrive- 
ner's  calligraphic  skill,  Albert  had  packed  in 
the  secret  drawer  of  his  writing-desk  several 
characteristic  specimens  of  the  forger's  pen- 
manship, and  some  equally  good  examples  of 
John  Guerdon's  handwriting.  The  day,  he 
hoped,  would  come  when  the  judgment  of  ex- 
perts in  handwriting  would  co-operate  with 
stronger  evidence  to  satisfy  the  world  that 
Gimlett  Scrivener's  hand  had  produced  John 
Guerdon's  signature  on  the  power  of  attorney, 
and  Josias  Radley's  signature  on  the  accept- 
ance. 

Of  the  spuriousness  of  the  signatures  of  the 
two  attesting  witnesses  on  the  power  of  at^pr- 
ney,  Albert,  in  the  interval  between,  his  fa- 
ther's death  and  interment,  had  obtained  such 
conclusive  testimony  that  he  had  no  need  to 
preserve  specimens  of  Jacob  Coleman's  pen- 
manship, or  examples  of  William  Markworthy's 
style  of  writing.  While  Jacob  Coleman  could 
demonstrate  conclusively  that  he  was  at  Liver- 
pool throughout  the  entire  week,  on  the  middle 
day  of  which  he  was  represented  to  have  at- 
tested his  employers'  signatures  in  George 
Street,  Hammerhampton,  the  records  of  the 
Registrar  Of  Deaths  for  St.  George's  parish, 
Hammerhampton,  certified  that  on  the  same 
day  "V^jlliam  Markworthy,  formely  a  clerk  in 
the  employment  of  Messrs.  Guerdon  &  Scrive- 
ner, had  been  dead  for  an  entire  fortnight.  Of 
course,  Albert  did  not  disappear  from  the  Great 
Yard  ere  he  had  caused  Jacob  Coleman,  Mr. 
Gleed,  the  Registrar  of  Deaths,  and  certain  cor- 
roborating witnesses,  to  make  sworn  depositions 
to  this  effect  before  the  stipendiary  magistrate 
of  Hammerhampton.  Of  course,  also,  his  col- 
lection of  documents  relating  to  the  forgeries 
contained  duly  attested  copies  of  these  sworn 
depositions. 

In  his  lively  satisfaction  with  the  evidence 
embodied  in  the  depositions,  Albert  at  first 
overrated  its  ability  to  remove  the  stains  of 
felony  from  his  father's  character.  It  proved 
conclusively  that  forgery  had  been  employed 
in  the  fabrication  of  the  power  of  attorney; 
and  in  his  unwavering  belief  in  his  father's  in- 
nocence of  crime,  Albert  for  a  brief  while  im- 
ngined  that,  to  clear  his  sire's  fame  of  all  sus- 
picion of  complicity  in  the  fraud,  it  was  only 
necessary  for  him  to  publish  the  proofs  of  the 
forgery  of  the  witnesses'  signatures.  But  a  few 
minutes'  reflection  was  enough  to  moderate 
his  exultation  at  the  discovery,  and  to  enable 
him  to  see  the  point  at  which  the  evidence  fell 


122 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


short  of  his  purpose.  Having  neither  a  con- 
viction of  John  Guerdon's  innocence  of  heinous 
crime,  nor  even  a  disposition  to  think  him  in- 
capable of  felony,  the  world  would  draw  no  in- 
ferences in  his  favor  from  the  fact  that  the  sig- 
natures of  Jacob  Coleman  and  William  Mark- 
worthy  had  been  shown  to  be  fictitious.  In 
their  judgment  of  the  dead  man,  cold  and  wary 
critics  of  the  evidence  would  be  scarcely  at  all 
affected  by  the  depositions,  which  only  proved 
the  forgery  of  four  signatures — i.  e.,  the  repeat- 
ed signatures  of  the  two  attesting  witnesses. 
Going  no  further  than  the  testimony,  they  would 
say,  "The  proof  of  the  spuriousness  of  Jacob 
Coleman's  signatures  and  William  Markworthy's 
signatures  is  no  proof  that  either  John  Guer- 
don's signature  or  his  partner's  signature  is  a 
forgery.  It  does  not  show  that  either  partner 
was  a  victim  of  the  other's  fraud.  If  it  affords 
some  ground  for  suspecting  that  such  was  the 
case,  it  does  not,  by  itself,  even  indicate  which 
was  the  forger,  and  which  the  unoffending  vic- 
tim." 

Albert  saw  this.  It  was  obvious  to  him  that 
critical  opinion  would  decide  that  Gimlett 
Scrivener  had,  prima  facie,  as  good  a  title  as 
John  Guerdon  to  whatever  exculpating  infer- 
ences could  be  drawn  from  the  mere  and  pres- 
ent proof  of  forgery.  Until  it  could  be  shown 
positively  that  John  Guerdon  had  neither  as- 
sisted in  nor  connived  at  the  forgery,  ordinary 
men  would  continue  to  regard  him  as  his  co- 
trustee's  confederate  in  the  crime.  Of  course, 
under  all  the  circumstances  of  the  case,  Scrive- 
ner's action  in  instructing  the  broker,  and  in 
paying  Blanche  Heathcote  her  dividends  for 
three  years  after  the  tranference  of  the  Consols, 
left  no  room  for  doubt  that  he  had  done  his 
full  part  in  the  theft  of  her  money.  But  the 
certainty  of  his  guilt  would  not  weaken^o  soci- 
ety the  evidence  against  John  Guerdon,  who 
(for  all  that  the  world  knew)  was  no  less  likely 
than  his  partner  to  have  forged  the  spurious 
signatures  of  Coleman  and  Markworthy.  In 
the  general  opinion,  John  Guerdon  and  Gimlett 
Scrivener  were  equals  in  rascality.  Though 
the  power  of  attorney  and  the  bill  of  accept- 
ance were  the  only  cases  of  forgery  in  which 
he  was  known  to  have  been  concerned,  Scrive- 
ner's other  nefarious  proceedings  in  the  Great 
Yard  proved  him  a  prodigious  rogue.  On 
the  other  hand,  it  was  certain  that  John  Guer- 
don had  himself  indorsed  the  forged  bill,  which 
he  gave  to  Messrs.  Pittock  &  Murphy,  of  King 
William  Street,  London.  Under  these  circum- 
stances, it  would  be  unreasonable  to  suppose 
that  public  opinion  would  acquit  John  Guerdon 
of  complicity  in  the  forgery  of  Jacob  Coleman's 
and  William  Markworthy's  signatures,  unless 
it  could  also  be  proved  that  his  own  apparently 
genuine  signature  on  the  power  of  attorney 
was  also  fictitious. 

Was  John  Guerdon,  like  Jacob  Coleman  and 
William  Markworthy,  absent  from  Hammer- 
hampton  on  June  3,  184-,  the  day  on  which 
he  was  represented  by  the  entries  of  the  docu- 


ment to  have  executed  the  power  of  attorney 
in  George  Street?  If  he  could  only  answer 
this  question  in  a  manner  agreeable  to  his 
wishes,  Albert  perceived  that,  so  far  as  the 
power  of  attorney  was  concerned,  his  father's 
honor  would  be  cleared.  Among  the  papers 
which  he,  a  few  days  later,  took  with  him  from 
the  Great  Yard,  he  had  abundant  testimony 
that  Scrivener  was  at  Hammerhampton  on 
the  day  in  question.  If  it  could  be  demon- 
strated that,  while  Jacob  Coleman  was  at  Liv- 
erpool, and  William  Markworthy  in  the  grave, 
on  June  3,  184-,  John  Guerdon  was  at  the 
same  time  so  far  from  Hammerhampton  that 
it  was  impossible  for  him  to  have  signed  the 
paper  at  George  Street  on  the  day  named,  there 
would  be  evidence  to  satisfy  any  jury  that  John 
Guerdon's  signature  on  the  document  was  as 
spurious  as  the  signatures  of  the  attesting  wit- 
nesses, and  that  the  whole  forgery  had  been 
perpetrated  by  the  only  trustee  who  could  have 
signed  the  instrument  at  the  stated  time  in. 
Hammerhampton.  It  was  no  less  clear  to  Al- 
bert that  the  world  would  undergo  a  sudden 
revulsion  of  feeling  toward  his  unfortunate  fa- 
ther, and  would  altogether  reverse  its  previous 
judgment  of  the  senior  partner  of  Guerdon  & 
Scrivener,  if  it  could  be  shown  that  Guerdon 
was  altogether  innocent,  and  Scrivener  alone 
guilty,  of  this  grandest  villainy.  The  testi- 
mony of  calligraphic  experts  would  then  be  suf- 
ficient to  satisfy  social  opinion  that  the  false 
signature  of  Josias  Raclley  on  the  repudiated 
acceptance  was  the  work,  of  the  same  hand 
which  had  so  successfully  forged  the  several 
spurious  signatures  on  the  power  of  attorney. 
John  Guerdon's  indorsement  of  the  fictitious 
bill,  taken  from  Scrivener's  hands,  would  then 
appear  the  innocent  act  of  a  man  having  ordi- 
nary confidence  in  his  partner's  probity.  Satis- 
fied of  the  dead  man's  innocence  of  complicity 
in  the  two  crimes  of  which  they  had  supposed 
him  guilty,  the  Great  Yard  and  the  outer  world 
would  review  leniently  the  whole  of  his  career, 
and  acquit  him  of  every  thing  more  reprehen- 
sible than  commercial  incompetence.  Smitten 
with  generous  compunction  for  their  injustice 
toward  the  banker,  whom  they  had  stigmatized 
as  a  villain,  when  he  was  nothing  worse  than  a 
villain's  stupid  tool,  the  capitalists  of  London 
and  Hammerhampton  would  acknowledge  em- 
phatically that  he  had  lived  and  died  an  honest 
man. 

But  disappointment  attended  Albert's  search 
for  positive  evidence  of  his  father's  absence 
from  Hammerhapton  on  June  3,  184—.  In 
vain  he  examined  diaries,  letter-books,  files  of 
bills,  ledgers,  and  old  letters,  preserved  at  Ham- 
merhampton and  Earl's  Court.  In  vain  he 
spoke  with  Mr.  Coleman  on  the  subject,  urging 
him  to  produce  every  thing  which  might  yield 
the  requisite  evidence.  Mr.  Coleman  was,  or 
seemed  to  be,  powerless  to  give  the  needful  in- 
formation. Being  in  Liverpool,  as  he  remark- 
ed with  apparent  justice,  he  could  not  be  an- 
swerable for  Mr.  Guerdon's  whereabouts  on  the 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


123 


particular  day.  For  all  the  chief  clerk  knew, 
or,  at  least,  would  confess  to  knowing,  Mr. 
Guerdon  might  have  been  at  Hammerhamp- 
ton,  or  at  Edinburgh,  or  the  Lizard.  After  the 
hipse  of  three  years,  it  was,  under  the  circum- 
stances, impossible  for  Mr.  Coleman  to  remem- 
ber, even  if  he  had  ever  known,  what  were  Mr. 
Guerdon's  private  engagements  at  the  time  in 
question.  And  the  documents,  stored  away 
in  closets  and  chests  and  drawers  at  Earl's 
Court  and  George  Street,  were  not  more  com- 
municative than  the  late  cashier  of  Guerdon 
&  Scrivener's  bank. 

For  the  greater  part  V)f  his  life,  John  Guer- 
don had  been  a  diary  keeper.  His  journals 
were  kept  with  characteristic  irregularity  and 
looseness.  At  times  he  noted  down  his  doings 
with  nice  attention  to  details  of  time,  place, 
and  expenditure  ;  and  then  for  weeks  together 
he  omitted  to  record  his  transactions.  Still 
he  always  had  a  diary  in  hand  ;  and  on  filling 
up  the  last  page  of  another  small,  square  note- 
book, he  used  to  thrust  it  into  one  of  the  draw- 
ers of  the  large  writing-table  in  his  bank  par- 
lor, and  there  leave  it  in  company  with  dozens 
of  similar  manuscript  volumes.  Naturally  Al- 
bert hoped  to  get  from  one  of  these  diaries  the 
needful  intelligence.  But  though  the  series  of 
note-books  was  otherwise  complete,  the  collec- 
tion contained  no  diary  for  the  year  in  which 
Blanche  Heathcote's  consols  were  sold.  Albert 
was  equally  unfortunate  in  his  patient  exam- 
ination of  official  records,  and  piles  upon  piles 
of  dusty  paper.  Nowhere,  either  at  George 
Street  or  Earl's  Court,  could  he  find  a  single 
scrap  of  paper  which  showed  his  father  to  have 
been  away  from  Hammerhampton  on  the  day 
of  iniquity. 

Nor  did  he  find  in  the  masses  of  manuscript 
papers  and  books  a  single  entry  certifying  John 
Guerdon's  presence  at  the  bank  on  the  partic- 
ular day.  Abundant  were  the  proofs  of  Mr. 
Scrivener's  presence  and  activity  in  George 
Street  on  June  3,  184-,  and  on  the  ten  days 
immediately  preceding  and  following  it.  Evi- 
dence also  was  abundant  that  Mr.  Guerdon  had 
been  at  the  bank  on  every  day  throughout  the 
last  week  of  May,  and  on  every  day  throughout 
the  second  week  of  June.  But  there  was  noth- 
ing to  prove  where  or  how  he  had  spent  the  in- 
tervening time.  Had  the  banker  been  absent 
from  Hammerhampton,  it  must  have  devolved 
on  one  of  the  junior  clerks  to  enter  in  a  regis- 
ter the  direction  and  postal  marks  of  his  pri- 
vate letters,  together  with  notes  of  the  time  at 
which  such  letters  had  been  delivered  in  George 
Street,  and  the  addresses  to  which  they  had 
been  forwarded,  in  case  orders  had  been  given 
for  their  transmission.  This  register  would,  of 
course,  show  whether  Mr.  Guerdon  had  been  an 
absentee  from  the  Great  Yard  in  the  first  week 
of  June,  184-.  But,  when  Albert  called  for 
it,  no  one  could  find  it.  Like  the  private  dia- 
ry for  the  same  year,  the  Absent  Letter  Regis- 
ter for  184-  was  missing.  The  inferior  clerks 
in  George  Street,  and  the  servants  at  Earl's 


Court,  were  quite  unable  to  speak  to  the  point. 
They  knew  nothing  about  the  matter. 

It  was  consolatory  to  the  baffled  seeker  that 
he  came  upon  no  evidence  of  John  Guerdon's 
presence  in  Hammerhampton  during  the  mo- 
mentous week.  The  absence  of  such  testimo- 
ny, of  course,  strengthened  his  belief  that  his 
father  was  at  that  time  away  from  the  Great 
Yard.  But  negative  testimony  was  not  enough 
for  the  searcher,  who  wanted  to  prove  positive- 
ly that,  while  Mr.  Scrivener  was  forging  signa- 
tures in  George  Street,  John  Guerdon  was  at 
some  distant  part  of  the  country,  if  not  beyond 
seas. 

In  the  hope  that  some  one  of  John  Guer- 
don's numerous  clients  or  personal  acquaint- 
ances could  afford  the  information,  which  could 
not  be  extorted  from  silent  papers  or  forgetful 
servants,  Albert  inserted  the  following  adver- 
tisement in  the  London  Times  and  the  Ham- 
merhampton Iron  Times  : 

"  forgery  —  further  Evidence  reqziired. — 
Whereas  a  certain  Power  of  Attorney,  purport- 
ing to  be  executed  at  Hammerhampton  by  Gim- 
lett  Scrivener  and  John  Guerdon  on  June  3, 
184-,  has  been  proved  to  be  a  forgery  in  re- 
spect of  the  signatures  of  two  attesting  witness- 
es ;  and  whereas  there  are  good  grounds  for 
the  opinion  that  the  signature  of  the  said  John 
Guerdon  on  the  said  power  is  also  spurious :  A 
Reward  of  £100  is  offered  to  any  person  who 
shall  furnish  conclusive  testimony  as  to  the 
place  where  the  said  John  Guerdon,  late  bank- 
er of  George  Street,  Hammerhampton,  and  of 
Earl's  Court,  Boringdonshire,  spent  the  afore- 
mentioned day,  June  3>,  184-.  Communica- 
tions to  be  addressed  to  Albert  Guerdon,  Esq., 
Post-office,  Hammerhampton." 

Having  put  forth  this  advertisement,  and  di- 
rected that  it  should  re-appear  daily  in  the 
aforenamed  journals  for  an  entire  month,  Al- 
bert Guerdon  remained  at  Earl's  Court  for  an- 
other ten  days,  hoping  that  each  successive  day 
would  bring  him  the  required  information. 
But  he  hoped  and  waited  in  vain.  Not  a  sin- 
gle communication  was  elicited  by  the  adver- 
tisements, although,  in  addition  to  the  publici- 
ty which  Albert  obtained  for  them  by  payments 
of  money,  they  gained  further  notoriety  from 
the  notice  taken  of  them  by  journalists  in  every 
part  of  the  country,  who  spoke  with  derisive 
commiseration  of  the  son's  romantic  desire  to 
purge  his  father's  fame  of  indelible  marks  of 
villainy. 

On  the  expiration  of  the  ten  days  of  disap-' 
pointment,  Albert  Guerdon  went  up  to  London, 
and  resided  for  three  weeks  at  a  private  hotel, 
whither  he  had  requested  the  Hammerhampton 
postmaster  to  forward  to  him  any  letters  which 
might  be  directed  to  him  at  any  Boringdonshire 
address. 

Besides  his  writing-desk  and  its  papers,  the 
few  presents  which  Lottie  had  given  him  dur- 
ing their  engagement,  a  few  volumes  of  his  fa- 
vorite authors,  and  three  large  portmanteaus, 
containing  his  wardrobe  and  articles  of  toilet, 


124 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


Albert  carried  away  from  Earl's  Court  nothing 
of  the  personal  property  which  he  would  have 
been  justified  in  taking  from  the  mansion.  His 
horse  and  library,  his  guns  and  dogs,  his  an- 
tique coins  and  collection  of  old  prints,  he  left 
,to  the  auctioneer's  hammer,  as  things  to  which 
/his  father's  creditors  had  a  moral  title,  since 
'they  had  been  bought  with  the  bankrupt's 
money.  As  for  Lottie's  presents,  the  circum- 
stances under  which  his  engagement  with  her 
had  terminated  made  him  feel  that  he  could 
not,  without,  indelicacy  or  unkindness,  restore 
to  her  the  tributes  of  an  affection  which  had 
lost  nothing  of  its  fervor  and  completeness. 
Lovers  and  spouses  still,  though  cut  off  from 
all  hope  of  intermarriage,  they  retained  the 
arrhal  tokens  which  each  had  given  to  the  oth- 
er in  happier  days.  The  chief  contents  of  his 
writing-desk  were  Lottie's  letters,  and  the  un- 
romantic  papers  which  he  hoped  would  ulti- 
mately contribute  to  the  restoration  of  his  fa- 
ther's character. 

Regarding  his  father's  debts  as  obligations 
touching  his  own  honor,  Albert  had  not,  with- 
out reluctance  and  much  thought,  decided  to 
retain  his  small  maternal  inheritance  of  £5000, 
which  had  been  transferred  to  him  by  his  moth- 
er's trustees,  some  nine  or  ten  months  before  the 
fall  of  the  George  Street  bank.  His  first  im- 
pulse was  to  throw  his  little  fortune  into  the 
hands  of  the  liquidators  of  his  father's  estate. 
But  on  reflecting  that,  by  this  sacrifice  of  his 
"modest  independence,"  he  would  greatly  di- 
minish his  ability  to  win  a  fortune  for  the  pay- 
ment of  his  father's  creditors,  he  determined, 
for  their  sake  no  less  than  his  own,  to  pre- 
serve the  means  for  placing  himself  in  some 
field  of  lucrative  industry.  Added  to  the  as- 
sets of  the  bankrupt's  estate,  the  five  thousand 
pounds  would  not  materially  augment  the  div- 
idend immediately  payable  to  claimants.  On 
the  other  hand,  he  might  so  employ  the  capital 
that  in  the  course  of  years  it  would  develop  into 
wealth  sufficient  for  the  full  payment  of  every 
sufferer  from  the  bankruptcy.  But,  though  he 
wisely  decided  to  "keep  his  own,"  Albert  de- 
termined to  keep  it  as  a  steward,  holding  the 
property  in  trust  for  the  good  of  others. 

The  sequel  will  show  whether  he  was  a  faith- 
ful trustee  and  successful  steward. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

MOMENTOUS   QUESTIONS. 

THOUGH  he  was  rich  in  attainments  and 
natural  gifts,  that  would  have  justified  the  de- 
sire by  realizing  the  ambition  for  social  dis- 
tinction, Albert  Guerdon  had  hitherto  been  sin- 
gularly free  from  the  young  man's  yearning  for 
celebrity  and  honors.  Ht  had  never  wished  to 
figure  brilliantly  in  the  world  of  fashion.  He 
had  never  even  considered  his  ability  to  win 
the  prizes  of  the  learned  professions.  It  had 
not  occurred  to  him  that  he  might  enter  Parlia- 


ment as  a  member  for  one  of  the  Boringdon- 
shire  boroughs,  and  place  himself  among  the 
notabilities  of  politics.  So  free  was  he  from 
the  restlessness  and  illusions  of  vanity,  that,  on 
making  arrangements  to  succeed  to  his  father's 
business  and  to  "  settle  down  "  in  Boringdon- 
shire,  he  had  never  regarded  himself  as  accept- 
ing a  position  inferior  to  his  merits.  A  career 
of  provincial  usefulness  and  domestic  felicity — 
a  life  of  honest  work  and  fireside  love — was  all 
that  he  had  asked  of  Fortune,  so  long  as  the 
fickle  goddess  had  smiled  on  him,  and  exhibit- 
ed a  disposition  to  grant  him  more  than  he  re- 
quired. 

On  losing  wealth,  local  influence,  rural  hon- 
or, he  suddenly  became  ambitious.  On  finding 
himself  poor,  friendless,  and  covered  with  ob- 
loquy, he  took  stock  of  his  mental  forces  and 
physical  endowments,  and,  comparing  himself 
with  men  who  had  rendered  themselves  great- 
ly fortunate,  he  began  to  think  that  he  might 
imitate  and  even  surpass  them.  A  life  of 
shame  was  hateful  beyond  endurance.  World- 
ly success  and  power  were  treasures  to  be  de- 
sired and  fought  for.  He  would  conquer  his 
adverse  circumstances.  By  the  exercise  of  his 
strong  and  versatile  intellect,  by  the  aid  of  his 
address  and  bodily  graces,  by  the  help  of  his 
persuasive  voice  and  sympathetic  insight  into 
character,  and  by  the  assiduous  employment 
of  every  means  agreeable  to  gentlemanly  in- 
stincts, he  would  make  himself  rich  and  honor- 
ed. But  it  may  not  be  supposed  that  his  am- 
bition was  an  offspring  of  egotistic  vanity.  It 
was  no  vulgar  greed  for  personal  aggrandize- 
ment. He  resolved  to  achieve  social  success,  not 
that  he  might  enjoy  it,  but  that  he  might  ren- 
der it  subservient  to  his  one  grand  and  unself- 
ishly filial  purpose — -the  restoration  of  his  fa- 
ther's name.  He  wanted  wealth  to  pay  his  fa- 
ther's debts.  He  wanted  influence  and  dignity, 
as  instruments  which  would  aid  him  in  purging 
his  father's  memory  of  disgrace.  For  himself 
he  wanted  nothing — but  escape  from  infamy, 
and  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  his  father  re-in- 
stated in  the  world's  good  opinion. 

Yes,  there  was  one  other  thing  which  he  de- 
sired for  his  own  gratification.  Since  Lottie 
might  never  be  his  wife,  he  wanted  to  see  her 
happily  married.  For  Jier  felicity  and  his  own 
consolation  he  desired  this.  He  was  a  man 
fast  growing  stronger  and  sterner  under  the  dis- 
cipline of  sorrow.  He  could  endure  the  gloom 
of  celibacy,  and  even  learn  to  smile  at  his  mer- 
ciless fate.  He  had  the  solace  of  a  grand  pur- 
pose toward  a  dead  father.  In  achieving  this 
purpose  he  would  find  diversion  and  employ- 
ment. But  Lottie's  state  appeared  to  him  far 
more  cruel  than  his  own.  She — a  tender,  gen- 
tle, yielding  girl — would  live  in  dull,  incessant 
misery,  that  would  be  broken  by  no  congenial 
excitements.  Bereft  of  him,  she  had  no  grand 
object  in  existence.  For  a  while  she  would 
find  a  soothing  labor  in  rendering  filial  services 
to  her  mother.  But  Lady  Darling  would  not 
long  survive  the  shock  of  recent  disasters,  and 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


125 


Albert  shuddered  as  he  imagined  the  forlorn 
and  unvarying  dejection  in  which  Lottie  would 
spend  her  blank,  objectless  existence  when  she 
would  no  longer  have  a  dying  mother  to  nurse. 
His  spirit  groaned  as  he  realized  the  doleful- 
ness  of  her  estate.  He  seemed  the  murderer 
of  her  felicity,  when  he  thought  how  happy  she 
might  have  been  throughout  all  her  days,  had 
he  never  crossed  her  path,  and  won  her  love. 
For  his  own  peace  of  mind,  no  less  than  for  her 
good,  it  was  necessary  that  she  should  so  far 
forget  him — at  least,  so  far  outlive  the  intensity 
of  her  affection  for  him — as  to  be  capable  of 
responding  to  the  love  of  another  man.  Do- 
mestic isolation  and  life-long  exclusion  from 
the  mysterious  joys  of  marriage  would  be  en- 
durable to  him,  if  he  could  think  of  her  as  the 
possessor  of  wifely  honor  and  happiness. 

But  how  could  a  state  of  things  be  brought 
about  in  which  she  might  be  induced  to  accept 
another  proposal  of  marriage  ?  The  more  that 
he  pondered  this  question,  the  stronger  was  Al- 
bert's conviction  that,  so  long  as  she  believed 
him  to  be  alive,  Lottie  would  regard  herself  as 
his  wife,  and  never  think  of  marrying  any  one 
else.  It  might  be  otherwise  if  he  were  to  die, 
or  if  circumstances  should  induce  her  to  im- 
agine him  to  be  dead.  Regarding  herself,  then, 
as  his  widow,  she  might,  after  mourning  for 
his  death,  pass  from  regret  to  a  condition  of 
feeling  in  which  she  would  be  acceptable  to 
another  suitor.  Why,  then,  since  his  life  was 
an  obstacle  to  her  happiness,  should  he  not  put 
an  end  to  his  existence  ?  There  were  two  ob- 
vious reasons  why  lie  might  not  take  this  step. 
Even  for  her  sake  he  might  not  commit  the  sin 
of  suicide.  Moreover,  his  life  had  been  solemn- 
ly devoted  to  the  task  of  relieving  his  father's 
name  of  infamy.  Until  he  had  accomplished 
this  sacred  task  his  life  was  the  property  of  the 
dead.  Not  even  for  Lottie's  welfare  might  he 
neglect  his  obligations  to  his  father's  memory. 
But  why  should  he  not,  by  the  exercise  of  hu- 
man artifice,  ay,  even  by  the  employment  of 
pious  fraud,  persuade  Lottie  that  death  had 
taken  him  ?" 

When  this  thought  had  taken  shape  in  Al- 
bert's mind,  he  had  two  great  subjects  for  con- 
sideration. On  ceasing  to  meditate  the  one, 
he  mused  upon  the  other.  The  more  urgent 
question  related  to  his  choice  of  a  pursuit  by 
which  he  might  win  wealth  and  power.  The 
more  fascinating  question  had  reference  to  the 
measures  by  which  he  might  cause  Lottie  to 
think  him  dead.  The  living  girl  and  the  dead 
man — Lottie  in  her  bitter  grief,  and  John  Guer- 
don in  his  shameful  grave  —  were  seldom  ab- 
sent from  his  imagination  in  his  wakeful  hours. 
How  should  he  die  to  one  and  live  for  the  oth- 
er? How  should  he  compass  her  happiness,  and 
restore  his  honor  ? 

Slowly  sketching  out  and  filling  in  a  scheme 
for  the  achievement  of  these  ends,  even  as  a 
novelist  gradually  designs  and  elaborates  a  sto- 
ry, Albert  wrote  out  on  the  tablets  of  fancy  one 
chief  drama  of  his  life  before  he  acted  it.  Re- 


jecting, after  due  deliberation,  a  score  different 
ways  of  living,  but  taking  from  his  survey  of 
each  of  these  possible  careers  a  hint  or  sugges- 
tion which  helped  him  to  his  final  decision,  he 
eventually  selected  a  field  of  exertion  which  ac- 
cident first  proposed  to  his  consideration.  It 
was  the  same  with  the  several  ways  by  which  it 
occurred  to  him  that  he  could  make  Lottie  think 
him  dead.  And  when  casual  circumstances 
had  aided  imagination  and  judgment  to  furnish 
him  with  suitable  plans  for  working  and  perish- 
ing, unlooked-for  incidents  helped  him  to  carry 
them  out. 

At  this  crisis  of  his  life,  he  knew  less  of  Lon- 
don than  of  half  a  dozen  continental  cities — 
less  of  it,  in  fact,  than  most  English  lads  of  gen- 
tle birth  know  of  their  country's  capital.  lie 
had  few  friends  in  the  great  city,  and  none  whom 
he  wished  to  encounter.  He  lived  alone  in  the 
vast  multitude  of  busy  toilers  and  restless  pleas- 
ure-seekers. And  in  default  of  better  pastime, 
he  perambulated  the  streets  of  the  town,  from 
east  to  west,  and  from  north  to  south,  studying 
its  topography  systematically,  while  he  ponder- 
ed how  he  should  work  for  his  father  and  die 
to  Lottie.  Sometimes  he  made  his  way  into  a 
theatre,  and  watched  the  actors,  whose  words 
could  not  free  him  even  for  an  hour  from  his 
two  engrossing  and  fascinating  subjects  of  pain- 
ful thought.  But  more  often,  after  fatiguing 
himself  with  a  walk  of  many  miles,  and  dining 
in  solitude,  he  spent  the  hours  between  dinner 
and  bed-time  in  the  smoking-room  and  billiard- 
room  of  his  hotel,  watching  the  players  of  the 
game,  or  listening  to  the  chat  of  the  smokers. 
He  rarely  spoke  to  any  one.  The  frequenters 
of  the  hotel  thought  the  handsome  young  man 
strangely  silent,  and,  after  making  a  few  fruit- 
less Attempts  to  draw  him  into  conversation,  left 
him  to  himself  and  his  moodiness.  Albert,  on 
the  other  hand,  wondered  whether  any  of  them 
had  ever  been  as  wretched  as  he  was. 

It  was  during  one  of  his  perambulations  of 
the  hot  town  that  Albert,  shortly  before  the  dis- 
persion of  the  lawyers  for  the  Long  Vacation, 
sauntered  down  Chancery  Lane,  and  turning 
into  one  of  the  vice-chancellor's  courts,  in  Lin- 
coln's Inn,  heard  the  opening  of  a  petition.  A 
copyright  case  of  no  great  importance,  the  pe- 
tition interested  the  young  man  so  much  that, 
having  sat  through  the  day  among  the  wearers 
of  horse-hair  wigs  and  stuff-gowns,  he  re-appear- 
ed on  the  morrow  at  the  opening  of  the  court, 
and  heard  the  rest  of  the  arguments  and  the 
vice-chancellor's  judgment. 

It  is  told  of  Erskine  that  a  casual  visit  to  a 
court  of  justice  decided  him  to  exchange  the  red 
coat  for  the  black  robe,  and  to  enter  the  profes- 
sion in  which  he  rose  rapidly  to  its  highest  place. 
The  future  chancellor,  with  characteristic  self- 
confidence,  felt  that  he  could  have  "done  bet- 
ter" than  either  of  the  advocates  to  whom  he 
had  listened.  Without  thinking  so  disdainful- 
ly of  the  two  queen's  counsel  who  had  enter- 
tained him,  Albert  quitted  Lincoln's  Inn,  after 
his  second  visit  to  the  court-house,  with  a  de- 


126 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


cided  opinion  that  the  work  which  they  had 
done  well  was  work  that  he  also  could  accom- 
plish successfully.  He  felt,  also,  that  the  advo- 
cacy of  the  chancery  bar  was  an  art  in  which 
he  could  excel,  when  he  had  mastered  the  prin- 
ciples of  equity,  and  acquired  a  sufficient  knowl- 
edge of  the  practice  of  the  courts.  Conscious 
of  his  power  to  interpret  perplexing  statements 
and  to  express  himself  in  clear  and  concise  lan- 
guage, he  could  not  question  his  natural  compe- 
tency for  the  highest  labor  of  a  profession  in 
which  men  of  only  average  capacity  may  with 
assiduous  industry  figure  respectably.  Not- 
withstanding his  freedom  from  inordinate  self- 
esteem,  he  knew  that  he  possessed  conversation- 
al tact  and  discretion,  and  could  speak  at  the 
same  time  firmly  and  courteously. 

Why  should  not  the  chancery  bar  be  his  field 
of  enterprise  ? 

Having  put  this  question  to  himself  on  leav- 
ing the  vice-chancellor's  court,  he  occupied 
himself  during  his  westward  walk  with  arguing 
mentally  for  and  against  the  proposal. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

CHOICE    OF   A   PROFESSION. 

ON  ceasing  to  hope  that  his  advertisements 
for  information  about  his  father's  movements 
on  June  the  3d,  184-,  would  prove  successful, 
Albert  Guerdon  went  to  the  south  of  France. 
He  explored  a  part  of  the  Pyrenees  on  foot, 
musing  on  his  past  troubles,  and  deliberating 
on  his  plans  for  the  future,  as  he  made  his  sol- 
itary wanderings  through  one  of  the  most  pic- 
turesque regions  of  Europe. 

Returning  to  London  in  the  middle  of  the 
following  October,  he  took  possession  of  a  lodg- 
ing in  Manchester  Street,  Manchester  Square, 
under  the  assumed  name  of  Wright.  Exercise 
on  the  mountains  had  brought  him  into  perfect 
bodily  vigor.  The  quietude  of  his  companion- 
less  holiday  had  benefited  his  spirits  and  tem- 
per. If  he  had  not  recovered  his  cheerfulness, 
he  had  gathered  fortitude,  resignation,  and  a 
mournful  hope  from  the  solemn  stillness  and 
silence  of  the  majestic  hills.  He  had  also 
brought  back  to  his  native  land  some  definite 
views  and  firm  resolves ;  of  these  it  is  needful 
that  a  few  should  be  stated. 

He  had  decided  to  make  Lottie  think  him 
dead ;  and  he  had  more  than  a  general  notion 
of  the  measures  by  which  he  would  so  mislead 
her.  Separating  himself  completely  from  his 
past  life,  he  would  bury  his  name  and  shame  in 
a  tomb  that  should  purport  to  be  also  the  re- 
ceptacle of  his  body.  A  coffin  bearing  his  name 
should  be  placed  in  a  grave  which  other  per- 
sons besides  Lottie  should  be  induced  to  regard 
as  his  last  resting-place.  It  might  be  possible 
for  him  to  provide  the  coffin  with  a  lifeless  form ; 
but  should  he  be  unable  to  furnish  the  chest 
so  appropriately,  it  should  be  weighted  with 
stones,  and  then  committed  to  the  earth  in  the 


presence  of  mercenary  mourners,  who  should  be- 
lieve the  legend  on  its  plate.  For  all  the  de- 
tails of  this  sham  burial  of  himself  he  had  not 
made  arrangements  on  entering  his  new  quar- 
ters in  Manchester  Street.  But  his  mind,  prac- 
tical and  fertile  in  expedients,  had  already  of- 
!  fered  him  half  a  dozen  original  schemes  for  put- 
ting himself  out  of  existence  with  every  atten- 
tion to  mortuary  regulations.  He  was  familiar 
with  the  processes  by  which  law,  divinity,  and 
physic  may  be  tricked  into  giving  every  appear- 
ance of  reality  to  a  mock  interment. 

There  stands  on  a  piece  of  unconsecrated 
ground,  in  a  corner  of  one  of  our  most  fashion- 
able and  picturesque  London  cemeteries,  a  work 
of  monumental  sculpture  whose  white  marble 
is  inscribed  with  these  words,  "In  Memory  of 
Laura,  Aged  Eleven  Years."  Albert  knew  that 
Laura,  during  her  eleven  years  of  life,  was  a 
Blenheim  spaniel  that  after  death  received 
sumptuous  interment  from  a  gentlewoman  of 
rank  and  wealth,  who,  after  burying  her  pet  an- 
imal, mourned  for  her  as  for  a  daughter.  The 
exact  site  of  the  tomb  was  never  set  apart  as 
sacred ;  but  the  inscription  causes  the  stone  to 
be  mistaken  for  a  memorial  of  parental  grief 
and  love. 

Another  mock  burial,  which  had  come  to 
Albert's  knowledge,  was  the  impudent  fraud 
of  a  criminal  adventurer  who  brought  a  coffin 
from  France  to  a  London  cemetery,  and,  after 
interring  it  with  religious  rites,  proceeded  to 
act  as  though  he  were  the  lawful  executor  of 
the  alleged  occupant  of  the  grave.  Having 
proved  at  Doctors'  Commons  what  purported 
to  be  the  last  will  of  his  deceased  friend,  the 
impostor  exhibited  a  policy  for  £2000,  and  act- 
ually obtained  payment  of  the  bond  from  a  Lon- 
don Life  Assurance  Office  before  it  was  ascer- 
tained that  the  insurer  was  still  alive,  and  that 
the  buried  coffin  was  empty.  Long  before  the 
vacant  chest  was  exhumed  and  broken  open,  the 
sham  executor,  with  the  two  thousand  pounds 
j  in  his  pocket,  was  beyond  the  reach  of  justice. 
Knowing,  from  these  cases,  that  it  was  possi- 
ble, though  difficult,  to  achieve  spurious  sepul- 
ture in  a  London  grave-yard,  it  is  not  wonder- 
I  ful  that  Albert,  in  his  desire  to  destroy  the 
j  proofs  of  his  identity  with  the  forger's  son,  and 
I  in  his  wish  to  mislead  Lottie,  debated  seriously 
whether  he  could  not  do  much  for  the  accom- 
plishment of  his  double  purpose  by  burying  him- 
self and  being  his  own  executor.  Nor  is  it  sur- 
prising that,  having  once  allowed  himself  to  im- 
agine so  strange  a  fraud  on  society,  he  resolved 
to  execute  it  for  his  own  safety  and  Lottie's  wel- 
fare. 

Enough  has  been  said  of  the  reasons  which 
determined  Albert  to  adopt  a  course  of  con- 
cealment and  deception  for  Lottie's  sake.  But 
something  should  be  told  of  the  considerations 
which  decided  him  to  take  the  same  course 
for  his  own  convenience.  It  is  consistent  with 
j  human  egotism  that  the  young  and  sensitive 
should  overestimate  the  celebrity  and  conspic- 
uousness  of  their  newest  distinctions.  Whether 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


127 


the  mark  be  an  ensign  of  honor  or  a  brand  of 
shame,  the  newly  distinguished  young  man  is 
apt  to  imagine  that  his  world  is  co-extensive 
with  civilized  society,  and  that  the  badge  which 
makes  him  famous  or  shameful  in  his  special 
circle  renders  him  notorious  throughout  a  king- 
dom, and  even  recognizable  wherever  he  goes. 
Every  one  has  heard  of  the  youthful  senior 
wrangler  who,  on  entering  a  London  opera- 
house  shortly  after  the  publication  of  the  math- 
ematical tripos  which  his  name  headed,  took  to 
himself  the  cheers  which  welcomed  the  queen 
on  her  simultaneous  entrance  into  the  theatre. 
The  under-graduate.  who  has  just  been  plucked 
in  the  schools  is  no  less  apt  to  imagine  his  dis- 
grace a  matter  of  universal  interest. 

In  like  manner,  living  in  a  bitter  sense  of 
degradation,  and  thinking  only  of  matters  close- 
ly connected  with  his  domestic  disasters,  Al- 
bert fell  into  the  natural  mistake  of  exaggera- 
ting the  general  curiosity  respecting  his  personal 
troubles.  So  long  as  the  crash  of  the  Ham- 
merhampton  bank  was  a  new  event,  and  jour- 
nalists made  it  a  topic  for  vehement  writing,  it 
would  have  been  strange  had  he  formed  a  cool 
and  dispassionate  estimate  of  the  public  inter- 
est in  the  scandalous  affair.  Had  he  been  less 
sensitive  of  shame  or  less  deeply  wounded  in 
his  affections,  he  would  have  recovered  sooner 
from  the  moral  shock  and  mental  disturbance 
occasioned  by  his  misfortunes.  As  soon  as  the 
papers,  forbearing  to  denounce  his  father's  vil- 
lainy, directed  their  virtuous  indignation  against 
delinquents  of  a  later  date,  he  would  have  seen 
that  events  were  already  pushing  the  George 
Street  failure  out  of  social  recollection ;  and 
that,  on  ceasing  to  rage  against  Guerdon  & 
Scrivener,  the  world  would  begin  to  forget 
them.  He  would  have  known  that  society  has 
a  short  memory,  and  that,  having  vented  its 
fury  in  bitter  words,  it  quickly  dismisses  from 
its  consideration  the  persons  and  circumstances 
that  have  stirred  its  wrath.  But  though  his  good 
sense  and  worldly  knowledge  would  have  ena- 
bled him  to  regard  another's  misfortunes  thus 
judiciously,  he  could  not  take  the  same  consol- 
atory view  of  his  own  afflictions.  It  appear- 
ed to  him  that,  until  John  Guerdon's  honesty 
should  be  demonstrated,  the  world  would  not 
only  refrain  from  doing  him  positive  justice, 
but  would  also  be  incessantly  thinking  of  his 
infamy.  Equally  obvious  to  his  morbid  imag- 
ination was  it  that,  so  long  as  he  continued  to 
bear  his  father's  name,  the  forger's  son  would 
encounter  abhorrence  and  detestation  at  every 
turn.  Hence  his  resolution  to  escape  from 
shameful  associations  by  assuming  another 
name.  Having,  for  Lottie's  sake,  made  her 
and  all  the  world  think  him  dead,  he  would 
start  again  in  life  with  a  name  and  under  dis- 
guises which  should  liberate  him  as  far  as  pos- 
sible from  imperishable  infam}-. 

It  is  usual  for  the  offspring  and  near  cousins 
of  egregious  criminals  to  sever  themselves  from 
their  odious  misfortune  by  taking  names  of  fair 
repute  before  they  re-establish  themselves  in 


life,  under  circumstances  which  may  guard 
their  private  shame  from  detection  ;  and  in  the 
world's  opinion  Albert  was  the  child  of  a  pro- 
digious1 scoundrel.  Believing,  therefore,  that 
the  discredit  accruing  to  him  from  his  father's 
infamy  would  be  an  insuperable  obstacle  to  his 
social  advancement  wherever  ho  should  be  rec- 
ognized as  John  Guerdon's  son,  he  would  have 
resolved  to  conceal  his  parentage,  even  if  his 
purpose  toward  Lottie  had  not  required  him  to 
disassociate  himself  from  his  previous  history. 
But  when  he  reflected  that,  by  continuing  to 
style  himself  Albert  Guerdon  after  she  had 
been  induced  to  think  him  dead,  he  would  be 
calling  her  attention  to  his  doings,  and  expos- 
ing his  humane  imposture  to  constant  risk  of 
detection,  it  became  obvious  to  him  that  regard 
for  her,  no  less  than  care  for  himself,  enjoined 
him  to  take  another  name. 

Yet  further,  to  separate  himself  from  his  do- 
mestic dishonor,  and  to  secure  his  secret  from 
discovery,  he  had  determined  to  remove  as  far 
as  possible  the  physical  evidences  of  his  identi- 
ty with  Albert  Guerdon  of  Boringdonshire.  Of 
the  several  important  matters  which  he  had 
revolved  during  his  companionless  Pyrenean 
rambles,  none  had  occupied  more  of  his  thought 
than  certain  schemes  for  changing  his  appear- 
ance. He  had  asked  to  what  extent  he  could 
disfigure  himself  without  surrendering  any  of 
his  physical  endowments,  which  would  be  valu- 
able aids  to  him  in  the  subsequent  battle  of 
life.  How  could  he  change  his  color  without 
giving  himself  a  repulsive  complexion  ?  What 
coiffure  should  he  adopt  for  the  sake  of  dis- 
guise, without  altogether  sacrificing  the  advan- 
tage of  abundant  hair?  How  could  he  alter 
his  features  without  mutilating  them  barba- 
rously, or  losing  that  perfect  command  of  the 
facial  muscles  which  it  was  needful  for  him  to 
retain  ?  How  far  could  he  change  his  face 
without  rendering  it  hideous,  or  even  depriving 
it  of  serviceable  comeliness  ?  By  what  means 
could  he  relinquish  some  of  the  distinguishing 
characteristics  of  his  figure,  and  replace  them 
by  other  appearances,  without  lessening  his 
shapeliness  and  masculine  style  ?  These  were 
questions  which  he  had  carefully  considered ; 
and  though  he  could  not  answer  them  precisely 
to  his  satisfaction,  he  knew  enough  of  the  prin- 
ciples and  artifices  of  personal  disguise  to  be 
confident  that,  by  a  careful  selection  of  the 
means  of  concealment,  and  by  a  nice  employ- 
ment of  them,  he  could  so  change  his  bodily 
aspect  that  he  would  not  be  recognizable  to  his 
ordinary  acquaintance. 

Having  adopted  a  new  name  and  new  ap- 
pearance, Mr.  Albert  Wright,  lodger,  of  35 
Manchester  Street,  Manchester  Square,  meant 
to  lose  no  time  in  qualifying  himself  for  the 
profession  in  which  he  hoped  to  win  status  and 
wealth.  Impressed  with  a  lively  sense  of  the 
need  for  wariness  and  circumspection  in  all  his 
preliminary  movements,  he  was  resolved  to  take 
no  step  for  the  accomplishment  of  any  one  of 
his  several  purposes  without  cautious  delibcra- 


128 


LOTTIH  DARLING. 


tion  and  suspicious  forethought  for  all  unto- 
ward contingencies.  But  on  one  chief  point 
he  had  quite  made  up  his  mind.  He  would 
join  an  Inn  of  Court,  become  the  pupil  of  an 
eminent  Equity  lawyer,  and  by  strenuous  study 
acquire  the  knowledge  requisite  for  the  achieve- 
ment of  success  at  the  Chancery  Bar. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

A    FHIEND    IN    NEED. 

MR,  ALBERT  WRIGHT  had  occupied  his  lodg- 
ing in  Manchester  Street,  Manchester  Square, 
just  ten  days,  when,  toward  the  end  of  October, 
Fortune  put  into  his  hands  an  excellent  instru- 
ment for  his  use  in  the  execution  of  one  of  his 
designs. 

The  day  had  been  summerly,  as  days  often 
are  in  the  later  weeks  of  October,  and  Albert 
had  spent  it  sauntering  about  the  pleasant 
country  north  and  north-west  of  Hampstead 
Heath.  Having  made  a  leisurely  detour  from 
"  The  Spaniards"  to  Finchley,  and  from  Finch- 
ley  to  Willesden,  he  had  dined,  shortly  after 
dusk,  at  a  suburban  tavern,  and  then,  refreshed 
with  food  and  wine,  and  a  long  rest,  he  had 
continued  his  solitary  exercise  by  the  light  of 
the  rising  moon  ;  so  that,  after  spending  many 
hours  in  the  fresh  air  and  autumnal  beauties 
of  half  a  dozen  rural  parishes,  he  re-entered 
London  by  the  Bayswater  Road,  shortly  before 
midnight.  Of  an  age  when  the  human  body  is 
not  readily  fatigued,  if  it  is  in  good  health  and 
training,  he  had  not  wearied  himself  by  bis 
walk  of  many  miles ;  and  if  he  loitered  over 
the  southward  pavement  of  Portman  Square, 
his  slowness  was  not  due  to  exhaustion,  but  to 
the  wish  to  finish  his  half-smoked  cigar  before 
he  should  turn  into  his  chambers  for  the  night. 

The  square  was  quiet.  No  lights  were  visi- 
ble in  the  windows  of  its  grander  mansions,  for 
their  owners,  like  all  the  rest  of  the  great  world, 
were  out  of  town.  The  smaller  houses,  per- 
taining to  West  End  doctors,  or  other  profes- 
sional folk  with  connections  of  aristocratic  em- 
ployers, were  also  shut  up  and  darkened  for  the 
night.  The  last  omnibus  for  St.  John's  Wood 
had  rumbled  northward  over  the  square,  and 
jolted  sluggishly  up  Baker  Street  some  ten 
minutes  before  the  unwearied  pedestrian  de- 
cided to  pace  the  deserted  pavements  of  the 
quadrangle  till  the  tip  of  his  regalia  should 
scorch  his  lips. 

Acting  on  this  resolution,  Albert  was  loiter- 
ing on  the  northward  flag-stones,  enjoying  the 
stillness  which,  without  being  broken  by  the 
sound  of  nearer  wheels,  was  only  rendered 
more  soothing  by  the  faintly  audible  hum  of 
Oxford  Street  and  Edgeware  Road,  when  he 
started,  and  turned  sharply  round  in  the  direc- 
tion of  a  cry  of  pain  uttered  by  a  sufferer  with- 
in ten,yards  of  his  feet.  The  almost  vacant 
square  was  well  supplied  with  gas-lamps,  and 
the  moon  was  shining  in  a  cloudless  sky ;  but, 


though  there  was  no  lack  of  light,  Albert  could 
not  discern  the  creature  from  whom  the  note 
of  anguish  had  proceeded,  until  the  cry,  at  an 
interval  of  several  moments,  had  been  followed 
by  a  groan. 

Then,  looking  to  the  very  point  where  the 
disturber  of  his  meditations  lay  in  shadow  cast 
by  masonry  and  palisades  of  iron,  Albert  saw 
the  figure  of  a  man  extended  on  the  stone  floor 
beneath  a  high  portico,  with  his  head  at  the 
threshold  and  his  feet  at  the  entrance  steps  of 
one  of  the  largest  mansions  of  the  square. 

Having  glanced  at  the  recumbent  figure  with 
momentary  resentment,  Albert  was  on  the  point 
of  turning  away  and  passing  onward,  under  the 
impression  that  he  had  been  startled  into  mis- 
directed sympathy  for  a  vagrant  drunkard,  who, 
having  stupefied  himself  at  a  gin-palace,  had 
found  as  good  a  couch  as  he  deserved.  But 
another  cry  and  groan  caused  Albert  to  take  a 
gentler  and  juster  view  of  the  sick  man's  case. 
Such  sounds  were  not  the  mere  results  of  intox- 
ication. If  he  were  drunk,  the  poor  fellow  was 
also  in  the  grip  of  some  excruciating  malady 
which  liquor  had  only  aggravated.  It  might 
be  that  he  was  sober,  and  dying  of  cholera.  No 
sooner  had  these  possibilities  occurred  to  Al- 
bert than  he  sprang  up  the  steps,  and,  stooping 
downward,  raised  the  head  of  the  prostrate 
man.  In  another  three  seconds  he  had  drawn 
him  out  of  the  shadow  of  his  lurking  corner 
into  the  full  light  of  an  adjacent  gas-lamp.  As 
he  did  so,  Albert  recognized  the  worn  and  dis- 
figured features  of  one  of  his  old  comrades  at 
Bonn  and  Heidelberg.  Distorted  though  it 
was  by  present  pain,  and  blighted  though  it  was 
by  previous  misery,  the  face  of  the  outcast  was 
the  face  of  Reginald  Albert  Otway,  whilom 
student  of  languages  at  Bonn,  and  subsequent- 
ly art  student  at  Antwerp,  Munich,  and  Rome. 

"  Good  heavens,  Otway,  is  it  you  ?"  Albert 
ejaculated,  seeing  signs  of  consciousness  in  the 
tortured  visage. 

"Otway;  yes — yes — Otway.  I  am  Otway. 
You  know  me!  Who  the  deuce  are  you?" 
Otway  replied,  slowly  and  drowsily,  as  though 
he  did  not  fully  realize  the  position. 

"You  are  very  ill !" 

"  Eh,  very  ill !  I  have  been  that  for  many 
a  day ;  but  now,  thank  God,  I  am  dying." 

"Not  so  bad  as  that." 

"  Quite  as  good  as  that,"  returned  the  suffer- 
er, with  increasing  animation  and  intelligence. 
"And,  since  you  know  me,  and  seem  friendly, 
I  give  you  timely  notice  and  advice.  Clear 
off  at  once.  If  you  wait  till  I  am  dead,  my 
corpse  will  be  on  your  hands.  It  may  be  awk- 
ward for  you." 

"Never  mind  that,  old  boy.  Since  I  am 
here,  I'll  see  you  through  your  attack,  however 
it  may  end." 

"  You  had  better  not,"  Otway  replied  faint- 
ly, gasping  as  he  spoke.  "Go  at  once.  You 
can  leave  me  now  with  a  good  grace ;  but,  if  I 
die  in  your  arms,  you  won't  be  quit  of  me  till 
you  have  attended  an  inquest,  and  buried  me. 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


129 


The  parish  will  expect  you  to  bury  me  at  your 
own  expense.  There,  be  off,  or  you'll  be  in  for 
no  end  of  botheration  and  cost." 

"You  may  not  die  here,  on  a  door-step !" 

"  Pooh !  why  not  ?  Is  there  any  eleventh 
commandment  against  dying  on  door-steps?  Or 
an  act  of  Parliament?  Is  it  against  the  law 
of  God  or  the  land  ?  Where  can  a  poor  gen- 
tleman die  better  than  on  a  nobleman's  door- 
step, with  the  moon  and  the  stars  above  him  ?" 

This  was  said  in  a  still  fainter  voice,  and  with 
several  pauses,  arising  from  the  speaker's  diffi- 
culty of  breathing. 

"  A  cab  will  pass  in  a  minute,"  said  Albert, 
soothingly,  "and  then  I'll  take  you  off  to  a  bet- 
ter place." 

"No,  no,  no,  for  Heaven's  sake,  don't!"  the 
Bohemian  responded,  vehemently,  with  a  mock- 
ery of  terror  in  his  voice  and  countenance. 
"Don't  take  me  to  a  hospital.  Don't  let  me 
die  in  a  hospital.  To  expire  on  a  nobleman's 
door-step  is  dramatic,  but  to  die  in  a  hospital, 
like  a  pauper  and  blackguard,  would  be  so 
deuced  low.  If  I  died  in  a  hospital,  I  should 
never  be  able  to  hold  my  head  up  in  the  next 
world!" 

"I  won't  take  you  to  a  hospital,"  Albert 
promised,  "but  to  my  own  chambers,  which 
are  near  at  hand." 

"Worse  and  worse!"  gasped  Mr.  Otway. 
"  Then  I  should  die  in  the  odor  of  respectabil- 
ity on  a  spring-sofa  or  a  feather-bed.  Do.  my 
dear  sir,  let  me  die  the  death  of  a  Bohemian 
gentleman!" 

As  he  spoke  thus  mockingly,  with  the  pur- 
pose of  showing  a  true  Bohemian's  spirit  to  the 
last,  Mr.  Otway  was  seized  with  another  and 
still  sharper  spasm  of  the  malady  which  had 
brought  Albert  to  his  side. 

"O  Heaven!  help  me!  the  heart,  the  heart! 
it  \uill  snap!"  he  cried,  as  he  put  his  left  hand 
to  his  heart,  and  with  his  right  clutched  Al- 
bert's coat-collar,  as  though  he  wished  to  rend 
it  from  its  wearer.  "This  is  death! — it  must 
be  death!" 

But  the  poor  fellow's  end  had  not  yet  come. 

The  paroxysm  passed  off;  and,  when  the  suf- 
ferer had  ceased  to  grasp  his  companion  con- 
vulsively, and  had  escaped  again  the  peril  of 
immediate  suffocation,  a  policeman  on  his  beat 
round  the  square  stopped  before  the  lowest  of 
the  door-steps  and  asked  what  was  the  matter. 

"  My  friend  is  ill ;  he  has  had  a  violent  seiz- 
ure— a  fit.  See,  my  good  fellow,  if  you  can't 
find  a  cab  for  us." 

Before  the  constable  could  express  his  will- 
ingness to  obey  the  order,  a  cab  lumbered  round 
the  nearest  corner  and  drew  up  before  the  par- 
ty. The  carnage  fortunately  was  empty,  and 
the  driver  looking  out  for  a  fare. 

"Well,"  Mr.  Otway  assented,  reluctantly, 
"since  you  will  have  me,  I  will  go  with  you. 
But,  mind  you,  I  have  warned  you  that  you  are 
letting  yourself  in  for  the  deuce  and  all  of  trou- 
ble." 

With  the  help  of  the  policeman,  Albert  lifted 
9 


the  Bohemian  into  the  cab,  which  three  min- 
utes later  deposited  the  two  passengers  at  the 
door  of  35  Manchester  Street. 

The  house  was  closed  for  the  night.  Mrs. 
Garrett,  the  landlady,  and  her  servants  were  in 
bed  and  sound  asleep.  But  Albert  had  his 
latch-key,  and  without  rousing  any  of  the  sleep- 
ers managed  to  convey  his  guest  to  his  suite  of 
rooms  on  the  first  floor. 

Having  placed  him  on  the  sofa  of  the  large 
drawing-room,  and  lighted  the  gas,  Albert  was 
about  to  inquire  how  the  patient  found  himself, 
when  the  latter  asked  sharply  for  laudanum 
and  brandy. 

"I  must  run  out  for  them,"  was  Albert's  re- 
ply. 

"Go,  then  —  quick!  A  pint  of  laudanum, 
and  a  bottle  of  cognac.  They  may  bring  me 
round." 

"Shall  I  call  some  one  to  sit  up  with  you 
while  I  am  absent  ?" 

"No,  no;  I  shall  do  by  myself  here  as  well 
as  when  I  was  on  the  door-step.  Only  do  be 
quick!" 

Complying  with  the  request,  Albert  quitted 
the  house  immediately,  and  ran  off  to  the  near- 
est tavern.  Having  bought  the  brandy,  he 
hastened,  with  the  bottle  under  his  arm,  to  a 
druggist's  shop,  not  more  than  three  hundred 
yards  distant  from  Manchester  Street.  At  the 
present  date  a  druggist  would  decline  to  servo 
a  perfect  stranger  with  a  pint  of  laudanum,  and, 
if  -he  were  roused  in  the  middle  of  the  night 
to  execute  so  unusual  an  order  from  any  non- 
medical  person,  he  would  probably  accompany 
his  refusal  with  a  few  strong  expressions  of  re- 
sentment at  the  untimely  visitor.  But  five-and- 
twenty  years  ago  the  deadliest  poisons  were 
bought  as  easily  as  plum -buns  in  our  thor- 
oughfares ;  and,  like  a  similar  tradesman  im- 
mortalized by  Shakspeare,  the  apothecary  to 
whom  Albert  had  recourse  was  so  urgently  in 
need  of  a  few  shillings  that  he  was  in  no  mood 
to  reject  a  customer  on  conscientious  grounds. 

"A  pint?"  said  the  tradesman,  when,  after 
doffing  his  night-cap,  and  covering  his  shirt  with 
a  shop-coat,  he  had  opened  his  place  of  business. 
"  I  don't  think  I  have  as  much  as  that  left  in 
the  bottle.  You  don't  want  so  much  to-night, 
unless  you  are  used  to  it." 

"  I  don't  require  it  for  myself." 

"  Ah !  I  thought  you  did  not  look  like  an 
opium  -  drinker.  I  see — you  want  it  for  a 
friend  ?" 

"  Yes,  for  a  friend  who  has  been  suddenly 
taken  ill.  He  sent  me  out  for  laudanum  and 
brandy.  Do  make  haste  ;  he  is  in  a  bad  way." 

"  Well,  sir,  here  is  best  part  of  a  pint.  Only 
mind,  sir,  the  stuff  is  poisonous.  Don't  overdose 
the  gentleman,  or  you  may  get  into  trouble." 

As  he  gave  these  words  of  caution,  the  drug- 
gist completed  the  operation  of  pouring  the 
dark  fluid  from  his  shop  bottle  in  a  vessel, 
which  he  forthwith  corked,  wrapped  in  paper, 
and  gave  to  Albert,  without  having  troubled 
himself  to  affix  to  it  any  admonitory  label. 


130 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


Having  paid  the  tradesman  about  three  times 
the  proper  price  of  the  tincture,  Albert  rushed 
out  of  the  shop,  and  returned  at  his  fullest 
speed  to  35  Manchester  Street,  where  he  found 
Otway  still  lying  on  the  sofa,  and  in  no  appar- 
ently worse  condition. 

In  reply  to  a  hasty  question,  the  Bohemian 
said. that  he  was  easier,  and  hoped  a  good  dose 
of  his  customary  medicine  would  enable  him 
to  fall  asleep. 

"  I  know  nothing  about  laudanum,"  said  Al- 
bert. "  Don't  let  me  give  you  too  much,  there's 
a  good  fellow." 

"  The  druggist  has  been  frightening  you  ?" 
rejoined  Otway,  with  a  smile  on  his  thin,  pallid 
face. 

"  He  gave  me  a  word  or  two  of  caution." 

"  Very  good  of  him." 

"You  told  me  to  get  a  pint.  Do  you  want 
it  all  at  once  ?" 

"Not  quite  all.  I  am  a  provident  fellow, 
and  ordered  a  stock  that  will  answer  my  wants 
for  several  days.  Give  me  three  large  table- 
spoonfuls  of  the  laudanum,  and  two  large  wine- 
glassfuls  of  brandy.  Put  them  in  a  tumbler 
with  a  little  cold  water — about  as  much  water 
as  there  is  brandy  in  the  mixture !" 

"  You  are  sure  you  are  not  asking  for  too 
much?" 

"  Quite  sure.  I  can  drink  laudanum  like 
Coleridge  and  De  Quincey,  each  of  whom  could 
get  through  a  black  bottle  of  it  in  a  day.  A 
dose  which  would  kill  two  or  three  ordinary 
men  outright  only  sends  me  to  sleep." 

On  this  assurance  Albert  mixed  the  drinks 
in  the  stated  proportions,  and  then  brought  the 
tnmbler  to  his  singular  guest. 

"Good!  good!  good!"  ejaculated  the  sick 
man,  when  he  had  drunk  off  the  nauseous  com- 
pound at  a  single  draught. 

Having  uttered  these  expressions  of  satis- 
faction, he  fell  back  again  on  the  high  pillow 
of  his  sofa,  and,  raising  his  arms,  put  both  his 
hands  on  the  top  of  his  head.  Not  another 
word  did  he  speak,  though  his  eyes  remained 
open  for  the  next  ten  minutes. 

As  the  room  was  sufficiently  lighted,  Albert 
how  had  an  opportunity  of  scrutinizing  the  vis- 
age and  dress  of  the  man  who  had  been  so 
strangely  put  into  his  keeping.  Both  exhibit- 
ed indications  of  distress  and  degradation.  The 
delicate  features  of  the  once  beautiful  face  were 
painfully  thin,  and  furrowed  with  marks  equally 
expressive  of  dissipation,  sickness,  and  long  en- 
durance of  hardships.  The  young  man's  light 
beard  and  red  whiskers  were  untrimmed  and 
dirty ;  and  while  it  was  obvious  that  he  did  not 
usually  wear  mustaches,  it  was  also  apparent 
that  no  razor  had  touched  his  lips  for  a  week  or 
ten  days.  Long  unkempt  tresses  of  auburn  hair 
were  matted  and  knotted  on  either  side  of  a 
head  which,  at  its  crown,  was  already  noticea- 
ble for  baldness,  although  its  owner  was  still  only 
in  his  thirtieth  year.  As  for  his  dress— a  sadly 
dilapidated  and  threadbare  walking  costume — 
it  was  chiefly  remarkable  for  dirt  and  seediness. 


The  gentleman's  shirt -collar  and  shirt-front 
proved  him  to  be  no  liberal  patron  of  washer- 
women ;  and  his  shepherd's-plaid  trowsers  were 
very  ragged  at  the  parts  which  came  in  contact 
with  a  pair  of  Bliicher  shoes.  And  yet,  in  spite 
of  dirt,  and  tatters,  and  squalid  neglect,  he  had 
nothing  of  "the  rough"  or  "the  criminal"  in 
his  appearance.  On  the  contrary,  his  brow,  and 
profile,  and  facial  air.  notwithstanding  all  their 
disfigurements,  were  suggestive  of  culture  and 
refinement.  At  the  best,  he  was  a  gentleman 
far  gone  in  consumption  and  penury.  At  the 
worst,  he  was  that  most  forlorn  and  melancholy 
of  all  dismal  creatures  —  a  young  Bohemian 
grievously  out  of  luck  and  health. 

Having  composed  himself  for  slumber,  Mr. 
Otway  would  have  fallen  into  unconsciousness 
on  the  sofa,  and  so  found  a  far  more  luxurious 
sleeping-place  than  any  couch  he  hail  occupied 
for  many  a  week,  had  not  Albert,  rousing  him 
somewhat  roughly,  insisted  on  playing  the  part 
of  his  valet,  and  putting  him  into  the  only  bed 
of  the  backward  drawing-room. 

For  a  minute  the  dreamy  and  slumberous 
gentleman  showed  a  disinclination  to  comply 
with  his  entertainer's  wish  on  this  point.  He 
did  not  speak,  but  he  drew  back  from  the  door 
of  the  inner  chamber,  like  a  horse  refusing  to 
be  led  across  a  narrow  bridge  or  coaxed  into  a 
railway  horse-box.  His  silence  left  it  uncertain 
'why  he  disapproved  of  his  host's  purpose.  Per- 
haps he  divined  that  Albert  would  be  compelled 
to  pass  the  night  on  the  sofa  or  an  easy-chair, 
if  he  surrendered  his  only  bed  to  a  slight  ac- 
quaintance. Perhaps  the  white  draperies  and 
perfect  cleanliness  of  the  sleeping-room  fright- 
ened the  poor  fellow,  who  had  not  seen  a  de- 
cently furnished  bed-chamber  for  twelve  months. 
Anyhow,  his  resistance  was  not  stubborn.  Yield- 
ing himself  speechlessly  to  his  fate,  he  allowed 
himself  to  be  stripped  of  his  almost  beggarly  ap- 
parel, and  to  be  enveloped  in  a  night-shirt  of 
snowy  whiteness,  before  he  was  put,  like  a  sick 
soldier  lifted  by  a  strong  hospital  orderly,  into 
the  pure  and  comfortable  bed. 

"Poor  devil!"  Albert  muttered  to  himself, 
when  he  had  closed  the  bedroom  door  on  his 
tranquilly  sleeping  guest,  and  had  returned  to 
his  sitting-room.  "  Only  eight  years  since  he 
was  as  bright,  comely,  joyous  a  madcap  as 
could  be  found  in  Heidelberg.  He  was  sow- 
ing his  wild  oats  then.  And  they  have  yielded 
a  crop  of  noxious  weeds  and  poisonous  plants 
— a  crop  of  bitter  memories  and  agonizing  re- 
morses— which  he  must  reap  and  garner  until 
death  puts  an  end  to  the  cruel  labor.  Poor 
wretch !  he  has  fallen  beyond  redemption ! 
He  must  die  !  Oh,  those  wild  oats !" 

Thus  meditating,  Albert  drew  out  from  a 
corner  of  his  room  a  bear's  skin  and  a  pile  of 
thick  woolen  railway-rugs.  Having  covered  the 
sofa  with  the  rugs,  he  laid  himself  upon  them, 
and  drew  over  his  body  the  bear's  skin.  Sleep 
was  not  long  in  coming  to  the  young  man  when 
he  had  thus  made  his  arrangements  for  the 
night ;  and,  as  he  slid  through  drowsiness  into 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


131 


dreaminess  that  ended  in  profound  slumber,  he 
thought,  "But  why  should  Otway  die  altogeth- 
er ?  why  should  his  name  perish  ?  Why  may  it 
not  live  in  me,  and  shine  with  honor  given  it 
by  my  exertions  ?" 


CHAPTER  XV. 

A   NEW   NAME   IS   IMPOSED   ON  THE   BOHEMIAN. 

THOUGH  Albert's  night  was  one  of  unbroken 
slumber,  it  was  not  one  of  many  hours.  By 
seven  o'clock  he  was  awake  and  stirring.  He 
had  risen  from  his  sofa,  and  ascertained  that 
his  guest  was  still  sleeping  tranquilly,  when  the 
maid-servant  who  waited  on  him  entered  the 
drawing-room  to  put  it  in  order  for  the  day. 
Her  surprise  at  finding  him  in  the  sitting-room 
was  not  diminished  when  he  told  her  where  he 
had  rested,  and  cautioned  her  to  make  as  lit- 
tle noise  as  possible,  lest  she  should  disturb  the 
gentleman^vho  occupied  the  bed  in  the  adjoin- 
ing room.  But  the  young  woman's  astonish- 
ment did  not  embarrass  the  lodger,  who  told 
her  to  let  him  have  his  breakfast  at  the  usual 
hour,  and,  also,  to  inform  her  mistress  that  he 
would  speak  with  her  in  her  private  parlor 
when  she  had  breakfasted. 

Leaving  Hannah  to  enjoy  her  surprise  and 
do  her  work,  Albert  then  left  the  house  for  an 
hour.  He  had  a  bath  at  the  swimming-school 
in  the  New  Road,  and  visited  a  barber's  shop 
within  a  stone's  throw  of  the  same  thorough- 
fare. When  his  hair  had  been  dressed  at  this 
establishment,  he  engaged  one  of  its  attendants 
to  call  at  35  Manchester  Street,  at  ten  o'clock, 
to  render  the  services  of  his  profession  to  a  sick 
gentleman.  On  his  way  back  to  his  lodgings 
he  called  at  the  house  of  Dr.  Becher,  in  Hinde 
Street,  and  was  so  fortunate  as  to  find  that  fa- 
mous physician  at  home,  and  already  accessi- 
ble to  patients.  Having  heard  Albert's  story 
of  his  previous  night's  adventure,  Dr.  Becher 
promised  to  call  on  his  visitor's  sick  friend  at 
twelve  o'clock. 

Albert's  next  business  was  to  inform  Mrs. 
Garrett  of  the  circumstances  which  had  brought 
another  inmate  to  her  house.  A  strictly  prac- 
tical personage,  the  lodging-house  keeper  had  a 
welcome  for  the  lodger  for  whose  entertainment 
Albert  bound  himself  to  pay,  and  for  whose 
general  respectability  he  offered  to  be  sponsor. 
Mrs.  Garrett  had  a  small  bedroom  at  the  serv- 
ice of  either  Mr.  Wright  or  his  friend  ;  or  she 
could  put  up  a  second  bed  in  the  dressing- 
room  in  the  rear  of  Mr.  Wright's  chamber. 
Having  thus  expressed  her  willingness  to  oblige 
Mr.  Wright,  Mrs.  Garrett  suggested  that  he 
should  gratify  her  curiosity  by  stating  his 
friend's  name,  a  demand  for  which  Albert, 
albeit  naturally  and  habitually  truthful,  was 
prepared  with  a  harmless  fiction. 

"  The  gentleman's  name  is  Guerdon,"  Mr. 
Wright  answered,  coolly. 

"Guerdon?     Bless  us!"  returned  the  land- 


lady. "Is  he  related  to  the  Hammerhampton 
forger  who  committed  suicide  last  June  ?" 

"I  don't  know  much  of  the  gentleman's 
family,  Mrs.  Garrett,"  Albert  answered,  cau- 
tiously ;  "  though  some  years  since  I  knew  him 
intimately.  You  need  not  be  afraid  to  har- 
bor him  ;  though  his  name  is  Guerdon,  I  am 
afraid  he  won't  trouble  us  long." 

"Poor  gentleman!"  observed  Mrs.  Garrett, 
who  saw  the  indiscreetness  of  the  speech,  which 
she  would  fain  have  retracted.  "And  very 
likely  he's  nothing  in  blood  to  the  gentleman 
who  died  so  unfortunate  in  the  Great  Yard. 
Guerdon  is  a  common  name  enough.  Guer- 
dons are  as  plentiful  as  peas  in  a  bushel.  An't 
they,  sir  ?" 

Albert  replied  warily, 

"  I  dare  say  they  are  as  plentiful  as  peas  in 
some  bushels." 

Bidding  Mrs.  Garrett  good-bye  for  the  pres- 
ent, Albert  went  up  stairs,  breakfasted  leis- 
urely, and  in  due  course  entered  his  guest's 
sleeping-room  with  a  tray  in  his  hand.  The 
tray  had  been  fitly  provided  by  Hannah  with 
a  white  napkin,  a  new-laid  egg,  a  plate  of  thin- 
nish  bread-and-butter,  a  large  basin  of  excel- 
lent tea,  and  sundry  additaments  suitable  for 
an  invalid's  breakfast. 

Having  slept  off  the  effects  of  the  narcotic 
and  bis  previous  night's  exhaustion,  Mr.  Otway 
was  in  the  full  possession  of  his  weakened  fac- 
ulties, when  Albert  appeared  before  him  with 
the  materials  for  his  breakfast.  During  the 
previous  half-hour  the  Bohemian  had  surveyed 
the  appointments  of  his  comfortable  quarters, 
and  recalled  several  of  the  incidents  to  which 
he  was  immediately  indebted  for  his  hospitable 
entertainment.  He  could  remember  how  he 
had  passed  the  evening  which  closed  with  his 
seizure  in  Portman  Square.  He  could  recall 
the  successive  attacks  of  spasm  of  the  heart. 
And  he  knew  that  he  had  been  taken  from  the 
door-step  of  an  aristocratic  mansion,  into  a  par- 
lor of  a  well-furnished  house,  by  some  com- 
passionate spectator  of  his  agonies.  He  had, 
also,  a  vague  recollection  of  the  eagerness  with 
which  he  had  called  for  brandy  and  laudanum, 
and  of  the  relief  which  they  had  afforded  him. 
But,  having  failed  to  identify  Albert  either  in 
the  square  or  in  the  lodgings,  he  was  still  won- 
dering who  his  rescuer  could  be,  when  Albert 
bade  him  good-morning. 

"  Why,  it  is  Guerdon,"  the  Bohemian  ob- 
served, composedly,  when  he  had  raised  him- 
self in  bed,  and  recognized  his  host. 

"I  was  Guerdon — you  are  right  so  far;  I 
was  Guerdon  when  I  saw  you  last  at  Rome." 

"  Eh,  at  Rome  ?  To  be  sure,  at  Rome.  In 
Mainwaring's  studio.  Did  you  see  his  'Car- 
nival '  in  the  last  Academy  ?  It  was  deuced 
good.  So  you  have  changed  your  name  ? 
Who  are  you  now  ?" 

"  Albert.  Wright,  and  very  much  at  your 
service." 

"Umphl  Wright?  A  very  good  alias, 
neither  too  common  nor  too  distinguished ; 


132 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


more  gentlemanly  than  Smith,  Brown,  Jones, 
or  Robinson,  and  less  striking  than  Bohun, 
Darcy,  or  Temple.  A  very  good  choice,"  the 
Bohemian  observed,  smiling  as  he  criticised 
the  name. 

"  It  will  answer  my  purpose  for  the  present. 
Anyhow,  think  of  me  as  Albert  Wright." 

"And  forget  thnt  you  were  ever  Albert 
Guerdon  ?" 

"If  you  can." 

"For  civility's  sake,  I  can  do  a  great  deal; 
and  I  owe  you  something  more  than  civility, 
Albert  Wright.  By-the-way,  though,  you  may 
not  have  changed  your  name  to  escape  the  im- 
portunities of  Jew  money-lenders  and  Christian 
tradesmen.  Perhaps  you  have  come  into  a 
fortune  as  well  as  a  new  name  ?" 

11  No,"  Albert  answered,  gravely,  "I  lost  my 
fortune  before  I  became  Albert  Wright."  After 
a  pause,  he  added,  "  I  ceased  to  be  Guerdon,  to 
escape  infamy.  You  know  my  story  ?" 

44  To  be  sure — I  remember  it  now.  I  heard 
how  the  old  man  went  to  smash,  and  all  the 
rest  of  it." 

"Then  I  need  not  pain  myself  by  telling 
you  more  precisely  why  I  changed  my  name. 
It  is  enough  to  say  that  I  am  Wright,  in  or- 
der that  I  may  not  be  taken  for  my  father's 
son." 

"  Quite  enough.  I  take  the  world  as  I  find 
it,  my  dear  boy — and  a  devilish  bad  world  it 
is !  Thank  Heaven,  I  shall  soon  be  out  of  it ! 
But,  though  life  has  treated  me  scurvily,  it  has 
never  driven  me  to  surrender  my  rightful  name. 
I  am  Reginald  Albert  Otway  still." 

"Pardon  me,"  Albert  returned,  with  a  smile, 
"you  are  Albert  Guerdon." 

"The  deuce  I  am!  How  has  that  come 
about  ?" 

"I  have  just  told  my  landlady  that  you  are 
Mr.  Guerdon,  and,  as  you  owe  me  civility,  you 
can't  give  me  a  lie.  As  long  as  you  are  my 
guest,  you  are  Mr.  Guerdon.  When  you  re- 
enter  the  world,  you  can  be  Mr.  Otway  again." 

Far  from  being  offended,  the  Bohemian  was 
prodigiously  amused  by  the  liberty  which  had 
been  taken  with  his  personal  story.  There  are 
only  two  courses  open  to  a  man  in  his  posi- 
tion. As  he  could  not  be  angry,  he  was  con- 
strained to  be  merry  at  his  misdescription. 
Having  laughed  cheerily,  he  observed, 

"Then  I  am  to  carry  the  appellation  which 
is  too  disgraceful  for  Mr.  Albert  Wright  ?  My 
dear  Wright,  I  have  accepted  the  name  and 
the  infamy,  and  don't  find  them  burdensome." 

"  No,  you  have  only  taken  the  name,  which 
is  a  good  enough  name  for  any  man  who  is  not 
John  Guerdon's  son.  The  infamy,  which  is  my 
inheritance,  I  retain — though  I  mean  to  hide  it 
away,  and  escape  its  consequences." 

"If  you  escape  them,  you  get  quit  of  the  in- 
famy. Shame  consists  wholly  in  the  conse- 
quences of  something  shameful.  And,  pooh ! 
what  is  social  disgrace  ?  The  gossip  of  folk 
whom  you  neither  hear  nor  care  for."  After  a 
pause,  the  Bohemian  added,  "But,  Mr.  Wright, 


I  don't  quite  see  your  little  game.  What  are 
you  after  ?" 

"Giving  you  your  breakfast.  Here,  take 
your  tea  and  bread-and-butter.  When  you 
have  finished  them,  a  gentleman,  holding  office 
in  a  hair-dresser's  shop,  will  have  arrived  to 
trim  your  beard  and  brush  your  hair,  and  put 
you  into  shape.  At  twelve  o'clock  the  famous 
Dr.  Becher  will  come  to  feel  your  pulse.  In 
the  afternoon  we  will  dine  off  a  roast  chicken, 
and  chat  about  old  times.  You  see,  I  have 
settled  every  thing." 

"  Thank  you — I  like  to  be  done  for.  I  could 
never  manage  to  do  for  myself. " 

In  the  disastrous  and  slang  sense  of  the 
words,  Mr.  Otway,  alias  Guerdon,  had  managed 
to  "  do  for  himself"  completely.  But  he  was 
speaking  literally  and  truthfully  of  his  chief  in- 
capacity. He  was  not  of  the  stuff  and  spirit 
needful  for  men  who  must  push  their  way  in 
the  world,  or  be  content  with  "monkey's  al- 
lowance." So  long  as  he  had  a  good  income 
for  a  youngster,  and  was  "  done  for,"  by  pater- 
nal generosity,  he  lived  happily  enough  among 
the  students  of  foreign  universities  and  the  jun- 
ior artists  of  continental  galleries.  But  when 
his  father  died  suddenly,  and  left  him  without 
a  penny,  he  went  quickly  to  grief.  Returning 
from  Italy  to  his  native  country,  he  worked 
fitfully  and  irresolutely  at  the  only  profession 
in  which  he  was  qualified  to  earn  a  crust ;  but, 
though  he  was  not  deficient  in  artistic  percep- 
tion and  cleverness,  he  had  not  the  indefati- 
gable zeal  and  perseverance  by  which  youthful 
painters  sometimes  do  justice  to  their  capaci- 
ties, and  conquer  adversity.  In  the  domain 
of  the  fine  arts,  he  did  several  things  a  little, 
nothing  thoroughly.  He  painted  in  oils  a  lit- 
tle, he  washed  in  water-colors  a  little,  he  etch- 
ed a  little,  he  modeled  in  clay  a  little.  He 
conceived  fine  pictures,  made  rough  sketches 
for  them,  and  left  his  designs  for  other  aspi- 
rants to  carry  out  profitably.  He  sent  in  un- 
finished pictures  to  the  Academy,  where  they 
were  rejected  because  they  were  unfinished. 
How  he  fared,  it  is  needless  to  describe  minute- 
ly to  the  haunter  of  studios,  or  even  to  the 
general  reader.  His  fate  was  the  universal 
fate  of  moneyless  young  men,  who,  without  en- 
ergy and  strong  purpose,  loiter  listlessly  into  a 
vocation  where  nothing  can  be  achieved  with- 
out strenuous  effort.  He  could  see  how  things 
ought  to  be  done,  but  lacked  the  robustness 
and  determination  requisite  for  doing  them ; 
so  he  earned  shillings  instead  of  guineas,  and, 
consoling  himself  for  his  ill  fortune  with  bran- 
dy and  opium,  lost  all  nerve  and  confidence  in 
himself. 

In  doingybr  him  benevolence  never  failed  to 
produce  a  certain  amount  of  desirable,  though 
transient,  results.  Every  attempt  to  put  him 
on  his  legs  and  set  him  going  was  successful 
up  to  the  point  when  he  tottered  and  fell  again, 
like  a  top  when  its  momentum  is  exhaust- 
ed. The  journeyman  barber,  who  helped  him 
through  a  warm  bath  in  Albert's  dressing-room, 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


133 


and  then  dressed  bis  hair,  was  delighted  with 
the  change  wrought  in  the  sick  gentleman's 
appearance  by  soap  and  water,  hair-wash  and 
Imlliantine,  razor  and  scissors.  Albert  also  was 
agreeably  surprised  by  the  improvement  in  his 
protege,  who  looked  "another  man"  when  he 
had  been  washed,  and  clipped,  and  shampooed, 
and  brilliantined  into  outward  gentlemanliness. 

This  change  for  the  better  had  been  scarce- 
ly accomplished,  when  Dr.  Becher  appeared  at 
the  invalid's  bedside.  Ten  minutes'  use  of 
the  stethoscope  and  talk  with  his  patient  were 
enough  to  satisfy  the  physician  of  the  hopeless- 
ness of  the  invalid's  condition. 

On  re-entering  the  drawing-room,  where  Al- 
bert was  awaiting  the  conclusion  of  the  medical 
inquiry,  the  physician,  having  closed  the  door 
behind  him,  spoke  without  reserve  of  the  mortal 
character  of  Mr.  Guerdon's  ailments. 

"It  is  my  duty  to  tell  you,  Mr.  Wright,  that 
your  friend's  case  is  hopeless,"  said  the  doctor. 

Feeling  no  sorrow  at  the  announcement,  Al- 
bert feigned  none.  On  the  contrary,  experi- 
encing some  satisfaction  at  the  intelligence,  he 
allowed  the  feeling  to  be  slightly  apparent  in 
his  countenance. 

"  How  long  will  he  live  ?"  Mr.  Wright  in- 
quired. 

"  Not  many  weeks  at  the  utmost.  The  prob- 
abilities," answered  the  physician,  "are  that 
he  will  be  dead  in  a  month.  He  may,  of  course, 
die  any  day  from  spasm  of  the  heart.  But, 
should  he  not  die  sooner  of  heart  disease,  he 
will  sink  before  the  end  of  the  year  under  an- 
other incurable  malady,  from  which  he  is  suf- 
fering." 

"  When  will  you  see  him  again,  Dr.  Becher  ?" 

"I  can  do  birn  no  good." 

"  Still,  I  should  wish  him  to  be  under  your 
charge. " 

"  Hm !  I  will  write  him  a  prescription  for 
a  draught  that  may  afford  him  relief  on  the 
recurrence  of  the  heart  spasms,  and  another  for 
a  mixture  which  he  may  take  regularly.  At 
any  moment  of  emergency  you  can  send  in  for 
me.  Many  visits  from  me  would  do  him  no 
good,  and  only  take  from  you  guineas  which,  as 
you  are  a  young  man,  you  can  perhaps  ill  afford." 

Seeing  the  kindly  motive  which  occasioned 
the  doctor's  reluctance  to  make  the  invalid  dai- 
ly visits,  Albert  assured  the  considerate  physi- 
cian that  he  need  not  have  any  regard  for  a 
poverty  which  was  only  comparative,  and  by 
no  means  urgent. 

"  Well,  that  being  so,"  returned  the  doctor, 
with  a  somewhat  eccentric  bluntness,  "  I'll  drop 
in  once  or  twice  a  week.  But  don't  put  a  guin- 
ea into  my  hand  each  time  I  come.  Let  my 
fees  run  up,  and  pay  me  when  it  is  all  over  with 
the  poor  fellow." 

The  fact  is,  the  physician  had  made  up  his 
mind  to  take  no  fees  for  attendance  on  the  case 
with  which  Mr.  Wright  appeared  to  have  bur- 
dened himself  from  pure  benevolence.  A  few 
hours  earlier,  in  describing  the  circumstances 
under  which  he  encountered  his  old  acquaint- 


ance in  Portman  Square,  Albert  had  uninten- 
tionally revealed  the  sick  man's  indigence. 

When  Dr.  Becher  had  written  his  prescrip- 
tions, and  taken  his  departure,  Albert  ordered 
an  early  dinner  to  be  on  the  table  by  five  o'clock, 
and  then,  having  requested  Mrs.  Garrett  to  pro- 
vide her  new  lodger  with  a  biscuit  and  a  glass  of 
sherry  for  luncheon,  he  went  out,  to  read  the 
newspapers  at  a  cheap  coffee-shop  in  the  neigh- 
borhood of  Leicester  Square. 

On  his  return  to  Manchester  Street,  shortly, 
before  the  time  appointed  for  dinner,  Mr.  Wright 
found  his  guest  clothed,  and  lying  on  the  sofa. 

"  You  scarcely  know  me,  now  that  I  look  so 
gentlemanly  and  civilized,"  said  the  Bohemi- 
an, who  had  donned  a  suit  of  decent  clothes 
which  Albert  had  placed  at  his  disposal,  in  lieu 
of  the  ragged  habiliments  mentioned  in  the  last 
chapter.  "  Ton  my  honor,  I  hardly  knew  my- 
self when  I  saw  my  semblance  in  the  looking- 
glass.  This  good  suit  and  clean  shirt  have 
shown  me  that  I  can  still  appreciate  the  advan- 
tages of  cleanliness  and  respectability.  The  coat 
and  trowsers  would  fit  me  well  enough  if  I  were 
only  as  stout  as  I  used  to  be.  We  are  much 
of  a  height." 

"Ah,  Guerdon,"  returned  Mr.  Wright,  "  and 
I  remember  when  you  were  stouter  than  1. 
What  can  I  do  to  fatten  you  ?" 

"  Ring  for  dinner.  I  have  an  appetite.  Let 
us  see,  we  are  to  have  a  roast  chicken — rather 
a  small  dinner,  Mr.  Wright,  for  two  men." 

Albert  was  agreeably  relieved  by  his  friend's 
lightness  of  manner  and  speech,  and  also  by  the 
ease  with  which  he  alluded  to  benefits  for  which 
no  man,  unless  he  is  Bohemian,  likes  to  be  in- 
debted to  another.  The  host  would  have  been 
not  a  little  embarrassed,  had  the  guest  exhibit- 
ed any  burdensome  sense  of  his  obligations  to 
a  man  with  whom  he  had  never  been  very  inti- 
mate. But  Mr.  Otway,  alias  Guerdon,  had  re- 
ceived similar  favors  too  often  to  be  oppressed 
by  them.  Bohemians  are  apt  to  regard  them- 
selves as  having  a  moral  title  to  the  material 
possessions  of  their  more  fortunate,  especially 
of  their  respectably  prosperous,  friends.  And 
being  a  Bohemian,  Mr.  Otway,  alias  Guerdon, 
was  far  more  disposed  to  congratulate  himself 
on  having  fallen  into  hands  that  would  "  do  for 
him  "  than  to  think  about  the  humiliation  of 
"being  done  for."  He  was  elated  by  the  good- 
ness of  the  raiment  which  had  been  lent  to 
him,  and  by.  the  comfort  (not  to  say  luxury) 
of  the  quarters  into  which  he  had  been  drawn 
from  houseless  vagabondage.  His  gray  eyes 
sparkled  with  animation  when  he  saw  that  the 
"  roast  chicken"  meant  a  pair  of  fowls.  And 
they  overflowed  with  delight  when  Mrs.  Gar- 
rett placed  a  tall-necked  bottle  of  Rhenish  wine 
on  the  table. 

At  dinner  the  Bohemian  ate  heartily,  not  to 
say  wolfishly  ;  and,  though  he  had  taken  some- 
thing more  than  his  rightful  share  of  the  prim- 
rose -  colored  wine,  he  agreed  with  Albert  in 
thinking  that  they  might  as  well  have  a  bottle 
of  Saint  Emilion  with  their  cigarettes. 


LOTTIE  CABLING. 


And  as  they  drank  their  red  wine  and  puffed 
away  at  their  tiny  sticks  of  papered  tobacco,  the 
young  men  talked  cheerily  of  old  times,  and 
places  and  faces  they  had  known  on  the  Khine 
and  the  Neckar — of  friends,  also,  whom  they 
had  known  at  Antwerp,  and  Venice,  and  Rome. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

PLANS   FOR   THE   FUTURE. 

IN  past  years  their  intercourse  had  never 
been  closer  than  mere  acquaintanceship  ;  but  in 
Manchester  Street  Mr.  Wright  and  Mr.  Otway, 
alias  Guerdon,  became  intimate.  Albert  con- 
ceived a  compassionate  tenderness  for  the  poor 
neer-do-weel,  whom  he  was  protecting  through 
the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death.  He  confided 
to  him  secrets  which  he  would  have  withheld 
from  him,  had  it  not  been  certain  that  in  a  few 
weeks  death  would  deprive  the  artist  of  the 
power  to  reveal  them  in  careless  gossip.  The 
moral  infirmities,  which  would  have  roused  Al- 
bert's repugnance  to  a  delinquent  not  lying  un- 
der the  doom  of  death,  only  increased  his  pity 
and  charitable  sympathy  for  his  protegg.  On 
the  other  hand,  Otway,  alias  Guerdon,  was  pro- 
foundly touched  by  the  kindness  of  the  man 
who  befriended  him,  outcast  though  he  was  to 
the  rest  of  the  world.  Combining  the  shame- 
lessness  and  selfishness  of  his  fallen  kind  with 
their  capability  of  transient  gratitude,  the  Bo- 
hemian's nature  was  stirred  by  delicacy  which 
he  could  still  appreciate,  and  by  generosity 
which  he  could  not  repay.  More  than  once, 
during  the  first  fortnight  of  his  residence  in 
Mrs.  Garrett's  lodging-house,  the  poor  fellow, 
obeying  impulses  that  may  have  been  partly 
due  to  furtive  nips  of  cognac,  lamented  his  in- 
ability to  show  fully,  by  word  or  act,  his  sense 
of  his  benefactor's  goodness. 

It  was  a  relief  to  Albert,  after  his  long  period 
of  loneliness  and  sorrowful  musing,  to  be  able 
to  tell  the  story  of  his  griefs  to  a  willing  list- 
ener; and  to  his  chum's  lively  satisfaction  he 
frankly  confessed  that  the  agreeable  conse- 
quences of  their  companionship  were  equally 
distributed  between  them.  It  was  a  strange 
friendship  this,  for  which  the  one  was  indebted 
to  poverty,  and  the  other  to  shame  and  sorrow. 
As  the  sequel  will  show,  it  was  also  an  alliance 
in  which  the  one  friend  was  less  completely 
frank  than  the  other.  But  while  Albert  sub- 
mitted his  whole  breast  and  life  to  his  friend's 
observation,  he  had  no  suspicion  that  he  was 
treated  with  a  less  perfect  confidence.  Re- 
serve is  seldom  the  failing  of  a  Bohemian  to- 
ward those  who  win  his  affection  without  caus- 
ing him  to  fear  their  disapprobation.  And  the 
artist  spoke  so  frankly  on  a  score  of  matters, 
respecting  which  a  nice  self-respect  would  have 
made  him  silent,  that  it  would  have  been  strange 
had  Albert  suspected  him  of  studiously  conceal- 
ing a  single  fact  of  his  personal  history.  The 
time  came  when  Albert  regretted  that  he  had 


not  been  more  suspicious  of  the  gentleman's 
apparent  ingenuousness.  In  fairness,  however, 
to  the  Bohemian,  let  it  be  here  recorded  that 
there  was  only  one  matter  on  which  he  failed  in 
perfect  candor  to  his  patron. 

On  one  point  Albert  was  not  mistaken  in  his 
favorable  opinion  of  his  friend.  The  Bohemian 
was  no  rogue ;  he  had  ruined  his  health  by  dis- 
sipation, but  he  had  never  impoverished  trades- 
men by  dishonest  practices.  He  had  sponged 
on  his  friends,  but  he  had  never  defrauded  any 
one  of  money  or  money's  worth.  He  had  often 
slept  on  the  bare  ground  under  public  arches 
or  on  the  steps  of  open  staircases,  but  he  had 
never  sneaked  away  from  lodgings  without  pay- 
ing their  keepers  for  entertaining  him.  He 
had  never  taken  bite  nor  sup  without  paying 
for  it,  unless  it  had  been  given  to  him.  No 
tradesmen  in  all  London  could  accost  him  in 
the  streets,  and  say  justly,  "Scoundrel,  pay  me 
what  thou  owest !"  With  money  in  his  pocket, 
he  had  lived  with  the  improvidence  and  license 
of  his  class;  but  when  his  purse  had  failed,  he 
had  always  starved  uncomplainingly  from  cold 
and  hunger,  like  an  honest  man.  "And,"  he 
observed  gayly  to  the  one  hearer  of  his  person- 
al confessions,  "I  can  assure  you  from  experi- 
ence that  extreme  hunger  is  no  justification  for 
theft.  The  degree  of  hunger  which  we  call  ap- 
petite is  a  pleasurable  inconvenience  to  those 
who  have  the  means  of  satisfying  it.  The 
sharp  hunger  of  a  person  who  has  fasted  sev- 
eral hours  after  his  usual  feeding  time  is,  no 
doubt,  a  grievous  pain,  almost  amounting  to  tor- 
ture. But  when  abstinence  from  nutriment 
has  been  persisted  in  for  twenty-four  hours,  hun- 
ger is  productive  of  positively  agreeable  sensa- 
tions. As  soon  as  the  stomach  begins  to  prey 
upon  itself,  its  gnawing  bite  occasions  nervous 
results  which  are  in  the  highest  degree  delight- 
ful. In  my  time,  my  dear  boy,  I  have  been  an 
absinthe  drinker,  as  well  as  an  involuntary  ab- 
stainer from  food  ;  and,  believe  me,  hunger  on 
the  second  day  is  very  much  like  absinthe  in 
its  effect  on  the  stomach  and  nervous  system. 
A  man  who  steals  a  loaf  to  allay  the  pangs  of 
famine  on  the  second  day  is  a  fool  as  well  as 
a  rogue.  He  does  not  know  when  he  is  well 
off." 

"Still,  in  your  extreme  hunger,"  suggested 
Albert,  "you  never  refused  nutriment  that  was 
offered  to  you  ?" 

"  I  took  it,  so  that  I  might  live  to  enjoy  hun- 
ger on  a  future  occasion." 

"A  too  long  persistence  in  the  pleasure 
which  you  describe  so  forcibly  would  have  dis- 
agreeable results." 

"  At  least,  results  from  which  human  nature 
shrinks  with  unaccountable  repugnance." 

The  two  men  had  lived  together  for  a  fort- 
night in  Manchester  Street — Mr.  Otway,  alias 
Guerdon,  never  leaving  the  house,  and  rapidly 
growing  weaker,  without  losing  any  thing  of  his 
constitutional  cheerfulness,  when  Albert  asked 
his  friend  seriously  whether  his  anticipations 
of  death,  which  could  not  be  far  distant,  did 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


135 


not  make  him  wish  to  have  any  conversation 
with  a  Protestant  clergyman  or  Catholic  priest.  | 

"No,  no,"  he  answered,  "I  don't  wish  'the 
cloth'  to  come  near  me  till  I  am  dead." 

"Your  mind  is  quite  made  up  on  that  point  ?" 

"  Quite.  I  am  a  nominal  member  of  the 
Church  of  England,  but  I  don't  wish  to  see  any 
of  her  cjergy." 

"  Then  I  will  say  no  more  on  the  subject." 

"  Thank  you.  But,  of  course,  I  wish  to  be 
decently  buried." 

"Where  ?" 

"Any  London  cemetery  will  do." 

"  Would  you  prefer  London  to  the  country  ?" 

To  which  inquiry  the  Bohemian  responded, 
eagerly, 

"  Oh  !  I  should  prefer  the  country ;  but  it 
would  cost  you,  my  dear  boy,  such  an  inordi- 
nate lot  of  trouble  and  money  to  lay  me  among 
the  violets  and  primroses.  You  will  have  done 
nobly  by  me  when  you  place  me  in  something 
better  than  a  pauper's  grave,  in  a  London  grave- 
yard. Why  not  Highgate  ?  Would  it  be  too  ' 
expensive  ?" 

After  a  moment's  silence,  Albert  replied,  with 
tender  seriousness, 

"You  shall  have  your  wish,  Otway,  and  be 
buried  in  the  country.  But  say,  would  you 
rather  be  buried  in  a  church-yard,  or  under 
the  chancel  stones  of  a  rural  church  ?  I  know 
a  church  —  Ewebridge,  in  Boringdonshire  — 
where  I  can,  without  much  trouble  or  cost, 
place  you  either  in  the  building  itself,  or  in  as 
lovely  a  church-yard  as  can  be  found  in  the 
whole  county." 

"Describe  them  to  me  —  the  church-yard 
first,  and  then  the  church." 

Complying  with  the  request,  Albert,  in  brief, 
pictorial  sentences,  did  equal  justice  to  the  ex- 
terior and  interior  of  his  old  parish  church. 
He  described  the  antique  tower,  the  curiously 
delicate  tracery  of  the  church  windows ;  the 
two  huge  yews  on  either  side  of  the  opening 
*of  the  long  porch ;  the  elms  and  sloping  turf 
of  the  precinct ;  and  the  rivulet  winding  round 
the  fence  of  the  Lord's  acre.  Then  he  led 
his  vividly  interested  listener  into  the  sacred 
building,  and  bade  him  admire  the  Norman 
arches  and  rood-loft,  the  harmonious  propor- 
tions of  the  structure,  the  richness  of  the  roof, 
and  the  ingenious  carving  of  the  old  benches. 
He  set  forth  the  costume  and  characteristics 
of  the  habitual  frequenters  of  the  sacred  build- 
ing, and  his  own  pleasant  memories  of  the  mu- 
sic of  its  organ  and  choir. 

"Let  me  lie  in  the  church,"  implored  the 
Bohemian,  when  he  had  surveyed  the  interior 
of  the  temple.  "I  would  rather  moulder  in 
the  silent  vault  than  in  the  wet  ground  out- 
side. Put  me  in  the  building,  where  prayers 
will  be  said  over  me  every  Sunday.  But  can 
you  really  manage  it  ?" 

"The  vault  in  which  you  shall  be  placed," 
answered  Albert,  revealing  a  scheme  which  had 
been  taking  shape  in  his  brain  during  the  last 
fourteen  days,  "  is  my  own  family  vault.  And, 


if  you  do  not  order  otherwise,  your  coffin  shall 
bear  on  its  lid  a  plate  declaring  that  it  contains 
the  body  of  Albert  Guerdon,  only  son  of  John 
Guerdon,  formerly  of  Earl's  Court." 

The  Bohemian  smiled. 

"If  you  wish  to  preserve  your  identity  in 
the  grave,"  said  Albert,  who  misconstrued  the 
smile  as  an  indication  of  Otway's  reluctance 
to  consent  to  the  misdescription,  "say  so,  and 
you  shall  be  interred  under  your  own  name. 
Of  course,  you  see  how  my  plan  would  accom- 
plish mv  purpose  of  persuading  Lottie  of  my 
death."" 

"Of  course.  And  in  me,  my  dear  Wright, 
you  have  a  willing  accomplice.  Make  what 
use  you  like  of  yours  very  sincerely,  R.  A.  O. 
— a//as  Albert  Guerdon." 

"  When  Albert  Guerdon's  death  has  been 
announced  in  the  London  and  Boringdonshire 
papers,  and  when  Albert  Guerdon  has  been  ac- 
tually interred  in  the  Guerdon  vault  of  Ewe- 
bridge  church-yard,  Lottie  will  be  satisfied  that 
I  am  dead." 

"  She  won't  question  the  fact." 

"  I  will  so  manage  the  matter  that  she  shall 
not  have  a  suspicion  of  the  imposture.  You 
shall  write  a  letter  to  Lady  Darling,  ready  for 
me  to  post  to  Arleigh,  announcing  in  due  course 
that  I  have  died,  and  that  on  my  death-bed  I 
requested  you,  immediately  on  my  decease,  to 
announce  the  fact  to  her,  and  also  to  transmit 
my  farewell  letter  to  Miss  Darling.  These  two 
letters  I  shall  post  at  the  proper  time." 

"  Good." 

"  You  shall  also,  in  the  character  of  my  ex- 
ecutor, write  a  letter  to  Mr.  Fairbank,  the  rec- 
tor of  Ewebridge,  announcing  my  death,  and  re- 
questing him  to  inter  me  in  the  Guerdon  vault. 
Of  course  you  will  state  your  intention  to  ac- 
company your  friend's  coffin  to  Boringdonshire, 
and  witness  its  sepulture.  One  or  two  spaces 
for  dates  must  be  left  vacant  in  these  letters  for 
me  to  fill  in  after  your  death,  with  an  imitation 
of  your  handwriting.  It  won't  be  difficult  for 
me  to  do  that.  But  it  will  be  necessary  for 
you  to  write  the  body  of  the  letters  to  Lady 
Darling  and  Mr.  Fairbank,  for  they  know  my 
handwriting,  though  they  would  not  detect  a 
word  or  two  of  it,  when  inserted  with  disguise 
in  letters  of  your  penmanship." 

The  Bohemian  was  delighted. 

He  shook  his  head,  laughed  gleefully,  and,  in 
the  exuberance  of  his  pleasure  at  the  fraudu- 
lent arrangements  for  his  own  funeral,  snapped 
the  fingers  of  his  right  hand,  so  that  they  rat- 
tled like  castanets. 

"  But  how  am  I  to  sign  the  letters  ?  What 
name  is  your  executor  to  bear  ?  I  may  not  fin- 
ish the  letters  with  the  name  that  I  shall  bear 
in  the  grave.  The  executor  and  letter-writer 
must  be  Mr.  Wright  ?" 

"No,"  promptly  answered  Albert,  who  had 
anticipated  every  difficulty;  "you  must  sign 
Reginald  Albert  Otway.  When  I  hare  buried 
you  under  my  own  name,  I  mean  to  live  out 
my  life  under  your  name." 


136 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


The  Bohemian's  face  flushed  suddenly  with 
pride  and  joy  at  this  announcement. 

"Please  Fortune,  then,"  he  ejaculated,  ve- 
hemently, "the  old  name  shall  shine  out  again 
with  honor!  I  love  the  old  name  well  enough 
to  hope  that  it  may  fare  well  in  your  keeping. 
Aha!  my  father's  ghost  shall  exult  in  the  hon- 
or paid  to  his  son's  name." 

"'The  name  shall  not  come  to  dishonor 
through  me,"  Albert  responded,  seriously. 

"I  know  it,  my  dear  boy — I  know  it!"  the 
other  replied,  with  extraordinary  emotion. 

The  two  men  held  this  conversation  toward 
the  close  of  the  second  week  of  November,  in 
an  evening,  shortly  after  their  dinner,  while 
they  were  smoking  cigarettes  over  their  cus- 
tomary bottle  of  claret ;  and,  in  order  that  they 
should  lose  no  time  in  executing  the  prelimi- 
nary steps  for  their  joint  enterprise,  Albert 
went  to  his  desk,  opened  it,  and  placed  upon 
it  a  quire  of  black -edged  note-paper,  and 
a  packet  of  envelopes  with  deep  black  bor- 
ders. 

"Now,  Guerdon,"  he  said  to  the  Bohemian, 
"  sit  down  at  that  desk,  and  write  as  I  tell  you 
to  Lady  Darling." 

When  Mr.  Otway,  alias  Guerdon,  had  seated 
himself  at  the  desk,  Albert  said, 

"  First  put  at  the  head  of  your  sheet  of  pa- 
per, *  35  Manchester  Street,  Manchester  Square, 
London.'" 

"Good;  I  have  done  so." 

"Now  put  under  London,  ' —  inst.,  184-.' 
To  complete  the  date  I  shall  then  have  only  to 
put  in  the  numeral  or  numerals  marking  the 
day  of  the  month." 

"  I  have  done  that.     Goon." 

Whereupon  Albert  dictated  to  the  scribe  the 
following  note : 

"  MY  DEAR  MADAM, — For  the  fulfillment  of 
the  last  injunctions  of  my  dear  friend,  Albert 
Guerdon,  it  devolves  on  me  to  inform  you  that 
he  died  yesterday  at  the  above  address,  of 
heart  disease,  complicated  with  a  serious  drop- 
sical malady.  His  illness  occasioned  him  no 
extraordinary  suffering,  and  his  last  moments 
were  peaceful.  He  retained  his  mental  clear- 
ness till  within  two  hours  of  his  death,  and  he 
expired  without  a  struggle  in  my  arms.  I 
have  written,  at  his  instructions,  to  Mr.  Fair- 
bank,  the  rector  of  Ewebridge,  requesting  that 
he  may  be  buried  this  day  week  in  the  church 
of  that  parish. 

"Poor  Guerdon's  last  words  were  utterances 
of  endearment  and  devotion,  spoken  in  con- 
nection with  your  name  and  the  name  of  Miss 
Darling.  The  inclosed  note  for  Miss  Darling 
was  written  by  Albert  a  few  days  before  his 
death,  and  I  now  perform  a  mournful  duty  in 
transmitting  it  to  you. 

"  I  have,  my  dear  madam,  the  honor  to  re- 
main, yours  most  sincerely, 

"REGINALD  ALBERT  OTWAY. 
"  Lady  DARLING,  Arleigh  Manor, 

Owleybury,  Boriugdonshire." 


Having  written  this  letter  from  dictation,  the 
Bohemian  read  it  to  the  dietator. 

"That  will  do,"  the  dictator  said,  in  approv- 
al of  the  composition.  "Now  direct  an  envel- 
ope for  the  letter." 

The  scribe  obeyed  the  order. 

Of  course  the  envelope  was  left  open,  in  order 
that  Albert  might  insert  the  day  of  the  month. 

"And  now  dip  your  pen  again,  and,  having 
headed  another  sheet  of  paper  in  the  same 
way,  write  to  Mr.  Fairbank  thus  : 

"REVEREND  AND  DEAR  SIR, — My  dear  friend 
and  fellow-student  at  Bonn  and  Heidelberg, 
Albert  Guerdon,  died  yesterday,  of  heart  dis- 
ease and  dropsy,  at  the  above  address,  leaving 
me  his  executor,  and  under  a  promise  to  place 
his  body  in  Ewebridge  church,  in  the  family 
vault  of  the  Guerdons.  May  I  beg  of  your 
kindness  and  courtesy  to  assist  me  in  carrying 
out  my  friend's  wishes  respecting  his  interment, 
which  I  should  wish  to  take  place  this  day 
week,  at  any  hour  at  mjdday  that  may  be  most 
convenient  to  yourself.  Directions  will  be  giv- 
en to  Mr.  Coster,  the  undertaker,  of  High 
Street,  Owleybury,  to  meet  me  at  the  railway 
station  of  that  town,  with  a  hearse  and  one 
mourning-coach.  I  have,  sir,  the  honor  to  re- 
main, yours  most  sincerely, 

"REGINALD  ALBERT  OTWAY. 
"To  the  Rev.  ARTHUR  FAIBBANK,  M.A., 

"  Rectory,  Ewebridge,  Boriiigdoiishire." 

"Whew!"  exclaimed  the  Bohemian,  when 
he  had  read  out  the  epistle  to  his  confederate. 
"That  won't  do!" 

"  What  won't  do  ?" 

"  Does  not  Mr.  Fairbank  know  you  ?" 

"Quite  well." 

"Then  he  will  recognize  you  as  Albert 
Guerdon." 

"He  will  do  no  such  thing,"  Albert  answer- 
ed, composedly.  "  Before  he  sees  me,  my  ap- 
pearance will  have  been  so  changed  that  even' 
Lottie  Darling  would  not  know  me.  Deem 
me  capable  of  a  trivial  indiscretion  or  over- 
sight, but,  in  justice  to  me,  my  dear  fellow, 
don't  imagine  that  I  shall  blunder  egregiously." 

"But  he  will  know  your  voice?" 

"Will  he?  He  will  never  think  my  voice 
the  voice  of  Albert  Guerdon,  when  I  say  to 
him,  with  an  appropriately  woeful  look,  '  Our 
acquaintance,  Mr.  Fairbank,  has  been  formed 
under  painful  —  very  painful  circumstances. 
Albert  Guerdon  was  dearer  to  me  than  a 
brother.  Poor  fellow,  he  will  rest  calmly  in 
this  picturesque  church!" 

Trifles  did  not  astonish  Mr.  Otway,  alias 
Guerdon,  but  he  was  astounded  by  Albert's 
sudden  and  perfect  assumption  of  a  voice  that 
was  firm,  melodious,  conciliatory,  and,  at  the 
same  time,  utterly  unlike  his  ordinary  tones  of 
speech. 

"  Good  heavens,  Wright,"  the  Bohemian  ex- 
claimed, "you  startled  me  out  of  my  senses; 
at  least,  almost  into  a  heart  spasm." 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


137 


"Did  I?  It  is  easy  to  surprise  simple 
minds,"  Albert  replied,  with  an  exercise  of 
ventriloquial  power  which  caused  his  words  to 
sound  as  though  they  were  spoken  by  some 
one  under  the  table. 

"What!"  cried  his  companion.  "You  are 
a  ventriloquist!" 

"  It  appears  so,"  Albert  answered,  coolly 
smiling  at  his  comrade's  astonishment.  After 
a  brief  pause,  he  explained:  "Some  years 
since,  when  I  was  in  the  society  of  a  famous 
ventriloquist  at  Venice,  I  accidentally  discov- 
ered my  ventriloquial  power,  and  faculty  of 
imitating  voices.  I  was  induced  to  cultivate 
the  endowments  privately ;  but,  as  I  had  no 
wish  to  incur  enmity  as  a  mimic  or  exhibit  a  • 
bodily  eccentricity  for  money,  I  kept  the  pow- 
ers secret  from  most  of  my  acquaintances.  : 
Truth  to  tell,  I  am  rather  ashamed  of  being  a 
ventriloquist ;  and  as  for  my  mimetic  capabili- 
ties, I  should  disdain  to  play  the  part  of  social 
mountebank  and  buffoon." 

"So  no  one  in  Boringdonshire  is  aware  of 
your  vocal  abilities?'* 

"Not  a  soul.  They  are  the  only  secret  I 
had  from  Lottie  Darling.  I  had  a  fear  that  I 
should  sink  in  her  esteem — at  least,  that  she 
would  be  pained  with  a  fear  for  my  dignity — 
if  she  were  to  discover  me  to  possess  some  of 
the  lowest  gifts  of  a  low  comedian.  Fortunate- 
ly I  never  surprised  her  as  I  have  surprised 
you.  If  she  were  to  appear  in  Ewebridge 
church,  I  should  not  be  afraid  to  approach  her 
and  speak  to  her.  Disguised  as  I  shall  be, 
and  with  my  mastery  of  vocal  artifices,  I  could 
address  her  without  the  slightest  apprehension 
that  she  would  recognize  me.  Now,  direct  an 
envelope  for  your  letter  to  Mr.  Fairbank." 

When  Albert  had  placed  the  letters  in  the 
secret  drawer  of  his  writing-case,  and  carefully 
locked  that  receptacle  of  important  documents, 
he  inquired  if  his  companion  were  in  the  humor 
to  continue  the  exciting  and  proportionately 
exhausting  conversation. 

The  answer  being  in  the  affirmative,  Albert 
put  the  invalid  at  full  length  on  the  sofa,  and 
sitting  at  a  distance  from,  and  with  his  face  to- 
ward him,  re-opened  the  talk. 

"It  is  quite  understood  between  us?  You 
consent  to  bear  my  name  in  life,  and  you  allow 
me  to  put  it  on  your  coffin?" 

"I  do." 

"  Moreover,  you  give  me  your  name,  to  use, 
abuse,  and  misuse,  as  it  may  seem  best  to  me 
to  do  ?" 

"  I  do." 

"And  I  may  take  possession  of  it  at  once  ?" 

"  Certainly.  But  you  can't  securely  assume 
it  till  you  have  left  this  house  ?" 

"  You  are  thinking  of  Mrs.  Garrett,  the  serv- 
ants of  the  house,  and  Dr.  Becher." 

"Yes." 

"  Before  I  am  ten  days  older  they  shall  all 
know  me  as  Mr.  Otway,  and  talk  to  me  without  j 
the  slightest  suspicion  of  my  identity  with  Mr. 
Wright.     I  have  laid  all  my  plans." 


"Let  me  hear  them." 

"At  the  beginning  of  next  week  I  shall  leave 
you  here  alone  for  a  week  or  ten  days.  On  my 
return  I  shall  be  Mr.  Otway,  with  an  appear- 
ance suitable  to  the  inheritor  of  your  name. 
Before  I  leave  you,  I  shall  tell  Mrs.  Garrett  that 
urgent  business  requires  me  to  proceed  immedi- 
ately to  the  South  of  Europe,  and  that  probably 
I  shall  not  see  London  again  for  several  years. 
Our  landlady  will  at  the  same  time  be  told  that 
your  old  friend,  Mr.  Otway,  has  been  summon- 
ed from  France  to  live  with  you  in  Manchester 
Street  till  your  death,  and  that  he  has  promised 
to  accept  our  invitation  within  a  week  or  ten 
days  of  my  departure.  I  shall  give  her  a  writ- 
ten document,  authorizing  her  to  give  into  Mr. 
Otway's  hands  my  trunks,  and  whatever  prop- 
erty I  leave  here  on  departing  for  Paris." 

"  You  will  go  to  Paris  ?" 

"As  soon  as  I  have  transacted  some  needful 
business  in  London,  I  shall  cross  the  Channel 
and  run  to  Paris,  where  I  know  a  man  who  will 
do  every  thing  that  can  be  accomplished  by  art 
to  transfigure  without  disfiguring  me.  Mon- 
sieur Oudarde  is  a  consummate  practitioner  of 
the  arts  of  personal  disguise." 

The  Bohemian  smiled  as  he  observed,  "Per- 
haps he  will  so  excel  himself  in  your  case  that 
I  sha'n't  know  you  when  you  return." 

"In  spite  of  your  admission  into  ray  confi- 
dence," Albert  replied,  firmly,  "you  will  see  me 
so  completely  altered  that  for  a  few  moments 
you  will  suspect  me  to  be  another  man." 

"Anyhow  I  shall  know  you  by  your  eyes," 
returned  Mr.  Otway,  alias  Guerdon.  "As 
you  are  not  to  be  disfigured,  they  will  not  be 
changed." 

"  Don't  be  sure  of  that,"  was  the  answer. 
"  Monsieur  Oudarde  is  a  worker  of  miracles. 
I  do  not  know  the  limits  of  his  power.  It  would 
not  astonish  me  if  he  were  to  send  me  back  to 
you  with  blue  eyes." 

"Anyhow,"  returned  the  dying  man,  with  a 
slight  manifestation  of  anxiety,  "  I  hope  he  will 
send  you  back  to  me  at  the  end  of  a  week.  It 
will  be  dreary  work,  dying  here  alone  ;  and  I 
should  like  to  have  you  with  me  at  the  last." 

"  Don't  be  afraid.  It  may  be  that  the  pro- 
fessor won't  detain  me  more  than  three  or  four 
days.  Under  any  circumstances  I  pledge  my 
word  to  return  to  you  on  the  tenth  day  after 
my  departure.  During  my  absence  you  will 
have  your  books  and  drawing  materials ;  and 
you  will  have  Mrs.  Garrett  and  the  servants  of 
the  house  for  company.  Dr.  Becher  will  see* 
you  every  day,  and  every  morning  will  bring 
you  a  letter  from  your  friend  Otway." 

"  Yes,  yes,  but  I  am  getting  weaker  ;  and  my 
time  must  be  short." 

To  allay  the  apprehension  with  which  he  was 
obviously  troubled,  Albert  told  his  confederate 
that,  in  case  his  malady  indicated  a  very  speedy 
termination  to  his  sufferings,  he  could  send  an 
urgent  summons  to  his  absent  friend  Otway, 
who,  on  receiving  the  notice,  would  leave  Mon- 
sieur Oudarde  abruptly,  and  hasten  to  London, 


138 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


although  the  process  of  transformation  should 
not  be  complete. 

Assenting  reluctantly  to  a  proposal  which  he 
could  not  honorably  resist,  the  Bohemian  gave 
his  protector  leave  to  go  to  Paris.  Having  done 
so,  he  urged  him  to  start  promptly,  in  order  that 
the  day  of  his  return  should  arrive  as  soon  as 
possible. 

"Have  you  much  business  to  transact  first  in 
London  ?"  he  inquired,  with  a  querulousness  that 
was  discordant  to  his  customary  good  humor. 

"Not  much." 

"  Can't  you  defer  it  till  your  return  ?" 

"No.  While  Mr.  Albert  Otway  has  the  ap- 
pearance of  Mr.  Albert  Guerdon,  he  must  exe- 
cute whatever  affairs  it  is  requisite  for  him  to 
accomplish  before  throwing  aside  forever  his  old 
name  and  character,  and  starting  fresh  in  life 
with  his  new  appellation  and  appearance.  To- 
morrow he  will  go  into  the  City  as  Mr.  Albert 
Guerdon,  and  instruct  a  broker  to  sell  out  in- 
stantly Mr.  Albert  Guerdon's  stock  in  the  Con- 
sols. That  done,  he  will  make  another  visit  to 
the  City,  and  instruct  a  broker,  who  has  never 
seen  him  before,  to  buy  stock  in  certain  foreign 
securities  for  Mr.  Reginald  Albert  Otway,  so 
that,  on  his  return  from  Paris,  Mr.  Otway  may 
neither  find  difficulty  nor  run  risks  in  obtain- 
ing the  income  on  which  he  will  make  his  way 
among  the  members  of  the  Chancery  Bar.  This 
business  will  require  two  or  three  days  for  its 
accomplishment.  As  soon  as  it  is  transacted,  I 
shall  be  off  to  Paris. v 

"Your  plans  are  perfect  in  every  detail." 

"I  should  be  a  fool  to  act,  if  they  were  not." 

The  irritability  and  discontent  exhibited  by 
the  invalid  during  the  latest  stage  of  the  fore- 
going conversation  were  at  the  same  time  the 
symptoms  and  aggravating  incidents  of  physic- 
al disturbance,  that  resulted  speedily  in  a  par- 
oxysm of  his  acutest  malady.  Having  assumed 
a  sitting  posture,  he  talked  rapidly  and  petu- 
lantly for  a  couple  of  minutes  ;  and  then,  com- 
plaining suddenly  of  faintness,  he  turned  dead- 
ly white,  and  fell  back  on  the  sofa.  In  another 
minute  he  cried  and  groaned  under  the  rending 
torture  of  heart  spasms,  as  on  the  night  of  his 
seizure  in  Portman  Square.  Albert  was  alarm- 
ed, but  apprehension  did  not  deprive  him  of 
self-possession.  A  messenger  was  sent  off  in- 
stantly to  Dr.  Becher,  who,  being  at  his  resi- 
dence on  the  arrival  of  the  summons,  returned 
with  the  servant  to  Manchester  Street,  and  was 
by  the  patient's  side  before  the  attack  was  re- 
newed. 

A  timely  exhibition  of  a  stimulant  and  ano- 
dyne removed  all  cause  for  immediate  alarm  ; 
and  after  the  lapse  of  an  hour  the  sick  man  was 
in  bed  and  asleep. 

When  he  had  dismissed  Dr.  Becher,  with 
thanks  for  his  prompt  services,  Albert  retired 
to  rest  with  a  lively  sense  of  the  need  for  prompt- 
ness of  action.  At  any  day  or  hour  his  confed- 
erate might  be  taken  from  him.  Under  any 
circumstances,  the  Bohemian  would  not  survive 
many  weeks.  Since  it  was  desirable  that  he 


should  appear  under  an  assumed  name  and 
character  at  the  funeral  in  Ewebridge  church, 
Albert  saw  that  he  should  not  lose  any  time 
in  re-investing  his  property,  and  destroying  the 
physical  evidences  of  his  identity  with  John 
Guerdon's  son. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

WHEREIN   ALBERT   CHANGES   COLOR. 

ON  the  morning  of  the  fifth  day  after  the 
incidents  narrated  in  the  last  chapter,  Albert 
might  have  been  seen  leaving  the  Hotel  Vol- 
taire, which  stands  at  the  corner  of  a  narrow 
and  quiet  thoroughfare  within  three  hundred 
yards  of  the  Place  de  la  Madeleine,  Paris.  On 
turning  into  the  street  which  the  hotel  faces,  he 
might  have  been  observed  to  direct  his  steps  to 
the  Palais  Royal,  and  enter  the  establishment  of 
Monsieur  Oudarde,  the  once  fashionable  hair- 
dresser and  dealer  in  perfumery,  who  was  re- 
cently shot,  after  a  hasty  trial  by  court-martial, 
for  his  participation  in  the  exploits  of  the  Com- 
munists. 

In  equally  pleasant  and  flattering  recognition 
of  his  professional  ability,  the  Parisian  journal- 
ists, who  described  the  dignity  of  his  last  mo- 
ments in  piquant  paragraphs,  were  pleased  to 
remark  that,  though  he  had  entered  his  sixty- 
fifth  year  at  the  time  of  his  execution,  he  had 
the  appearance  of  a  gracious  gentleman  in  the 
prime  of  early  manhood.  He  had,  they  assured 
their  readers,  neither  a  wrinkle  on  his  brow  nor 
a  gray  hair  on  his  head. 

Five-and-twenty  years  since,  Monsieur  Oud- 
arde was  at  the  height  of  his  commercial  suc- 
cess and  artistic  renown.  He  had  competitors 
in  his  beautifying  industry,  who  had  a  larger 
number  of  patronesses  in  the  highest  ranks  of 
fashion  ;  but  no  operator  on  hair  and  the  human 
complexion  in  any  quarter  of  the  French  capi- 
tal could  boast  of  a  stronger  connection  among 
the  maturer  fops  and  dandies  who,  having 
danced  in  loyal  attendance  on  Louis  Philippe, 
accepted  Louis  Napoleon  and  the  coup  d'etat 
with  philosophic  acquiescence  in  the  course  of 
events.  On  his  rather  ignominious  retirement 
from  Kensington  Gore,  Count  D'Orsay  had  no 
sooner  settled  in  Paris  than  he  called  Monsieur 
Oudarde  to  his  closet  and  secret  counsels ;  and 
the  artist,  on  whose  skill  the  fading  beau  re- 
posed in  his  declining  years,  enjoyed  the  confi- 
dence of  scores  of  aging  gentlemen,  v.hose 
wealth  and  rank  caused  the  supreme  hair- 
dresser to  assume  a  tone  of  sympathetic  pat- 
ronage to  the  impoverished  count.  The  time 
had  not  yet  come  when  the  artist  received  a  fee 
of  ten  thousand  francs  for  enameling  Charles 
of  Brunswick's  royal  visage,  and  otherwise  gar- 
nishing his  ducal  presence  for  the  state  ball  at 
the  Tuileries,  which  the  whilom  ruler  of  Bruns- 
wick opened  with  Eugenie  the  Fair,  in  the  first 
year  of  her  married  life.  But  already  Mon- 
sieur Oudarde  could  name  the  Duke  Charles 
among  his  clients,  and  was  continually  sending 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


139 


off  toupees,  and  spring  stays,  and  bottles  of 
hair-dye  to  the  big  ugly  mansion  (Brunswick 
House,  New  Road,  London)  which  his  royal 
highness  occupied  till  the  day  that  saw  him 
leave  England  and  cross  the  Channel  in  a  bal- 
loon. 

Having  entered  Monsieur  Oudarde's  superb 
and  curiously  furnished  shop  on  the  ground- 
floor,  Albert  raised  his  hat  courteously  to  an 
elegantly  attired  young  lady,  who  was  diverting 
herself  with  one  of  Balzac's  fictions,  while  she 
sat  in  attendance  on  the  artist's  interests  behind 
a  case  of  ingenious  contrivances  for  the  con- 
cealment of  baldness.  In  the  rear  of  the  lady's 
chair  stood  a  buhl  cabinet,  containing  a  display 
of  sumptuously  fitted  dressing-boxes. 

In  addressing  this  damsel  of  a  piquant  coun- 
tenance and  graceful  toilet,  Albert  imparted  to 
his  French  a  slight  German  accent  that  did 
not  dispose  his  fair  hearer  to  regard  him  with 
especial  favor.  But  the  lady  was  never  defi- 
cient in  courtesy  to  her  employer's  visitors. 
She  smiled  with  ravishing  sweetness  and  sim- 
plicity, when,  in  answer  to  the  stranger's  in- 
quiry, she  admitted  that  Monsieur  Oudarde  was 
at  that  moment  in  his  studio,  and  accessible  to 
clients.  She  smiled  no  less  charmingly  when 
she  took  Albert's  card,  and  sent  it  up  stairs  to 
Monsieur  Oudarde  by  a  saucy  page,  in  silver 
and  blue  livery,  who  appeared  promptly  in  an- 
swer to  the  summons  of  a  tinkling  hand-bell. 
The  name  on  the  card  was  Herr  Heintsmann ; 
and  the  corner  of  the  pasteboard  contained  an 
address  which  declared  that  the  visitor's  proper 
city  was  Berlin.  It  was  Albert's  purpose  to 
pass  himself  off  to  Monsieur  Oudarde  as  a 
Prussian. 

As  the  artist  fortunately  was  not  engaged  at 
the  moment  with  any  of  his  aristocratic  clients, 
Albert  was  admitted  at  once  to  his  chamber  of 
audience  and  deceptive  industry. 

Small  in  the  waist,  broad  in  his  shoulders, 
padded  in  his  chest,  aquiline  in  his  white  nose, 
piercing  in  his  dark  eyes,  dazzlingly  white  in  his 
teeth,  and  lustrously  black  in  his  flowing  tress- 
es and  drooping  mustache,  Monsieur  Oudarde 
was  a  typical  and  picturesque  Frenchman. 
His  morning  costume  would  have  beseemed  a 
youthful  millionaire  of  ducal  blood  and  title. 
His  studio  —  furnished  with  stands  of  books, 
antique  pictures  on  the  walls,  and  unfinished 
pictures  resting  on  easels — might  have  been 
mistaken  for  the  working-room  of  a  fashionable 
painter.  It  did  not  escape  Albert  that  the  ap- 
pointments of  Monsieur  Oudarde's  chamber 
comprised  several  instruments  of  music,  and 
racks  for  the  orderly  preservation  of  musical 
publications.  Nor  did  it  escape  him  that,  on 
rising  and  bowing  to  his  visitor  with  an  air  of 
almost  princely  condescension,  the  professor 
displayed  on  his  right  hand  a  single  diamond 
ring  that  was  worth  several  thousand  francs. 

Having  taken  the  chair,  which  a  theatrical 
movement  of  Monsieur  Oudarde's  jeweled  hand 
had  declared  at  his  service,  Albert  went  straight 
to  the  object  of  his  call.  Circumstances  had 


rendered  it  desirable  that  his  appearance  should 
be  changed,  so  that  his  ordinary  acquaintance 
could  not  recognize  him  ;  and,  having  heard  of 
the  professor's  skill  in  the  arts  of  personal  dis- 
guise, he  had  resolved  to  consult  him,  and,  in- 
deed, put  himself  with  unreserved  confidence 
into  his  transfiguring  hands.  This  was  the 
statement  which  Albert  made  to  Monsieur  Oud- 
arde in  French,  qualified  with  a  German  accent. 

Far  too  polite  and  prudent  a  gentleman  to 
exhibit  any  curiosity  as  to  his  visitor's  motives 
for  concealment,  or  even  to  show  any  surprise 
at  so  comely  a  gentleman's  desire  to  part  com- 
pany with  his  good  looks,  Monsieur  Oudarde 
took  the  announcement  as  a  mere  matter  of 
course  and  daily  experience.  To  prevent  mis- 
understanding, however,  and  to  secure  a  proper 
remuneration  for  his  services,  the  professor 
frankly  stated  that  his  fees  were  considerable. 
Of  course  Herr  Heintsmann  was  prepared  for 
the  announcement.  Though  by  no  means  a 
rich  man,  he  would  gladly  remunerate  Monsieur 
Oudarde's  services  with  proper  liberality.  The 
professor  intimated  that  his  fee  for  transfigur- 
ing his  client  and  teaching  him  how  to  main- 
tain the  disguise  would  be  four  thousand  francs. 
Neither  protesting  against  the  largeness  of  the 
demand,  nor  exhibiting  any  astonishment  at  it, 
Herr  Heintsmann  merely  inquired  whether  the 
operator  would  like  to  be  paid  in  advance.  The 
suggestion  won  the  artist's  approval  and  perfect 
confidence  in  his  client's  solvency.  Of  course 
he  declined  to  profit  by  the  offer.  Shrugging 
his  shoulders,  and  laughing  with  a  pleasant  af- 
fectation of  freedom  from  sordid  acquisitive- 
ness, he  declined  to  listen  even  for  a  moment 
to  the  proposal  of  prepayment,  though  he  would 
certainly  have  required  such  payment  had  not 
the  offer  been  made  so  readily.  It  was  ridicu- 
lous !  the  bare  thought  of  such  an  arrangement 
was  absurd  and  unendurable !  Monsieur  Oud- 
arde would  do  his  Avork,  and  then  take  his  hon- 
orarium in  its  totality. 

"Good!"  replied  Herr  Heintsmann;  "that 
is  settled.  And  now,  my  dear  sir,  let  me  en- 
treat you  to  be  as  expeditious  as  possible.  It 
is  of  importance  that  my  stay  in  Paris  should 
not  exceed  a  few  days.  Transfigure  me,  and 
let  me  quit  your  charming  capital  in  the  course 
of  this  week." 

"  I  will  be  prompt,"  returned  the  professor, 
rising  from  his  lounge  chair  as  he  spoke.  "  But, 
first,  I  must  study  your  face,  and  think.  Sit 
where  you  are.  The  light  is  full  upon  you.  It 
is  impossible  that  you  should  be  better  placed 
for  my  observations.  For  me — I  will  pace  my 
cabinet  and  regard  you,  while  I  think.  Don't 
talk  again  till  I  speak  to  you." 

Having  paced  the  length  of  his  chamber  eight 
or  ten  times,  alternately  studying  his  own  boots 
and  his  visitor's  countenance,  Monsieur  Oudarde 
suddenly  drew  up  in  front  of  Albert,  and  fold- 
ing his  arms  over  his  padded  breast,  in  the  style 
of  the  great  Napoleon,  gazed  at  him  intently 
for  two  full  minutes. 

Then  the  famous  transfiguVator  unfolded  his 


140 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


arms,  and  tossing  his  hands  lightly  upward,  ex- 
claimed, "  Ah !  by  my  faith,  I  think  I  have  it ! 
Nothing  could  be  better.  It  shall  be  so." 

Dropping  into  a  chair  opposite  Albert's  seat, 
and  near  a  table  furnished  with  crayons  and 
paper  for  sketching,  Monsieur  Oudarde  began 
to  work  away  at  a  piece  of  paper,  using  his 
hands  and  eyes  as  though  he  were  taking  his 
visitor's  portrait.  Having  thus  handled  his 
crayons  for  a  minute  or  two,  the  artist  began 
to  chat  to  his  companion  while  continuing  his 
labor. 

"Let  me  see,  Herr  Heintsmann ;  you  are 
greatly  handsome  and  distinguished  in  your  air. 
Have  you  made  up  your  mind  to  a  great  sacri- 
fice of  beauty  ?  Tell  me  frankly.  How  ugly 
may  I  make  you  ?" 

"As  ugly  as  you  like,  so  long  as  you  do  not 
render  me  absolutely  repulsive,  or  mutilate  my 
face  so  as  to  affect  my  powers  of  speech.  You 
must  leave  me  with  the  look  of  a  gentleman." 

"No  doubt,  no  doubt.  You  are  ready  to 
sacrifice  your  beard  and  mustache  ?" 

"Quite." 

"Arid  the  color  of  your  tresses?" 

"  Surely.  You  may  crop  them  close,  and 
dye  them  a  fiery  red." 

"Your  eyebrows?" 

"Do  your  pleasure  with  them." 

"  Your  complexion  ?" 

"  It  is  at  your  disposal." 
!;     •"  May  I  make  you  bald,  eh  ?  slightly  bald  ?" 

"  Of course." 

"Can  you  bear  pain?" 

"I  suppose  so.  I  can  endure  mental  pain. 
I  know  just  nothing  of  bodily  pain." 

"So  far  you  are  fortunate." 

"  You  think  so,  Monsieur  Oudarde  ?" 

"Surely.  It  is  not  always  that  bodily  pain 
can  be  removed  or  mitigated.  Toothache  may 
he  a  far  more  cruel  affliction  than  the  senti- 
mental distress  which  poets  call  despair.  Neu- 
ralgia is  worse  than  grief.  The  sharpest  dis- 
eases of  the  mind  yield  to  their  proper  remedies 
— gayety,  wine,  the  dance,  music,  cookery,  the 
distractions  of  society.  At  the  worst  they  are 
mitigated  by  such  means.  But  there  are  tor- 
tores  of  the  body  for  which  nature  has  pro- 
vided no  anodyne.  What  say  you,  Herr  Heints- 
mann ?" 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  it,  and  hope  that  I  may 
never  learn  the  truth  of  your  words  by  experi- 
ence. For  the  present  I  am  inclined  to  think 
you  underrate  the  vehemence  and  obstinacy  of 
mental  torture." 

"Aha,  you  say  that  in  the  way  of  your  na- 
tion. To  exaggerate  the  griefs  of  the  soul  is 
the  fashion  of  you  English." 

A  look  of  surprise  and  annoyance  came  to 
Albert's  countenance  as  he  saw  that  his  thin 
disguise  had  been  penetrated  by  the  consum- 
mate practitioner  of  concealments. 

"Capital !  'Tis  well — exactly  what  my  de- 
sire was !  I  wanted  for  one  minute  in  your 
face  the  look  of  surprise.  And  I  get  it  by  call- 
ing you  an  Englishman  !  Ha,  ha  !  pardon  the 


artifice,  in  consideration  of  its  object.  And  it 
would  not  have  occurred  to  me  to  make  the 
egregious  imputation  if  you  had  not  worn  clothes 
of  English  fashion  and  manufacture.  Doubt- 
less, Herr  Heintsmann  has  been  visiting  En- 
gland." 

"  Precisely  so  ;  I  came  to  Paris  via  London," 
returned  Albert, rendered  uneasy  by  the  shrewd- 
ness and  detective  sagacity  of  Monsieur  Oud- 
arde, whose  way  of  accounting  for  his  allusion 
to  the  English,  and  whose  affectation  of  belief 
in  his  client's  German  nationality,  were  quite 
powerless  to  impose  on  his  startled  and  hence- 
forth suspicious  visitor. 

Throughout  this  by  no  means  fully  reported 
conversation,  Monsieur  Oudarde  had  worked 
away  with  his  chalk  -  pencils  with  marvelous 
dexterity  and  quickness  of  execution,  so  that 
his  performance  received  its  final  touch  within 
a  minute  of  Albert's  admission  that  he  had  come 
to  France  from  London. 

"There,  behold  it!  what  say  yon?"  asked 
the  artist,  rising  and  throwing  his  sketch  across 
the  table  to  Albert,  who  had  no  sooner  glanced 
at  the  drawing  than  he  gave  utterance  to  an 
exclamation  of  astonishment. 

"Why,  I  thought  you  were  making  a  study 
of  my  face,  Monsieur  Oudarde." 

"And  you  were  right,  Herr  Heintsmann." 

"But  this  is  no  likeness  of  me." 

"It  shall  be  a  very  good  portrait  of  you  be- 
fore you  are  five  days  older,  provided  you  do 
not  think  it  too  hideous.  If  you  wish,  I  can 
make  another  transfiguration  of  you ;  but, 
though  I  could  give  you  a  choice  of  half  a 
dozen  less  unsightly  disguises,  I  could  not  give 
yon  one  at  the  same  time  so  complete  and  so 
little  disfiguring." 

"It  is  capital,  and  by  no  means  unsightly," 
rejoined  Albert.  "I  almost  think  I  prefer 
myself  in  this  style  to  myself  as  nature  made 
me." 

"  Pardon  me,  "sir.  You  are  not  now  as  na- 
ture made  you.  Every  civilized  human  crea- 
ture's appearance  is  as  much  the  product  of  art 
as  of  nature.  The  contour  of  your  beard  and 
mustache,  the  subtle  intelligence  of  your  eyes, 
the  flowing  outline  Of  your  coiffure,  every  de- 
tail of  the  costume  that  covers  you  completely, 
are  the  productions  of  art.  Pah  !  artificial  con- 
trivances !  How  foolish  are  the  people  who 
profess  to  deride  them,  when  they  have  daily 
recourses  to  them,  and  are  in  fact  made  up  of 
them!  The  girlish  belle  is  no  less  the  product 
of  art  than  the  aging  duchess  whom  I  provide 
with  youthful  color  and  tresses.  She  may  not 
need  the  lily  whiteness  of  powder  of  pearls,  or 
the  roseate  tints  of  manufactured  dyes,  or  locks 
taken  from  the  heads  of  peasants;  but  what 
would  she  be  without  the  dress,  and  ornaments, 
and  style  of  coiffure,  and  modish  grace  of  move- 
ment, aud  piquant  ways  of  laughing  and  speak- 
ing, with  which  art  and  education — ay,  educa- 
tion, that  most  comprehensive  field  of  artificial 
arrangements — have  provided  her  ?  My  dear 
sir,  disdain  the  silly  jargon  which  stigmatizes 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


141 


as  unnatural  the  contrivances  which,  because 
they  are  the  results  of  art,  should  rather  be  ad- 
mired as  the  most  delicate  fruits  and  finest  tri- 
umphs of  nature.  Away  with  it !  But  I  shall 
satisfy  you,  if  I  make  you  the  fulfillment  of  my 
picture." 

"Quite,"  returned  Albert,  when  he  had  laugh- 
ed heartily  at  Monsieur  Oudarde's  enthusiastic 
vindication  of  art  as  the  highest  form  of  nature. 
Still  regarding  the  picture,  he  said,  "  So  I  am  to 
have  a  closely  cut  coiffure  of  warm  auburn  hair." 

"Surely." 

"And  be  bald— slightly  bald  ?" 

"  Yes,  only  slightly." 

"The  loss  of  my  beard,  whiskers,  and  mus- 
tache will  change  me  greatly." 

"Very  greatly.  The  removal  of  the  hair 
from  your  cheeks,  lips,  chin,  will  do  more  to 
render  you  unrecognizable  to  your  old  acquaint- 
ances than  the  imposition  of  the  same  amount 
of  hair  would  effect  for  the  same  end,  if  you 
were  now  a  smooth-cheeked  and  hairless-faced 
man." 

"Of  that  I  am  confident.  But  what  will 
you  do  to  give  me  the  straight  eyebrows  of 
your  sketch  ?" 

"Just  this.  I  shall,  with  a  delicate  little 
knife,  make  two  incisions  through  the  supercil- 
iary muscles  of  each  eye.  The  operation  will 
cause  you  a  trivial  pain  for  a  minute,  and  some 
local  uneasiness  for  a  few  days  ;  but  the  result 
will  be  that  your  curved  brows  will  immediate- 
ly fall,  and  become  two  shelving  and  slightly 
corrugated  lines.  It  is  the  most  elegant  and 
subtle  of  all  disguises  —  it  is  the  superciliary 
transformation.  It  originated  with  me  ;  and 
no  surgeon  in  all  Europe  can  perform  it  so  del- 
icately and  securely  as  I  can." 

"  How  long  will  the  cuts  take  to  heal?" 

"A  few  days." 

"They  will  occasion  scars?" 

"The  hair  will  cover  them.  And  should 
you,  at  some  future  time,  wish  to  resume  your 
present  aspect,  I  can — by  a  rather  more  pain- 
ful and  tedious  process — cause  the  muscles  to 
contract,  and  very  nearly  recover  their  present 
curves." 

"I  will  remember  that." 

"Do.  Bear  it  in  mind.  As  for  your  com- 
plexion, Herr  Heintsmann,  instead  of  its  present 
too  pale  and  bloodless  color,  I  will  give  your 
visage  and  neck  one  uniform  dusky  tint,  which, 
though  it  would  ill  become  a  woman,  accords 
with  the  masculine  style.  It  will  not  be  beau- 
tiful ;  therefore  no  one  will  suspect  its  false- 
ness ;  for,  reasoning  from  insufficient  facts, 
simple  folk  suppose  that  no  one  modifies  his 
natural  color,  except  with  a  view  to  make  it 
accord  more  exactly  with  conventional  notions 
of  the  beautiful.  You  shall  have  the  complex- 
ion of  a  man  whose  naturally  sanguine  skin  has 
been  imbrowned  by  alternate  exposure  to  fierce 
suns  and  frigid  winds.  No  one  shall  for  an 
instant  suspect  its  spuriousness.  Trust  to  me." 

"  I  have  perfect  confidence  in  you.  When 
will  you  begin  your  operations?" 


"This  afternoon,  if  you  like.  Let  me  see, 
where  are  you  staying  ?" 

"At  the  Hotel  Voltaire." 

"For  my  purpose,  you  could  not  be  at  a  bet- 
ter place.  The  landlord  knows  me  well.  In- 
deed, he  is  my  friend  —  and  near  cousin.  I 
often  send  my  clients  to  reside  with  him  while 
they  are  under  my  hands.  A  few  words  from 
me  to  him,  and  your  marvelous  change  in  ap- 
pearance shall  cause  no  observations  in  the  ho- 
tel. Thus  you  will  be  spared  embarrassment. 
Of  course,  you  have  a  private  sitting-room  ?" 

"I  will  engage  one  on  my  return." 

"  Do  so  ;  and  I  will  call  on  you  at  two  o'clock. 
I  shall  not  be  later ;  for  I  shall  require  a  good 
light  for  my  first  processes.  It  will  be  neces- 
sary for  you  to  be  a  prisoner  to  your  rooms 
while  you  are  under  treatment.  And  now, 
my  dear  sir,  good-morning,  for  the  present.  I 
will  be  with  you  at  two  o'clock." 

Two  full-  hours  of  the  afternoon  did  Mon- 
sieur Oudarde  devote  to  his  client.  Great  artist 
though  he  was,  he  did  not  disdain  to  perform 
with  his  own  hands  necessary  services  which  a 
mere  menial  would  have  rendered  more  appro- 
priately though  not  more  skillfully.  With  scis- 
sors he  clipped  off  Albert's  luxuriant  whiskers, 
beard,  and  mustache ;  and  then,  with  all  the 
lowliness  and  dexterity  of  a  common  barber, 
he  applied  the  razor  to  the  parts  which  he  had 
deprived  of  their  hairy  covering.  With  scis- 
sors, also,  he  reduced  Herr  Heintsmann's  abun- 
dant tresses  till  they  were  no  longer  than  the 
hair  of  the  coiffure  now  in  vogue  with  modish 
gentlemen.  Into  the  crown  and  forward  part 
of  the  top  of  his  client's  head  he  rubbed  a  del- 
icate depilatory,  which  would  kill  in  a  few 
hours  the  weaker  of  the  hairs,  and  produce  the 
desired  appearance  of  incipient  baldness.  He 
then  washed  the  head  and  superciliary  hair  with 
a  bleaching  lotion,  which  would  prepare  the 
hair  for  the  reception  of  the  appointed  dyes. 
His  next  work  was  to  make  the  incisions  in  tie 
superciliary  muscles,  and  apply  a  tight  band- 
age, that  passed  over  the  severed  muscles  and 
round  the  head.  His  final  labor  was  to  rub 
into  the  skin  of  Herr  Heintsmann's  face,  fore- 
head, neck,  and  adjacent  parts  a  slowly  stain- 
ing tincture  which,  after  several  applications, 
would  impart  to  them  a  brownish-pink,  a  dusky, 
sanguine  tint. 

For  five  whole  days  Herr  Heintsmann  re- 
mained a  prisoner  in  his  rooms,  receiving  two 
visits  per  day  from  his  zealous  transfigurator, 
who  worked  to  such  good  effect  that,  on  the 
conclusion  of  the  treatment,  Albert  assented  to 
Monsieur  Oudarde's  assertion  that  the  change 
was  complete  for  every  conceivable  purpose  of 
human  disguise. 

In  truth,  the  transformation  was  marvelous. 
And,  though  it  had  deprived  the  young  man 
of  some  of  the  most  distinctive  attractions  of 
his  previous  appearance,  it  had  not  rendered 
him  otherwise  than  a  singularly  well-looking 
personage.  The  thin  and  closely  cut  hair  of 
his  head  was  a  bright  auburn.  The  hair  of  his 


142 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


straight,  shelving  brows  was  a  reddish-brown  j 
color.  The  change  in  the  hue  of  his  skin  was 
a  decided  improvement  to  his  personal  aspect. 
The  same  may  be  said  of  the  effect  produced 
by  the  removal  of  his  silky  beard,  whiskers, 
and  mustache.  His  recent  sorrow  had  done 
something  for  the  extraordinary  alteration  of 
his  countenance.  It  is  a  pure  poetic  fiction 
that  grief  has  made  black  hair  white  in  a  sin- 
gle night.  The  recorded  instances  of  such  a 
change  rest  in  no  historical  evidence.  Had 
they  been  true,  they  would  have  been  more 
numerous.  Had  they  been  real,  similar  cases 
would  be  common  in  this  sad  epoch  of  the 
human  story,  when  life  is  more  doleful  and 
agonizing  than  ever  it  was.  Bat  though  it 
does  not  in  a  few  hours  blanch  the  tresses  of 
its  victims,  sharp  misery  has,  under  nearly  ev- 
ery one's  observation,  given  new  character  and 
expressions  to  the  faces  of  the  wretched.  It  j 
accelerates  the  slow  work  of  time,  and,  by  j 
quickening  the  natural  processes  of  physical  I 
change,  gives,  in  a  few  months,  to  the  counte- 
nance indelible  lines  and  permanent  furrows, 
which,  but  for  the  plowing  of  grief  would  not 
have  shown  themselves  in  thrice  as  many  years. 
It  was  so  with  Albert.  Mental  distress  had 
caused  a  rapid  disappearance  of  the  fullness 
which,  in  his  griefless  days,  had  distinguished 
the  superior  curves  of  his  otherwise  delicately 
modeled  cheeks.  Distress  had  also  given  an 
appearance  of  greater  length  to  his  face,  and 
set  on  either  side  of  his  visage  a  long,  deep  line, 
extending  from  a  point  slightly  below  the  in- 
terior side  of  each  eye  almost  to  the  lower  jaw. 
But  for  biting  misery  those  two  lines  would  not 
have  been  apparent  till  Albert's  middle  age, 
and  would  not  have  been  strikingly  character- 
istic before  the  last  years  of  his  life's  middle 
term.  Sorrow,  however,  had  put  into  his  young 
face  these  furrows,  which,  on  the  removal  of 
his  mustache  and  beard,  imparted  to  his  coun- 
tenance a  look  of  thoughtful  self-knowledge 
.and  pensive  resoluteness,  singular  in  one  who 
was  still  in  years  almost  a  lad. 

If  his  altered  countenance  repelled  the  be- 
holder in  any  degree,  the  fault  was  due  to  a 
certain  indescribable  academic  severity— an  air 
of  ecclesiastical  sternness  and  rigor — that  per- 
vaded the  face  at  moments  when  it  was  not 
brightened  by  the  old  smile  which  sorrow,  with- 
out rendering  it  less  sweet,  had  qualified  with 
sadness.  Anyhow,  Monsieur  Oudarde  had  per- 
formed his  task  triumphantly.  The  disguise 
was  complete,  and  for  every  grace  or  charm 
which  had  been  obliterated  by  the  operator 
some  other  equally  attractive  characteristic  had 
been  substituted. 

On  the  occasion  of  Monsieur  Oudarde's  last 
visit  to  his  client  at  the  Hotel  Voltaire,  Albert 
paid  the  professor  his  fee  gratefully,  and  re- 
ceived from  him  several  prescriptions  and  mi- 
nute orders  for  the  preservation  of  his  false  ap- 
pearance. 

At  an  early  hour  of  the  following  day  Herr 
Heintsmann  started  for  England.  Faithful  to 


his  promise,  he  lost  no  time  in  returning  to 
his  friend  in  Manchester  Street,  Manchester 
Square,  from  whom  he  had  received  three  let- 
ters, and  to  whom  he  had  written  four  cau- 
tiously-worded epistles  during  his  residence  in 
Paris. 

Albert  had  hoped  to  reach  London  during 
the  night  after  his  departure  from  the  French 
capital,  but  mischances  retarded  his  progress, 
and  he  did  not  arrive  at  Mrs.  Garrett's  lodging- 
house  before  the  middle  of  the  next  day. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

AT  THE  BRINK  OF  THE  GRAVE. 

IN  his  intercourse  with  Monsieur  Oudarde, 
Albert  had  used  the  voice  in  which  it  was  his 
intention  to  address  Mrs.  Garrett  and  Dr.  Bech- 
er  on  his  return  to  Manchester  Street.  During 
his  homeward  journey  he  exercised  the  same 
artifice  toward  fellow-travelers,  with  whom  he 
conversed  freely  in  the  train  from  Paris  to  Ca- 
lais, on  the  boat  from  Calais  to  Dover,  and  in 
the  railway  carriage  that  conveyed  him  from 
the  English  sea-port  to  London.  The  practice 
having  rendered  him  no  less  confident  in  his 
vocal  than  his  bodily  disguise,  he  encountered 
Mrs.  Garrett's  sharp  eyes  and  sound  ears  with- 
out a  fear  that  they  would  detect  his  identity 
with  Mr.  Albert  Wright. 

The  disguise,  which  Mrs.  Garrett  could  not 
penetrate,  astonished  the  Bohemian,  who,  on 
joining  hands  again  with  his  friend,  could  not 
refrain  from  exclamations  of  surprise  at  the 
completeness  of  the  transformation. 

As  for  the  Bohemian's  bodily  condition,  it 
had  progressed  rapidly  toward  death  during 
Albert's  absence.  There  had  been  no  recur- 
rence of  the  spasms  of  the  heart  since  Albert's 
departure  for  France,  but  the  other  malady, 
which  had  for  months  been  steadily  consuming 
the  invalid's  vital  forces,  was  already  in  its  last 
stage.  He  was  already  sinking,  though  it  was 
still  possible  that  he  would  linger  several  days. 
Dr.  Becher  paid  his  patient  a  visit  shortly  after 
Albert's  arrival  in  Manchester  Street,  and  the 
physician  (who  was  no  less  completely  misled 
than  Mrs.  Garrett  by  Albert's  transfiguration) 
told  Mr.  Otway  frankly  that  Mr.  Guerdon  could 
not  possibly  survive  another  week. 

The  end  came  at  an  earlier  date  than  the 
doctor's  words  indicated.  When  Albert,  on  the 
first  morning  after  his  return  from  France,  en- 
tered his  guest's  bedroom  at  an  early  hour,  he 
found  him  lying  peacefully  in  the  arms  of  death. 
The  event  occasioned  no  astonishment  to  Dr. 
Becher,  who,  on  inspecting  the  lifeless  form, 
expressed  an  opinion  that  the  immediate  cause 
of  death  was  a  spasm  of  the  heart,  which  had 
instantaneously  ended  the  dead  man's  suffer- 
ings. 

Mr.  Otway  lost  no  time  in  giving  orders  and 
taking  steps  for  his  friend's  interment  in  Ewe- 
bridge  church. 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


143 


He  sent  for  an  undertaker,  of  whose  profi- 
ciency in  embalming  he  had  learned  before  his 
visit  to  Paris ;  and  he  directed  the  professor  of 
an  art  almost  extinct  in  this  country  to  exer- 
cise it  on  the  dead  man  before  placing  him  in 
a  leaden  coffin.  It  had  occurred  to  Albert  that 
a  time  might  come  when  he  would  wish  to 
undo  his  deceptions,  and  demonstrate  that  the 
person  buried  under  the  name  of  Albert  Guer- 
don, in  Ewebridge  church,  had  not  been  the 
son  of  John  Guerdon.  He  had,  therefore,  re- 
course to  costly  measures  for  preserving  the 
lineaments  and  color  of  his  luckless  acquaint- 
ance. 

Having  given  adequate  instructions  to  the 
undertaker,  Mr.  Otway  filled  in  the  two  letters, 
already  prepared  for  transmission  to  Lady 
Darling  and  Mr.  Fairbank,  and  posted  them. 
The  London  undertaker  had  been  ordered  to 
communicate  with  his  brother  in  a  ghastly  vo- 
cation, Mr.  Coster,  of  the  High  Street,  Owley- 
bury,  and  request  him  to  attend,  by  a  stated 
time,  with  a  hearse  and  mourning-coach,  at  the 
Owleybury  railway  station.  From  the  regis- 
trar of  deaths  for  the  London  district,  which 
comprises  Manchester  Street,  the  em  balm  er 
procured  the  requisite  copy  of  the  certificate 
of  Mr.  Guerdon's  death,  in  which  Dr.  Becher 
had  stated  precisely  the  causes  of  the  death. 
The  statement  of  the  dead  man's  name  and 
age  excepted,  the  certificate  contained  no  false- 
hood, and,  though  deceptive,  the  statement  of 
name  can  scarcely  be  said  to  have  been  false. 
The  law  of  England  allows  people  to  change 
their  names  at  their  pleasure.  Under  ordinary 
circumstances,  it  is  unwise,  but  it  is  not  ille- 
gal for  them  to  do  so  without  giving  publicity 
to  their  action,  and  placing  it  on  permanent 
record.  It  is  allowable  for  Mr.  Jones  to  call 
himself  Mr.  Robinson,  at  any  hour,  in  any 
place,  and  under  any  conditions  of  secrecy ;  and, 
having  become  Mr.  Robinson,  he  is,  to  the  law, 
Mr.  Robinson  as  much  as  ever  he  was  Mr. 
Jones.  In  his  life  Albert  Otway  had  ex- 
changed names  with  Albert  Guerdon,  and  in 
his  death  he  was  Mr.  Guerdon,  while  his  sur- 
viving friend  was  no  less  legally  Mr.  Otway. 
The  mutual  exchange  of  names  had  been  made 
fairly  and  deliberately  between  the  two  parties. 
The  transaction  itself  involved  no  positive  false- 
hood, though  it  had  deception  and  imposture 
for  its  object.  It  aimed  at  the  achievement  of 
untruth,  but  it  was  not  itself  a  lie.  The  plate 
of  the  Bohemian's  coffin  stated  truly  what  his 
name  was  at  the  time  of  his  decease. 

In  the  envelope  of  the  letter  which  he  posted 
to  Lady  Darling,  Albert  put  a  note,  written  in 
his  old  handwriting,  signed  with  his  old  name, 
sealed  with  a  seal  which  Lottie  had  given  him 
in  their  happiest  days,  and  directed  "For  Lot- 
tie." The  brief  epistle  was  of  these  words  : 

"DEAR  LOTTIE, —  When  you  receive  this 
paper,  I  shall  have  been  kissed  by  the  grand 
comforter  of  all  sorrowing  mankind.  My  body 
will  be  in  the  arms  of  merciful  death.  Dear- 


est, my  last  thoughts  will  be  of  you,  my  last 
prayers  for  you.  Yes.  darling,  when  your  dim 
eyes  read  these  lines,  I  shall  be  in  another  world. 
And  you  also  will  be  in  another  world.  For 
this  world  will  to  you  be  another  when  I  shall 
have  left  it.  Do,  I  entreat  you,  think  thus  of 
the  existence  in  which  I  shall  soon  cease  to  have 
a  part.  It  will  be  a  new  world  to  you  ;  live  in 
it  bravely,  righteously,  usefully — ay,  and  hap- 
pily. Do  not  sorrow  for  me  till  death.  I  do 
not  beg  of  you  to  forget  me.  Think  of  me  ten- 
derly; mourn  for  me  as  a  lost  husband;  but 
when  time  shall  have  taken  the  bitterness  from 
your  recollections,  live  out  your  allotted  time 
on  this  earth,  which  will  be  another  earth  to 
you,  with  more  of  regard  for  the  living  than  of 
fondness  for  the  dead.  This  is  my  last  peti- 
tion. Your  compliance  with  it  is  the  one  trib- 
ute that  I  implore  you  to  render  to  the  memory 
of  your  own  Albert.  Heaven's  grace  be  with 


you 


ALBERT  GUERDON.' 


Within  forty-eight  hours  of  the  Bohemian's 
death,  Mr.  Otway  was  satisfied  all  his  plans  for 
the  funeral  would  be  accomplished  to  his  wish- 
es. He  had  received  from  Lady  Darling  a  few 
tenderly  worded  lines  in  acknowledgment  of 
his  letter  to  her.  Mr.  Fairbank  had  written  to 
assure  him  every  requisite  preparation  should 
be  made  in  Ewebridge  church  at  a  stated  time. 
Mr.  Coster  had  engaged  to  meet  the  executor 
at  the  appointed  hour,  with  a  hearse  and  a 
mourning-coach,  at  the  Owleybury  railway  sta- 
tion. 

During  the  interval  between  the  death  and 
the  funeral,  Mr.  Otway  engaged  a  new  lodging 
— the  drawing-room  floor  of  a  large  mansion  in 
Queen's  Square,  Bloomsbury — to  which  he  de- 
signed to  move  his  luggage  and  chattels  from 
Manchester  Street,  on  his  return  to  town  from 
the  Boringdonshire  church. 

The  plans  for  the  interment  having  been  laid 
discreetly,  every  thing  respecting  it  went  to 
Albert's  desire.  He  alone  attended  the  coffin 
from  London  to  Owleybury,  where  he  was  duly 
met  by  Mr.  Coster  and  the  gloomy  carriages. 
Though  he  had  neither  desired  nor  expected 
such  a  demonstration  of  respect  to  his  memory, 
he  was  not  greatly  surprised  to  see,  in  the  rear 
of  the  hearse  and  mourning-coach,  a  train  of 
some  dozen  empty  carriages,  which  some  of  his 
former  acquaintance  in  Boringdonshire  had  sent 
with  their  servants,  to  express  to  the  spectators 
of  the  funeral  their  sense  of  his  worth,  and  their 
regret  for  his  misfortunes.  Social  sentiment 
had  so  far  softened  toward  John  Guerdon,  that 
several  of  the  kindlier  folk  of  the  Great  Yard 
and  the  Owleybury  district,  without  reversing 
their  first  reasonable  and  honest  judgment  of 
his  conduct,  could  review  the  circumstances  of 
his  downfall  with  charitable  regard  to  his  part- 
ner's evil  influence  over  him.  Old  friends  were 
beginning  to  say  that,  rogue  and  forger  though 
he  was  at  last,  he  would  have  died  an  honest 
fool  had  it  not  been  for  Gimlett  Scrivener.  As 
for  John  Guerdon's  son,  the  announcement  of 


144 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


his  death  in  the  London  papers  had  relieved 
him  of  all  the  resentments  brought  upon  him 
by  his  father's  iniquities.  When  sympathy,  it 
was  thought,  could  no  longer  comfort,  and  sus- 
picion could  never  again  torture  him,  the  peo- 
ple of  his  old  neighborhood  saw  clearly,  for  the 
first  time,  that,  of  all  the  persons  injured  by  the 
failure  and  misdeeds  of  Guerdon  &  Scrivener, 
he  was  the  victim  who  had  especially  deserved 
pity  and  generous  consideration.  It  was,  there- 
fore, not  wonderful  that  'twelve  gentlemen  of 
the  district  found  it  agreeable  to  their  feelings 
to  send  their  coaches  and  cattle  to  his  grave's 
side. 

The  coffin  was  soon  lifted  from  the  railway 
van  to  the  hearse ;  and,  in  less  than  ten  min- 
ntes  after  the  arrival  of  the  train  at  Owleybury, 
Albert  was  in  the  mourning-coach  on  the  road 
to  Ewebridge  church,  with  the  line  of  showy  eq- 
nipages  in  his  rear.  Sir  James  Darling's  empty 
chariot  was  not  one  of  the  procession,  but  as  the 
mourning-coach  rolled  slowly  over  therold  stone 
bridge  already  mentioned  in  this  history,  Mr.Ot- 
way  saw  the  judge's  carriage  of  state  drawn  up 
in  the  open  space  before  the  church-yard.  The 
judge's  servants  were  in  black.  Beholding  these 
signs  of  the  woe  occasioned  at  Arleigh  Manor  by 
his  death,  Albert  conceived  it  possible  that  some 
of  the  Arleigh  family  were  already  in  the  church. 
His  heart  beat,  and  it  well  might,  as  he  wonder- 
ed whether  Lottie  herself,  robed  in  black,  and 
sitting  in  tearful  agony,  at  a  distant  corner  of 
the  church,  would  witness  the  deceptive  cere- 
mony that  in  five  more  minutes  would  be  taking 
place  at  the  yawning  mouth  of  the  Guerdon 
vault. 

The  position  which  Albert  thus  imagined  act- 
ually occurred. 

When  she  had  read  and  re-read  many  times 
Albert's  farewell  note,  with  plenteous  weeping, 
and  strong  convulsions  of  grief,  Lottie,  turning 
to  the  pale,  woe-stricken  mother  by  her  side, 
said,  "  Oh,  mother,  he  was  our  own— yours  and 
mine!  Now  he  is  quite  taken  from  us." 

"  He  is  no  less  ours  now  that  he  is  in  heav- 
en," returned  the  sobbing  lady.  "He  was  so 
good — so  very  good  !" 

Growing  calmer  in  her  grief,  as  her  mother's 
tears  fell  faster,  Lottie,  glancing  first  at  the  hand 
on  which  she  still  wore  her  "  engagement  ring," 
and  then  looking  at  her  other  white  hand,  ob- 
served, "  He  did  not  live  to  ring  the  other  hand ; 
but  I  became  his  wife  in  heart  when  I  promised 
to  be  his  wife,  for  better  or  for  worse.  Mam- 
ma, he  was  my  husband,  and  I  will  mourn  for 
him  as  for  a  husband.  Do  not  forbid  me,  moth- 
er." 

Forbid  her  !  How  could  Mary  Darling,  with 
her  loving  nature,  check  the  sacred  impulses  of 
her  child's  affection  for  the  man  whom  she  had 
surrendered  wholly  out  of  filial  duty,  and  sisterly 
devotion,  and  meek  compliance  with  his  will  ? 

"  Lottie,  I  too  will  be  his  mourner.  He  was 
my  son  in  heart,  and  I  will  grieve  for  him  as  for 
a  son." 

Lottie  and  her  mother  put  on  their  robes  of 


dismal  dark  crape  ;  and  in  her  pathetic  purpose 
'  to  declare  her  heart  widowed  by  Albert's  death, 
j  Lottie  would  fain  have  covered  her  rich  brown 
hair  with  light  folds  of  muslin  which  should 
signify  to  beholders  that  her  husband  had  left 
her  recently  in  her  weakness  and  loneliness ; 
but  from  taking  this  step,  which  was  more  like- 
ly to  provoke  censure  than  sympathy,  she  was 
dissuaded  by  her  father,  who  on  all  other  points 
consented  to  her  mournful  humor. 

Partly  out  of  genuine  sympathy  for  sorrow 
j  which  touched  him  deeply,  and  partly  out  of  a 
feeling  that  his  child's  sorrow  would  more  quick- 
i  ly  consume  itself  if  it  encountered  no  opposi- 
•  tion,  Sir  James  Darling  wished  Lottie  to  "  take 
'  her  own  way."     To  gratify  her,  he  assumed  the 
!  garb  of  mourning,  and  put  the  servants  of  his 
house  into  black.     And  when  Lottie  expressed 
!  a  desire  to  be  present  in  Ewebridge  church  at 
the  time  of  her  lover's  sepulture,  Sir  James  en- 
couraged her  to  witness  the  funeral.    The  judge 
was  all  the  more  willing  to  concur  in  these 
demonstrations  of  regard  for  the  dead,  because 
I  the  gossips  of  Owleybury  and  Hammerhampton 
assured  him  that  they  would  be  commended 
for  generosity  and  good  taste  throughout  the 
neighborhood,  which  was  now  smitten  with  com- 
punction for  having,  by  coldness  and  lack  of 
sympathy,  if  not  by  active  show  of  contempt, 
visited  the  sins  of  John  Guerdon,  the  father, 
upon  Albert  Guerdon,  the  son. 

Had  his  official  duty  permitted  him  to  do  so, 
Sir  James  would  have  attended  the  two  ladies 
to  Ewebridge,  but  his  presence  being  required 
on  that  day  at  one  of  his  most  distant  courts, 
Lady  Darling  and  Lottie  came  to  the  church  by 
themselves. 

On  reaching  the  spot  at  the  western  end  of 
the  Guerdon  vault  where  he  had  stood  a  few 
months  earlier  as  the  single  mourner  at  his 
father's  obsequies,  Albert  found  himself  in  the 
middle  of  a  gathering  of  some  three  hundred 
persons  who  had  been  drawn  to  the  scene  by- 
regret  for  his  misfortunes  as  much  as  by  idle 
curiosity.  The  same  priest  who  had  officiated 
at  the  former  funeral  read  the  office  for  the 
dead  over  the  coffin,  which  was  now  lowered  to 
its  resting-place  by  the  same  hands  that  had 
consigned  John  Guerdon's  chest  to  the  dark 
cavern.  Notwithstanding  his  strenuous  efforts 
to  maintain  an  aspect  of  stoical  composure, 
the  mourner's  agitation  was  apparent  to  all 
who  regarded  for  a  moment  the  writhing  lips 
and  trembling  figure  of  the  tall,  slight,  fair- 
haired  man.  His  distress  was  favorable  to  his 
purpose,  for  it  certainly  rendered  his  counte- 
nance more  than  ever  unlike  the  face  which  his 
former  self  had  exhibited  to  those  of  the  spec- 
tators who  had  known  him  in  his  happy  days. 
It  was  not  wonderful  that  his  self-command 
failed  him  at  this  searching  ordeal ;  for,  while 
he  played  the  part  of  an  almost  sacrilegious  im- 
postor under  the  gaze  of  scores  of  his  former 
acquaintance,  his  nerve  and  pulse  assured  him 
that  Lottie  was  one  of  the  witnesses  of  his  ir- 
reverent masquerade. 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


145 


When  Mr.  Fairbank  had  tittered  the  final 
words  of  the  funereal  office,  Mr.  Otway  moved 
nearer  to  the  edge  of  the  open  vault,  and  look- 
ed down  with  sorrowful  eyes  upon  the  coffin, 
whose  plate  bore  Albert  Guerdon's  name. 
Having  regarded  the  deceptive  inscription  for  a 
minute,  he  was  turning  away  with  the  intention 
of  withdrawing  from  the  congregation,  when 
he  confronted  Lady  Darling  and  Lottie,  as  they 
approached  the  tomb,  by  a  way  that  the  respect- 
ful sympathy  of  the  by-standers  had  made  for 
them.  Instead  of  pushing  past  the  ladies,  who 
were  thickly  veiled  and  bowed  slightly  on  find- 
ing themselves  before  him,  he  backed  a  few 
paces,  so  as  to  facilitate  their  access  to  the 
vault.  He  paused  till  he  had  seen  Lottie  and 
her  mother  each  drop  a  wreath  of  flowers  on 
the  coffin ;  and  then,  after  exchanging  a  few 
hurried  sentences  of  mournful  courtesy  with 
Mr.  Fairbank,  he  escaped  from  the  throng  and 
the  church,  hoping  that  he  should  get  away 
from  Ewebridge  without  again  encountering 
the  two  women. 

But  in  this  hope  he  was  disappointed.  He 
had  reached  the  boundary  of  the  sacred  pre- 
cinct, and  his  mourning-coach,  which  had  drawn 
up  at  the  church-yard  gate,  was  already  being 
opened  to  receive  him,  when  he  saw  Lady  Dar- 
ling and  Lottie  passing  him  on  the  way  to  their 
chariot.  They  also  saw  him  through  their  veils 
of  dismal  crape,  and  it  being  obvious,  from  Lady 
Darling's  movement  toward  him,  that  she  wish- 
ed to  speak  to  him,  courtesy  constrained  him 
to  approach  and  greet  the  only  two  persons  in 
the  whcle  world  whose  scrutiny  he  feared  to 
encounter. 

Summoning  all  his  nervous  energy  to  his  aid 
at  this  trying  moment,  Mr.  Otway  stepped  to- 
ward them,  raised  his  ponderously  decorated 
hat,  bowed  stiffly  to  each  of  the  two  gentlewom- 
en, and  then  took  the  mother's  proffered  hand. 

"Sir,"  said  Mary  Darling,  in  a  scarcely  audi- 
ble voice,  "before  I  go  away,  let  me  thank  you 
for  your  kindness  to  one  who  was  very  dear  to 
me  and  my  child.  When  I  am  admitted  to 
heaven,  I  shall  see  him  again." 

While  Lady  Darling  was  uttering  these  ten- 
der words  to  the  gentleman,  in  a  tone  that  could 
not  be  heard  by  the  spectators  of  the  interview, 
all  of  whom  had  the  good  taste  to  move  away 
from  the  immediate  spot  of  this  strange  meet- 
ing, he  had  taken  his  hand  gently  from  her 
yielding  grasp ;  and  before  he  could  find  cour- 
age and  strength  to  reply  briefly  in  his  feigned 
voice,  the  same  hand  was  taken  by  Lottie. 
Yes,  again  they  stood  together,  her  hand  in  his 
hand,  her  miserable  countenance  turned  now  to 
the  ground,  and  now  for  a  few  brief  instants  up 
to  his  face,  while  his  eyes,  penetrating  the  folds 
of  her  thick  veil,  regarded  her  scarcely  visible 
features. 

"Take  my  thanks  too — mine  too,"  sobbed 
Lottie.  "When  you  nursed  him,  you  did  the 
work  that  I  should  have  done.  He  was  my 
love  —  my  own  —  my  husband.  This  hand," 
she  added,  lowering  her  face,  as  she  raise  J  Al- 
10 


\  bert's  hand  to  her  lips  beneath  her  partly  raised 
j  veil  and  kissed  it,  "is  holy  to  me;  it  soothed 
him  in  his  sufferings,  and  touched  him  when 
he  was  dead." 

"Oh!  Miss  Darling,"  he  responded,  slowly, 
j  steadily,  and  solemnly,  in  one  of  the  sweetest 
|  and  tenderest  of  all  his  vocal  disguises,  "he 
did  not  suffer  much.  Death  had  few  pains 
and  much  comfort  for  him.  In  his  last  days 
his  sorrows  lost  their  blackness  and  poison  of 
despair.  His  one  trouble  toward  the  end  was 
the  fear  that  you  would  mourn  for  him  too 
bitterly  and  long  ;  and  even  that  trouble  grew 
fainter  at  the  last,  for  he  said,  *  When  I  have 
found  comfort  in  another  world,  she  will  find 
comfort  in  this ;  for,  when  I  have  left  it,  this 
life  will  be  another  life  to  her.'  This  was  his 
last  long  speech." 

There  was  no  need  for  Mr.  Otway  to  contin- 
ue the  supreme  effort  of  speaking  in  feigned 
tones  of  Albert's  death,  for,  Lottie's  emotions 
overpowering  her,  she  wept  bitterly  and  con- 
vulsively ;  while  he,  placing  his  left  arm  round 
her  waist,  and  sustaining  her  tremulous  figure, 
carried  rather  than  led  her  in  silence  to  her 
mother's  carriage. 

Having  lifted  poor  Lottie  into  the  chariot, 
and  assisted  Lady  Darling  to  her  seat  by  the 
girl's  side,  Mr.  Otway  raised  his  hat  again  to 
the  veiled  ladies,  and  then,  turning  abruptly 
away,  sprang  into  his  own  mourning-coach. 

When  he  had  thrown  himself  into  a  corner 
of  the  huge  funereal  van,  and  ordered  the  driver 
to  convey  him,  with  all  the  quickness  permis- 
sible by  decorum,  to  the  Owleybury  railway 
station,  Mr.  Otway  gasped  for  breath.  His 
temperament  was  too  sensitive  and  emotional 
for  him  to  have  escaped  acute  suffering  during 
the  ordeal  through  which  he  had  just  passed. 
But  in  a  few  minutes  he  had  recovered  his  nerve 
and  self-possession,  and  could  smile  grimly  as 
he  said  to  himself,  "  By  heavens !  since  I  eould 
do  that  without  being  discovered,  why  should 
I  not  renew  my  acquaintance  with  her  as  Al- 
bert Otway,  and  make  her  my  wife  after  all  ?" 

Yes,  the  scene  was  over,  and  Lottie  had  not 
detected  him.  But  Albert  did  not  know  how 
nearly  he  had  approached  recognition  and  ex- 
posure. 

"Oh,  mother!"  Lottie  sobbed,  as  she  was 
being  driven  homeward,  "I  could  not  endure 
the  torture  calmly,  when,  at  the  close  of  his 
words,  he  repeated  the  very  words  of  Albert's 
letter,  and,  in  uttering  them,  fell  into  Albert's 
way  of  speaking  when  speaking  seriously.  It 
was  very  natural,  of  course,  and  quite  account- 
able, that  his  voice  became  like  Albert's  when 
he  was  uttering  Albert's  last  words.  But  I 
could  not  bear  it,  for  it  made  me  feel  that  Al- 
bert himself  was  speaking  to  me." 

"And  so  he  did,  Lottie,"  urged  the  moth- 
er, "  from  heaven,  through  his  friend's  lips." 

"And, "continued  Lottie,  "  when  he  support- 
ed me  toward  the  carriage,  while  the  giddiness 
of  fainting  seized  me,  I  felt—I  felt— oh,  moth- 
er!" 


146 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


"Yes,  dear?" 

Turning  her  white,  lovely  face,  from  which 
she  had  raised  the  black  fall  of  crape,  up  to  her 
mother's  anxious  eyes,  Lottie  explained  in  words 
that  were  visible  rather  than  audible  to  her 
companion, 

"I  felt  that  Albert's  arm  was  round  me; 
that  it  was  he  —  he  —  not  his  friend  —  who  lift- 
ed and  hurried  me  onward  over  the  tumbled 
ground." 

Having  made  which  revelation,  with  the 
writhing  of  her  thin  lips  and  the  whiteness  of 
her  bared  teeth  rather  than  with  any  vocal 
tones,  Lottie  gave  an  hysteric  cry,  and,  sinking 
back  in  her  mamma's  arms,  wept  violently. 
She  did  not  speak  again  during  the  homeward 
drive. 

Just  upon  the  same  time  when  Lottie  was 
being  led  up  stairs  to  her  private  room  by  her 
mother  and  Lady  Darling's  faithful  maid,  im- 
mediately after  her  return  to  Arleigh  Manor, 
Mr.  Otway's  mourning  -  coach  rolled  into  the 
yard  of  the  Owleybury  railway  station. 

Half  an  hour  later  the  chief  mourner  at  the 
Bohemian's  funeral  was  in  a  first-class  railway 
carriage,  in  the  afternoon  train  for  London. 

Having  attended  his  own  funeral,  and  drop- 
ped a  tear  into  his  own  grave,  Albert  was  run- 
ning at  express  speed  up  to  the  vast,  resounding, 
fog-bound  capital  of  the  whole  world,  in  which 
he  meant  to  toil  for  wealth  and  social  honor. 

He  slept  that  night  at  his  old  quarters  in 
Manchester  Street,  Manchester  Square.  On 
the  morrow  he  paid  his  undertaker,  sent  a 
check  to  Dr.  Becher,  rewarded  Mrs.  Garrett 
liberally  for  her  special  services  to  the  dead 
man,  and  —  together  with  all  the  chattels  of 
Mrs.  Garrett's  previous  lodger,  Albert  Wright — 
moved  to  his  newly  taken  chambers  in  Queen's 
Square,  Bloomsbury. 

He  has  buried  his  former  self. 

Henceforth  he  will  live  a  new  life  under  his 
new  name,  new  form,  and  new  calling. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

CASUAL  ACQUAINTANCE. 

A  FEW  years  since  there  was  in  England  no 
learned  profession  that  could  be  more  easily 
entered  than  the  Bar,  by  any  gentleman  with 
a  few  hundred  pounds  in  his  pocket,  and  a  few 
friends  able  to  speak  to  his  respectability.  No 
man  could  be  placed  on  the  rolls  of  our  chief 
courts,  as  a  person  qualified  to  practice  as  an 
attorney  or  solicitor,  without  having  first  satis- 
fied a  board  of  examiners  that  he  had  some 
knowledge  of  law.  But  any  reputable  male 
person,  satisfactorily  introduced  to  the  bench- 
ers of  one  of  the  four  Inns  of  Court,  could,  on 
the  payment  of  certain  fees,  and  after  eating 
a  certain  number  of  dinners  in  the  hall  of  his 
college,  obtain  permission  to  assume  the  dress 
and  style  of  a  learned  counselor,  and  take  briefs 
from  confiding  attorneys.  He  was  not  required 


to  pass  any  examination.  It  was  not  necessary 
that  he  should  have  attended  the  lectures  of 
any  professor  of  jurisprudence,  or  have  received 
any  kind  of  legal  instruction.  And  yet,  when 
he  had  selected  his  vocation,  Albert  could  not 
readily  enter  it.  He  encountered  a  serious  and 
unlocked  for  obstacle  as  soon  as  he  sought  to 
enroll  himself  among  the  students  of  the  Hon- 
orable Society  of  Lincoln's  Inn. 

His  difficulty  was  that  he  could  not  com- 
mand at  once  the  requisite  introduction  and 
guarantee.  He  had  money,  but  he  needed 
friends. 

On  seeking  information  at  the  steward's  of- 
fice, he  was  told  that  he  must  state  his  name 
and  age,  and  also  the  name  and  condition  of 
his  father,  on  declaring  his  wish  to  become  a 
student  of  the  college.  He  also  learned  that 
his  application  for  membership  must  be  sup- 
ported by  the  recommendation  of  one  bencher 
or  two  ordinary  barristers  of  the  Inn,  who  could, 
from  personal  knowledge  of  his  nature  and 
history,  certify  him  to  be  "a  gentleman  of 
character  and  respectability,"  and  in  every  re- 
spect "a  fit  person  to  be  admitted  a  member 
of  the  Honorable  Society  of  Lincoln's  Inn,  and 
to  be  called  to  the  Bar."  It  would  also  be 
needful  for  him  to  give  the  name  of  one  bar- 
rister of  Lincoln's  Inn,  or  the  names  of  two 
worthy  householders,  who  would  insure  pay- 
ment to  the  college  of  all  debts  that  he  should 
incur  to  the  society.  Having  found  such  in- 
troducers and  sureties,  he  might  be  confident 
that  the  benchers  would  admit  him  to  the  Inn. 

How  could  Mr.  Otway  comply  with  these 
moderate  and  reasonable  requirements?  The 
Law  List  contained  the  names  of  eight  barristers 
with  whom  Albert  Guerdon  had  an  acquaint- 
anceship that  would  have  justified  him  in  ask- 
ing for  their  assistance.  But  Albert  was  no 
longer  Albert  Guerdon  ;  lie  had  become  Albert 
Otway,  and  could  not  make  himself  known  to 
any  one  of  the  eight  gentlemen  without  sacri- 
ficing his  disguise,  revealing  his  imposture,  and 
exposing  himself  to  the  risk  of  a  disdainful  re- 
buff. Probably  the  inn  contained  a  few  of  the 
dead  Bohemian's  former  acquaintances;  but, 
even  if  the  case  were  so,  and  he  had  known 
their  names,  he  could  not  impose  himself  on 
them  as  their  old  friend,  since  his  artificial  ap- 
pearance differed  greatly  from  the  aspect  of  the 
man  whose  name  he  had  assumed.  Moreover, 
there  were  other  obvious  reasons  why  he  should 
shrink  from  attracting  to  himself  the  curious 
attention  of  any  barrister  who  might  have 
known  the  real  Reginald  Albert  Otway.  Nor 
would  it  be  safe  for  him  to  force  his  way  to  the 
treasurer,  or  any  other  magnate  of  the  learned 
society,  and,  as  a  person  absolutely  unknown 
within  legal  circles,  ask  for  the  great  man's 
considerate  patronage.  Of  course  no  bencher 
would  reply  favorably  to  such  a  petition  until 
he  had  carefully  ascertained  the  applicant's 
antecedents,  and  made  inquiries  which  Albert 
wished  no  person  to  make  about  him. 

It  was  clear  to  Albert  that  he  could  not  even 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


147 


gain  admittance  to  an  Inn  of  Law  until  he  had, 
under  his  new  name  and  aspect,  won  new 
friends,  who  could  give  him  the  requisite  certif- 
icate of  character.  He  had  riot  felt  how  com- 
pletely his  tranfiguration  and  change  of  name 
had  placed  him  outside  society,  until  he  learned 
his  need  of  a  few  of  those  simple  and  compara- 
tively trivial  services  which  men  are  accustom- 
ed to  render  one  another  as  mere  matters  of 
course,  without  a  thought  of  their  full  signifi- 
cance and  importance. 

He  was  also  astonished  and  seriously  dis- 
comforted by  the  discovery  that,  on  applying 
for  admission  to  Lincoln's  Inn,  it  would  be 
needful  for  him  to  declare  his  father's  name 
and  address.  Having  changed  his  name  and 
personal  looks,  and  committed  the  grand  im- 
posture at  Ewebridge  church,  he  had  hoped 
that  there  would  be  no  need  of  further  decep- 
tion. It  had  not  occurred  to  him  that  the 
maintenance  of  his  disguise  would  require  him 
to  be  guilty  of  fresh  falsehood.  His  natural 
disposition  was  thoroughly  truthful — he  scorned 
lies  and  liars ;  but  disguise  can  seldom  be  sus- 
tained for  any  length  of  time  without  positive 
untruth.  If  Mr.  Albert  Otway  were  to  avow 
himself  to  the  benchers  of  Lincoln's  Inn  to  be 
the  son  of  John  Guerdon,  banker,  late  of  Ham- 
merhampton  and  Earl's  Court,  Boringdonshire, 
the  secret,  which  he  was  intent  on  hiding,  would 
be  proclaimed  to  the  special  world  which  he 
meant  to  enter.  He  could  not  relinquish  his 
chief  purpose.  There  was,  then,  nothing  for 
him  to  do  but  to  assume  a  parentage,  as  well 
as  a  name,  and  to  set  it  forth  in  a  false  decla- 
ration to  the  chiefs  of  the  profession  which  he 
was  about  to  enter. 

It  being  needful  for  him  to  take  this  step,  a 
perplexing  and  distasteful  question  arose.  On 
whom  should  he  father  himself?  After  much 
painful  deliberation,  Albert  concluded  that  his 
declaration  on  this  point  had  better  accord  with 
his  assumption  of  the  Bohemian's  name  and 
place  in  existence.  He  knew  but  little  concern- 
ing the  dead  man's  family.  In  his  last  days 
the  poor  fellow  had  declared  himself  without 
brother,  sister,  or  near  cousin.  On  being  asked 
whether  he  had  no  kindred  of  whom  he  would 
like  to  take  leave,  or  to  whom  he  would  wish 
his  death  to  be  announced,  he  had  averred  that 
his  nearest  relatives  were  some  second  cousins, 
with  whom  he  had  never  held  any  intercourse. 
Albert  knew  also  that  the  artist  was  the  sou 
of  a  certain  Martin  Otway,  Esq.,  formerly  of 
Richmond,  Surrey,  who  had  lived  with  an  ap- 
pearance of  prosperity  and  died  poor.  The 
Bohemian  had  once  or  twice  in  Albert's  hear- 
ing spoken  of  his  sire  respectfully,  as  having 
been  an  honorable  gentleman  of  a  good  stock. 
Knowing  that  any  false  declaration  respecting 
his  parentage  would  be  attended  with  risk  of 
inconvenience,  and  even  of  exposure,  Albert 
thought  that,  since  he  must  affiliate  himself  on 
some  one,  he  would  incur  no  especial  peril  in 
assigning  his  existence  to  Martin  Otway,  Esq. 

It  was  in  the  first  week  of  a  new  year  that 


Albert  discovered  the  obstacles  to  his  immedi- 
ate admission  to  an  Inn  of  Court;  and,  hud  it 
not  been  for  a  fortunate  occurrence,  he  might 
have  waited  twice  twelve  months  before  finding 
the  means  for  accomplishing  the  first  step  of  his 
professional  enterprise. 

In  nothing  is  fictitious  art  more  true  to  real 
life  than  in  the  prominence  which  it  gives  to  the 
class  of  unlooked-for  events  that  persons  un- 
familiar with  the  ways  of  men  are  apt  to  stig- 
matize as  improbable  incidents.  The  destiny 
which  shapes  our  roughly  hewn  courses  is  wont 
to  work  with  occurrences  that,  in  regard  to  their 
apparent  fortuitousness,  we  usually  speak  of  as 
casualties.  How  different  the  life  of  every  gray- 
headed  Englishman  might  have  been,  had  not 
one  of  these  mere  accidents  influenced  his  con- 
duct at  a  critical  moment !  Had  he  not  by  pure 
chance,  in  an  idle  hour,  read  a  particular  adver- 
tisement in  the  Times  newspaper,  the  writer  of 
this  page  would  have  missed  the  greater  part 
of  the  happiness  he  has  experienced  since  his 
boyhood.  Had  not  the  lady,  who  is  now  read- 
ing this  chapter  under  the  shade  of  the  limes 
upon  her  lawn,  happened  to  mount  a  restive 
horse  on  a  particular  morning  of  her  girlhood, 
and  had  not  the  gale  snapped  a  dry  bough  from 
a  certain  elm  as  she  rode  under  it,  within  sight 
of  another  rider,  passing  by  fortuitously,  her 
steed  would  never  have  run  away,  and  the  man, 
who  within  twelve  months  married  her,  would 
never  have  rescued  her  from  the  jaws  of  death 
and  made  her  acquaintance.  The  hopes  of 
youth  are  justified  by  the  accidents  oflife.  At 
the  next  turning  of  the  street,  down  which  he 
is  loitering  pensively,  the  young  man  may  stum- 
ble on  the  new  comrade  who  will  put  fortune 
into  his  hand,  or  point  where  wealth  and  honor 
may  be  won. 

Albert  Ot way's  meeting  with  Harold  Can- 
nick,  at  "The  White  Loaf,"  Shadow  Court, 
Fleet  Street,  was  one  of  those  lucky  adventures 
that  never  appear  improbable  till  they  and  their 
consequences  are  recorded  in  novels.  Harold 
Cannick  was  the  casual  acquaintance  whom  be- 
nignant Fortune  threw  in  Albert's  way  for  the 
achievement  of  some  of  his  chief  aims. 

Mr.  Cannick  did  not,  on  the  average,  dine  at 
"  The  White  Loaf"  six  times  in  a  whole  year, 
but  Albert  encountered  him  there  by  the  lucki- 
est chance  conceivable. 

Needs  it  to  be  said  that  Shadow  Court  is  the 
brightest,  cleanest,  cheeriest  little  court  of  all 
the  little  courts  that  run  into  Fleet  Street — that 
printers'  devils  and  light  porters  are  perpetually 
racing  through  it  in  the  pursuit  of  business,  to 
the  utter  banishment  from  the  spot  of  all  those 
small  boys  and  girls  who  throng  every  blind  al- 
ley of  the  town,  but  forsake — as  ground  unsuita- 
ble to  their  choicest  games — every  narrow  yard 
through  which  there  runs  an  incessant  stream 
of  passers  ? 

No  chop-house  is  in  higher  repute  with  the 
lawyers  of  the  four  Inns  than  "The  White 
Loaf,"  with  its  two  rooms  (one  large  and  one 
small)  on  the  ground-floor,  and  its  large  room 


148 


LOTTIE  DAKLING. 


overhead,  and  its  picturesque  tap-room,  on  the 
left  of  the  entrance  door,  wherein  a  young  lady 
of  exquisite  shape  and  ringlets  spends  her  after- 
noons and  evenings  in  drawing  a  score  different 
liquors  out  of  pieces  of  strangely  fashioned  fur- 
niture, that  are  made  of  highly  polished  ma- 
hogany, and  are  adorned  with  handles  of  whit- 
est ivory.  Avoided  by  the  poorer  articled  clerks 
and  copying  clerks,  and  all  young  men  of  pru- 
dence and  narrow  means,  as  a  "dear  place," 
"The  White  Loaf"  is  greatly  in  favor  with 
young  barristers,  and  elderly  attorneys,  and  all 
kinds  of  well-to-do  "City  men, "who  think  the 
enjoyment  of  its  cleanliness,  and  the  superlative 
goodness  of  its  plain  fare,  cheaply  purchased  by 
a  few  additional  pence  on  every  dinners  cost. 

Albert  had  first  entered  this  house  of  enter- 
tainment in  the  course  of  a  search  after  legal 
friends.  On  seeing  two  young  men  turn  out  of 
the  Temple  and  walk  eastward,  toward  the  close 
of  a  dreary  December  afternoon,  he  had  said  to 
himself,  "They  look  like  two  young  barristers, 
turning  out  for  dinner  at  a  neighboring  tavern. 
I  will  follow  them,  for  they  will  probably  lead 
me  to  some  haunts  of  young  lawyers,  where  I 
may  pick  up  needful  acquaintances."  Acting 
on  this  resolution,  he  tracked  the  two  comrades 
to  "The  White  Loaf,"  and  ate  a  beefsteak  in  a 
crowded  room  that  contained  several  members 
of  the  profession  which  he  meant  to  adopt. 
The  quality  of  its  frequenters  was  not  the  only 
recommendation  of  the  tavern.  Albert  could 
not  admire  the  portrait  of  the  virtuous  waiter 
hung  on  the  wall  above  the  fire-place  on  the  din- 
ing-room, but  he  appreciated  fully  the  cleanli- 
ness of'his  table-cloth,  the  goodness  of  his  steak, 
and  the  virtues  of  his  bitter  ale.  He  observed, 
also,  with  approval,  that  the  tables  of  the  res- 
taurant were  liberally  provided  with  all  the  best 
newspapers  of  the  town.  He  became  a  frequent- 
er at  "  The  White  Loaf,"  and,  in  the  course  of 
three  weeks,  won  the  cordial  respect  of  William, 
the  head-waiter. 

He  had  thus  established  himself  in  William's 
good  graces,  and  was  eating  his"  daily  meal  at 
a  rather  later  hour  than  usual,  when  a  portly, 
well-looking  .gentleman,  with  fair  hair,  blue 
eyes,  open  countenance,  clever  mouth,  and  the 
appearance  of  one  who  had  numbered  some 
fifty  years,  entered  the  room,  and  seated  him- 
self in  an  opposite  box.  Singularly  free  from 
the  obsequiousness  of  tavern  waiters  toward 
ordinary  guests,  William's  bearing  to  the  new- 
comer exhibited  an  alacrity  which  indicated 
that  the  portly  gentleman  was  a  personage  of 
mark  to  the  chief  servant  of  "  The  White  Loaf." 
The  theatres  having  already  opened  for  the 
evening,  the  room  was  not  full.  The  patrons 
of  the  chop-house  were  also  patrons  of  the 
drama ;  and  when  the  last  arrival  seated  him- 
self on  a  bench,  and  ordered  his  repast,  there 
were  two  empty  boxes  in  the  eating-room,  and 
no  more  than  half  a  dozen  customers  in  the 
whole  apartment. 

Eating  leisurely,  while  he  glanced  alternate- 
ly at  the  newspaper  in  front  of  his  plate  and  at 


the  new-comer  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
room,  Albert  divided  his  thoughts  equally  be- 
tween his  food,  his  journal,  and  the  comely 
stranger.  Remembering  that  he  had  seen  him 
speaking  to  a  queen's  counsel  in  one  of  the 
courts  of  equity,  during  the  progress  of  a  cause 
in  which  the  queen's  counsel  was  a  chief  speak- 
er, Albert  had  grounds  for  thinking  that  the 
stout,  comely  gentleman  was  a  solicitor  of  high 
standing.  On  this  point  Albert  was  not  at 
fault.  The  person  whom  he  scrutinized  fur- 
tively was  Harold  Cannick,  senior  partner  of 
the  firm  of  Cannick,  Bolt  &  Patterson,  solic- 
itors, of  Bedford  Row.  No  legal  firm  held  a 
more  honorable  position  in  the  subordinate 
department  of  the  Law  than  Cannick,  Bolt  & 
Patterson,  of  Bedford  Row.  They  were  solic- 
itors for  half  a  hundred  of  the  greatest  land- 
owners of  England,  and  never  condescended  to 
touch  openly  any  business  that  was  not  of  ^ho 
highest  character.  For  the  conduct  of  inferiti* 
though  respectable  business  which  it  was  in~ 
cumbent  on  them  to  transact,  but  inconsistent 
with  their  dignity  to  transact  openly,  they  em- 
ployed such  comparatively  humble  though  repu- 
table solicitors  as  Messrs.  Weaver  &  Gandrill, 
of  Furnival's  Inn,  and  Messrs.  Broadbent  & 
Greenacre,  Walbrook,  City. 

In  other  respects,  Harold  Cannick  was  a 
man  of  mark.  A  solicitor  in  prodigious  prac- 
tice, who  has  written  a  very  successful  three- 
volume  novel,  is,,at  least,  a  social  eccentricity; 
and  Harold  Cannick's  "Daughters  of  Eve" 
was  an  excellent  and  greatly  popular  novel.  An 
attorney  who  has  won  a  Derby  is  as  exception- 
al a  person  as  a  Quaker  who  has  managed  an 
opera-house ;  and,  in  the  only  year  of  his  life 
when  he  took  a  deep  interest  in  the  turf,  Mr. 
Cannick's  "Rapier"  ran  in  first  at  the  chief 
race  of  Epsom  Downs.  A  man  of  many  expe- 
riences and  friends,  Harold  Cannick  had  con- 
cerned himself  in  half  a  hundred  matters  that 
rarely  win  the  attention  of  a  prosperous  so- 
licitor in  the  highest  grade  of  practice.  One 
of  the  originators  of  the  Criterion  Club,  St. 
James's  Square  —  a  club  where  dukes  play 
whist  for  ducal  stakes — he  was  also  a  chief 
member  of  the  Jovial  Outcasts,  Hinde  Street, 
Leicester  Square,  where  gentlemen  of  more 
wit  than  wisdom  lengthen  their  nights  and 
shorten  their  days  with  whisky  -  and  -  water. 
He  had  raised  more  than  one  theatre  of  the 
town  from  neglect  to  fashion,  and  supplied  half 
a  score  famous  adventurers  with  the  means  of 
winning  wealth  and  the  world's  applause.  In- 
deed, with  the  exception  of  subsidizing  a  party 
newspaper,  there  was  no  single  rash  thing  that 
gentlemen  of  wealth  and  Bohemian  connec- 
tions are  tempted  to  do  which  Harold  had  not 
done.  But,  while  diverting  himself  with  the 
humors  of  the  town,  he  had  always  been  a  pru- 
dent and  industrious  follower  of  his  profession. 

Harold  Cannick  liked  to  play  the  part  of 
patron  to  young  people  of  good  natural  endow- 
ments and  adverse  circumstances.  He  prided 
himself  on  being  a  discoverer  and  fosterer  of 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


140 


struggling  genius.  Having  taken  in  hand  one 
of  the  choristers  of  St.  Paul's  Cathedral,  and 
given  him  a  thorough  musical  training,  he  had 
seen  him  become  one  of  the  first  singers  of  his. 
day.  He  had  made  brilliant  actresses  out  of 
little,  beggarly  damsels,  whose  cleverness  and 
smartness  had  first  attracted  his  attention,  as 
they  danced  and  gossiped  in  street  gutters. 
He  had  set  scores  of  needy  aspirants  on  the 
way  to  affluence,  merely  because  he  saw  that 
encouragement  and  timely  aid  would  render 
them  successful.  The  Royal  Academy  at  this 
present  time  numbers  three  painters  who  re- 
member gratefully  that  the  solicitor  was  the 
first  man  to  appreciate  their  powers  and  to 
help  them  to  fortune.  It  was  the  same  within 
the  lines  of  the  legal  profession.  He  was  al- 
ways on  the  lookout  for  young  men  of  high 
promise  and  no  "connection  with  attorneys." 
It  was  his  boast  that  he  had  given  "silk"  to 
half  a  dozen  leaders  of  the  bar  whom  he  had 
discovered  in  indigence  and  friendliness.  With 
good-humored  insolence  he  would  boast  that, 
should  he  live  to  be  seventy,  half  the  occupants 
of  the  judicial  bench  would  be  judges  of  his 
creation.  Having  once  adopted  a  protfytf,  he 
never  deserted  him.  Having  given  him  the 
start,  he  kept  his  man  running.  To  admit 
himself  disappointed  in  a  man  of  his  choice 
would  have  been  to  admit  himself  guilty  of  a 
mistake;  and  such  a  confession  would  have 
been  unendurably  humiliating  to  the  patron 
whose  propensity  for  befriending  genius  in  dis- 
tress was  not  more  due  to  kindliness  than  ego- 
tism— to  benevolence  than  to  pride  in  his  own 
sagacity. 

At  the  time  when  he  turned  into  the  smaller 
parlor  of  "The  White  Loaf,"  and  seated  him- 
self within  full  view  of  a  gentleman  in  want  of 
a  patron,  Harold  Cannick  was  in  need  of  a  new 
protege.  Two  years  had  passed  since  he  had 
taken  up  a  new  man.  His  passion  for  patron- 
izing required  a  fresh  object. 

Before  he  had  finished  his  small  rump-steak, 
Harold  Cannick's  looks  had  been  thoroughly 
studied  by  the  furtive  observer.  Albert  Otway 
was  taken  by  those  looks — the  open  face,  pow- 
erful features,  blue  eyes,  clever  mouth  —  and 
he  decided  to  make  overtures  for  conversation 
with  their  portly  owner. 

"I  think  I  heard  you  ask  for  the  Globe  a 
minute  since  ;  here  it  is — I  have  done  with  it," 
he  said,  handing  Harold  Cannick  the  paper  as 
he  rose. 

"Thank  you — any  thing  new  in  it  of  impor- 
tance ?" 

"Just  nothing — except  the  announcement 
of  the  arrival  of  an  important  witness  for  the 
Babraham  case." 

"Ah!  to  be  sure— Colonel  Clintock,  from 
South  America." 

Harold  Cannick  added,  "  That's  no  news  to 
me.  I  parted  with  Colonel  Clintock  ten  min- 
utes before  I  turned  into  this  place  for  a  steak. 
Here,  waiter,  bring  me  a  small  tumbler  of 
punch.  Do  you  know  the  punch  at  this  house  ? 


It  is  as  soft  and  innocent  as  claret.  If  you 
don't  know  it,  you  should  try  a  small  tumbler." 

Acting  on  the  suggestion,  Albert  at  once 
asked  William  to  bring  another  "small  punch," 
and,  at  the  same  time,  seated  himself  opposite 
the  portly  gentleman  who  had,  in  effect,  though 
not  in  form,  invited  him  to  drink  punch  with 
him. 

With  a  look  of  courteous  welcome,  Harold 
Cannick — at  all  times  sociable,  and,  after  feed- 
ing, always  loquacious — intimated  his  approval 
of  Albert's  last  act. 

The  drink  having  arrived,  Mr.  Cannock  ob- 
served, 

"Yes,  Colonel  Clintock  will  be  an  important 
witness  at  the  rehearing.  I  am  Sir  Richard 
Babraham's  solicitor." 

Forthwith  the  conversation  turned  on  the 
great  Babraham  case,  which  had,  for  the  great- 
er part  of  a  year,  been  a  subject  of  overshad- 
owing interest  at  every  London  dinner-table. 
As  every  body  was  more  or  less  familiar  with 
the  facts  of  the  singular  cause,  Sir  Richard  Ba- 
braham's solicitor  could  speak  of  them  fully 
without  any  breach  of  professional  confidence  ; 
and  he  spoke  of  them  with  vigor  and  just  a  lit- 
tle pomposity,  qualifying  his  otherwise  gentle- 
manly address. 

Having  proved  a  good  listener,  Albert  made 
a  few  remarks  that  displayed  a  lawyer-like  ap- 
preciation of  the  issues  and  chief  difficulties  of 
the  famous  suit. 

"True,  true,"  rejoined  Sir  Richard  Babra- 
ham's solicitor;  "I  see,  sir,  that  you  are  a  law- 
yer. By-the-way,  I  remember  to  have  seen  you 
watching  proceedings  in  some  of  the  courts." 

"  I  am  not  a  lawyer — but  I  mean  to  be  one." 

"  A  student  for  the  bar,  eh  ?" 

"Not  yet." 

"Indeed!  then  you  have  no  time  to  lose." 

"  I  wish  to  lose  none, "  Albert  replied  ;  "but 
I  am  just  now  under  a  difficulty  which  threat- 
ens to  postpone  longer  than  I  wish  my  entrance 
to  the  legal  profession." 

"Indeed!"  repeated  Harold  Cannick,  who 
was  curious  to  know  the  difficulty,  which  he 
could  not  suppose  to  be  one  of  money." 

"I  have  the  pecuniary  means,"  Albert  ex- 
plained, looking  round  and  speaking  louder, 
when  he  had  seen  that  the  parlor  was  deserted 
by  every  one  but  himself,  his  companion,  and 
a  little  white-headed  old  gentleman  who  was 
slumbering  at  a  distant  corner  of  the  room  over 
a  half-drunk  glass  of  whisky-toddy,  "as  well 
as  the  desire  to  follow  the  law ;  but  I  can  not 
at  present  enter  myself  as  a  student  of  an  Inn 
of  Court,  because  I  am  here  in  London  so  ab- 
solutely unknown  that  I  can  not  produce  the 
requisite  certificates  of  character  and  fitness." 

"  Pooh,  pooh !  mere  forms,  my  dear  sir.  It 
is  easy  to  comply  with  them." 

"  1  wish  you  would  tell  me  how  to  comply 
with  them  at  once.  For  myself,  I  see  no  quick- 
er way  than  to  wait  for  a  year,  or  may  be  sev- 
eral years,  until  I  have  made  friends  who  may 
render  me  the  requisite  service.  And  it  is  slow 


'150 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


work  making  friends,  to  a  man  who  has  scarce- 
ly an  acquaintance  in  the  city." 

"You  have  a  banker?" 

"I  have  bankers  —  Mitcheson  &  Trevor, 
Lombard  Street.  But  they  only  know  that  I 
have  recently  opened  an  account  with  them.  I 
can't  go  to  them  on  the  strength  of  that  small 
account,  and  ask  them  to  beg  some  barristers 
of  their  acquaintance  to  certify  the  benchers 
of  Lincoln's  Inn  that  I  am  a  reputable  gentle- 
man." 

Harold  Cannick  smiled  as  he  remarked, 
"Yours  is  a  strange  case." 

"  Probably  such  a  case  never  before  occur- 
red." 

"Tut,  tut,  there  is  no  case  so  singular  in  this 
great  city  but  that  the  town  contains  another 
very  much  like  it.  Do  you  smoke  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  let  us  go  up  to  the  smoking-room 
and  have  a  cigar.  There  will  be  no  one  there 
at  this  time.  We  can  talk  this  business  of 
yours  over." 

Of  course  Albert  assented ;  and  having 
mounted  a  high,  rambling,  ramshackle  stair- 
case, and  entered  the  unoccupied  smoking-room 
of  "The  White  Loaf,"  he  took  a  cigar  from  Mr. 
Harold  Cannick's  case. 

Having  accepted  this  slight  favor  from  his 
new  acquaintance,  Albert  spoke  more  fully  of 
his  circumstances  and  professional  aims.  He 
stated  that  he  was  without  father  or  near  rela- 
tions ;  that  his  long  residence  on  the  Continent 
was  chiefly  accountable  for  his  want  of  friends 
in  London ;  that  his  pecuniary  means  were 
more  than  sufficient  for  a  law  student  and 
struggling  barrister.  He  admitted  that  Lon- 
don contained  many  persons  who  had  known 
his  father,  but  added,  with  obvious  embarrass- 
ment, that  there  were  reasons  why  he  could  not 
ask  them  to  befriend  him. 

"You  have  not  yet  told  me  your  name?" 
Harold  Cannick  observed  abruptly,  when  Al- 
bert had  finished  his  statement. 

"My  name  is  Albert  Otway." 

"  Eh  ?  of  the  Shropshire  Otways  ?" 

"  I  come  from  a  branch  of  that  family ;  but 
I  have  no  near  relations." 

"And,  I  presume,  your  father's  name  was 
Otway." 

"His  name  was  Martin  Otway,  and  he  lived 
for  many  years  at  Cleve  Lodge,  Richmond.  I 
did  not  inherit  my  property  from  him.  He  died 
poor!" 

A  deep  blush  came  to  Albert's  face  as  he  said 
this ;  for  he  was  not  so  practiced  in  falsehood 
as  to  be  able  to  tell  untruths  with  equanimity. 
Moreover,  he  Tvas  alive  to  the  risk  of  detection 
which  he  ran  in  uttering  the  untruth.  What 
if  his  new  acquaintance  had  known  Martin 
Otway  and  his  Bohemian  son?  The  fear  was 
reasonable.  Harold  Cannick  had  known  some- 
thing of  Martin  Otway,  but  he  had  never  en- 
countered the  son  in  Bohemia.  Mr.  Cannick 
observed  the  look  of  shame  and  apprehension 
that  came  to  Albert's  face  as  he  spoke  of  Mar- 


tin Otway,  but  he  accounted  erroneously  for 
the  young  man's  embarrassment  and  agitation. 
Like  a  gentleman  as  he  was,  Harold  passed 
quickly  from  the  delicate  subject,  and  said  not 
another  word  about  his  companion's  parent- 
age." 

"Where,"  he  added,  "are  you  living,  Mr. 
Otway  ?" 

"I  am  lodging  for  the  present  in  Queen's 
Square,  Bloomsbury,"  answered  Albert,  who  at 
the  same  time  gave  his  card,  with  his  address 
penned  in  the  corner,  to  his  acquaintance. 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  solicitor,  when  he 
had  taken  the  card,  and,  after  putting  it  in  his 
pocket-book,  had  given  his  own  calling-card  in 
exchange  for  it.  "Now,  my  dear  sir,  I  must 
run  away  to  keep  an  appointment.  I  will  think 
over  our  interview ;  and  you  shall  hear  from 
me  in  the  course  of  a  day  or  two.  In  the 
mean  time,  Mr.  Otway,  be  assured  that  I  am 
favorably  impressed  by  your  frankness  and  ex- 
cellent address.  I  think  I  shall  see  my  way 
to  be  of  service  to  you." 

These  last  words  were  spoken  heartily,  but 
with  a  slight  touch  of  the  self-importance  ami 
pomposity  which  we  have  before  remarked  in 
the  speaker's  otherwise  gentlemanly  tone  and 
bearing. 

When  he  had  left  the  chop-house  of  Shadow 
Court,  and  was  walking  westward  to  his  club 
in  St.  James's  Square,  Harold  Cannick  said  to 
himself:  "What  a  strange  coincidence!  So 
that  is  Martin  Otway's  boy,  of  whose  cleverness 
he  used  to  boast.  Poor  lad  !  no  wonder  that 
he  does  not  like  to  approach  his  father's  old 
friends,  and  would  fain  separate  himself  as  com- 
pletely as  possible  from  the  whole  paternal  con- 
nection !  His  case  is  a  devilish  hard  one,  for 
he  suffers  for  his  father's  sins.  What  right  has 
a  world  to  punish  a  son  for  a  father's  faults  ? 
But  the  world  does  it  every  day,  mercilessly 
and  barbarously.  He  is  not  much  like  bis  fa- 
ther, though  there  is  something  in  him  that  re- 
minds me  of  the  sire.  And  he  has  good  looks, 
good  manner,  good  address,  and  a  clear  head. 
He  saw  precisely  the  importance  of  the  very 
points  in  the  Babraham  case  which  the  attor- 
ney-general pooh-poohs.  There  is  the  making 
of  a  man  in  him.  And — "  Harold  Cannick 
paused  abruptly  in  his  soliloquy,  and  walked 
the  whole  distance  from  the  church  of  St.  Mar- 
tin's in  the  Fields  to  the  south-east  entrance  of 
St.  James's  Square,  before  he  added,  "  By  Jove, 
I'll  take  him  up,  and  make  a  man  of  him  !  He 
has  all  the  right  points,  and  is  a  bit  of  blood 
that  will  win  the  first  stakes,  and  do  me  credit. 
I'll  take  him  up." 

While  Harold  Cannick  was  thus  deciding  to 
make  a  man  of  Martin  Otway's  son,  Albert  was 
walking  toward  Queen's  Square,  thinking  to 
himself:  "  So  he  is  Harold  Cannick,  of  the  om- 
nipotent firm  of  Cannick,  Bolt  &  Patterson, 
Bedford  Row.  I  like  him,  and  I  think  he 
means  to  like  me.  If  I  could  attach  him  to 
myself — or,  rather,  let  me.  speak  more  modest- 
ly and  say,  if  I  could  attach  myself  to  the 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


151 


great  Mr.  Harold  Cannick — my  fortune  would 
be  made." 

Thus  musing  hopefully,  Albert  crossed  the 
broad  hall  and  walked  up  the  wide  staircase  of 
the  house — whilom  the  residence  of  an  earl, 
who  blazed  in  the  brightest  fashion  of  George 
the  Second's  London — in  which  he  then  lodged. 
Ten  minutes  later,  Mr.  Albert  Otway,  sitting 
within  a  yard  of  a  good  fire,  and  at  a  reading- 
table  furnished  with  a  student's  lamp,  had  for- 
gotten the  outer  world  in  his  attentive  perusal 
of  Cruise's  "  Digest  of  the  Laws  respecting 
Real  Property,"  a  work  that  he  had  bought  in 
the  neighborhood  of  Chancery  Lane,  on  learn- 
ing from  a  treatise  on  legal  education  that  it 
was  a  book  which  the  earnest  student  of  our 
laws  should  master  thoroughly. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

IN  AND   ABOUT   LINCOLN'S   INN. 

ON  the  following  day,  Mr.  Albert  Otway  re- 
ceived an  invitation  to  dine  with  Mr.  Harold 
Cannick,  in  the  course  of  the  week,  at  the  Cri- 
terion Club — an  invitation  which,  it  is  needless 
to  say,  was  accepted.  A  few  days  later,  Al- 
bert dined  at  the  solicitor's  house  in  Regent's 
Park,  when  he  was  introduced  to  Mr.  Cannick's 
important  collection  of  pictures,  and  also  to 
Mr.  Cannick's  wife  and  children.  The  wife 
was  a  gentlewoman  of  personal  elegance  and 
conversational  cleverness,  who  had  great  influ- 
ence over  her  husband,  and  was  agreeably  im- 
pressed by  the  style  and  manner  of  his  young 
friend.  The  children  were  three  girls,  the  eld- 
est of  whom  was  still  in  her  thirteenth  year. 
Mr.  Cannick  was  thirty-five  at  the  time  of  his 
marriage ;  and  he  had  been  married  several 
years  ere  he  became  a  father. 

At  these  two  dinners,  Harold  Cannick's  fa- 
vorable opinion  of  his  protegt  waxed  stronger. 
The  solicitor  prided  himself  on  his  taste  in  the 
fine  arts,  and  he  was  gratified  by  his  guest's  ju- 
dicious praise  of  his  Flemish  paintings.  He 
was  also  confirmed  in  his  beneficent  disposi- 
tion toward  Albert  by  Mrs.  Cannick,  who  was 
good  enough  to  inform  her  husband  that  she 
saw  signs  of  possible  greatness  in  the  young 
man,  Avho  had  evinced  with  becoming  modesty 
his  admiration  of  her  musical  knowledge  and 
skill.  Mrs.  Cannick  having  thus  delivered  judg- 
ment in  Albert's  behalf,  Mr.  Cannick  dismissed 
all  doubts  respecting  the  goodness  of  his  choice 
of  a  "  new  man." 

The  solicitor  having  resolved  to  protect  him, 
the  doors  of  Lincoln's  Inn  were  opened  to  Al- 
bert. Two  barristers  of  Lincoln's  Inn — jun- 
iors, with  a  proper  regard  for  the  professional 
favor  of  Cannick,  Bolt  &  Patterson,  of  Bed- 
ford Row —  put  their  signatures  promptly  to 
Albert's  certificate  of  character.  How  could 
they  hesitate  to  witness  in  his  behalf,  from  their 
personal  knowledge  of  his  worth,  when  his  so- 
cial respectability  had  so  unimpeachable  a  spon- 


sor as  the  senior  partner  of  the  strongest  firm 
of  solicitors  in  all  London  ?  Knowing  Harold 
Cannick,  it  was  a  matter  of  course  that  they 
knew  the  merit  of  his  cordially  recommended 
friend. 

It  was  sti]l  the  first  week  of  Hilary  term,  when 
Albert  Otway  ate  his  first  dinner  in  Lincoln's 
Inn  Hall,  and  had  his  first  interview  with  Mr. 
Snibsworth,  the  conveyancer,  in  whose  pupils' 
room  he  was  advised  by  Harold  Cannick  to  ac- 
quire a  rudimentary  knowledge  of  an  important 
department  of  his  profession. 

A  small  man  with  prominent  nose,  lean  vis- 
age, swarthy  complexion,  and  a  quick,  sharp, 
flighty  way  of  speaking,  Mr.  Snibsworth  failed 
to  win  Albert's  respect  at  their  first  meeting, 
when  the  man  of  many  pupils  and  clients  re- 
ceived the  new  applicant  for  instruction,  with 
half  a  dozen  hurriedly  spoken  sentences,  and 
no  affectation  of  care  for  his  welfare.  Though 
his  pupils'  room  brought  him  in  £1500  a  year, 
and  turned  out  an  amount  of  indifferently  done 
work,  that  gave  the  teacher  at  least  another 
£1500  per  annum,  Mr.  Snibsworth  could  never 
speak  of  it  with  courtesy,  or  think  of  it  with- 
out sentiments  of  active  hostility.  For  the 
most  part,  its  occupants  were  a  class  of  persons 
for  whom  the  trainer  had  no  charity.  Some  of 
them  were  "  mere  simpletons,  ignorant  of  the 
first  principles  of  law."  Others — smart  enough 
for  a  ball-room  or  smoking-party,  and  possess*- 
ing  a  little  legal  lore — had  "  no  knowledge  that 
could  be  turned  to  account."  They  could  not 
be  trusted  to  do  any  thing  by  themselves ;  and, 
"  confound  them,"  Mr.  Snibsworth  would  ex- 
claim, testily,  "  they  will  bother  me  by  asking 
me  to  explain  points  to  them.  Scarcely  a  day 
passes  but  I  have  to  snub  one  of  them  for  pes- 
tering me  in  that  way."  Over  his  claret,  at 
legal  dinner-parties  in  the  west  of  town,  Mr. 
Snibsworth  delighted  to  narrate,  in  a  tone  of 
comic  self-commiseration,  how  his  pupils'  room 
afflicted  him — how  this  pupil's  serious  uncle 
from  the  country  implored  him  (Snibsworth) 
to  pay  particular  attention  to  his  nephew;  and 
how  another  pupil  had  the  audacity  to  say  to 
him,  "  I  have  paid  you  a  hundred  guineas,  sir, 
and  visited  your  chambers  every  day  for  six 
months,  and  this  is  the  second  time  I  have  ever 
been  able  to  speak  to  you."  Enlarging  on  this 
anecdote,  Snibsworth  would  say,  "  They  have  an 
absurd  notion  that  I  am  bound  to  lecture  them 
on  first  principles,  and  coach  them  in  the  A  B 
C  of  my  wretched  business,  in  return  for  their 
guineas."  On  receiving  Albert,  Mr.  Snibs- 
worth remarked  with  piquant  frankness,  "  I  am 
very  glad  to  make  your  acquaintance,  Mr.  Ot- 
way, and  also  to  take  your  money ;  but  mind, 
I  don't  engage  to  teach  you  any  thing.  You'll 
see  any  number  of  papers  in  my  pupils'  room, 
and  you'll  see  what  I  do  with  them ;  and,  if 
you  can't  pick  up  law  from  them,  you'd  better 
not  follow  the  profession." 

Albert  was  not  disheartened;  and,  in  the 
course  of  six  weeks,  he  was  satisfied  that  Har- 
old Cannick  had  sent  him  to  a  good  school. 


152 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


To  do  Mr.  Snibsworth  justice,  he  had  a  quick 
eye  for  a  pupil  with  the  head  and  knowledge 
that  could  be  turned  to  account  in  his  factory 
of  legal  instruments.  And  he  soon  saw  that 
Albert  could  help  himself  out  of  papers,  and 
be  his  own  demonstrator.  Catching  and  hu- 
moring the  conveyancer's  peculiarities,  Albert 
never  asked  the  learned  man  a  question — nev- 
er tried  to  exchange  a  word  with  him — never 
sought  to  catch  his  eye.  Weeks  after  he  had 
turned  off  some  papers  relating  to  large  com- 
mercial contracts  in  a  style  which  he  knew  had 
been  commended  by  the  lawyer,  Albert  per- 
sisted in  his  policy  of  leaving  Mr.  Snibsworth 
alone.  At  first  Mr.  Snibsworth  was  astonish- 
ed by  the  pupil's  discreetness.  Ere  long  he 
was  piqued  by  his  silence.  * '  You  are  a  strange- 
ly silent  man,  Mr.  Otway,"  the  conveyancer  ob- 
served, when  Albert  had  been  a  frequenter  of 
his  chambers  for  about  three  months;  "you 
do  a  deal  of  work,  but  you  never  ask  me  a 
question  about  any  point."  Whereto  Albert 
answered,  "  I  came  here  to  read  your  papers, 
Mr.  Snibsworth,  not  to  waste  your  time,  or  my 
own,  by  talking  with  you ;  and  the  papers  sel- 
dom give  me  a  point  on  which  I  want  your 
opinion."  The  conveyancer  rejoined,  "No 
doubt;  papers  explain  themselves — don't  they?" 
"Moreover,"  Albert  added,  "at  the  opening 
of  our  acquaintance  you  asked  me  particularly 
not  to  bother  you  with  questions." 

This  reply  tickled  Mr.  Snibsworth  prodigious- 
ly. Opening  the  large  mouth  of  his  little, 
sharp,  thin  face,  he  screamed  with  delight,  till 
the  sharp,  hyena-like  yapping  and  yelping  of 
his  laughter  made  his  "  idiots  "  in  the  pupils' 
room  wonder  what  on  earth  was  going  on  be- 
tween Otway  and  their  nominal  instructor. 
"Yes,  yes,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Snibsworth,  when 
his  amusement  had  subsided,  "that  is  what  I 
say  to  keep  the  fools  and  idiots  at  a  distance. 
But  you  are  no  fool,  Otway.  You'll  do. 
You'll  be  a  lawyer." 

"And  a  good  one,"  rejoined  Albert  the  Si- 
lent, evincing  natural  delight  at  the  convey- 
ancer's compliment. 

To  return,  however,  to  the  opening  week  of 
Albert's  career  at  Lincoln's  Inn — a  point  in  his 
personal  story  from  which  we  have  advanced 
somewhat  too  far. 

After  his  long  exclusion  from  the  compan- 
ionship of  men,  Albert  thoroughly  enjoyed  his 
first  dinners  in  the  hall  of  his  Honorable  Society. 
He  was  exhilarated  by  the  bright  lamps  and 
largeness  of  the  lofty  chamber,  the  hum  and 
babble  of  the  talkers,  the  running  about  of  the 
waiters,  and  the  clattering  of  the  hundreds  of 
knives  and  forks.  He  relished  the  sound, 
wholesome  fare,  though  it  was  the  fashion  for 
the  youngsters,  fresh  from  Oxford  and  Cam- 
bridge, and  affecting  what  they  meant  ttt  be 
towny  airs  of  club-life  and  West  End  fashion, 
to  profess  disdain  for  the  homely  joints  and 
familiar  wines.  Albert  could  not  concur  with 
these  supercilious  gentlemen  in  condemning 
the  joints  as  barbaric  viands,  and  stigmatizing 


the  rather  fruity  port  and  sherry  as  poisonous 
compounds,  manufactured  in  Gray's  Inn  Lane. 
On  the  contrary,  though  he  preferred  claret  to 
port,  he  took  his  appointed  share  of  the  bottle 
(among  four)  of  the  Methuen  juice  with  thank- 
fulness. Never  having  been  at  an  English 
university,  he  found  the  excitement  of  novelty 
in  the  circumstances  and  details  of  the  collegi- 
ate banquet.  When  grace  after  meat  had  been 
said  by  the  Honorable  Society's  chaplain,  he 
found  pleasure  in  watching  the  white-headed, 
and  iron-gray-headed,  and  still  black -headed 
benchers  move  off  in  single  file  from  the  high 
table,  and  in  wondering  how  many  years  would 
elapse  ere  he  should  figure  among  them.  He 
even  derived  a  boyish  satisfaction  from  the 
ridiculous  strip  of  bombazine  which  he  was  re- 
quired to  wear  on  his  shoulders  during  the 
academic  repast.  Bat  most  he  enjoyed  the 
free,  unrestrained,  and  sometimes  boisterous 
talk  of  the  two  long  students'  tables,  at  which 
he  encountered  men  of  every  age  and  every 
land  subject  to  Her  Britannic  Majesty.  He 
was  animated  by  the  light,  slangy,  and  yet  gen- 
tleman-like gossip  of  the  young  fellows,  who 
discoursed  about  their  pastimes  at  Oxford  and 
Cambridge,  the  incidents  of  the  London  the- 
atres, the  squabbles  of  the  newspapers,  the 
sports  of  their  rural  homes,  or  the  scandals  of 
London  society.  These  quite  young  men  were 
in  a  large  majority  at  the  students'  tables ;  but 
among  them  there  appeared  copper-skinned 
gentlemen  of  Oriental  race,  and  prosperous  col- 
onists, who,  after  making  fortunes  in  Australia, 
were  veneering  themselves  with  professional 
dignity  by  eating  their  way  to  the  Bar.  One 
day  Albert  dined  with  a  middle-aged  cavalry 
officer  of  the  Indian  army,  bent  on  returning  to 
his  regiment  with  a  wig  and  gown  in  his  lug- 
gage. The  next  day  he  drank  wine  with  a 
chatty  little  Canadian,  who,  having  won  wealth 
as  a  Montreal  attorney,  was  preparing  himself 
for  a  political  career  in  his  colony  by  making 
j  himself  an  English  barrister.  At  a  third  din- 
j  ner  he  dined  with  a  clerk  in  the  War  Office,  a 
!  reporter  of  the  House  of  Commons  "  gallery," 
and  a  popular  novelist. 

Albert  took  his  first  eight  dinners  in  the  hall 
with  unqualified  satisfaction,  but  the  ninth  din- 
ner was  less  agreeable. 

In  Heaven's  time  every  man  meets  his  best 
friend,  and  in  the  devil's,  says  the  proverb,  he 
encounters  bis  worst  enemy.  At  his  ninth  din- 
j  ner  in  the  hall,  Albert  for  the  first  time  ex- 
changed words  with  the  man  against  whom  he 
was  destined  to  conceive  a  deadly  enmity. 

There  is  a  manner  which  makes  friends  of  all 
'  men,  and  there  is  a  manner — an  insolent,  dis- 
|  dainful,  aggressive   bearing — that   rouses  the 
j  aversion   and    wrathful    antagonism    of  ever/ 
creature  of  human-kind  toward  whom  it  is  ex- 
I  hibited.     Young  men  are  more  likely  to  have 
!  this  manner  than  older  ones,  who  have  learned 
by  experience  the  influence  of  courtesy  on  coad- 
jutors and  adversaries.    Occasionally  it  is  found 
in  persons  of  gentle  birth  and  breeding,  where 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


153 


a  naturally  overbearing  temper  has  not  been 
softened  by  the  gentler  emotions,  or  corrected 
by  opposition.  It  appears  in  its  fullest  repul- 
siveness  in  clever,  pugnacious,  domineering  men, 
who  have  forced  their  way  upward  from  poverty 
and  disesteem  in  the  teeth  of  adverse  and  ir- 
ritating circumstances.  Indeed,  it  seldom  hap- 
pens that  men  of  these  qualities  and  antecedents 
are  altogether  innocent  of  the  bearing  which  is 
the  most  offensive  of  all  bad  styles.  The  ad- 
venturer, who  has  spent  ten  years  of  his  earlier 
manhood  in  bearing  down  and  trampling  on  his 
competitors  in  humble  ways  of  life,  rarely  es- 
capes from  the  long  conflict  without  the  ar- 
rogant habit  and  insolent  address  which  dis- 
tinguish this  manner.  He  assails  his  comrades 
unconsciously,  and  sometimes  goads  them  into 
vindictive  fury  when  he  imagines  that  he  is 
pleasing  them. 

Several  disdainful  epithets  have  been  invent- 
ed for  the  express  purpose  of  rendering  this 
manner  especially  odious  among  gentlemen. 
It  has  been  stigmatized  "  cocky  "  and  "  bump- 
tious." In  these  polite  pages  let  it  be  styled 
more  mildly  the  aggressive  and  pugnacious 
manner.  To  explain  how  it  exasperates  so- 
ciety, let  it  be  observed  that  the  pugnacious 
manner  wounds  the  sensitive  in  their  self-love. 
No  sooner  are  they  brought  face  to  face  with 
the  pugnacious  offender  than  they  imagine  viv- 
idly how  insolent  he  would  be  in  a  controversy ; 
and  the  quick,  irritating  imagination  of  what 
he  might  do  in  the  way  of  unscrupulous  and 
disdainful  antagonism  causes  them  to  feel  for 
him  as  though  he  were  actually  doing  his  worst 
to  harass,  humiliate,  and  crush  them.  They 
are  at  war  with  him  before  he  has  entertained 
a  thought  hostile  to  them.  They  are  his  en- 
emies, even  though  his  aim  is  to  win  their 
friendship. 

The  discipline  of  a  public  school,  and  the 
training  of  an  English  university,  are  the  best 
correctives  of  a  boy's  disposition  to  adopt  the 
pugnacious  manner.  But  though  he  had  been 
abundantly  thrashed  at  Eton,  and  laughed  down 
nt  Cambridge,  Frederick  Sharpswell,  Fellow  of 
Trinity,  and  second  wrangler  of  his  year,  had 
not  been  cured  of  his  constitutional  arrogance. 
The  training  of  school  and  college,  and  the 
humanizing  influences  of  the  good  society  in 
which  he  had  moved  from  boyhood,  had  only 
moderated  his  natural  impudence,  and  taught 
him  that  he  could  not  always  indulge  his  over- 
bearing spirit  with  impunity.  Gentleman  though 
he  was  by  birth  and  culture,  he  retained  the 
most  ungentle  of  tempers.  Toward  women  his 
manner  was  faultless.  Nothing  could  be  more 
respectful,  sympathetic,  and  chivalric  than  his 
customary  demeanor  to  ladies ;  and  he  could 
make  himself  fairly  agreeable  to  the  sterner  sex 
when  he  was  on  his  guard  over  his  worst  pro- 
pensities. But  he  could  be,  and  often,  was,  ex- 
asperatingly  insolent  to  men  of  whose  resent- 
ment he  had  no  fear. 

Coming  up  from  Cambridge  with  his  aca- 
demic honors  fresh  upon  him,  Fred  Sharpswell 


had  been  received  at  Lincoln's  Inn  by  the  stu- 
dents and  some  of  the  junior  Bar  with  the 
respect  due  to  his  intellectual  achievements. 
The  young  Fellow  of  Trinity  was  a  man  of 
mark  and  promise,  and  the  attentions  offered 
to  him  at  the  legal  college  heightened  his  self- 
satisfaction.  If  they  put  him  in  good  humor 
with  himself,  and  disposed  him  to  be  more  than 
ordinarily  gracious  to  his  equals,  they  failed  to 
render  him  more  complaisant  to  his  inferiors. 

On  the  occasion  of  Albert's  ninth  appear- 
ance in  the  Lincoln's  Inn  Hall,  Fred  Sharps- 
well  entered  the  same  refectory  several  minutes 
after  the  commencement  of  dinner.  Unable 
to  select  three  congenial  messmates  from  the 
law  students  who  had  known  him  at  Cam- 
bridge, he  was  constrained  to  make  the  fourth 
of  the  only  incomplete  mess  at  the  long  tables. 
Albert,  an  Irish  journalist  (no  longer  a  young 
man),  and  a  sedately  prim  youth,  with  a  pair 
of  large  spectacles  raised  before  his  unsteady 
eyes,  were  the  three  men  to  whose  society  Mr. 
Sharpswell  was  conducted  by  the  steward,  offi- 
ciating for  the  moment  as  a  master  of  the  cere- 
monies. 

Mr.  Sharpswell  was  not  pleased  with  the 
prospect  of  dining  at  the  lowest  mess  of  a  long 
table,  with  three  men  of  whom  he  knew  noth- 
ing, and  at  a  part  of  the  Hall  where  he  would 
be  exposed  to  the  draught  from  incessantly 
swinging  doors.  It  was  his  habit  to  think 
slightingly  of  all  persons  on  seeing  them  for 
the  first  time. 

Drawing  himself  to  the  full  height  of  his 
slight  and  elegant  figure,  he  paused  before  the 
vacant  seat,  and  surveyed,  with  a  supercilious 
stare,  the  three  members  of  the  incomplete 
mess.  Having  thus  regarded  the  trio,  Mr. 
Sharpswell  threw  back  his  handsome  face,  and, 
assuming  a  look  and  tone  of  grievance,  inquired 
of  the  steward  whether  he  could  not  find  him 
a  more  desirable  place.  The  master  of  cere- 
monies could  not  oblige  the  gentleman.  The 
Hall  was  full,  and  every  other  mess  was  "  mad^ 
up." 

Shrugging  his  shoulders,  and  throwing  an  ex. 
pression  of  injury  and  endurance  into  his  coun- 
tenance, as  he  again  regarded  the  three  stran- 
gers with  manifest  disapproval.  Mr.  Sharpswell 
observed,  "  Well,  then,  I  must  sit  here.  Grace 
will  be  said  in  a  few  minutes,  and  then  I  can 
escape."  Having  thus  declared  his  intention 
to  escape  at  the  earliest  possible  moment  from 
companions  so  obviously  unworthy  of  his  con- 
sideration, he  seated  himself,  and,  after  curling 
his  thin  lip  contemptuously  at  the  prim  youth 
with  weak  eyes,  fixed  his  gaze  on  Albert,  and 
tried  to  stare  him  out  of  countenance.  Hav- 
ing returned  the  look  with  a  penetrating  scru- 
tiny, Albert  pushed  the  fish  to  the  new-comer 
with  sufficient  politeness. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  will  find  your  fish  cold," 
Mr.  Otway  observed,  glancing  at  the  lukewarm 
tail-half  of  a  large  sole. 

Instead  of  replying  to  this  remark,  Mr. 
Sharpswell,  turning  to  the  waiter  in  attendance 


154 


LOTTIE  CABLING. 


on  two  messes,  requested  him  to  take  "that 
thing  "  away,  and  fetch  him  a  pat  of  butter  and 
a  clean  knife.  Fred  Sharpswell  was  one  of 
the  students  who  seized  every  occasion  to  con- 
demn the  dinners  as  unfit  for  gentlemen. 

Having  refreshed  himself  with  a  piece  of 
bread-and-butter  and  a  glass  of  table  ale,  Mr. 
Sharpswell  made  a  second  futile  attempt  to 
gaze  Albert  out  of  countenance. 

"Who  the  deuce  can  that  close-cropped  fel- 
low be,  who  has  the  impudence  to  stare  at  me 
in  that  fashion  ?  Some  Government  clerk,  I 
suppose.  The  fellow  has  neither  the  Oxford  nor 
the  Cambridge  style.  He's  a  snob!"  thought 
Mr.  Sharpswell,  infuriated  by  the  coolness  with 
which  Albert  returned  his  gaze. 

"  He  is  a  well-looking  fellow  ;  in  his  aquiline 
profile,  and  thin  lips,  and  dark  eyes,  and  care- 
fully trimmed  whiskers,  he  has  more  than  an 
average  share  of  good  looks,"  thought  Albert. 
"  But  he  is  as  insolent  a  cub  as  I  have  met  for 
many  a  day.  I  should  like  to  worry  him  !" 

The  two  young  men  exchanged  glances  of 
aversion.  Theirs  was  a  case  of  mutual  enmity 
at  first  sight. 

On  the  appearance  of  the  roast  leg  of  mut- 
ton for  the  four,  Fred  Sharpswell,  to  whom  it 
fell  by  the  courtesy  of  the  tables  to  have  the 
first  cuts,  condescended  to  help  himself  to  two 
thin  slices  of  the  joint. 

Having  helped  himself  daintily,  and  pushed 
the  dish  toward  the  Irish  journalist  on  his  left 
hand,  Mr.  Sharpswell  expressed  his  contempt 
for  roast-mutton,  and  also  for  the  general  bad- 
ness of  the  dinners  in  Hall. 

"  The  dinners  are  good  enough,"  said  Albert, 
in  a  spirit  of  opposition. 

"For  those  who  like  them,  and  are  not  ac- 
customed to  better,"  returned  Fred  Sharpswell, 
tartly,  with  an  intonation  which  implied  that 
probably  his  opposite  messmate  had  no  large 
experience  in  delicate  feeding. 

When  each  of  the  four  men  had  taken  his 
turn  with  the  carving-knife  and  fork,  the  Irish 
journalist,  making  an  effort  toward  common 
good-fellowship,  observed  that  the  new  opera 
at  Her  Majesty's  Theatre  was  a  success ;  all 
the  papers  applauded  it. 

"No  doubt, "remarked  Mr.  Sharpswell,  who 
suspected  that  the  Irishman  was  a  journalist. 
"But  the  writers  on  the  press  praise  whatever 
they  are  ordered  to  praise.  No  one  pays  at- 
tention to  what  they  say." 

"I  am  told,"  said  Albert,  addressing  the 
journalist,  "that  it  was  never  presented  more 
magnificently,  or  rendered  by  better  artists." 

"That  may  be, "interposed  Mr.  Sharpswell, 
with  a  sneer,  "  for  it  is  presented  now  for  the 
first  time." 

"You  are  mistaken,"  retorted  Albert,  smil- 
ing triumphantly,  as  he  saw  an  opening  to  snub 
his  adversary.  "When  I  was  in  Venice  in 
'44,  it  was  the  opera  of  the  season." 

"You  may  have  been  in  Venice,"  rejoined 
Mr.  Sharpswell,  with  an  accent  which  almost 
implied  a  doubt  of  his  antagonist's  statement 


on  an  immaterial  point,  "but you  certainly  did 
not  hear  Verdi's  '  Ernani '  there  in  '44." 

"Accept,  sir,  an  assurance  that  you  are 
wrong  from  a  man  who  had  some  concern  in 
bringing  out  the  opera  at  Venice  in  that  year." 

"Indeed  !"  responded  Mr.  Sharpswell,  rais- 
ing his  eyebrows.  "  Then,  of  course,  I  must 
bow  to  your  special  knowledge,  and  admit  my- 
self in  error.  I  am  not  a  fiddler." 

"The  wine,  sir,"  observed  the  journalist, 
glancing  first  at  the  offensive  messmate  and 
then  at  the  bottle  of  port-wine,  "  is  with  you. 
Would  you  fill  your  glass  and  pass  the  decan- 
ter ?" 

"Not  even  to  oblige  you,"  returned  Mr. 
Sharpswell,  "  can  I  take  any  of  that  black  poi- 
son ;  but  I  have  much  pleasure  in  passing  the 
mixture." 

"  Black  poison  !  Bedad !  it  is  a  sound  and 
generous  wine,"  said  the  burly  man  of  letters 
and  middle  age,  filling  his  glass. 

"  Then,  sir,"  replied  Mr.  Sharpswell,  with  a 
mockery  of  politeness,  "I  have  much  pleasure 
in  giving  you  my  share  of  the  liquor." 

The  Celtic  blood  of  the  insulted  man  was 
fired  by  this  insolent  speech. 

"Bedad!  sir,"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  strong 
Irish  brogue,  as  he  turned  a  pair  of  angry  eyes 
to  the  offender,  "is  that  the  way  in  which  you 
speak  to  an  Oirish  gintleman  ?  You  may  know 
a  good  deal  about  eating  and  drinking,  but  al- 
low me  to  have  the  plizzure  of  telling  you  that 
you  have  much  to  acquire  still  in  the  way  of 
good  manners." 

Mr.  Sharpswell  had  not  meant  to  expose 
himself  to  such  an  attack.  The  irascible  Celt 
had  only  told  the  truth,  and,  his  provocation 
considered,  had  not  told  it  too  roundly. 

The  offender  was  aware  that  he  had  pro- 
voked his  punishment  by  inordinate  rudeness, 
and  had,  therefore,  no  right  to  complain  of  the 
rebuke.  But  this  only  increased  his  irritation 
at  the  peal  of  laughter  with  which  Albert  and 
the  youth  of  weak  eyes  signified  their  approval 
of  the  Irishman's  indignation. 

"  Port  is  not  my  favorite  wine,"  said  Albert, 
bowing  to  the  gintleman  from  Oirehvnd,  when 
he  had  done  laughing  at  Mr.  Sharpswell's  dis- 
comfiture ;  "  but  you  must  allow  me,  sir,  to 
drink  to  you  as  a  social  benefactor." 

Whereupon  the  social  benefactor  and  Albert 
and  the  weak-eyed  boy  with  large  spectacles, 
making  common  cause  against  the  disturber  of 
harmony,  drank  wine  together,  and  went  on  to 
chat  pleasantly  among  themselves,  without  tak- 
ing any  more  notice  of  Mr.  Sharpswell,  who, 
as  soon  as  grace  was  said,  left  the  Hall. 

"  Who  is  that  man  ?"  inquired  Albert  of  his 
messmates,  when  Mr.  Sharpswell  had  departed. 

"I*don'tknow  his  name, "answered  the  Irish 
journalist;  "but  at  Dooblin  he  would  be 
thought  a  prodigious  snob." 

"  His  name  is  Sharpswell,"  said  the  youth 
of  weak  eyes,  "and  I  believe  he  is  a  clever  fel- 
low, and  is  expected  to  do  well  at  the  Bar.  He 
was  a  high  wrangler  at  Cambridge.  He  is  a 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


155 


Fellow  of  Trinity ;  but,  all  the  same  for  that, 
he  has  a  bad  character  in  Hall  for  taking  men 
down,  and  making  a  fool  of  himself." 

"Indeed?  Is  that  Sharpswell ?"  ejaculated 
Albert,  in  a  voice  of  surprise. 

"  Oh  !  you  have  heard  of  him  before  ?"  ask- 
ed the  Irishman. 

"  Yes — I  have  heard  of  him  before,  though  I 
have  only  now  seen  him  for  the  first  time." 

Ten  minutes  later,  as  he  walked  through  the 
turnstile,  and,  after  crossing  Holborn,  wended 
his  way  toward  Queen's  Square,  Albert  Otway 
said  to  himself,  "So  that  is  my  second  cousin, 
Frederick  Sharpswell,  of  Trinity,  Cambridge. 
He  is  an  elegant,  well-looking  fellow ;  and  his 
successes  at  his  university  declare  him  no  fool. 
But  what  an  overbearing,  supercilious,  aggress- 
ive snob  he  is !  I  hate  him !  And,  from  his 
manner  of  staring  at  me,  I  infer  that  I  am  not 
precisely  to  his  taste.  He  wants  to  be  taken 
down  several  pegs.  Perhaps  his  second  cousin 
in  disguise  is  the  man  who  is  appointed  to 
teach  him  his  proper  place  in  this  world." 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

ALBERT   CULTIVATES   FRED   SHARPSWELL's 
HATRED. 

THE  qualities  which  inspire  men  with  mu- 
tual detestation  must  be  attended  with  certain 
powers  of  physical  attraction  which  draw  them 
together  in  spite  of  their  moral  antagonism. 
By  what  other  theory  can  we  account  for  the 
frequency  with  which  acquaintances  at  feud  are 
brought  face  to  face  with  one  another?  How 
else  can  we  explain  the  fact  that,  having  hated 
each  other  at  first  sight,  and  hating  each  other 
more  intensely  after  every  fresh  interview,  Al- 
bert Otway  and  Frederick  Sharpswell  were  con- 
tinually finding  themselves  vis-a-vis  in  the  same 
mess  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Hall?  If  Albert  came 
in  late  to  the  collegiate  dinner,  he  was  sure  to 
find  that  the  only  place  for  him  was  a  seat 
within  three  feet  of  his  enemy.  Again  and 
again  it  happened  that  Frederick  Sharpswell 
had  selected  his  three  companions  for  dinner, 
and  was  congratulating  himself  on  having  a 
place  where  his  ears  would  not  be  offended  by 
his  adversary's  voice,  when  one  of  the  three 
men  would  slip  away  to  a  party  on  the  other 
side  of  the  Hall,  and  make  room  for  the  hateful 
Otway  near  the  young  Fellow  of  Trinity.  Each 
of  the  men  tried  to  avoid,  and  was  always  ap- 
proaching the  other. 

In  justice  to  Mr.  Sharpswell,  it  must  be  re- 
corded that  he  seldom  behaved  so  badly  as  on 
his  first  meeting  with  the  object  of  his  instinct- 
ive aversion.  It  was  rare  for  him  to  be  so 
completely  off  his  guard,  and  so  wholly  want- 
ing in  gentlemanly  self-respect,  as  on  that  oc- 
casion of  misdemeanor.  But  even  when  he 
constrained  himself  to  be  formally  civil,  or  at 
least  decently  indifferent  in  his  manner  to  the 
object  of  his  abhorrence,  he  made  himself  un- 


speakably disagreeable  to  Harold  Cannick's 
proteyt.  On  the  other  hand,  instead  of  en- 
deavoring to  conciliate  his  second  cousin,  Al- 
bert Otway  merely  clothed  his  dislike  of  him 
with  a  thin  veil  of  conventional  politeness. 
The  two  young  men  were  perpetually  thrust- 
ing red-hot  needles  into  each  other.  On  no 
subject  could  they  talk  without  differing  pug- 
naciously. Arrogant  to  many  persons,  Mr. 
Sharpswell  was  especially  dogmatic  to  Albert. 
Abounding  in  courtesy  and  good  humor  to  ev- 
ery one  else,  Mr.  Otway  was  abrupt,  and  some- 
times slightly  quarrelsome,  to  the  kinsman 
whom  he  imagined  to  be  unaware  of  their  re- 
lationship by  blood. 

In  the  course  of  two  or  three  terms,  the  ob- 
vious antagonism  of  the  two  men  was  an  affair 
of  gossip  at  the  students'  tables.  Like  all  stu- 
dents for  the  Bar,  they  were  habitually  free,  if 
not  loquacious  talkers,  out  of  care  for  their  pro- 
fessional interests,  which  require  them  to  be 
facile  speakers.  At  Cambridge,  Sharpswell  had 
been  known  among  his  detractors  as  an  irre- 
pressible chatterer;  and  Lincoln's  Inn  only 
stimulated  his  egotistic  delight  in  his  own 
voice.  At  Chambers,  though  silent  by  design 
to  Mr.  Snibsworth,  Albert  was  sufficiently  con- 
versational with  his  fellow-pupils ;  and  in  Hall 
he  talked  abundantly  for  pure  enjoyment's  sake, 
and  with  the  purpose  of  making  himself  known 
to  men,  as  well  as  for  elocutionary  practice. 
With  Mr.  Otway  and  Mr.  Sharpswell,  to  ex- 
change words  was  to  exhibit  differences  of 
opinion.  They  were  both  law- re  formers,  but 
never  concurred  in  any  one  proposal  for  the 
improvement  of  the  law.  In  politics  they  were 
not  far  apart  as  to  principles,  Albert  being  a 
very  moderate  liberal,  and  his  cousin  a  decided- 
ly liberal  conservative ;  but  had  the  one  been 
an  ultra  radical,  and  the  other  an  Eldonian 
tory,  they  could  not  have  contended  more  warm- 
ly respecting  the  merits  of  public  men,  parties, 
and  measures. 

"Pardon  me,"  Mr.  Sharpswell  observed, 
sneeringly,  in  Hall  one  day;  "pardon  me,  Ot- 
way, if  you  had  read  mathematics,  you  would 
not  say  so." 

"A  man  may  have  read  mathematics,"  re- 
torted Albert,  throwing  a  look  of  ridicule  at 
the  Fellow  of  Trinity,  "without  having  been 
at  Cambridge." 

"Doubtless,"  rejoined  Mr.  Sharpswell,  "a 
man  maybe  a  scholar  without  having  gone  to  a 
public  school.  But  it  is  a  fact  that  in  England 
Cambridge  men  are  almost  the  only  readers  of 
the  higher  mathematics." 

"Let  it  be  so.  That  does  not  affect  our 
controversy  respecting  the  wave-principle,  and 
the  best  lines  for  a  ship.  It  is  on  mathematic- 
al grounds  that  I  maintain  that  you  are  in  error. 
Take  this  illustration." 

The  illustration  was  given,  and  the  giver  fol- 
lowed it  up  with  a  few  remarks  which  satisfied 
the  knot  of  wranglers  among  whom  he  was  sit- 
ting that  he  could  not  be  reproached  with 
mathematical  ignorance.  Worse  still  for  Mr. 


156 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


Sharpswell's  temper,  the  illustration  and  com- 
ments proved  him  to  have  been  ridiculously 
wrong  on  the  question  of  mathematics.  He 
saw  smiles  of  amusement  on  the  faces  of  the 
critical  hearers  of  the  discussion,  one  of  whom 
remarked,  bluntly, 

"  Ton  my  honor,  Sharpswell,  you  have  been 
turned  clean  inside  out  by  Otway,  though  lie 
never  read  mathematics  at  Cambridge." 

4 'Obviously,  Otway  knows  something  of 
mathematics,  and  in  this  matter  he  scores  one 
against  me,"  replied  Fred  Sharpswell,  priggish- 
ly,  while  he  strove  to  cover  his  retreat  with  a 
compliment  to,  and  an  ungenerous  reflection 
on,  his  victor.  The  man  had  a  nasty  habit  of 
preluding  an  insult  with  a  civil  speech.  "If 
all  non-university  men,"  he  continued,  "had 
your  knowledge  of  mathematics,  Otway,  I 
should  modify  my  opinion  that  no  man  without 
a  university  degree  ought  to  be  allowed  to  enter 
an  Inn  of  Court." 

Priding  himself  justly  on  his  Cambridge 
quality  and  status,  Fred  Sharpswell  was  inor- 
dinately supercilious  toward  barristers  and  law 
students  who  had  not  graduated  at  Oxford  or 
Cambridge.  He  affected  to  regard  them  as 
plebeian  intruders  into  a  profession  from  which 
they  ought  to  be  excluded  by  a  rigid  ordinance. 
More  than  once  he  had  annoyed  his  antagonist 
by  the  utterance  of  this  narrow  prejudice  against 
a  large  proportion  of  the  Bar. 

Albert  was  not  so  thin-skinned  that  he  would 
have  resented  this  opinion,  had  it  emanated 
from  any  other  man  than  Sharpswell ;  but  com- 
ing from  the  arrogant  Fellow  of  Trinity,  after  a 
series  of  small  impertinences  from  the  same 
source,  it  nettled  hhn  more  than  prudence  al- 
lowed him  to  reveal. 

"  Your  exclusive  rule,"  he  observed,  "  would 
have  deprived  the  law  of  some  of  its  brightest 
ornaments,  as  well  as  a  large  number  of  its 
soundest  and  most  honorable  practitioners." 

"That  may  be,"  rejoined  Mr.  Sharpswell, 
throwing  a  malicious  rattle  into  his  most  wiry 
tone  of  voice,  "  but  I  do  hold  that,  on  offering 
himself  as  a  candidate  for  the  Bar,  a  man  should 
exhibit  certain  credentials  of  his  fitness  to  asso- 
ciate with  the  members  of  a  liberal  profession." 

"A  university  degree  is  no  conclusive  evi- 
dence of  much  culture."  / 

"Anyhow  it  certifies  that  a  man  has  been 
trained  among  gentlemen." 

"To  a  certain  extent,"  replied  Albert,  with 
an  appearance  of  good  humor.  "But  just  as 
a  man  may  take  honors  at  Cambridge  without 
being  a  really  good  mathematician,  it  is  possi- 
ble for  him,  on  leaving  his  university,  to  be  a 
decidedly  uncongenial  companion  for  men  of 
the  world  and  good-breeding." 

Whereupon  the  approvers  of  Albert's  remarks 
on  ship-building  burst  out  laughing;  and  they 
laughed  yet  again  on  seeing  the  blood  leap  to 
Fred  Sharpswell's  face. 

But  Lincoln's  Inn  Hall  was  not  the  only 
place  where  the  two  enemies  exchanged  sting- 
ing words  and  affronts  that  rankled  where  they 


were  planted  in  sensitive  self-love  and  jealous 
pride. 

The  students  and  junior  bar  of  the  four  Inns 
had  three  or  four  debating-societies,  of  which 
"The  Eldon"  was  by  far  the  most  important. 
The  Eldonians  met  once  a  fortnight  during  the 
law  season,  if  one  may  be  allowed  the  expres- 
sion, and  discussed  questions  of  law  in  the  same 
large  room  of  a  Fleet  Street  tavern,  which  on  cer- 
tain other  evenings  of  the  month  resounded  with 
the  jovial  strains  of  the  Convivial  Warblers. 
Sharpswell  and  Otway  were  Eldonians,  and  reg- 
ular speakers  at  the  club.  It  was  at  "  The  El- 
don "  that  Fred  Sharpswell  made  himself  known 
as  a  law  student  who  might  do  well  in  his  pro- 
fession. His  earlier  speeches  had  favorably 
impressed  their  hearers  who,  on  the  strength  of 
his  self-confidence  and  fluency  of  utterance,  and 
also  on  the  strength  of  his  academic  rank  and 
familiar  connection  with  a  strong  firm  of  Lon- 
don attorneys,  predicted  that  he  would  make  a 
quick  march  to  the  dignities  of  the  law.  Hav- 
ing entered  Lincoln's  Inn  twelve  months  earlier 
than  his  antagonist,  Fred  Sharpswell  had  ac- 
quired a  leading  position  at  "  The  Eldon  "  when 
Albert  Otway  was  brought  to  the  club  for  the 
first  time.  Ere  the  next  long  vacation  came, 
Fred  Sharpswell  wished  that  Albert  had  never 
heard  of  the  Eldonians,  who,  having  witnessed 
a  few  conflicts  between  the  cousins,  in  which 
Fred  came  off  second  best,  began  to  lose  some- 
thing of  their  former  admiration  for  the  quick 
sarcastic  talker.  When  they  had  once  been 
put  in  comparison,  Sharpswell  and  Otway  soon 
came  to  be  regarded  at  "The  Eldon"  as  a  pair 
of  gladiators,  bound  to  fight  for  the  amusement 
of  the  company.  It  was  observed  that  Sharps- 
well  was  the  showy,  Albert  the  steady  combat- 
ant; that  if  Sharpswell  justified  his  name  by 
quickness  and  acuteness,  Otway  had  the  larger 
and  clearer  mind.  It  was  remarked  that  Ot- 
w?iy  had  greatly  the  advantage  of  his  adversary 
in  temper.  So  long  as  he  was  cool,  and  things 
went  well  with  him,  Sharpswell  could  pour  forth 
bitter  sarcasms  and  spiteful  suggestions,  in  the 
manner  of  a  famous  leader  of  the  Chancery  Bar, 
whom  he  had  taken  for  his  master  of  forensic 
style ;  but  in  reply,  when  he  had  been  hard 
pressed  and  much  worried  by  his  opponents,  he 
was  apt  to  become  angry  and  abusive.  On  the 
other  hand,  no  contradiction  ever  ruffled  Otway's 
equanimity,  or  provoked  him  to  forgetfulness 
of  his  own  dignity.  Moreover,  it  did  not  es- 
cape the  Eldonians  that  the  two  men  cordially 
disliked  each  other.  The  high-handed  courte- 
sy and  forbearance  with  which  Albert  affected 
to  treat  his  rival  were  even  more  expressive 
of  deep-rooted  dislike  than  the  sneering  inso- 
lence and  uppishness  that  characterized  Sharps- 
well's  hostile  bearing. 

"  It's  good  fun  seeing  those  men  spar  now," 
said  little  Ben  Trivett,  at  this  day  best  known 
to  the  public  as  a  writer  of  novels  and  come- 
dies ;  "  but  what  will  it  be  when  they  are  called 
to  Bar,  if  they  practice  in  the  same  court.  How 
they  will  abhor  each  other  by  the  time  they  havo 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


157 


both  taken  silk!''  When  he  made  this  speech, 
Ben  Trivett  was  an  Eldonian  and  Templar, 
with  a  hankering  after  literature,  for  which  he 
felt  his  natural  aptitude,  and  with  a  vague  pur- 
pose of  "  following  the  law,"  in  compliance  with 
the  wishes  of  a  wealthy  uncle. 

Enemies  in  Hall,  and  rivals  at  "  The  Eldon," 
Otway  and  Sharpswell  were  also  fellow-pupils 
in  Mr.  Snibsworth's  chambers.  Albert  had 
been  some  six  months  with  Snibsworth,  when, 
on  entering  the  pupils'  room  one  day  at  an  un- 
usually late  hour,  he  saw  his  adversary  sitting 
over  a  set  of  papers.  Having  exchanged  nods 
of  recognition,  the  two  kinsmen  silently  resolved 
that  the  chamber  of  study  should  be  another 
scene  of  contention  and  mutual  offensiveness. 
"If  he  ventures  to  annoy  me  here,  I'll  put  the 
snob  down  with  a  strong  hand,"  thought  Mr. 
Otway.  "  If  I  had  known  that  the  prig  was 
one  of  Snibsworth's  men,"  Mr.  Sharpswell  said 
to  himself,  "  I  would  have  kept  away  from  this 
place."  On  this  new  ground  of  battle,  Albert 
had  altogether  the  advantage  of  his  adversary. 
While  his  steady  and  silent  industry,  together 
with  signal  aptitude  for  legal  work,  raised  him 
higher  in  Snibsworth's  opinion,  Fred  Sharps- 
well's  loquacity  and  magnificent  arrogance  were 
peculiarly  irritating  to  the  conveyancer,  who 
was  no  less  frank  about  his  liking  for  the  one 
than  with  respect  to  his  dislike  of  the  other 
student.  "  Sharpswell  a  man  of  promise  !"  the 
great  draughtsman  remarked  contemptuously 
to  some  gentlemen  of  the  law  who  were  predict- 
ing signal  success  for  the  Fellow  of  Trinity — 
"  he'll  be  a  brilliant  failure !  For  a  few  years 
he'll  impose  on  a  few  solicitors  by  his  impu- 
dence, and  chatter  himself  into  business ;  and 
then,  when  his  clients  have  found  him  out,  he'll 
fall  out  of  the  running.  Otway  is  another  man. 
He'll  make  a  name  for  himself."  And  this 
judgment,  being  repeated  by  its  hearers  to  their 
acquaintance,  was  not  long  in  coming  to  Lm- 
coln's  Inn  Hall,  where  Albert,  before  the  close 
of  the  second  year  of  his  student's  course,  was 
commonly  described  as  "Snibsworth's  favorite 
pupil." 

While  Albert  thus  grew  in  the  conveyancer's 
good  graces  and  Mr.  Sharpswell's  detestation, 
his  hold  on  Harold  Cannick's  favor  strengthen- 
ed steadily  as  the  time  drew  nearer  for  his  call 
to  the  Bar. 

The  intercourse  of  the  solicitor  and  the  stu- 
dent for  the  Bar  ripened  into  a  close  friend- 
ship. On  Harold  Cannick's  side  there  was  no 
exhibition  of  patronage ;  and,  though  he  felt 
the  value  of  the  powerful  solicitor's  advice,  and 
knew  that  the  support  of  Cannick,  Bolt  &  Pat- 
terson would  insure  his  rapid  success  at  the  Bar, 
Albert  never  stooped  to  flattery,  or  any  kind 
of  mean  artifice,  for  the  purpose  of  gratifying 
his  ally.  Old  enough  to  be  Albert's  father, 
and  having  no  son  on  whom  he  could  expend 
a  parental  benevolence,  Harold  Cannick  re- 
garded the  youngmanwith  paternal  solicitude, 
and  was  justified  alike  by  his  years,  and  posi- 
tion, and  purpose,  in  treating  him  as  a  junior. 


By  birth  and  breeding  they  were  men  of  the 
same  degree.  By  age,  however,  Harold  was 
distinctly  the  young  lawyer's  superior ;  and  this 
difference  of  years  rendered  it  all  the  more  easy 
for  Albert  to. express  with  deferential  courtesy 
his  just  appreciation  of  his  benefactor's  services. 

The  exercise  of  influence,  which  opened  the 
gates  of  Lincoln's  Inn  to  Albert,  was  scarcely 
the  most  important  of  these  services.  At  the 
solicitor's  house  Mr.  Otway  made  the  acquaint- 
ance of  solicitors  only  a.  few  degrees  less  pros- 
perous than  their  host — gentlemen  who,  in  their 
willingness  to  oblige  the  chief  of  the  great  Bed- 
ford Row  firm,  pledged  themselves  to  forward 
Mr.  Otway's  professional  interests  as  soon  as 
he  should  be  called  to  the  Bar.  There,  also,  he 
encountered  non-legal  people,  whose  conversa- 
tion diverted  his  mind  from  its  secret  griefs,  so 
that,  on  returning  to  his  solitary  rooms,  he  sel- 
dom brooded  despondently  over  the  past.  The 
affection  which  the  solicitor  exhibited  for  his 
young  friend  caused  it  to  be  presumed  in  Mr. 
Cannick's  circle  that  Albert  and  he  were  con- 
nected by  ties  of  blood  as  well  as  friendship. 
It  was  even  rumored  that  Mr.  Cannick  had  set 
his  heart  on  having  Albert  for  a  son-in-law  as 
soon  as  the  young  lawyer  should  be  establish- 
ed in  his  profession,  and  the  eldest  of  Mrs.  Can- 
nick's  daughters  should  have  attained  a  mar- 
riageable age.  Now  and  then  Albert  accom- 
panied his  protector  to  the  theatres,  and  to 
those  circles  of  artistic  Bohemia  in  which  the 
solicitor  was  honored  as  the  generous  protect- 
or of  genius  in  difficulties.  Having  thus  taken 
Albert  openly  by  the  hand,  Mr.  Cannick  put 
his  name  down  for  admission  to  the  Criterion 
Club,  which,  founded  though  it  had  been  in  re- 
cent years  by  gentlemen  of  the  middle  rank  of 
life,  had,  through  a  series  of  propitious  circum- 
stances, acquired  an  aristocratic  reputation. 

"By- the -way,"  Harold  Cannick  observed, 
somewhat  testily,  to  Albert,  shortly  after  the 
latter  had  been  entered  in  the  candidates'  book 
at  the  Criterion,  "  your  friend  Mr.  SharpsweU 
is  making  himself  very  disagreeable  at  the 
Criterion." 

"I  did  not  know  he  belonged  to  the  Club." 

"  He  was  only  twenty-one  when  he  joined 
it.  His  father  was  one  of  the  founders;  and 
his  father's  old  friends  on  the  committee  brought 
him  in.  I  was  fool  enough  to  vote  for  the 
puppy  when  he  was  at  Cambridge." 

"It  seems  that  you  don't  like  him  more  than 
I  do."  • 

"He  is  an  insolent  puppy!"  returned  Mr. 
Cannick,  flushing  with  a  heat  which  showed 
that  he  had  received  some  sharp  provocation 
from  the  offender,  who  had  shortly  before  been 
called  to  the  Bar. 

"  Well,  he  is  insolent  sometimes — and  I  must 
own  that  he  is  a  puppy.  But  he  is  a  cleverish 
fellow." 

"He  is  a  pert  jackanapes,"  the  solicitor 
ejaculated,  hotly.  "  Of  all  puppies,  your  clev- 
erish puppy  is  the  most  offensive." 

"What  has  he  been  doing  at  the  Criterion?" 


158 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


"  'Gad,  Otway.  the  other  evening,  while  I  was 
smoking  a  solitary  cigar  in  the  little  inner 
smoking-room,  I  heard  him  talking  away  in  the 
large  divan  to  a  party  of  young  fellows  ahout 
the  ignorance  and  bad  breeding  of  solicitors. 
He  was  of  opinion  that  no  solicitor  should  be 
allowed  to  join  a  West  End  club  !  According 
to  him,  solicitors  of  the  best  standing  are  mere 
'  white  trash '  in  comparison  with  briefless  bar- 
risters. This  from  a  young  fellow  whose  fa- 
ther was  only  a  trumpery  commissioner  of  some- 
thing or  other!  Pooh!  he  is  an  insufferable 
puppy!" 

Albert  laughed,  partly  at  the  fervor  of  his 
indignant  friend,  but  chiefly  at  the  prodigious 
mistake  Avhich  Sharpswell  had  committed  in 
his  reckless  loquacity. 

"He  would  have  spoken  more  cautiously, 
and  in  a  lower  tone,"  said  Harold's  young  friend, 
"had  he  known  that  you  were  within  hear- 
ing." 

"No  doubt.  And  I  can  assure  you  he  low- 
ered his  tone,  and  looked  mighty  foolish,  when 
I  strolled  into  the  large  divan  with  my  cigar  in 
my  mouth.  He  saw  from  my  face  that  I  had 
overheard  him.  He  is  one  of  those  uppish 
young  fellows  who  would  toady  me  for  a  brief, 
and  all  the  while  look  down,  on  me  because  I 
am  a  solicitor.  Anyhow,  Mr.  Sharpswell  knows 
he  won't  have  to  thank  me  for  any  of  his  suc- 
cess at  the  Bar. " 

"  Did  you  speak  to  him  ?" 

"  Speak  to  him  !  I  let  him  know  my  opin- 
ion of  him  by  looking  at  him." 

"  That  man  has  a  positive  genius  for  mak- 
ing a  fool  of  himself.  He  has  every  thing  on 
his  side  —  good  looks,  mental  quickness,  suffi- 
cient means,  Cambridge  honors!  Why,  Mr. 
Cannick,  he  has  nearly  every  advantage  that  a 
man  of  our  rank  can  reasonably  ask  for  at  the 
outset  of  life,  except  tact  and  conciliatory 
manner." 

"And  the  want  of  them,  Otway,  will  be  his 
ruin.  Mark  my  word,  he  may  make  a  fair  run- 
ning at  first,  but  he'll  be  a  failure,  when  you 
are  only  getting  into  the  full  swing  of  busi- 
ness." 

Having  delivered  himself  of  this  opinion,  and 
thereby  vented  his  hottest  indignation,  Mr. 
Cannick  bade  his  young  friend  good-bye  at  the 
corner  of  Regent  Circus,  and  strolled  home- 
ward to  Mrs.  Cannick  and  his  girls  and  his 
Flemish  pictures. 

As  Albert  sauntered  toward  Fleet  Street,  for 
a  beefsteak  at  The  White  Loaf,  he  meditated 
on  his  strange  hatred  of  his  second  cousin,  and 
wondered  whether  that  remote  kinsman  would 
ever  penetrate  Albert  Otway's  disguise,  and 
discover  his  cousin  Guerdon  in  his  bitter  ad- 
versary. 

"  So  I  am  to  cross  his  path  at  every  turn," 
thought  Albert.  "I  spar  with  him  in  Hall 
and  at  The  Eldon;  I  made  him  a  joke  at  Snibs- 
worth's  chambers,  and  now  it  appears  we  are 
destined  to  worry  each  other  at  the  Criterion 
Club." 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

RIVALS    AT     THE     BAR. 

To  read  the  announcement  of  a  death  in  a 
newspaper  is  sometimes  to  realize  with  agoniz- 
ing vividness  the  joy  of  former  days.  Gained 
from  the  close  type  of  a  journal's  brief,  unsym- 
pathetic notice  of  recent  deaths,  the  intelli- 
gence that  a  woman  whom  he  loved  long  since 
has  passed  away  from  her  familiar  circle,  fills 
the  reader's  mind  with  gloom.  He  recalls  in 
an  instant  the  voice  that  was  the  music  of  a 
household,  and  the  smiles  that  gave  beholders 
gladness.  He  remembers  trivial  courtesies  and 
pleasant  acts  of  kindness,  forgotten,  perhaps, 
ever  since  they  were  rendered  in  careless  ami- 
ability. The  scenes  which  she  irradiated  with 
the  brightness  of  her  beauty  and  goodness  rise 
to  his  recollection,  and  he  feels  like  one  who 
gazes  at  the  shuttered  windows  and  silent  walls 
of  an  empty  mansion,  where,  in  happier  time, 
he  was  the  frequent  and  ever-welcome  guest  of 
light-hearted  entertainers. 

Albert  Otway  experienced  this  bitter  sadness 
in  an  early  month  of  his  third  year  at  Lincoln's 
Inn,  when  he  learned  from  the  Times  that  Mary, 
the  wife  of  Sir  James  Darling,  Knt.,  Q.C.,  and 
County  Court  Judge  of  Boringdonshire,  had 
died  at  Arleigh  Manor.  Yes,  the  event,  to 
which  he  had,  little  more  than  two  years  since, 
looked  forward,  as  one  of  the  sure  consequences 
of  trouble  in  which  he  had  borne  a  part,  was  now 
a  recorded  fact ;  and,  had  it  been  unanticipated, 
it.  could  not  have  occasioned  him  a  sharper  or 
more  sudden  sense  of  unutterable  desolation. 
He  felt  a  generous  pity  for  the  kindly,  timid, 
world-fearing  knight,  whose  worst  faults  were 
those  of  commonplace  selfishness  and  vanity. 
He  would  fain  have  written  the  old  man  a  few 
words  of  comfort.  For  his  grand  imposture  he 
was  fitly  punished  by  the  grief  with  which  he  rec- 
ognized his  inability  to  pen  a  line,  or  do  a  single 
act  to  lessen  Lottie's  affliction.  How  could  her 
dead  lover  venture  to  console  her?  He  might 
not,  even  for  the  mitigation  of  his  own  distress, 
seek  from  any  of  his  old  Boringdonshire  ac- 
quaintances how  she  endured  her  trial.  From 
them  and  from  her  he  AVMS  separated  by  the 
grave,  in  which  the  Bohemian  lay  beneath  a 
lying  coffin-lid. 

On  recovering  from  the  shock  which  Mary 
Darling's  timely  death  occasioned  him,  Albert 
sought  relief  for  his  feelings,  and  escaped  from 
harrowing  reflection,  by  applying  more  strenu- 
ously than  ever  to  legal  study.  Hitherto  ho 
had  shown  no  disposition  to  commit  the  com- 
mon fault  of  studious  and  resolutely  ambitious 
young  men.  But  in  the  last  year  of  his  stu- 
dent's course  he  concentrated  all  his  powers  on 
his  special  work,  and  in  his  zeal  exhibited  so 
dangerous  a  disinclination  to  qualify  exhausting 
labor  with  suitable  recreation,  that  Harold  Can- 
nick  more  than  once  felt  it  right  to  caution 
"  his  new  man  "  against  the  danger  of  over- 
reading.  On  three  separate  occasions,  after 
vainly  endeavoring  to  lure  his  protfye  to  the 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


159 


Criterion  Club  for  a  quiet  tete-a-tete  dinner, 
the  solicitor  observed  with  kindly  concern  and 
significant  earnestness,  "  You  are  right  to  work, 
but  the  right  course  may  be  carried  too  far. 
Don't  overdo  it,  Otway.  Take  a  hint  from 
your  backer,  my  boy,  and  don't  overdo  it." 

While  Albert  Otway  was  thus  eliciting  anx- 
ious expostulations  from  Harold  Cannick,  Mr. 
Frederick  Sharps  well,  having  made  his  debut 
in  a  Court  of  Equity,  was  floating  out  into  a 
considerable  practice  under  favorable  circum- 
stances. 

The  public  would  do  well  to  disabuse  them- 
selves of  two  prevalent  misconceptions  respect- 
ing the  Bar  and  its  members. 

It  is  not  true  that  every  young  lawyer  who 
means  to  be  a  working  barrister  has  his  eye 
upon  the  wool-sack  when  he  assumes  the  long 
robe  and  horse-hair  wig.  Thougli  the  attain- 
ment of  the  Great  Seal  is  one  of  the  brilliant 
possibilities  of  a  career  at  the  Bar,  the  junior 
who  regards  the  "pestiferous  lump  of  metal" 
as  the  proper  guerdon  of  his  worth  is  almost 
as  exceptional  a  character  as  the  boyish  soldier 
of  fortune  who  thinks  that  he  will  ultimately 
rise  to  be  commander-iri-chief  of  Her  Majesty's 
forces.  Frederick  Sharpswell  was  one  of  the 
few  greatly  ambitious  and  supremely  confident 
juniors  of  his  time  who  regarded  the  highest 
honors  of  the  Law  as  prizes  for  which  they  were 
naturally  qualified  to  compete  with  the  ablest 
men  of  their  profession.  But  even  he,  with  all 
his  overweening  self-sufficiency,  did  not  feel 
secure  of  rising  to  the  apex  of  legal  grandeur. 
That  he  should  soon  come  to  the  fore  of  Equity 
juniors,  should  wear  "silk"  before  he  was 
gray,  and  should  do  a  good  business  among 
"  leaders,"  were  matters  respecting  which  he 
had  no  misgiving.  He  was  pleasantly  certain 
that,  life  and  health  favoring  him,  a  vice-chan- 
cellor's place  would,  sooner  or  later,  come  with- 
in his  grasp.  But  when  he  thought  of  his 
chances  of  winning  the  first  and  brightest  of  all 
legal  distinctions,  his  "aspirations"  were  check- 
ed by  feelings  remotely  akin  to  modesty,  and  by 
a  proper  appreciation  of  all  the  disturbing  in- 
fluences that  might  retard,  or  finally  stop,  his 
march  upon  the  wool-sack.  Having  no  doubt 
that  he  was  Erskine's  equal  in  eloquence,  and 
Brougham's  peer  in  mental  subtlety  and  vigor, 
he  could  not  be  sure  of  having  their  good  for- 
tune. 

Nor  is  it  true  that  the  Bar  is  a  profession  in 
which  no  young  man  ever  wins  recognition  and 
abundant  employment,  unless  he  has  private 
introduction  to  the  good-will  of  powerful  solic- 
itors. If  there  ever  was  such  a  time,  the  day 
has  long  passed  when  a  youth  of  fluent  speech 
and  no  knowledge  of  the  law  could  talk  himself 
into  business.  No  doubt  our  four  Inns  contain 
middle-aged  gentlemen  who,  notwithstanding 
their  abundance  of  learning  and  personal  capa- 
bilities for  advocacy,  are  unknown  and  needy, 
through  want  of  connections  in  the  inferior 
department  of  the  Law ;  while  youthful  bar- 
risters, of  inferior  style  and  endowments,  are 


being  enriched  by  business  that  flows  to  them 
,  from  their  fathers  and  brothers  and  cousins. 
I  But  in  spite  of  all  the  facts  which  are  fruitful 
of  discouragement  and  failure  to  the  long-robed 
outsiders  of  the  Law  List,  the  Bar  still  remains 
so  far  an  open  profession  that  it  numbers  some 
dozens  of  fortunate  practitioners  who  found 
clients  quickly,  although  they  had  no  attorneys 
among  their  private  friends,  and  no  private  ac- 
cess to  the  good-will  of  attorneys,  when  they 
first  entered  Westminster  Hall  and  joined  their 
circuits. 

It  is  not  wonderful  that  Frederick  Sharpswell 
found  business  in  his  first  term,  and  numerous 
clients  in  his  first  year.  He  had  a  presence  that 
was  effective  and  almost  distinguished.  In  spite 
of  the  uppishness  which  made  him  enemies,  his 
address  was  in  some  respects  favorable  to  his 
ambition.  It  was  eloquent  of  the  self-  confidence 
which  ordinary  people  are  apt  to  mistake  for 
power.  Its  very  flashiness  and  arrogance  were 
likely  to  be  mistaken  by  dullards  for  brilliance 
and  dignity.  His  power  of  speaking  was  supe- 
rior to  average  forensic  eloquence.  As  a  sec- 
ond wrangler  and  Fellow  of  Trinity,  he  had  the 
academic  credentials  which  solicitors  of  high 
standing  always  respect,  and  sometimes  greatly 
overvalue.  Her  was  known  to  be  a  nephew  of 
Sir  Walter  Mansfield,  a  vice-chancellor  who 
took  an  amiable  pleasure  in  supporting  young 
advocates  with  expressions  of  critical  approval; 
and  it  was  rightly  felt  by  solicitors  that  Mr. 
Sharpswell  would  receive  no  stinted  share  of 
the  judge's  benevolent  consideration.  Though 
Sir  Walter  was  incapable  of  nepotism,  or  any 
kind  of  official  unfairness,  it  was  soon  obvious 
that  he  was  favorably  disposed  toward  his  young 
kinsman.  Moreover,  as  it  has  been  intimated 
in  a  previous  chapter,  Mr.  Frederick  Sharpswell 
had  strong  private  supporters  among  solicitors 
of  position  ;  and  though  he  could  talk  disdain- 
fully of  attorneys  in  the  Criterion  smoking- 
room,  he  exhibited  a  proper  gratitude  for  the 
services  rendered  to  him  by  the  attorneys  of  his 
personal  connection. 

So  Mr.  Sharpswell  had  an  excellent  start  in 
the  legal  race,  and  during  his  first  year  he  did 
so  much  with  it  that  some  of  his  unfriendly  crit- 
ics were  constrained  to  admit  there  was  more  in 
him  than  they  had  supposed.  True  it  was  that 
his  principal  briefs  were  winning  briefs.  Bat 
his  side  won ;  and  he  did  his  share  of  the  win- 
ning in  a  style  which  justified  solicitors  in  think- 
ing he  might  be  safely  trusted  in  more  difficult 
work.  Instead  of  abusing  with  excessive  lo- 
quacity his  junior's  privilege  of  speech — a  priv- 
ilege that  gives  the  Equity  junior  so  great  an 
advantage  over  the  Common  Law  junior — he 
put  a  curb  on  his  tongue ;  and  while  he  spoke 
with  discreetness  and  moderation,  he  exhibited 
no  little  of  the  advocate's  cleverness.  At  the 
same  time,  his  business  in  chambers  was  consid- 
erable. Heavy  papers  came  to  his  table,  and  it 
was  rumored  by  his  clients  that  he  turned  out 
his  work  in  a  masterly  style.  It  was  whispered 
in  legal  cliques  that  he  gave  promise  of  being 


160 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


in  time  a  sound  "  case  lawyer."  Having  made 
up  his  mind  that  Mr.  Sharps-well  should  be  a  fail- 
ure at  the  Bar,  it  might  be  imagined  that  Mr. 
Cannick  regarded  with  likely  annoyance  the 
success  of  the  young  man's  opening  terms.  But 
Harold  was  neither  surprised  nor  hurt. 

"Pooh!  his  backers  have  not  yet  had  time 
to  find  him  out,"  said  the  senior  partner  of  the 
Bedford  Row  house.  "  He  is  a  showy  fellow, 
and  has  strong  friends,  and  he  is  now  making 
the  running  that  I  predicted  for  him.  But  he'll 
soon  begin  to  blunder  and  trip.  Already  he 
shows  signs  of  running  wild,  from  having  had 
too  much 'corn.'  A  year  or  so  hence  he'll 
lose  his  head,  and  make  a  fool  of  himself. 
Moreover,  my  '  new  man '  will  be  called  this 
term,  and  he'll  soon  be  giving  that  pert  junior  a 
lesson  or  two.  Mr.  Otway  is  '  Snibsworth's  fa- 
vorite pupil,'  and  the  Eldonians  say  he  is  a 
deuced  deal  stronger  in  talk  than  Sharpswell." 

A  few  d.'iys  after  Mr.  Cannick  had  expressed 
these  opinions  at  his  own  table  to  half  a  dozen 
of  his  brethren  of  the  lower  department  of  the 
law,  Albert  Otway  was  called  to  the  Bar. 

At  Mr.  Cannick's  advice,  Albert  had,  some 
months  before  his  call,  become  the  tenant,  at  a 
high  rent,  of  a  small  set  of  ground-floor  cham- 
bers in  Old  Square,  Lincoln's  Inn — three  small 
rooms,  which  fortunately  fell  vacant  at  the  right 
moment,  and  which  Albert  would  not  have  suc- 
ceeded in  carrying  off  from  half  a  score  compet- 
itors for  the  three  dingy  little  closets,  had  not  a 
word  been  spoken  in  his  behalf  to  the  treasurer 
by  the  powerful  solicitor.  The  staircase,  at 
whose  foot  the  set  of  chambers  was  placed,  is  the 
second  staircase  on  the  left  hand  of  the  Chan- 
cery Lane  entrance  of  the  Inn ;  and  looking 
along  one  side  of  a  triangle  to  the  wall,  built  at 
right  angles  to  the  Lane  side  of  the  Old  Square, 
Albert  could  see  the  windows  of  the  ground- 
floor  chambers  which  his  adversary  had  taken 
on  his  call  to  the  Bar.  Again  and  again,  dur- 
ing the  interval  between  his  entrance  into  his 
new  quarters  and  his  enrollment  among  learned 
counselors,  Albert  had  observed  his  enemy  pass 
to  and  fro  between  his  rooms  and  the  adjacent 
courts  of  Equity  ;  and  as  often,  on  coming  out 
of  court  with  a  pleasant  consciousness  of  having 
made  another  step  onward  to  success,  Frederick 
Sharpswell  had  glanced  at  Albert's  windows,  in 
the  hope  that  his  antagonist  might  see  him,  with 
his  hands  full  of  papers,  and  his  face  radiant 
with  satisfaction.  More  than  once,  also,  Albert 
had  witnessed  one  of  Sharpswell's  petty  tri- 
umphs in  his  uncle's  court,  and  remarked  how, 
at  the  instant  of  his  hottest  exultation,  the  vain 
man  looked  round  to  catch  his  eye. 

"Yes,"  Albert  had  muttered  to  himself  on 
these  occasions,  "you  have  the  start  of  me  by 
time :  but  I  will  soon  be  abreast  of  you,  and 
then  we  will  see  who  is  to  take  the  lead." 

Like  Frederick  Sharpswell,  Albert  was  one 
of  the  very  few  fortunate  young  lawyers  who 
walk  straight  from  the  students'  tables  of  Lin- 
coln's Inn  into  abundant  employment.  He 
would  have  been  a  luckv  fellow  had  he  received 


from  the  Bedford  Row  firm  only  a  quarter  of 
the  business  that  was  sent  him  in  his  first  year 
by  Cannick,  Bolt  &  Patterson.  Harold  Can- 
nick  was  resolved  that  his  "new  man"  should 
succeed  rapidly  and  completely.  The  new 
man's  rapid  progress  should  not  only  justify  his 
patron's  choice  of  a  prottge,  but  it  should  be  a 
signal  demonstration  to  the  solicitors  and  bar 
of  the  Equity  courts  that,  when  Harold  Cannick 
undertook  to  "  make  a  man,"  he  could  make 
him  quickly  as  well  as  surely.  Not  content  with 
bringing  Snibsworth's  favorite  pupil  a  fine  jun- 
ior's business  from  the  big  corner  house  of  Bed- 
ford Row,  Harold  pulled,  in  his  young  friend's 
behalf,  every  cord  and  string  of  influence  that 
connected  Cannick,  Bolt  &  Patterson  with  the 
general  body  of  London  solicitors.  Triumph- 
ant at  his  own  success  before  Albert's  call,  Mr. 
Sharpswell  soon  had  the  mortification  of  seeing 
his  success  rendered  comparatively  insignificant 
by  the  far  more  remarkable  advancement  of 
"  that  odious  prig  without  a  university  degree," 
as  Frederick  was  wont  to  describe  his  rival. 

Wherever  it  came  from — Chancery  Lane  or 
the  Fields,  City  or  West  End,  Birmingham  or 
Liverpool — the  "  new  man"  was  in  nearly  every 
cause  of  magnitude  and  public  interest.  The 
doings  of  the  lucky  junior  were  the  gossip  of 
legal  circles ;  and,  together  with  a  few  truths, 
many  astounding  fictions  were  uttered  to  ac- 
count for  his  extraordinary  success.  He  was 
Snibsworth's  favorite  pupil,  and  had  been  a 
clerk  in  a  Lombard  Street  house,  until  Bolt,  of 
Cannick,  Bolt  &  Patterson,  discovering  his  legal 
ability,  had  brought  him  into  the  law.  He  was 
Harold  Cannick's  nephew  by  marriage  ;  he  was 
the  Duke  of  Dovercourt's  illegitimate  son,  and 
had  been  introduced  to  the  Bedford  Row  solicit- 
ors by  his  father.  On  one  point  all  critics  were 
agreed  j  he  was  a  favorite  pupil  who  did  Snibs- 
worth  credit.  Many  envied  the  new  man  his 
extraordinary  success ;  but  no  one  said  aloud 
that  it  was  greater  than  his  merits.  Frederick 
Sharpswell's  backers,  however,  did  not  fall  away 
from  him  ;  and  he  went  on  making  way,  though 
it  was  exasperatingly  obvious  to  him  that,  having 
in  twelve  months  fallen  behind  Harold  Cannick's 
pet,  he  would  never  come  up  with  him  in  the 
quick  running. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

WAR     TO     THE     KNIFE. 

FOR  a  brief  while  the  excitements  of  success 
made  Albert  comparatively  unmindful  of  his  old 
feud  with  the  rival  whom  he  was  beating  sig- 
nally. But  when  he  had  been  at  the  Bar  some 
sixteen  months,  an  event  occurred  which,  deep- 
ening and  intensifying  his  previous  dislike  of 
the  man,  added  a  passidnate  detestation  to  it. 

"  Otway,  I  want  a  word  with  you,"  said  Har- 
old Cannick,  entering  the  barrister's  chamber 
one  afternoon  shortly  after  the  rising  of  the 
courts. 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


161 


"  Pray  have  it,"  was  the  reply.  "  It  is  about 
business  ?" 

"Private  business — no  matter  of  law." 

"Go  on." 

"In  re  the  Criterion  Club  and  your  candi- 
dature." 

"What  has  happened?" 

"  Enough  to  make  me  think  that  I  had  bet- 
ter withdraw  your  name  from  the  candidates' 
list." 

"  Nonsense  !  Why,  I  am  on  for  election  or 
rejection  next  week.  What  has  any  one  to  say 
against  me?" 

"  The  election  of  new  members  is  with  the 
committee,  to  which,  in  spite  of  my  endeavors 
to  keep  him  out,  Mr.  Frederick  Sharpswell  was 
elected  last  month,  as  the  spokesman  of  the 
'young  blood.'" 

"  Umph !"  returned  Albert,  suddenly  turning 
white  with  apprehension  and  anger.  "And  he 
objects  to  me?" 

"Very  decidedly.  You  see  he  is  madly 
jealous  of  you.  He  hated  you  for  half  a  hun- 
dred reasons  before  you  were  called  to  the  Bar ; 
and  now  your  prodigious  success  in  the  profes- 
sion has  stimulated  his  old  dislike  of  you  into 
vindictive  fury.  He  dislikes  me  also — for  help- 
ing you  ;  for  opposing  his  election  to  the  com- 
mittee ;  and  for  putting  him  down  rather  rough- 
ly once  or  twice  at  the  club.  He  has  annoyed 
me  lately  at  The  Criterion  in  several  matters. 
As  soon  as  he  saw  that  I  was  as  much  his  en- 
emy as  your  friend,  he  took  to  his  insolent 
tricks ;  and,  confound  him,  by  thwarting  and 
'cheeking'  me  he  makes  some  of  the  young- 
sters credit  him  with  high  spirit  in  treating  a 
big  solicitor  so  disdainfully.  And  now  he  is 
going  to  do  us  both  an  ill  turn  by  keeping  you 
out  of  the  Club." 

"  Indeed  !  How  will  he  accomplish  that 
feat?  He  will  scarcely  induce  the  committee 
to  reject  me,  unless  he  can  say  something  worse 
against  me  than  that  he  is  jealous  of  my  success, 
and  does  not  relish  my  company.  What  course 
will  he  take?" 

"I  can  tell  you,  for  he  spoke  to  me  in  the 
committee -room  of  The  Criterion  yesterday 
very  frankly  ;  but  I  had  rather  not  repeat  ex- 
actly what  passed  between  us." 

"Let  me  know  exactly  what  he  said." 

"  I  will  gratify  you.  But  first  let  me  say 
that  he  alluded  to  your  father  in  no  respectful 
terms.  Now,  am  I  to  go  on?" 

"  Yes,"  Albert  answered,  stoutly.  "  I  must 
know  all." 

"  It  was  just  this."  *  Mr.  Cannick,1  he  began, 
'  so  that  you  may  have  an  opportunity  of  with- 
drawing  your  man,  and  preventing  a  discussion 
which  might  be  injurious  to  him  and  painful  to 
you,  I  think  it  right  to  tell  you  that,  if  you  per- 
sist in  your  purpose  of  bringing  Mr.  Otway  on 
for  election  at  the  next  meeting  of  the  com- 
mittee, I  shall  resist  his  election  strenuously.' 
'  On  any  ground  besides  that  he  is  personal- 
ly disagreeable  to  you?'  I  asked.  'Yes,'  was 
his  answer,  '  on  other  grounds,  which  I  shall 
11 


state  precisely  to  the  committee  ;  and  then, 
should  there  be  need  for  it,  I  shall  demand  a 
ballot  of  the  committee.'  I  observed,  '  Perhaps 
you  will  let  me  hear  your  other  grounds  of  ob- 
jection to  Mr.  Otway  ?'  Then  came  the  infor- 
mation which  I  am  reluctant  to  report  to  you." 

Albert  was  greatly  excited,  though  he  con- 
cealed his  vehement  agitation,  as  he  rejoined, 
in  his  customary  voice,  "Then  came  the  infor- 
mation which  I  am  most  desirous  to  hear." 

The  solicitor  continued : 

"  '  I  dislike  the  man  cordially,'  my  gentleman 
went  on,  '  but  I  should  not,  as  The  Criterion  is 
a  large  club,  feel  justified  in  opposing  his  elec- 
tion on  that  ground.  But  when  I  tell  you  that 
his  father  was  a  fraudulent  bankrupt,  and  em- 
bezzler of  money,  and  a  forger,  I  think  I  have 
said  enough  to  satisfy  you  that  it  would  not  be 
advantageous  for  The  Criterion  to  number  Mr. 
Otway  among  its  members.  And,  as  commit- 
tee-men, we  ai'e  bound,  in  electing  new  mem- 
bers, to  think  only  of  the  interests  of  the  club.' 
My  reply  was,  '  Mr.  Sharpswell,  you  have  made 
strong  statements.  I  presume  you  make  them 
on  what  seems  to  you  the  best  authority  ?'  '  I 
speak  on  the  best  authority,'  he  replied,  '  and 
you  may  rely  on  me  that  Otway's  father  was 
what  I  say.  He  only  escaped  a  prosecution 
for  felony  by  committing  suicide.'  '  Still,  sir,' 
I  answered,  '  I  must  press  you  for  your  author- 
ities for  the  extraordinary  statements  which 
you  have  made.'" 

Again  Harold  Cannick  paused. 

While  speaking  the  solicitor  had  refrained 
from  looking  at  Albert's  face,  but,  on  pausing, 
he  glanced  at  his  companion's  countenance,  and 
saw  that  mental  agony  had  covered  the  stern, 
stony  features  with  beads  of  sweat. 

"  Go  on.  Give  me  his  answer,"  Albert  said, 
hoarsely. 

"  'My  reply,'  he  answered,  '  will  show  you, 
Mr.  Cannick,  why  I  should  prefer  that  this  mat- 
ter should  be  settled  by  your  withdrawing  Mr. 
Otway's  name  from  the  list  of  candidates.  I 
am  far  from  wishing  that  Mr.  Otway's  history 
should  be  discussed  at  a  meeting  of  the  com- 
mittee ;  for,  were  it  to  come  under  their  con- 
sideration, I  should  be  constrained  to  confess 
myself  a  distant  kinsman  of  the  felon  whose 
son  would  fain  enter  The  Criterion  on  your  arm. 
I  am  Mr.  Otway's  second  cousin,  and  what  I 
have  told  you  about  him  I  know,  because  I  have 
the  misfortune  to  be  related  to  him.  The  gen- 
tleman is  your  intimate  friend,  and  you  will 
doubtless  mention  to  him  what  has  passed  be- 
tween us.  Ask  him  whether  I  am  the  second 
cousin  with  whose  immediate  family  he  never 
held  any  intercourse,  and  whom  he  encounter- 
ed for  the  first  time  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Hall.  If 
he  should  say  yes,  you  will  probably  not  care 
to  press  me  for  any  further  particulars  of  a 
painful  and  humiliating  episode  of  my  family 
history.  If  he  should  say  no,  ask  me,  Mr. 
Cannick,  for  the  proofs  of  what  I  have  stated, 
and  you  shall  have  conclusive  proofs.  Mr. 
Otway  has  sought  to  sepirate  himself  from  his 


162 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


paternal  infamy  by  a  few  flimsy  artifices.  He 
has  dropped  one  of  his  names,  and  he  has  ex- 
ercised some  ingenuity  in  disguising  himself 
physically,  but  I  know  him  to  be  my  second 
cousin,  and  the  son  of  a  villain.  No  son  of 
a  thief  and  forger  should  enter  the  Criterion 
Club  under  any  disguise  of  social  success  and 
false  appearances.'  To  this  I  said,  '  You  have 
nothing  to  allege  against  Mr.  Otway  except  his 
parentage?'  'Nothing,' was  the  answer.  As 
I  turned  on  my  heel,  I  replied,  *  I  will  think  of 
this  matter,  Mr.  Sharps  well.  Probably  I  shall 
speak  to  my  friend  Otway  about  it ;  but,  any- 
how, I  will  let  you  know  my  intentions  with 
respect  to  his  candidature  before  the  next  meet- 
ing of  the  committee.' " 

Having  finished  a  statement,  which  he  made 
with  painful  effort,  Harold  Cannick  drew  a  long 
breath,  and  exclaimed, 

"There,  Otway,  now  I  have  made  a  clean 
breast  of  it." 

"And  would  like  to  know  whether  the  man 
has  told  the  truth." 

"  Rather  say,  I  should  like  to  know  what  we 
ought  to  do  under  the  very  unpleasant  circum- 
stances." 

On  one  point  Mr.  Sharpswell  has  spoken  the 
truth.  He  and  I  are  second  cousins.  His  par- 
ents and  mine  never  had  any  intercourse.  A 
family  quarrel  separated  our  grandparents  for 
life,  so  that  their  children  and  grandchildren 
have  lived  as  though  they  were  in  no  degree  re- 
lated. I  never  set  eyes  on  Frederick  Sharps- 
well  until  I  encountered  him  in  Lincoln's  Inn 
Hall,  and  then  I  detested  him  cordially  before 
we  had  exchanged  ten  sentences.  So  far  he 
tells  the  truth." 

"Yes,"  said  Harold  Cannick,  dryly,  "I  pre- 
sumed that  he  spoke  by  the  book.  He  would 
not  have  dared  to  tell  an  untruth,  knowing  my 
intimacy  with  you." 

"  On  no  point  has  he  said  to  you  any  thing 
which  he  knew  to  be  untrue.  I  must  be  just  to 
him.  He  has  not  attempted  to  mislead  you  by 
any  willful  misstatement.  But  all  the  same  for 
that,  he  has  uttered  things  which  are  not  true. 
Though  he  spoke  on  what  may  be  called  jus- 
tifying authority,  he  altogether  misstated  my 
poor  father's  case,  which — " 

Quickly  and   hotly,  Harold  Cannick  inter- 


"Not  a  single  word,  my  dear  Otway,  about 
that;  not  a  single  word  on  that  subject.  I 
know  as  much  of  that  matter  as  you  could  tell 
me.  And  for  you  to  talk  about  it  to  me  would 
only  pain  you,  and  perhaps  disturb  the  course 
of  our  friendship." 

"You  know  my  father's  story?"  exclaimed 
Albert,  with  surprise. 

Smiling  at  his  companion's  astonishment,  the 
solicitor,  dismissing  his  momentary  fervor,  an- 
swered, 

"  To  be  sure,  I  know  it.  I  knew  it  from  the 
commencement  of  our  acquaintance.  I  can 
scarcely  say  I  was  one  of  your  father's  friends, 
but  I  had  a  slight  personal  knowledge  of  him ; 


and  when  he  died,  and  there  was  a  hubbub  of 
indignation  against  him,  I  was  one  of  the  few 
persons  who  did  him  justice,  and  maintained 
that  he  was  not  so  much  a  sinner  as  a  culprit's 
victim.  One  reason  why  I  decided  to  take  you 
up — excuse  the  term,  for  you  are  growing  so 
great  a  man  that  I  mayn't  presume  to  patronize 
you — one  reason  why  I  determined  to  serve  you 
in  the  way  of  business,  was  my  sympathy  for 
your  domestic  trouble.  My  perception  of  the 
difficulties  which  your  father's  story  would  oc- 
casion you  caused  me  to  feel  for  you.  There, 
there — I  have  never  alluded  to  the  ugly  busi- 
ness. And  I  had  hoped  that  nothing  would 
ever  compel  me  to  allude  to  it." 

Tears  of  grateful  emotion  rose  in  Albert's 
large  dark  eyes  as  he  rose  from  his  seat,  and, 
grasping  the  solicitor's  hand,  exclaimed,  almost 
hysterically, 

"How  nobly  generous  of  you,  and  how  very 
delicate  !  My  dear  friend,  gratitude  is  no  suf- 
ficient acknowledgment  of  such  goodness  and 
rare  delicacy !  By  heavens,  sir,  I  love  you  !" 

"  Hang  your  love,  my  boy,"  returned  Harold 
Cannick,  with  an  affectation  of  jauntiness,  while 
the  nervous  force  of  his  grip  of  Albert's  hand 
betrayed  that  his  feelings  were  deeply  stirred, 
"I  only  want  your  good-will  and  work-a-day 

lasting  friendship.  me !  as  I  have  no  son 

of  my  own,  why  should  not  I  amuse  myself  by 
playing  the  father  to  you?  But  mind  me,  Ot- 
way, if  you  go  in  for  emotional  extravagances 
and  wild  talk,  I'll  draw  off  from  you,  and  in- 
stead of  being  your  beneficent  parent,  I'll  be 
your  formal  and  very  frigid  uncle." 

This  jocular  reproof  had  the  desired  effect  on 
Albert,  who  in  a  few  seconds  recovered  his  cus- 
tomary coolness,  and  resuming  his  seat,  looked 
once  again  much  less  like  a  gushing  son  than  a 
hard-headed  counsel  holding  a  consultation  with 
an  important  client. 

"The  question  is,  what  shall  we  do?"  the 
solicitor  observed,  in  the  hardest  of  matter-of- 
fact  tones.  "Your  amiable  second  cousin  has 
found  you  out,  and  means  to  bar  the  club  door 
against  you.  He  has  no  desire  to  publish  his 
relationship  to  you,  and  will  hold  his  tongue 
about  your  father's  ugly  business— at  least  he 
won't  make  a  clamor  about  it — if  you  don't  try 
to  force  your  way  into  The  Criterion  in  spite 
of  his  opposition.  .  To  some  extent  you  are  in 
his  power.  Anyhow,  he  could  hurt  you  in  the 
opinion  of  a  few  people.  The  disclosures  which 
he  threatens  would  certainly  damage  you  with 
the  solicitors  at  the  present  point  of  your  ca- 
reer ;  though  ten  years  hence,  if  all  goes  well, 
you  may  tell  the  world  your  whole  story  with- 
out fear  for  the  consequences.  Perhaps — " 

Harold  Cannick  paused. 

"  You  mean  to  say,"  said  Albert,  "  that  per- 
haps it  would  be  better  for  me  to  refrain  from 
fighting  Mr.  Sharpswell  on  his  own  ground." 

"Precisely  so." 

"  It  is  hard  to  be  compelled  to  retire  from 
any  ground  where  he  asks  me  to  fight  him." 

"He  does  not  ask  you  to  fight  him  there. 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


1G3 


On  the  contrary,  he  wishes  you  to  keep  away 
from  him." 

"That  is  true,"  said  Albert,  grateful  for  the 
remark  which  made  it  clear  to  him  that,  in  re- 
linquishing his  candidature  at  The  Criterion,  he 
could  not  be  charged  with  running  from  an  ad- 
versary. 

"You  see,"  continued  Harold  Cannick,  who 
felt  strongly  that  Albert  should  withdraw  from 
the  coming  election,  "though  I  might  succeed 
in  righting  for  you  with  the  committee,  Fred- 
erick Sharpswell  would  have  blurted  out  facts 
which  for  the  present  had  better  be  known  to 
as  few  persons  as  possible ;  and  you  would  en- 
ter the  club  under  disadvantages  which  would 
render  it  impossible  for  you  to  enjoy  the  place. 
And  it  would  be  even  a  greater  triumph  to 
Sharpswell  to  see  you  badly  received  and  cold- 
shouldered  at  the  club,  than  it  will  be  for  him  to 
know  that  he  has  shut  the  door  against  you." 

"  That  consideration  also  occurred  to  me," 
returned  Albert,  to  his  companion's  obvious 
satisfaction. 

During  the  next  three  minutes  Albert  main- 
tained silence,  while  he  regarded  all  the  several 
aspects  of  the  case,  and  arrived  at  the  conclu- 
sion that  care  for  Harold  Cannick's  sensibili- 
ties, no  less  than  regard  for  his  own  interests, 
required  him  to  avoid  the  threatened  conflict. 
Though  the  solicitor,  with  characteristic  chival- 
ry, had  not  hinted  at  the  unpleasantness  which 
the  discussion  in  the  committee-room  would 
occasion  him,  or  at  the  annoyance  he  would 
experience  if  his  friend,  after  being  brought 
into  the  club  in  the  teeth  of  an  angry  opposi- 
tion, should  be  found  unacceptable  to  any  con- 
siderable number  of  the  members,  Albert  saw 
the  possible  discomforts,  and  shrunk  from  the 
thought  of  exposing  his  generous  ally  to  them. 
It  was  obvious  to  him  that  for  once  he  must 
yield  to  his  enemy,  and,  turning  from  The  Cri- 
terion, seek  fellowship  in  another  joint-stock 
palace. 

"Be  good  enough  to  withdraw  my  name, 
Cannick,  before  the  day  of  election,"  he  said, 
slowly.  After  a  brief  pause  he  added,  "  Mr. 
Sharpswell  will  know  the  cause  of  my  with- 
drawal. To  that  humiliation  I  must  submit. 
But  I  will  take  an  early  opportunity  of  showing 
him  that  the  prudence  which  occasions  my  re- 
tirement is  altogether  innocent  of  desire  to 
conciliate  him." 

"That's  well.  Then  I  will  scratch  your 
name  at  once — better  at  once  than  on  the  very 
eve  of  election." 

"You  kave  my  leave  to  do  so." 

"  And  now,  my  dear  Otway,  to  dispose  finally 
of  an  unpleasant  subject,  and  place  it  among 
things  never  to  be  alluded  to,  let  me  say  a  few 
last  words.  In  our  conversation  let  no  refer- 
ence be  ever  made  to  your  poor  father's  ugly 
story.  In  this  respect,  pursue  to  me  the  same 
course  of  jealous  reticence  that  I  have  pursued 
toward  you  throughout  our  acquaintance." 

"  I  will  do  so,  Cannick.  There  are  some 
subjects  which  reverence  requires  us  to  guard 


with  ahum  silentinm.  My  dear  father's  trouble 
is  one  of  them.  We  will  never  speak  of  it. 
But  do  say  that  you  acquit  me  of  cowardice, 
and  natural  proneness  of  deceit,  in  respect  of  the 
measures  which  I  have  taken  to  separate  my- 
self from  my  dear  father's  misfortunes." 

"  My  dear  Otway,"  Harold  Cannick  returned, 
with  hearty  emphasis,  "had  I  been  in  your  po- 
sition I  should  have  acted  precisely  as  you  have 
j  done.     Respecting  those  measures  of  conceal- 
|  ment,  as  well  as  every  other  part  of  your  con- 
duct known  to  me,  you  have  my  unqualified  ap- 
probation.    Now,  good-bye.     I  must  be  off  to 
an  appointment." 

Whereupon  the  portly,  middle-aged  solicitor 
withdrew  his  comely  face  and  stalwart  presence 
from  the  chamber  in  which  Mr.  Otway  was  ac- 
customed to  receive  his  clients  and  draw  legal 
j  papers.  And  as  the  worthy  gentleman  walked 
j  away  from  Lincoln's  Inn,  he  was  as  thorough- 
ly certain  as  heretofore  that  Albert  Ofway  was 
the  son  of  Martin  Otway,  Esq.,  kite  of  Cleve 
Lodge,  Surrey.  Let  the  reader  of  these  pages 
bear  this  fact  in  mind.  Nothing  had  passed 
between  Mr.  Cannick  and  Mr.  Sharpswell,  or 
between  Mr.  Cannick  and  Albert  Otway,  to  in- 
form the  solicitor  that  Albert  Otway  was  the 
son  of  John  Guerdon,  whilom  banker  of  Boring- 
donshire.  Not  once  in  his  recent  conversation 
with  Harold  Cannick  had  Frederick  Sharpswell 
mentioned  his  second  cousin's  original  surname. 
It  was  true  he  had  spoken  of  Albert  as  having 
dropped  one  of  his  names  ;  a  statement  which 
Mr.  Cannick  had  construed  as  referring  to  Reg- 
inald Albert  Otway's  relinquishment  of  his  first 
Christian  name.  Knowing  that  Martin  Otway's 
boy  had  been  christened  Reginald  Albert,  the 
solicitor  had  noticed  that  his  prot€g€  used  only 
the  second  Christian  name,  and  had  attributed 
the  apparent  relinquishment  of  the  Reginald  to 
secretive  policy.  As  for  the  other  disguises  to 
which  Sharpswell  had  alluded,  Mr.  Cannick's 
close  observation  of  his  protfyt  had  assured 
him  that  the  young  man  dyed  his  hair  and 
stained  his  skin.  It  had  also  occurred  to  the 
solicitor  that  Albert  had  adopted  his  closely- 
cut  coiffure,  on  relinquishing  the  beard  and 
mustache  of  his  art-student  days,  in  order  that 
he  should  not  be  readily  recognized  by  his  old 
associates  of  Continental  schools  and  the  cliques 
of  London  Bohemia.  Moreover,  in  his  last  in- 
terview with  his  protfyt,  neither  John  Guerdon's 
name,  nor  his  place  of  residence,  nor  his  occu- 
pation, had  been  mentioned.  Harold  Cannick 
knew  that  the  banker  of  Hammerhampton  had 
died  insolvent,  and  under  felonious  disrepute  ; 
but  he  had  never  associated  Albert  with  the 
luckless  banker  of  the  Great  Yard.  On  the 
other  hand,  the  solicitor  knew  that  Martin  Ot- 
way, Esq.,  late  of  Cleve  Lodge,  Richmond,  had 
made  away  with  public  money,  and  committed 
suicide,  just  as  certain  spurious  bills  which  he 
had  uttered  and  could  not  meet  were  about  to 
fall  due ;  and  events  had  taught  Harold  Can- 
nick  to  regard  Albert  as  the  offspring  of  this 
delinquent  of  Cleve  Lodge,  Richmond.  Lastly, 


164 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


Mr.  Cannick  knew,  as  a  matter  of  fact  brought 
to  his  knowledge  by  a  well-remembered  piece 
of  legal  business,  that  the  late  Mr.  Commis- 
sioner Sharpswell  (Fred  Sharpswell's  father) 
and  Martin  Otway  were  first  cousins.  Under 
these  circumstances,  Harold  Cannick  naturally 
reftained  his  erroneous  impression  respecting 
Albert's  parentage. 

Stranger  still  will  it  appear  to  the  reader 
that,  at  the  time  of  his  recorded  interview  with 
Harold  Cannick  in  the  committee-room  of  the 
Criterion  Club,  Frederick  Sharpswell  had  no 
notion  that  Albert  was  the  son  of  John  Guer- 
don, formerly  of  Earl's  Court  and  Hammer- 
hampton.  Such,  however,  was  the  case. 

A  future  chapter  will  give  some  exacter  par- 
ticulars of  Mr.  Sharpswell's  pedigree.  For  the 
present,  it  is  enough  to  say  that,  as  the  member 
of  a  bitterly-divided  family,  he  had  grown  to 
manhood,  having  two  second  cousins,  neither 
of  whom  was  related  to  the  other,  and  neither 
of  whom  he  Jiad  ever  seen.  Albert  the  Bohe- 
mian was  the  one,  and  Albert  the  Bohemian's 
impersonator  was  the  other  of  the  two  men  to 
whom  Frederick  Sharpswell,  by  two  perfectly 
different  female  descents,  was  a  second  cousin. 

As  for  the  Boringdonshire  Guerdons,  Mr. 
Sharpswell  only  knew  of  them  as  rather  remote 
kindred,  who  had  gone  discreditably  to  grief 
and  extinction.  He  had  scarcely  winced  under 
the  collapse  of  Guerdon  &  Scrivener's  bank,  for 
he  had  never  held  any  familiar  intercourse  with 
his  Boringdonshire  relatives,  and  very  few  per- 
sons were  aware  of  his  relationship  to  the  feloni- 
ous banker.  It  was  a  slight  relief  to  him  when 
he,  one  day,  heard  at  Cambridge  that  John 
Guerdon  was  beyond  the  reach  of  the  law.  He 
had  not  mourned  for  his  second  cousin,  on  hear- 
ing that  Albert  had  followed  his  father  to  the 
next  world,  and  that  his  body  had  been  interred 
in  Ewebridge  church.  On  the  contrary,  he  was 
rather  pleased  to  know  that  the  Guerdons  were 
clean  wiped  from  the  earth's  surface.  Though 
distant  and  unknown,  still  they  were  his  kins- 
men ;  and  it  is  often  agreeable  to  know  that 
one's  unfortunate  and  discreditable  kindred  have 
been  put  underground. 

Until  their  misfortunes  rendered  them  infa- 
mous, his  feelings  for  the  Guerdons  had  been 
those  of  indifference.  Having  no  reason  to 
think  that  their  continuance  in  this  world  was 
or  could  be  hurtful  to  him,  he  did  not  want  them 
to  die  off.  His  sentiments  toward  his  cousins 
bearing  the  name  of  Otway  had,  however,  been 
virulently  hostile  from  his  boyhood.  Martin 
Otway  had  in  early  life  defeated  his  first  cous- 
in (Fred's  father)  in  a  lawsuit.  The  beaten  lit- 
igant (subsequently  Mr.  Commissioner  Sharps- 
well)  had  been  pleased  to  regard  the  lawsuit  as 
iniquitous,  and  the  victor  in  it  as  a  robber.  He 
.trained  his  boy  to  abhor  the  robber  and  the 
robber's  son ;  and  Fred  proved  an  apt  pupil. 
Taught  to  believe  in  the  abominable  wickedness 
of  the  Otways  as  a  matter  affording  no  room 
for  two  opinions,  Frederick  Sharpswell  con- 
ceived a  desire  to  punish  them  as  flagrant  social 


enemies.  To  bear  the  name  of  Otway.  was  to 
be  the  object  of  his  uncharitable  suspicions  ;  to 
be  known  to  have  a  drop  of  Martin  Otway's 
blood,  as  well  as  his  surname,  was  to  incur 
Mr.  Sharpswell's  rancorous  abhorrence.  On 
his  way  up  to  the  mess  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Hall, 
where  the  reader  first  made  his  acquaintance, 
Frederick  Sharpswell  had  learned  from  the 
steward  that  Albert  was  a  Mr.  Otway.  On  leav- 
ing the  Hall  on  that  occasion,  Frederick  Sharps- 
well  had  put  some  questions  to  the  steward  re- 
specting the  bearer  of  the  odious  name.  The 
steward  certified  that  Mr.  Otway  had  recently 
joined  the  Inn,  and  was  entered  in  the  archives 
of  the  honorable  society  as  the  only  son  of 
Martin  Otway,  Esq.,  formerly  of  Cleve  Lodge, 
Richmond.  The  antagonism,  which  quickly  de- 
veloped into  a  cordial  hatred  between  the  two 
young  men,  had  its  origin  in  discords  of  style, 
manner,  temper,  taste ;  but  it  would  not  have 
passed  so  quickly  from  mere  dislike  into  im- 
placable enmity,  had  it  not  been  for  Frederick 
Sharpswell's  apparent  discovery  that  Albert  was 
one  of  the  family  against  whom  the  young  fel- 
low of  Trinity  had  been  educated  to  cherish  a 
Corsican  hatred.  In  declaring  to  Mr.  Cannick 
that  he  would  avow  his  ignominious  relationship 
to  Albert  before  the  whole  committee,  rather 
than  allow  him  to  enter  the  club,  Mr.  Sharps- 
well  was  actuated  by  domestic  malevolence, 
rather  than  by  jealousy  of  a  rival.  Much  as  he 
resented  Albert's  success,  it  would  not  by  itself 
have  inspired  him  to  declare  the  young  bar- 
rister unmeet  for  admission  to  The  Criterion. 
But  he  could  not  allow  unresistingly  his  club  to 
be  invaded  by  the  detested  Martin  Otway's  even 
more  detestable  son. 

But  while  he  was  thus  still  mistaken  for  Mar- 
tin Otway's  son,  both  by  his  rival  at  the  Bar 
and  by  his*  principal  client,  Albert  Otway  nat- 
urally imagined  that  his  real  parentage  and 
story  were  known  to  the  two  men.  To  each 
of  them  he  supposed  himself  known  as  Albert 
Guerdon,  fighting  his  way  at  the  Bar  under  an 
assumed  name  and  false  colors.  Ignorant  of 
Sharpswell's  relationship  to  the  dead  Bohemian, 
it  never  occurred  to  him  to  suspect  that  his  en- 
emy had  mistaken  him  for  the  man  whose  sur- 
name he  had  assumed. 

He  could  not  regret  that  he  was  known  to 
Harold  Cannick.  Indeed,  since  the  discovery 
had  only  strengthened  Mr.  Cannick's  attach- 
ment to  him,  Albert  was  glad  to  be  assured  that 
the  solicitor  knew  all  which  he  appeared  to 
know.  For  years  Albert  had  been  at  times  un- 
easy, under  vivid  apprehensions  of  the  conse- 
quences which  might  ensue  to  his  relations  with 
his  friend  from  an  inauspicious  revelation  of  his 
imposture.  It  was  a  grand  relief  to  learn  that 
his  measures  of  concealment  met  with  Harold 
Cannick's  approval. 

For  Frederick  Sharpswell's  detection  of  his 
fraud,  however,  Albert  could  not  be  thankful. 
On  the  contrary,  it  wounded  him  acutely.  It 
was  obvious  to  him  that  his  adversary,  whom 
he  had  treated  with  courteous  disdain,  must  de- 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


165 


ride  him  as  n  cheat  and  impostor.  To  know  [  may  never  again  love  woman,  I  may  hate,  and 
that  Sharpswell  had  denounced  him  scornfully  ,  fight,  and  grind  to  powder  my  enemy.  The 
as  a  felon's  son  was  galling ;  but  it  was  infuria-  j  heart  that  is  emptied  of  love  has  good  room  for 
ting  to  feel  that  he  had  been  detected  in  fraud  hatred ;  and  mine  shall  nurse  an  ever-growing 
by  the  object  of  his  disdain.  Perhaps  Sharps-  j  detestation  of  the  man  who,  though  he  has  the 
well,  he  thought,  had  not  discovered  the  one  di-  ;  blood  of  my  ancestors  in  his  veins,  would  ruin 


rect  lie  of  his  deception.  Possibly  he  was  not 
aware  of  the  false  declaration  of  parentage. 
What  if  the  man  should  discover  it,  and  report 
it  to  the  Benchers  of  Lincoln's  Inn  ?  For  a  few 
minutes  Albert  was  alarmed  by  this  last  ques- 
tion. But  on  reflection,  he  was  confident  that 
even  for  so  considerable  an  offense  the  bench- 
ers would  not  punish  him  with  degradation  from 
the  Bar,  or  any  open  disgrace,  now  that  he  was 
an  advocate  who  had  made  his  mark  in  the 
courts,  and  been  publicly  complimented  by  two 
of  the  strongest  Equity  judges.  Having  regard 
to  the  circumstances  which  had  driven  him  to 
make  the  false  declaration,  and  to  all  the  facts 
which  could  be  alleged  in  palliation  of  his  mis- 
demeanor, Albert  was  secure  of  generous  sym- 
pathy from  the  chiefs  of  his  profession. 

But  though  Sharpswell  might  not  communi- 
cate his  discoveries  to  the  benchers,  and  would 
forbear  to  denounce  him  at  the  club,  from 
whose  list  of  candidates  for  admission  his 
name  would  in  another  hour  be  withdrawn,  it 
was  not  to  be  supposed  that  the  bitter  foe 
would  refrain  from  using  his  knowledge  to  the 
injury  of  his  victorious  rival.  Already  he  had 
imparted  it  to  Harold  Cannick,  doubtless  with 
a  view  to  lower  his  kinsman  in  the  solicitor's 
regard,  as  well  as  to  shut  him  out  from  the 
club.  The  sneak  would  address  other  solicit- 
ors in  the  same  way.  He  would  tell  the  poig- 
nant stoiy  to  the  gossips  of  the  law  courts ;  and 
ere  next  long  vacation  it  would  be  known  in 
every  legal  clique  of  the  town  that  the  new  jun- 
ior at  the  Chancery  bar  was  at  best  a  niauvais 
sujet,  of  felonious  parentage  and  false  name. 

Flushing  with  rage  at  this  thought,  Albert 
next  imagined  how,  by  a  malicious  use  of  in- 
contestable facts,  Sharpswell  might  in  other 
ways  stay  his  quick  progress  at  the  Bar,  and 
even  prevent  him  from  achieving  the  grand 
purpose  of  his  industry— the  payment  of  his 
father's  debts. 

"The  false-hearted  sneak!"  Albert  mutter- 
ed, in  his  wrath.      "He   called  my  father  a  J  knows  that,  if  he  would  enjoy  the  club  life  of 
rogue — 'tis  a  lie !     He  called  him  a  forger —  I  gentlemen,  he  must  sneak  into  some  club  where 
another  lie !     He  called  him  a  self-murderer —  I  there  is  no  one  to  recognize  him  as  Martin  Ot- 


me.  The  man  is  a  traitor  to  his  kindred.  My 
obligations  to  my  father  require  me  to  crush 
Mr.  Sharpswell.  And  I  will  crush  him  /" 

It  was  a  hard,  fierce,  merciless,  devilish  look 
that  came  to  Albert  Otway's  stern  and  deeply 
lined  face  as  he  muttered  these  final  words, 
"And  I  will  crush  him."  The  passionate  rage 
of  his  heart  trembled  on  his  lips  and  blazed  in 
his  eyes.  Ere  his  excitement  had  subsided, 
and  the  expvession  had  passed  away,  he  roso 
from  his  seat,  when,  chancing  to  catch  the  re- 
flection of  his  countenance  in  the  little  mirror 
over  his  fire-place,  he  exclaimed,  with  a  short, 
bitter  laugh, 

"Ah,  you  devil,  I  know  you;  you  are  my- 
self. You  and  I  are  one ;  and  between  us 
we'll  drive  that  fellow  Sharpswell  to  beggary 
and  a  lunatic  asylum." 

Half  an  hour  later,  as  he  was  walking  over 
the  north  pavement  of  Trafalgar  Square,  Albert 
Otway  met  Sharpswell,  and  gave  him  a  look 
that  said,  "  Now  we  understand  one  another. 
It  is  war  to  the  knife,  without  quarter."  Hith- 
erto the  two  young  men,  notwithstanding  their 
mutual  hatred,  had  been  accustomed  to  ex- 
change insincere  smiles  and  nods,  after  the 
fashion  of  well-bred  gentlemen  at  feud.  But 
their,  quarrel  had  now  gone  too  far  for  the  ob- 
servance of  conventional  courtesies  not  de- 
manded by  the  interests  of  their  clients.  For 
the  first  time  since  the  birth  of  their  mutual 
enmity,  they  passed  one  another  in  public  with- 
out nodding  carelessly.  Frederick  Sharpswell 
had  seen  the  ferocious  war-to-the-knife  look 
just  in  time  to  save  himself  from  rendering  his 
enemy  a  hollow  courtesy  that  would  have  met 
with  no  response. 

"  Humph !  Mr.  Albert  Otway  is  no  longer  my 
fair  cousin.  He  scowls  ominously,"  thought 
Fred  Sharpswell,  as  his  lip  curled  into  a  sneer, 
and  his  eyes  twinkled  maliciously.  "He  has 
had  a  chat  with  the  solicitor  whom  he  has  toad- 
ied for  years  with  servile  meanness.  And  he 


a  third  lie !  He  hoped  to  rob  me  of  my  best 
client  when  he  told  those  lies  to  Harold  Can- 
nick.  And  shall  I  allow  him  to  stop  my  path 


way  s  son. 

Albert   saw   the   sneer   and  the   malicious 
glance,  and  they  infuriated  him,  for  he  had  a 


and  hinder  me  from  accomplishing  my  sacred  humiliating  sense  of  having  come  off  second- 
piwpose  to  my  father's  memory,  without  trying  best  in  the  conflict  of  disdainful  regards, 
to  crush  him  ?  By  heavens,  he  shall  rue  his  |  While  Albert's  rage  had  shown  itself  ferocious- 
rashness  in  crossing  my  path  and  stirring  my  j  ly  and  sullenly,  Fred  Sharpswell's  malignity 
resentment !  My  life  must  be  one  of  labor  for  j  had  assumed  an  appearance  of  exquisite  enjoy- 
the  dead.  It  may  have  no  light  or  music  of  ment  and  good-temper.  The  constitutionally 
Jove.  I  must  toil  to  the  grave  in  loneliness.  !  arrogant  man  was  "on  guard,"  and  for  once 
Success  is  no  sufficient  solace  to  the  endurer  gave  the  habitually  courteous  man  a  lesson  in 
of  such  a  joyless  existence.  But  though  1 1  the  art  of  tormenting  gracefully. 


1GG 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

A    BLOW    IN    RETURN. 

A  FORTNIGHT  had  barely  elapsed  since  Al- 
bert gave  that  defiant  look  to  his  adversary  in 
Trafalgar  Square,  when  he  had  an  opportunity 
of  striking  Mr.  Sharpswell  a  blow  in  Sir  Peter 
Mansfield's  Court.  The  enemies  were  opposed 
to  one  another  in  the  first  hearing  of  the  great, 
and  still  famous,  case  of  Hodgkinson  vs.  Walk- 
er; Sharpswell  being  junior  counsel  for  the 
plaintiff,  and  Albert  junior  for  the  defendant. 
Sharpswell  had  been  unusually  indiscreet  and 
malignant.  He  had  not  mastered  his  case 
when  he  rose  to  his  legs,  after  two  eminent 
leaders  who  had  done  justice  to  their  own  rep- 
utation and  their  client's  interests  by  singularly 
clear  and  dexterous  arguments.  Doing  their 
best  to  withdraw  from  observation  the  strongest 
point  for  the  defendant,  these  discreet  leaders, 
while  forbearing  to  say  any  thing  that  might 
call  attention  to  their  chief  difficulty,  had  set 
forth  the  plaintiff's  case  with  masterly  force. 
It  devolved  on  Mr.  Sharpswell  to  commit  a 
blunder  which,  though  it  was  not  really  ac- 
countable for  the  defeat  of  his  client,  was  made 
to  appear  the  cause  of  his  defeat.  Presuming 
on  his  uncle's  forbearance,  he  spoke  at  needless 
length,  repeating  arguments  which  his  leaders 
had  completely  exhausted.  Worse  still,  he  oc- 
cupied the  attention  of  the  court,  during  the 
last  twenty  minutes  of  his  oration,  with  re- 
marks that,  without  strengthening  in  any  way 
the  plaintiff's  case,  brought  into  clear  view  the 
particular  difficulty  which  his  leaders  wished  to 
keep  out  of  sight. 

Having  come  into  court  with  the  purpose  of 
making  play  on  this  very  point,  Albert  was  de- 
lighted at  his  enemy's  blunder.  From  the 
light  in  Sir  Peter  Mansfield's  eyes,  and  the  ir- 
ritable twitching  of  his  honor's  lips,  Albert  saw 
that  the  judge  was  nettled  by  his  nephew's  in- 
discretion. Fortunately  also  for  Mr.  Otway, 
the  defendant's  leaders  were  incomparably  in- 
ferior to  the  plaintiff's  chief  counsel,  and  failed 
to  notice  the  important  matter  lying  on  the 
ground  to  which  Frederick  Sharpswell  had  im- 
prudently led  the  critical  watchers  of  the  con- 
tention. To  tell  the  truth,  in  his  complete 
confidence  in  Albert  Otway,  and  scarcely  jus- 
tifiable zeal  for  his  interests,  Harold  Cannick 
(the  defendant's  solicitor)  had  selected  the  two 
weakest  leaders  of  the  court  for  association 
with  his  favorite  junior.  "My  new  man  shall 
have  a  chance  this  time,"  Harold  had  said  to 
himself.  "  No  one  shall  be  with  him  but  those 
two  old  women,  Disher,  Q.C.,  and  Bulpitt,  Q.C. 
They  will  be  sure  to  miss  all  the  strong  points, 
and  leave  a  handsome  play-ground  for  Otway." 

Although  his  confidence  in  Otway  was  rea- 
sonable, it  must  be  admitted  that  in  this  affair 
Harold  Cannick  went  too  far  in  the  cause  of 
friendship. 

Regarded  as  "two  old  women  in  silk,  "Disher, 
Q.C.,  and  Bulpitt,  Q.C.,  acquitted  themselves 
creditably.  They  were  long-winded  and  prosy, 


and  wasted  a  prodigious  amount  of  talk  and 
time  on  points  that  should  have  been  dismissed 
in  a  few  sentences.  But  their  conscientious 
wordiness  was  endured  complacently  by  the 
judge,  and  caused  two  or  three  dull-witted 
solicitors  to  agree  that  "Disher  and  Bulpitt 
were  safe  leaders,  who  had  not  their  due  share 
of  employment."  Albert  was  thoroughly  satis- 
fied with  his  leaders.  They  spoke  sufficiently 
on  every  aspect  of  the  suit  about  which  he  did 
not  want  to  say  a  word,  and  were  quite  silent 
on  the  one  point  which  he  wished  them  to 
leave  entirely  to  himself. 

At  the  close  of  the  fourth  day  of  the  hearing, 
Mr.  Otway  had  his  opportunity,  and  used  it  ex- 
cellently. His  speech  went  directly  to  "the 
point."  He  would  not  weary  his  honor  by  re- 
peating his  leaders'  arguments — an  assurance 
that  brought  a  grateful  smile  to  the  face  of  his 
honor,  who  was  fatigued.  He  would,  however, 
say  a  few  words  on  a  point  that  his  leaders  had 
kindly  left  to  him  —  a  way  of  accounting  for 
the  leaders'  oversight  which  relieved  them  of 
the  annoyance  of  an  exposure,  and  caused 
them  to  aver,  after  the  rising  of  the  court,  that 
Mr.  Otway  was  a  very  sensible  and  gentleman- 
like young  man,  who  could  not  fail  to  attain  a 
first  place  at  the  Equity  bar.  It  was  a  point 
— Albert  continued  without  the  slightest  ap- 
pearance of  malice,  as  he  gave  his  enemy  a 
malicious  stab — that  had,  of  course,  come  un- 
der his  honor's  notice  during  tfie  concluding 
part  of  the  argument  of  the  plaintiff's  junior 
counsel.  Albert  made  no  further  allusion  to 
the  junior  counsel.  He  had  done  enough  to 
make  Harold  Cannick's  face  radiant  with  ma- 
levolent happiness,  and  to  bring  scarlet  anger 
into  the  countenance  of  Mr.  Frederick  Sharps- 
well.  He  had  done  enough  to  evoke  a  mur- 
mur of  amusement,  a  noise  sharper  than  a  hum, 
and  less  audible  than  a  titter,  from  the  rows 
of  stuff  gownsmen.  He  had  done  enough  to 
make  Disher,  Q.C.,  and  Bulpitt,  Q.C.,  aware 
that  their  very  sensible  and  gentleman-like  jun- 
ior was  up  to  some  piece  of  mischief  in  which 
they  had  no  slinre.  Lastly,  he  had  done  enough 
to  inspire  Sir  Peter  Mansfield  with  transient 
contempt  for  his  favorite  nephew,  and  with  a 
purpose  to  give  that  nephew  a  private  avuncu- 
lar wigging  at  the  earliest  opportunity. 

Having  thus  adroitly,  and  with  a  charming 
affectation  of  innocence,  thrust  a  poisoned  nee- 
dle into  his  enemy's  self-love,  Mr.  Otway  held 
Sir  Peter  Mansfield's  complete  attention  for 
some  twenty-five  minutes,  during  which  short 
time  he  stated  with  precision  and  brevity  his 
one  point,  and  his  conception  of  the  legal  prin- 
ciples applicable  to  it.  Having  done  his  work, 
he  sat  down  without  another  reference  to  the 
blunderer  in  the  fight.  Sir  Peter  Mansfield 
reserved  judgment ;  but  before  leaving  the  ju- 
dicial seat,  he  observed  that  in  arriving  at  his 
decision  his  mind  would  be  greatly  influenced 
by  the  considerations  on  which  Mr.  Otway  had 
insisted  with  masterly  discretion,  in  one  of  the 
most  lawyer-like  speeches  that  had  come  foi 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


1G7 


many  a  day  from  a  junior  member  of  the  Bar. 
Again  the  sunshine  of  malevolent  joy  played 
in  Harold  Cannick's  countenance,  while  Mr. 
Sharpswell's  face  once  more  turned  scarlet. 
The  judge's  commendation  of  Albert's  speech 
was  not  excessive.  Snibsworth's  "  favorite  pu- 
pil" had  in  fact  delivered  an  exposition  of  law 
that  caused  Sir  Peter  to  give  judgment  for  the 
defendant  a  few  days  later,  and  made  Hodgkin- 
son  vs.  Walker  a  leading  case,  when  Sir  Peter's 
decision  had  been  confirmed  on  appeal. 

Albert  had  previously  done  more  than  enough 
to  win  the  respect  of  Chancery  lawyers.  But 
his  brief  speech  in  Hodgkinson  us.  Walker  made 
him  famous — not  in  general  society,  but  in  his 
profession.  Though  vast  interests  were  affect- 
ed by  the  suit,  Hodgkinson  vs.  Walker  was  not 
of  the  class  of  cases  which  are  described  in  the 
newspapers  as  "  causes  of  great  public  interest." 
It  had  no  moral  resemblance  to  "The  King  vs. 
Baillie  "  (King's  Bench),  from  which  Erskine 
leaped  at  once  into  universal  notoriety  and 
enormous  practice.  It  was  more  comparable 
with  "Akroyd  vs.  Smithson."  that  made  John 
Scott  a  personage  among  working  lawyers,  and 
set  him  on  the  high-road  for  the  wool-sack.  It 
is  recorded  of  John  Scott  that  when  he  went 
from  Lord  Thurlow's  presence,  after  distin- 
guishing himself  in  the  last-named  cause,  he 
was  stopped  in  Westminster  Hall  by  "  a  re- 
spectable solicitor  of  the  name  of  Forster,"  who 
said  to  the  future  L.ord  Eldon,  "Young  man, 
your  bread-and-butter  is  cut  for  life."  On 
returning  to  his  chambers  after  his  speech  in 
Hodgkinson  vs.  Walker,  Albert  was  greeted  in 
similar  spirit  by  a  respectable  solicitor  of  the 
name  of  Cannick. 

"Bravo,  my  dear  boy !"  exclaimed  Harold, 
shaking  hands  with  his  protege;  "you  have 
walked  clean  out  of  the  leading-strings.  You 
have  made  your  own  game  now,  and  won't 
want  my  help  any  longer.  Your  position  is 
your  own." 

Returning  his  friend's  warm  grasp,  Albert 
said,  feelingly, 

"And  my  best  thanks  to  the  friend  who 
enabled  me  to  make  it." 

"  You  have  paid  Mr.  Frederick  Sharpswell 
off  handsomely,  too,  for  keeping  you  out  of  The 
Criterion,"  the  solicitor  added.  "He  felt  your 
stab  all  the  more  because  you  were  so  quiet 
and  quick  in  doing  it.  What  a  furious  fool 
the  puppy  looked !" 

Smiling  grimly,  Albert  answered, bitterly, 

"It  is  not  the  last  proof  that  Mr.  Sharpswell 
shall  have  of  the  warm  interest  which  he  has 
caused  me  to  take  in  him." 

"If  you  go  on  as  you  have  begun,"  returned 
Harold  Cannick,  "  you'll  drive  him  mad;  you'll 
crush  him,  and  grind  him  to  powder!" 

Albert  drew  breath  before  he  answered  with 
equal  resoluteness  and  composure, 

"And  I  mean  to  go  on  as  I  have  begun. 
My  second  cousin  has  denounced  me  to  you  as 
a  felon's  son  and  an  impostor.  Good !  I  will 


retaliate  by  proving  him  to  be  a  noodle  and 
|  pretender.     I  mean  to  crush  him,  and  grind 
him  to  powder." 

"  You  won't  do  that  in  a  day,"  laughed  Can- 
nick. 

"I  should  not  wish  to  do  it  in  a  day.     It 
will  afford  me  more  pleasure  to  do  it  slowly — 
j  steadily  —  surely.     I  jnean  to  take  my  time 
!  about  it." 

Whereat  Harold  Cannick  laughed  cheerily, 
I  as  he  thought  how  surely  and  steadily  his  new 
!  man  would  gratify  his  inordinate  vengeance. 
!  Like  many  men  who  are  superbly  loyal  friends, 
Harold  was  an  implacable  and  unscrupulous 
enemy.  Frederick  Sharpswell  had  not  done 
very  much  to  justify  the  solicitor's  enmity.  He 
had  spoken  insolently  of  attorneys  as  a  class ; 
he  had  borne  himself  arrogantly  to  Mr.  Cannick 
on  half  a  dozen  occasions  at  The  Criterion ;  and 
he  had  shut  the  club  door  against  Harold's 
friend.  Such  .offenses  scarcely  justified  the 
solicitor's  hatred  of  the  offender.  They  do  hot 
account  for  it.  Mr.  Sharpswell's  worst  sin 
against  Mr.  Cannick  was  the  overbearing  air 
that  caused  so  many  persons  to  detest  the 
young  barrister  ere  ever  he  had  done,  or  wish- 
ed to  do,  them  an  injury. 

For  the  present,  Mr.  Frederick  Sharpswell 
did  not  feel  himself  likely  to  be  crushed  and 
ground  to  powder  by  any  human  force.  The 
punishment  inflicted  on  him  by  his  rival  had 
infuriated  him.  It  was  also  distressing  to  him 
to  know  that  Albert's  speech  in  court,  delivered 
to  perhaps  a  hundred  more  or  less  critical  au- 
ditors, would  certainly  establish  his  success,  and 
would  probably  become  an  event  in  legal  an- 
nals. But  Mr.  Sharpswell  could  take  punish- 
ment stoutly,  as  well  as  inflict  it  mercilessly ; 
and,  in  the  course  of  a  few  hours — when  he 
had  taken  a  canter  in  the  park  with  the  dandies 
and  belles  of  the  London  season,  and  had  dined 
tranquilly  at  his  favorite  Window  of  The  Crite- 
rion— he  was  on  sufficiently  good  terms  with 
himself  again.  In  fact,  the  worsted  advocate 
was  not  without  his  consolations.  If  he  had 
been  thrown  in  a  law-court,  there  was  a  court 
of  another  kind  in  which  he  was  a  suitor  for  a 
grand  prize ;  and  he  had  every  reason  to  think 
that  his  suit  would  be  successful.  For  several 
weeks  he  had  been  a  happy  lover ;  to-morrow 
he  hoped  to  be  a  successful  lover.  Before  the 
end  of  the  next  Long  Vacation  he  intended^to 
be  the  husband  of  a  beautiful  woman. 

Having  dined,  and  smoked  a  cigar,  Mr. 
Sharpswell  drove  in  a  cab  from  St.  James's 
Square  to  the  Inner  Temple,  where  he  was  the 
tenant  of  a  luxuriously  furnished  set  of  resi- 
dence-chambers. 

An  hour  later,  when  he  had  made  a  leisurely 
toilet,  he  entered  the  same  cab  at  the  foot  of 
his  staircase,  and  drove  briskly  to  Kensington 
Gore,  where  he  was  pledged  to  show  himself  at 
a  grand  ball  given  that  night  by  Lady  Mallow, 
the  wife  of  Baron  Mallow,  of  the  Court  of  Ex- 
chequer. 


168 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 
LOTTIE'S   MARRIAGE. 

THE  possessor  of  a  fine  landed  estate,  that 
had  come  to  him  unexpectedly  through  several 
deaths,  when  he  had  fought  his  way  to  the  ju- 
dicial bench,  Baron  Mallow  was  much  richer 
than  the  average  of  judg'es ;  and  he  lived  su- 
perbly, as  a  rich  man  should.  During  the  Lon- 
don season  he  received,  at  his  large  mansion  in 
Kensington,  a  goodly  proportion  of  the  "  best 
people"  in  town.  Though  nothing  more  than' 
a  puisne  baron  in  Westminster  Hall,  he  was  a 
considerable  personage  in  society.  Lady  Mal- 
low, a  woman  of  cleverness  and  taste,  had  made 
herself  acceptable  to  gentlewomen  of  the  high- 
est fashion,  who,  though  they  were  never  reluc- 
tant to  appear  at  her  parties,  could  not  have 
been  easily  coaxed  into  dining  with  an  ordinary 
lord  chancellor.  While  his  wife  thus  enjoyed 
an  exceptional  position  by  virtue  of  her  kindli- 
ness and  unusual  tact,  Baron  Mallow  was  no 
less  popular  with  men  of  various  pursuits  and 
social  grades.  From  early  manhood  he  had 
associated  with  painters,  writers,  and  men  of 
science ;  and,  when  he  rose  to  wealth  and  ju- 
dicial dignity,  his  house  became  a  point  of 
meeting  for  men  who  were  fashionable  without 
being  celebrated,  and  men  who  were  celebrated, 
but  altogether  unfashionable.  It  was  to  the 
credit  of  Sir  Stephen  and  Lady  Mallow  that 
they  liked  to  bring  their  acquaintances  of  dif- 
ferent "  sets  "  and  social  degrees  together,  and 
that  it  never  occurred  to  them  to  regard  the 
humblest  of  their  decidedly  miscellaneous  ac- 
quaintance as  unmeet  company  for  their  most 
aristocratic  friends.  Sir  Stephen  insisted  that 
society,  like  punch,  should  be  a  mixture  of 
many  ingredients,  and  that  he  never  enjoyed  a 
dinner-party  where  there  were  no  representa- 
tives of  social  circles  jn  which  he  did  not  ordina- 
rily move.  As  a  mingler  of  "  sets,"  he  may  per- 
haps have  erred  in  the  direction  of  audacity. 
When  he  brought  Count  D'Orsay,  the  Bishop 
of  London,  St.  John  Long  the  quack,  and  Brook- 
field  the  rope-dancer  to  the  same  table  with  a 
humanitarian  duchess,  a  young  actress  from  a 
Strand  theatre,  and  the  two  Misses  Okey,  of 
mesmeric  celebrity,  he  performed  an  exploit 
that,  in  the  case  of  any  other  operator  on  the 
social  forces,  would  have  been  thought  scan- 
dalous. But  in  their  special  line  Baron  and 
Lady  Mallow  could  do  what  they  pleased. 
Persons  who  never  saw  princes  anywhere  else 
pushed  against  them  at  Lady  Mallow's  recep- 
tions ;  and  folks  of  high  blood  and  degree  flock- 
ed to  the  lady's  drawing-rooms  because  she 
knew  such  a  lot  of  queer,  amusing  people  whom 
they  never  met  under  any  other  entertainer's 
roof. 

"  Hours"  being  "  earlier"  some  twenty  years 
since  than-  at  this  super-fashionable  time,  Lady 
Mallow's  ball  was  at  the  height  of  festal  bright- 
ness and  gayety  when,  shortly  before  midnight, 
Mr.  Frederick  Sharpswell  loitered  through  a 
series  of  crowded  anterooms,  exchanging  words 


and  movements  of  courtesy  with  the  numerous 
acquaintances  whom  he  found  among  a  major- 
ity of  perfect  strangers.  He  did  not  pause  to 
gossip  with  any  one  in  these  anterooms,  for  the 
particular  object  of  his  sentimental  regard  was 
at  that  time  in  the  large  ball-room,  where  a  mil- 
itary band,  stationed  on  an  orchestral  dais,  was 
making  music  for  some  three  hundred  waltzers, 
who  had  ample  space  to  whirl  round  the  musi- 
cians' platform,  although  it  was  placed  in  the 
very  middle  of  the  salon.  Ladv  Mallow  was 
justly  proud  of  her  vast  dancing-room,  which 
would  have  been  almost  as  useless  and  embar- 
rassing a  present  as  a  white  elephant  to  any 
lady  without  an  army  of  friends.  Built  out 
from  the  mansion,  it  covered  no  inconsiderable 
proportion  of  the  surrounding  garden,  and  per- 
fectly destroyed  the  architectural  symmetry  of 
the  house.  But  though  an  outward  disfigure- 
ment to  the  judge's  house,  it  was  properly  val- 
ued by  his  guests.  Dancers  could  do  them- 
selves and  their  partners  justice  on  its  well- wax- 
ed floor.  And  guests,  to  whom  dancing  was  a 
weariness  and  vanity,  enjoyed  the  softly- padded 
settees,  from  which  they  watched  the  spectacle 
of  the  throng  of  people  moving  to  and  fro,  under 
the  brilliant  lights,  and  between  walls  hung  with 
noble  paintings. 

On  entering  the  first  of  the  drawing-rooms 
in  which  Lady  Mallow  received  her  guests,  Fred- 
erick Sharpswell  had  been  told  where  he  would 
find  the  object  of  his  search. 

"You'll  find  Lottie  in  one  of  the  corners  at 
the  north  end  of  the  ball-room,"  Lady  Mallow 
whispered  sympathetically  to  the  young  man, 
who  had  seen  Miss  Darling  some  three  months 
before  in  the  same  house,  and  had  fallen  thor- 
oughly in  love  with  her. 

Baron  Mallow  and  Sir  James  Darling  had 
been  old  friends  at  the  Temple  and  on  circuit; 
and  until  the  latter  had  retired  from  London  to 
Boringdonshire  they  had  maintained  a  close  in- 
timacy. Nor  did  Sir  James's  withdrawal  from 
town  end  their  intercourse.  The  Baron  of  the 
Exchequer  paid  his  old  chum  more  than  one 
short  visit  at  Arleigh  Manor ;  and  he  was  famil- 
iar with  the  painful  circumstances  that  had  sev- 
ered Lottie  from  Albert  Guerdon,  and  made  her 
opening  womanhood  a  time  of  despair. 

More  than  five  years  had  passed  since  that 
severance,  and  Lottie  had  even  laid  aside  the 
mourning  which  she  wore  for  two  years  in  du- 
tiful sorrow  for  her  dead  mother,  when  Sir  Fran- 
cis Mallow  suggested  to  her  father  that  it  would 
be  well  for  her  to  pass  the  London  season  at 
Kensington,  under  Lady  Mallow's  guardianship. 
!  Time  had  taken  the  edge  and  sting  from  the 
troubles  which  had  nearly  brought  her  to  the 
'  grave.     Her  spirits  had  revived,  and  her  beau- 
!  tv,  though  changed  and  modified  in  some  re- 
;  spects,  ,had  not  been  impaired  by  past  suffering. 
;  Misfortune  had  neither  imbittered  nor  perma- 
j  nently  crushed  her.     In  respect  to  her  person, 
'  she  was  a  lovely  creature,  in  the  plenitude  of 
womanly  grace.    Her  nature  had  realized  all  the 
fair  promise  of  her  girlhood.     She  had  also  ar- 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


1G9 


rived  at  that  state  of  feeling  which  Albert  had 
hoped  would  be  her  condition  when  for  several 
years  she  should  have  believed  him  dead.  Nev- 
er again  could  she  love  another  man  with  the 
fervor  and  richness  of  utter  devotion  that  had 
distinguished  her  passion  for  Albert  Guerdon; 
but  her  heart  had  powers  that  might  express 
themselves  in  loyal  attachment  to  a  husband. 
She  had  recognized  this  fact — ay,  more,  her 
plans  for  the  future  were  not  without  a  hope 
that  she  might  be  a  wife  and  mother.  It  would 
have  been  more  agreeable  to  some  of  the  more 
romantic  readers  of  this  narrative  had  she  pined 
obstinately  for  her  lost  Albert,  and  died  at  an 
early  age  of  consumption  or  a  broken  heart. 
But  this  story  is  less  a  romance  than  a  record 
of  real  life,  am;  Lottie  Darling  has  been  de- 
scribed truthfully  as  she  was,  rather  than  fan- 
cifully, as  she  might,  or  ought  to,  have  been. 
Graciously  fashioned  and  supremely  lovely,  she 
was  still  a  thing  of  flesh  and  blood — a  creature 
submissive  to  laws  which  required  her  to  ac- 
commodate herself  to  circumstances.  She  had 
buried  her  past,  but  there  was  a  future  before 
her.  Her  retrospect  was  gloomy,  but  her  pros- 
pect had  sunshine  as  well  as  cloud. 

So  Lottie  came  to  Kensington,  and  staid 
some  months  with  a  light-hearted  hostess,  who 
was  resolved  that  the  young  woman  committed 
to  her  care  should  not  return  to  Boringdon- 
shire  without  having  received  an  eligible  offer 
of  marriage.  Lady  Mallow  had  loved  Lottie 
for  many  a  day.  She  believed  that  outside 
wedlock  there  was  no  real  happiness  for  mature 
womankind,  and,  like  all  amiable  and  happy 
matrons,  she  delighted  in  match-making. 

It  was  not  surprising  that,  with  this  purpose 
for  Lottie's  good,  Lady  Mallow  selected  Fred 
Sharpswell  as  the  young  man  for  the  occasion. 
He  was  well-looking,  young,  and  prosperous. 
A  second  wrangler  and  Fellow  of  Trinity,  he 
had  already  a  good  business  at  the  Bar,  and,  as 
one  of  the  three  nephews  of  the  childless  Vice- 
chancellor  Mansfield,  it  was  understood  that 
he  would,  at  Sir  Peter's  death,  come  into  the 
possession  of  a  considerable  fortune.  Baron 
Mallow  could  certify  that  the  late  Mr.  Commis- 
sioner Sharpswell  "had  left  his  boy  £12,000. 
Moreover,  though  his  unfortunate  manner  to 
men  made  him  unpopular  with  them,  Freder- 
ick Sharpswell  was  a  favorite  with  ladies.  For 
them  he  had  another  manner,  that  was  concili- 
atory and  flattering.  In  his  bearing  toward 
women  it  was  observable  that  his  arrogance 
and  uppishness  were  corrected  by  the  vanity 
that  made  him  thirst  for  feminine  preference. 
He  could  not  despise  the  creatures  whose  favor 
was  a  chief  object  of  his  ambition.  Moreover, 
in  justice  to  the  better  side  of  his  nature,  it 
must  be  admitted  that  the  supercilious  gentle- 
man had  a  chivalric  admiration  for  the  gen- 
tleness, and  a  genuine  belief  in  the  goodness, 
of  the  tlite  of  womankind. 

Anyhow,  under  Lady  Mallow's  skillful  man- 
agement, he  found  favor  with  Miss  Darling, 
who,  having  seen  nothing  but  his  finer  qualities 


and  more  gracious  manner,  was  in  no  humor, 
toward  the  close  of  her  Kensington  visit,  to  re- 
pel his  significant  advances. 

Having  surveyed  the  ball-room  and  brilliant 
throng  with  approval,  Frederick  Sharpswell 
passed  the  gaudily-clad  musicians,  and,  avoid- 
ing the  waltzers  who  whirled  in  quickly  trip- 
ping couples  over  the  floor,  walked  to  the  cor- 
ner of  the  room  where  he  saw  his  mistress  sit- 
ting on  a  settee  of  amber  satin,  with  a  show  of 
rich  crimson  drapery  on  the  wall  behind  her. 
Two  young  ladies  (not  chosen  for  the  dance) 
and  a  fourteen-year-old  boy  from  Eton  shared 
the  settee  with  the  lady,  whose  face  brightened 
with  gladness  when  Mr.  Sharpswell  came  upon 
her  unexpectedly,  and  begged  that  she  would 
be  his  partner  in  the  next  quadrille. 

They  danced  the  quadrille,  and  then  follow- 
ed the  line  of  flirting  pairs,  who  passed  from 
the  ball-room  into  the  adjacent  conservatory, 
an  enormous  structure  of  glass  and  iron,  and  a 
white  floor  of  polished  marble,  in  which  tropic- 
al plants  of  gigantic  growth  were  arranged  so 
as  to  afford  the  promenaders  several  darksome 
nooks  for  particular  whisperings  of  love  or  fol- 
ly. It  was  in  one  of  these  darksome  recesses, 
athwart  whose  gloom  the  pure  light  of  waxen 
tapers  ran  in  a  white  stream,  that  Frederick 
Sharpswell  put  a  momentous  question  to  Miss 
Darling,  when  the  strains  of  music  for  another 
dance  had  recalled  the  dancers  to  the  ball- 
room. The  question  consisted  of  seven  words, 
and,  while  Frederick  spoke  them,  he  pressed 
the  lady's  right  hand  with  a  nervous  grasp. 
Miss  Darling,  having  answered  slowly,  and 
with  peculiar  distinctness,  "Yes,  I  will," Fred 
Sharpswell  dropped  his  head  quickly,  and  put 
a  kiss  on  the  hand  which  he  had  been  squeez- 
ing barbarously.  But,  though  the  huge  con- 
servatory was  deserted  by  all  save  those  two, 
and  no  curious  eye  could  observe  their  doings 
in  the  shaded  corner,  it  was  no  place  for  demon- 
strations of  love. 

"  Let  us  go  back  to  the  drawing-room,"  said 
Miss  Darling.  "And  not  another  word  to- 
night, Mr.  Sharpswell,  on  this  subject.  I  shall 
be  at  home  to-morrow  from  three  to  seven." 

So  the  matter  was  settled.  Lottie  had  given 
herself  to  Albert's  enemy. 

It  Avas  no  case  for  a  long  engagement. 
Frederick  Sharpswell  was  rich  enough  to  mar- 
ry a  portionless  bride ;  but  Miss  Darling,  in- 
stead of  being  fortuneless,  had,  on  her  mother's 
death,  come  into  possession  of  the  money  se- 
cured to  her  by  her  mother's  settlement ;  and 
she  had  further  expectations  from  her  father. 
Nor  was  it  needful  that  the  lovers  should  wait 
a  year,  and  see  whether  time  would  dispose 
them  to  separate ;  for  they  were  no  boy  and 
girl,  who  might  be  suspected  of  acting  precipi- 
tately. Though  still  young,  they  were  people 
of  experience,  who  could  be  supposed  to  know 
their  own  minds.  Their  union,  therefore,  fol- 
lowed closely  on  their  engagement. 

But  they  were  not  married  at  Arlcigh.  Lot- 
tie was  so  far  mindful  of  old  joys  and  sorrows 


170 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


that  she  could  not  endure  the  thought  of  being 
wedded  to  Frederick  Sharpswell  in  the  same 
little  church  where  she  had,  in  her  girlhood, 
hoped  to  become  Albert  Guerdon's  wife. 

Having  returned  to  Boringdonshire  at  the 
close  of  the  gayest  of  the  London  months,  and 
passed  six  weeks  at  Arleigh,  in  the  society  of 
her  father  and  sister,  and  accepted  suitor,  she 
went  up  to  town  in  the  middle  of  the  "  dead 
season,"  and  was  married  from  Baron  Mallow's 
house,  without  any  notable  pomp,  at  one  of  the 
Kensington  churches.  The  bride  and  groom 
made  their  honey-moon  tour  in  the  Highlands 
of  Scotland. 

As  Albert  was  in  the  north  of  Italy  when 
Lottie's  wedding  took  place  at  Kensington,  it 
is  not  wonderful  that  he  knew  nothing  of  the 
event  till  several  weeks  had  passed.  The 
papers  which  announced  the  marriage  escaped 
the  notice  of  the  Italian  tourist,  and  when  it 
was  casually  mentioned  to  him,  in  the  ensuing 
Michaelmas  term,  that  Sharpswell  had  married 
in  the  Long  Vacation,  he  neither  heard  nor 
cared  to  inquire  for  the  maiden  name  of  the 
lady  who  had  become  his  enemy's  wife. 

And  in  the  December  following  Lottie's  mar- 
riage, Albert  one  morning  read  in  the  Times  a 
few  closely  printed  lines,  which  caused  him  for 
many  a  day  to  believe  that  all  his  care  for  Lot- 
tie's restoration  to  happiness,  and  all  his  plot- 
tings  for  her  ultimate  joy  in  a  married  life,  had 
been  in  vain.  Printed  among  other  brief  no- 
tices of  recent  deaths,  the  announcement  ran 
thus:  "On  the  16th  inst.,  at  Arleigh  Manor, 
Boringdonshire,  of  consumption,  in  her  26th 
year,  Charlotte  Constance,  daughter  of  Sir 
James  Darling,  Knt.,  Q.C.,  and  Judge  of  the 
Boringdonshire  County  Court."  Tears  dim- 
med Albert's  dark  eyes  ere  they  had  come  to 
the  last  words  of  this  short  paragraph,  and 
when  he  had  reperused  the  painful  lines,  he 
put  the  newspaper  from  him  with  a  groan  of 
anguish.  He  was  alone  in  the  parlor  of  his 
residence -chambers,  and,  in  his  unseen  an- 
guish, he  sobbed  convulsively.  An  hour  later 
he  was  in  court,  looking  something  harder  and 
sterner  than  usual,  while  he  attentively  noted 
the  arguments  of  a  cause  in  which  Frederick 
Sharpswell  was  his  opponent. 

Had  it  not  been  for  the  carelessness  of  a 
compositor  in  Printing-house  Square,  who  in- 
verted the  type  of  the  figure  9,  so  as  to  give  it 
the  appearance  of  the  numeral  6,  and  then  mis- 
placed the  two  Christian,  names  of  the  dead 
lady,  Albert  would  have  known  that  the  Miss 
Darling  of  the  announcement  had  died  in  her 
29th  year,  and  that,  instead  of  being  Charlotte 
Constance,  she  had  been  Sir  James  Darling's 
daughter,  Constance  Charlotte.  He  would  have 
seen  that  the  notice  declared  the  death  of  the 
elder  of  the  two  sisters — the  woman  of  unhappy 
temper,  who,  bearing  in  a  different  order  the 
same  names  as  her  sister,  was  known  in  the 
family  circle  as  "  Connie."  The  typical  error 
having  given  the  younger  sister's  precise  age, 
and  also  her  names  in  their  proper  order,  Al- 


bert naturally  accepted  the  lines  as  an  author-* 
ized  and  correct  announcement  of  Lottie's  death. 
And  years  passed  over  his  head  ere  he  discov- 
ered his  mistake.  For  years,  while  he  regard- 
ed her  as  her  mother's  companion  in  heaven,  she 
was  living  in  Morpeth  Place,  Eaton  Square,  the 
wife  of  the  man  whom  he  was  bent  on  crushing 
and  grinding  to  powder.  But,  had  no  printer's 
error  ever  occasioned  him  this  sorrowful  mis- 
conception, he  would  not  have  discovered  any 
the  sooner  that  Lottie  Darling  had  become  Mrs". 
Frederick  Sharpswell. 

The  belief  that  Lottie  was  dead  had  a  hurt- 
ful effect  on  Albert's  spirits,  temper,  and  heart. 
By  depriving  him  of  the  chief  consolation  that 
had  hitherto  qualified  his  wretchedness  since 
his  severance  from  her,  it  gave  additional  stern- 
ness and  cruelty  to  his  fate.  He  could  no  long- 
er hope  for  her  happiness,  or  persuade  himself 
that  he  had  taken  the  best  course  to  compass 
it.  Since  his  retreat  from  Borisgdonshire  he 
had  been  a  man  of  solitary  and  joyless  toils ;  he 
had  imagined  himself  to  have  tasted  the  bitter- 
est sorrows  of  desolation ;  but  it  was  not  till  he 
had  been  assured  of  Lottie's  death  that  he  knew, 
in  the  fullest  sense  of  the  words,  the  woe  of  ut- 
ter loneliness. 

He  could  no  longer  live  or  suffer  for  her.  She 
had  gone  before.  Henceforth,  to  labor  for  his 
father's  memory  must  be  his  one  business.  In 
accomplishing  that  business  he  must  work  with- 
out the  encouragement  of  feeling  that  she  would 
rejoice  in  his  final  victory. 

Is  it  wonderful  that  the  wretched  man,  numb- 
ed and  broken  in  his  gentler  affections,  and  be- 
reft of  the  power  of  loving,  sought  comfort  in 
an  extravagant  indulgence  of  his  hatred  of  the 
one  man  who  would  fain,  as  it  appeared,  hinder 
him  from  achieving  his  enterprise  of  filial  de- 
votion ? 

Hate  is  a  plant  that  flourishes  more  quickly, 
and  reaches  a  vaster  growth,  in  the  rich  soil  of 
a  generous  heart  than  in  the  thin  sand  of  a  serv- 
ile, or  the  heavy  clay  of  a  brutal,  nature.  The 
same  natural  conditions  that  are  most  fertile  of 
love  may  become  especially  productive  of  en- 
mity. This  is  a  puzzling  fact.  And  it  would 
be  even  more  terrifying  than  perplexing,  were 
it  not  true  that,  in  generous  natures,  hatred  may 
perish  utterly  at  any  moment  of  happy  influ- 
ences, and  leave  no  trace  of  its  baneful  exist- 
ence 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 
MY  HUSBAND'S   ENEMY. 

HIMSELF  greatly  influenced  by  appearances, 
Frederick  Sharpswell  was  just  the  man  to  over- 
rate their  influence  on  others.  From  policy,  no 
less  than  love  of  ostentation,  he  decided  to  be- 
gin his  married  life  with  a  show  of  greater  pros- 
perity than  his  means  justified.  Instead  of 
housing  himself  on  Netting  Hill,  or  in  West- 
bourne  Park,  or  in  some  other  modest  suburb 
in  favor  with  struggling  juniors  of  the  Bar,  he 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


171 


took  a  house  almost  large  enough  to  be  called 
a  mansion,  in  one  of  the  best  quarters  of  the 
West  End.  A  Q.C.  with  a  large  practice 
would  have  been  suitably  established  in  No.  2 
Morpeth  Place,  Eaton  Square,  which  Mr.  Sharps- 
well  selected  for  his  residence,  in  spite  of  Sir 
Peter  Mansfield's  expostulations  with  his  neph- 
ew on  the  extravagance  of  his  arrangements. 
Frederick  flattered  himself  that  he  showed  man- 
ly spirit  and  independence  in  disregarding  his 
uncle's  advice  on  this  point.  Sir  Peter  took  a 
different  view  of  the  young  man's  conduct,  and, 
for  the  first  time  since  he  had  made  a  will 
equally  favorable  to  his  three  nephews,  debated 
whether  he  should  not  leave  the  bulk  of  his  prop- 
erty to  his  brother's  sons,  and  only  bequeath  his 
sister's  boy  a  handsome  complimentary  legacy. 
Frederick  had  fallen  greatly  in  his  uncle's  es- 
teem since  his  misadventure  in  Hodgkinson  vs. 
Walker. 

Having  taken  No.  2  Morpeth  Place,  Sharps- 
well  furnished  it  handsomely.  He  was  no  man 
to  pick  up  cheap  lots  of  brave  furniture  at  auc- 
tions. Mr.  Rigdon,  the  upholsterer  of  Regent 
Street,  made  a  large  bill,  and  proportionate  prof- 
it, out  of  the  young  barrister's  general  instruc- 
tions ;  and  when  No.  2  had  been  fitted  from  base- 
ment to  garret  at  a  needless  cost,  Mr.  Sharps- 
well  expended,  with  some  discretion,  many  hun- 
dreds of  pounds  on  works  of  art  for  the  adorn- 
ment of  his  rooms  of  reception.  Such  was  the 
home  which  Lottie  entered  as  mistress,  on  her 
return  from  the  Scotch  Highlands.  Of  course 
she  had  her  carriage.  Sir  Peter  was  of  opinion 
that  a  modest  brougham,  drawn  by  a  single 
horse,  would  be  an  appropriate  equipage  for  the 
bride  who  had  brought  her  husband  no  large 
fortune,  and  was  only  the  daughter  of  a  county 
court  judge.  But  on  this  point  also  the  uncle 
and  nephew  differed ;  and  Lottie  returned  her 
bridal  calls  in  a  showy  barouche  that  rolled  at 
the  heels  of  a  pair  of  bay  steeds.  Had  she 
known  how  far  her  husband's  scale  of  expendi- 
ture was  beyond  his  present  income,  Mrs.  Sharps- 
well  would  have  insisted  on  having  such  a  car- 
riage as  Sir  Peter  Mansfield  recommended. 
But  she  took  it  as  a  matter  of  course  that  her 
husband  could  afford  to  do  what  he  did.  And 
observing  that  she  evinced  no  disapprobation  of 
his  nephew's  proceedings,  Sir  Peter  Mansfield 
did  her  the  egregious  injustice  of  thinking  that 
she  delighted  in  display,  and  encouraged  her 
husband  in  extravagance.  Nor  did  he  survive 
this  ridiculous  misconception  of  his  niece's  char- 
acter. To  the  last  the  vice-chancellor  misun- 
derstood her,  and  disliked  her  as  much  as  it  was 
possible  for  an  intelligent  gentleman  to  dislike 
so  gentle  and  winning  a  creature. 

Though  Mr.  Sharpswell  received  no  adequate 
reward  for  all  this  costly  ostentation,  it  was  not 
altogether  without  the  effect  which  it  was  in- 
tended to  produce.     It  gave  the  young  couple  j 
an  undefinable  social  status  to  which  they  were 
not  entitled  ;  and  it  created  the  desired  impres- 
sion on  the  eight  or  ten  solicitors  whom,  in  spite  ; 
of  his  secret  contempt  for  lawyers  of  the  subor- 


dinate class,  Mr.  Sharpswell  asked  to  his  din- 
ner-parties because  they  were  good  clients. 

And  for  several  years  the  mistress  of  No. 
2  Morpeth  Place  was  a  fairly  happy  woman. 
She  loved  her  husband,  who  was  very  proud  of 
her,  and  never  failed  in  chivalric  submission  to 
her  pleasure.  But,  though  she  was  not  aware 
of  it,  she  loved  him  less  vehemently  than  she 
loved  her  children,  the  four  girls  who  came  to 
her  arms  in  the  first  seven  years  of  her  married 
life. 

It  has  been  remarked  by  some  novelist  or 
essayist  that  young  married  gentlewomen,  of 
the  good  and  happy  kind,  may  be  divided  into 
two  classes— the  "  wives  "  and  the  "  mothers ;" 
i.  e.,  the  youthful  matrons  who,  while  caring 
properly  for  their  offspring,  think  more  of  their 
husbands  than  their  babes;  and  the  youthful 
matrons  who,  though  they  are  conscientious 
observers  of  their  nuptial  vows,  prefer  the  prat- 
tle of  their  children  to  the  wise  talk  of  their 
lords.  In  that  she  found  more  pleasure  in  her 
nursery  than  in  Frederick's  study.  Mrs.  Sharps- 
well  was  unquestionably  a  "mother"  rather 
than  a  "  wife."  Had  she  married  Albert  Guer- 
don in  her  joyous  girlhood,  she  would  have 
been  one  of  "the  wives  ;"  but  marrying  a  sec- 
ond love,  after  endurance  of  much  sorrow,  she 
naturally  belonged  to  the  "  mothers."  And 
her  case  affords  the  explanation  of  the  moral 
and  sentimental  difference  of  these  two  species 
of  virtuous  and  fortunate  womankind.  When 
a  good  woman  is  seen  to  care  more  for  her  hus- 
band than  her  children,  it  may  be  safely  inferred 
that  he  was  her  first  love.  On  the  other  hand, 
of  the  woman  who,  loving  her  husband  much, 
loves  her  offspring  more,  it  may  be  no  less  coir- 
fidently  declared  that  she  did  not  give  herself 
to  her  spouse  until  she  had  expended  the  finest 
force  of  her  virginal  affections  on  another  man. 

Lottie  was  a  passionately  loving — ay,  an  ab- 
surdly doting  mother,  to  her  four  large-eyed, 
lovely  girls.  And  to  her  husband's  credit  it 
may  be  told  that  he  was  never  jealous  of  the 
children,  though  he  knew  well  that  Lottie 
cared  more  for  them  than  for  him.  Like  many 
men  who  are  overbearing  and  disagreeable  out- 
of-doors,  Frederick  Sharpswell  was  a  model  of 
good  temper  and  affectionateness  under  his  own 
roof.  He  was  pleasant  and  considerate  even 
to  his  servants  in  Morpeth  Place ;  though  his 
Lincoln's  Inn  clerk  was  justified  in  describing 
him  to  certain  members  of  the  Convivial  Scriv- 
eners' Free-and-easy,  as  "  the  most  sooperselli- 
ous  and  aggravating  snake  in  the  whole  Law 
List." 

Lottie  had  been  married  some  sixteen  months, 
when  she  had  a  memorable  conversation  with 
her  husband  about  Mr.  Albert  Otway. 

As  the  wife  of  a  working  barrister,  Mrs. 
Sharpswell  naturally  took  an  interest  in  the 
proceedings  of  the  courts  in  which  her  husband 
practiced.  She  liked  to  know  something  of 
the  causes  that  were  alluded  to  at  legal  dinner- 
parties. She  never  took  up  the  Times  without 
glancing  at  the  Law  Reports,  to  see  if  Fred- 


172 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


crick's  name  appeared  in  them.  It  followed 
that  she  became  familiar  with  the  names  of 
Equity  barristers  whom  she  did  not  meet  in 
society,  and  that  her  eye  was  often  arrested  in 
her  daily  newspaper  by  the  name  of  Otway. 
Could  it  be  the  same  Mr.  Otway  who  was  Al- 
bert Guerdon's  friend  ?  On  referring  to  the 
Law  List,  she  found  an  Albert,  but  not  a  Reg- 
inald Albert  Otway,  in  the  catalogue  of  coun- 
sel. Without  speaking  to  Frederick  on  the 
matter,  she  ascertained  that  the  Mr.  Otway, 
mentioned  almost  daily  in  the  journals,  was 
an  Albert.  Perhaps  he  had  relinquished  his 
longer  Christian  name,  and  was  the  same  Regi- 
nald Albert  who  had  written  to  her  mother  at 
the  time  of  Albert  Guerdon's  death,  and  had 
followed  her  once  dear — her  still  dear — Albert 
to  the  grave  in  Ewebridge  church. 

More  than  once  she  had  checked  herself  as 
she  was  on  the  point  of  speaking  to  Fred  about 
Mr.  Otway.  She  had  never  mentioned  Albert 
Guerdon's  name  to  her  husband,  or  even  hint- 
ed to  Fred  that  she  had  loved  another  before 
she  loved  him.  And  having  married  Lottie 
when  she  was  twenty-five  years  old,  Frederick 
had,  with  proper  delicacy,  refrained  from  cross- 
examining  her  as  to  her  possible  love-affairs  in 
times  prior  to  their  acquaintance.  Naturally 
she  shrunk  from  touching,  in  her  confidences 
with  him,  on  any  subject  that  could  lead  him 
to  pry  into  her  buried  life.  But  at  last  the  time 
came  when  a  growing  curiosity  impelled  her  to 
talk  to  him  about  Mr.  Otway. 

Putting  down  the  Times,  which  she  had  been 
conning  in  her  boudoir  one  evening,  and  speak- 
ing in  a  low  voice  that  would  not  disturb  baby, 
sleeping  tranquilly  in  an  adjacent  berfeaunette, 
Mr.  Sharpswell  said, 

"Mr.  Otway  must  have  a  large  practice, 
Fred.  His  name  is  in  the  Times  day  after 
day." 

"Yes,  he  is  getting  a  large  business,"  Fred- 
erick replied,  his  countenance  assuming  a  look 
which  informed  Mrs.  Sharpswell  that  her  hus- 
band harbored  animosity  against  Mr.  Otway. 

"Is  he  clever?" 

"  No  doubt.  No  man  can  arrive  at  his  po- 
sition at  the  Bar  in  some  three  years  without 
being  clever." 

"  Did  he  take  high  honors  at  Oxford  or  Cam- 
bridge ?" 

"Pooh!  he  picked  up  whatever  culture  he 
has  at  Bonn,  Heidelberg,  and  such  places." 

"  Indeed  !"  rejoined  Lottie,remembering  that 
Albert  Guerdon  had  been  educated  at  Bonn, 
Heidelberg,  and  such  places,  and  that  Mr. 
Reginald  Albert  Otway  had  been  his  fellow- 
student. 

After  a  pause  she  added,  "  Some  years  since 
I  saw  a  Mr.  Otway — only  once — in  Boringdon- 
shire.  I  wonder  if  he  is  the  Mr.  Otway  of  your 
Bar?  Describe  Mr.  Otway  to  me." 

Mr.  Sharpswell  answered,  contemptuously, 

"  My  Mr.  Otway  !  The  fellow  is  no  ally  of 
mine.  As  for  his  appearance,  he  is  a  hard-fea- 
tured, closely-cropped,  closely-shaven  prig,  with 


reddish  hair,  a  peculiar  brownish-red  complex- 
ion, long  downward  lines  in  his  face,  and  a  pair 
of  dark  eyes  —  notably  dark  for  a  man  with 
light  hair  —  that,  when  he  is  angry,  blaze  out 
from  beneath  a  pair  of  straight,  shelving  eye- 
brows." 

In  every  particular  the  description  corre- 
sponded with  Mrs.  Sharpswell's  recollection  of 
Albert  Guerdon's  friend. 

"He  is  rather  above  the  middle  height,  well- 
made,  and  strongly  built  for  a  slight  man." 

"He  must  be  the  same  gentleman  who  was 
in  Boringdonshire." 

"Where  did  you  meet  him?"  Frederick  in- 
quired. 

A  slight  blush  rose  in  Mrs.  Sharpswell's  face 
as  she  answered,  evasively,  "At  Ewebridge — a 
parish  near  Arleigh,  at  a  rather  large  gather- 
ing of  people.  I  remember  that  I  exchanged  a 
few  words  with  him." 

Fortunately  the  answer  satisfied  Mr.  Sharps- 
well's  curiosity. 

"  By-the-way,"  Lottie  added,  with  an  air  of 
indifference,  "his  name  was  Reginald  Albert 
Otway." 

"So  is  this  man's — only  he  has  dropped  the 
Reginald.  Doubtless  he  is  the  fellow  you  re- 
member." 

"  How  strange  of  him  to  drop  one  of  his 
names !" 

"Not  at  all.  It's  a  common  dodge  with 
men  of  disreputable  antecedents,  who  wish  to 
separate  themselves  from  past  disgrace.  Ot- 
way's  father,  Martin  Otway,  was  a  cheat,  rogue, 
swindler,  forger ;  and  Mr.  Otway  dropped  his 
first  Christian  name,  so  that  he  should  be  the 
less  readily  recognized  as  the  son  of  a  villain." 

"  How  strange !" 

Remembering  how  John  Guerdon,  in  whose 
innocence  and  honor  she  thoroughly  believed, 
was  charged  unjustly  with  the  same  offenses, 
Mrs.  Sharpswell  added,  pitifully,  "Perhaps  the 
poor  man— Mr.  Otway's  father,  I  mean — was 
not  so  bad  as  the  world  says  ?" 

"  He  was  every  whit  as  bad — ay,  and  worse," 
returned  Mr.  Sharpswell,  angrily,  raising  his 
voice  in  his  excitement. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  it.  But  don't  speak  so 
loudly,  Fred — you'll  wake  baby." 

Lowering  his  voice,  out  of  respect  for  baby's 
slumber,  Mr.  Sharpswell  rejoined, 

"As  you'll  be  sure  to  find  it  out,  sooner  or 
later,  Lottie,  I  may  as  well  tell  you  at  once. 
Otway  and  I  are  second  cousins,  and  deadly  en- 
emies. I  hate  him  just  as  my  father  hated  his 
father.  We  are  kinsmen  at  feud,  after  the  Cor- 
sican  fashion.  He  hates  me  with  an  implaca- 
ble hatred." 

"Atrocious  man  !"  ejaculated  Lottie,  in  a 
louder  key. 

"His  chief  aim,"  returned  Mr.  Sharpswell, 
lowering  his  voice  to  a  tone  that  rendered  his 
words  peculiarly  impressive  and  terrifying  to  his 
companion,  "is  to  injure  me  in  my  profession. 
If  he  could,  he  would  ruin  and  beggar  us  !  If 
he  could,  he  would  so  reduce  us  that  your  babe 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


173 


there,  on  growing  to  a  woman,  should  have  to 
work  with  the  needle  for  her  bread." 

"•  Abominable  wretch!"  cried  Mrs.  Sharps- 
well,  in  a  still  higher  tone  of  abhorrence,  that 
brought  a  sudden  sharp  screech  from  the  ber- 
qeaunette. 

With  wifely  injustice,  Mrs.  Sharpswell  ex- 
claimed, "  There,  Fred,  you  have  waked  baby  !" 
as  she  rose  quickly  and  ran  to  her  darling. 
And,  with  proper  marital  subrnissiveness,  Mr. 
Sharpswell  said,  "Ton  my  honor,  Lottie,  I  beg 
your  pardon  for  making  such  a  noise  !" 

Baby  having  thus  abruptly  broken  the  con- 
versation, it  was  not  renewed  on  that  evening. 

But  Frederick  Sharpswell  took  an  early  op- 
portunity to  justify  his  hatred  of  Albert  Otway 
to  his  wife,  by  revealing  to  her  all  the  iniqui- 
ties of  Martin  Otway  and  his  son.  He  told 
her  about  the  bitter  quarrel  between  his  father 
and  Albert's  father  in  such  a  way  that  she  re- 
garded the  late  Martin  Otway  as  the  falsest, 
wickedest,  and  most  vindictive  knave  that  ever 
lived.  As  for  Otway  the  son,  Fred  proved  to 
Lottie  that  the  man  was  a  prodigy  of  evil  and 
contemptible  qualities,  which  were  all  the  more 
odious  and  dangerous  because  they  were  allied 
with  remarkable  cleverness.  He  had,  in  the 
first  instance,  gained  a  large  practice  through 
attorneys,  whom  he  had  toadied  meanly  during 
his  student's  career  at  Lincoln's  Inn.  A  syco- 
phant to  solicitors,  he  was  an  unscrupulous  ad- 
vocate, and  utterly  regardless  of  honor  and  de- 
cency in  the  measures  which  he  employed  to 
gratify  his  vengeance  against  Lottie's  husband. 
Mr.  Sharpswell  sincerely  believed  the  statements 
which  he  thus  made  to  Albert's  discredit.  He 
had  thoroughly  persuaded  himself  that  his  rival 
was  a  monstrous  rascal.  The  picture  of  a  man, 
drawn  by  his  bitter  enemy,  is  never  a  flattering, 
and  seldom  a  truthful  portrait. 

For  a  while  Lottie  experienced  a  tender  sad- 
ness in  knowing  that  Albert  Guerdon's  friend 
was  such  a  wicked  man.  But  soon  her  sadness 
lost  its  tenderness,  and  became  the  vehement 
animosity  of  a  loyal  partisan.  In  her  sympa- 
thy with,  and  faith  in  her  husband,  she  adopted 
wholly  his  repulsive  account  of  Mr.  Otway's  evil 
nature.  If  she  did  not  except  the  wicked  man 
from  her  prayers  for  her  enemies,  she  at  least 
gave  him,  in  her  mind,  a  very  unflattering  prom- 
inence among  those  disturbers  of  her  happiness. 
So  far  as  she  was  capable  of  hatred,  she  detest- 
ed the  man  who  hindered  her  husband's  ad- 
vancement, and  strove  to  injure  her  little  girls. 
When  she  read  in  the  Legal  Intelligence  the  judg- 
ment of  a  cause  in  which  Mr.  Otway  had  been 
concerned  on  the  winning  side,  and  her  hus- 
band had  been  a  counsel  on  the  losing  side,  she 
gave  vent  to  her  chagrin  and  irritation  in  a  bit- 
ter sigh. 

Having  once  conversed  freely  about  Mr.  Ot- 
way, she  and  Fred  often  recurred  to  the  sub- 
ject ;  and  in  hours  of  anxious  solitude,  the  wife 
and  mother  shed  many  a  tear  over  imaginary 
evils  that  might  possibly  ensue  to  Fred  and  her 
children  from  their  enemy's  malignity.  Is  it 


wonderful  that,  in  the  course  of  years,  when  the 
enemy  had  dealt,  and  was  continuing  to  deliver 
blow  after  blow  against  her  husband's  peace  of 
mind,  she  could  scarcely  refrain  from  shudder- 
ing at  the  sight  in  print  or  the  sound  of  this  Ot- 
way's execrable  name?  In  one  of  his  "Hap- 
py Thoughts  "  Punch  described  Mr.  Disraeli's 
amusement  at  discovering  that  Lady  Beacons- 
field's  wifely  zeal  had  made  her  regard  Mr. 
Gladstone  as  a  monster  of  badness.  The  man 
whose  open  and  relentless  adversary  has  a  lov- 
ing wife  may  rest  assured  that  the  world  con- 
tains at  least  one  woman  to  whom  he  is  detest- 
able. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

CRUSHED   AND   GROUND   TO   POWDER. 

Two  gentlemen-at-feud — let  us  say  two  rival 
doctors  —  who  live  in  the  market-square  of  a 
provincial  town,  in  houses  so  placed  that  nei- 
ther of  the  enemies  can  look  out  of  his  dining- 
room  windows  without  seeing  the  dining-room 
windows  of  the  other,  may  be  said  to  exist  un- 
der circumstances  unfavorable  to  their  chances 
of  reconciliation.  When  A  wins  a  patient  from 
B,  the  latter  knows  it  almost  before  the  former 
has  taken  his  first  fee  from  his  new  employer. 
If  some  of  B's  acquaintances  go  to  Mrs.  A's 
evening-party,  B  sees  their  carriages  before  his 
enemy's  door,  and  feels  that  the  fidelity  of  his 
friends  is  being  undermined  by  the  foe.  At 
church  A  and  B  scowl  at  each  other  from  op- 
posite pews,  and  sing  one  another  down  from 
hymn-books  that  they  would  fain  use  as  missiles 
of  warfare.  The  obstinacy  of  rural  quarrels  is 
proverbial. 

Albert  Otway  and  Frederick  Sharpswell  lived 
like  our  two  householders  in  the  same  provin- 
cial market-square,  under  circumstances  that 
kept  the  fury  of  their  mutual  hatred  at  white 
heat.  Occupants  of  chambers  looking  into  the 
same  small  yard,  and  practitioners  in  the  same 
courts  of  law,  they  were  perpetually  jostling 
against  and  wrangling  with  each  other,  to  the 
infinite  amusement  of  the  majority  of  the  watch- 
ers of  their  feud.  The  few  good-natured  mem- 
bers of  the  Equity  Bar  thought  it  a  pity  that  two 
such  clever  fellows  could  not  come  to  a  friendly 
understanding.  But  the  many  mischievous  gen- 
tlemen of  the  same  profession  were  of  opinion 
that  the  never  abating  fight  of  Otway  vs.  Sharps- 
well  contributed  to  the  liveliness  of  Lincoln's 
Inn,  and  was  not  at  all  indecent,  as  the  antag- 
onists, avoiding  Old  Bailey  rudeness,  worried 
each  other  in  a  gentleman-like  style.  The  an- 
tagonism of  the  two  men  was  notorious  in  legal 
circles,  and  it  was  utilized  by  solicitors  who,  in 
pitting  the  eminent  juniors  against  each  other, 
regarded  the  mutual  enmity  as  a  spur  inces- 
santly pricking  the  flank  of  either  animal.  It 
was  observed  that  Mr.  Otway  was  never  so  vig- 
ilant in  watching,  or  strong  in  speaking,  as  in 
cases  where  he  was  opposed  to  Mr.  Sharpswell. 
In  like  manner,  it  was  allowed  that  Mr.  Sharps- 


174 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


well  seldom  failed  lo  "do  all  he  knew"  when 
Mr.  Otway  was  on  the  "other  side." 

Had  Frederick  Sharpswell  got  the  upper 
hand  of  his  rival,  he  would  have  been  unbear- 
ably insolent  toward  all  men ;  but  under  his 
foe's  sharp  discipline — which  may  be  described 
as  a  snubbing  once  a  week,  and  a  terrible  thrash- 
ing once  a  month — Mr.  Sharpswell  learned  that 
he  was  not  every  body,  and  improved  so  greatly 
in  his  general  demeanor  that  he  lost  his  old  rep- 
utation of  being  the  most  disagreeable  man  at 
the  Bar.  The  moi-e  he  felt  Albert's  strength, 
and  recognized  his  own  weakness,  the  more  was 
he  desirous  of  sympathy  and  social  support.  But 
fairly  mastered,  Mr.  Sharpswell  was  not  igno- 
miniously  beaten  out  of  the  field  by  his  rival 
until  they  had  both  taken  "silk." 

Older  in  forensic  standing  than  his  foe  by 
several  terms,  Sharpswell  was  also  the  first  of 
the  two  to  become  a  Q.C.  His  junior's  busi- 
ness had  been  steadily  decreasing  for  three 
years,  when  he  applied  for  silk,  and,  getting  it, 
made  choice  of  the  Rolls  Court  as  the  scene  of 
his  future  triumphs.  He  had  grown  so  weary 
of  his  uncle's  criticisms  that  he  determined  not 
to  lead  in  his  court,  where  he  would  be  under 
Sir  Peter  Mansfield's  observations.  To  some 
of  his  friends  he  remarked  superciliously  that 
it  would  never  do  for  him  to  lead  in  the  court 
of  "a  man  "who  might  be  suspected  of  favor- 
ing him  from  private  considerations ;  an  impru- 
dent speech,  which,  on  being  reported  to  the 
"  man, "caused  him  to  carry  out  a  long  medi- 
tated design  with  respect  to  his  property. 

Nine  months  after  he  had  taken  "silk "Mr. 
Sharpswell  lost  his  uncle,  and  was  disappointed 
in  his  hope  of  being  greatly  enriched  by  the  vet- 
eran's death.  Dividing  his  considerable  proper- 
ty between  his  brother's  two  sons,  Sir  Peter  left 
his  sister's  boy,  Fred  Sharpswell,  only  a  legacy 
of  £10,000.  This  was  a  prodigious  disappoint- 
ment to  Lottie's  husband,  who  had  hoped  to  get 
five  times  that  amount  from  his  uncle,  and  had 
expended  a  large  proportion  of  his  small  patri- 
mony in  maintaining  an  expenditure  that  ex- 
ceeded his  income  by  several  hundreds  a  year. 
About  the  same  time  he  was  inadequately  con- 
soled for  this  grievous  misadventure  by  the  com- 
ing in  of  £5000  at  the  death  of  Sir  James  Dar- 
ling ;  but  this  sum,  as  part  of  the  property  se- 
cured to  Lottie,  passed  into  the  hands  of  her 
trustees.  At  the  close  of  his  first  year  in  silk, 
Mr.  Sharpswell  had,  in  addition  to  his  profes- 
sional earnings,  just  £15,000  besides  the  income 
derived  from  the  small  fortune  settled  on  his 
wife.  Up  to  that  point  of  his  career  he  had 
not  done  well.  But  the  world  believed  him  to 
have  done  better.  And  his  spirit,  though  tamed, 
was  still  unbroken.  He  would  win  a  vice-chan- 
cellor's place  in  spite  of  Albert  Otway,  or  a  score 
such  prigs. 

While  Mr.  Sharpswell's  success  had  been  so 
unsubstantial  as  to  be  near  akin  to  failure,  Al- 
bert Otway  had  been  making  a  fine  yearly  in- 
come, and  saving  about  three -fourths  of  it.  Mi*. 
Cannick's  protfyt  had  never  made  the  mistake 


of  living  stingily,  in  order  that  he  might  grow 
rich  a  little  faster.  On  the  contrary,  he  had 
the  luxuries  and  pleasures  of  a  prosperous  gen- 
tleman. Excluded  from  The  Criterion,  he  be- 
came a  member  of  The  Legislative,  and  at  that 
well-reputed  club  entertained  his  friends  with 
suitable  liberality.  His  residence-chambers  in 
the  Inner  Temple  were  equal  to  his  success, 
and  he  was  one  of  the  best-mounted  riders  of 
"the  Kow."  In  the  Long  Vacations  he  made 
Continental  trips  ;  but  while  living  without 
parsimony,  he  laid  by  from  each  year's  earnings 
much  more  than  he  spent ;  and  knowing  from 
his  early  training  how  to  invest  his  savings  at 
high  interest,  as  well  as  on  good  security,  he 
became  rich  with  a  quickness  that,  to  some 
readers  of  this  page,  may  appear  incredible. 
On  the  completion  of  his  tenth  year  at  the  Bar, 
he  was  in  a  position  to  pay  his  father's  clients, 
or  their  representatives,  every  penny  that  they 
had  lost  from  the  failure  of  Guerdon  &  Scrive- 
ner's bank,  interest  as  well  as  principal.  Mind- 
ful of  Harold  Cannick's  desire  that  they  should 
never  mention  a  certain  "  ugly  story"  to  one  an- 
other, Mr.  Otway  neither  employed  his  friend  to 
negotiate  with  Guerdon  &  Scrivener's  unsatisfied 
creditors,  nor  spoke  to  him  of  the  steps  he  was 
taking  to  relieve  John  Guerdon's  memory  of 
dishonor.  The  barrister's  agent  in  this  busi- 
ness was  Mr.  Broadbent,  of  the  firm  of  Broad- 
bent  &  Greenacre,  Walbrook,  City,  a  solicitor 
whose  acquaintance  Albert  had  made  at  Harold 
Cannick's  house.  Men  can  usually  be  found 
without  much  trouble  by  the  seeker  who  only 
Avants  to  pay  them  money.  Having  obtained 
from  the  proper  official  source  certain  particu- 
lars of  the  liquidation  of  Guerdon  &  Scrivener's 
estate,  Mr.  Broadbent  had  no  great  difficulty  in 
discovering  the  banker's  creditors,  and  indu- 
cing them  to  take  with  interest  the  unpaid  bal- 
ance of  their  old  claims  on  the  bank.  Of  course 
Mr.  Broadbent's  proceedings  caused  surprise 
and  talk  in  the  "  Great  Yard,"  and  all  the  more 
because  the  good  folk  in  Boringdonshire  were 
left  in  ignorance  of  the  person  who,  after  a  lapse 
of  some  fourteen  years  since  the  failure  and  sub- 
sequent death  of  John  Guerdon's  only  child,  ex- 
hibited such  concern  for  the  banker's  memory. 
A  rumor  went  about  Boringdonshire  that  Scriv- 
ener had  become  a  prodigious  capitalist  in  the 
United  States,  and,  growing  honest  in  his  old 
age,  had  indemnified  the  sufferers  from  his 
rascality ;  but  this  rumor  was  discountenanced 
by  the  fact  that,  while  paying  every  pecuniary 
claim  for  which  the  late  John  Guerdon's  repre- 
sentatives could  be  deemed  responsible  in  hon- 
or, Mr.  Broadbent  paid  none  of  Scrivener's  in- 
dividual liabilities. 

Having  paid  off  all  the  creditors  of  the  fallen 
bank,  and  indemnified  to  the  uttermost  far- 
thing Messrs.  Pittock  &  Murphy,  King  William 
Street,  City,  for  the  loss  which  they  had  sustained 
by  discounting  the  forged  acceptance  that  John 
Guerdon  had  indorsed,  Albert  had  still  in  hand 
several  thousands  of  pounds  toward  the  accom- 
plishment of  his  next,  and  so  far  as  his  father's 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


175 


honor  was  concerned,  final  pecuniary  undertak- 
ing— the  restitution  of  Blanche  Ileathcotc's  for- 
tune. 

Few  months  had  passed  since  Albert  survey- 
ed with  satisfaction  the  collection  of  receipts 
which  Mr.  Broadbent  put  into  his  hands  on  re- 
turning from  his  last  visit  to  the  Great  Yard, 
when,  at  an  evil  hour  of  a  period  fertile  in 
bubble  companies,  Frederick  Sharpswell  was 
induced  to  invest  £10,000  in  the  shares  of  the 
Royal  Alliance  Bank.  A  joint-stock  bank, 
the  Royal  Alliance  was  established  to  compete 
with  the  London  and  Westminster,  which,  un- 
der skillful  management,  had  already  attained 
the  strength  and  vast  credit  that  it  still  pos- 
sesses in,  the  commercial  world.  Started  by 
sanguine  men,  who  had  some  name  and  influ- 
ence among  financiers,  the  new  bank  was  re- 
garded favorably  by  many  persons  of  sagacity. 
Sanguine  in  all  his  undertakings,  Mr.  Sharps- 
well  had  no  doubt  that  it  would  succeed,  and 
pay  him  thirty  per  cent,  on  his  invested  capi- 
tal. Having  become  a  share-holder,  he  was  per- 
suaded to  act  as  one  of  the  directors  of  the  con- 
cern. The  projectors  were  of  opinion  that  the 
Q.C.'s  name  in  the  list  of  managers  would  gain 
the  bank  confidence  in  legal  circles. 

At  the  outset  of  its  brief  career  the  Royal 
Alliance  had  the  appearance  of  prosperity. 
Lottie  was  delighted  by  her  husband's  assur- 
ances that  they  were  at  last  on  the  high-road  to 
wealth.  And  while  he  congratulated  himself 
on  his  relations  with  the  new  bank,  Mr.  Sharps- 
well  was  satisfied  with  his  professional  doings. 
The  new  silk  gownsman  of  the  Equity  Bar  had 
been  well  supported  by  his  personal  connection 
1  of  solicitors  ;  and  on  the  close  of  his  first  year 
•  "in  silk,  he  could  tell  Lottie  that,  instead  of  fall- 
1  ing  below,  the  years'  earnings  had  exceeded  the 
average  of  his  previous  eight  years'  profession- 
al winnings.  He  would  soon  be  in  Parliament, 
and  competing  for  the  office  of  Solicitor-gen- 
eral. 

A  few  months  later,  Frederick  Sharpswell 
was  not  surprised  to  hear  that  Albert  Otway 
would  be  one  of  the  next  batch  of  silk-gowns- 
men ;  but  he  drew  a  long  face  when  he  saw 
Albert  enter  the  Rolls  Court  in  his  new  silk 
gown.  It  was  ominous  of  mischief  that  the 
enemy,  instead  of  choosing  one  of  the  other 
Courts,  had  selected  the  Rolls. 

As  leaders  in  the  Rolls,  the  two  men  renew- 
ed the  long,  bitter  fight  which  they  had  fought 
in  their  relinquished  stuff-gowns.  Again,  so- 
licitors, pitted  the  combatants  against  each  oth- 
er ;  but  not  many  terms  passed  before  it  was 
obvious  that  the  one,  who  had  been  the  better 
junior,  was  by  far  the  stronger  leader.  In 
truth,  Frederick  Sharpswell  soon  received  so 
many  falls  from  the  man  with  whom  he  again 
wrestled,  that  his  backers  lost  heart  and  faith 
in  him.  Some  of  the  solicitors,  who  had  been 
his  staunchest  supporters  from  the  day  of  his 
call,  left  him  in  disgust,  and  gave  their  briefs 
to  his  victor. 

Nor  was  the  Rolls  the  only  arena  in  which 


Frederick  was  met  and  beaten  by  his  antago- 
nist. Some  of  the  electors  of  Swanbeach  hav- 
ing invited  him  to  represent  them  on  Liberal 
Conservative  principles  in  Parliament,  he  ac- 
cepted the  invitation,  and  running  down  to  the 
borough,  was  received  there  in  a  way  which 
made  him  regard  the  seat  as  won.  The  Lon- 
don papers  announced  that  he  would  be  re- 
turned without  a  contest.  But  the  papers  were 
wrong.  Harold  Cannick  was  a  close  ally  of  a 
Parliamentary  agent,  who  knew  "all  about  the 
borough,"  and  assured  his  friend  that  a  very 
moderate  Liberal  might  beat  the  Liberal  Con- 
servative by  a  narrow  majority.  Harold  Can- 
nick  carried  the  news  to  Albert ;  and  on  the 
very  evening  of  the  nomination  day,  it  was  an- 
nounced in  the  Globe  that  at  the  lust  moment 
a  Liberal  candidate  had  appeared  in  the  field 
at  Swanbeach.  Mrs.  Sharpswell  had  scarcely 
perused  a  telegram,  bearing  the  words,  "All 
right,"  from  her  absent  husband,  when,  taking 
tip  the  evening  paper,  she  read,  "An  eminent 
Chancery  barrister  has  gone  to  Swanbeach,  to 
contest  the  borough  with  Mr.  Sharpswell,  Q.C." 
Her  face  turned  white  with  fear,  and  then  scar- 
let with  indignation,  as  she  asked  herself,  "Can 
the  eminent  barrister  be  that  odious,  abomina- 
ble Mr.  Otway  ?"  The  following  morning  an- 
swered this  question  in  the  affirmative.  Three 
days  later,  Mrs.  Sharpswell  had  the  pain  of 
knowing  that  Mr.  Otway  was  a  member  of  Par- 
liament, having  beaten  her  husband  at  the  elec- 
tion by  only  six  votes.  Though  she  received 
her  husband,  on  his  return  from  Swanbeach, 
with  a  smiling  face,  poor  Lottie  had  secretly 
shed  many  bitter  tears  o.rer  the  result  of  the 
contest. 

A  year  later,  Frederick  Sharpswell,  who  was 
extremely  desirous  to  enter  Parliament,  offered 
his  services  to  the  electors  of  Marchborough,  a 
larger  and  much  more  important  constituency 
than  Swanbeach ;  and  after  a  vehement  battle 
with  two  other  competitors  for  the  vacant  seat, 
he  found  himself  at  the  top  of  the  poll.  At  last 
he  was  in  Parliament.  "  Now,  Lottie,"  he  ex- 
claimed, when  he  had  kissed  her  in  the  draw- 
ing-room of  No.  2  Morpeth  Place,  immediately 
after  his  triumphant  return  to  town,  "  I  am  on 
my  way  to  the  'Lords.'"  Poor  fellow!  and 
poor  Lottie !  He  had  barely  entered  the  House 
of  Commons,  when  a  petition  was  presented 
against  his  return,  on  allegations  of  flagrant 
bribery. 

"  Dear,  dear  Frederick,  you  have  not  bribed  ? 
you  have  not  done  any  thing  so  wicked  !"  Lot- 
tie exclaimed,  anxiously  and  indignantly,  when 
she  received  this  intelligence  from  her  lord's 
lips.  "  How  cruel  it  is  that  such  a  charge 
should  be  brought  against  you  !" 

Fred  turned  pale,  and  for  a  moment  was 
abashed. 

"  Wicked,  my  dear,"  he  stammered  ;  "  what 
do  you  mean  ?  They  all  do  it." 

And  then  he  explained  to  her  that,  though 
bribery  and  corruption  had  an  ugly  sound,  they 
signified  nothing  heinous  when  used  in  a  pure- 


176 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


]y  Parliamentary  sense,  but  merely  pointed  to 
certain  pecuniary  and  almost  constitutional  pro- 
cesses by  which  majorities  were  always  deter- 
mined at  contested  elections. 

"Since  all  the  candidates  bribe  equally,"  he 
observed,  "corrupt  influence,  as  it  is  rather  ab- 
surdly termed,  does  no  practical  harm,  except 
to  the  pockets  of  the  candidates.  Deduct  from 
each  o£  the  three  returns  at  Marchborough  its 
hundred  or  so  bought  votes,  the  positions  of 
the  candidates  would  be  just  the  same.  Hence 
no  honest  voter  is  injured  by  the  inconvenient 
system.  Nor  does  the  system  tend  to  misrep- 
resent the  wishes  of  a  constituency.  If  a  can- 
didate were,  through  niggardliness,  to  refrain 
from  bribery,  like  his  opponents,  he  would  be 
only  giving  them  an  unfair  advantage,  and  oc- 
casion a  misrepresentation  of  the  popular  will. 
He  wouldr  in  fact,  be  wanting  in  loyalty  to  his 
party.  Of  course  the  system  is  bad,  and  some- 
times works  unjustly,  when  unscrupulous  ad- 
versaries succeed  in  unseating  a  member  for 
his  bribery,  who  has  only  bribed  like  his  oppo- 
nents." 

Though  she  was  comforted  by  this  assurance 
that "  they  all  did  it,"  Mrs.  Sharpswell  was  sore- 
ly troubled  by  the  confession  which  accompa- 
nied the  apology.  She  was  still  further  troubled 
on  hearing  that  a  committee  had  been  appoint- 
ed to  consider  the  case  of  the  petitioners  against 
her  husband's  return,  and  that  a  large  fund  had 
been  subscribed  at  Marchborough  to  prosecute 
the  petition.  She  turned  pale  with  alarm,  and 
bit  her  lips  with  vexation  and  anger  a  day  or 
two  later,  when  she  learned  that  though,  as  a 
practicing  Q.C.,  he  was  exempt  from  serving 
on  committees,  Mr.  Albert  Otway  had  con- 
trived to  be  placed  on  the  committee  appoint- 
ed to  try  her  husband  on  a  charge  of  doing 
"what  they  all  did." 

Albert's  presence  on  the  committee  pro- 
voked no  little  gossip,  and  some  censure  at 
Westminster  and  in  Lincoln's  Inn.  It  was 
said  by  some  persons  that  his  hatred  of  Sharps- 
well  was  carrying  him  too  far,  and  making  him 
forgetful  of  the  dignity  of  his  profession.  People 
remarked  also  that,  in  mere  loss  of  business, 
he  would  throw  away  two  or  three  thousand 
pounds  by  indulging  his  animosity  in  so  singu- 
lar and  unbecoming  a  way.  But  all  the  same, 
censure  and  loss  of  money  notwithstanding,  he 
sat  on  the  committee,  and  obviously  enjoyed  the 
masterly  way  in  which  a  famous  Parliamentary 
counsel  traced  certain  sovereigns  to  a  particu- 
lar agent,  who  was  proved  to  have  received 
£1000  pounds  in  gold  from  Mr.  Sharpswell 
himself  shortly  before  the  election.  It  was  re- 
marked that  when  this  evidence  had  been  es- 
tablished, Mr.  Otway  took  occasion  to  point  out 
to  the  committee  how  thoroughly  "  the  nail," 
to  use  his  own  expression,  "had  been  driven 
home."  There  could  be  no  doubt  of  Mr.  Sharps- 
well's  guilt.  The  case  was  one  in  which  the 
committee  could  not  venture  to  assume  that 
the  bribing  candidate  had  not  been  cognizant 
of  the  proceedings  of  his  agents.  So  Mr. 


Sharpswell  was  unseated.  He  had  bribed 
clumsily,  and  been  "found  out."  And  ho 
paid  the  penalty  of  b,eing  "found  out."  Be- 
sides losing  his  seat,  he  was  assailed  by  party 
journalists,  who,  to  Mrs.  Sharpswell's  acute  pain 
and  hot  indignation,  held  him  up  to  public  ex- 
ecration as  a  man  unworthy  of  admission  to 
public  life.  Somehow,  society  just  then  became 
outrageously  virtuous  about  bribery,  and  talked 
very  bitterly  against  the  latest  doer  of  "what 
every  body  did."  And  as  Mrs.  Sharpswell 
lived  in  society,  she  knew  its  sentiments.  More- 
over, Karold  Cannick's  "friends  on  the  press" 
gave  very  forcible  expression  to  the  world's  in- 
dignation. 

'*  Well,  Otway,  your  friend  has  caught  it  hot 
and  strong  in  the  Times  to-day,"  Harold  Can- 
nick  observed  to  Albert,  on  the  next  morning 
after  Frederick  Sharpswell's  ejection  from  "the 
House." 

"Yes,"  Mr.  Otway  replied,  quietly.  "He 
shut  me  out  of  the  Criterion  Club..  I  have  turn- 
ed him  out  of  the  House  of  Commons."  After 
a  brief  pause,  he  added,  grimly,  "But  I  have 
not  quite  done,  even  yet,  with  my  friend,  as  you 
are  pleased  to  call  him." 

No,  he  had  not  done  with  him. 

Mr.  Otway  having  utterly  discredited  Mr. 
Sharpswell  in  the  Rolls,  it  became  apparent  to 
the  latter  that,  if  he  would  not  fall  altogether 
out  of  practice,  he  must  retire  from  the  presence 
of  his  enemy,  and  frequent  another  of  the  Equity 
Courts.  It  was  not  without  a  bitter  sense  of 
humiliation  that  he  took  this  step,  which  was 
an  avowal  of  his  defeat  to  the  whole  of  the 
Equity  Bar. 

But  he  took  it,  at  the  urgent  entreaty  of  the 
tfew  strong  clients  who  still  wished  to  support 
him,  but  told  him  frankly  that  they  could  not 
give  him  briefs  against  Mr.  Otway,  who  had 
so  completely  taken  possession  of  the  ear  and 
brain  of  the  Master  of  the  Rolls. 

So,  at  the  opening  of  the  next  term,  Mr. 
Sharpswell  appeared  in  the  front  line  of  advo- 
cates, practicing  in  Vice-chancellor  Borton's 
Court;  and  during  that  term  he  was  in  several 
heavy  causes,  in  which  he  did  his  work  unu- 
sually well.  In  two  cases  he  won  a  decision 
against  the  expectations  of  his  client.  He  had 
rallied  ;  and  having  got  out  of  the  way  of  his 
foe,  it  was  felt  that  he  might  again  do  a  decent 
business,  though  solicitors  would  be  shy  of  em- 
ploying him  in  appeals,  lest  he  should  be  con- 
fronted by  Mr.  Otway. 

Another  term  opened,  and  on  its  first  day 
Mr.  Sharpswell  was  engaged  before  Sir  Roger 
Borton  in  a  copyright  case,  when  who  should 
enter  the  Vice  -  chancellor's  Court,  and  seat 
himself  among  the  Queen's  Counsel,  but  Albert 
Otway  ?  Yes,  Albert  had  moved  from  the 
Rolls,  where  he  was  triumphant,  into  the  court 
of  a  vice-chancellor  who  disliked  him,  in  or- 
der that  he  might  inflict  on  his  enemy  further 
injury  and  humiliation.  As  Albert  took  his 
place  in  the  court  the  two  adversaries  looked 
each  other  in  the  face.  Albert's  look  said, 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


177 


"Yes,  I  am  here  by  your  side  again.  You 
slandered  my  father,  calling  him  cheat,  forger, 
self-murderer;  you  slandered  me,  denouncing 
me  to  my  best  client  as  a  felon's  son  ;  and  I  am 
here  to  avenge  myself  and  my  dead  father,  by 
crushing  you,  and  grinding  you  to  powder!" 
And  once  more  the  fight  was  renewed.  But 
henceforth  it  was  waged  on  painfully  unequal 
terms.  While  consciousness  of  defeat  weak- 
ened the  one  contendent,  a  sense  of  victorious- 
ness  enlarged  the  powers  of  the  other.  It  was 
observed  by  counsel  and  solicitors  that,  as  term 
followed  term,  Mr.  Otway  exhibited  more  and 
more  notably  the  finest  qualities  of  an  advo- 
cate. There  was  no  leader  at  the  Bar  more 
skillful  in  gliding  over  the  weak  and  bringing 
out  the  strong  points  of  a  delicate  case ;  no 
man  more  adroit  in  manipulating  a  cause  of 
many  difficulties,  so  as  to  render  his  view  of  it 
acceptable  to  the  judicial  mind  ;  no  advocate 
who  could  be  compared  with  him  for  vigor  of 
reasoning  and  excellence  of  manner.  And 
while  Albert  became  stronger  in  speech  and 
quicker  in  sight,  Mr.  Sharpswell  offended  his 
few  remaining  clients  by  talking  wildly  and  in- 
discreetly. Ere  long  he  ceased  to  be  punished 
by  his  adversary,  because  his  staunchest  friends 
among  the  solicitors  ceased  to  pit  him  against 
his  conqueror;  and  no  rigid  law  forbidding 
him  to  appear  in  any  court  of  first  instance  but 
that  which  he  had  chosen  as  his  usual  place  of 
business,  he  began  to  appear  now  in  one  court 
of  Equity,  and  now  in  another,  though  never  in 
any  cause  of  great  moment  and  difficulty.  At 
this  stage  of  his  humiliation  he  gained  the  nick- 
name of  "  the  wanderer,"  from  his  disregard 
of  a  rule  more  generally  observed  by  Equity 
leaders  some  few  years  since  than  at  present. 

Having  been  discredited  thus  completely  at 
Lincoln's  Inn,  Mr.  Sharpswell  received  a  blow 
that  drove  him  from  society.  The  Royal  Al- 
liance Bank  fell  with  a  crash,  under  circum- 
stances which  exposed  him,  as  well  as  the  other 
directors  of  the  company,  to  contempt  and  sus- 
picion of  fraud.  It  was  certain  that  the  direct- 
ors had  speculated  wildly,  and  used  the  funds 
of  the  bank  to  sustain  failing  enterprises  in 
which  they  were  deeply  involved.  It  was 
proved,  on  the  first  inquiry  into  the  circum- 
stances of  the  failure,  that  Mr.  Sharpswell,  af- 
ter disposing  of  the  greater  part  of  his  capital 
in  the  Royal  Alliance,  had  obtained  from  it  ac- 
commodation that  would  certainly  have  been 
denied  to  him  by  the  managers  of  the  concern, 
had  he  not  been  himself  one  of  the  directors. 
In  fact,  he  was  tarnished  in  honor,  as  well  as 
ruined  in  purse ;  and  without  in  any  way 
abusing  his  forensic  privilege  of  speech  in  sup- 
porting a  petition  that  arose  out  of  the  failure 
of  the  Royal  Alliance,  Albert  Otway  remarked, 
bitterly,  in  the  Vice-chancellor's  Court,  "In 
palliation  of  the  blunder  and  madness  of  these 
directors,  it  has  been  observed  that  many  of 
them  were  ignorant  of  finance — that  they  are 
soldiers,  sailors,  and  members  of  other  uncom- 
mercial vocations,  who  had  small  experience 
12 


of  monetary  affairs.  But  I  must  insist  that  to 
be  barely  honest  it  is  not  necessary  that  men 
should  be  skillful  financiers." 

Frederick  Sharpswell  was  not  in  court  to 
hear  these  words  as  they  came  from  his  tri- 
umphant enemy's  lips.  But  within  a  few  hours 
of  their  utterance  he  read  them  in  an  evening 
paper  at  his  own  house ;  and  when  he  had  pe- 
1  rused  them,  he  dropped  the  Globe  from  his  hands, 
and  falling  backward  in  his  chair,  uttered  a  cry 
that  brought  Mrs.  Sharpswell  in  terror  to  his 
side. 

The  next  morning  Harold  Cannick  entered 
Albert's  chamber  in  Lincoln's  Inn,  and  said, 

"I  am  told  that  Sharpswell  is  ill.  He  had 
a  paralytic  stroke  last  night — at  least,  gossip 
says  so." 

"And  gossip  tells  the  truth,"  Albert  return- 
ed quickly.  "I  have  done  with  Mr.  Sharps- 
i  well  now.  I  have  crushed  him,  and  ground 
him  to  powder.  He  is  nothing  but  a  heap  of 
powder  now,  and  I  will  neither  tread  it  down 
under  feet,  nor  kick  at  it.  Lot  us  never  men- 
tion the  man's  name  again." 

Two  months  later,  a  sick  man  was  supported 
by  his  wife  and  a  female  servant,  as  he  walked 
feebly  from  the  door  of  No.  2  Morpeth  Place, 
Eaton  Square,  to  the  fly  which  in  a  few  min- 
utes conveyed  the  three  persons  to  a  railway 
station.  The  sick  man  was  Frederick  Sharps- 
well,  and  he  was  setting  out  for  Pau,  where  he 
had  decided  to  live  till  he  should  die  or  recov- 
er his  strength.  Mrs.  Sharpswell  had  already 
taken  a  small  villa  near  that  town  of  Southern 
France,  and  had  dispatched  her  four  girls  to  it, 
under  the  charge  of  their  nurse  and  French 
governess.  Lottie's  brothers  had  supplied  her 
liberally  with  money  for  immediate  use,  but  the 
few  hundreds  per  annum  accruing  from  her  set- 
tlement were  all  the  means  left  to  the  broken 
family. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

THE   SQUIBB    OF   WREN   PARK. 

FREDERICK  SHARPSWELL  selected  Pau  as  his 
place  of  residence,  in  obedience  to  the  counsel 
of  two  eminent  London  physicians,  who  detect- 
ed incipient  disease  in  his  lungs,  when  he  had 

!  rallied  considerably  from  his  paralytic  seizure. 

!  Labor,  disappointment,  and   shame  had  pro- 

j  duced  their  customary  results  on  a  delicate 
constitution,  with  an  hereditary  proneness  to 

I  consumption.  Besides  striking  him  with  pa- 
ralysis, they  had  called  into  life  the  seeds  of 
an  even  graver  mischief,  which  the  broken  man 
had  derived  from  his  mother.  The  doctors 
were  of  opinion  that  he  could  not  live  many 
years — that  he  would  probably  die  after  two  or 
three  more  winters.  But  while  informing  him 
that  his  lungs  were  menaced  by  one  of  the 
most  fatal  maladies,  they  refrained  from  alarm- 
ing him  by  a  full  revelation  of  their  discoveries 
and  fears.  Nor  did  they  frighten  Mrs.  Sharps- 
well  unnecessarily.  It  was  enough  for  them. 


178 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


to  tell  her  that  professional  labor  had  weakened 
her  husband's  chest,  and  to  recommend  that 
he  should  pass  the  next  year  in  the  south  of 
France.  Drawing  the  proper  inferences  from 
the  information  and  advice,  Lottie  accompanied 
Frederick  to  Pau,  with  lively  solicitude  for  his 
health,  but  with  no  despair  of  its  restoration. 

Pau  suited  the  invalid.  He  gained  strength, 
and  recovered  much  of  his  old  spirits.  It  re- 
lieved Lottie  to  see  how  readily  he  accommo- 
dated himself  to  his  altered  position,  and  to  re- 
mark that  he  was  less  afflicted  by  his  misfor- 
tunes than  she  had  feared  that  he  would  be. 
She  would  rather  have  seen  him  insensible  to 
his  disgrace  than  inconsolable  under  it ;  but 
while  he  exhibited  no  such  indifference  to  his 
fate  as  would  have  signified  moral  callousness, 
he  soothed  her  apprehensions  by  bearing  his 
reverses  cheerfully.  Of  course  she  was  sure 
that  in  respect  to  the  affairs  of  the  Royal  Al- 
liance Bank  he  had  perpetrated  no  dishonesty, 
and  that  the  imputations  on  his  honor  were  the 
mere  aspersions  of  his  malignant  enemy.  Un- 
der these  circumstances,  her  anxiety  decreased 
and  her  spirits  revived.  She  almost  enjoyed 
a  short  excursion  that  she  and  he  made,  with- 
out the  children,  in  the  mountains ;  and  she 
returned  from  it  with  a  hope  that  another  six 
months  at  Pau  would  "  set  Frederick  up  again, 
so  that  he  could  resume  his  profession." 

Fortunately,  also,  the  affairs  of  the  Royal 
Alliance  Avere  wound  up,  so  that  the  depositors 
had  been  paid  twenty  shillings  in  the  pound,  to 
the  ruin  of  several,  and  the  grievous  distress 
of  many  of  the  share-holders.  Mr.  Sharpswell's 
liabilities  in  respect  of  that  luckless  concern 
were  at  an  end. 

Affairs  had  gone  thus  leniently  with  the  in- 
valid and  his  wife  since  their  retirement  from 
England,  when,  just  twelve  months  after  their 
arrival  at  Pau,  Mr.  Sharpswell  received  from 
London  a  letter  that  elated  him  prodigiously. 
It  ran  thus :  "  Sir, — It  has  become  my  duty  to 
inform  you  that,  through  the  death  without  is- 
sue of  my  late  client,  Mr.  Lemuel  Abbiss,  only 
son  of  the  late  Lieutenant-general  Sir  Law- 
rence Abbiss  of  Wren  Park,  Gloucestershire, 
the  landed  estate,  in  which  the  late  Mr.  Lemuel 
Abbiss  had  only  a  life  interest,  has  devolved  on 
you,  by  the  operation  of  the  general's  last  will 
and  testament.  In  entailing  that  estate  on  his 
son,  you  are  perhaps  aware  that  General  Ab- 
biss directed  that',  in  the  event  of  his  son's  death 
without  issue,  it  should  pass  to  the  eldest  male 
representative  of  the  testator's  niece,  Alice 
Guerdon,  daughter  of  the  general's  brother, 
Richard  Cormorant  Abbiss,  and  then  that,  in 
case  Richard  Cormorant  Abbiss's  issue  should 
have  become  extinct,  the  estate  should  pass  to 
the  eldest  male  representative  of  the  testator's 
niece,  Jane  Sharpswell,  daughter  of  the  gen- 
eral's brother,  Stephen  Abbiss.  The  testator's 
niece,  Alice  Abbiss,  wife  of  John  Guerdon,  Esq., 
formerly  of  Hammerhampton  and  Earl's  Court, 
Boringdonshire,  left  only  one  child,  the  late 
Mr.  Albert  Guerdon,  who  died  184-,  and  was 


buried  in  Ewebridge  church,  Boringdonshire. 
As  the  only  male  representative  of  the  general's 
niece,  Jane  Abbiss,  your  mother,  you  have  suc- 
ceeded to  Wren  Park,  one  of  the  finest  seats  in 
Gloucestershire,  together  with  land  in  the  same 
county,  yielding  a  clear  rental  of  upward  of 
seven  thousand  pounds  per  annum.  I  should 
add  that  the  will,  by  which  you  have  acquired 
this  fine  property,  requires  you,  under  penalty 
of  forfeiture,  to  assume  the  name  and  arms  of 
Abbiss  within  twelve  months  of  your  entrance 
into  possession  of  the  estate.  Awaiting  your 
reply  to  this  communication,  I  have,  sir,  the 
honor  to  remain,  your  very  obedient  servant, 
JOHN  GOUGH."  Mr.  Gough's  address  was  No. 
8  Gray's  Inn  Square,  London. 

Here  was  a  piece  of  luck  for  Frederick 
Sharpswell,  who  had  never  heard  that  he  might 
under  any  contingencies  profit  by  his  great- 
uncle's  will,  which  had  been  proved  years  ago 
in  Gloucestershire. 

Let  a  few  words  be  said  about  General  Ab- 
biss's relations  with  his  two  brothers.  When 
George  the  Third  was  a  young  king,  Richard 
Cormorant  Abbiss,  Stephen  Abbiss,  and  Law- 
rence Abbiss,  gentlemen  and  brothers,  had  a 
tremendous  quarrel.  Family  quarrels  are  pro- 
verbially bitter  and  stubborn  beyond  all  other 
feuds.  But  they  often  come  to  an  end,  when 
they  arise  from  the  misconduct,  on  some  im- 
portant matter,  of  a  single  person,  who,  on  see- 
ing his  error,  has  the  good  sense  and  generos- 
ity to  cry  out  "peccavi,"  and  seek  forgiveness 
of  those  whom  he  has  wronged.  There  is  al- 
ways room  to  hope  for  abatement  and  end  to  a 
domestic  fight,  having  a  substantial  basis  for  a 
squabble.  It  is  the  reverse  with  the  worst  of 
all  family  dissensions  —  quarrels  springing  out 
of  a  dispute  about  just  nothing.  Richard, 
Stephen,  and  Lawrence  were  hot-tempered,  ex- 
plosive, overbearing  men,  though  in  some  re- 
spects excellent  fellows.  Richard  and  Stephen, 
two  naval  officers,  and  deep  drinkers,  began  the 
row.  They  were  walking  together  over  Con- 
gleton  Downs,  without  church-steeple  or  house 
in  view,  in  the  teeth  of  a  strong  wind,  when 
they  differed  as  to  the  point  from  which  the 
gale  blew.  As  they  had  lost  their  way  over 
the  downs,  it  was  not  wonderful  that  they  er- 
red respecting  the  wind's  course.  Dick  said  it 
blew  straight  from  the  north,  while  Stephen 
declared  it  was  due  east ;  and  they  walked  on, 
railing  at  one  another  on  this  important  mat- 
ter till  they  were  hoarse.  Before  they  could 
appeal  to  a  weather-cock,  the  gale  had  ceased, 
and  the  wind,  veering  round,  came  up  softly 
from  the  south.  As  naval  men,  experienced 
in  winds,  they  deemed  themselves  bound  by 
professional  honor  to  stand  by  their  words ;  and 
while  the  south  wind  laughed  at  them,  each 
insisted  that  the  other  had  been  wrong.  The 
dispute  was  renewed  on  the  following  day.  It 
was  renewed  daily  for  a  week,  when  the  young- 
est of  the  three  brothers,  Lawrence,  appeared 
on  the  scene,  and  endeavored  to  reconcile  the 
two  disputants.  Though  a  landsman,  Law- 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


179 


rence  was  a  nice  observer  of  the  weather,  and 
he  was  in  a  position  to  assure  his  brothers  that, 
at  the  height  of  the  gale,  the  wind  was  a  north- 
easter. Instead  of  terminating  the  dispute  by 
this  statement  of  the  truth,  Lawrence  only  in- 
furiated Dick  and  Stephen  yet  more  against  each 
other,  and  came  to  angry  words  with  both.  The 
duel  became  a  triangular  fight.  Each  of  the 
three  maintained  that  the  other  two  had  im- 
pugned his  veracity.  Having  just  enough  de- 
cency to  refrain  from  pistoling  one  another,  they 
exchanged  words  of  high  disdain,  and  parted 
never  to  meet  again  on  this  side  the  grave. 

The  youngest,  Lawrence,  was  also  the  lucki- 
est of  these  three  explosive  brothers.  Richard 
Cormorant  and  Stephen  died  comparatively 
poor,  in  the  middle  term  of  life,  each  of  them 
leaving  a  girl,  destined  to  become  the  mother 
of  a  chief  actor  in  this  drama.  But  Lawrence, 
the  soldier,  rose  in  the  army,  married  the  heir- 
ess of  Wren  Park,  came  in  for  legacies  which 
he  invested  in  Gloucestershire  acres,  and  lived 
to  be  a  very  considerable  personage  in  that 
county.  Having  had  no  children  by  his  first 
wife,  the  heiress  of  Wren  Park,  he  married  in 
his  old  age  a  young  woman  of  humble  degree, 
by  whom  he  had  the  son  of  feeble  mind  and 
body,  whose  opportune  death  occasioned  Mr. 
Gough's  letter  to  Frederick  Sharpswell. 

"By  heavens,  Lottie,  read  that  letter!"  cried 
Fred  Sharpswell,  throwing  Mr.  Gough's  epistle 
to  his  wife,  when  he  had  mastered  its  contents. 
"  What  a  stroke  of  luck!  A  good  house,  and 
county  position,  with  £7000  a  year!  Thank 
God,  our  poverty  is  at  an  end,  our  anxieties  are 
over,  our  children  are  provided  for.  The  right 
doctor,  Good  Fortune  in  her  brighest  mood,  has 
come  to  cure  me.  I  shall  soon  be  well  now. 
Hurra!" 

While  Mr.  Sharpswell  was  giving  utterance 
to  these  and  fifty  other  expressions  of  joyful 
surprise,  Mrs.  Sharpswell  perused  the  astound- 
ing letter  that  had  excited  him  so  agreeably, 
and  so  perilously. 

"Well,  my  darling!"  Frederick  exclaimed, 
his  face  flushing  with  exultation  as  Lottie 
placed  the  letter  on  the  table,  and  turned  to- 
ward her  husband  a  countenance  that  was  more 
expressive  of  pain  than  delight. 

"What!  Was  Albert  Guerdon  your  cousin?" 
she  gasped. 

"Ay,  to  be  sure  he  was,"  he  replied,  jocular- 
ly, "  though  I  never  set  eyes  upon  him.  I  come 
of  an  unharmonious  family,  Lottie.  My  uncles 
and  aunts,  grandfathers  and  grandmothers, 
great-uncles  and  great-aunts,  only  agreed  to  dif- 
fer. They  were  a  squabbling  lot.  And  yet  I 
am  a  fairly  amiable  fellow — at  least,  under  my 
own  roof.  To  be  sure,  Albert  Guerdon  was  my 
second  cousin,  just  as  Albert  Otway  was  my 
second  cousin.  Strange,  each  of  those  second 
cousins  of  mine  was  the  son  of  a  prodigious  ras- 
cal in  the  same  line  of  rascality.  Each  of  them 
had  for  his  father  a  cheat,  swindler,  and  forger. 
I  must  say,  my  dear,  that  you  married  into  a 
nice  family  of  rogues." 


"  I  don't  believe  that  Mr.  Guerdon  of  Earl's 
Court  was  a  dishonest  man,"  Mrs.  Sharpswell 
exclaimed,  warmly.  "He  was  the  victim  of  a 
dishonest  partner,  named  Scrivener.  I  knew 
poor  old  Mr.  Guerdon  when  I  was  a  girl,  and  I 
am  sure  that  he  was  a  man  of  honor." 

"  You  knew  him  ?  Well,  that  was  not  won- 
derful, for  he  lived  somewhere  in  your  father's 
part  of  Boringdonshire.  So  he  did.  Arleigh 
is  not  so  very  far  from  Hammerhampton." 

"And  Earl's  Court,  Mr.  Guerdon's  house, 
was  within  a  few  miles  of  Arleigh." 

"And  may  be  you  knew  the  young  man  also  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes,"  Lottie  answered  quickly,  her  face 
becoming  deadly  white,  and  then,  a  minute 
later,  turning  scarlet  under  a  fear  that  her  hus- 
band would  discover  a  secret  which  she  had 
jealously  guarded  from  him.  "  I  knew  him 
and  liked  him.  Every  one  liked  him.  If  you 
have  one  second  cousin,  Fred,  who  is  a  bad, 
vindictive  man,  you  had  another  who  was  a 
true  gentleman." 

"  Ton  my  honor,  Lottie,"  Fred  laughed,  "  I 
am  inclined  to  suspect  that,  when  you  were  a 
school-girl,  you  had  a  tender  regard  for  the 
'true  gentleman.'" 

"Don't  talk  nonsense,  Fred,"  Mrs.  Sharps- 
well  answered,  with  a  desperate  effort  to  main- 
tain her  self-command.  "You  should  not  re- 
ward me  so  for  bearing  testimony  to  the  merit 
of  your  cousin,  who  was  strangely  unlike  that 
other  cousin  of  yours." 

"Pah!  confound  him  for  a  villain!"  Fred- 
erick exclaimed,  bitterly,  showing  a  face  of 
wrath  that  roused  the  wife's  alarm  for  the  in- 
valid. 

"  Hush,  hush,  Fred  !  we  should  try  to  forgive 
our  enemies."  • 

"  Well,  well,  it  was  you  who  reminded  me 
of  him.  I  won't  think  about  him.  Let  us  re- 
turn to  our  good  fortune.  Anyhow,  Lottie, 
you  will  agree  with  me  that  it  was  a  lucky  thing 
for  us  and  our  children  that  my  second  cousin, 
the  '  true  gentleman,'  died  out  of  the  way  when 
he  did.  If  he  were  alive  now,  we  should  not 
have  come  in  for  seven  thousand  a  year." 

At  which  speech  Lottie  again  turned  pale ; 
and  as  her  face  whitened  she  felt  her  knees 
tremble  beneath  her.  At  the  same  time  a 
burning  pain— a  pain  that  might  have  been  a 
bodily  thing,  with  angry,  gripping,  red-hot 
claws — clutched  her  heart,  and  held  it  tightly. 
What !  had  it  come  to  this  ?  that  she  should 
hear  her  own  husband  exulting  over  Albert 
Guerdon's  death?  that  she  should  be  invited 
to  join  in  his  exultation  ?  Ay,  more,  that  she, 
Lottie  Darling,  the  dead  man's  own  Lottie, 
should  be  tempted,  out  of  love  and  care  for 
her  children,  to  think  that  it  was  well  for  her 
that  "he  had  died  out  of  the  way  when  he 
did?" 

"Why,  Lottie,  what  has  come  over  you? 
You  are  not  half  as  grateful  to  Providence  as 
you  ought  to  be,  for  your  husband's  and  chil- 
dren's sake,"  Frederick  urged,  marveling  at  his 
wife's  silence,  and  at  a  loss  how  to  account  for 


180 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


her  reluctance  to  concur  in  his  thankfulness  for 
Albert  Guerdon's  death. 

"Has  Providence,  indeed,  done  all  this  for 
us?"  she  answered.  "You  say  so.  Then  I 
am  thankful  for  my  children's  sake— yes,  yes, 
for  the  sake  of  my  girls.  But  oh,  Frederick — 
indeed — indeed — "  And  having  uttered  these 
strange  and  perplexing  words,  Mrs.  Sharpswell 
sunk  down  upon  her  chair,  and  sobbed  convul- 
sively, weeping 'as  she  had  not  wept  since  the 
darkest  of  all  her  dark  days,  when  Albert  died. 

Rising  from  his  seat,  Frederick  moved  to- 
ward her,  to  comfort  her  under  emotions  which 
had  overpowered  her,  and  which  he  attributed 
to  excessive  joy  and  astonishment  and  grati- 
tude at  their  sudden  change  of  fortune.  When 
a  woman  weeps  bitterly,  ib  is  not  always  that 
her  husband  knows  the  cause  of  her  tears.  It 
is  not  seldom  that  he  misconstrues  them.  And 
ere  Fred  Sharpswell  could  lay  a  tender  hand  on 
the  shoulder  of  his  sobbing  wife,  she  rose  quick- 
ly and  ran  from  the  room. 

"Ah!"  said  the  husband,  when  she  had  dis- 
appeared, "it  is  not  wonderful  that  the  sur- 
prise and  delight  have  been  too  much  for  her. 
When  she  has  cried  off  her  agitation  she'll  be 
herself  again." 

In  this  last  remark  Mr.  Sharpswell  was  not 
wrong.  When  Mrs.  Sharpswell  rejoined  him 
an  hour  later,  she  showed  her  brightest  face, 
and  pleased  him  greatly  by  the  animation  with 
which  she  spoke  of  their  altered  circumstances, 
and  anticipated  the  pleasure  they  would  have 
in  entering  Wren  Park. 

"How  shall  I  ever  educate  my  tongue, 
Fred,"  she  asked,  "to  speak  of  you  as  Mr.  Ab- 
biss  ?  I  must  begin  at  once  to  train  myself  to 
the  new  style." 

Of  course,  Mr.  Sharpswell  acknowledged  the 
receipt  of  Mr.  Gough's  letter  without  delay. 
Much  correspondence  ensued  between  the  so- 
licitor and  the  successor  to  Wren  Park ;  in  the 
course  of  which  Mr.  Gough  sent  the  queen's 
counsel  a  copy  of  General  Abbiss's  will,  togeth- 
er with  many  other  papers,  and  Mr.  Sharpswell 
instructed  the  attorney  to  take  charge  of  the 
estate  until  its  new  owner  should  enter  on  per- 
sonal possession  of  it. 

For  a  while  fair  fortune  seemed  to  be  mak- 
ing a  quick  cure  of  Mr.  Sharpswell's  ailments. 
Laughing  and  talking  incessantly,  after  his  old 
domestic  wont,  he  ate  and  drank  plentifully ; 
and,  recovering  nerve  and  hilarity  together  with 
flesh  and  strength,  he  felt  himself  once  again 
a  sound  man.  And  when  pleasant  news  came 
to  him  from  England  of  a  genial  spring  that 
bade  fair  to  glide  into  balmy  summer,  with  no 
harsh  interval  of  biting  east  winds,  he  declared 
his  purpose  of  going  at  once  to  Gloucester- 
shire. With  wifely  care  Lottie  implored  him 
to  beware  of  precipitancy,  and  urged  him  to 
wait  in  Southern  France  till  June ;  but  seeing 
him  bent  on  returning  at  once  to  his  native 
land,  and  remembering  the  proverb  which  de- 
clares "  one's  own  way  to  be  better  than  twen- 
ty doctors,"  she  ceased  to  restrain  him.  To- 


ward the  close  of  April  they  passed  through 
London,  and  by  the  middle  of  May  the  father 
and  mother,  and  their  four  children,  were  be- 
ginning to  "  feel  quite  at  home "  in  the  red- 
brick gabled  mansion,  of  seventeenth  century 
architecture,  that  stands  on  an  eminence  over- 
looking the  superb  timber  of  Wren  Park. 

The  great  "  county  people  "  were  in  London 
for  the  "season."  But  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sharps- 
well  had  enough  excitement  in  making  ac- 
quaintance with  their  tenantry,  and  exchanging 
calls  with  the  neighboring  clergy,  and  the  oth- 
er less  exalted  "  quality  "  of  their  corner  of  the 
large,  hilly  shire. 

Frederick  was  delighted  with  his  new  life, 
and  declared  that,  instead  of  resuming  the  prac- 
tice of  his  miserable  profession,  he  would  live 
his  years  out  as  a  country  squire.  Lottie  hoped 
that  those  years  would  be  many.  But  glancing 
at  his  slight  frame,  and  remembering  the  cau- 
tious intimations  of  two  London  physicians, 
and  recalling  the  events  of  the  previous  yenr, 
she  nursed  a  fear  that  the  new  squire  would 
not  become  an  old  one. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

OVER    THE    CLARET. 

FREDERICK  SHARPSWELL'S  felicity  at  Wren 
Park  was  of  no  long  duration. 

Throughout  his  career  at  the  bar  Albert  Ot- 
way  had  persisted  in  his  practice  of  dining  fre- 
quently at  Harold  Cannick's  house.  When  in 
town,  he  usually  found  himself  at  the  solicitor's 
table  on  one  of  every  four  or  five  Sundays. 
Sometimes  the  Sunday  dinner-party  comprised 
a  few  of  the  host's  legal  friends,  as  well  as  his 
wife  and  children.  But  it  often  happened  that 
the  solicitor  and  the  queen's  counsel  drank  their 
claret  tete-a-tete.  It  was  so  on  a  certain  Sun- 
day evening,  when  Frederick  Sharpswell  had 
been  for  just  five  weeks  a  resident  on  his  new- 
ly-acquired estate.  On  that  occasion,  having 
pushed  the  claret-jug  to  his  friend,  Harold 
Cannick  re-opened  conversation  by  saying, 

"By-the-way,  I  have  a  strange  bit  of  news 
for  you  about  that  gentleman  whom  you  crush- 
ed and  ground  to  powder." 

"Ay,  what  is  it?" 

"  He  has  come  in  for  one  of  the  finest  estates 
in  Gloucestershire — Wren  Park,  and  seven  thou- 
sand a  year." 

"Impossible  !     Who  told  you  so ?" 

"My  old  friend  John  Gough,  of  Gray's  Inn, 
who  is  now  acting  as  Mr.  Sharpswell's  solicitor, 
just  as  he  in  past  time  acted  for  Mr.  Lemuel 
Abbiss,  by  whose  death  Sharpswell  has  dropped 
into  wealth.  By  Jove  !  that  heap  of  powder, 
as  you  called  it  after  the  crash  of  the  Royal  Al- 
liance, has  reformed  itself,  acquired  substance, 
and  become  a  marble  statue  !" 

"  Tell  me  all  that  Gough  told  you  of  the  mat- 
ter," Albert  Otway  said,  with  a  quickness  which 
betrayed  his  lively  interest  in  the  intelligence. 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


181 


Whereupon  Harold  Cannick,  whose  gossip 
with  John  Gough  had  gone  into  the  particulars 
of  Frederick  Sharpswell's  good  fortune,  told  his 
companion  all  that  the  reader  knows  of  the  cir- 
cumstances under  which  Lottie's  husband  had 
become  a  territorial  personage.  It  is  needless 
to  repeat  the  terms  in  which  Mr.  Cannick,  with- 
out interruption  from  his  listener,  stated  the  facts 
of  the  case. 

"Why,  the  estate  is  mine,  Cannick  —  not 
his!"  Albert  exclaimed,  when  the  story  had 
been  told. 

"  Yours?"  returned  the  other,  with  surprise. 
"  What  the  deuce  do  you  mean  ?" 

"Wren  Park  belongs  to  me,  as  the  grandson 
of  old  General  Abbiss's  eldest  brother,  Richard 
Cormorant  Abbiss.  I  am  the  son  of  Richard 
Cormorant's  only  child,  Alice." 

"  My  dear  fellow,  are  you  mad  ?  Have  you 
forgotten  your  mother's  maiden  name?  Mar- 
tin Otway,  your  father,  married  Miss  Mary  Love- 
grove,  and  no  other  woman.  How  on  earth, 
then,  can  you  have  any  thing  to  do  with  Wren 
Park  ?" 

Tapping  his  hand  smartly  on  the  table,  and, 
looking  searchingly  into  his  friend's  eyes,  Al- 
bert retorted, 

"It  is  you  who  are  mad,  or  strangely  forget- 
ful. Recall  a  conversation  that  we  had  when 
Mr.  Sharpswell  shut  the  door  of  The  Criterion 
against  me." 

"  I  remember  it.     What  of  that  ?" 

"Remembering  it,  how  can  you  speak  to  me 
as  though  I  were  really  Martin  Otway's  son? 
I  spoke  to  you  then  of  my  father's  troubles,  and 
confessed  that  I  had  employed  artifices  to  sep- 
arate myself,  in  the  world's  regard,  from  his 
shame.  And  it  relieved  me  vastly  to  hear  you 
say  that  you  knew  and  approved  all  I  had  done. 
Consequently,  I  never  repeated  to  you  all  the 
details  of  my  artifices  of  disguise ;  and  from 
that  time  to  this,  according  to  agreement,  we 
have  never  alluded  to  my  father." 

"Your  father?"  cried  the  solicitor,  spring- 
ing to  his  feet  in  his  excitement.  "  Who  was 
your  father?  Do  you  mean  to  say  that,  after 
all,  you  are  not  Martin  Otway's  son  ?" 

"Certainly  not,  "replied  the  other  gentleman, 
also  leaping  to  his  feet,  and  speaking  with  em- 
phatic loudness;  "I  have  no  drop  of  Martin 
Otway's  blood  in  my  veins.  My  strongest  mor- 
al right  to  bear  his  surname  is  the  permission 
which  his  dead  son,  Reginald  Albert  Otway, 
gave  me  to  bear  it.  I  am  the  only  son  and  only 
issue  of  John  Guerdon,  some  years  since  a  bank- 
er at  Hammerhampton.  My  real,  original 
name  is  Albert  Guerdon  ;  and,  as  Albert  Guer- 
don, I  am  entitled  to  Wren  Park." 

The  solicitor  was  staggered. 

Resuming  his  chair — an  act  in  which  he  was 
imitated  by  his  guest — he  drew  a  long  breath, 
and  mused  for  half  a  minute  before  he  replied, 
"All  I  can  say  is,  from  the  time  when  you  gave 
me  your  card  in  the  smoking-room  of  The 
White  Loaf  till  a  minute  since,  I  have  regard- 
ed you  as  the  son  of  Martin  Otway,  of  Cleve 


Lodge,  Richmond — a  man  who  was  first  cousin 
to  the  late  Mr.  Commissioner  Sharpswell,  and 
who  committed  suicide,  after  reducing  himself 
to  insolvency,  and  perpetrating  several  discred- 
itable acts  in  money  matters.  I  believe  that 
Martin  Otway  was  the  victim  of  a  worse  man 
than  himself,  and  that  he  was  not  such  a  scoun- 
drel as  his  enemies  declared  him.  But  there 
is  no  doubt  that  he  was  a  person  that  no  decent 
man  would  care  to  claim  for  his  father.  Con- 
sequently, when  you,  with  obvious  embarrass- 
ment and  natural  shame,  confessed  yourself  to 
be  his  son,  I  of  course  believed  you." 

It  was  the  queen's  counsel's  turn  to  be  stag- 
gered. 

Here  was  a  revelation  !  To  escape  from  the 
shame  of  being  John  Guerdon's  son,  he  had  taken 
upon  himself  the  shame  of  being  thought  the 
son  of  a  man  who  had  actually  done  such  crimes 
as  those  of  which  John  Guerdon  was  falsely  ac- 
cused. 

"Why  on  earth,"  urged  the  solicitor,  "when 
you  were  fathering  yourself  on  some  one,  did 
you  not  make  choice  of  a  decent  man  for  your 
father?" 

Mr.  Otway  flushed  with  a  boyish  shame  at 
the  astounding  rashness  with  which  he  had  fa- 
thered himself  on  a  man  of  whom  he  knew  just 
nothing,  as  he  answered,  "Come,  come,  don't 
laugh  at  my  folly,  Cannick.  I  was  a  green, 
raw  boy  then,  notwithstanding  my  belief  in  my 
cleverness.  Moreover,  my  mind  had  for  some 
time  been  cruelly  disturbed  by  grief.  Let  me 
now  tell  you  the  true  history  of  my  life." 

"By  all  means." 

"But  first,  old  friend  and  true  friend,  say 
that  you  forgive  me  for  the  deception  I  have 
practiced  against  you." 

"No,  no,  Otway,"  the  solicitor  responded 
warmly,  "not  against  me,  but  for  me.  Our 
friendship  has  long  been  the  chief  pleasure  of 
my  life ;  and  I  should  never  have  had  it,  if  I 
had  not  thought  you  Martin  Otway's  son,  and 
taken  you  up,  in  the  first  instance,  out  of  feel- 
ing that  you  ought  not  to  suffer  for  his  misdeeds. 
God  knows,  I  have  nothing  to  forgive  you !" 

Whereupon,  Albert  told  the  true  story  of  his 
Ufe  to  his  listener.  After  describing  his  Con- 
tinental education,  he  came  to  the  period  of  his 
life  when  he  won  Lottie  Darling's  love,  and  to 
the  crash  of  Guerdon  &  Scrivener's  bank.  Mak- 
ing his  friend  see  how  he  had  recourse  to  im- 
posture for  Lottie's  sake  as  much  as  his  own, 
he  told  how  he  had  fallen  in  again  with  Martin 
Otway's  son,  and  buried  the  Bohemian  in  Ewe- 
bridge  church.  Every  fact  of  his  deception  was 
revealed  to  the  solicitor.  And  having  brought 
his  narrative  down  to  the  time  when  he  encount- 
ered his  companion  in  Shadow  Court,  Fleet 
Street,  he  told  how  he  had  already  paid,  through 
Mr.  Broadbent's  agency,  all  the  balance  of  un- 
satisfied claims  on  his  father's  estate  ;  and  how 
he  was  still  saving  money  with  a  view  to  rein- 
state Blanche  Heathcote  (wife  of  Colonel  Dan- 
gerfield  of  the  10th  Lancers)  in  possession  of 
her  plundered  fortune. 


182 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


"By  heavens!"  Harold  Cannick  exclaimed, 
enthusiastically,  when  he  heard  the  whole  sto- 
ry, "John  Guerdon  left  behind  him  a  son  who 
has  proved  himself  an  honest  man,  though  he 
has  fought  the  world  under  false  colors." 

"Yes,"  said  Albert,  bitterly,  with  equal  self- 
scorn  and  self-respect,  "  though  I  have  been  an 
impostor,  I  am  no  rogue." 

"And  what  became  of  your  old  love,  Ot- 
way?"  asked  Harold  Cannick.  Having  heard 
the  romance,  the  solicitor  wanted  the  sequel. 
"Did  she  marry  happily?" 

"No,  she  never  married." 

"Aha!"  cried  Harold  Cannick,  gleefully. 
"  You  mean  to  marry  her  even  yet,  when  you 
have  paid  Mrs.  Dangerfield  her  fortune,  and 
cleared  every  blot  from  your  father's  memory  ? 
Now  I  see,  my  dear  boy,  why  I  could  not  lure 
you  into  marrying  one  of  my  girls,  who,  thank 
God,  are  all  of  them  happily  settled  with  good 
husbands." 

A  cloud  came  over  Albert's  brow,  as  he  abash- 
ed his  jocular  friend  by  answering  solemnly, 

"She  is  dead  —  she  died  a  single  woman. 
She  has  been  dead  these  several  years.  Her 
body  lies  in  a  Boringdonshire  church-yard  ; 
her  soul  is  with  the  angels.  No,  Cannick,  I 
shall  never  have  a  wife  in  this  world.  My  bride 
is  in  heaven." 

"Poor  girl!  poor  girl!"  ejaculated  the  so- 
licitor, covering  his  embarrassment  by  filling 
his  claret-glass,  and  then  sipping  the  wine  in 
silence  for  the  next  minute  or  two. 

Resuming  the  conversation,  Albert  said, 

"So,  you  see,  Cannick,  as  John  Guerdon's 
son,  I  am  entitled  to  General  Abbiss's  estate  ; 
and  I  will  lose  no  time  in  ousting  the  fellow 
who  has  wrongful  possession  of  it.  Mr.  Sharps- 
well  knows  that  he  has  no  right  there.  He 
knows  well  enough  who  I  am;  and,  imagining 
that  my  imposture  must  silence  me,  and  debar 
me  from  insisting  on  my  rights,  he  has  clutched 
my  property,  and  is  chuckling  over  his  success- 
ful seizure  of  my  estate." 

* '  Tut,  tut ! "  interposed  Harold.  « '  Probably 
he  thinks  himself  master  of  Wren  Park,  with 
nn  indefeasible  title  to  it." 

He  knows  that  I  am  his  second  cousin.  He 
told  you  I  was  his  second  cousin  at  the  Crite- 
rion Club." 

"He  knows  that  Reginald  Albert  Otway 
was  his  second  cousin,"  returned  the  solicitor, 
"  and  I'll  bet  a  penny  that  to  this  day  he  be- 
lieves you  to  be  that  Reginald  Albert  Otway, 
only  son  of  the  Martin  Otway  who  had  a  law- 
suit and  furious  quarrel  with  Commissioner 
Sharpswell." 

"That  can't  be!"  exclaimed  Albert  loudly, 
and  even  angrily. 

"But  it  can  be!"  returned  Harold  Cannick. 
"And  I'll  wager  you,  Otway,  £10,000  to  a  red 
herring  that  he  believes  you  to  be  the  man  you 
have  pretended  to  be,  and  that  he  believes  Al- 
bert Guerdon's  body  is  lying  in  Ewebridge 
church.  No  single  word  that  Mr.  Sharpswell 
ever  spoko  to  me  forbids  me  to  think  so.  All 


that  he  said  to  me  about  you  was  just  as  appli- 
cable to  you,  when  regarded  as  Martin  Otway's 
son,  as  when  known  to  be  John  Guerdon's  son. 
As  he  never  disturbed  my  impression  that  you 
were  his  second  cousin  by  Martin  Otway,  he 
was  doubtless  under  that  impression  himself. 
It  must  be  so.  Commissioner  Sharpswell  and 
Martin  Otway  were  ferocious  enemies;  and 
perhaps  Frederick  Sharpswell's  hatred  of  you 
was,  at  the  outset,  an  enmity  derived  from  his 
father,  who  had  a  Corsican  temper.  Depend 
upon  it,  he  would  not  have  detested  you  as  hot- 
ly and  quickly  as  he  did,  had  he  thought  you 
to  be  his  other  second  cousin,  Albert  Guerdon." 

"Anyhow,  I'll  have  Wren  Park, "Albert  ex- 
claimed, hotly. 

"Of  course,  of  course,"  the  solicitor  answer- 
ed. "  You  must  have  Wren  Park.  But  to  get 
it  you  will  have  to  endure  much  painful  expos- 
ure. " 

"  A  fig  for  the  exposure !  As  I  have  lived 
all  these  years  under  the  infamy  of  being  a  ver- 
itable rogue's  son,  I  may  as  well  avow  myself 
the  son  of  a  man  who,  though  a  reputed  rogue, 
was  an  honest  gentleman.  As  for  my  false  dec- 
laration at  Lincoln's  Inn,  my  fellow-benchers 
won't  be  hard  toward  me  about  that.  As  for 
the  world's  opinion,  I  have  taught  society  to  re- 
spect me ;  and  it  will  continue  to  respect  me, 
in  spite  of  exposure  and  scandal." 

"It  will  be  an  exciting  and  slightly  scandal- 
ous suit." 

"  So  much  the  better.  I  have  beeii  concern- 
ed as  counsel  in  so  many  exciting  and  scandal- 
ous suits,  that,  by  way  of  variety,  I  should  like 
to  be  concerned  as  a  principal  in  a  cause  celebre. 
Go  to  work  at  once,  Cannick.  Open  fire  on 
Mr.  Frederick  Sharpswell  this  very  week.  Let 
there  be  no  delay.  And  now,  let  us  go  to  the 
drawing-room,  and  have  a  cup  of  tea  with  Mrs. 
Cannick." 

"  Cup  of  tea !  Why,  man,  my  wife  has  been 
in  bed  these  last  four  hours!  It's  three  o'clock 
to-morrow  morning;  and  you  had  better  be  on 
your  way  back  to  the  Temple." 

As  he  walked  from  Regent's  Park  to  his  resi- 
dence-chambers in  the  Inner  Temple,  by  the 
light  of  a  full  moon  moving  in  a  star-spangled, 
cloudless  sky,  Albert  meditated  upon  what 
Harold  Cannick  had  said  toward  the  close  cf 
their  long  interview,  respecting  the  probability 
that  Frederick  Sharpswell  was  unaware  of  his 
identity  with  Albert  Guerdon.  Now  that  he 
knew  his  second  cousin  Sharpswell  to  have 
been  second  cousin  of  the  man  whose  name  he 
had  assumed,  Albert  could  see,  with  the  solic- 
itor, how  much  more  than  possible  it  was  that 
the  imposture,  consisting  of  two  separate  great 
inpostures  and  many  smaller  deceptions,  had 
misled  Sharpswell,  as  well  as  hundreds  of  other 
persons.  By  the  spurious  interment  in  Ewe- 
bridge  church,  Sharpswell  had  perhaps  been 
caused,  like  thousands  of  Boringdonshire  folk, 
to  believe  that  his  second  cousin  Guerdon  was 
dead  and  buried.  It  was  more  than  possible 
that  he  still  remained  under  that  erroneous 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


183 


impression.  If  he  were  under  this  miscon- 
ception, it  followed  that  he  had  acted  with 
no  dishonest  design  in  taking  possession  of 
Wren  Park.  It  followed  also  that,  in  all  his 
hostile  acts  against  Mr.  Otway  of  the  Chancery 
Bar,  Sharpswcll  had  believed  himself  to  be 
striking  the  actual  son  of  his  father's  enemy, 
Martin  Otway.  The  hypothesis  accounted  sat- 
isfactorily for  Sharpswell's  neglect  to  inform 
the  Lincoln's  Inn  benchers  of  the  false  declara- 
tion— an  omission,  on  his  enemy's  part,  which 
had  always  puzzled  Albert,  who  could  not  at- 
tribute it  to  his  enemy's  generous  forbearance, 
or  explain  it  by  supposing  that  his  foe  shrank 
from  calling  the  attention  of  the  benchers  to 
one  of  his  own  domestic  disgraces.  Throwing 
new  light  on  Sharpswell's  enmity  against  him, 
the  hypothesis  also  changed  to  Albert's  mind 
the  character  of  acts  which  were  chiefly  ac- 
countable for  the  malignity  and  almost  repul- 
sive vindictiveness  with  which  he  had  perse- 
cuted his  rival.  If  Sharpswell  had  mistaken 
him  for  Martin  Otway's  son,  it  followed  that 
lie  had  not  slandered  John  Guerdon  and  de- 
nounced John  Guerdon  as  a  thief,  forger,  and 
suicide,  but  had  only  spoken  harsh  but  sub- 
stantially true  words  of  Martin  Otway.  It  fol- 
lowed that  he  had  not  committed  against  John 
Guerdon's  memory  the  outrage  of  which  he 
had  seemed  to  John  Guerdon's  son  to  be  guilty. 
Was  it  possible,  Albert  asked  himself,  that  in 
his  filial  zeal  and  devotion  he  had  regarded 
as  his  father's  defamer  a  man  who  had  never 
meant  to  speak  evil  of  the  banker  of  Hammer- 
hampton?  Could  it  be  that,  from  honest  mo- 
tives and  impulses,  he  had  for  years  been 
wreaking  vengeance  on  a  man  for  an  imagi- 
nary wrong  ?  Had  he  striven  for  years  to  ruin 
a  man  who  after  all  had,  at  the  outset  of  their 
feud,  been  nothing  worse  than  his  disagreeable 
rival  ? 

As  Albert  put  these  questions  to  himself 
he  became  uneasy  in  his  conscience.  The  ex- 
citements of  the  previous  hours,  Harold  Can- 
nick's  talk,  the  recent  discoveries,  the  cool 
evening  air,  the  tranquilizing  moonlight,  had 
somehow  brought  him  to  a  relenting  mood. 
The  time  of  happy  influences  was  approaching, 
when  his  hatred  of  Frederick  would  perish 
quickly  and  utterly.  But  that  season  of  gen- 
erosity and  justice  had  not  yet  arrived.  "By 
Heaven,"  he  said,  as,  after  walking  down  In- 
ner Temple  Lane,  and  pacing  southward  from 
the  passage  of  dark  shadow,  he  came  upon  an 
open  terrace,  gleaming  whitely  in  the  moon- 
light, "I  hope  that  I  have  not  been  too  hard 
on  the  poor  devil.  Anyhow,  he  was  a  beast, 
and  treated  me  badly ;  but  if  he  did  not  mean 
to  wrong  my  father's  memory,  I  have  gone  a 
deuced  deal  too  far.  Still,  I  mean  to  have 
Wren  Park.  When  I  have  paid  off  Blanche 
Heathcote  —  Mrs.  Dangerfield,  I  beg  her  par- 
don— and  find  myself  in  possession  of  Wren 
Park,  it  will  be  time  enough  for  me  to  do  some- 
thing handsome  for  the  poor  devil,  if  I  should 
find  myself  to  have  gone  too  far." 


Half  an  hour  later  the  owner  of  the  awaken- 
ed conscience  was  sleeping  soundly.  On  tke 
following  day  his  first  words  were,  "  Cannick 
must  go  to  work  at  once.  I  will  spend  next 
Christinas  in  Gloucestershire." 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

PREPARATIONS   FOR  THE   FIGHT. 

MR.  CANNICK  acted  promptly  on  his  instruc- 
tions, and  in  the  course  of  the  week  he  sent  to 
Wren  Park  a  letter  which  Mr.  Sharpswell  read 
with  flashing  eyes,  and  reperused  with  intense 
excitement,  before  he  passed  it  over  the  break- 
fast-table to  Lottie,  who,  reading  corectly  the 
movements  of  her  husband's  lips,  and  the  signs 
of  suppressed  rage  in  his  whitened  face,  asked 
quickly  what  evil  news  the  letter  contained. 

"Look  at  it,"  Frederick  Sharpswell  said, 
hoarsely. 

"Impossible!  incredible  !"  Mrs.  Sharpswell 
exclaimed,  indignantly,  when  she  had  read  the 
lawyer's  announcement  that  a  claimant  of  Wren 
Park  had  appeared  in  the  person  of  Albert 
Guerdon,  grandson  of  Richard  Cormorant  Ab- 
biss,  who  had  for  several  years  practiced  as  a 
Q.C.  at  the  Chancery  Bar,  under  the  name  of 
Albert  Otway.  "  What  effrontery,  and  wicked- 
ness, and  malignant  enmity  !  Having  done  his 
utmost  for  vears  to  ruin  us,  and  beggar  our 
children,  that  abominable  man  would  strip  us 
of  Wren  Park!" 

"My  cousin,  Reginald  Albert  Otway,  is  even 
a  greater  rascal  than  his  father,"  rejoined  Fred- 
erick Sharpswell.  "You  used  to  think,  Lot- 
tie, that  I  exaggerated  the  evil  of  this  scoun- 
drel. What  do  you  think  now  ?" 

"But  he  can't  succeed  in  this  attempt  to 
plunder  us?" 

"  Heaven  only  knows  !  The  devil  helps  his 
own,  and  this  child  of  the  devil  would  not  ven- 
ture on  the  audacious  enterprise  if  he  did  not 
feel  that  he  had  a  fair  chance  of  success." 

"But  he  is  altogether  unlike  Mr.  Albert 
Guerdon,  who  has  not  been  dead  so  many  years 
but  that  there  are  hundreds  of  persons  in  the 
world  who,  from  their  recollection  of  him,  will 
be  able  to  declare  that,  in  pretending  to  be 
Mr.  Albert  Guerdon,  Mr.  Otway  is  an  execra- 
ble impostor." 

"By-the-way,  you  saw  Otway  once  in  Bor- 
ingdonshire  ?" 

"  Yes,  but  only  once." 

"  Have  you  ever  seen  him  since  ?" 

"  I  am  not  aware  that  I  have  ever  seen  him 
since.  Those  of  his  friends  who  knew  us,  of 
course,  never  asked  him  to  meet  us;  but  I 
have  seen  his  colored  carte  de  visite,  and  in  ev- 
ery particular  the  picture  concurs  with  my 
memory  in  assuring  me  that  he  bears  no  re- 
semblance to  Mr.  Guerdon.  This  man  has  a 
long,  lined  face  ;  Mr.  Guerdon's  was  oval,  and 
without  a  furrow.  The  impostor  has  straight, 
shelving  eyebrows ;  Mr.  Guerdon  had  curving 


184 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


ones.  This  bad  man  has  red  hair,  whereas 
dear  Albert  had  beautiful  dark  locks."  The 
speaker  stopped  abruptly.  In  her  excitement 
she  had  forgotten  caution.  She  had  spoken 
of  "dear  Albert,"  and  recalled  his  "beautiful 
dark  locks."  Moreover,  she  saw  from  her  hus- 
band's look  of  surprise,  and  his  peculiar  smile, 
that  he  had  discovered  something  of  her  old 
love  for  "dear  Albert." 

Without  any  feeling  of  jealousy,  Frederick 
Sharpswell  laughed  lightly,  as  he  said, 

"Then  once  upon  a  time,  Lottie,  my  second 
cousin,  Albert  Guerdon,  ivas  'dear  Albert'  to 
you?" 

In  five  seconds  Mrs.  Sharpswell  had  left  her 
seat  at  the  breakfast-table,  and  slipped  to  the 
floor  at  her  husband's  knees,  when  she  turned 
upward  to  him  a  blushing  face  and  two  tearful 
eyes,  and  confessed  the  one  great  secret  which 
she  had  kept  from  him  throughout  their  mar- 
ried life. 

" Fred,  dearest,"  she  said,  imploringly,  " you 
won't  be  jealous  of  a  dead  man  ?  I  did  love 
him  very  much,  and  he  loved  me.  We  were 
engaged,  and  on  the  point  of  being  married, 
when  the  failure  of  the  Hammerhampton  Bank, 
and  poor  old  Mr.  Guerdon's  death  and  disgrace, 
separated  us.  When  Albert  died  I  went  to  his 
funeral,  and  mourned  for  him  as  though  I  had 
been  his  widow ;  and  it  was  at  his  funeral  that 
I  met  his  friend,  Mr.  Otway,  our  enemy.  For 
years  I  held  to  my  purpose  of  never  marrying ; 
but  time  comforted  me,  and  brought  me  to  you 
— my  own,  dear,  gentle,  brave  husband — who 
taught  me  to  love  again.  Oh,  Fred,  don't  be 
angry  with  me  —  don't  love  me  less,  now  you 
know  this!" 

"My  darling — angry  with  you  —  tut,  tut!" 
returned  Mr.  Sharpswell,  caressing  the  wife 
whom  he  loved  thoroughly,  and  feeling  no  re- 
sentment against  his  dead  cousin  ;  albeit,  even 
while  he  cosseted  her  and  kissed  the  tears  from 
her  cheeks,  he  was  assured  in  his  heart  that 
she  had  never  loved  him  as  much  as  she  had 
loved  Albert  Guerdon. 

"She  loves  him  still,"  he  thought,  with  a 
sadness  that  was  not  jealousy,  though  it  may 
have  been  akin  to  it.  "But  never  mind;  he 
is  dead,  and  I  am  living.  To  be  her  living 
husband  in  the  second  place  of  her  heart  is 
better  than  to  be  her  dead  lover  in  the  first." 

For  several  minutes  Lottie's  confession,  and 
the  endearments  which  followed  it,  put  Harold 
Cannick's  letter  and  Mr.  Otway's  scandalous 
pretension  out  of  the  minds  of  the  husband  and 
wife.  But  ere  long  they  returned  to  the  solic- 
itor's epistle,  and  discussed  its  contents  from 
half  a  hundred  different  points  of  view. 

"Well,  well,"  said  Mr.  Sharpswell,  at  the 
close  of  the  long  conversation,  "we  shall  see 
what  the  impostor  can  do  to  oust  us  from  this 
pleasant  place.  Anyhow,  I  shall  have  a  telling 
witness  in  you.  What  will  be  his  dismay  when 
you  appear  in  court,  and  declare  him  not  the 
man  to  whom  you  were  engaged  in  your  girl- 
hood !  I  imagine  that,  with  all  his  daring  and 


vindictiveness,  Mr.  Otway  would  not  have  told 
his  solicitor  to  write  me  that  letter  if  he  had 
known  that  my  wife  had  loved  Albert  Guer- 
don, and  been  present  at  his  funeral." 

"  Shall  I  be  dragged  into  court  ?"  Mrs. 
Sharpswell  cried,  with  a  shudder  of  alarm, 

i  "and  be  made  to  tell  of  my  old  love?     Oh, 

!  shall  I?" 

"You  would  have  the  courage  to  appear  as 
a  witness  at  the  trial,  Lottie,"  said  Frederick, 
"  for  my  sake,  and  the  sake  of  our  children  ?" 

"Oh  yes,  I  would  do  any  thing  for  you  and 
the  children!"  was  the  answer,  uttered  sadly 
and  submissively. 

"Of  course  you  would.  And  now  I'll  go 
off  to  Gloucester,  and  telegraph  for  Mr.  Gxmgh, 
of  Gray's  Inn.  I  must  see  him  at  once." 

On  the  following  morning  Mr.  Gough  break- 
fasted with  his  client  and  Mrs.  Sharpswell  at 
Wren  Park.  Of  course  the  solicitor  concurred 
with  his  host  and  hostess  in  regarding  Albert's 
claim  as  an  impudent  pretense.  Infuriated  by 
the  good  fortune  of  the  enemy  whom  he  had 
persecuted  at  the  Bar,  and  endeavored  to  drive 
from  society,  Mr.  Otway — like  many  a  clever 
and  overworked  man  before  him  —  had  gonp 
mad.  He  was  insane.  It  was  incredible  that 
he  would  persist  in  declaring  himself  the  man 
who  had  been  buried  years  ago  in  Boringdon- 
shire,  in  the  presence  of  a  multitude  of  his 
old  neighbors  of  that  county.  Probably  they 
should  hear  in  a  month  that  Mr.  Otway  was  in 
a  lunatic  asylum.  Still  Mr.  Cnnnick's  letter 
must  be  answered  at  once.  And  if  the  action 
were  really  brought  it  must  be  strenuously  de- 
fended. Mr.  Gough  returned  to  Gray's  Inn 
with  instructions  to  act  vigorously,  as  though 
the  mad  impostor  were  in  his  right  mind,  and 
his  wild  statement  a  serious  matter. 

The  impostor  and  the  actual  possessor  of 
Wren  Park  having  crossed  swords  by  their  at- 
torneys, Albert  told  his  story  to  the  benchers 
of  Lincoln's  Inn,  who,  on  hearing  the  circum- 
stances which  had  induced  their  brother  of  the 
bench  to  assume  a  false  name,  were  unanimous 
that  it  would  ill  become  them  to  make  a  pother 

!  about  the  false  declaration  of  parentage.  They 
had  no  right  to  punish  so  eminent  a  member 

j  of  their  profession  for  a  youthful  indiscretion. 

!  It  was  certain  that  Mr.  Otway  had  proved  him- 

|  self  worthy  of  the  honors  of  the  law.  He  had 
been  a  scrupulously  honorable,  as  well  as  singu- 
larly successful  advocate.  Moreover,  the  mem- 
ber for  Swanbeach  had  made  himself  personal- 
ly agreeable  to  the  benchers ;  while  Mr.  Sharps- 
well,  who  had  never  been  popular  in  his  Inn, 
was  disesteemed  as  a  failure — indeed,  almost  as 
one  of  the  black  sheep  of  the  Bar.  The  scan- 
dal of  Mr.  Sharpswell's  ignominious  ejection 
from  the  House  of  Commons  had  tended  to  dis- 
credit political  lawyers.  His  connection  with 
the  Koyal  Alliance  had  not  raised  queen's 
counsel  in  the  esteem  of  the  City.  Mr.  Otway 
had  the  sympathy  of  the  Inns  of  Court. 

Albert  having  told  his  story  to  the  benchers, 
it  forthwith  became  the  latest  piece  of  news  at 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


185 


the  table  of  every  London  barrister  and  so- 
licitor. From  the  legal  cliques  it  passed  into 
general  society,  and  was  quickly  caught  up  by 
writers  for  the  newspapers,  who  produced  it 
with  graphic  touches  and  dramatic  improve- 
ments for  readers  in  every  village  of  the  king- 
dom, and  every  colony  of  the  British  Empire. 
The  country  was  assured  that  ere  long  it  would 
be  entertained  with  a  trial  as  marvelous  and 
exciting  as  any  in  recent  annals. 

Though  Albert  and  his  solicitor  were  confi- 
dent of  winning  their  cause,  they  did  not  shut 
their  eyes  to  the  serious  difficulties  of  their  un- 
dertaking. The  plaintiffs  character  and  posi- 
tion at  the  Bar  would  be  in  his  favor.  To  any 
jury  it  would  appear  in  the  highest  degree  im- 
probable that  a  leader  of  the  Chancery  Bar, 
having  a  seat  in  the  House  of  Commons,  and  a 
fair  prospect  of  winning  the  highest  honors 
of  his  profession,  would,  from  motives  of  ven- 
geance or  gain,  perjure  himself  in  a  court  of 
justice,  and  endeavor  by  a  prodigious  fraud  to 
wrest  a  large  estate  from  its  rightful  owner. 
Such  a  person  was  not  likely  to  be  guilty  of  an 
execrable  imposture.  On  the  other  hand,  Al- 
bert would  come  before  the  jury,  avowing  him- 
self a  successful  impostor,  who  had  misled  the 
world  by  two  extraordinary  deceptions.  He 
had  buried  himself  with  all  the  solemn  forms 
of  religious  sepulture,  and,  after  mourning  over 
his  own  tomb,  had  assumed  another  person's 
name,  and  entered  his  profession  by  means  of 
a  false  declaration.  These  facts  could  not  fail 
to  create  prejudice  against  him  in  the  minds 
of  the  jury.  On  the  whole,  Harold  Cannick 
was  of  opinion  that  the  prejudice  arising  from 
his  client's  avowed  impostures  would  be  more 
powerful  than  the  influence  of  his  honorable 
conduct  and  position  at  the  Bar.  It  would  be 
strange  if  some  of  the  jurors  did  not  feel  that, 
capable  by  his  own  admission  of  extraordinary 
impostures,  he  was  also  capable  of  a  still  more 
during  and  wicked  fraud.  The  man,  they  would 
argue,  who  could  falsely  declare  himself  Mar- 
tin Otway's  son,  might  also  be  false  in  declar- 
ing himself  John  Guerdon's  son. 

It  was  obvious  to  both  solicitor  and  client 
that  in  getting  up  their  case  they  should  pro- 
vide themselves  with  an  army  of  witnesses, 
of  intelligence  and  unimpeachable  character,  to 
certify  Mr.  Otway's  identity  with  Albert  Guer- 
don. It  being  impossible  that  the  cause  should 
be  tried  before  the  Long  Vacation,  they  had 
plenty  of  time  for  their  preparations.  And  they 
used  it  well.  Fortunately  for  Albert,  while  ex- 
ercising remarkable  ingenuity  in  concealing  his 
identity,  he  had  at  every  stage  of  his  impos- 
tures provided  for  a  time  when  he  might  wish 
to  relinquish  his  disguise,  and  be  recognized  as 
John  Guerdon's  son. 

His  first  step  was  to  resume,  as  far  as  possi- 
ble, his  old  appearance.  Ceasing  to  use  the 
skin-wash  which  had  given  him  a  false  com- 
plexion, he  quickly  recovered  his  previous  col- 
or, or  rather  he  exhibited  such  a  color  as  a 
man  of  his  original  tint  would  have  arrived  at, 


in  the  ordinary  course  of  things*  at  middle  life. 
At  the  same  time  he  discontinued  the  use  of 
the  bleaching  lotion  and  dye  which  had  for 
years  given  his  hair  an  artificial  color.  While 
his  hair  was  gradually  assuming  its  proper  dark- 
ness, he  allowed  it  to  grow  on  his  head,  cheeks, 
and  chin.  The  change  thus  wrought  in  his  ap- 
pearance occasioned  no  little  gossip  at  the  Bar, 
and  in  the  social  rooms  attached  to  the  House 
of  Commons.  What  was  he  after?  His  dis- 
use of  the  razor  he  attributed  to  a  new  and 
singular  sensitiveness  of  the  skin,  which  made 
him  intolerant  of  the  sharp  instrument.  As  to 
the  change  of  color  in  his  hair,  on  being  accused 
of  dyeing,  he  observed,  jocularly, 

"  Surely  I  may  dye  my  hair  if  I  like  ?  Why 
may  I  not,  like  other  men,  indulge  my  personal 
vanity  as  I  grow  old  ?" 

When  the  courts  rose  for  the  Long  Vaca- 
tion, Mr.  Otway  had  a  goodly  show  of  dark  hair 
on  his  head,  together  with  a  presentable  beard, 
a  pair  of  whiskers,  and  a  pair  of  mustaches. 
The  change  in  his  appearance  was  wonderful. 

As  soon  as  the  Courts  of  Equity  were  closed 
he  went  abroad  with  his  friend,  Harold  Can- 
nick.  Paris  was  the  first  city  in  which  the 
tourists  tarried.  They  lodged  at  the  Hotel 
Voltaire,  and  the  first  Parisian  whom  they  vis- 
ited was  Monsieur  Oudarde,  of  the  Palais  Roy- 
al. Nothing  could  be  more  satisfactory  than 
Monsieur  Oudarde's  reception  of  the  visitors, 
who,  coming  upon  the  artist  in  his  studio  with- 
out having  announced  their  names,  begged  him 
to  recall  old  times,  and  say  whether  he  had  ever 
seen  either  of  them  before. 

Having  surveyed  Harold  Cannick's  bnrly 
figure,  and  broad  face,  and  whitened  locks  at- 
tentively, the  artist  of  disguise,  shaking  his 
head,  and  shrugging  his  shoulders,  said, 

"  No,  monsieur.  It  can  not  be  that  I  have 
seen  you  before.  You  arc  unknown  to  me." 

Turning  to  Albert  Otway,  the  transfigurator 
examined  him  attentively  for  two  or  three  min- 
utes, and  then  exclaimed, 

"Yes,  I  know  you — no,  I  mean  I  ought  to 
know  you.'  We  have  met  before.  By  my  faith, 
I  have  seen  you  in  the  past.  When  was  it  ? 
Where  was  it?  Who  on  earth  are  you ?" 

Helping  the  artist's  memory  by  a  feigned 
voice,  Albert,  addressing  him  in  French,  with 
a  strong  German  accent,  replied, 

"That  is  my  affair,  Monsieur  Oudarde.  I 
want  you  to  tell  me  who  I  was  when  you  saw 
me." 

"Ah,  that  voice!"  exclaimed  the  French- 
man, clapping  his  hands,  and  then  throwing 
himself  into  a  chair.  "I  should  know  it.  Here, 
here.  Remain.  Be  quiet.  I  will  think.  I 
have  you  in  my  memory,  and  you  will  come 
immediately." 

For  three  minutes  the  transfigurator  sat  in 
a  brown  study,  when  he  leaped  to  his  feet,  and 
cried,  in  a  sharp  key, 

"  Now  I  have  you  ;  it  is  so.  Yes,  yes,  the 
same,  and  no  other.  Prussien-Anglais.  Wait, 
wait." 


186 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


Uttering  theSc  exclamations,  Monsieur  Ou- 
darde  ran  to  a  table  of  many  drawers  that  stood 
in  a  corner  of  the  room;  and  having  taken  a 
folio  from  one  of  the  drawers,  he  returned  to 
his  visitors,  with  a  face  gleaming  with  triumph- 
ant excitement,  and  put  a  crayon  sketch  before 
them,  saying, 

"  Here  you  are,  Herr  Heintsmann,  Prussien- 
Anglais.  Aha.  and  so  long  since  !" 

The  picture  was  the  same  sketch  of  the  design 
for  Albert's  disguise  which  Monsieur  Oudarde 
had  drawn  rapidly,  in  Albert's  presence,  at  the 
opening  of  their  first  interview. 

"What  is  it,  Cannick ?"  Albert  asked  of  his 
friend. 

"  Why,  a  deuced  good  likeness  of  yourself 
as  you  were  when  I  first  knew  you,"  was  the 
answer. 

"And  here,"  exclaimed  Monsieur  Oudarde, 
turning  the  paper  so  as  to  exhibit  the  reverse 
side  of  the  sheet,  "is  the  picture  of  you  as  you 
were  before  I  disguised  you  !" 

It  was  so,  and  a- very  good  likeness  too,  with 
the  flowing  black  whiskers  and  beard,  and  curv- 
ing eyebrows,  though  it  had  been  sketched  in 
from  memory. 

"It  is  my  way  to  portray  the  original  on  the 
back  of  the  design  thus,"  the  artist  explained. 
Pointing  to  some  written  words  under  the  pic- 
ture, Monsieur  Oudarde  added,  "And  I  wrote 
that :  '  Herr  Heintsmann  (Prussien) — bah,  bah, 
vraiment,  Monsieur  Anglais  /'  You  see  you  did 
not  trick  me,  sir.  No,  no." 

Of  course,  Albert  and  Mr.  Cannick  joined 
in  the  merry  laughter  with  which  the  French- 
man commemorated  his  sagacity  in  detecting 
the  Englishman  under  the  Prussian  affecta- 
tions. 

The  portraits  having  been  duly  examined 
and  approved,  Albert  said, 

"Now,  Monsieur  Oudarde,  I  want  you  to  re- 
store the  old  curve  to  my  eyebrows." 

"Ah,  by  my  faith,"  was  the  answer,  "it  can 
scarcely  be  done !  Too  many  years  have  pass- 
ed for  me  to  be  able  to  give  you  back  those 
charming  brows — at  least,  to  restore  them  com- 
pletely. But  I  can  do  a  little,  perhaps  much, 
though  certainly  not  all." 

Albert  remained  ten  days  in  Paris,  during 
which  time  he  underwent  another  operation 
with  the  knife,  which  had  the  effect  of  restor- 
ing his  eyebrows  somewhat  to  their  original 
form.  At  the  same  time  the  transfigurator 
treated  the  brows  with  an  unguent,  which  soft- 
ened the  hair,  so  that  it  could  be  trained  and 
waxed  in  a  manner  which  increased  the  curv- 
ing aspect  of  the  superciliary  lines.  It  should 
be  remarked,  also,  that, before  bidding  Monsieur 
Oudarde  adieu,  Albert  put  in  writing  the  cir- 
cumstances of  the  artist's  recognition  of  him, 
and  obtained  the  artist's  written  certificate  of 
the  truth  of  the  writing.  On  appearing  in  the 
witness-box,  if  he  should  be  required  to  give 
evidence  at  the  approaching  trial,  Monsieur 
Oudarde  would  be  able  to  swear  that,  in  recog- 
nizing his  former  patient,  his  memory  had  not 


been  quickened  by  a  single  statement  of  fact 
from  either  Albert  or  his  solicitor. 

Leaving  Paris,  Albert  Otway  and  Harold 
Cannick  went  to  Berlin  and  Vienna,  to  Bonn 
and  Heidelberg,  Venice  and  Rome  ;  and  in  all 
of  these  cities  he  encountered  old  friends  of 
his  boyish  days  or  early  manhood,  who,  on 
meeting  him  by  chance,  recognized  him  spon- 
taneously, before  he  or  any  other  person  had 
told  them  his  name.  They  were  not  invited  to 
conferences  with  him  ;  nor  were  they  prepared 
for  his  appearance  by  direct  announcements 
of  his  coming,  or  even  by  hints  or  rumor  that 
they  might  expect  to  see  him  before  long. 
There  was  no  need  for  him  to  remind  them  of 
the  circumstances  of  their  former  intercourse, 
or  in  any  way  to  force  himself  on  their  recol- 
lections. Several  times  it  occurred,  during  his 
rapid  Continental  tour,  that  he  addressed  a 
former  acquaintance  who  had  forgotten  him ; 
and,  on  seeing  himself  thus  forgotten,  Albert, 
instead  of  recalling  himself  to  the  oblivious 
person's  mind,  went  away,  leaving  the  old  friend 
in  ignorance  as  to  who  he  was. 

Returning  to  England,  Albert  hastened  down 
to  the  Great  Yard  and  the  Owleybury  district. 
The  first  person  on  whom  he  called  in  his  old 
neighborhood  was  Mr.  Fairbank,  the  rector  of 
Ewebridge,  to  whom  time  had  given  white 
hairs  and  a  drooping  figure,  without  robbing 
his  intellect  of  force.  To  the  servant  who 
opened  the  door  of  the  rectory,  Albert  merely 
announced  himself  as  "A  gentleman  wishing 
to  see  Mr.  Fairbank."  Haifa  minute  later  he 
entered  the  stud}*,  where  the  rector  was  writing 
at  his  desk.  Rising  courteously  to  greet  the 
visitor,  whose  name  had  not  been  proclaimed, 
Mr.  Fairbank  regarded  Albert,  and  then  imme- 
diately started  back  with  a  look  of  alarm. 

"My  dear  sir,"  he  ejaculated,  "how  you 
frighten  me !  You  can  not  be  Mr.  Guerdon,  for 
I  buried  him  years  since  in  my  church." 

"  You  have  said  precisely  what  I  wished  you 
to  say,  Mr.  Fairbank,"  said  Albert,  heightening 
the  agitation  of  the  clergyman,  who  immediate- 
ly recognized  the  voice,  as  well  as  the  appear- 
ance of  John  Guerdon's  son.  "  You  know  me. 
I  am  the  same  Albert  Guerdon  whom  you  be- 
lieved yourself  to  have  buried  years  since." 

"Are  you  also  Mr.  Otway  of  the  Chancery 
Bar  ?"  the  rector  inquired,  stiffly. 

"The  same.  Perhaps  you  have  already  re- 
ceived a  call  from  Mr.  Sharpswell,or  his  solicitor." 

Even  more  stiffly  the  rector  answered, 

"I  have  seen  both  those  gentlemen.  They 
showed  me  a  portrait  of  Mr.  Otway,  which  cer- 
tainly is  no  portrait  of  you." 

"Certainly  not  of  my  present  appearance," 
was  the  reply. 

"It  is  impossible,  Mr.  Guerdon,"  said  the 
rector,  showing,  by  his  utterance  of  the  sur- 
name, that  he  had  no  doubt  of  the  visitor's 
identity  with  Albert  Guerdon,  "  that  the  carte 
de  visite  of  Mr.  Otway,  in  my  possession,  can 
ever  have  been  a  picture  of  you  under  any  cir- 
cumstances." 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


J87 


"That  is  a  question  which  we  may  waive 
for  the  present,  my  dear  sir, "returned  Albert. 
44  The  question  which  I  want  you  to  answer  is, 
whether  you  know  me.  But  I  need  not  press 
it,  for  you  have  already  addressed  me  by  my 
right  name." 

44 1  wish,  sir,"  the  clergyman  answered,  with 
dignity  and  increasing  severity,  "  that  I  did  not 
recognize  you.  I  would  rather  believe  your 
body  dead  and  your  soul  with  God  than  know 
you  to  have  been  the  perpetrator  of  an  impious 
fraud." 

"I  deserve  your  reproof,"  returned  Albert, 
who,  instead  of  resenting,  admired  the  rector's 
stately  sternness  and  righteous  displeasure, 
4'and  accept  it  submissively.  At  the  same 
time,  sir,  I  entreat  you  to  allow  me  to  speak 
with  you." 

44 1  will  hear  from  you,  Mr.  Guerdon,  what- 
ever it  is  my  duty  to  hear." 

Whereupon  Albert,  having  gained  the  rec-  ; 
tor's  ear,  contrived  to  gain  his  heart,  showing  ! 
to  him  that,  though  the  fraudulent  interment 
had  been  an  irreverent  business,  the  perpetrator  ' 
of  the  imposture  could  urge  much  in  palliation 
of  his  misconduct.    And  having  conciliated  the  ; 
clergyman,  Albert  prevailed  upon  him  to  look 
at  two  pictures  —  one  a  portrait  of  the  Bohe- 
mian, as  he  had  appeared  in  his  later  days  ;  the 
other  a  sketch  of  the  same  man  lying  in  his 
coffin,  which  latter  drawing  Albert  had  himself 
made  of  the  lifeless  features  of  Martin  Otway's 
son. 

44  At  every  point  of  my  reprehensible  impos- 
ture," Albert  explained,  44I  took  care  to  pre- 
serve to  myself  the  means  of  undoing  my  de- 
ceptions, and  establishing  the  identity  which  I 
was  concealing.  On  opening  Albert  Otway's 
coffin,  you  will  find  his  body  embalmed,  and 
exhibiting  featm-es  which,  besides  proving  him 
not  to  have  been  Albert  Guerdon,  show  that  in 
life  he  bore  no  resemblance  to  his  posthumous 
personator." 

In  Owleybury  and  Hammerhampton  Albert 
Guerdon  encountered  at  every  turn  old  ac- 
quaintances, who  on  seeing  him  recognized  him 
instantly  and  spontaneously.  The  same  was  the 
case  wherever  he  went  during  his  sojourn  in  the 
Great  Yard  and  the  old  neighborhood.  Yet 
more,  he  encountered  no  single  person  of  his 
former  circle  in  Boringdonshire  who  had  any 
doubt  that  he  was  John  Guerdon's  son.  And 
when  it  transpired  that  it  was  he  who  had  paid 
his  father's  debts  in  the  county,  there  arose  in 
every  part  of  the  shire  a  disposition  to  render 
him  honor.  In  the  opinion  of  the  magnates  and 
mob  of  the  Great  Yard  and  the  cathedral  town, 
it  was  not  enough  that  they  should  condone  his 
offense  in  deluding  them  with  a  sham  interment 
of  himself ;  it  was  incumbent  on  them  that  they 
should  demonstrate  their  admiration  of  his  hon- 
esty and  filial  devotion. 

Declining  to  be  the  hero  of  a  social  celebra- 
tion until  he  had  won  his  lawsuit,  and  com- 
pleted the  restoration  of  his  father's  good  name 
by  getting  conclusive  evidence  of  the  old  man's  , 


innocence  of  fraud  and  forgery,  Albert  was 
about  to  return  to  London,  when,  on  the  last 
morning  of  his  sojourn  at  Hammerhampton,  he 
received  a  call  from  a  very  old,  dusty,  mean- 
looking  man,  named  Jacob  Coleman. 

4'Ah,  Mr.  Coleman, "said  Albert,  rising  from 
his  breakfast-table  in  a  private  room  of  Hara- 
merhampton's  chief  hotel,  as  he  greeted  the 
unprepossessing  visitor,  u  we  have  not  met  for 
several  years,  and  time  has  altered  you  a  good 
deal ;  but  I  remember  you." 

"And  I  remember  you,  sir,"  mumbled  the 
venerable  sneak. 

44  But  how  comes  it,  sir,"  asked  Albert,  rather 
sharply,  4'as  you  are  alive,  and  I  have  been  ten 
days  in  Hammerhampton,  that  you  have  not 
found  me  out  and  said  so  sooner?" 

4 'Well,  sir,  since  the  gentry  all  knew  you, 
I  thought  it  would  be  more  becoming  in  an  old, 
broken,  humble  man  like  me  to  keep  out  of  the 
way." 

44  Yes,"  said  Albert,  dryly,  whose  legal  in- 
stinct assured  him  that  Jacob  Coleman  was  a 
paltry  fellow,  and  had  come  to  him  at  last  for 
some  dirty  purpose;  44and  now  that  you  are 
here,  what  do  you  want  to  say  ?" 

44 1  would  speak  a  word,  sir,  about  that  mat- 
ter of  the  forged  power  of  attorney,  by  which 
that  villain  Scrivener  got  at  Miss  Heathcote's 
money." 

4' Go  on — speak  about  it." 

44  You  always  thought  it  a  forgery  of  your 
father's  name,  sir." 

44 1  knew  it  to  be  forgery." 

"But  you  could  not  quite  prove  it,  sir  ;  and 
if  you  remember,  sir,  you  offered  a  £100  re- 
ward to  any  one  who  would  prove  that  it  was 
a  forgery.  You  may  remember,  sir." 

44  Of  course  I  remember." 

44 Well,  Mr.  Guerdon, "the  old  man  contin- 
ued, in  a  voice  that  alternately  mumbled  and 
whined,  44I  have  made  so  bold  as  to  come  for 
to  ask  if  that  offer  still  holds;  for  I  think,  sir, 
an  old  man  who  served  your  father  (God  bless 
him  for  a  true  gentleman !)  may  be  even  yet  of 
some  service  to  you  in  that  matter." 

44  Yes,  Mr.  Coleman,  the  offer  does  hold 
good.  I  still  want  conclusive  proof  that  my 
father  did  not  sign  that  power  of  attorney,  and 
if  you  can  give  me  the  proof,  I  will  give  you 
£100.  Speak  on." 

44  You  see,  sir,  I  suffered  by  the  failure  of  the 
bank,  and  I  am  a  very  poor  man." 

4i  Speak  to  the  purpose,  Mr.  Coleman.  Can 
you  give  me  the  proof  that  my  father  could  not 
have  signed  that  power  of  attorney  at  Hammer- 
hampton, as  the  document  represents  ?" 

Seeing  that  he  could  not  improve  his  position 
by  mumbling  and  whining  about  his  poverty, 
the  aged  Mr.  Coleman  put  his  right  hand  into 
one  of  the  deep  skirt-pockets  of  his  rusty-brown, 
long-skirted  coat,  and  slowly  brought  out  of  it 
two  manuscript  books,  bound  in  red  morocco. 
One  of  these  books  was  inscribed,  in  gold  let- 
ters on  the  red  cover,  "Diary."  On  the  cover 
of  the  other  was  written,  "Absent  Letter  Reg- 


188 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


ister."  At  a  glance  Albert  recognized  them 
us  the  two  manuscript  books  for  which  he  had 
vainly  sought  in  George  Street  and  at  Earl's 
Court  shortly  before  leaving  Boringdonshire. 
At  the  time  of  the  futile  search  for  them,  he 
had  suspected  that  Mr.  Coleman  had  taken  pos- 
session of  them.  Indeed,  in  offering  a  reward 
to  the  public,  he  had  regarded  himself  as  telling 
Mr.  Coleman  the  price  of  the  missing  books. 
And  now,  after  the  lapse  of  so  many  years,  the 
old  thief  was  producing  the  stolen  volumes. 

"How  did  those  books  come  into  your  pos- 
session ?"  Albert  asked,  quietly. 

"  Shortly  after  you  left  these  parts  the  Dia- 
ry and  Register  fell  into  my  hands, "the  aged 
rogue  answered,  trembling  as  he  spoke. 

"Indeed!  They  fell  into  your  hands,  did 
they?" 

"Ay,  sir,  and  that  they  did,  my  dear  young 
master,  at  a  sale  of  old  paper.  You  see,  sir, 
the  old  rubbish  of  paper  of  all  sorts  was  sold  at 
George  Street ;  and  I  bought  a  lot  that  happened 
to  have  the  volumes  in  it.  And  then  I  did  not 
know  where  to  find  you,  Mr.  Guerdon.  And 
then  the  next  I  heard  of  you  was  that  you 
were  dead  and  buried,  so  I  never  had  an  op- 
portunity of  bringing  them  to  you  till  now. 
But  I  never  let  them  go  out  of  my  hands,  for 
I  always  had  a  hope  that  they  might  clear  rny 
clear  master's  honor.  And  now  you  have  them, 
sir." 

"  For  a  hundred  pounds — dirt  cheap,  eh  ?" 

"Well,  sir,  you  said  the  offer  held  good." 

Having  examined  certain  pages  of  the  two 
books,  while  their  purloiner  stood  mumbling 
and  whining  about  his  love  of  his  dear  master, 
Albert  said, 

"Why,  Coleman,  these  books  prove  that,  on 
the  day  of  the  forgery  at  Hammerhampton,  my 
father  was  at  Liverpool,  and  that  you  were  in 
attendance  on  him." 

"  Jast  so,  sir.  'Tis  so,  sir.  I  was  with  him. 
You  remember,  sir,  I  always  told  you  that  I 
was  at  Liverpool  at  the  time  of  the  forgery  at 
Hammerhampton." 

"Ay;  and  you  also  told  me  that  you  could 
not  tell  where  my  father  was  at  the  same  time. 
And  now  it  appears  that  you  and  he  were  to- 
gether at  Liverpool.  So  you  could  remember 
that  you  were  in  Liverpool  yourself,  though 
you  forgot  that  you  were  there  as  my  father's 
attendant." 

"Just  so,  sir.  'Tis  so,  sir,"  whined  Mr.  Ja- 
cob Coleman,  while  his  cunning  wrinkled  face 
turned  to  a  ghastly  yellow -white,  and  his 
hands  shook  violently.  "The  memory  is  a 
queer  thing,  Mr.  Guerdon — an  unaccountable 
queer  thing  is  the  memory — do  believe  me,  sir 
— a  very  queer  thing!" 

Albert  was  tempted  to  deal  hardly  with  the 
old  scoundrel.  By  a  little  cross-examination 
Mr.  Coleman  could  have  been  brought  to  con- 
fess that  he  had  purloined  the  evidence,  on  see- 
ing how  desirous  Albert  was  to  clear  his  father's 
honor;  and  that  he  had  retained  it  in  the  hope 
that  he  might,  by  "holding  on, "extort  more 


than  £100  out  of  his  young  master  for  the 
books  that  had  been  stolen,  and  for  the  infor- 
mation which  an  honest  clerk,  in  Mr.  Coleman's 
position,  would  have  given  at  once  and  without 
hope  of  reward.  Of  course  Albeit  saw  the 
whole  of  Mr.  Coleman's  rascality ;  but  what 
could  he  gain  by  the  further  humiliation  of  so 
wretched  a  creature?  Taking  out  his  check- 
book, Albert  filled  in  and  signed  a  draft  for 
£100,  which  he  gave  to  the  old  man. 

"And  may  I  be  so  bold,  Mr.  Guerdon," 
mumbled  the  old  rascal,  when  he  had  pocketed 
the  precious  paper,  and  taken  his  greasy  hat 
from  the  floor,  "as  to  ask  on  parting  if  I  may 
shake  hands  with  my  old  master's  son  ?" 

There  was  pity  in  the  disdain  with  which  Al- 
bert replied,  "Be  content,  old  man,  with  what 
my  hand  has  just  done  for  you.  There,  go 
away." 

Whereupon  Mr.  Jacob  Coleman,  mumbling 
and  whining  about  the  queerness  of  his  memo- 
ry, shambled  out  of  the  breakfast-room. 

"Villainous  old  sneak!"  Albert  exclaimed, 
as  soon  as  his  retiring  visitor  was  out  of  hear- 
ing. "  But,  thank  heavens,  my  father's  mem- 
ory is  purged  of  shame !  I  need  no  longer  blush 
to  call  myself  his  son!" 

Half  an  hour  later,  Albert  was  on  his  way 
back  to  London  in  the  best  of  good  spirits. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

THE    EVENING   BEFORE   THE    BATTLE. 

EWEBRIDGE  RECTORY  was  not  the  only  place 
in  Boringdonshire  where  Albert  came  upon  the 
track  of  Frederick  Sharpswell  and  Mr.  John 
Gough,  who  had  visited  the  county  in  search 
of  evidence  against  the  claimant  of  Wren  Park, 
some  six  weeks  or  two  months  before  his  re- 
appearance in  the  Great  Yard.  Coming  to 
Hammerhampton  and  Owleybury,  while  Albert 
Guerdon  was  universally  believed  by  the  people 
of  those  towns  to  have  died  years  ago,  and  to 
have  been  buried  in  Ewebridge  church,  Mr. 
Sharpswell  and  his  lawyer  discovered  in  Bor- 
ingdonshire nothing  to  shake  their  opinion  that 
Mr.  Otway  was  a  madman,  as  well  as  a  rogue. 
To  each  of  the  many  persons  with  whom  they 
spoke  about  Albert  Guerdon  in  Boringdonshire, 
they  showed  one  of  Mr.  Otway 's  cartes  de  visite, 
asking  if  the  picture  at  all  resembled  the  late 
Mr.  Guerdon.  In  every  quarter  they  were 
assured  that  John  Guerdon's  son  was  notably 
unlike  the  portrait,  especially  in  the  eyebrows. 
Everywhere,  also,  they  were  told  that  it  would 
be  easy  for  them  to  dispose  of  the  impostor,  as 
the  man  whom  he  declared  himself  to  be  was 
unquestionably  lying  in  the  Guerdon  vault. 
In  short,  so  long  as  Frederick  Sharpswell  and 
the  solicitor  were  in  or  near  the  Great  Yard 
the  impudent  attempt  to  disturb  the  possessor 
of  Wren  Park  was  treated  as  a  preposterous 
joke.  Boringdonshire  was  unanimous  in  say- 
ing that  Mr.  Otway  must  have  lost  his  head. 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


189 


And  not  a  few  of  the  Boringdonshire  ladies, 
who  had  known  Mrs.  Sharpsvvell  when  she  was 
Lottie  Darling,  wrote  to  her,  throwing  piquant 
ridicule  on  Mr.  Otway's  absurd  proceedings. 
It  is  not  wonderful,  therefore,  that  Frederick 
returned  to  Gloucestershire  in  high  spirits,  and 
was  more  than  ever  persuaded  that  his  old  ene- 
my was  qualifying  for  a  strait-waistcoat  and  a 
padded  room. 

But  though  convinced  of  his  assailant's  in- 
sanity, Frederick  Sharpswell  fretted  and  chafed 
under  his  anticipations  of  the  coming  lawsuit, 
when  the  elation,  occasioned  by  his  trip  to 
Boringdonshire,  had  subsided.  Alternating 
between  petulance  and  despondency,  he  could 
not  thoroughly  enjoy  the  first  days  of  partridge- 
shooting  ;  and  before  the  end  of  September, 
having  caught  cold  from  a  shower  that  drench- 
ed him  to  the  skin  in  the  middle  of  a  turnip- 
field,  he  was  again  in  the  hands  of  the  doctors, 
who  had  detected  mischief  in  his  lungs.  The 
doctors  urged  him  to  take  great  care  of  him- 
self. In  their  private  talk,  after  stethoscoping 
their  patient,  they  agreed  that  his  malady, 
stayed  for  a  time  by  a  mild  climate  and  ex- 
hilarating incidents,  was  now  making  rapid 
progress. 

His  health  was  in  this  state  when,  at  the  be- 
ginning of  October,  the  newspapers  informed 
him  of  Albert's  reception  at  Hammerhampton 
and  Owleybury.  It  seemed,  then,  that  all  the 
world  was  going  mad,  together  with  Albert  Ot- 
way.  If  they  were  not  insane,  how  could  the 
people  declare  the  impostor,  with  his  red  hair, 
deeply  lined  face,  and  straight,  shelving  brows, 
identical  with  a  man  who,  when  alive,  had  been 
notable  for  dark  hair,  curving  brows,  and 
smoothness  of  facial  contour?  Mr.  Sharpswell 
laughed  scornfully  at  the  multitude  of  fools ; 
while  Lottie  was  openly  indignant,  and  secretly 
alarmed.  The  newspapers,  which  had  thus  ag- 
itated the  husband  and  wife,  were  followed  by 
other  newspapers  that,  giving  minuter  accounts 
of  Albert's  doings  in  and  near  the  Great  Yard, 
described  the  wonderful  change  which  a  few 
weeks  had  made  in  his  appearance.  His  fa- 
miliar associates  at  the  Bar  were  so  staggered 
by  it  that,  until  they  had  examined  him  attent- 
ively, and  listened  to  his  voice,  they  could  not 
recognize  their  friend  Otway,  now  that  he  had 
curling  dark  hair,  with  dark  beard  and  mus- 
tache, and  eyebrows  notably  unlike  those  for 
which  the  member  for  Swanbeach  had  been  re- 
markable. 

At  the  same  time,  from  the  very  ladies  who 
a  few  weeks  earlier  had  ridiculed  Mr.  Otway's 
mad  conduct,  and  assured  their  old  friend  that 
he  was  an  impostor,  Lottie  received  letters, 
condoling  with  her  on  the  new  aspect  of  the 
case,  and  expressing  a  decided  opinion  that  the 
re-transfigured  man  was  Albert  Guerdon. 

In  compliance  with  his  client's  wishes,  Mr. 
Gough  ran  down  for  a  second  time  to  Boring- 
donshire, to  ascertain  on  the  spot  the  precise 
value  of  feeling  in  the  pretender's  favor.  The 
solicitor  was  astounded  bv  what  he  learned  in 


the  Great  Yard  and  the  neighborhood  of  Ow- 
leybury. Making  a  detour  to  Gloucestershire, 
on  his  way  back  to  London,  he  visited  Wren 
Park,  and  imparted  strange  tidings  to  his  em- 
ployer. 

"  So  I  went  to  Mr.  Fairbank,  the  parson  of 
Ewebridge,"  said  the  solicitor,  continuing  a  re- 
port that  need  not  be  repeated  at  full,  "  when 
I  found  him  altogether  on  Otway's  side." 

"What?"  exclaimed  Mr.  Gough's  client. 
"  The  very  parson  who  assured  us  that  he  him- 
self read  the  funeral  service  over  Guerdon  ?" 

"Ay,  and  now  he  declares  that  the  man 
really  buried  in  Ewebridge  church  was  no  oth- 
er than  your  second  cousin,  Reginald  Albert 
Otway.  The  rector  has  opened  vault  and  cof- 
fin, and  found  in  the  latter  the  embalmed  body 
of  a  man  that  corresponds  precisely  to  the  por- 
traits and  known  appearance  of  Martin  Otway's 
son,  and  bears  no  resemblance  to  the  claimant 
of  Wren  Park,  either  as  he  appears  now  with 
black  hair,  or  as  he  appeared  a  few  months 
since  in  law  courts." 

Mr.  Gough  had  not  anticipated  the  effect 
which  this  abruptly  imparted  intelligence  would 
have  on  his  client.  Turning  first  deadly  white 
and  then  scarlet  with  emotion,  Frederick  Sharps- 
well  was  seized  with  a  violent  fit  of  coughing. 
When  the  paroxysm  had  subsided,  the  invalid 
put  his  handkerchief  to  his  mouth.  Half  n 
minute  later  he  dropped  backward  in  his  chair. 
"Call  Lottie — call  Mrs.  Sharpswell,"  he  said, 
faintly.  He  knew  that  a  blood-vessel  of  his 
lungs  had  given  way. 

Lottie  was  quickly  by  her  husband's  side ; 
and  at  her  bidding  Mr.  Gough  drove  at  the 
fullest  speed  of  a  pair  of  carriage  horses  to 
Gloucester,  where  he  telegraphed  to  London 
for  Dr.  Gilbert  son. 

In  the  interval  between  this  event  and  the 
close  of  the  next  Michaelmas  law  term — an  in- 
terval of  five  or  six  weeks — Frederick  Sharps- 
well  recovered  considerably  from  the  prostra- 
tion immediately  consequent  on  the  rupture  of 
the  blood-vessel ;  but  he  could  not  execute  his 
purpose  of  going  up  to  town,  to  be  present  at 
the  opening  of  the  trial.  He  could  not  even 
leave  his  bed.  In  those  same  days,  also,  Lot- 
tie was  fully  informed  of  her  husband's  peril- 
ous condition.  Ay,  more,  she  learned  that  his 
state  was  worse  than  perilous.  Speaking  to 
her  frankly  and  gently,  Dr.  Gilbertson  told  her 
that  Frederick's  days  were  numbered.  He 
would  not  outlive  the  next  winter.  No,  ho 
would  not  survive  it,  even  if  he  were  sent  out 
at  once  to  Mentone. 

Of  course,  Lottie  wished  to  remain  constant- 
ly at  her  husband's  side.  But  he  was  so  ur- 
gent that  she  should  go  up  to  London  and  give 
evidence  against  Albert  Otway,  that  she  yield- 
ed to  his  entreaties  and  her  sense  of  her  duty 
toward  her  children.  In  spite  of  the  revela- 
tion at  Ewebridge  church,  Frederick  Sharps- 
well  still  insisted  that  the  plaintiff  was  an  im- 
postor, whose  fraud  and  madness  would  even 
yet  be  exposed  by  the  woman  whom  Albert 


190 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


Guerdon  had  loved.  So  Lottie  consented  to 
accomplish  an  odious  task.  She  would  go  to 
town,  see  this  hateful,  wicked  Mr.  Otway  in  his 
new  disguise,  and,  if  she  could  do  so,  would 
bear  witness  against  him.  But  what,  oh,  what, 
if  she  should  discover  him.  to  be  Albert  Guer- 
don? 

So  Lottie  wrote  to  her  friend  of  many  years' 
standing,  Mrs.  Dunwich,  wife  of  Frank  Dun- 
wich,  Equity  draughtsman,  and  arranged  that 
during  her  brief  sojourn  in  town  she  should  be 
Mrs.  Dunwich's  guest,  at  Westbourne  Terrace. 
And  in  accordance  with  this  plan,  leaving  her 
sick  husband  at  Wren  Park,  she  went  up  to 
London  on  a  raw,  foggy  November  day.  She 
would  not  shrink  from  her  part  in  the  coming 
battle  which  was  about  to  be  fought,  not  for 
Frederick,  but  for  his  girls,  who  would  soon  be 
fatherless. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

A   MEETING    OF  OLD   FRIENDS. 

ON  the  second  day  of  sittings  after  Michael- 
mas term,  the  cause  of  Guerdon  vs.  Sharpswell 
came  on  for  hearing  in  the  Court  of  Queen's 
Bench,  which  was  densely  crowded  within  five 
minutes  of  the  hour  at  which  its  doors  were 
opened  to  the  eager  public.  The  seats  appro- 
priated to  "the  Bar"  were  flanked  by  tightly 
packed  groups  of  wig-wearing  gentlemen,  who 
grumbled  to  one  another  at  their  ill  luck  in 
failing  to  get  places  among  the  seated  counsel, 
and  were  of  opinion  that  no  "  layman  "  should 
be  allowed  to  sit  in  a  court  of  justice,  while  a 
single  lawyer  in  his  robes  was  without  a  seat 
appropriate  to  his  degree.  The  public,  on  the 
benches  behind  the  stuff-gownsmen,  maintain- 
ed that  barristers,  not  engaged  in  the  suit,  ought 
not  to  be  treated  better  than  other  people. 

Albert  had  selected  for  the  chief  of  his  lead- 
ers Sir  Joshua  Wigsworth,  Q.C.,  a  tall,  slight- 
ly built,  showy,  foppish  gentleman,  with  keen 
black  eyes,  pallid  complexion,  thin  cheeks, 
hooked  nose,  sarcastic  lips,  and  a  large  pair  of 
dyed-black  whiskers.  To  see  Sir  Joshua 
Wigsworth  in  his  silk  gown,  snowy  bands, 
white  wig,  and  lawn  wristbands,  was  to  think 
how  well  his  picture  would  look  a  century 
hence,  in  the  gallery  of  a  county  hall,  amidst 
other  "portraits  of  my  ancestors."  No  man 
at  the  Common  Law  Bar  had  a  more  aristo- 
cratic presence,  or  cleverer  tongue,  than  Sir 
Joshua.  It  was  a  subtle,  flippant,  bitter,  cruel 
tongue.  Always  fluent  and  persuasive,  it  could 
be  gentle,  tender,  pathetic.  But  Sir  Joshua 
was  happiest  and  strongest  when  duty  required 
him  to  denounce,  with  mingled  indignation  and 
scorn,  as  a  prodigy  of  human  baseness,  some 
unfortunate  litigant  who  had  only  perpetrated  a 
foolish  blunder.  It  sometimes  disturbed  mor- 
alists to  see  how  pleasantly  Sir  Joshua  could 
drink  wine  with  a  man  whom  he  had  a  week 
earlier  declared  "  a  creature  who  had  forfeited 
every  claim  to  sympathy."  Sir  Joshua  had 


been  an  attorney-general.  He  mcnnt  to  be  a 
lord -chancellor.  In  politics  and  private  life 
he  was  an  amiable,  generous,  and  punctiliously 
honorable  gentleman.  In  Westminster  Hall  he 
was  an  advocate. 

Throughout  the  whole  of  the  first  day  of  the 
trial  Sir  Joshua  Wigsworth  held  the  attention 
of  the  court— judge,  jury,  and  "the  public"— 
with  a  masterly  speech  in  which,  after  briefly 
stating  the  names  and  parentage  of  plaintiff 
and  defendant,  and  the  main  question  in  dis- 
pute, he  gave  a  perfect  sketch  of  Albert  Guer- 
don's life,  from  its  commencement  in  Boring- 
donshire,  to  the  hour  when  he  entered  the 
Court  of  Queen's  Bench  to  make  good  his  title 
to  Wren  Park,  Gloucestershire.  As  the  read- 
ers of  these  pages  know  all  that  Sir  Joshua 
could  tell  about  the  claimant's  history,  there  is 
no  need  to  give  a  report  of  the  learned  counsel's 
speech.  Coming  from  the  most  histrionic  of 
advocates,  it  was,  of  course,  rich  in  theatrical 
points.  Having  set  forth  the  circumstances  of 
Albert's  boyhood,  and  stated  how  and  where  he 
was  educated  for  commercial  life,  it  touched 
upon  his  return  from  the  Continent  to  Earl's 
Court ;  and  after  mentioning  his  engagement 
to  a  daughter  of  Sir  James  Darling,  a  gentle- 
man honorably  remembered  by  many  lawyers, 
it  described  his  sudden  passage  from  felicity  to 
utter  wretchedness,  on  the  failure  of  Guerdon 
&  Scrivener's  bank.  The  jury  were  then  told 
the  considerations  that  induced  the  plaintiff  to 
assume  a  false  name  and  disguise  on  entering 
the  profession,  in  which  he  had  arrived  at  high 
distinction,  and  acquired  the  means  which,  to 
his  lasting  honor,  he  had  expended  in  paying 
his  father's  debts,  principal  and  interest,  to  the 
last  farthing.  His  sublime  devotion  to  his  fa- 
ther's memory,  and  the  fine  sense  of  honor 
which  he  had  manifested  in  dealing  with  his 
father's  creditors,  could  not  fail  to  win  for  him 
the  admiration  of  the  jury,  and  make  them  see 
that — though  he  had  employed  a  few  extraor- 
dinary artifices  to  shield  his  father's  memory, 
to  compass  the  happiness  of  the  woman  he  had 
loved  better  than  his  own  life,  and  to  achieve 
his  glorious  enterprise  of  filial  love — he  was  a 
man  of  lofty  integrity.  Human  nature  must 
be  unmade,  every  law  of  it  reversed,  and  each 
of  its  sacred  and  most  delicate  forces  be  anni- 
hilated, ere  it  would  be  possible  for  a  man  to 
live  and  labor  with  heroic  courage  and  un- 
selfishness as  the  plaintiff  had  done,  and  then 
come  forward  to  plunder  a  kinsman  of  his  prop- 
erty by  lies  and  perjuries  for  which  the  annals 
of  crime  furnished  no  parallels. 

When  he  sat  down  at  4.15,  on  a  cheerless 
November  day,  after  the  utterance  of  this  ad- 
dress, Sir  Joshua  was  rewarded  with  a  round 
of  cheers  by  his  hearers.  The  reporters  for 
the  press  said  that  the  applause  was  immediate- 
ly suppressed,  by  which  they  meant  that  it  was 
suppressed  as  soon  as  possible.  The  orator 
had  made  an  extraordinary  impression  on  his 
audience.  With  the  exception  of  the  defend- 
ant's lawyers,  the  indignant  ushers,  and  the  fat 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


191 


juryman  who  had  slept  soundly  during  the  lat- 
ter half  of  the  speech,  there  was  not  a  man  in 
court  who  would  not  have  liked  to  shake  the 
plaintiffs  hand  and  offer  to  fight  any  body  for 
him.  In  justice  to  the  counsel  wh*o  had  spoken 
so  effectively,  it  should  be  stated  that,  had  it 
heen  his  interest  to  do  so,  he  would  have  shown 
that  Albert  Guerdon,  a  liar  and  an  impostor  by 
his  own  confession,  was  one  of  the  meanest  and 
most  vindictive  sneaks  that  had  ever  roused 
disgust.  And  Sir  Joshua  would  have  "work- 
ed this  other  side  of  the  case  "  so  effectively 
that  Albert  would  have  scarcely  dared  to  leave 
Westminster  Hall  without  a  body-guard  of  po- 
licemen to  protect  him  from  the  violence  of  the 
mob.  As  it  was,  every  body  wanted  to  be  Mr. 
Guerdon's  friend.  As  it  might  have  been,  even 
Harold  Cannick  would  not  have  dared  to  in- 
vite him  to  a  dinner-party  "until  the  affair  had 
blown  over." 

The  first  witness  called  on  the  following 
day  was  the  plaintiff  himself,  who,  on  entering 
the  witness-box,  was  far  from  imagining  that 
he  stood  under  the  gaze  of  the  very  woman 
whom  he  had  for  years  mourned  for  as  dead. 

Though  Mrs.  Sharpswell,  during  the  preced- 
ing fortnight,  would  fain  have  persisted  in 
thinking  the  plaintiff  a  malicious  and  mad  im- 
postor, the  news  from  Boringdonshire  had  great- 
ly shaken  that  conviction,  and  disposed  her  to 
take  another  view  of  the  claimant's  case.  The 
report  of  Sir  Joshua  Wigsworth's  opening 
speech  had  still  further  influenced  her  mind. 
On  the  second  day  of  the  trial,  she  took  her 
place  in  the  ladies'  gallery,  by  the  side  of  Mrs. 
Dunwich,  prepared  to  see  in  the  witness-box  a 
gentleman  who,  besides  bearing  a  striking  re- 
semblance to  her  first  lover,  should  be  found  to 
be  in  fact  Albert  Guerdon.  When  he  entered 
the  box,  and  stood  before  her,  all  doubts  as  to 
the  identity  of  her  husband's  cruel  enemy  with 
John  Guerdon's  son  vanished.  A  shudder  ran 
through  her  frame  as  she  beheld  him.  There 
he  stood,  differing  from  the  Albert  who  had 
won  her  heart  only  as  the  man  of  middle  age 
differs  from  the  person  he  was  in  'early  man- 
hood. There  was  the  same  figure,  only  more 
stalwart ;  the  same  features,  only  bolder  and 
harder ;  the  same  hair,  with  bright  short  curls 
overshelving  the  broad  forehead ;  the  same 
eyes — dark,  powerful  as  ever  they  were.  In 
no  particular  did  he  strike  her  as  resembling 
the  close-cropped,  close-shaven  Mr.  Otway  of 
the  Chancery  Bar.  In  every  respect  he  was 
Albert  Guerdon.  He  spoke — with  Albert's 
voice !  Mrs.  Dunwich  saw  the  signs  of  her 
companion's  agitation  and  manifest  recognition 
of  the  plaintiff,  but  like  a  sensible  woman  she 
appeared  unobservant  of  them. 

It  is  not  wonderful  that  Albert  had  heard 
nothing  in  Boringdonshire  to  dispel  his  impres- 
sion that  she  was  dead.  Had  he  been  told  then 
that  Mrs.  Sharpswell  was  a  daughter  of  the 
late  Sir  James  Darling,  he  would  only  have  sup- 
posed that  his  second  cousin  had  married  Lot- 
tie's elder  sister.  But  knowing  that  he  had  been 


in  old  times  engaged  to  Mrs.  Sharpswell,  the 
Boringdonshire  people,  out  of  delicacy,  had  for- 
borne to  mention  the  lady  to  him,  thinking  that, 
as  a  matter  of  course,  he  would  not  like  to  be 
reminded  of  his  old  relation  to  the  woman  whose 
husband  he  was  preparing  to  deprive  of  a  fine 
estate. 

Having  been  duly  sworn,  Albert  Guerdon 
was  soon  passing  through  his  examination-in- 
chief.  Lawyers  are  seldom  better  givers  of  ev- 
idence than  doctors,  who  labor  under  the  repu- 
tation of  being  the  worst  of  all  witnesses  in  a 
court  of  justice  ;  but  Albert,  by  the  directness, 
clearness,  and  brevity  with  which  he  replied  to 
Sir  Joshua  Wigsworth's  questions,  soon  show- 
ed his  hearers  that  he  at  least  would  prove  a 
good  witness.  And  the  plaintiff  was  confident 
that  he  would  figure  no  less  advantageously  in 
the  witness-box,  when  he  should  come  to  be 
cross-examined  by  the  defendant's  leader,  Sir 
Philip  Gale,  Q.C.  He  had  no  fear  of  making 
the  blunders  that  would  discredit  his  testimony, 
and  expose  him  to  suspicion,  if  not  to  ignomin- 
ious defeat.  Unlike  the  many  honest  witness- 
es whose  powers,  never  vigorous  or  rightly  dis- 
ciplined, have  been  weakened  by  self-indulgence 
or  depressing  circumstances,  he  possessed  a 
memory  singularly  clear  and  retentive  of  its 
earliest  impressions.  All  the  influences  of  his 
life  had  been  favorable  to  the  preservation  and 
enlargement  of  his  faculties.  Sorrow,  which 
torpefies  many  minds,  had  only  quickened  and 
strengthened  his  intellect. 

Answering  question  after  question,  he  told 
the  court  all  the  story  of  his  youth  and  early 
manhood.  In  every  particular  it  was  the  old 
story  which  had  before  been  told  to  Lottie  by 
the  same  lips  and  voice,  though  in  other  and 
fuller  terms.  All  went  smoothly  in  the  exam- 
ination-in-chief  until,  the  witness's  engagement 
to  Sir  James  Darling's  daughter  having  been 
brought  under  consideration,  Sir  Joshua  Wigs- 
worth  asked  the  witness, 

"  Is  that  lady  still  living  ?" 

Witness.   "No,  she  is  dead." 

Counsel.  "  Can  you  state  the  year  of  her 
death  ?" 

Witness  (having  given  the  year  in  which  Lot- 
tie's elder  sister  died).  "  That  was  the  year  of 
her  death  ;  it  was  the  twenty-sixth  year  of  her 
age." 

Observing  glances,  and  then  words,  pass 
quickly  between  Sir  Philip  Gale  and  Sergeant 
Taylor,  and  the  defendant's  junior  counsel,  Mr. 
Sparkleton,  Sir  Joshua  looked  again  at  his  brief, 
and  then  asked  if  the  witness  had  said  "  the 
twenty-sixth  year  of  her  age.'' 

Witness.  "I  said  the  twenty-sixth." 

Sir  Joshua  was  annoyed.  Sir  Philip  Gale 
winked  his  eye  at  Sergeant  Taylor,  and  the  Ser- 
geant winked  in  return.  Seeing  that  he  had 
said  something  which  contradicted  the  briefs 
of  the  couasel  on  both  sides,  Albert  coolly  turn- 
ed over  some  papers  of  memoranda  which  he 
had  before  him,  and,  taking  up  a  sheet  of  black- 
edged  paper  with  a  scrap  of  printed  paper  upon 


192 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


it,  observed,  "  This  is  the  announcement  of  the 
lady's  death  in  the  Times.  I  "cut  it  from  the 
paper  at  the  time,  and  put  it  among  my  mem- 
oranda." 

Sir  Joshua  was  no  better  pleased,  and,  after 
his  wont  at  moments  of  annoyance,  he  licked 
his  thin  lips  with  his  long,  sharp  tongue  ;  while 
Sir  Philip  Gale  and  Sergeant  Taylor,  not  car- 
ing to  wink  again  at  each  other,  lest  they  should 
put  the  witness  on  his  guard,  exulted  in  their 
hearts.  "By  heavens  !"  they  thought,  "Mr. 
Otway,  then,  is  an  impostor.  He  has  tripped — 
and  what  a  scrape  he  has  dropped  into !  He 
has  engaged  himself  to  the  wrong  daughter, 
and  given  her  a  wrong  age.  It  was  the  elder 
one  who  died  when  she  was  twenty-eight,  and 
when  Mrs.  Sharpswell  was  twenty-five  years 
old.  And  that  slip  of  a  paper — obviously  a  mis- 
print— shows  the  source  of  his  misinformation. 
He  has  done  for  himself." 

Sir  Joshua  Wigsworth  (having  looked  at  the 
printed  announcement).  "  On  consideration, 
you  have  no  doubt  that  this  printed  announce- 
ment is  an  accurate  record  of  the  event  ?" 

Witness.   "No  doubt  whatever." 

Sir  Joshua.  "It  is  not  inaccurate  as  to  the 
statement  of  age?" 

Witness.  "  It  is  quite  accurate." 

Sir  Joshua.  "  You  have  already  said  that  Sir 
James  Darling  had  two  daughters,  I  believe  ?" 

Witness.  "  Yes,  I  have  said  two  daughters." 

Sir  Joshua.  "And  the  lady  to  whom  you 
were  engaged — was  she  the  elder,  or  the  young- 
er of  the  two  daughters  of  Sir  James  Darling?" 

Witness.   "The  younger." 

Sir  Joshua.  "And  what  were  her  Christian 
namas?" 

Witness.  "Charlotte  Constance.  She  bore 
the  same  Christian  names  as  her  sister,  but  in 
a  different  order.  The  elder  Miss  Darling  was 
Constance  Charlotte." 

Sir  Joshua.   "It  is  the  death  of  Charlotte 

Constance  that  was  renounced  in  the  Times?" 

Witness.  "Yes.     The  name  of  the  lady  who 

died  in  her  twenty-sixth  year  was  Charlotte 

Constance." 

Sir  Joshua  Wigsworth  was  perplexed. 

Sir  Philip  Gale  and  Sergeant  Taylor  were 
delighted.  Sir  Joshua  had  been  doing  their 
work  for  them.  Each  of  the  defendant's  lead- 
ers saw  his  way  to  making  much  in  cross-exami- 
nation of  this  mistake  about  the  two  ladies.  It 
could  be  shown  that  the  claimant's  imaginary 
knowledge  of  the  lady  to  whom  he  declared 
himself  to  have  been  engaged  was  based  on  talk 
with  Albert  Guerdon  and  an  inaccurate  an- 
nouncement in  the  Times.  It  was  obvious  to  the 
defendant's. counsel  that,  whereas  the  witness's 
mistake  was  due  to  the  erroneous  notice  of  the 
death,  Sir  Joshua's  trip  was  the  result  of  a  true 
statement  in  his  brief,  which  had  been  drawn 
by  a  person  more  familiar  than  Mr.  Otway  with 
the  private  story  of  the  Darling  family. 

A  smile  suddenly  played  over  Sir  Joshua 
Wigsworth's  pallid  face,  as  he  saw  the  explana- 
tion of  the  difficulty. 


Sir  Joshua.  "Had  you  any  other  authority 
than  this  printed  announcement  for  thinking 
the  younger  of  Sir  James  Darling's  daughters 
dead  ?" 

Witness.  "None.  It  satisfied  me  that  the 
event  had  taken  place." 

Sir  Joshua.  "  Can  you  state  what  became  of 
Sir  James  Darling's  other  daughter  ?" 

Witness.   "I  can  not." 

Sir  Joshua.  "  Can  you  inform  the  jury 
whether  she  is  living  at  the  present  time  ?" 

Witness.   "I  can  not." 

"  What  a  sly  fox  Wigsby  is!"  thought  Sir 
Philip  Gale  and  Sergeant  Taylor  and  Mr. 
Sparkleton.  Sir  Joshua  Wigsworth  was  known 
as  Wigsby  by  his  familiars  at  the  Common- 
Law  Bar.  "He  sees  how  to  get  his  man  out 
of  the  scrape,  and  put  him  on  his  legs  in  re-ex- 
amination." 

Lottie,  of  course,  saw  the  explanation  of  the 
mistake.  The  answers,  which  had  perplexed 
and  irritated  Sir  Joshua  Wigsworth,  besides 
informing  her  that  Albert  had  long  thought  her 
dead,  showed  her  how  the  misconception  had 
arisen.  Though  she  was  still  resentful  against 
her  first  lover  for  all  the  injuries  he  had  done 
her  husband,  it  was  a  joy  to  her  to  know  that 
he  had  never  suspected  how  every  injury  to 
Frederick  Sharpswell  was  a  blow  to  Sir  James 
Darling's  youngest  daughter. 

As  he  stood  in  the  witness-box,  at  cross-pur- 
poses with  his  own  counsel,  it  occurred  also  to 
Albert  that  he  might  have  mistaken  the  dead 
lady  for  the  living  one.  Was  it  possible  that  a 
printer's  error  had  declared  the  dead  lady 
younger  by  three  years  than  she  waSj  and  had 
also  misplaced  her  two  Christian  names?  As 
this  thought  flashed  upon  him,  it  struck  him 
that  he  had  been  strangely  imprudent  and  rash 
in  trusting  so  completely  to  a  single  statement 
in  a  single  newspaper.  And  yet  his  confidence 
was  not  strange.  Every  day  of  our  lives  we 
act  without  misgiving  on  evidence  no  more  re- 
liable than  this  false  testimony  of  Lottie  Dar- 
ling's death. 

The  whole  day,  from  ten  A.M.  to  a  quarter- 
past  four  P.M.,  with  the  exception  of  the  short 
break  in  the  middle  of  the  day  for  luncheon, 
was  spent  on  Albert's  examination-in-chief. 
Had  not  Sir  Joshua  been  a  quick  examiner  and 
Albert  a  ready  witness,  the  examination  would 
not  have  been  concluded  when  the  Court  rose. 
But  at  a  quarter-past  four  the  plaintiff's  leader 
intimated  that  for  the  present  he  had  no  more 
questions  to  put  to  his  client.  And  then,  while 
the  assembly  was  breaking  up  with  hum  and 
hubbub,  Albert,  before  he  stepped  down  from 
the  witness-box,  raised  his  eyes,  and  looking  at 
the  ladies'  gallery,  saw,  in  the  murky  light  of 
the  hot,  vapor-abounding  court,  a  face  which 
made  him  start  with  astonishment.  It  was  the 
face  of  a  lady,  who  dropped  her  veil  instant- 
ly on  seeing  that  she  was  recognized  by  the 
plaintiff. 

Leaving  the  chamber  of  justice  quickly,  Al- 
bert pushed  his  way  through  crowded  passages 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


193 


to  the  door,  opening  into  a  narrow  corridor, 
through  which  he  knew  that  the  ladies  would 
pass  on  descending  from  the  galleries.  Three 
minutes  more,  and  he  was  standing  face  to  face 
with  Mrs.  Sharpswell,  who,  on  leaving  her  seat 
and  preparing  to  descend  a  darksome  stair-way, 
had  again  raised  her  veil. 

"  Good  heavens !  Lottie,  how  is  this  ?"  Albert 
asked,  in  a  low  tone. 

No  sound  came  in  reply;  but,  turning  dead- 
ly white,  and  trembling  with  agitation,  Mrs. 
Sharpswell  moved  her  lips  in  the  vain  endeav- 
or to  say  "Albert."  For  ten  seconds  she  gazed 
in  silence  into  Albert's  dark,  burning  eyes,  and 
then,  looking  quickly  round  to  a  gentleman 
who  was  in  attendance  on  her  and  Mrs.  Dun- 
wich,  she  said,  quickly, 

"  Mr.  Dunwich,  lead  me  to  the  carriage — 
take  me  to  the  carnage  at  once.  I  am  not 
well — I  faint!" 

Standing  aside,  so  that  Mr.  Dunwich  might 
do  her  bidding  promptly,  Albert  saw  Lottie  led 
to  a  carriage  that  was  waiting  for  the  two  ladies 
in  Westminster  Hall  Yard.  He  saw  the  car- 
riage drive  quickly  away,  leaving  Mr.  Dunwich 
on  the  ground  whence  it  started.  In  a  trice 
Albert,  who  was  known  to  Mr.  Dunwich,  con- 
fronted the  Equity  draughtsman. 

"  In  Heaven's  name,  Dunwich  !"  he  exclaim- 
ed, imploringly,  "tell  me  who  is  the  lady  with 
your  wife?" 

Bowing  stiffly,  Mr.  Dunwich  answered, 

"  She  is  Mrs.  Sharpswell,  the  wife  of  my  old 
friend,  Fred  Sharpswell,  of  Wren  Park." 

"Lord  have  mercy  on  me!"  ejaculated  Al- 
bert. "She  is  Lottie — my  own  Lottie!" 

"  I  have  said,"  returned  the  Equity  draughts- 
man, grimly,  "that  she  is  Mrs.  Sharpswell.  I 
may  add,  that  she  is  the  surviving  daughter  of 
the  late  Sir  James  Darling." 

"Dunwich,  you  think  ill  of  me!" 

"I  am  Fred  Sharpswell's  old  friend,  and 
Mrs.  Sharpswell  is  very  intimate  with  my  wife." 

"  Come  away  from  this  place,"  Albert  en- 
treated. "We  are  observed.  Accompany 
me  to  the  park,  and  let  us  talk  together  for  ten 
minutes." 

Mr.  Dunwich  consented.  And  for  half  an 
hour  the  two  lawyers,  in  the  deepening  twi- 
light of  the  end  of  a  dull  day,  walked,  to  and 
fro  in  a  quiet  pathway  of  St.  James's  Park.  Dur- 
ing which  time  Albert  told  his  companion  how 
he  had,  till  that  hour,  been  ignorant  of  Mrs. 
Sharpswell's  identity  with  Sir  James  Darling's 
daughter,  and  that,  of  course,  every  statement 
made  by  him  in  court  had  represented  precise- 
ly his  knowledge  or  misconceptions.  Assur- 
ing his  hearer  that  Lottie  was  as  dear  to  him 
as  ever  she  had  been,  and  that  he  would,  of 
course,  cease  at  once  to  prosecute  his  claim 
to  the  estate  in  her  husband's  possession,  the 
wretched  and  confounded  man  begged  that  he 
might  be  allowed  to  see  Lottie  for  ten  minutes 
in  the  cor. ing  evening.  Whereupon,  seeing 
that  no  eVil  and  much  good  might  ensue  to 
Fred  Sharpswell's  wife  and  children  from  the 
13 


proposed  interview,  Mr.  Dunwich  gave  Albert 
leave  to  call  in  Westbourne  Terrace  at  nine 
o'clock,  and  ascertain  whether  Lottie  would  re- 
ceive him. 

"  Of  course  I  can't  say  what  her  wishes  may 
be,  but  you  can  call  at  my  house  at  nine,  and 
take  your  chance  of  seeing  her,"  Mr.  Dunwich 
observed,  as  he  shook  Albert's  hand,  and  went 
away." 

During  the  next  few  hours  Albert  under- 
went such  anguish  of  mind  and  heart  as  even 
he,  with  all  his  woeful  experiences,  had  never 
before  suffered. 

If  he  had  been  appropriately  punished  for 
his  impostures  by  the  humiliation  of  knowing 
that  the  false  name  and  parentage  which  he 
had 'assumed  were  marked  with  irremovable 
stains  of  infamy,  he  was  now  cruelly,  though 
justly,  requited  for  his  malignant  persecution 
of  his  enemy  by  the  discovery  of  Lottie's  mar- 
riage to  Frederick  Sharpswell.  Every  blow 
which  he  had  given  Sharpswell  had  struck  her 
with  barbarous  violence.  In  wounding  him 
daily,  he  had  been  stabbing  her  as  frequently. 
In  crushing  and  grinding  him  to  powder,  he 
had  destroyed  her  domestic  prosperity,  and  fill- 
ed her  loving  heart  with  terrifying  anxieties 
for  her  children.  Heavens!  that  his  malice 
should  have  ruined  her  husband's  fortune  and 
health.  That  he,  to  whom  she  was  so  complete- 
ly and  unutterably  dear,  should  have  murdered 
her  peace,  and  rendered  her  a  miserable  wom- 
an! And  what  had  Sharpswell  done  to  justify 
the  virulence  of  his  hatred  of  him  ?  Sharps- 
well  had  never  slandered,  never  even  thought 
unkindly  of  John  Guerdon  ;  and  yet  it  was  for 
that  imaginary  offense  that  John  Guerdon's 
avenger,  forsooth,  had  ruined  him  at  the  Bar, 
and  degraded  him  in  society.  At  length  the 
moment  had  come  when  Albert's  hatred  of  his 
kinsman  perished  suddenly  and  utterly  from  his 
generous  nature.  In  truth,  Frederick  Sharps- 
well  had  been  neither  blameless  nor  unoffend- 
ing. He  had  at  the  outset  been  an  overbear- 
ing rival  and  insolent  antagonist.  Under  a 
misapprehension,  he  had  directed  against  Al- 
bert the  rage  which  he  nursed  against  his  oth- 
er second  cousin.  Had  his  strength  equaled 
his  malignity,  he  would  have  injured  Albert 
even  more  than  Albert  had  injured  him.  But 
Albert  was  quite  oblivious  of  these  facts,  now 
that  his  moral  nature  had  thrown  off  the  poi- 
son of  spite  and  enmity.  Fred  Sharpswell  had 
become  to  him  only  the  man  whom  he  had 
persecuted  wrongfully  and  atrociously.  Fred- 
erick Sharpswell  was  his  kinsman  and  Lottie's 
husband;  and  yet  he,  Albert  Guerdon,  after 
striving  for  years  to  crush  him  and  grind  him 
to  powder,  was  even  then  engaged  in  an  at- 
tempt to  beggar  him,  his  wife,  and  his  children. 

Lottie  received  Albert,  when  he  called  at 
Mr.  Dunwich's  house  in  Westbourne  Terrace. 
Again  they  were  together  in  the  same  room. 
There  was  no  need  for  him  to  explain  the  cir- 
cumstances and  aims  of  his  impostures,  or  the 
accident  which  had  made  him  suppose  her  to 


194 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


be  dead.  Nor  was  it  for  him  to  palliate  his  j 
sins  against  her  husband— offenses  for  which, 
with  manly  contrition,  he  implored  her  pardon, 
and  also  besought  her  to  procure  Frederick 
Sharpswell's  forgiveness.  lie  made  no  single 
reference  to  the  happy  days  when  they  might 
innocently  speak  to  one  another  of  a  mutual 
love,  which  even  yet  lived  in  the  breast  of  the 
loyal  Avife,  and  which  had  never  permitted  him 
to  love  another  woman, although  he  was  certain 
of  her  death.  But  though  he  spoke  no  word 
about  that  old  time,  and  bore  himself  during 
the  interview  with  a  certain  formality  of  man- 
ner that  accorded  ill  with  the  tenderness  of  his 
voice,  and  with  his  earnest  entreaties  for  for- 
giveness, Lottie  knew  that  he  still  loved  her; 
and  she  was  happy  in  the  knowledge  that  his 
fidelity  proved  him  worthy  of  the  place  which 
he  had  occupied  in  her  heart  throughout  her 
days  of  wedded  life.  But  let  no  one  wrong 
her  by  imagining  that,  even  for  an  instant,  she 
regarded  her  old  lover  as  a  man  who  might, 
under  any  conceivable  circumstances,  become 
her  husband.  Though  he  stood  before  her,  a 
breathing  and  feeling  man,  he  was  as  much  as 
ever  separated  from  her— by  the  death  which 
he  had  feigned,  and  by  the  love  with  which 
Frederick  had  inspired  her.  The  true  woman 
and  loyal  wife,  who  had  never  ceased  to  think 
tenderly  of  Albert  ever  since  they  parted  long 
ago  in  Boringdonshire,  was  not  tempted  to  en- 
tertain toward  him  a  thought  that  she  would 
shrink  from  confessing  to  her  dying  husband,  or 
would  blush  to  tell  her  girls  when  they  should 
become  women. 

On  the  following  day  Mrs.  Sharpswell  re- 
turned to  Boringdonshire,  with  a  note  to  her 
husband  from  Albert. 

"Dear  cousin,"  ran  the  epistle,  "your  wife 
will  tell  you  all  that  she  has  learned  in  Lon- 
don, and  all  that  has  passed  between  her  and 
me.  I  will  not  trouble  you  with  many  words. 
It  is  enough  for  me  to  beg,  with  lively  contri- 
tion, for  your  forgiveness  of  the  many  grievous 
wrongs  I  have  done  you — wrongs  for  which  I 
am  absolutely  without  an  excuse  that  I  could 
venture  to  state  in  palliation  of  my  utterly  ex- 
tinguished hatred  of  you.  Cease,  I  entreat 
you,  to  think  of  me  as  your  enemy.  Regai'd 
me  only  as  a  kinsman  desirous  of  making 
every  atonement  in  my  power  for  the  injuries  I 
have  done  you,  your  wife,  and  children.  Mrs. 
Sharpswell  will  tell  you  my  proposal  with  re- 
spect to  the  estate.  Do  accede  to  it.  It  will, 
in  every  way,  be  better  that  you  should  leave 
the  property  to  her  and  the  children,  than  that 
they  should  receive  it  directly  from  me.  Heaven 
knows  I  have  no  right  to  ask  your  considera- 
tion in  this  matter,  but  I  rely  on  your  generos- 
ity. Your  cousin — ALBERT  GUERDON." 

As  Lottie  traveled  back  to  Wren  Park,  she 
thought  chiefly  of  her  husband,  but  sometimes 
of  Albert.  He  had  begged  her  to  forgive  him 
for  the  sorrow  he  had  occasioned  her.  It  seemed 
to  her  that  there  was  scarcely  any  thing  in  re- 
spect of  which  he  should  thus  implore  her  par- 


don. His  imposture  h;id  been  committed  chief- 
ly for  her  sake.  If  he  had  wronged  Frederick, 
he  had  done  so  in  ignorance  that  he  was  her 
husband.  In  respect  to  the  grief  he  had  caused 
her  unwittingly,  was  he  not  rather  to  be  pitied 
as  a  sufferer,  than  blamed  as  a  doer  of  evil  ? 
He  had  never  thought  unjustly  of  her;  whereas 
she,  in  her  blindness,  had  for  years  deemed  him 
an  unspeakably  wicked  man.  Reflecting  on 
this  strange  and  galling  fact,  Mrs.  Sharpswell 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  she  had  more  need 
of  Albert's  forgiveness  than  he  had  of  hers. 

Loving  her  husband  loyally,  she  had  felt  his 
failure  and  disgrace  acutely — far  more  acute- 
ly than  she  had  ever  allowed  herself  to  admit 
even  to  herself.  The  bitterest  shame  that  a 
wife  can  endure  is  shame  for  her  husband ;  and 
though  Mrs.  Sharpswell  never  experienced  pos- 
itive shame  for  her  husband,  her  wifely  pride 
had  been  grievously  wounded  by  his  defeats. 
It  comforted  her,  as  she  journeyed  back  to 
Gloucestershire,  to  reflect  that,  if  he  had  been 
conquered  in  the  long  battle  with  his  rival,  he 
had  been  beaten  by  so  grand  and  generous  a  vic- 
tor as  Albert,  with  whom  no  man  of  only  average 
powers  could  contend  for  even  a  single  day. 

On  the  day  (Saturday)  of  Mrs.  Sharpswell's 
return  to  Wren  Park,  the  trial  was  not  contin- 
ued in  the  Court  of  Queen's  Bench,  as  the  chief- 
justice  was  required  to  be  present  at  Windsor. 
And  when  the  public  assembled  in  the  chamber 
of  justice  at  ten  o'clock  A.M..  on  Monday,  they 
were  not  a  little  irritated  to  learn  that  the  dis- 
pute, from  which  they  had  anticipated  so  much 
amusement,  had  been  settled.  Sublimely  indif- 
ferent to  loss  of  fees,  Sir  Joshua  Wigsworth  had 
the  greatest  pleasure  in  informing  his  "lud- 
ship  "  that  an  arrangement  had  been  made  by 
his  client  and  Mr.  Sharpswell.  No  less  mag- 
nanimous than  the  pallid  leader  of  the  Common- 
Law  Bar,  Sir  Philip  Gale  had  much  pleasure 
in  announcing  that  his  client  had  received  the 
most  conclusive  proof  that  the  plaintiff,  as  his 
second  cousin,  Albert  Guerdon,  had  an  indefea- 
sible right  to  Wren  Park.  So  the  cause  fell 
lifeless,  like  a  bird  that  drops  dead  under  the 
aim  of  an  unseen  marksman  at  the  very  mo- 
ment when  it  has  spread  its  wings  for  flight. 
Some  of  the  public  were  of  opinion  that  liti- 
gants should  not  be  allowed  to  trifle  with  pub- 
lic expectation,  and  that,  having  begun  a  fight, 
they  should  be  compelled  to  fight  it  out.  The 
jury  thought  otherwise. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

AN   EARLY   SUMMER'S   DAY. 

To  Albert  Guerdon's  letter  Frederick  Sharps- 
well  replied  with  words  alike  magnanimous  and 
delicate.  He  could  not  consent  to  accept  the 
estate  which  his  victor  pressed  upon  him.  In 
declining  the  gift  for  himself,  he  declined  noth- 
ing, for  he  knew  the  time  was  very  near  when 
no  wealth  could  enrich  him  :  and  as  for  his 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


195 


wife  and  children,  for  whom  his  futile  labors 
had  made  no  provision,  he  preferred  that  his 
second  cousin  should  be  their  immediate  bene- 
factor. But,  while  refusing  the  estate,  he  prom- 
ised to  remain  at  Wren  Park  for  the  brief  rem- 
nant of  his  days.  "Allow  me  to  be  indebted 
to  you  for  an  asylum ;"  he  observed,  graciously, 
"and  when  I  die,  think  of  me,  not  as  your  old 
enemy,  but  as  the  kinsman  who  breathed  his 
last  under  your  roof."  If  he  did  not  live  no- 
bly, at  least  Frederick  died  like  a  gentleman. 
Successive  defeats  having  crushed  his  natural 
insolence,  he  displayed,  under  the  subduing  in- 
fluence of  approaching  death,  a  manly  fortitude 
and  affectionateness.  To  his  wife  and  children 
he  had  never  been  wanting  in  love  and  consid- 
erateness,  and  now,  in  his  concern  for  them, 
the  broken  man  entertained  grateful  feelings 
for  his  former  enemy,  who  would  be  their  pro- 
tector. His  feud  with  Albert  had  originated  in 
a  mistake,  and  been  fed  by  misunderstandings; 
and  now  that  the  mistake  had  been  corrected, 
and  the  misunderstandings  explained,  he  could 
be  both  just  and  generous  to  his  conqueror. 

He  could  even  remark  without  jealousy  the 
significant  delight  which  his  wife  displayed  at 
his  change  of  feeling  to  her  first  lover  —  ay, 
more,  he  could  without  bitterness  imagine  that- 
even  yet  Lottie  might  be  tempted  to  fulfill  the 
promise  which  she  had  made  to  Albert  in  her 
girlhood;  and,  in  order  that  no  sense  of  loyal- 
ty to  his  memory  might  in  coming  time  militate 
against  her  happiness,  he  had  the  fine  feeling 
to  speak  to  her  certain  words,  which,  in  the 
event  of  such  a  temptation,  might  weaken  her 
power  to  resist  it. 

"  Years  hence  my  lucky  cousin  will  enjoy 
himself  as  lord  of  Wren  Park,"  Frederick  said 
to  his  wife  one  December  evening,  when  an  in- 
termission of  his  cough  had  given  him  a  few 
minutes  of  comparative  ease. 

"You  wish  him  to  be  happy?"  Lottie  in- 
quired, anxiously. 

"  I  wish  him  every  happiness,"  Frederick  an- 
swered, slowly  and  impressively — "ay,  every 
happiness  that  he  may  desire  now,  or  at  any 
future  time."  After  a  pause,  the  dying  law- 
yer added,  "And  Wren  Park  is  not  the  only 
property  which  will  come  to  him  when  my.  in- 
termediate estate  in  it  has  terminated." 

"What  property  is  that,  Fred  ?"  Lottie  in- 
quired, with  a  look  of  surprise. 

"  Oh,  no  matter,"  was  the  answer.  "  You'll 
know  some  day." 

If  Lottie  saw  the  direction  of  these  words  at 
the  time  of  their  utterance,  she  did  not  permit 
herself  to  apprehend  their  full  significance. 
But  the  time  came  when  she  remembered  them 
to  her  comfort. 

And  while  Frederick  Sharpswell  was  thus 
moving  along  the  downward  path  to  death, 
there  was  a  stir  in  Boringdonshire  among  the 
many  people  of  that  county  who  were  desirous 
of  showing  their  respect  for  Albert  Guerdon  in 
a  memorable  manner. 

Kef.ising  again  to  be  the  hero  of  an  ordinary 


demonstration,  Albert  informed  the  leaders  of 
these  good  folk  that  the  only  tribute  of  respect 
that  he  could  accept  would  be  their  expression 
of  a  sincere  belief  in  his  father's  honesty.  At 
the  same  time,  he  placed  in  their  hands  the 
conclusive  testimony  that  his  father  could  not 
have  signed  the  forged  power  of  attorney  at 
Hammerhampton  on  the  day  alleged  in  the 
spurious  document.  And,  together  with  this 
evidence  of  his  father's  innocence  of  participa- 
tion in  that  fraud,  he  gave  his  friends  a  Written 
argument  and  other  proofs,  which  rendered  it 
indisputable  that  John  Guerdon  had  not,  either 
by  act  or  connivance,  been  an  accomplice  in 
Scrivener's  crimes. 

Whereupon  a  committee  of  the  chief  capital- 
ists of  the  Great  Yard  and  the  nobility  of  Bor- 
ingdonshire produced  a  grandly  illuminated 
record  of  their  unqualified  belief  in  John  Guer- 
don's integrity. 

"Whereas,"  ran  this  document,  engrossed  on 
vellum,  "  in  the  year  184-,  the  bank  of  Messrs. 
Guerdon  &  Scrivener,  bankers,  of  Hammer- 
hampton, Boringdonshire,  failed,  under  circum- 
stances that  occasioned  many  persons  of  the 
said  county  and  elsewhere  to  harbor  unjust  sus- 
picions of  the  commercial  integrity  of  John 
Guerdon,  Esquire,  late  of  Earl's  Court,  J.P. 
and  D.L.  of  the  said  shire :  And  whereas,  it 
has  been  demonstrated  to  us  by  sure  evidence 
that  the  said  gentleman,  in  respect  to  the  fail- 
ure of  the  said  bank,  and  all  matters  affect- 
ing his  honor  injuriously,  was  the  victim  of  a 
treacherous  partner,  We,  the  undersigned  no- 
blemen, magistrates,  clergymen,  manufacturers, 
merchants,  and  inhabitants  of  Boringdonshire, 
have  much  pleasure  in  declaring  that  no  impu- 
tation of  dishonor  rests  on  the  memory  of  the 
said  Mr.  Guerdon,  of  Earl's  Court,  whom,  from 
our  personal  knowledge  of  his  many  merits, 
we  commemorate  as  a  loyal,  upright,  and  be- 
nevolent gentleman." 

To  this  brief  statement  was  appended  the 
name  of  every  person  of  condition  and  respec- 
tability in  Boringdonshire.  And  other  things, 
which  need  not  be  mentioned  particularly  in 
this  page,  were  done  for  the  illustration  of  John 
Guerdon's  worth,  and  for  his  son's  gratification. 
Was  not  Albert  presented  with  the  freedom  of 
Hammerhampton,  and  entertained  in  that  city 
at  a  banquet,  whereof  the  Earl  of  Slumber- 
bridge,  Lord-lieutenant  of  the  County,  was 
chairman,  and  whereat  the  Bishop  of  Owley- 
bury  returned  thanks  for  the  Church  ?  And 
has  there  not  been  recently  erected  on  the  chief 
square  of  Hammerhampton  an  illuminated 
clock  of  grand  dimensions  and  unqualified  ug- 
liness, in  memory  of  "  the  private  virtues  and 
public  worth  of  John  Guerdon,  banker  and 
benefactor  of  this  town  ?"  May  not  the  good 
people  of  Hammerhampton,  at  any  hour  of  the 
day  or  the  night,  read  the  motto,  "  Light  out  of 
Darkness,"  which  appears  on  the  face  of  the 
monstrous  time-piece? 

The  snow  was  lying  deep  on  the  fat  pastures 
of  Gloucestershire  some  twelve  weeks  after 


196 


LOTTIE  DARLING. 


Albert  Guerdon's  appearance  as  a  plaintiff  in 
Westminster  Hall,  when  he  received  from  Mrs. 
Sharpswell  this  note :  « 

"  He  died  tranquilly  this  morning  at  six 
o'clock.  In  his  last  days  he  often  spoke  of  you 
affectionately.  It  was  only  yesterday  that, 
while  his  hand  was  in  mine,  he  said,  'When 
it's  all  over,  Lottie,  tell  Guerdon  that  I  love 
him,'  A  minute  later  he  added,  'I  should  like 
him  to  be  at  my  funeral.' " 

Need  it  be  said  that  Albert  obeyed  this  pa- 
thetic summons  from  the  widow  of  his  enemy, 
who  had  forgiven  him  ?  Since  their  reconcili- 
ation the  two  cousins  had  not  met.  But  when 
Lottie,  with  trembling  steps,  approached  the 
edge  of  the  open  vault  in  Wren  church,  to 
which  her  husband's  coffin  had  been  committed 
in  her  presence,  she  leaned  on  the  arm  of  the 
other  of  the  two  men  who  had  loved  her. 

Lottie  wore  mourning  for  her  husband  for 
two  full  years.  And  when  she  had  laid  aside 
the  widow's  weeds,  there  came  at  no  long  in- 
terval a  day  of  early  summer  on  which  she  pass- 
ed from  a  period  of  afflicting  recollections  and 
feverish  uncertainty  to  a  life  of  serene  and  per- 
fect gladness.  Musical  with  the  twittering  of 
young  birds  under  sunny  eaves,  the  hum  of  in- 
sects, the  noise  of  buds  bursting  into  leaf,  and 
all  the  murmurous  sounds  of  Nature  clothing 
herself  with  visible  happiness,  the  day  was  fruit- 
ful of  song  and  blithesome  change  in  every 
copse  and  lane  and  garden  of  Gloucestershire. 
To  the  mistress  of  a  stately  mansion  on  the 


Cotswold  Ridge  it  was  the  gate-way  to  a  new 
existence.  The  dew  was  still  upon  the  grass, 
and  the  morning  fresh  as  innocence  when  she 
walked  from  her  house  to  the  little  church  in 
the  corner  of  Wren  Park,  and  was  privately 
married  to  Albert  Guerdon  in  the  presence  of 
her  four  daughters.  Thus  the  treasure  in  which 
Frederick  Sharpswell  had  an  intermediate  es- 
tate fell  to  the  man  who  had  loved  her  in  her 
girlhood.  Mary  Darling's  prediction  was  ful- 
filled. After  all,  Albert  and  Lottie  were  hus- 
band and  wife.  As  he  knelt  by  Lottie's  side 
in  the  rural  church,  after  taking  her  for  better 
and  for  worse,  Albert  remembered  his  last 
parting  from  her  mother.  Was  it  only  an  ex- 
cited imagination  which  caused  him  to  feel 
that  Mary  Darling's  spirit  witnessed  his  union 
with  his  child,  and  blessed  it  ? 

Albert  is  still  a  leader  of  the  Equity  Bar, 
and  is  as  successful  an  advocate  under  his  new 
name  of  Abbiss  (assumed  on  the  authority  of 
Letters  Patent)  as  he  was  under  the  name 
which  he  assumed  on  his  own  authority.  Some 
six  months  since  the  Times  announced  the 
birth  of  an  heir  to  Wren  Park.  And  it  is  said 
by  those  y?ho  have  known  Mrs.  Abbiss  inti- 
mately since  her  first  marriage  that,  though  she 
loves  her  baby  as  dearly  as  ever  she  loved  any 
precious  infant  of  her  own  invention,  she  has 
more  pleasure  in  nestling  at  Albert's  feet  in  his 
study  than  in  sitting  beside  her  boy's  bergcau- 
nette.  She  is  "  a  wife  "  rather  than  "  a  moth- 
er ;"  and  yet  she  is  an  exemplary  mother. 


THE  END. 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS 


Noud, 


BY  ANNIE  THOMAS, 

(MRS.  FENDER  CUDLIP), 

AUTHOR  OF  "DENIS  DONNE,"   "CALLED  TO  ACCOUNT,"    "PLAYED  OUT,"    "A  PASSION 
IN  TATTERS,"   "THE  DOWER  HOUSE,"    "MAUD  MOHAN,"  &c. 


NEW    YORK: 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  PUBLISHERS, 

FRANKLIN    SQUARE. 

1873- 


NOVELS  BY  ANNIE  THOMAS, 

(MRS.  FENDER  CUDLIP). 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS.     8vo,  Paper,  50  cents. 

"'HE  COMETH  NOT,'  SHE  SAID."     Svo,  Paper,  50  cents. 

A  PASSION  IN  TATTERS.     Svo,  Paper,  75  cents. 

MAUD  MOHAN.-   Svo,  Paper,  25  cents. 

ONLY  HERSELF.     Svo,  Paper,  50  cents. 

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PLAYING  FOR  HIGH  STAKES.     Illustrated.     Svo,  Paper,  25  cents. 

PLAYED  OUT.     Svo,  Paper,  75  cents. 

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THE  Two  WIDOWS. 


CHAPTER  L 


HORATIA  WALDRON. 


FOR  pathetic,  quiet  beauty,  that  would  event- 
ually beguile  you  into  loving  it,  whether 
your  heart  yearns  for  a  freer,  bolder  style  or 
not,  the  English  country  may  be  challenged  to 
produce  a  rival  to  Larpington.  It  spreads  it- 
self about  in  such  peaceful,  languid  loveliness 
over  the  slopes  that  incline  gently  upward  from 
the  valley  of  the  slowly-crawling  Larp,  that  a 
feeling  of  lull  comes  upon  one  directly  its  sooth- 
ing precincts  are  entered.  Its  broad  pastures 
and  spacious  fields  of  corn,  its  well-surround- 
ed mansions,  its  capital  farm  tenements,  and, 
above  all,  its  weather -tight  and  moderately 
roomy  cottages,  all  speak  of  prosperity  and 
plenty.  Evidently  the  laboring  population  of 
Larpington  live  like  human  beings  —  they  do 
not  merely  exist  under  worse  conditions  than 
the  majority  of  us  assign  to  (such  as  we  have 
need  of)  the  brute  beasts  that  perish. 

It  matters  very  little  which  way  Larpington 
is  entered :  the  approaches  to  it  are  all  beauti- 
ful. But  the  one  from  the  west — the  road  that 
runs  through  a  wooded  slope  for  four  miles, 
and  then  dips  down  to  the  banks  of  the  Larp 
and  leads  right  past  the  Bridge  House  into  the 
village— is  the  most  secluded,  the  most  pictur- 
esque, and  certainly  the  one  a  stranger  would 
have  been  advised  to  take  by  Horatia  Waldron 
if  he  were  in  quest  of  beauty. 

Mrs.  Waldron,  at  the  date  of  which  I  am 
wi-iting,  was  a  widow,  the  mistress  of  the  Bridge 
House,  and  in  what  people  who  did  not  know 
what  her  requirements  were  called  "  easy  cir- 
cumstances." She  always  paid  her  rents  and 
taxes,  her  butcher  and  baker.  She  was  well 


dressed,  and  those  who  had  the  entree  of  the 
Bridge  House  declared  that  it  was  furnished 
with  a  degree  of  taste  and  beauty  that  must 
have  cost  fabulous  sums.  Nevertheless,  and  in 
spite  of  there  being  truth  in  this  latter  state- 
ment, Horatia  Waldron  was  a  poor  woman, 
and  her  poverty  galled  her  horribly. 

Her  occupancy  of  the  Bridge  House  had  ex- 
tended over  two  years,  and  she  was  gradually 
doffing  her  weeds  about  the  time  of  her  intro- 
duction here.  Her  appearance  two  years  before 
had  created  an  enormous  sensation  in  Larping- 
ton. As  soon  as  she  had  been  seen,  there  had 
been  formed  a  faction  for  and  a  faction  against 
her.  She  was  not  the  type  of  person  about 
whom  any  one  could  preserve  a  strict  neutrali- 
ty. As  far  as  she  herself  was  concerned,  it 
was  impossible  to  help  liking  her,  and  liking 
her  warmly.  But  then  she  could  not  be  ac- 
cepted as  an  isolated  fact.  She  had  belong- 
ings, and  she  had  righteous  opponents ;  and 
both  belongings  and  opponents  influenced  many 
against  her. 

She  was  past  girlhood,  and  she  was  the  moth- 
er of  a  pair  of  handsome,  hearty  children,  but 
she  had  not  developed  into  stout  matronhood. 
She  was  a  fully-formed,  gracious  woman,  but 
her  waist  was  slender  and  supple,  and  her  step 
light,  true,  and  active  as  it  had  been  when  first 
she  stepped  between  Arthur  Waldron  and  pros- 
perity. Her  sweet,  oval,  fair  face  was  unfumnv- 
ed  too,  and  there  was  not  a  silver  thread  in  her 
very  dark  brown  hair,  nor  a  wrinkle  round  her 
long  blue  eyes  that  were  so  becomingly  framed 
by  their  long  black  lashes.  Altogether  her  ad- 


12 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


mirers  \vere  quite  justified  in  calling  Mrs.  Wal- 
dron  a  "  very  pretty  young  woman"  still. 

She  was  sitting  in  her  pretty,  tastefully  - 
adorned  room  one  Christmas-eve,  waiting  im- 
patiently for  the  arrival  of  the  coach  from  the 
market-town  seven  miles  away.  A  visitor  who 
would  be  her  guest  for  a  few  days  was  coming ; 
and  as  this  visitor  was  her  brother,  and  she  had 
not  seen  him  since  her  wedding-day,  seven  years 
before,  her  anxiety  was  a  natural  thing  enough. 
The  leaping  fire-light  gleamed  upon  many 
fair  things  in  that  room — upon  graceful  statu- 
ettes and  blooming  flowers,  and  shining  silver 
and  crystal  (for  the  dinner-table  was  set,  and 
Mrs.  Waldron's  little  room  was  dining-room 
and  drawing-room  in  one).  But  it  fell  upon 
nothing  fairer  than  the  black-velvet-robed  mis- 
tress of  all,  who  kept  on  getting  up  and  peer- 
ing out  into  the  road  along  which  the  coach 
must  surely  come  presently. 

Once  or  twice,  instead  of  looking  along  the 
coach  road,  she  sent  a  steady  penetrating  gaze 
across  the  valley,  where,  in  the  middle  of  a  well- 
wooded  undulating  park,  a  hundred  lights  flash- 
ed out  from  what  was  emphatically  the  House 
of  Larpington.  If  any  one  had  been  by  to 
watch  her,  it  would  have  been  seen  that  her 
pale,  mobile  face  flushed  a  little  as  she  looked. 
But  presently  she  turned  away  with  a  laugh,  as 
two  children  hurled  themselves  into  the  room, 
regardless  of  the  half -entreating,  half- com- 
manding voice  of  the  nurse  which  was  echoing 
behind  them. 

"Miss  Flossy — Master  Gerald — do  come 
back ;  your  ma  don't  want  you,  and  she'll  be 
fine  and  angry,"  that  functionary  was  saying. 
But  as  the  mother  turned  to  catch  her  boy, 
the  already  night-gowned  rebel  saw  that  there 
was  no  reproof  for  him  in  that  quarter,  and 
Flossy  gathered  enough  boldness  from  his  air 
of  conviction  to  ask — 

"Ma'a-ma!"  in  two  long  drawn-out  sylla- 
bles, "isn't  it  always  ladies  first?" 

"Yes,"  Mrs.  Waldron  said,  encouragingly. 
"What  is  it,  Flossy?  Did  Gerald  want  the 
first  cup  of  milk,  or  the  first  bath,  or  what  ?" 

"  He  wanted  to  say  his  prayers  before  me, 
and  ladies  must  always  be  first,  mustn't  they, 
ma?"  Flossy  said,  as  coherently  as  her  strong 
sense  of  injury  in  having  been  hurried  in  this 
matter  would  admit  of  her  saying  it. 

On  the  whole,  it  seemed  better  to  Mrs.  Wal- 
dron to  leave  the  question  of  female  precedence 
undetermined,  rather  than  to  risk  controversy 
on  it. 

"  It's  a  very  proper  rule,  and  it's  much  often- 
er  honored  in  the  breach  than  the  observance 


— which  is  all  very  beautiful,  but  utterly  beyond 
your  understanding,"  the  mother  said,  with  a 
laugh.  A  proceeding  which  called  forth  a 
gentle,  earnest,  passionately  pleading,  "Dorit 
you  laugh,  mother,"  from  Flossy  of  four,  and  a 
blithe,  easy-going,  perfectly  satisfied,  and  utter- 
ly irrelevant  rider  from  Gerald  of  three. 

"I'm  a  funny  boy,  I  are;  what  you  down 
here  in  the  dark  for?  aren't  you  afraid  of  Jab- 
berwock?"  ("Alice,  in  Wonderland,"  be  it 
understood,  was  the  little  Waldron's  most  fa- 
miliar friend.) 

"A  real  live  Jabberwock  is  coming  here  by 
coach  presently,  who  won't  care  for  a  view  of 
your  ripening  beauties  and  a  display  of  your 
dawning  intelligence  to-night,  my  dears.  Now, 
my  cubs,  surge  up  stairs."  And  Mrs.  Waldron 
made  a  besom  of  her  sweeping  skirts,  and  flung 
herself  into  the  spirit  of  the  eternal  nursery 
poem  of  "  Such  a  getting  up  stairs,"  in  a  way 
that  would  have  seemed  almost  servile  to  any 
one  who  had  never  been  cast  for  a  similar  pan 
in  the  great  drama  of  maternity. 

As  their  rosy  feet  pattered  out  of  sight  on 
the  topmost  stair,  as  their  resonant  laughter 
rang  through  the  balustrades  above  her  head, 
Mrs.  Waldron  turned  back  into  her  pretty,  fra- 
grant room,  and  resumed  her  watch  at  the  win- 
dow, but  with  a  different  expression  on  her 
face.  She  was  radiant  with  the  flush  and  light 
of  pride  and  glory  in  the  bonny  pair  who  had 
disturbed  her  so  unceremoniously.  And  as  her 
eyes  went  out  and  rested  on  the  lights  that 
gleamed  out  amidst  the  trees,  and  made  all 
Larpington  cognizant  of  the  unusual  festivity 
that  was  reigning  at  the  house,  her  lips  formed 
the  words,  though  no  sound  emanated  from 
them. 

"It's  all  my  boy's,  all  my  clever  little  Ger- 
ald's !"  And  as  she  said  it  to  herself,  her  heart 
swelled  with  an  exultation  that  she  did  not  for 
one  moment  scorn  herself  for  feeling.  Honest- 
ly, she  had  not  a  mean  opinion  of  herself,  be- 
cause she  thoroughly  appreciated  all  the  pros- 
pective advantages  of  being  the  mother  of  the 
future  owners  of  The  House  and  the  Larping*.* 
ton  property. 

She  had  hardly  time  to  get  impatient  again 
before  the  cutting  trot  of  the  four  horses  that 
drew  the  coach  was  heard  on  the  hill.  In  an- 
other minute  it  pulled  up,  with  a  considerable 
amount  of  too-hooing,  caused  by  a  struggle  be- 
tween a  boy  and  a  horn,  at  the  hall  door,  and 
then,  with  a  sigh  of  relief,  she  turned  from  the 
window,  feeling  sure  that  her  brother  Gilbert 
would  be  with  her  as  soon  as  she  was  quite 
ready  to  receive  him. 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


13 


For  the  pretty  graceful  widow  was  essential- 
ly a  practical  person.  She  had  not  the  well- 
oiled  machinery  at  command  which  she  would 
have  liked  to  have  brought  into  use  on  this  oc- 
casion of  her  brother's  first  visit  to  her.  A 
well-filled  purse  is  needful  for  the  perfect  work- 
ing of  such  machinery,  and  Horatia  Waldron's 
purse  was  but  scantily  lined.  But  still,  she 
was  so  accustomed  to  have  every  thing  fair  and 
decent  in  her  every-day  life,  that,  almost  with- 
out design,  she  had  organized  a  reception  for 
this  brother  that  could  not  fail  to  strike  him 
pleasurably  if  he  possessed  either  eyes,  taste,  or 
a  heart. 

In  a  moment  she  had  lighted  the  candles  on 
the  little  round  dining-table — red  wax-candles 
that  stood  out  superbly  against  the  white  cloth 
and  silver  that  was  polished  until  it  looked 
black  in  the  curves.  "He'll  wonder  where 
he's  to  take  his  after-dinner  port,  and  where 
he's  to  smoke,  and  where  he's  to  write  his 
business  letters,"  she  thought,  with  a  laugh. 
"I'll  show  him  how  well  he  can  do  it  here  in 
this  cabinet,  until  his  nephew  can  receive  him 
at  The  House."  This  thought  imparted  more 
than  usual  elasticity  to  her  step ;  it  was  almost 
with  a  bound  that  the  young  widow  Waldron 
crossed  the  little  hall,  and  made  her  way  into 
the  kitchen. 

It  took  her  about  five  minutes  to  taste,  and 
stir,  and  season  every  thing  that  was  already 
prepared,  into  the  last  stage  of  perfection.  The 
white  soup,  the  well-hung  leg  of  Dartmoor  mut- 
ton, the  boiled  chicken  and  mushroom-sauce, 
the  wild  duck,  and  the  plain  pudding  were  each 
and  all  "  successes."  And  feeling  sure  of  this, 
she  went  back  to  receive  and  welcome  her  rich, 
fastidious  brother  with  a  light  heart. 

For  she  wanted  to  please  him.  It  was  need- 
ful for  her  well-being  that  her  brother,  Gilbert 
Denhara,  should  incline  favorably  toward  her. 
And  if  a  daintily-devised  and  prepared  dinner 
would  make  him  more  amenable  to  her  ad- 
vances, was  she  not  justified,  as  woman  and 
mother,  in  so  devising  and  preparing  it? 

She  stood  waiting  under  the  shade  of  the 
dark  ruby  velvet  portierre,  the  light  of  the  can- 
dles behind  her  showing  her  figure  out  well,  as 
her  brother,  with  a  great  rush  of  fresh,  frosty 
air,  and  a  great  bustle  of  portmanteau,  and 
hamper,  and  traveling- case,  and  strapped-up 
rug,  came  into  the  little  hall.  He  was  half- 
blinded,  half-dazzled.  Somehow  or  other  he 
had  expected  something  utterly  different.  He 
blinked  away  the  surprise  and  the  steam  which 
had  coagulated  on  his  eyelashes  in  a  moment, 
though,  and  exclaimed, 


"Why,  Horry,  how  well  you  look!  A  pret- 
tier woman,  by  Jove !  than  you  were  the  day 
that  you  made  that  little  mistake!" 

He  had  divested  himself  of  his  big  frieze  coat 
while  he  was  speaking,  and  she  led  him  into 
her  small,  luxurious  room  before  she  ventured 
to  make  any  reply.  Then  she  put  her  hands 
on  his  shoulders,  and  made  him  face  her  fully 
as  she  said, 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  go  on  loving  you  as  I 
have  always  loved  you,  Gilbert  ?" 

"  Yes ;  what's  the  matter  ?" 

"  Nothing,  nothing.  Am  I  crying  ?  What 
a  fool  I  am  to  do  it  when  I  want  to  look  my 
prettiest  for  you !  Don't  speak  of  my  marriage 
as  a  mistake,  Gilbert.  I  was  very  happy  while 
Arthur  lived,  and  I'm  happy  now  with  two  rath- 
er nice  cubs ;  and  I  shall  be  happiest  of  all 
when  I  see  my  little  Gerald  there.  And  as  she 
spoke  the  last  words  she  drew  the  window-cur- 
tain back,  and  pointed  out  The  House  flashing 
out  at  all  points  to  her  brother. 

"Ah,  well!"  he  said,  calmly  following  the 
direction  of  her  hand  with  his  eyes,  but  going 
on  quietly  wiping  down  his  big  beard  and  mus- 
tache all  the  while ;  "  not  a  bad  place,  is  it,  eh  ? 
Hope  your  little  man  will  get  it  in  time.  But 
hadn't  you  better  see  about  having  that  ham- 
per unpacked?  Mrs.  Denham  stuffed  every 
thing  into  it  that  she  could  lay  her  hands  on 
in  the  larder;  and,  by-the-way,  she  sent  her 
love,  and  hoped  you  wouldn't  be  offended  at 
her  sending  it  at  all." 

"  Why  wouldn't  she  come  with  you,  Gilbert?" 

Horatia  asked  the  question  gravely,  and 
gravely  her  brother  contemplated  her  before 
he  spoke.  Then  he  said, 

"  She  staid  away — much  as  she  wished  to  see 
you  —  for  your  sake,  little  woman.  I  had  to 
give  her  the  hint  to  do  it.  My  wife  is  one  of 
the  best  creatures  in  the  world ;  but  it  wouldn't 
improve  your  position  with  the  woman  in  The 
House  up  there  for  it  to  get  abroad,  down  here, 
that  Mr.  Gilbert  Denham  was  one  of  your  near- 
est of  kin." 

"Gilbert,  I'm  ashamed  of  you!"  his  sister 
broke  out,  passionately.  "From  the  moment 
of  her  coming  into  it,  Bessie  has  been  good, 
true,  generous,  and  loving  to  every  member  of 
our  family ;  and  as  to  « that  woman  up  there ' 
— do  you  think  I  can — " 

"Now  stop,  don't  go  off  with  that  high-falu- 
tin,"  he  laughed,  good-temperedly.  "Bessie 
won't  misunderstand  you  for  a  minute,  and  you 
must  care  about  complicating  your  position  in 
the  eyes  of  that  woman.  By-the-way,  has  she 
asked  us  to  dine  with  her  to-morrow  ?" 


14 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


"No;  but  she  actually  came  down  and  ex- 
cused herself  for  not  doing  so.  She  said  her 
table  was  full,  and  she  was  sure  it  would  be  so 
much  pleasanter  for  me  to  be  alone  with  you 
after  such  a  long  separation." 

"She's  right  there," Mr.  Denham  said,  in  a 
satisfied  tone,  as  the  soup  went  off.  The  key- 
note was  struck  in  a  way  he  liked.  After  such 
soup,  it  was  not  at  all  likely  that  any  portion 
of  the  dinner  would  be  flat,  tame,  and  unprofit- 
able. 

"She's  right  there;  but  still,  if  she  does  not 
invite  me,  you  must  invite  her." 

"And  she  won't  come." 

"Does  she  never  come?" 

"Yes,  to  pay  a  state  call  sometimes.  It 
makes  me  sick  to  see  her  horses  prancing  out- 
side my  little  garden  gate,  and  to  hear  her  car- 
riage door  bang,  and  to  see  her  servants'  liv- 
eries. They  all  sound  of  money — gleam  and 
shine  with  money." 

"But  she  never  comes  to  partake  of  year 
elegant  but  unpretentious  hospitality  ?" 

"I  have  never  been  idiotic  enough  to  in-vrte 
her." 

"My  dear  Horry,  you're  right,  quite  right. 
Not  but  what  I  see  you  could  give  her  as  good 
a  dinner  as  her  chef  could  possibly  turn  out  up 
there ;  but  that's  not  the  point.  I'm  glad  you 
have  not  been  in  the  habit  of  interchanging  un- 
necessary civilities.  Custom  would  clog  and 
hamper  us  if  you  had ;  and  when  I  begin  to 
deal  with  Mrs.  Waldron,  of  Larpington  House, 
I  don't  mean  to  be  clogged  and  hampered  by 
any  thing." 

"Oh!"  Horatia  burst  out,  with  one  of  her 
sudden  glows  of  enthusiasm,  "when  you've 
dined — I  mean  when  you've  rested — you  must 
come  up  and  see  the  children.  The  boy  you're 
going  to  work  for  wi)l  inspire  you — " 

"Not  a  bit  of  it,"  her  brother  laughed  out, 
cheerfully.  "  The  thought  that  I  may  be  the 
means  of  exploding  a  fraud  and  ousting  an  im- 
postor will  inspire  me.  However,  I'll  go  and 
look  at  the  young  ones  presently.  I  suppose 
you  like  them?" 

He  was  a  handsome,  tall,  stalwart  man,  this 
Gilbert  Denham.  Clever,  too,  and  courageous- 
ly resolved  upon  taking  his  own  way,  whenever 
his  own  way  seemed  good  to  him.  Some  years 
before  Horatia's  marriage  with  the  youngest 
son  of  the  Waldrons  of  Larpington,  he  had  been 
in  practice  in  London  as  a  solicitor.  While 
there,  he  had  arranged  some  business  matters 
sharply  and  satisfactorily  for  the  wealthy  wid- 
ow of  a  city  man ;  and  by-and-by  he  had  mar- 
ried her,  and  had  ever  since  been  uniformly 


happy  with  her,  though  some  of  his  former 
friends  insisted  on  regarding  him  as  a  man 
who  was  marred  by  his  marriage. 

Circumstances  had  induced  Gilbert  Denham 
to  go  abroad  soon  after  his  sister  Horatia's  wed- 
ding; and  circumstances  had  kept  him  there 
until  just  before  this  story  opens.  This  fact 
must  be  taken  into  consideration  when  it  is 
stated  that  he  knew  very  little  of  the  conditions 
of  her  life  at  Larpington. 

"  Had  you  any  suspicion  before  Arthur  died, 
or  had  Arthur  himself  any  suspicion,  that  it 
was  not  all  fair  and  above-board  with  his  broth- 
er's widow  ?"  Mr.  Denham  asked,  as  he  sipped 
his  wine,  and  forgot  to  wonder  (as  she  had  ex- 
pected he  would)  "why  Horry  didn't  go  into 
another  room."  "Not  the  very  slightest ;  and 
if  Arthur  had,  he  never  told  me.  But  he  never 
saw  her,  you  must  remember  that." 

"And  what  induced  you  to  come  and  settle 
Iiere  when  you  heard  that  the  place  was  left  to 
her,  and  that  your  boy  was  cut  out  of  it  ?" 

"Instinct,  inspiration ;  I  don't  know  what  it 
was  made  me  come.  I  was  so  wretched  when 
he  died  that  I  wanted  to  be  more  wretched ; 
don't  you  know  the  feeling?  It's  like  pressing 
on  a  nerve  when  your  tooth  aches  to  make  it 
ache  more ;  don't  you  know  ?" 

"I  was  never  guilty  of  that  special  form  of 
folly,"  he  laughed ;  "  but  go  on." 

"Well,  when  I  came  and  saw  her,  the  in- 
stant I  saw  her  I  believed  that  I  was  brought 
here  for  Gerald's  ultimate  good.  It  flashed 
into  my  mind  at  once,  and  I  think  the  flash  was 
reflected  on  my  face,  that  she  hated  my  being 
here,  that  she  had  a  motive  for  hating  my  be- 
ing here,  and  that  there  was  something  wrong 
about  her  being  in  possession  of  Larpington 
House.  That  has  been  the  steady  conviction 
of  my  mind,  Gilbert.  I'm  waiting  here  to  find 
out  how  she  won  him  to  commit  such  an  in- 
justice, or  how  she  got  it  committed  if  he  didn't 
do  it." 

"Don't  hint  at  her  having  forged  a  will,  my 
dear,"  he  said,  coolly;  "it  might  be  unsafe  to 
do  so  to  any  one  but  your  devoted  brother." 

"That's  all  the  story  I  have  to  tell,  Gilbert," 
she  answered,  smiling,  and  calming  down  pret- 
tily at  once;  "but  you  look  in  that  woman's 
face  when  she  knows  what  you  are,  and  judge 
for  yourself  if  I  have  founded  my  story  on  fact 
or  fiction." 

"I'll  do  so,  Horry,  dear;  and  now  take  me 
to  see  your  children.  I'm  glad  you  can  put 
me  up  here.  I  half  expected,  from  your  way 
of  speaking  of  your  house,  that  I  might  be  rel- 
egated to  the  village  inn." 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


He  followed  her  up,  and  she  led  him  to  the 
side  of  a  crib,  where  a  child,  with  its  limbs 
tossed  into  every  portion  of  the  crib  where  they 
ought  not  to  have  been,  and  its  long  auburn  hair 
floating  over  the  pillow,  was  sleeping  soundly. 

"  The  future  master  of  Larpington  is  a  fine 
little  fellow,"  he  said,  warmly. 

"This  isn't  Gerald;  my  children  are  rather 
punctilious,  and  always  insist  on  the  rule  of 
'ladies  first'  being  attended  to.  This  is  Flos- 
sy." 

" And  whore's  the  boy?" 

"Here's  the  boy,"  a  clear  treble  answered 
from  the  other  side  of  the  room  ;  and  looking 
round,  they  saw  Gerald,  with  wide-open  eyes, 
taking  in  all  the  details  of  the  scene.  "  What 
are  you  for  ?  Are  you  come  to  play  wild  beast  ? 
Mamma's  a  pig  sometimes,  and  I'm  a  bullock. 
You  crawl  on  your  stomach,  and  be  an  ele- 
phant, and  I'll  ride  on  your  back." 

"The  plan  is  a  remarkably  pleasing  one; 
but  we  won't  carry  it  out  just  now,"  the  uncle 
said,  laughing.  And  then  a  hailstorm  of  ques- 
tions fell  from  both  children.  "Who's  the 
man  ?"  "  Is  he  here  with  mamma  ?"  '  *  What 
for,  then  ?"  "  Has  he  any  sweeties  ?"  "  Has 
he  any  dolls  ?"  And  so  on  until  the  chorus  be- 
came a  sleepy  one,  and  the  babies  drifted  off 


into  the  happy  fairy-land  of  dreams,  while  the 
elders  went  down  and  discussed  some  of  the 
stern  realities  that  were  about  them. 

"Were  your  husband  and  his  brother  on 
friendly  terms  ?"  Gilbert  asked,  after  a  time. 

"On  very  friendly  terms.  I  never  knew 
brothers  more  fondly  attached  than  they  were 
to  each  other.  George  Waldron  had  been  more 
like  a  father  to  Arthur  than  a  brother." 

"Yet  George  Waldron  went  and  married 
some  woman  whom  he  never  saw  fit  to  intro- 
duce to  Arthur,  and  died  without  mentioning 
the  fact  of  his  marriage,  and  most  unrighteous- 
ly left  all  his  property  away  from  his  brother's 
son.  I  don't  understand  it." 

"What  will  you  say  when  you  have  seen 
that  woman?"  Horatia  cried,  with  a  thrill. 
*  *  You  never  read  the  reason  in  her  face.  She's 
utterly  hateful." 

"Peace  on  earth,  good-will  toward  men!" 
chanted  out  the  waits  ;  and  Horatia  rose,  say- 
ing, 

"It's  past  midnight;  I'll  say  good-night  to 
you,  Gilbert,  dear,  for  I  want  to  be  intrenched 
in  a  stronghold  of  calm  watchfulness  when  the 
meeting  comes  off  to-morrow  between  Mrs. 
Waldron  of  Larpington  House  and  little  Ger- 
ald's clever  friend." 


CHAPTER  II. 


THAT    WOMAN. 


THE  distance  from  Mr.  Arthur  Waldron's 
house  to  the  church  was  very  short,  but  it 
was  long  enough  for  her  to  encounter  the  dis- 
turbing element  of  her  life,  as  she  trod  it  the 
next  morning  with  her  brother  Gilbert.  She 
heard  it— she  felt  it  coming  before  she  saw  it. 
There  was  a  clear,  clanging  noise  of  horses' 
hoofs  on  the  iron-bound  ground,  and  the  rolling 
carriage-wheels  actually  made  the  road  quiver. 
"  They  are  going  to  pass  us,"  she  said  to  her 
brother ;  "  look  at  her,  Gilbert." 

He  was  by  his  sister's  side  on  the  raised 
path,  and  the  carriage  was  close  behind  them 
as  she  said  this.  He  had  barely  time  to  notice 
the  extreme  beauty  and  delicacy  of  the  young 
widow's  face,  seen  for  the  first  time  by  day- 
light, before  the  other  widow — the  owner  of 
The  House — the  great  lady  of  Larpington  was 
abreast  of  him.  And  he  turned  his  head  and 
looked  at  her. 

The  carriage  was  a  light,  well-built,  double 
brougham ;  the  horses,  a  pair  of  showy,  high- 
stepping  chestnuts ;  the  harness,  silver-mount- 
ed, and  liberally  adorned  with  the  crest  of  the 
Waldrons.  Every  thing  was  well  done,  in 
so  far  as  each  individual  thing  being  of  the 
best  material  and  best  workmanship.  But 
every  thing  was  overdone  —  was  ostentatious- 
ly done — was  evidently  suggested  and  order- 
ed by  the  taste  of  some  person,  or  persons, 
who  liked  to  hear  the  chink  of  the  red  gold, 
and  to  see  the  gleam  of  it  whenever  occasion 
offered. 

The  brougham  windows  were  closed,  but  on 
the  side  nearest  to  them  a  face  was  dimly  visi- 
ble through  the  glass.  A  large,  checked,  steady 
face.  That  was  the  sole  impression  on  Gilbert 
Denham. 

"That  woman  would  do  a  thing  very  strong- 
ly," was  the  thought  that  was  passing  through 
his  mind  when  his  sister  muttered, 


"  That  was  Mrs.  Waldron  ;  could  you  catch 
sight  of  her  daughter  ?" 

"Has  she  a  child?  No,  I  only  saw  one — 
lady."  He  hesitated  slightly  before  speaking 
the  last  word,  and  his  sister  glanced  at  him  tri- 
umphantly. 

"She  did  not  strike  you  as  being  'a  lady,' 
Gilbert.  I'm  sure  she  didn't ;  I  had  the  same 
feeling  the  moment  I  saw  her  first." 

"We're  at  the  church  door,  dear,"  he  an- 
swered, looking  kindly  down  into  her  eager 
face;  "let  us  leave  envy,  hatred,  and  malice 
outside." 

"I  haven't  a  spark  of  either  in  my  composi- 
tion," she  hastily  whispered  in  reply ;  "  but — 
I'm  Gerald's  mother,  and  he  has  only  me — and 
you." 

As  became  the  beauty  and  prosperity  of 
Larpington,  its  church  was  a  fine  and  hand- 
some one.  It  had  been  erected  early  in  the 
fifteenth  century,  and  the  ravages  of  time  had 
been  admirably  and  artistically  restored  by  Ar- 
thur Waldron's  father.  Unfortunately,  for  the 
church,  Mr.  Waldron  paused  on  the  comple- 
tion of  the*  necessary  massive  repairs,  and  went 
over  to  the  Koman  Church,  before  any  of  the 
decorations  and  adornments  could  be  designed 
and  selected  for  the  further  beautifying  of  the 
edifice,  that  now  always  gave  one  the  impression 
of  wanting  warmth  and  color.  Nevertheless, 
though  some  things  might  with  advantage  have 
been  different  in  Larpington  church,  there  was 
also  much  that  was  fair  and  pleasant  to  beholJ, 
In  the  first  place,  there  was  a  large  congrega- 
tion of  really  earnest-looking  worshipers.  In 
the  next  place,  there  were  no  high  pews ;  and 
in  the  third  place,  there  was  a  good  outspoken, 
clear-headed,  warm-hearted  man  to  pray  for 
and  to  preach  to  them. 

Mrs.  Arthur  Waldron  led  the  way  to  her  seat, 
about  the  middle  of  the  centre  aisle,  dropped 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


17 


on  her  knees  there,  nnd  tried  to  pray.  Her 
heart  ached  with  a  strong  sense  of  her  own 
wickedness,  as  she  felt  in  the  midst  of  it  that 
she  must  indicate  to  her  brother  the  position  of 
the  Larpington  House  people.  She  must,  for 
little  Gerald's  sake,  give  him  every  opportunity 
of  seeing  "That  woman"  on  all  sides. 

"  The  long  front  seat — right  under  the  read- 
ing-desk," she  found  herself  whispering ;  "the 
violet  velvet  is  the  daughter." 

The  "violet  velvet"  indicated  —  at  whom 
Gilbert  Denham  discreetly  did  not  look  in  the 
face  of  the  whole  congregation — was  the  cos- 
tume of  a  tall,  well  grown,  shapely  young  wom- 
an, with  a  fine  Napoleonic  face.  Lovers  of  re- 
fined beauty  would  have  found  this  handsome 
girl  wanting  in  most  of  the  points  of  blood  and 
breeding.  But  those  who  regarded  stature  and 
size,  and  firmness  of  flesh,  as  the  most  desirable 
qualifications,  would  have  had  nothing  to  wish 
for  when  gazing  on  Miss  Emmeline  Vicary's 
stalwart,  healthy  young  figure,  and  clear  com- 
plexioned,  dauntless  young  face. 

On  the  way  home,  Gilbert  said, 

"You  never  told  me  there  was  a  daughter." 

"No;  I  forgot  her;  she's  not  a  Waldron, 
thank  goodness,  she's  utterly  unimportant," 
Mrs.  Arthur  Waldron  answered,  carelessly. 

"Is  she?  my  dear  Horry,  she's  splendidly 
handsome,  and  no  splendidly  handsome  wom- 
an is  unimportant  in  this  world." 

The  pretty  graceful  woman — who  was  to  Miss 
Vicary  as  a  gazelle  is  to  a  milch  cow — looked 
up  surprised  into  her  strong,  handsome  broth- 
er's face. 

"  Don't  admire  her,  Gilbert — you  have  seen 
better  things,"  with  a  little  unconscious  toss 
of  her  own  pretty  head  ;  "but  I  don't  want  to 
talk  about  <Melly,'as  her  mother  calls  her; 
did  you  look  at  Mrs.  Waldron's  face  ?" 

"  No ;  but  I  looked  at  Mrs.  Waldron's  hand, 
and  her  strongest  card  is  her  daughter." 

Mrs.  Arthur  Waldron  walked  back  to  her  or- 
derly little  home,  where  an  exquisitely  appoint- 
ed little  luncheon  awaited  them,  in  a  bitterly 
disorderly  spirit.  It  is  always  cruelly  hard 
on  a  sister  when  a  brother  who  is  dear  to  her 
openly  avows  his  admiration  for  a  woman  who 
is  the  very  opposite  of  all  she  (the  sister)  con- 
siders excellent  in  woman.  It  is  harder  still 
when  the  admired  woman  may  be  one  whose 
Influence  may  be  very  deleterious  if  brought  to 
bear  upon  the  brother  against  the  disapproving 
sister. 

Accordingly,  knowing  this  truth  well,  though 
she  had  never  experienced  the  force  of  it  yet, 
Horatia  took  off  her  bonnet  in  a  sort  of  re- 
2 


signed  way,  and  then  went  into  the  nursery  and 
j  gathered  her  children  about  her  for  comfort. 

It  seemed  hard  to  her — hard  and  horrible 
that  with  that  boy  of  her's  within  call,  her  broth- 
er Gilbert  should  permit  himself  to  think  the 
daughter  of  that  boy's  natural  enemy  pleasant 
to  look  upon.  To  be  sure,  Gerald  had  exercised 
his  gay  fancy  about  his  uncle  at  breakfast  in 
a  way  that  spoiled  that  gentleman's  appetite. 
Gilbert  Denham  was  not  accustomed  to  have 
.».  pattern  drawn  on  his  back  with  yolk  of  egg, 
nor  to  have  his  slipper  wrested  from  his  foot, 
and  see  milk  poured  into  it  for  "Tittums;" 
nor  was  the  poetry  of  motion  very  apparent  to 
him  when  his  small  nephew  danced  "a  pas- 
sion dance"  because  he  was  refused  unlimited 
lumps  of  sugar.  But  though  Gerald  had  been 
naughty,  his  mother  believed  in  her  innermost 
soul  that  he  had  been  charming  in  his  naughti- 
ness. And  it  savored  to  her  of  evil  witch- 
craft that  her  brother  had  been  made  to  for- 
get for  a  moment  that  the  bulky  beauty  who 
had  won  commendation  from  him  belonged  to 
the  household  of  the  enemy  of  her  boy. 

Thinking  of  these  things  made  her  regard- 
less of  the  rites  of  hospitality.  She  had  been 
more  than  half  an  hour  scrambling  about  the 
nursery  floor  playing  their  favorite  game  of 
"wild  beasts"  with  her  children,  when  her 
house-maid  appeared,  deferentially, 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  ma'am,  but  I  thought 
you  were  in  the  drawing-room  all  the  time,  till 
this  minute.  Mrs.  Waldron  and  Miss  Vicary 
are  calling  here." 

She  got  up  from  her  blithesome  play  with 
every  nerve  aching,  every  vein  tingling  with 
the  firm  conviction  that  this  was  a  crisis  in  her 
destiny — HO*  in  her's,  but  in  Gerald's.  In  Ger- 
ald's !  A  crisis  in  the  destiny  of  the  dark-eyed, 
winning  faced  darling  now  burying  his  head  in 
her  dress,  and  beseeching  her  not  to  go  down 
to  any  nasty  people,  but  to  stay  and  play  at 
Jabberwockes  and  buffaloes  with  him. 

She  was  not  at  all  addicted  to  the  tableaux 
vivants  business  with  her  children.  A  charm- 
ing actress,  she  never  acted  in  real  life  con- 
sciously, though  she  was  always  getting  won- 
derfully dramatic  effects  out  of  what  would 
have  seemed  meagre  materials  to  most  people. 
But  now  she  caught  up  her  boy,  and  carried 
him  down,  kicking  and  struggling  with  pleas- 
ure, on  her  arm,  and  appeared  before  the  trio  a 
revised  and  improved  "  Medea,"  without  Jason, 
and  with  only  one  child. 

It  has  been  said  that  she  carried  comfort 
and  elegance  into  all  the  arrangements  of  her 
every-day  life  because  these  were  essential  to 


18 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


her.  That  is  to  say,  she  would  have  them 
when  she  could ;  it  would  never  have  occurred 
to  Horatia  Waldron  to  go  without  them  be- 
cause no  one  was  by  to  see  that  she  had  them. 
So  now  the  scene  upon  which  she  entered  was 
as  fairly  set  as  if  she  had  expected  an  audience. 
It  was  all  rosy,  light,  and  floral  fragrance,  and 
order,  and  beauty,  of  the  light,  airy,  graceful 
sort.  And  her  brother  Gilbert,  her  handsome, 
tall,  alert,  vigorous  brother  solidified  it  all,  as  it 
v/ere,  and  gave  it  breadth  and  tangibility. 

He  was  sitting  easily  on  a  chair  a  little  way 
removed  from  two  ladies  who  were  on  the 
couch,  and  to  whom  he  was  talking  animated- 
ly and  well.  Horatia  felt  with  a  pang  almost 
that  he  was  exerting  himself  to  please  them. 
To  please  them — those  women  who  had  ousted 
Gerald  from  his  own. 

She  was  in  their  midst  almost  before  they 
saw  that  the  door  had  opened,  with  the  boy  in 
her  arms.  But  in  a  moment  he  was  on  the 
floor  holding  his  mother's  hand,  trotting  out 
toward  them  with  the  fearless  unsuspicion  of 
his  age.  It  seemed  like  a  little  act  from  a  play 
even  to  his  mother,  when,  in  answer  to  the  elder 
visitor's  question  of,  "Well,  my  dear,  who  are 
you  ?"  the  baby  answered, 

"I'm  Gerald  Waldron,  of  Larpington." 

It  was  a  formula  taught  him  by  his  nurse  in 
case  he  should  ever  be  lost.  But  simple  as  it 
was,  it  brought  the  color  to  Mrs.  Waldron's  face. 

"You've  taught  your  little  boy  to  speak 
plainly,  I  must  say,  Mrs.  Arthur,"  she  said, 
shaking  hands  with  her  hostess.  And  Hora- 
tia reared  her  head  before  the  blast,  as  it  were, 
and  answered, 

" Oh!  yes ,  but  he'll  speak  plainer  by-and-by. 
I  must  apologize  to  you  for  not  having  been 
here  to  introduce  my  brother,  Mr.  Dehham." 

"We  made  out  an  acquaintance  before  you 
came  in,"  Mrs.  Waldron  said,  affably.  "And 
now  I  hope  you  will  overlook  the  want  of  cere- 
mony in  what  Melly  and  I  have  done  in  quite 
a  friendly  way ;  we  want  you  and  your  brother 
to  come  and  dine  with  us  to-night ;  there  are 
many  families  from  the  neighborhood  coming 
that  I  should"  really  like  to  introduce  you  to." 

She  was  a  thorough  woman !  and  while  this 
speech  was  being  spoken  there  was  a  sharp 
struggle  in  Horatia's  breast.  It  was  hard— it 
was  pitiful— it  was  unjustly  hard  that  she  should 
be  put  in  the  position  of  the  patronized  one. 
This  reflection  obtained  for  about  a  moment. 
Then,  of  course,  she  remembered  Gerald  and 
all  Gerald's  claims  upon  her  long-suffering  and 
forbearance— for  was  she  not  his  mother  ? 

' '  Gilbert  shall  see  all  he  can  of  the  odious 


pair,"  she  determined.  And  then  she  answer- 
ed, quite  suavely  and  politely, 

"I  am  sure  we  shall  be  very  happy ;  may  I 
answer  for  you,  Gilbert  ?" 

And  Gilbert,  rather  briskly,  told  her  "Yes, 
she  might." 

The  guests  rose  to  remove  themselves  as  soon 
as  they  had  ascertained  that  their  hospitality 
was  accepted.  As  they  got  up  and  made  for 
the  door,  it  seemed  to  slender  Horatia  that  the 
room  was  full  of  them — they  were  so  lavishly 
endowed,  both  by  nature  and  art.  Their  tall 
frames  seemed  to  stretch  up  to  the  ceiling,  and 
their  voluminous  skirts  filled  the  room.  "Are 
they  camels,  or  elephumps,  mamma  ?"  little 
Gerald,  whose  mind  was  fraught  with  "wild 
beasties,"  asked. 

No  wonder  that  practical  little  Gerald  asked 
the  question.  They  were  a  brace  of  "fine 
women,"  undoubtedly,  those  two,  who  were  just 
making  their  exit.  They  were  singularly  alike, 
too,  at  the  first  glance,  though  on  closer  inspec- 
tion there  were  many  marked  points  of  differ- 
ence between  them.  They  Avere  alike  in  be- 
ing tall,  in  being  shapely,  and  in  having  a  free, 
easy,  assured  carriage.  They  were  alike  in 
having  a  strong  expression  of  determination 
stamped  upon  their  faces.  But  they  were  ut- 
terly unlike  each  other  in  manner  and  coloring. 
The  daughter,  although  she  missed  the  more 
delicate  touches  of  breeding  and  blood,  had 
about  her  a  wealth  of  repose.  The  mother 
was  restless  and  watchful.  The  daughter  had 
gray  eyes,  and  smooth,  straight  masses  of  hazel- 
nut-colored  hair,  and  a  complexion  that  was 
white  and  opaque  as  milk.  The  mother's  flash- 
ing black  eyes,  crisp,  curly  black  locks,  and 
transparent  olive  cheeks  might  have  enabled 
her  to  pass  for  a  gypsy.  Again,  the  daughter 
looked  older  than  the  twenty  years  with  which 
she  was  accredited  in  Larpington;  while  the 
mother  looked  younger  than  she  could  possibly 
be  to  have  such  a  daughter. 

They  were  both  handsomely  and  elaborately 
dressed  —  Mrs.  Waldron  in  black  velvet  and 
sable,  and  Miss  Vicary  in  the  before-mentioned 
violet  velvet,  about  which  were  soft  bands  of 
chinchilla.  Altogether  they  were  a  striking 
pair;  and  Horatia  saw  with  a  sickening  sense 
of  chargin,  that  as  women  her  brother  thought 
them  far  from  contemptible. 

"I  wonder  why  they  want  to  get  hold  of 
you,"  she  began,  as  soon  as  they  were  gone. 

"  I  can't  get  up  a  wonder  about  your  sister- 
in-law  asking  us  to  dinner,"  Gilbert  answered, 
carelessly.  "Don't  get  into  the  habit  of  believ- 
ing there  is  a  motive  and  a  mystery  in  their 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


19 


simplest  actions.  If  you  do  that,  you'll  abolish 
all  chance  of  any  real  mystery  which  there  may 
be  ever  being  arrived  at." 

"  It's  a  relief  to  hear  you  speak  in  that  way. 
Gilbert,  even  you  admit  the  possibility  of  their 
being  a  real  mystery.  I  was  afraid  they  had 
cast  such  a  glamour  over  you  that  you  would 
doubt  every  thing  but  their  integrity." 

"  That's  another  erroneous  conclusion,"  he 
said,  with  a  laugh.  And  then  little  Gerald  was 
sent  to  his  nursery,  and  the  brother  and  sister 
sat  down  to  luncheon. 

"It's  so  bright  and  clear;  shall  we  go  out 
and  have  a  look  at  the  place,  Gilbert?"  Mrs. 
Waldron  asked,  when  the  luncheon  had  been 
removed,  and  her  brother  had  changed  his  po- 
sition five  or  six  times,  and  stifled  five  or  six 
yawns,  after  the  manner  of  busy  men  who  are 
suddenly  transplanted  into  a  soil  in  which  they 
find  nothing  to  do. 

"  Yes,  if  you  like.     What  place  ?" 

"Why,  the  place  that  ought  to  be  Gerald's 
— Larpington  House  and  Park,"  she  replied, 
quickly. 

He  laughed.  "  Your  maternal  faith  in  Ger- 
ald's right  divine  to  the  property  is  very  beau- 
tiful, Horry  dear.  With  all  my  heart  I  hope 
he  may  be  the  rightful  heir,  and  not  a  mere 
young  pretender ;  but  from  what  I  heard  at 
the  time,  the  terms  of  George  Waldron's  will 
were  very  explicit." 

' '  They  were,"  she  said,  sadly.  ' '  Every  thing 
was  clearly  and  unconditionally  left  to  his  wife. 
He  must  have  been  under  a  hideous  spell," 
Horatia  went  on,  waxing  wroth  at  the  mere 
recollection  of  the  wording  of  the  will.  "He 
must  have  been  mad;  he  must  have  been  co- 
erced into  dictating  such  incomprehensible 
maudlin  folly.  He  would  '  leave  it  to  the  good 
angel  of  his  life  to  be  the  good  angel  of  his 
family,  feeling  sure  that  in  all  things  she  would 
carry  out  his  wishes.'  That  was  all  the  care 
he  took  of  his  brother  and  his  brother's  boy." 

"It  ivas  incomprehensible,  maudlin  folly," 
Gilbert  Denham  said,  thoughtfully.  "  Called 
that  woman  his  good  angel,  did  he  ?  I  wish 
we  could  find  out  some  of  the  friends  of  the  de- 
parted Vicary.  Let  us  hope  that  good  cheer 
and  the  relaxing  influences  of  the  season  will 
induce  her  to  give  us  a  clue  to-night." 

They  went  out  soon  after  this,  and  when  they 
were  clear  of  the  village  they  turned  down  the 
valley,  and  skirted  the  boundary-wall  of  Lar- 
pington House.  Occasionally  they  got  glimpses 
of  the  fine,  square,  red-brick  pile  through  the 
thick  belts  of  forest-trees ;  and  at  last  Mr.  Den- 
ham  asked, 


"Does  the  inside  correspond  with  the  ex- 
terior? There  ought  to  be  fine  galleries  and 
saloons  in  a  house  like  that." 

"You'll  hardly  believe  it,  Gilbert,  when  I 
tell  you  that  I  only  know  the  hall  and  a  draw- 
ing-room. I  have  never  been  asked  to  go  into 
the  picture-gallery — nor  into  any  of  the  other 
rooms,  for  that  matter.  But  the  picture-gal- 
lery, where  there  are  portraits  of  Arthur's  fa- 
ther and  mother,  and  of  his  brother  and  him- 
self when  they  were  little  boys — it's  too  bad, 
it's  shameful  I  have  never  been  in  it." 

"My  dear  child,  have  you  ever  asked  to  go 
over  the  house?  You're  a  daughter  of  it  by 
marriage,  as  much  as  Mrs.  Waldron  is.  You 
ought  to  have  swallowed  your  pride  and  your 
aversion  to  the  present  possessor,  and  taken 
your  children  to  see  the  race  they  have  sprung 
from." 

"I  couldn't  do  it,  Gilbert;  I  couldn't  go  as 
a  suppliant  for  the  smallest  fuvor  to  the  house 
where  I  ought  to  be  reigning  now  in  right  of 
my  boy.  Did  you  hear  her  just  now,  when 
he  said  he  was  '  Gerald  Waldron,  of  Larping- 
ton ?' " 

"  Yes ;  and  I  heard  you,  too,  you  injudicious 
little  woman.  Your  reply  sounded  like  a 
threat.  This  village  of  yours  is  a  lovely  one. 
I  don't  wonder  at  your  wanting  to  see  your  boy 
reigning  in  it." 

They  had  by  this  time  climbed  to  the  top  of 
the  highest  point  of  land  in  the  parish— a  wood- 
ed hill,  with  a  cleared  space  at  the  summit, 
that  was  known  as  the  Wren's  Nest.  From 
this  place  of  observation  they  could  sec  the 
whole  of  the  village,  and  almost  the  whole  of 
the  fair  manor  of  Larpington  House.  Then  to 
the  right  of  them  was  the  deer  park,  well  stock- 
ed with  dappled  deer.  Down  immediately  be- 
neath them  was  the  !ake,  alive  with  rare  for- 
eign birds  and  stately  swans.  On  the  slopes  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  lake  were  the  kitchen 
gardens,  the  hot-houses,  and  vineries ;  and  be- 
yond these  again  were  the  lawns,  the  pleasure- 
gardens,  and  the  house. 

"  It  was  given  by  Edward  the  Fourth  to  a 
Waldron,  and  it  may  go  to  Miss  Vicary,  the 
child  of  nobody  knows  whom,"  Horatia  said, 
presently,  with  one  of  those  choking,  dry  sobs 
that  are  the  result  of  a  collision  between  hope 
and  despair. 

"  It  may ;  there's  no  saying  what  may  hap- 
pen, Horry.  Mrs.  Waldron  may  marry  again 
herself,  and  have  a  son,  and  leave  it  to  him. 
Don't  despair,  though,  little  woman ;  and,  above 
all,  don't  cut  yourself  off  from  such  scanty  in- 
tercourse as  you  have  already  held  with  her, 


20 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


and  don't  startle  her  into  extra  reserve  and 
prudence  by  any  more  rash  speeches.  Before 
any  thing  can  be  done — if  any  thing  is  ever  to 
be  done — we  must  learn  a  little  of  Mrs.  Wal- 
dron's  former  life.  We  will  introduce  the  sub- 
ject of  family  likenesses  and  peculiarities  to- 
night, in  the  picture-gallery.  She  isn't  a  wom- 
an, if  she  doesn't  swear  that  there  is  some  very 
marked  and  distinguishing  trait  in  her  own 
family." 

"  You  mean  to  get  me  into  the  picture-gal- 
lery, then,  Gilbert?"  his  sister  asked,  laughing. 
"I  declare  I  feel  already  as  if  we  had  made  a 
step  in  the  right  direction.  I  shall  feel  so 
strong  when  all  the  Waldrons  are  looking  down 
upon  me ;  for  I  am  the  mother  of  the  sole  re- 
maining Waldron  of  Larpington." 

Meanwhile  the  young  widow  and  her  stranger 
guest  had  been  the  subject  of  much  conversa- 
tion in  the  village.  It  had  been  satisfactorily 
ascertained,  some  half- hour  after  his  arrival, 
that  he  was  Mrs.  Arthur's  brother.  And  "a 
fine  outspoken  gentleman  —  one  who  wasn't 
afraid  to  take  out  his  purse,"  he  was  pronounced 
to  be.  But  Larpington  society  sighed  to  know 
something  more  about  him,  and  about  the  way 
he  had  made  the  money  which  filled  that  purse. 
It  was  only  natural  and  proper  that  it  should 
do  so,  for  had  not  one  of"  our  own  young  gen- 
tlemen (as  the  dead  brothers  were  still  called 
here  in  the  cradle  of  their  race)  married  his 
sister  ?" 

Accordingly,  this  afternoon,  as  soon  as  Mrs. 
Arthur  Waldron  and  Mr.  Denham  were  well 
away  from  the  Bridge  House,  her  household  re- 
ceived visitors.  One  of  the  first  who  present- 
ed themselves  in  the  kitchen,  and  engaged  the 
cook  in  cheerful  converse,  was  Miss  Vicary's 
maid. 

The  two  young  women  had  been  born  and 
brought  up  in  the  village,  were  old  school-fel- 
lows, and  at  odd  times  bosom  friends.  There 
were  periods  when  envy,  hatred,  and  malice  in- 
tervened and  separated  them.  This  trio  had 
been  reigning  in  Margaret,  the  Bridge  House 
servant's  mind  for  some  time,  in  consequence 
of  her  old  friend  Rhoda  having  got  the  situation 
of  own  maid  to  the  young  lady  at  The  House. 
For  Miss  Vicary  gave  high  wages,  and  the  per- 
quisites of  her  special  retainer  were  many. 

But  this  day  Margaret,  having  something  to 
tell,  yearned  for  some  one  to  tell  it  to ;  and  so 
the  welcome  her  successful  friend  met  with  was 
a  warm  one.  They  spoke  for  a  while  of  the 
gay  doings  of  The  House,  and  then,  somewhat 
triumphantly,  Margaret  trotted  out  her  one  ewe 
lamb. 


"We  have  company,  too,"  she  said — "mis- 
sus's brother,  a  gentleman  of  great  fortune. 
Nurse  heard  missus  telling  Master  Gerald,  the 
other  night,  that  it  would  be  the  making  of 
him,  if  his  Uncle  Gilbert  took  a  fancy  to 
him." 

"Law!"  Rhoda  ejaculated,  and  then  they 
went  on  to  discuss  the  wonderfulness  of  it  all. 
That  Mrs.  Arthur  should  go  on  living  in  such  a 
quiet,  "  mean"  kind  of  way,  they  called  it,  when 
her  brother  was  a  man  rich  enough  to  be  the 
making  of  Master  Gerald !  "  He's  made  it  by 
conjuring,  from  what  I  make  out,"  Margaret 
added ;  and  then  they  agreed  that  they  could 
make  nothing  of  it. 

But  Miss  Vicary  made  something  out  of  it 
when  her  maid,  in  the  course  of  dressing  her 
mistress's  hair  for  dinner  that  night,  mentioned 
this  among  other  "little  bits  of  news  she  had 
heard  while  out  walking."  It  impressed  her, 
evidently ;  for  the  fine,  Napoleonic  face  grew 
even  more  thoughtful  and  determined  than  it 
was  wont  to  be. 

When  she  was  dressed,  she  went  to  her  moth- 
er's room,  and  opened  the  subject  at  once. 

"Mother,  the  first  good-natured  thing  we 
have  done  to  Mrs.  Arthur  Waldron  is  a  fool- 
ish one.  This  man,  her  brother,  is  a  rich  law- 
yer." 

"  What  of  that  ?"  Mrs.  Waldron  answered, 
moving  her  hands  restlessly  about  the  toilet-ta- 
ble litter. 

"I  would  rather  have  heard  he  had  been 
any  thing  else.  They  have  the  habit  of  prying, 
whether  they  fancy  there's  any  thing  to  pry  into 
or  not." 

"  He's  welcome  to  pry  all  over  the  house,  and 
into  the  will  too,  if  he  likes.  Not  all  the  law- 
yers in  England  can  upset  it.  Why,  Nelly, 
you're  not  going  to  faint  at  shadows  ?" 

The  younger  woman  shook  her  head.  It 
was  a  gesture  of  impatience  at  the  idea  pro- 
pounded, but,  like  all  Miss  Vicary's  movements, 
it  was  slow,  and,  in  a  manner,  dignified. 

"I'm  sorry  he  is  a  lawyer,  because  I  liked 
what  I  saw  of  him  yesterday,  and  I  don't  want 
to  like  a  lawyer,"  she  said. 

Her  mother  laughed  with  merry,  vulgar  sig- 
nificance. 

"  Lawyer  or  no  lawyer,  you  must  make  your- 
self pleasant  to  him  to-night,  or  else  his  sister 
will  think  we  got  them  here  to  slight  them,  and 
I  am  sure  I  had  no  thought  but  kindness  to- 
ward them.  Come,  my  dear,  our  friends  will 
be  down  before  us.  Never  mind  the  lawyer ; 
he  may  be  a  married  man." 

But  it  gave  no  pleasure  to  handsome,  placid 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


21 


Nelly  Vicaiy  to  think  that  this  stranger — this 
good-looking,  debonnaire,  clever  man,  who  seem- 
ed to  have  brought  a  rush  of  fresh,  living  air 
with  him  into  the  place  from  the  outside  world 
— it  gave  her  no  pleasure  to  think  that  he  might 
be  married. 

Verily  he  had  done  well  in  leaving  his  wife 
behind  him.  The  thought  that  he  had  done  so 
flashed  across  his  mind  as  they  were  driving 
up  to  Larpington  House  that  night. 

"  Just  oblige  me,  and  for  your  own  sake  say 
nothing  of  Bessie,"  he  exclaimed,  suddenly. 


"  No  one  here  knows  any  thing  about  us,  I  sup- 
pose ?" 

"People  here  don't  even  know  you're  mar- 
ried," she  answered.  "  I  have  made  no  con- 
fidences concerning  myself  or  any  one  connect- 
ed with  me." 

Her  brother  said,  encouragingly, 

"There's  nothing  got  by  making  confi- 
dences. One  either  interests  people  too  little 
or  too  much." 

Then  the  fly  stopped,  and  they  went  into 
Larpington  House. 


CHAPTER  III. 
"ALAS!  THEY  HAD  BEEN  FRIENDS  IN  YOUTH," 


THE  change  from  the  fusty  fly,  with  its  dis- 
colored lining  and  disorganized  springs, 
its  draughts,  its  damp,  and  its  one  slow  de- 
pressed horse,  to  the  light,  the  warmth,  the 
freshness,  the  intense  vitality  of  that  interior 
into  which  they  came  in  a  moment,  would  have 
been  direfully  distressing  to  a  woman  of  Hora- 
tia's  temperament  if  she  had  not  remembered 
that  "all  this  might  be  Gerald's." 

It  was  the  first  time  that  the  widow  of  the 
youngest  son  of  it  had  seen  Larpington  House 
by  artificial  light.  And  being  an  impressiona- 
ble woman,  with  an  artistic  eye,  she  was  vividly 
impressed  with  the  deep  magnificent  effects  of 
-light  and  shade  that  were  given  by  space  and 
splendor.  Armor,  in  the  abstract,  was  not  a 
thing  in  which  she  took  the  faintest  interest. 
But  when  she  looked  round  on  the  suits  that 
were  hung  up  here,  and  remembered  that  they 
had  been  worn  by  little  Gerald's  ancestors,  she 
thrilled  with  an  intensity  of  emotion  that  made 
her  glow  into  absolute  beauty. 

Undoubtedly  they  were  a  distinguished-look- 
ing pair  that  brother  and  sister,  and  more  than 
one  of  the  many  guests  assembled  in  the  great 
drawing-room  thought  so,  as  they  came  into 
the  room. 

Mrs.  Waldron  had  hoisted  her  banner  very 
high,  and  had  beaten  her  drum  very  loudly  this 
Christmas-tide,  and  the  result  of  her  exertions 
was  a  great  gathering  at  Larpington  House. 
As  far  as  numbers  went,  it  was  a  grand  success. 
But  the  minority  "wondered"  among  them- 
selves how  the  majority  got  there.  The  set 


who  knew  all  about  each  other  and  themselves, 
and  who  fondly  imagined  that  every  one  out- 
side "the  neighborhood"  even  knew  all  about 
them  also,  found  themselves  suddenly  confront- 
ed by  another  set  who  were  not  only  in  hope- 
less ignorance  about  the  established  "Orders" 
here,  but  seemed  to  be  in  darkness  as  to  estab- 
lished "  Orders  "  of  the  like  kind  anywhere. 

They  were,  too,  this  latter  set,  people  with 
odd-sounding  names  of  which  Debrett  was  in- 
nocent. And  a  certain  dimness  and  mistiness 
appeared  to  hang  about  the  regions  of  their  re- 
spective homes.  And  that  these  things  were, 
was  evident  to  the  clear  vision  of  Mr.  Gilbert 
Denham  before  he  had  been  in  the  room  with 
them  ten  minutes. 

"It  is  the  first  time  that  I  have  had  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  my  old  friends  and  my  new 
ones  under  my  roof, "Mrs.  Waldron  explained 
to  him,  with  smiling  assurance ;  and  he  could 
not  help  feeling,  "Whatever  she  is,  the  woman 
isn't  all  bad.  She  doesn't  cast  off  old  friends." 

Suddenly,  as  he  was  thinking  this,  he  became 
conscious  that  Miss  Vicary  was  moving  toward 
them ;  and  in  spite  of  the  slow  stateliness  of 
her  movement  and  her  outward  tranquillity,  he 
fathomed  that  she  was  troubled. 

"Mr.  Denham  is  not  likely  to  be  interested 
in  which  is  which,  mamma,"  she  said,  coloring 
faintly.  "For  my  part,  I  find  the  new  just  as 
dull  as  the  old."  And  then  she  looked  at  him 
again,  and  thought  how  far  superior  he  was  to 
any  one  else  in  the  room. 

He  laughed,  and  glanced  over  the  array  of 


22 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


fat  county  ladies  who  were  sitting  about  in  a 
state  of  speechless  calm,  the  result  partly  of 
their  having  nothing  to  say,  and  partly  of  their 
dread  fear  that  they  were  compromising  their 
position  by  dining  with  a  miscellany  that  was 
so  dubiously  edited.  From  them  his  eyes  wan- 
dered to  their  lords,  who  were  finding  social 
safety  in  discussing  their  own  and  their  neigh- 
bors' property. 

"Nothing  to  be  got  out  of  them, "was  his 
mental  verdict.  "They  don't  like  Mrs.  Wal- 
dron,  but  they  know  nothing  about  her.  There 
is  my  happy  hunting-ground."  And  he  un- 
warily suffered  an  expression  of  interest  to 
come  into  his  face  as  he  turned  it  toward  the 
"  people  she  had  collected  from  Heaven  knows 
where,*'  as  her  county  neighbors  expressed  it. 

Conspicuous  among  these  former  friends  of 
Mrs.  Waldron's  was  a  scrupulously  well-dressed 
man,  whose  manner  was  a  pendulum  between 
the  almost  melodramatically  absorbed,  and  the 
sycophantically  smiling.  "  Has  been  projected 
from  behind  a  counter  into  drawing-room  so- 
ciety with  too  sudden  a  jerk,"  was  Gilbert's  de- 
cision respecting  this  gentleman;  "but  I  see 
he'll  be  glad  to  talk.  My  friend !  we'll  know 
each  other  better  over  the  walnuts  and  the 
wine.  Those  two  sisters,  too,  they'll  be  glad 
when  the  onus  is  off  them  of  being  intensely 
interested  in  each  other's  remarks  ;  their  time 
shall  come  on  later." 

As  his  reflections  reached  this  point,  Miss 
Vicary  lightly  touched  his  arm  with  her  fan, 

"  Mamma  has  deputed  you  to  take  charge  of 
me,  Mr.  Denham.  I  would  be  sorry  for  you  if 
there  happened  to  be  any  one  who  would  amuse 
you  better." 

The  color  had  deepened  in  her  face,  and 
her  eyes  were  sparkling  with  no  very  soft 
light. 

"How  kind  of  Mrs.  Waldron  to  fathom  my 
wishes  so  exactly,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice,  as 
he  offered  her  his  arm,  and  they  fell  into  the 
serpent-like  line  that  was  now  undulating  to- 
ward the  dining-room.  But  pleasantly  flatter- 
ing as  he  made  both  words  and  manner,  Miss 
Vicary  palpably  remained  unpropitiated. 

Now  Gilbert  Denham  was  a  man  who  not 
only  held  that  Cajsar's  wife  should  be  without 
suspicion,  but  he  was  one  who  would  very 
strongly  have  advocated  the  whacking  of  Cae- 
sar's wife,  provided  any  one  had  suspected  her. 
But  on  this  occasion  he  was  to  a  certain  extent 
untrue  to  his  principles.  That  is  to  say,  though 
he  unquestionably  suspected  Miss  Vicary  of 
something  that  would,  if  discovered,  not  alto- 
gether redound  to  her  credit,  he  was  very  far 


from  desiring  to  hand  her  over  to  condign  pun- 
ishment. 

Quite  apart  from  the  woman,  he  liked  the 
woman's  looks.  There  was  this  practical  pow- 
er about  Gilbert  Denham :  he  could  separate 
mind  and  matter.  The  former,  in  this  case, 
was  probably  not  absolutely  stainless,  but  the 
latter  was  fair  and  fresh,  and  so  he  strove  to 
propitiate  her. 

"You  appeared  to  be  taking  a  great  interest 
in  the  Miss  Iblets  when  I  was  obliged  to  inter- 
rupt your  meditations,"  she  said,  in  what  would 
have  been  a  huffy  tone,  if  "huff"  could  ever  be 
expressed  by  a  monotone,  and  with  a  catching 
laugh  that  would  have  been  a  giggle  if  it  had 
not  been  delivered  so  slowly. 

"The  Miss  Iblets!  Ah,  yes;  the  two  young 
ladies  who  are  opposite  to  us  now,"  he  answer- 
ed, looking  suddenly  at  them  as  he  spoke,  in  a 
way  that  was  designed  to  make  Miss  Vicary  be- 
lieve— and  that  did  make  Miss  Vicary  believe 
— that  he  had  not  given  a  second  thought  to 
them.  At  the  same  time  he  was  thinking, 
"  What  a  queer  stratum  of  society  one  has  got 
into,  where  such  names  obtain !"  "  Old  friends 
of  yours,  I  suppose?"  he  went  on. 

"  Hardly  of  mine.  Mamma  knew  their  par- 
ents, I  believe,  before  papa  died." 

"I  thought,  perhaps,  you  had  all  been  at 
school  together,  and  had  vowed  eternal  friend- 
ship there." 

"No;  we  were  not  at  school  together." 

"By-the-way — I'm  rather  interested  in  the 
subject — what's  your  opinion  of  the  relative  val- 
ue of  school  education  at  home  and  abroad  for 
girls?" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  asked,  uneasily. 

"Which  do  you  think  is  the  best?  You 
can't  have  left  school  very  long,  and  I  want  an 
opinion  from  some  one  who  has  had  recent 
practical  experience." 

"I'm  not  competent  to  give  an  opinion,"  she 
said,  presently. 

"A  lady  to  whom  I  was  talking  on  the  sub- 
ject the  other  day  rather  prejudiced  me  against 
foreign  schools,  and  my  mother  used  to  have  an 
antipathy  to  English  boarding-schools.  I  am 
vibrating  between  the  two  now ;  I  want  some 
one  to  sny  with  decision,  '  I  can  recommend  So- 
and-so's  school.'  Now,  can't  you  recommend 
a  school  that  you  were  at  ?  Can't  you  aid  me 
in  my  difficulty!" 

He  was  a  clever  man,  and  he  was  a  well-bred 
rfian ;  but  in  this  instance  there  was  a  want  of 
tact  in  his  earnestness,  and  a  want  of  breed- 
ing in  his  importunity.  In  his  anxiety  he  was 
overreaching  himself;  and  the  woman  he  was 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


23 


addressing  was  keen  enough  to  take  his  weap- 
ons, and  clever  enough  to  turn  them  against 
himself. 

"Doesn't  it  strike  you  that  a  recently-eman- 
cipated school-girl  would  be  the  last  person  in 
the  world  whose  opinion  was  worth  having  on 
such  a  subject  ?" 

She  asked  it  lazily,  sipping  her  soup  as  eas- 
ily as  if  she  had  been  accustomed  to  it  all  her 
life. 

"Why?"  he  answered,  turning  his  head 
slightly,  and  looking  admiringly  at  the  massive 
profile — the  handsome  profile  of  the  powerful 
face  that  would  not  be  lightly  moved  to  com- 
mit itself  by  an  abrupt  expression  of  the  truth. 

"Why?  How  can  you  ask  why?  If  the 
school  were  good,  not  one  girl  in  a  hundred 
would  like  it  well  enough  to  give  it  a  kind 
word." 

"I  think  you're  the  girl  in  a  hundred  who 
would  do  it,"  he  said,  irrepressibly.  "Come, 
tell  me.  Where  was  your  educational  pas- 
ture ?" 

"  Can't  you  understand  that  a  girl  may  be 
brought  up — educated  in  a  way — without  ever 
going  to  school?  That  was  my  case,"  she  said, 
deprecatingly ;  and  once  more  he  felt  that  she 
had  unconsciously  balked  him. 

"But  I  should  like  this  child  in  whom  I 
am  interested  to  be  educated  in  your  way,  Miss 
Vicary,"  he  said,  insinuatingly,  "if  the  same 
conditions  would  produce  the  same  results." 

He  had  got  just  so  far  in  his  speech  when  she 
stopped  him. 

"What  a  hard  thing  it  is  to  know  tMit  all 
the  civil  things  said  to  one  are  false, "she  said, 
with  a  look  of  "ache"  in  her  face  that  plained 
him,  though  he  had  a  good,  well-defined  object 
in  making  her  ache.  Then  she  went  on: 

"  You  wouldn't  care — you  know  you  wouldn't 
care — to  see  any  girl  you  were  really  interested 
in  like  me." 

"Miss  Vicary?"  The  safest  thing  to  do, 
under  the  circumstances,  was  to  throw  a  world 
of  reproach  into  his  tone.  Accordingly,  Gil- 
bert Denham  threw  it. 

By  way  of  reply,  Miss  Vicary  remarked, 

"  How  well  your  sister  looks  to-night !"  And 
the  remark  caused  Gilbert  to  look  at  Horatia. 

The  young  widow  of  Larpington  was  at  her 
best  to-night.  It  was  all  so  peaceful,  so  smooth, 
so  well-oiled  ;  and  yet  intuition  taught  her  that 
she  was  in  the  fray,  and  the  feeling  taught  her 
to  sparkle  in  her  own  essentially  feminine  way. 
She  was  the  fairest  woman  in  the  room.  The 
people  who  were  meeting  her  for  the  first  time 
were  unanimous  in  thinking  how  much  better 


the  widow  of  the  younger  Waldron  would  have 
played  the  part  of  Queen  Regent  at  Larpington 
than  did  the  widow  of  the  elder  brother. 

But  for  all  her  charm,  and  fascination,  and 
beauty — for  all  his  clear,  keen  perception  of 
these  things-^for  all  his  genuine  and  true  broth- 
erly affection  for  her— Gilbert  Denham  had  a 
momentary  pang  of  regret  as  he  looked  at  her, 
that  her  interests  should  be  utterly  and  entire- 
ly opposed  to  those  of  the  woman  by  his  side. 

For,  in  pursuing  Horatia's  interests,  he  kne\v 
that  he  should  press  on  straight  to  his  object, 
overturning,  unraveling,  investigating.  And 
he  was  almost  sorry,  as  he  felt  it  was  possible 
that  such  a  course  might  end  in  the  overthrow 
and  degradation  of  Miss  Vicary. 

"It's  a  game  of  chess," he  thought;  "and  I 
shall  movo  those  pawns,  the  Miss  Iblets,  first, 
though  Miss  Vicary  is  no  doubt  inwardly  re- 
solved that  I  shall  not  get  near  them."  Then 
he  dismissed  the  subject  from  his  manner, 
though  not  from  his  mind,  and  soothed  some 
vague  alarms  that  were  beginning  to  fill  Miss 
Vicary's  breast,  by  saying, 

"Yes;  my  sister  is  looking  very  well.  I 
wonder  she  hasn't  married  again ;  don't  you  ?" 

"I  have  never  wondered  about  it  before; 
but  I  do,  now  you  speak  of  it.  She's  more 
than  pretty,  and  so  young-looking." 

"It  was  a  very  happy  marriage,  poor  Hor- 
ry's,  so  long  as  it  lasted."  Gilbert  went  on, 
thoughtfully,  "Did  you  ever  see  my  brother- 
in-law  ?" 

She  shook  her  head  in  the  negative,  and 
again  the  color  mounted  and  spread  slowly 
over  her  face. 

"  Mr.  Arthur  Waldron  died  before — my  step- 
father ;  consequently,  before  we  came  back  to 
England.  Didn't  you  know  that?"  she  an- 
swered, in  a  measured,  cautious  tone,  that 
made  him  involuntarily  regard  her  steadily 
again. 

"  I  may  have  heard  of  the  circumstance,  but 
I  have  forgotten  it,"  he  said,  in  reply.  "I 
have  been  out  of  the  country  myself  for  a  long 
time,  ever  since  my  poor  sister's  wedding-day ; 
and  I  haven't  been  well  posted  up  in  family 
details.  By -the -way,  George  Waldron  died 
abroad,  you  say  ?  Where  ?" 

A  sullen  look,  almost  of  defiance,  succeeded 
the  one  of  embarrassment  on  Miss  Vicary's 
handsome  face. 

"  You'll  be  asking  me  the  date,  and  the  hour, 
and  the  circumstances  next,"  she  replied,  mak- 
ing an  effort  to  speak  lightly.  "Why  choose 
such  a  gloomy  topic  ?  One  that  you  may  well 
think  is  a  sad  one  for  me.  We  never  even 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


talk  of  it  among  ourselves.  Mamma  has  a 
sensitive  horror  of  hearing  her  sad  loss  men- 
tioned." 

"Sad  loss,  indeed!"  he  answered,  smiling. 
"Your  mamma  is  too  sensible  a  woman,  I  am 
sure,  to  go  on  bemoaning  the  loss  of  a  young 
fellow  who  might  have  been  her  son.  Was 
George  Waldron  as  handsome  a  fellow  as  his 
brother  Arthur?" 

"Quite.  Handsomer,  I  should  think,  judg- 
ing from  their  portraits."  She  spoke  eagerly, 
in  her  infinite  relief  at  his  quitting  the  subject 
of  where  George  Waldron  died.  "Mr.  Wal- 
dron was  such  a  handsome,  dashing,  splendid 
young  man,  that  people  used  to  wait  about  at 
the  hotels  on  the  chance  of  seeing  him  pass." 

She  spoke  with  more  enthusiasm  than  she 
had  yet  displayed,  and  Gilbert  thought,  exult- 
antly, "His  name  is  the  'open  sesame'  to  the 
door  of  her  reserve.  Whatever  her  mother's 
sentiments  concerning  him  may  have  been,  I 
have  no  doubt  about  the  daughter's." 

Aloud  he  said, 

"Your  report  of  him  makes  me  wish  to  see 
his  portrait.  I  thought  poor  Arthur  a  splendid 
young  fellow.  Let  us  go  and  compare  them, 
by-and-by.  Shall  we  ?" 

And  Miss  Vicary  answered  "Yes"  at  once, 
and  so  he  gained  his  point  about  effecting  an 
entrance  into  the  picture-gallery. 

The  pawns  that  he  meant  to  move  without 
delay  were  not  at  all  convenient  to  his  hand, 
when  with  the  earliest  detachment  of  men  who 
followed  the  ladies  he  went  into  the  drawing- 
room.  The  Miss  Iblets  were  sitting  together 
again  on  a  sofa,  in  front  of  which  a  long  ta- 
ble, covered  with  photographs  and  annuals,  was 
placed.  For  a  moment  he  thought,  "  My  time 
has  come.  I'll  go  and  talk  Christmas  litera- 
ture to  them."  But  even  as  he  thought  it  he 
perceived  that  Miss  Vicary's  fine  person  barred 
the  only  passage  between  heavy  furniture  that 
led  to  their  retreat. 

With  an  easy  reflection  that,  "though  the 
time  hadn't  come  yet,  it  should  come  soon,"  he 
turned  away,  and  surveyed  some  of  his  other 
pieces.  His  sister  was  his  queen ;  she  must  be 
moved  into  another  square  without  delay.  He 
crossed  the  room  to  where  she  was  sitting  si- 
lently, disdainfully  watching  and  listening  to 
the  exuberant  mirth  wherewith  Mrs.  Waldron 
was  seeking  to  amuse  her  friends. 

"  It's  not  a  bad  game,  Horry ;  why  don't  you 
join  it?"  he  asked. 

"  My  dear  Gilbert,  I'm  too  old  to  play  at  for- 
feits with  any  one  but  my  own  children,"  she 
answered,  a  little  impatiently. 


Then  she  made  room  for  him  by  her  side, 
and  went  on  in  a  low  voice,  "And  in  devising 
what  the  acts  of  redemption  shall  be,  how  the 
innate  vulgarity  of  that  woman  comes  out? 
How  different  George  Waldron  must  have  been 
to  my  poor  boy,  to  have  chosen  such  a  woman 
for  his  wife !" 

"Don't  sit  with  your  thoughts  painted  on 
your  face,  please,  dear ;  you  must  fall  in  with 
these  people's  ways  and  humors  for  little  Ger- 
ald's sake." 

"I  shall  not  further  his  interests  by  playing 
at  forfeits,"  she  laughed;  "but  any  thing  else. 
Oh,  look !  that  man  who  is  so  uncomfortable 
in  his  dress-clothes  is  coming  to  me." 

"Talk  your  best  to  him;  he  knows  some- 
thing that  I  want  to  find  out."  Gilbert  Den- 
ham  muttered,  as  the  gentleman,  who  vibrated 
between  melodramatic  reserve  and  sycophant- 
ish  smiling,  approached  the  young  widow — and 
then,  as  soon  as  he  saw  that  his  sister  meant 
to  attend  to  his  directions,  he  went  back  to  Miss 
Vicary,  who  had  been  watching  him  with  a  sort 
of  unwilling  interest  the  whole  time. 

"  May  I  see  the  portraits  now  ?"  he  asked. 
"You  are  not  in  their  game.  Will  you  mind 
coming  and  showing  them  to  me  ?" 

She  rose  up  at  once,  with  a  certain  pleased 
promptitude  that  made  him  clearly  understand 
that  both  her  task  and  her  companion  were 
congenial  to  her. 

"  I  shall  be  very  glad.  Mamma,  Mr.  Den- 
ham  and  I  are  going  to  take  a  turn  in  the  pic- 
ture-gallery," she  whispered  as  she  passed  her 
mother ;  and  at  the  same  time  Gilbert  slightly 
shook  his  head  at  his  -sister,  who  was  watching 
him  eagerly,  in  a  way  that  told  her  he  was  not 
ready  for  her  yet. 

Miss  Vicary  led  the  way  out  of  the  dining- 
room,  through  an  anteroom  and  the  grand  old 
hall,  and  then  up  the  stairs  to  the  wide,  lofty 
corridor,  where  all  the  Waldrons  of  Larpington 
were  hanging  in  imposing  array. 

"Shall  we  begin  at  the  beginning?"  Miss 
Vicary  asked. 

He  had  offered  her  his  arm  as  they  ascend- 
ed the  stairs,  and  she  rather  liked  the  idea  of 
a  prolonged  tete-a-tete  stroll  with  him.  Phys- 
ical beauty  appealed  powerfully  to  Miss  Vicary's 
senses,  and  she  had  seen  none  of  so  fine  a  type, 
she  thought,  since  George  Waldron  died,  as  that 
of  this  man  who  seemed  so  well  inclined  to  de- 
vote himself  to  her. 

"Let  us  look  at  the  two  brothers  in  whom 
we  are  both  interested  first,"  he  said,  softly. 
"After  that  we'll  go  religiously  through  the 
whole  race." 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


25 


"  Here  they  are  as  little  boys,"  she  said, 
crossing  the  gallery,  and  pausing  before  two 
life-size  portraits  of  a  brace  of  sunny-haired 
boys.  "And  the  golden-haired  woman  who 
stands  next  to  them  was  their  mother." 

"She  must  have  been  a  rare  beauty!"  Gil- 
bert exclaimed,  abruptly. 

"Yes,"  Miss  Vicary  answered,  glowing  into 
animation  again  at  once ;  "  and  she  gave  her 
rare  beauty  to  her  eldest  son." 

"They  are  both  pretty  little  fellows,"  Gil- 
bert said,  turning  to  the  boys.  "The  little 
chap  with  his  arms  round  the  dog's  neck  is  ex- 
actly like  my  sister's  boy.  They're  fine  little 
men." 

"  You  can  see,"  Miss  Vicary  went  on  ex- 
patiating, "  that  even  in  their  childhood  George 
was  the  handsomest  of  the  two.  You  see  they 
both  have  light  hair,  but  George's  is  real,  rich 
gold.  Arthur's  turned  brown,  I  know.  And 
George's  eyes  are  those  long,  lovely  violet  ones 
that  are  so  much  more  beautiful  than  any  oth- 
er color;  Arthur's  are  just  merely  moderately 
good  gray  ones.  Now  come  and  look  at  them 
as  men." 

She  stepped  on  almost  rapidly  for  her,  and 
he  followed  her,  until  they  came  to  a  full-length 
of  the  late  master  of  Larpington. 

"This  is  Mr.  Waldron,"  she  said,  in  a  low 
s-oiee ;  and  Gilbert  Denham,  looking  up,  was 
taken  by  surprise,  even  though  she  had  said  so 
much  about  it,  by  the  forcible  representation 
before  him  of  the  very  highest  type  of  manly 
beauty  and  cultivation. 

He  was  depicted  as  a  man  of  good  height, 
and  slight,  strongly-built,  clean-limbed  frame — 
a  lithe,  active-looking  man,  with  a  bold,  bright, 
beautiful  face  that  looked  out  warmly  and  cor- 
dially upon  one  from  the  canvas.  The  golden, 
floating  curls  of  his  boyhood  were  gone,  but  the 
short  wavy,  crisp  locks  were  of  shadowless  gold 
still ;  and  every  line  of  the  fair,  handsome  face 
expressed  culture  and  refinement. 

"And  that  fellow,  who  might  have  been  the 
model  for  the  Apollo  Belvidere,  married  that 
old  woman — and  didn't  do  it  for  money !"  Gil- 
bert Denham  thought,  with  strong  disgust. 
"Why  on  earth  didn't  he  take  the  daughter 
if  the  onus  was  on  him  of  marrying  one  of 
them?  Poor  fellow!  he  must  have  been  in 
some  awful  scrape  to  have  taken  such  desper- 
ate measures  to  get  out  of  it." 

As  these  thoughts  passed  through  his  mind, 
Miss  Vicary  stood  silent,  absorbed,  gazing  up 
at  the  magnificent  reproduction  of  a  magnifi- 
cent original,  as  a  devotee  might  gaze  at  a 
shrine  containing  the  holiest  relic.  Turning 


his  head  toward  her  abruptly,  Gilbert  Denham 
caught  the  expression  of  her  face,  and  deep- 
ened it  for  an  instant  by  saying, 

"A  splendid  young  fellow,  truly  !  A  thou- 
sand pities  that  he  died  so  young,  and  that  he 
missed  the  best  in  life !  He  ought,  according 
to  the  fitness  of  things,  to  have  married  some 
lovely  young  girl,  ought  he  not  ?" 

He  said  it  out  absolutely  without  design.  If 
Miss  Vicary  were  the  sensible  girl  he  half  be- 
lieved her  to  be,  she  would  thoroughly  appre- 
ciate the  truth  of  the  fact  he  had  stated.  Her 
mother  might  be  a  very  good  woman,  and  a 
very  decent  woman  ;  but  she  was  not  the  right 
wife  for  that  glorious-looking  young  fellow,  and 
Miss  Vicary  must  know  it. 

"Now  we  will  have  a  look  at  Arthur,"  he 
went  on  rapidly,  without  apparently  noticing 
the  hardly  suppressed  storm  of  emotion  that 
was  raging  in  the  girl's  breast,  rendering  her 
speechless.  "There  he  is,  dear  old  boy,  with 
his  jolly,  free,  kind  smile ;  but  you're  right ;  he 
was  not  the  Adonis  that  his  brother  was.  Shall 
we  go  back  and  bring — " 

"  I  would  rather  not  go  back  for  a  few  min- 
utes, "she  panted  out,  sitting  on  one  of  the  so- 
fas that  were  ranged  along  the  gallery.  "I 
don't  know  what  it  is  ;  but  looking  at  the  por- 
traits of  people  I  have  known,  after  they're 
dead,  often  makes  me  ill,  they  look  so  plead- 
ing." 

"And  reproachful  often,  don't  they?"  he 
added.  "  I  shouldn't  care  to  face  that  picture 
if  I  had  wronged  the  original  in  any  way,  I 
must  say.  Will  you  allow  me  to  go  and  fetch 
my  sister?  I  dare  say  she  would  like  to  see 
how  the  Waldrons  have  been  in  the  habit  of 
looking  for  generations.  May  I  leave  you 
here?" 

"Yes,  do,"  she  answered,  quickly,  relieved 
by  the  idea  of  getting  rid  of  her  observant  com- 
panion for  a  few  minutes.  "  Bring  your  sister. 
How  impolite  of  me  not  to  have  thought  of  her 
before !  Go  and  bring  her." 

As  this  was  precisely  what  he  had  intended 
to  do,  Gilbert  executed  her  behest  with  alacri- 
ty. "Come,  Horry,"  he  said  aloud,  entering 
the  drawing-room,  "Miss  Vicary  has  sent  for 
you  to  come  and  see  the  family  portraits.  Will 
you  come,  too?"  he  added,  addressing  the  Miss 
Iblets ;  and  they  rose  up  gladly,  and  came  out 
from  their  solitary  fastness,  and  followed,  with 
Mrs.  Arthur  Waldron,  along  the  way  it  pleased 
this  dominating  spirit  to  lead  them. 

Miss  Vicary  was  her  massively  -  composed 
self  again  by  the  time  they  reached  the  picture- 
gallery.  All  traces  of  the  unwonted  emotion. 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


she  had  displayed  were  banished  from  her  face 
and  manner,"  and  there  was  about  her  an  air 
of  sullen  stagnation  that  was  not  prepossessing. 
She  rose  from  the  sofa  as  they  approached  her, 
and  addressed  the  Iblets  rather  crossly. 

"  Haven't  you  seen  enough  of  the  family 
fogies?  I  should  have  thought  you  would 
have  found  forfeits  more  amusing." 

"Oh,  but  Mr.  Denham  asked  us  to  come," 
they  answered. 

It  was  so  strange  to  them  to  be  asked  to  do 
any  thing  by  a  man  of  Gilbert's  order,  that  it 
made  them  almost  disregard  Miss  Vicary's  dis- 
approbation of  their  conduct.  And  then,  in 
the  easiest,  most  debonnaire  way  in  the  world, 
Gilbert  said, 


"Will  you  point  out  the  pictures  that  will 
most  interest  her  to  my  sister,  Miss  Vicary  ? 
I  will  introduce  your  friends  to  the  Waldron 
family  from  the  commencement.  It  will  be 
quite  a  study  of  costume,  and  we  shall  have  to 
rake  up  our  history  a  little,  in  order  to  remem- 
ber 'who  reigned'  when  those  were  in  the 
flesh." 

And  then,  with  jealous,  anxious  eyes,  Miss 
Vicary  watched  him  walk  to  the  other  end  of 
the  gallery  with  the  "friends  of  her  youth," 
from  whom  she  had  steadfastly  resolved  to  keep 
him  apart. 

"What  will  he  find  out,  I  wonder?"  she 
thought.  And  something  seemed  to  whisper  to 
her  that  he  would  find  out  whatever  he  desired. 


CHAPTEK  IY. 

"WE  ALL  HAVE   OUR  SKELETON  CLOSET,  I  SUPPOSE." 


A  STRANGE  sensation  possessed  Mrs.  Ar- 
-£j^-  thur  Waldron  when  at  last  she  found  her- 
self in  the  heart  of  the  house,  in  the  midst  of 
those  Waldrons  of  whom  her  son — her  own  boy 
— was  the  sole  remaining  male  representative. 
She  had  often  conjured  up  in  imagination  the 
scene  which  she  now  saw  set  before  her,  and  the 
emotions  that  would  beset  her  when  she  found 
herself  looking  for  the  first  time  at  the  portraits 
of  her  husband,  and  of  those  who  had  been  near- 
est and  dearest  to  him.  But  not  one  of  these 
emotions  beset  her,  now  that  the  circumstances 
she  had  imagined  had  actually  come  to  pass. 
The  one  prevailing  thrilling  sensation  was  that 
she  was  nearing  a  discovery.  That  there  with 
the  race  looking  down  upon  them,  some  clue 
would  be  given  to  her  which  would  either  smash 
the  present  possessors  of  Larpington  or  substan- 
tiate their  claim  to  it. 

Fraught  with  this  feeling,  she  stood  quite 
still  and  silent  before  the  portraits  of  the  two 
brothers — still,  save  that  she  trembled  a  little, 
and  the  trembling  touched  a  chord  of  womanly 
feeling  in  Miss  Vicary's  breast. 

"It  is  trying  to  look  at  such  life-like  por- 
traits when  the  owners  are  dead,"  she  said, 
feelingly.  "  I  don't  wonder  at  this  upsetting 
you,  if  it's  as  like  your  husband  as  the  other 
is  like  Mr.  Waldron." 

Horatia  recovered  herself,  shook  off  the  bonds 
of  excited  silence,  and  spoke, 


"It's  a  vivid  recollection-awakening  like- 
ness of  my  dear  Arthur,  and  I  like  it  the  bet- 
ter for  that ;  and  this  is  George  ?  Indeed,  he 
must  have  been  what  Arthur  always  called  him, 
a  magnificent  fellow." 

"And  he  died !"  Miss  Vicary  replied,  in  bit- 
ter commentary.  "  And  he  died !  it's  only  those 
whose  death  would  be  a  boon  to  themselves  and 
others  who  live  on  through  every  thing." 

"You're  young  to  take  that  morbid  view," 
Horatia  said,  gently.  But  though  she  spoke 
gently,  her  feelings  partook  more  of  the  nature 
of  repulsion  than  of  pity  for  the  girl.  "How 
can  she  have  the  bad  taste  to  speak  so  warm- 
ly of  my  brother-in-law,  when  she  must  know 
that  I  think  he  disgraced  himself  by  marrying 
her  mother,"  she  thought,  indignantly.  And 
so,  though  her  gentleness  of  manner  and  utter- 
ance remained  unchanged,  both  were  cool — 
cooler  than  they  had  ever  been  before  to  Miss 
Vicary — as  she  said, 

"Shall  we  follow  the  others?  My  brother 
seems  to  be  amusing  them  well." 

For  the  last  two  or  three  minutes,  Miss  Vic- 
ary, absorbed  in  her  contemplation  of  the  gal- 
lant, graceful  beauty  of  the  late  master  of  Lar- 
pington, had  forgotten  to  keep  a  watch  on  the 
proceedings  of  the  trio  whose  temporary  union 
was  so  antagonistic  to  her  desires.  But  now 
she  hurried  after  them,  and  as  she  came  up  she 
heard  one  of  the  sisters  say, 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


27 


""We  oughtn't  to  make  so  much  noise  down 
at  this  end  ;  we  may  disturb  the  invalid  ;"  and 
as  she  said  it  she  pointed  to  a  wide  door  that 
was  close  to  her  side. 

"I  didn't  know  that  there  was  an  invalid  in 
the  house,"  Gilbert  Denham  said,  with  ready 
courtesy,  dropping  his  voice  as  he  spoke.  And 
then  Miss  Vicary  hurriedly,  and  in  some  con- 
fusion, put  in, 

"Yes,  her  case  is  a  sad  one.  I  ought  to 
have  cautioned  you  not  to  talk  loud ;  her 
nerves  are  affected  by  the  least  noise." 

Through  the  gallery,  as  they  were  gathered 
together  talking  in  this  way,  came  Mrs.  Wal- 
dron  and  several  of  her  guests,  and  in  a  mo- 
ment she  understood  the  subject  of  their  con- 
versation. 

"A  sad  case  indeed,  as  Melly  says,"  she  ex- 
claimed, pathetically.  Then  she  lowered  her 
voice,  and  asked  Gilbert, 

"Have  they  told  you  whom  she  is?" 

He  shook  his  head  in  the  negative. 

"My  eldest  daughter,  and  she  is  mentally 
ill ;  we  all  have  our  skeleton  closet,  I  suppose, 
Mrs.  Arthur,"  she  continued,  turning  to  the 
young  widow,  who  was  listening  with  both 
eyes  and  heart  full  of  pity  now.  "Our  afflic- 
tion is  a  heavy  one,  indeed ;  we  ought  not  to 
have  saddened  our  friends  by  referring  to  it  to- 
night, Melly,  dear." 

Then  they  all  turned  with  rather  lowered 
spirits,  and  went  back  to  the  drawing-room. 
And  as  they  went  back,  the  man,  who  has  been 
mentioned  as  spasmodically  melodramatic  in 
style,  took  an  opportunity  of  whispering  to  Gil- 
bert. 

"Miss  Melly  is  a  fine  girl — as  fine  a  girl  as 
a  man  can  desire  to  see ;  but  the  eldest  girl 
was  as  pretty  a  creature  when  they  took  her 
abroad  for  her  health  as  I  ever  saw  in  my  life  ; 
it's  a  sad  case  indeed." 

"Is  she  much  altered?"  Gilbert  asked,  sym- 
pathetically. 

"  Terribly ;  merely  a  faint  trace  of  good 
looks  left  now ;  naturally,  they  don't  like  the 
poor  child  to  be  seen  by  those  who  knew  her  in 
her  bloom.  With  all  her  good  fortune,  Mrs. 
Waldron  has  her  heavy  cross  to  bear." 

"  She  has  indeed,"  Gilbert  responded,  heart- 
ily. And  somehow  or  other  he  felt  sorry  that 
he  had  vowed  to  find  out  all  he  could  about  the 
Larpington  House  people,  since  what  he  had 
found  out  was  so  very  sad. 

"Your  brother-in-law  must  have  had  a  bee 
in  his  bonnet,"  Gilbert  remarked  to  his  sister 
as  they  drove  home  that  night;  "nothing  but 
lunacy  can  account  for  a  young  fellow,  such  as 


both  his  likeness  and  report  represent  him  to 
have  been,  throwing  himself  away  as  he  did. 
It  is  distracting  to  think  of  him  as  the  husband 
of  that  woman,  and  infatuated  by  that  woman." 

"Gilbert,  I'm  bewildered!  Two  or  three 
times  while  we  stood  together  in  the  picture- 
gallery  there  was  absolute  passion  in  the  girl's 
face,  as  she  looked  at  or  spoke  of  George  Wal- 
dron ;  before  I  saw  this,  I  liked  her  better  than 
I  did  her  mother,  believing  her  to  be  harmless ; 
now  I  detest  her  even  more  than  I  do  Mrs. 
Waldron.  '  Mrs.  Waldron !'  isn't  it  odious  that 
she  should  bear  that  name  ?" 

They  were  at  home  by  this  time,  and  he 
was  handing  her  out  of  the  fly  and  into  the 
Bridge  House  as  he  answered. 

"We  don't  seem  very  likely  to  find  a  flaw 
in  her  right  to  all  the  name  endows  her  with, 
Horry.  You  were  right  in  saying  there  was  a 
mystery  in  the  lives  of  those  people,  but  you 
see  we  have  proved  that  the  mystery  concerns 
themselves  entirely — is  one  they  were  justified 
in  shielding  from  the  vulgar  gaze — and  in  no- 
wise interferes  with  yours  or  Gerald's  inter- 
ests." 

"But  they  may  have  another,  Gilbert,"  she 
pleaded  earnestly;  "who  knows  but  the  dis- 
covered mystery  may  aid  us  in  elucidating  the 
undiscovered  one?  Let  us  try  to  get  sight 
of  and  speech  with  the  mentally-afflicted  Miss 
Vicary;  she  may  be  more  useful  to  us  than 
the  sister  who  is  in  possession  of  her  senses." 

"What  a  small  Machiavelli  you're  becom- 
ing," he  said,  laughing. 

"Because  I  feel  as  sure  as  that  I'm  a  liv- 
ing woman  that  my  boy  is  being  wronged  ;  I'd 
stoop  very  low  indeed  to  conquer  those  who 
are  defrauding  him  of  his  own ;  and  through 
the  labyrinth  of  scheming  you  must  be  my 
guide.  What  shall  I  do  next  ?" 

"Ask  them  to  an  evening  party;  show  your- 
self willing  to  be  on  social  terms  with  them ; 
go  there  as  often  as  you  can,  and  be  quite  sure 
that  I  am  not  wronging  Bessie  if  I  seem  to  be 
forgetting  the  fact  that  I  am  a  married  man." 

The  morning  of  the  26th  dawned  fair  and 
mild  as  a  morning  in  May.  All  trace  of  yes- 
terday's frost  had  vanished,  and  the  scarlet  hol- 
ly-berries with  their  emerald-green  leaves  look- 
ed almost  incongruous  in  the  sunshine.  The 
brother  and  sister  at  the  Bridge  House  break- 
fasted with  their  windows  open,  and  a  sudden 
increase  of  sunshine  made  Gilbert  exclaim, 

"  It  would  be  a  shame  to  spend  this  morning 
in  the  house ;  do  you  ever  ride  in  these  days, 
Horry  ?" 

"I have  no  horse." 


28 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


"Have  you  a  habit?" 

"Yes  ;  but  I'm  out  of  practice  ;  and,  more- 
over, I  don't  believe  there  are  any  horses  to  be 
got  in  the  place." 

"I'll  see  about  that;  I  am  now  going  to 
walk  up  to  Larpington  House  to  suggest  that 
the  younger  members  of  the  party  join  in  our 
ride  ;  does  she  ever  ride,  by-the-way  ?" 

"Oh!  yes;  in  a  massive  pompous  kind  of 
way,  with  a  man  out  of  livery  behind  her. " 

"We  will  dispense  to-day  with  the  pomp, 
and  the  man  in  plain  clothes,  the  massiveness 
must  be  put  up  with  ;  leave  Miss  Vicary  to 
me,  and  after  a  few  days  I  will  undertake  to 
know  more  than  she  has  the  least  intention  of 
telling  me  at  present  of  the  Vicary  family  his- 
tory." 

He  did  it  so  easily  and  unconstrainedly  that 
it  seemed  to  them  a  natural  thing  that  the 
handsome,  amusing  young  man  whom  they  had 
only  known  one  short  day,  should  saunter  up 
and  call  on  Mrs.  Waldron  and  Miss  Vicary  at 
an  early  and  unconventional  hour.  He  ex- 
cused his  want  of  ceremonious  observance  by 
explaining  that  it  was  altogether  in  the  plain 
path  of  duty  to  do  whatever  offered  to  be  done 
in  a  place  where  there  was  so  little  going  on. 

"  I  have  induced  my  sister  to  go  for  a  ride 
with  me,  and  I  have  come  up  to  try  and  per- 
suade you  to  join  us,  Miss  Vicary — you  and 
such  of  your  friends  as  have  nothing  better  to 
do." 

"Where  have  you  got  horses  from?"  Miss 
Vicary  asked,  bluntly.  But  inwardly  she  was 
pleased  at  the  prospect  of  such  an  escort  as 
Gilbert  Denham.  Her  circle  of  new  acquaint- 
ances was  a  very  small  one ;  and  the  majority 


of  those  whom  she  knew  in  the  neighborhood 
were  heads  of  houses,  husbands  and  fathers, 
who  had  left  the  days  of  their  youth,  and  all 
taste  for  gay  fooling  far  behind  them.  This 
young  man's  society  was  a  pleasant  change  to 
her,  "however  it  ended,"  as  she  observed  to 
herself. 

"  When  I  have  received  your  promise  to  join 
us,  I  shall  go  in  search  of  horses  for  my  sister 
and  myself;  but  I  want  your  promise  first  to 
give  a  zest  to  the  search,"  he  answered  her,  in 
a  lowered  tone,  and  with  that  sort  of  beseech- 
ing air  that  the  best  of  men  will  assume  at 
times  to  any  thing  but  the  best  of  women. 

"The  Larpington  House  stables  are  too  well 
stocked  to  make  any  search  necessary,"  Mrs. 
Waldron  put  in  graciously.  "My  dear  Melly, 
go,  and  don't  make  any  more  ado  about  it. 
Mr.  Denham,  will  you  be  kind  enough  to  go 
round  to  the  stables  and  choose  horses  for  your 
sister  and  yourself." 

And  so  it  was  settled,  not  exactly  against 
Melly's  will,  but  hardly  with  her  hearty  and 
entire  concurrence.  Nor  can  it  be  declared 
that  Gilbert  carried  his  set  purpose  through  by 
the  force  of  his  unassisted  moral  sway  and 
power  of  acting  as  he  pleased.  It  was  Cir- 
cumstance that  befriended  him  in  this  matter. 
It  was  the  easy  habit  of  doing  the  easy  thing 
that  comes  to  our  hand  to  be  done  that  led, 
Mrs.  Waldron  to  further  his  intimacy  with  her 
daughter,  and  that  led  her  daughter  to  fnll 
into  the  scheme,  though  she  doubted  the  wis- 
dom of  it — doubted  vaguely,  be  it  understood. 
If  Miss  Vicary  could  have  defined  her  fears, 
she  would  have  taken  care  that  they  should 
never  be  realized. 


CHAPTER  Y. 


A  NEW  ALLY. 


MELLY  had  no  sooner  suffered  herself  to 
be  whirled  into  the  vortex  of  her  moth- 
er's gracious  permission  that  every  one  who 
willed  it  should  ride  away  forthwith,  than  she 
remembered  the  Iblets,  and  resolved  that  they 
at  least  should  not  benefit  by  equestrian  exer- 
cise this  morning.  "They're  perfect  sieves," 
she  said  to  Mrs.  Waldron,  when  that  lady  said, 
in  an  excess  of  indulgent  feeling, 

"Why  shouldn't  the  poor  things  go  if  they 
can  sit  upon  a  horse  ?  They  haven't  had  the 
luck  to  have  the  many  pleasures  you  have, 
Melly." 

"They're  perfect  sieves,  mother;  Mr.  Den- 
ham  is  clever  enough  to  lead  them  to  say  any 
thing  he  likes." 

"Well,  my  dear,  they  know  nothing  that 
could  go  against  us  in  any  way ;  when  they 
knew  us  we  were  '  poor  but  honest,' "  and  Mrs. 
Waldron  laughed  gayly  as  she  made  her  quo- 
tation from  the  literature  for  the  moral  im- 
provement of  the  people. 

"All  the  same,  if  they  go  I  won't,"  Melly 
said,  sullenly ;  "  it  sha'n't  go  on  before  my 
eyes,  it's  bad  enough  to  have  gone  through  it 
once ;  to  hear  them  last  night  talking  to  him 
in  their  gushing  awkward  way,  not  a  bit  as  la- 
dies talk,  was  horrible.  What  could  he  have 
thought  of  us  when  it  was  forced  upon  him 
what  our  former  connection  was?  With  all 
your  worldly  wisdom,  mother,  you're  a  child  in 
some  things  still." 

It  boots  not  to  delay  in  the  telling.  The 
end  of  it  was  that  the  Miss  Iblets  remained  at 
home,  when  Miss  Vicary  and  a  gentleman  in 
attendance  on  her  rode  down  to  the  Bridge 
House  to  join  Mrs.  Arthur  Waldron  and  Mr. 
Denham. 

This  cavalier  is  a  new  figure — an  altogether 
fresh  and  altogether  important  figure  on  the 


canvas,  whereon  these  people  and  their  for- 
tunes are  portrayed. 

He  was  making  his  first  call  on  the  lady  of 
Larpington  House,  when  Melly  came  into  the 
room  to  say  that  she  was  about  to  start  for  the 
ride,  and  he  had  already  made  his  explanation 
as  to  why  he  had  not  called  before. 

It  was  brief  and  entirely  satisfactory.  The 
owner  of  the  finest  property  next  to  Larpington 
in  the  neighborhood,  he  (Mr.  Stapylton)  had 
been  absent  from  it  for  the  last  seven  or  eight 
years.  He  had  gone  away  a  gay,  dashing, 
gallant-looking  young  fellow  of  two  or  three- 
and-twenty.  And  now  he  had  come  back  a 
good  typical  well-bred  Englishman  of  thirty, 
after  having  seen  a  good  deal  of  the  Old  World 
and  the  New. 

To  say  that  Frank  Stapylton  resembled 
George  Waldron  in  personal  appearance  would 
be  untrue.  Nevertheless,  there  was  about  him 
a  certain  look,  a  certain  trick  of  bearing  and 
expression,  a  certain  thorough-bred  ease  and 
swing  of  manner  that  reminded  both  these 
women  who  saw  him  for  the  first  time  of  the 
dead  master  of  Larpington. 

Analyze  him,  and  not  a  single  point  of  re- 
semblance in  feature  or  coloring  to  the  dead 
man  who  had  been  such  an  Adonis,  could  have 
been  discovered.  Frank  Stapylton's  hair  and 
eyes  might  have  been  any  color  so  far  as  the 
majority  were  concerned.  While  the  man  or 
woman  must  have  been  obtuse  indeed,  and  af- 
flicted with  the  most  virulent  form  of  color- 
blindedness,  who  could  fail  to  perceive  that 
George  Waldron's  hair  was  of  the  brightest  gold, 
and  his  eyes  of  that  real  violet  velvet  hue,  for 
whose  love-looks  many  a  woman  has  thought 
the  world  well  lost.  Yet,  for  all  these  marked 
differences,  they  did  resemble  one  another  in  a 
variety  of  ways,  in  outline,  in  manner,  in  beau- 


30 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


ty,  in  expression,  in  a  certain  habit  of  being  two 
of  the  chief  men  in  that  county-side. 

It  fell  upon  Mrs.  Arthur  Waldron's  ears  with 
a  sound  as  if  she  had  heard  it  before,  that  state- 
ment he  made  as  to  his  having  been  the  most 
intimate  friend  of  George  and  Arthur  Waldron, 
when  they  were  all  lads  together.  "George 
was  my  senior  by  three  or  four  years,"  he  ex- 
plained, "but  Arthur  and  I  were  just  the  same 
age ;  how  much  I  should  like  to  see  his  wid- 
ow." 

And  then  it  was  made  clear  to  him  that  Mrs. 
Arthur  Waldron,  the  widow  of  the  younger 
brother,  was  living  in  Larpington  village.  And 
by  sheer  force  of  circumstances,  without  any 
wish  on  their  part  that  it  should  be  so,  it  was 
arranged  that  Mr.  Stapylton  should  ride  down 
to  the  Bridge  House  with  Miss  Vicary,  and  be 
introduced  to  the  young  widow. 

It  was  like  a  sudden  relapse  into  the  old  life 
to  Horatia  to  see  this  man,  with  his  vague,  in- 
definite likeness  to  her  dead  husband  and  his 
brother  bowing  before  her.  His  manner,  his 
words  of  hearty  refined  pleasure  at  having  real- 
ized his  desire  of  being  introduced  to  her,  stirred 
her  heart  and  gratified  her  taste.  Miss  Vicary 
was  not  the  medium  through  Whom  she  would 
have  desired  to  gain  knowledge  of  any  new 
people.  But  on  this  occasion  Horatia  freely 
forgave  Miss  Vicary — the  knowledge  gained 
was  so  very  pleasant. 

He  joined  the  riding  party,  and  it  came  about 
so  naturally  that  he  fell  behind  with  her.  They 
had  so  many  interests  in  common  ;  he  could  tell 
her  so  many  incidents  of  their  boyhood  and  very 
young  manhood — "For  we  were  more  like  broth- 
ers than  new  friends,"  he  observed.  And  when 
he  had  said  that  he  looked  into  her  face  for  a 
moment,  and  felt  he  could  trust  her,  and  added, 

"It  nearly  knocked  me  down  this  morning 
when  I  saw  the  woman  George  married.  You 
must  understand  what  I  felt ;  you  must  be  dis- 
gusted." 

"  Not  only  disgusted,  but  nearly  distraught 
about  it,"  she  replied,  with  eager  confidence, 
"  puzzled,  worried,  driven  wild  with  the  crav- 
ing I  have  to  find  out  the  why  and  wherefore 
of  it  all.  Was  George  Waldron  mad  when  he 
wrote  of  that  woman  as  the  '  good  angel  of  his 
life?'" 

And  then  she  went  on  to  tell  of  the  extraor- 
dinary will  and  all  its  injustice,  of  her  suspi- 
cions, of  her  dislike  to  and  her  general  animos- 
ity against  these  current  rulers  at  Larpington 
House — went  on  to  tell  all  these  things  freely 
and  frankly,  as  if  she  had  known  him  for  years ; 
and  at  last,  in  the  most  natural  manner  in  the 


world,  found  herself  asking  him  to  conjecture  as 
to  the  causes  which  could  have  brought  aboul 
George  Waldron's  marriage. 

"It  is  altogether  unaccountable,"  he  said, 
earnestly.  "When  I  saw  Mrs.  Waldron  to- 
day, my  first  feeling  was  that  she  was  mas- 
querading in  jest ;  my  next,  that  George  Wal- 
dron's mind  must  have  been  affected  when 
he  described  his  bride  to  me  in  a  rhapsody 
of  love  and  admiration." 

"After  his  marriage.  You  saw  him  after  his 
marriage  ?"  she  interrupted. 

"  Yes ;  we  met  in  Paris  accidentally.  He 
had  left  Mrs.  Waldron  at  Marseilles.  He  was 
planning  a  tour  in  the  East  then,  and  want- 
ed me  to  join  them.  His  wife  was  full  of 
poetical  fervor  for  the  Morning  Land,  he  told 
me." 

"  How  could  he  bring  himself  to  utter  such 
false  folly  about  a  woman  like  that  ?"  Horatia 
asked,  indignantly.  "Full  of  poetical  fervor  foi 
the  Morning  Land !  I  doubt  if  she  ever  heard 
of  it."  And  then  she  went  on  to  almost  up- 
braid him  for  not  having  gone  back  to  Mar- 
seilles with  George  Waldron,  and  pointed  out 
to  the  latter  the  manifold  imperfections  of  his 
wife. 

"  I  don't  think  I  could  have  carried  my 
friendship  to  him  to  the  extent  of  indorsing 
his  statement  as  his  wife  being  *  one  of  the 
fair-faced  angel  women  for  whom  men  would 
gladly  lay  down  their  lives,' "  he  laughed  out 
merrily. 

"Did  he  say  that?  Do  you  wonder  at  my 
being  irritated  when  I  hear  of  such  senility, 
remembering,  as  I  do  always,  that  my  boy  suf- 
fers from  it  ?  George  Waldron  was  my  hus- 
band's brother,  and  my  husband  loved  him  dear- 
ly, but  he  must  have  been  very  mad  or  very 
bad  to  speak  of  that  swarthy,  repulsive-looking 
woman  as  a  fair- faced  angel." 

"The  daughter  is  a  fine  girl,"  he  said,  look- 
ing up  steadfastly  at  the  pair  who  were  ahead 
of  them.  "Is  a  complication  to  arise,  Mrs. 
Waldron  ? — Is  your  brother  being  lured  by 
love  into  the  enemy's  camp  ?" 

A  scarlet  flush  spread  over  Horatia's  face. 
It  shocked  the  delicate  purity  of  the  young 
matron's  mind  that  her  brother — a  married 
man — should  be  conducting  himself  in  a  way 
that  did  legitimately  give  rise  to  such  a  suspi- 
cion. At  the  same  time  she  could  not  repu- 
diate the  idea  utterly  and  scornfully  as  she  de- 
sired to  do,  for  had  not  Gilbert  cautioned  her, 
for  Gerald's  sake,  "to  keep  the  fact  of  there 
being  a  Mrs.  Gilbert  Denham  in  existence  a 
secret." 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


31 


Still  she  could  not  suffer  such  an  idea  to  ob- 
tain concerning  her  brother.  So  she  looked  at 
her  new  friend  with  wistful,  pleading  eyes,  and 
feeling  she  could  trust  the  man  who  had  spent 


his  boyhood  with  Arthur,  she  said,  "All  is  fair 
in  love  and  war,  you  know ;  and  there  must 
always  be  war  between  these  usurpers  and 
me." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

WAS  IT  A  VICTOKY? 


MEANWHILE  there  was  not  such  a  thor- 
ough cordiality,  not  such  an  utter  want 
of  constraint  between  the  pair  who  were  riding 
on  in  front.  In  some  way  or  other  Miss  Vic- 
ary  had  picked  up  some  of  the  rudiments  of  the 
art  of  riding,  of  which  she  had  been  entirely 
ignorant  before  her  first  appearance  on  the 
Larpington  scene.  But  she  was  far  from  be- 
ing either  an  easy  or  a  graceful  rider.  She 
looked  firm  in  her  saddle,  but  not  fascinating. 
As  he  regarded  her  this  day  riding  steadily 
along  by  his  side,  Gilbert  Denham  was  not 
swayed  by  the  same  sort  of  feelings  that  upset 
Lancelot  on  the  occasion  of  his  first  fatal  ride 
with  the  fair  Queen  Guinevere. 

It  would  have  been  a  very  easy  task  for  the 
woman-pleaser  to  win  Miss  Vicary  into  a  state 
of  complete  forgetfulness  of  his  belonging  to 
the  adverse  faction,  if  he  had  been  so  minded. 

But  her  appearance  on  horseback  was  not 
attractive  enough  to  urge  him  on  to  the  task. 
He  admired  her  more,  and  showed  that  he  ad- 
mired her,  when  she  moved  about  a  room  or 
stalked  along  a  road  like  a  feminine  tower  of 
strength.  And  Miss  Vicary  was  quick  to  feel 
the  slight  chill  which  had  fallen  across  the 
warmer  current  of  his  manner  of  the  last  night 
— quick  to  feel  and  prompt  to  reciprocate. 

A  sullen  gloom  settled  upon  and  clouded 
over  her  for  about  half  a  mile.  She  grew  more 
and  more  taciturn,  and  at  last,  with  an  ill-bred 
Voman's  want  of  power  of  concealment,  she 
displayed  her  annoyance  openly. 

"  We  seem  to  me  to  be  having  a  very  dull 
ride,"  she  pouted;  "it's  always  the  way  if 
people  start  off  at  an  unusual  time,  meaning 
to  be  unusually  happy  ;  we  shall  be  home  again 
about  the  time  we  ought  to  have  been  coming 
out  if  we  had  been  sensible." 

"But  I  hope  you're  not  contemplating  any 
thing  so  cruel  as  curtailing  the  ride,"  he  said 
suavely,  with  sudden  remembrance  of  all  the 


evil  that  might  be  done  by  any  thing  like  an 
expression  of  indifference  to  her ;  "I  am  look- 
ing forward  to  making  it  a  model  of  a  winter's- 
day  idyl.  A  day's  ride  through  such  dales  and 
over  the  crests  of  such  hills  as  these  is  a  ro- 
mance indeed." 

"  Didn't  somebody  write  a  book  with  some 
such  title?"  she  asked,  quickly — "some  one 
who  was  consul  somewhere  abroad  where  we 
were  ?" 

"  Yes,  Lever.  His  title  was  'A  Day's  Ride, 
a  Life's  Romance,'  and  it  was  a  misnomer ; 
but  many  a  life's  romance  is  commenced  in  the 
course  of  a  day's  ride." 

A  commonplace  bit  of  sentiment — worthless, 
though  true  enough — a  mere  platitude,  mean- 
ingless and  idle  and  vague ;  but  still  fraught 
with  feeling  and  meaning,  with  delicious  pos- 
sibilities and  eloquence  to  the  woman  who  list- 
ened to  it.  Gilbert  Denham'a  brow  burned 
with  shame  as  he  realized  how  firmly  she  be- 
lieved in  the  folly  he  only  implied,  and  in  order 
that  he  might  not  be  conscience-smitten  to  re- 
trace his  path  he  hurried  along  it  the  faster — 
with  more  apparent  ardor. 

"The  romance  commenced  for  me  last 
night,"  he  began  in  a  low  tone.  "A  few  hours 
before  I  should  not  have  conceived  it  possible 
to  feel  the  affliction  of  strangers  so  keenly  as  I 
felt  for  you  last  night  in  the  picture-gallery." 

The  color  spread  in  a  flame  over  her  face, 
even  her  throat  reddened  in  a  way  that  told 
him  she  must  be  suffering  some  smarting  pain 
in  her  heart  for  the  blood  to  be  forced  up  with 
such  violence  into  her  usually  pale  face.  After 
the  lapse  of  a  moment  or  two  she  answered 
him,  with  trembling  lips, 

"Her  mental  affliction  was  brought  on  by 
illness— by  unhappiness,  Mr.  Denham, "she  ex- 
plained ;  "  it  is  not  hereditary  in  our  family ; 
it's  quite  an  isolated  case." 

She  spoke  so  earnestly  and  impressively  that 


32 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


her  meaning — the  full  meaning  of  the  assurance 
she  desired  to  convey  to  his  mind,  was  patent 
to  him. 

"There  must  he  a  great  satisfaction  to  your 
mother  in  that,"  he  said,  gently  ;  "  but  to  you 
the  agony  of  seeing  your  young  sister  blighted 
by  unhappiness,  must  have  been  very  terrible. 
Can  you  justify  my  Interest  in  what  concerns 
you  sufficiently  to  tell  me  her  story?" 

She  shifted  the  reins  uneasily  from  one  hand 
to  the  other.  She  re-adjusted  her  habit.  She 
fidgeted  with  her  horse's  mane.  But  she  could 
not  defy  nor  disregard  the  influence  this  man 
was  establishing  over  her,  though  she  had  a 
presentiment  that  harm  would  come  of  it. 

"  The  man  she  was  in  love  with  died  sudden- 
ly, and  it  turned  her  brain,"  she  said,  speaking 
slowly  and  unwillingly,  "  that  is  all  there  is  to 
tell ;  it's  not  a  very  uncommon  story,  I  believe, 
but  we  don't  care  to  talk  about  it." 

"And  you  feel  naturally  that  she  is  happier 
and  better  altogether  at  home  with  those  who 
love  her  than  she  would  be  at  an  asylum  ?  I  un- 
derstand how  that  may  be  well  with  loving  ten- 
der women ;  still,  speaking  as  a  man  who  profes- 
sionally has  had  to  dabble  in  two  or  three  cases 
of  lunacy,  I  should  prefer  the  chances  of  recov- 
ery that  a  residence  in  a  well-attended  asylum 
would  give  her." 

"Don't  dabble  in  this  case,  don't,  Mr.  Den- 
ham,"  she  exclaimed,  eagerly  ;  "  her  case  has 
been  pronounced  hopeless,  and  it  would  be  stir- 
ring up  sorrow  to  make  any  change  now  ;  why 
should  you  care  about  her  at  all  ?"  she  asked, 
relapsing  into  her  womanly  sullenness,  "  You've 
never  seen  her.  You  never  will  see  her,  in  all 
human  probability." 

As  soon  as  she  said  these  words,  a  resolve 
that  he  would  see  the  skeleton  of  Larpington 
House  framed  itself  in  his  mind.  At  any  cost 
he  would  see  her,  though  a  hundred  mothers 
and  massive  sisters  barred  the  doors  of  her 
prison.  Ay,  and  this  girl  by  his  side  should  be 
his  aid  in  the  enterprise. 

"  Never  see  your  sister !"  he  muttered.  "You 
have  indeed  failed  to  recognize  the  full  mean- 
ing of  my  interest  if  you  can  say  that." 

Again  she  was  visibly  affected,  visibly  sway- 
ed by  his  manner,  visibly  shaken  in  her  strong- 
hold by  his  partiality. 

"If  you  came  to  see  her  solely  on  account 
of  her  being  my  sister,  I  hardly  know — how 
can  I  know  what  to  say  ?  I  have  no  sentiment 
about  it,"  she  wound  up  with  abruptly  setting 
her  lips  firmly,  and  retaining  her  veil  of  cal- 
lousness which  was  her  ordinary  garb. 

And  then  Gilbert  Denham  made  a  still  bold- 


er stroke  and  avowed  that  he  "would  wake  it 
in  her ;"  and  the  result  of  that  bright  winter 
day's  ride  was  that  Miss  Vicary  went  home 
pledged  to  bring  him  into  the  presence  of  her 
unfortunate  "  sister  Clarice." 

****** 

For  two  or  three  days,  during  which  inter- 
course was  very  frequent  between  the-  two 
houses,  the  subject  of  Clarice  was  not  mooted. 
Miss  Vicary  hoped  that  it  was  forgotten,  and 
abstained  from  saying  a  word  to  her  mother 
about  it,  in  weak  reliance  on  that  hope.  And 
meantime  she  expanded  into  absolute  warmth 
of  feeling  about  Gilbert  Denham,  and  general- 
ly gathered  such  Christmas  roses  as  he  caused 
to  bloom  about  her  path. 

"She's  actually  getting  fond  of  you  ;  oh  Gil- 
bert!" his  sister  began,  in  a  pleading,  expostu- 
lating tone,  one  morning.  Her  conscience  was 
terribly  tender  this  special  day,  for  all  through 
the  long  hours  of  the  night  she  had  been  haunt- 
ed by  a  fell  spectral  shadow  of  self-reproach 
about  some  new  interests  she  was  beginning 
to  experience,  and  some  new  pleasure  she  was 
permitting  herself  not  to  taste  but  to  think 
about  tasting.  Therefore  it  was  with  tears  in 
her  voice  that  she  said,  "She's actually  getting 
fond  of  yon;  oh  Gilbert!" 

"And  for  your  sake  and  your  boy's  it's  nec- 
essary that  she  should  get  still  fonder  of  me," 
he  answered,  coolly.  And  then  he  told  her  a 
portion  of  the  conversation  he  had  held  with 
Miss  Vicary  while  they  were  out  riding. 

Like  the  majority  of  highly  organized  and 
intensely  sensitive  people,  Horatia  Waldron 
shrank  from  any  communication  with  those 
unhappy  ones  who  are  bereft  of  reason.  So 
it  was  with  a  shudder  of  mingled  pity  and  re- 
pugnance that  she  exclaimed — 

"Why  put  yourself  in  the  way  of  the  mad 
Miss  Vicary  ?  isn't  the  sane  one  difficult  enough 
and  disagreeable  enough  too  for  that  mat- 
ter ?" 

"  The  mad  one  will  suit  my  purpose  better ; 
I  have  a  strong  feeling  that  I  shall  come  out 
of  my  interview  with  her  with  the  end  of  the 
clue  in  my  hand;  and,"  he  continued,  rising 
up,  "I  mean  to  have  the  interview  this  very 
day." 

"Supposing  she  should  be  dangerous,  Gil- 
bert," she  suggested,  anxiously.  "  The  Vicarys 
are  rather  on  an  alarming  scale  ;  supposing  she 
should  fly  at  and  hurt  you  ?" 

"I  shall  have  a  powerful  protector  in  the 
person  of  her  sister,  the  fair  Melly,"  he  laughed 
out  merrily.  "  Come,  look  up,  little  woman  ; 
your  prospects  improve ;  I  believe  your  dayc 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


33 


In  the  obscurity  of  the  Bridge  House  are  num- 
bered." 

"  How  sanguine  he  is,  and  how  bright  and 
good,"  she  thought,  as  he  walked  away  alone 
at  last.  "Does  the  end  justify  the  means,  I 
wonder;  I  must  say  the  means  are  very  un- 
pleasant— unpleasant  to  me  and  unworthy  of 
Gilbert;  but—" 

But !  she  remembered  little  Gerald,  and  she 
could  not  help  herself.  Two  mighty  motives 
for  being  perfectly  quiescent. 

Gilbert  Denham  meanwhile  would  not,  dared 
not,  glance  at,  much  less  deliberately  consider, 
the  aspect  and  bearing  of  a  single  step  that  in- 
tervened between  himself  and  his  goal.  He  re- 
solved upon  reaching  it.  That  was  all.  The 
* '  something  "  that  there  was  to  discover  he  de- 
termined upon  discovering.  What  that  some- 
thing might  be  he  had  not  the  faintest  suspi- 
cion—  the  faintest  shadow  of  a  suspicion.  If 
he  had  been  burdened,  or  blessed,  with  one  he, 
too,  might  have  fainted  in  spirit,  and  have  fal- 
tered on  his  path  to  that  inevitable  end  which 
a  great  writer  has  made  a  familiar  friend  to  us 
in  fiction. 

But  fate  and  circumstances  favored  his  de- 
sign to-day.  Whether  these  mighty  allies  did 
so  to  his  ultimate  entire  satisfaction  or  not, 
must  remain  an  open  question. 

As  he  went  up  the  avenue  to  Larpington 
House,  an  avenue  which  somewhat  resembled 
a  cathedral  aisle  with  its  regular  massive  pillar- 
like  elms,  whose  branches  met  in  a  grand  lofty 
arch  at  a  great  height  above,  he  met  the  daugh- 
ter of  the  house,  unaccompanied  save  by  a  ple- 
thoric pug. 

It  has  been  said  that  she  looked  well  in  out- 
of-door  costume,  when  marching  majestically 
over  a  good  space  of  ground.  And  to-day  she 
felt  that  she  looked  even  better  than  usual,  and 
the  feeling  put  her  at  her  best,  as  it  does  every 
woman. 

Her  hat  became  her,  coming  well  down  over 
her  forehead,  and  just  leaving  the  straight  dark 
line  of  her  well-defined  brows  visible  beneath 
its  velvet  edge.  There  was  a  soft  curly  plume, 
a  nice  compact  fluffy  thing,  flopping  over  the 
brim,  which  was  borne  out  and  well  supported 
by  the  bright  scarlet  satin  petticoat  which  she 
wore  under  a  black  velvet  polonaise. 

And  again  there  was  a  something  good  and 
oasy  and  suggestive  of  the  fine  well-drawn  fig- 
ure beneath  it,  in  the  cut  of  this  polonaise.  In 
a  loose  jacket,  that  did  not  indicate  her  lines, 
Miss  Vicary  would  have  resembled  a  milch- 
cow  rather  than  a  modern  Cleopatra.  Her 
appearance  to-day  made  his  task  easy  and 
3 


pleasant,  and  so  he  did  not  halt  in  his  purpose 
of  entering  upon  it. 

That  Miss  Vicary  was  one  of  those  danger- 
ous creatures  who  was  torpid  and  phlegmatic 
apparently  until  their  weak  point  is  touched, 
and  who  then  wake  up  into  a  fullness  and 
warmth  of  life,  and  a  vigor  of  will,  that  is  apt 
to  sweep  away  all  before  it  like  a  devastating 
flood,  was  becoming  evident  to  him.  That  lie 
had  touched  that  weak  point— a  subdued  but 
passionate  longing  for  love — was  also  evident. 
And  that  she  would  not  only  be  revengeful,  but 
would  be  revenged  when  she  discovered  th;;t 
she  had  been  befooled,  was  a  certainty.  Nev- 
ertheless he  went  on  unfalteringly,  although  he 
liked  the  woman  he  was  going  to  hurt. 

It  is  not  a  pleasant  task  this,  of  endeavoring 
to  analyze  the  feelings  of  a  man  who  was  en- 
gaged on  a  piece  of  deliberate  deception.  Still 
it  must  be  done ;  otherwise,  in  view  of  his  con- 
duct, all  respect  for  his  character  would  be  lost. 
The  former  must  appear  to  be  bold,  unscrupu- 
lous, pitiless.  For  Gilbert  Denham  regarded 
himself  at  this  juncture  simply  as  an  unpaid  de- 
tective, and  deemed  that  in  the  endeavor  to  un- 
ravel crime  he  was  justified,  both  by  honor  and 
by  law,  in  false  pretenses  that  would  otherwise 
have  been  loathsome  to  him. 

She  too  had  determined  to  bring  things  to  an 
issue  this  day,  but  to  a  very  different  issue  to 
that  which  he  had  in  his  mind.  As  has  been 
said,  Gilbert  Denham  was  the  first  gentleman 
who  had  "ever  made  love  to  her."  The  first 
gentleman,  be  it  observed  !  There  was  a  men- 
tal reservation  on  her  part  when  she  made  this 
statement  to  herself. 

This  being  the  case,  and  he  having  stirred 
such  depths  as  there  were  in  a  heart  that  had 
never  been  thoroughly  awakened,  she,  with  a 
certain  coarse  impatience  that  would  not  brook 
delay,  resolved  upon  conducting  herself  toward 
him  so  as  to  leave  him  in  no  doubt  as  to  the 
success  of  his  suit.  It  was  a  portion  of  her 
creed— it  is  unfortunately  a  portion  of  the  creed 
of  many  a  woman  who  is  better  defended  by 
breeding  and  education  from  falling  a  prey  to 
such  an  error  than  was  Miss  Vicary — it  was  a 
portion  of  her  creed  that  a  woman  may  very 
well  go  more  than  half-way  to  meet  a  man  who 
has  moved  one  step  toward  her.  The  profess- 
ors of  this  popular  and  rather  debasing  super- 
stition rarely  find  that  their  reliance  upon  it  is 
realized.  Nevertheless  it  flourishes,  this  ungen- 
tle faith,  and  its  followers  adhere  to  and  up- 
hold it  with  a  fervor  that  tells  not  of  repeated 
failure. 

On  this  occasion,  as  soon  as  she  met  Gilbert 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


Denham,  Miss  Vicary  did  not  tell  him  that  she  I 
had  come  out  with  her  war-paint  on  expressly  | 


to  meet  him.     But  she  showed  him  that  she 


had  done  so  in  a  way  that  would  have  made 
words  weak  as  a  means  of  flattery  in  comparison. 

Her  blush  was  beyond  her  control,  perhaps, 
but  her  passionately  penetrating  glance,  the  ten- 
der way  in  which  she  inclined  her  head  toward 
him,  and  the  desperate  tenacity  with  which  she 
clung  to  the  clasp  of  his  hand  as  she  stood 
speechless  before  him,  all  these  were  weapons 
that  it  would  have  been  more  womanly  to  have 
sheathed. 

But  she  did  not  sheathe  them.  She  waved 
them  and  caused  them  to  flash,  and  strove  with 
all  her  might  (and  she  had  power)  to  dazzle 
him  by  a  display  of  them.  And  she  succeeded 
in  dazzling  him  apparently,  for  his  eyes  and 
voice  and  manner  grew  softer.  It  is  given  to 
few  men  to  be  virtuously  discourteous  when  a 
woman  reverses  the  order  of  things,  and  makes 
those  advances  which  men  ordinarily  prefer  re- 
serving to  themselves,  as  their  own  special  priv- 
ilege. 

The  long  lingering  pressure  of  her  hand  had 
not  the  power  to  thrill  him  much — handsomer 
women  had  pressed  his  hand  before  this  day 
dawned  on  him — but  though  it  did  not  thrill 
him  he  returned  it.  A  Sir  Galahad  would  not 
have  done  this,  but  Gilbert  Denham  was  not  a 
Sir  Galahad.  He  was  a  nineteenth -century 
man  of  the  world,  bent  on  making  a  woman 
whom  he  admired  and  distrusted  serve  a  pur- 
pose to  the  fulfillment  of  which  he  had  pledged 
his  legal  skill  and  intellectual  ability.  From 
the  moment  he  returned  that  hand-clasp  she 
was  in  his  toils.  She  might  glide,  slide,  evade, 
spring  with  the  subtlety  and  power  of  a  panther. 
But  he  was  infolding  her  with  the  subtler  force 
and  strength  of  the  boa-constrictor.  But  he 
admired  the  creature  out  of  whom  he  meant  to 
crush  a  secret,  and  so  he  would  not  hurt  her 
more  than  was  necessary. 

"Did  you  come  to  meet  me,  did  you?"  he 
asked.  And  the  way  in  which  he  •  asked  it 
would  have  led  a  cleverer  woman  than  Emme- 
line  Vicary  to  believe  that  he  hoped  she  had 
from  the  bottom  of  his  heart. ' 

"I  was  going  for  a  walk,  and  I'm  glad  I 
didn't  miss  you,"  she  replied,  with  a  certain 
bold  shyness  that  characterizes  the  concessions 
of  some  women. 

"  Don't  go  on  to  the  road,"  he  pleaded,  "  the 
roads  are  hard  and  prosaic,  and  rather  chilly,  to 
tell  the  truth,  to-day :  let  us  go  into  the  shelter 
of  the  woods ;  or  are  you  not  shod  for  the  un- 
dergrowth ?" 


She  held  out  a  large,  well-shaped,  well-booted 
foot  by  way  of  answer,  and  taking  the  gesture 
for  one  of  assent  to  his  proposition,  he  led  her 
from  the  avenue  down  a  turfed  path,  and  they 
were  soon  in  seclusion  under  green  trees. 

This  was  all  very  well,  and  very  promising 
as  far  as  it  went.  But  Gilbert  Denham  had  no 
intention  of  spending  the  shining  hours  in  pa- 
cing up  and  down  a  grassy  alley,  and  raising 
hopes  that  were  eventually  to  be  defeated  in 
Miss  Vicary 's  breast.  While  she  was  wonder- 
ing how  long  this  state  of  ecstatic  expectation 
would  last,  and  in  what  way  it  would  be  brought 
to  a  termination  by  a  definite  offer  of  marriage, 
he  was  casting  about  for  the  surest  means  of 
getting  himself  conveyed  without  delay  into  the 
presence  of  her  mentally  afflicted  sister,  Clarice. 

"  I  should  make  this  wood  my  reading-room 
in  the  summer,  if  I  lived  here,"  he  said,  as  they 
came  to  a  clearer  space  in  which  the  trees  as- 
sumed a  larger  and  more  forest-like  appearance. 

"I  think  I  prefer  reading  in  the  house  in  an 
arm-chair  when  I  read  at  all,"  she  replied.  It 
was  not  at  all  in  harmony  with  her  feelings  that 
the  conversation  should  take  a  literary  turn. 

"Yes,  the  house  and  an  arm-chair  for  the 
perfect  appreciation  of  some  books  I  allow. 
Anthony  Trollope's  novels,  for  instance,  ought 
to  be  read  under  every  condition  of  comfort 
that  modern  civilization  enables  us  to  surround 
ourselves  with ;  but  this  is  the  spot  I'd  select 
to  read  Keats  in  or  Tennyson ;  he  must  have 
been  here  when  he  wrote  '  The  Talking  Oak.' " 

"I  don't  know  any  thing  about  Keats,"  she 
answered,  with  a  sulky  conviction  growing  upon 
her  that  he  was  going  out  of  her  depth,  where 
she  would  be  unable  to  follow  him,  on  purpose 
to  get  rid  of  her.  "I  don't  know  any  thing 
about  Keats;  and  as  for  Tennyson's  'May 
Queen,'  I  hate  it.  I  hate  every  thing  that  be- 
gins in  joy  and  ends  in  sorrow  all  in  a  min- 
ute." 

"But  you  don't  hate  the  Idyls,  you  can't 
hate  the  Idyls,"  he  went  on  hurriedly,  seeing 
that  she  knew  nothing  about  them.  "  It  must 
have  been  in  this  very  wood  that  Vivien  fooled 
Merlin,  as  women  have  gone  on  fooling  men 
from  that  day  to  this ;  do  you  remember  that 
verse  where  he  says, 

"'My  name,  once  mine,  now  thine,  is  doubly  mine, 
For  fame,  could  fame  be  mine,  that  fame  were 

thine, 
And  shame,  could  shame  be  thine,  that  shame  were 

mine, 
So  trust  me  not  at  all,  or  all  in  all.' " 

"I  didn't  remember  that,"  Emmy  answered, 
emphasizing  the  last  word  in  a  way  that  was 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


35 


designed  to  make  him  believe  that  she  did  re- 
member the  rest  of  the  poem. 

"Poor  old  fellow,  and  she  was  humbugging 
him  the  whole  time,"  Gilbert  laughed.  "I 
find  myself  entering  heartily  into  Merlin's  feel- 
ings, and  sympathizing  with  him  more  than  I 
ever  did  before,  now  that  I  find  myself  in  what 
I  believe  to  be  the  very  wood  to  which  she  fol- 
lowed him." 

"  How  fanciful  you  are,  Mr.  Denham,"  she 
said,  discontentedly.  "Why  can't  you  be  sat- 
isfied to  take  to-day  in  the  wood  as  you  find 
it,  and  leave  fabulous  Merlins  and  Viviens 
alone  ?" 

"  You  are  right :  '  to-day  in  the  wood '  is  fair 
enough  for  any  man,"  he  said,  in  a  lower  voice. 
Then  he  let  silence  reign  for  a  few  moments,  in 
order  that  the  "lowered  tone"  might  have  am- 
ple time  to  take  its  due  effect  before  he  re- 
sumed. 

"  '  To-day '  in  the  wood  is  sufficiently  fair  to 
make  me  hope  that  there  may  be  a  to-morrow 
in  the  wood  for  me." 

"Why  doesn't  he  ask  me  to-day,"  Emmy 
thought  impatiently,  as  he  paused  again.  Then 
he  went  on,  "It  is  fair  enough  to  beguile  me 
into  the  folly  of  reminding  a  lady  of  her  prom- 
ises ;  you  promised  to  let  me  know  your  poor 


sister  Clarice.  I  shall  not  feel  that  you  '  trust 
me  all  in  all '  until  I  do." 

It  was  a  disappointing  climax.  The  girl  real- 
ly thought  a  minute  before  that  he  was  on  the 
brink  of  asking  her  to  be  his  wife.  However, 
considering  her  lack  of  both  blood  and  culture, 
she  bore  her  disappointment  bravely  enough. 

"I  don't  know  what  mamma  will  say,"  she 
managed  to  utter;  "but  as  far  as  I  am  con- 
cerned, you  may  see  her  this  morning." 

They  had  turned,  and  were  nearly  out  in  the 
open  avenue  again,  as  she  said  this,  and  he 
came  to  a  full  stop  before  her,  taking  her  hand 
very  gently,  almost  caressingly. 

"  I  have  one  more  favor  to  ask.  My  sister 
lives  very  quietly,  as  you  know,  gives  no  par- 
ties, scarcely  sees  any  society  at  all;  now,  in 
her  name,  I  am  to  ask  you  to  dine  and  spend 
this  evening  at  the  Bridge  House ;  will  you  ?" 

Would  she?  What  would  she  not  have 
done  for  this  man,  who  was  so  rapidly  the  em- 
pire of  her  soul. 

"Yes,  I  will,"  she  said,  with  a  pant.  "It 
is  kind  of  Mrs.  Arthur  to  wish  to  see  me  so  in- 
timately." 

Then  they  walked  back  to  Larpington  House, 
and  she  led  him  straight  through  the  picture- 
gallery  to  the  door  of  Clarice's  room. 


CHAPTER  VII. 


CLARICE. 


DENHAM  almost  pitied  the 

ordinarily  resolute  girl  for  the  wealth  of 
irresolution  and  anxiety  she  displayed  when  at 
last  she  had  brought  him  to  the  brink  of  his 
bourne. 

"I  think,  after  all,  I  had  better  go  and  call 
mamma  ?"  she  said,  interrogatively.  "  Mam- 
ma quells  her  when  no  one  else  can ;  and  the 
sight  of  a  stranger  may  make  her — " 

"What?  violent?"  Gilbert  suggested,  as 
Emmy  hesitated. 

"  No,  not  violent,  but  talkative,"  she  explain- 
ed; "and  as  she  never  talks  before  mamma,  I 
think  I  had  better  fetch  her  at  once." 

"  But  I  assure  you,  even  if  she  is  garrulous, 
I  will  show  no  aggravating  signs  of  being 
startled  or  surprised,"  Gilbert  pleaded,  watch- 
ing Miss  Vicary  carefully  the  while,  taking  in 
critically  each  additional  shade  of  sullenness 
as  it  flitted  over  her  face,  and  being  zealous  in 
the  taking  of  keen  mental  notes  about  the  fal- 
tering purpose  there  was  in  the  hand  that  clasp- 
ed and  fitfully  released  the  door-bell. 

"And  you  will  come  away  the  moment  I 
tell  you  that  your  presence  distresses  her  ?" 

"  I  will  come  away  the  instant  my  presence 
distresses  her,"  he  answered,  promptly. 

"  Come  on,  then,"  she  said  quickly,  ringing 
the  bell  sharply  as  she  spoke ;  and  the  next 
moment  the  door  was  opened  by  the  man 
whose  manner  had  struck  Gilbert  as  being  al- 
ternately sycophantic  and  melodramatically 
pretentious  on  the  night  of  his  (Gilbert  Den- 
ham's)  first  dining  there. 

"  What,  Emmy ! "  he  ejaculated.  And  then 
he  caught  sight  of  Miss  Vicary's  companion ; 
and  retaining  a  firm  grasp  of  the  door,  he  came 
a  step  outside,  and  looked  from  one  to  the 
other  with  a  glance  like  a  corkscrew. 

"Mr.  Denham  has  got  me  to  promise  him 
an  introduction  to  my  sister  Clarice,  Mr.  Car- 


ter," Emmy  explained,  in  reply  to  his  mute  in- 
terrogation. 

"I  thought  you  had  more  regard  for  her 
than  to  propose  making  her  a  spectacle,"  the 
man  addressed  as  "Mr.  Carter"  answered. 
"  I  am  sure  Mr.  Denham  will  take  my  word 
for  it,  as  her — mental  superintendent,  shall  I 
call  myself? — that  the  unfortunate  young  lady 
is  happier  when  left  undisturbed." 

There  was  something  sly  in  the  man's  in- 
sinuating tones  that  irritated  Gilbert  Denham. 
"  He  is  a  slimy  thing,  and  shall  be  made  to 
crawl,"  was  the  resolve  of  the  latter.  But 
slimy  things  have  the  knack  of  slipping  out  of 
one's  grasp,  unless,  handled  judiciously.  Gil- 
bert Denham  was  not  the  man  to  suffer  any 
thing  to  slip  out  of  his  grasp  by  reason  of  inju- 
dicious handling. 

He  would  not  address  the  man — the  subor- 
dinate who  was  manifestly  merely  one  of  the 
agents  in  this  business,  whatever  it  might  turn 
out  to  be.  He  definitely  addressed  one  of  the 
principals  without  hesitation. 

"Accident  seems  determined  to  intervene 
to  prevent  our  becoming  better  acquainted, 
Miss  Vicary,"  he  said,  quietly.  "It  is  not  for 
me  to  oppose  your  wishes ;  let  me  thank  you 
for  having  seemed  to  wish  to  gratify  mine." 

It  was  his  last  card  this,  and  he  played  it 
down  boldly,  as  if  he  had  been  backed  by  all 
the  honors  of  the  same  suit.  It  was  his  last 
card !  And  with  it  he  won  the  trick. 

"  I  didn't  only  seem,  I  really  meant  to  grati- 
fy your  Avishes,"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  gasp. 
"  Mr.  Carter,  please  to  let  us  pass — this  is  my 
business ;  I  take  the  responsibility  of  Mr.  Den- 
ham's  visit  to  my  sister  entirely  on  my  own 
shoulders." 

The  man  she  spoke  to  stood  back  as  she  de- 
sired him ;  and  Gilbert  Denham  following  her 
quickly  before  she  had  time  to  have  a  second 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


37 


thought  as  to  what  she  was  doing,  or  to  change 
her  mind,  found  himself  in  a  small  octagon 
anteroom,  which  was  furnished  neatly  and 
prettily,  and  hung  round  with  a  set  of  spirited- 
ly-executed water-color  drawings. 

"The  work  of  our  poor  young  friend  before 
her  affliction,"  Mr.  Carter  said,  introducing  the 
drawings  with  a  wave  of  his  hand  to  Gilbert 
Denham's  notice. 

Up  to  this  moment  Miss  Vicary  had  been 
slightly  in  advance  of  the  two  men,  but  at  this 
juncture  she  came  back  a  step  or  two. 

"  Will  you  go  first,  Mr.  Carter  ?"  she  said  ; 
"  we'll  follow."  And  seeing  something  that 
looked  like  faltering  in  her  step  as  she  said 
this,  Gilbert  Denham  offered  her  his  arm,  and 
compelled  her  to  walk  into  Clarice's  room  by 
his  side. 

It  all  took  place  in  a  moment.  Following 
closely  on  Mr.  Carter's  steps,  they  passed  be- 
neath some  curtains  that  were  raised  by  a  pul- 
ley, through  a  door-way,  and  into  a  lofty,  well- 
lighted  room  that  was  occupied  by  two  women. 

One  of  these  stood  by  a  window,  and  she  was 
in  the  act  of  drawing  up  a  blind,  and  was  look- 
ing round  consulting  some  one  as  to  the  exact 
height  to  which  it  should  be  raised,  and  the  ex- 
act amount  of  light  which  she  should  admit. 
She  was  a  stoutly-built,  kindly-faced,  middle- 
aged  woman  ;  and  she  looked  precisely  what 
she  was— a  nurse.  Gilbert  Denham's  eyes  and 
understanding  took  her  in  at  a  glance.  Then 
they  both  turned  to  the  contemplation  of  the 
other  woman. 

She  was  sitting  at  a  table  with  her  back  to 
them  as  they  came  on  from  the  door-way  ;  her 
left  elbow  planted  on  the  table,  her  left  cheek 
resting  on  her  clenched  hand — and  what  a  tiny 
white  clenched  hand  it  was,  Gilbert  Denham 
instantly  noticed.  Her  figure  was  slender. 
"  It  ought  to  have  been  far  plumper  and  round- 
er," he  thought,  as  he  remarked  the  width  of 
the  well-modeled  shoulders.  A  mass  of  soft- 
looking,  bright,  yellow  hair  was  gathered  up 
into  a  large  roll  at  the  back  of  her  head.  Her 
plain  black  silk  dress  hung  in  rich  graceful  folds 
about  her.  Around  her  altogether  there  was 
an  air  of  refinement  which  startled  him  in  Mrs. 
Waldron's  daughter. 

In  the  one  moment  of  pausing  on  entering 
the  room,  he  saw  and  appreciated  all  these 
things.  Then  that  moment  passed  —  he  and 
his  companions  advanced  into  the  room,  and 
the  lady  at  the  table  raised  her  head  from  her 
hand,  turned  round  and  looked  at  them. 

An  exclamation  of  unbounded  mingled  pity 
and  admiration  burst  from  his  heart,  and  was 


only  half  checked  on  his  lips  as  he  looked  into 
this  woman's  face  for  the  first  time.  He  had 
anticipated  seeing  a  certain  amount  of  wrecked 
prettiness.  But  there  was  an  expression  in  the 
dark,  soft,  violet  eyes  of  the  woman  before  him 
— a  look  of  such  unutterable  despair,  in  her 
white,  wasted,  but  still  more  lovely  face,  that 
stirred  him  strangely. 

There  was  not  the  faintest  trace  of  confusion, 
violence,  or  excitement  in  her  manner  or  coun- 
tenance, as  she  quietly  regarded  her  visitors  for 
a  few  moments.  A  look  of  repulsion,  of  loath- 
ing almost,  came  into  her  eyes  as  they  rested 
on  her  sister,  but  this  was  but  for  a  second. 
Her  gaze  traveled  on  to  Gilbert,  and  rested 
there. 

And  as  it  rested  on  him,  he  studied  her  with 
an  intensity  that  made  Emmeline  Vicary  quail. 

Clarice  had  crossed  her  arms  before  her  on 
the  table  over  a  drawing-board  on  which  she 
had  been  trying  to  trace  the  outlines  of  some 
vaguely  remembered  scene.  It  was  a  wistful, 
anxious  face  that  was  uplifted  to  their  view. 
But  he  would  never  have  discerned  that  she 
was  mentally  afflicted  from  the  expression. 

The  dominating  expression  of  both  her  per- 
son and  manner  was  refinement.  It  pervaded 
her  whole  aspect  with  a  subtle  power  that  made 
him  marvel  at  her  being  the  sister  of  the  wom- 
an by  his  side.  A  sudden  longing  to  hear  her 
voice — to  discover  if  its  tones  were  harmonious 
with  her  appearance,  seized  him. 

"Won't  you  speak  to  your  sister?"  he  whis- 
pered to  Emraeline  Vicary  ;  "  doesn't  she  know 
you?" 

His  tones,  low  as  they  were,  caught  the  ear 
of  the  lady  at  the  table.  As  Emmeline  stiffly 
approached  Clarice,  the  latter  pushed  her  chair 
from  the  table  slightly,  and  leaning  back  in  it, 
and  clasping  her  hands  together  with  nervous 
uncertain  force  in  her  lap,  she  said  complain- 

ingly, 

"  Why  have  you  come  here,  Emily,  when  I 
have  not  sent  for  you  ;  and  why  do  you  come 
to  me  dressed  in  this  absurd  way  ?  You  know 
I  have  never  approved  of  it ;  it  is  a  style  that 
does  not  become  your  station,  and  when  young 
women  dress  out  of  their  station  mischief  inva- 
riably comes  of  it.  As  some  one  used  to  say." 

Her  manner  was  coherent  enough,  and  her 
words  were  arranged  in  proper  sequence.  But 
a  chill  fell  on  Gilbert  Denham's  hopes  as  he 
listened  to  her.  There  was  a  want  of  purpose 
in  her  voice  and  her  management  of  the  same 
that  belied  the  sanity  he  had  fancied  he  had 
seen  in  her  face.  Somehow  or  other  in  spite 
of  the  strong  appeal  her  lovely  despairing  face 


38 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


had  made  to  his  sympathies,  these  latter  veered 
round  to  Miss  Vicary  as  he  saw  how  abashed 
and  humiliated  she  seemed  by  her  mad  sister's 
rebuke. 

"  I  am  sorry  that  you  are  vexed  to  see  me, 
Clarice."  Miss  Vicary  managed  to  utter  these 
words  presently,  but  she  did  so  with  such  an  ob- 
vious effort  that  she  invested  their  bald  simplic- 
ity with  a  wealth  of  possible  meaning. 

"I  protest  against  the  familiarity,"  the  sis- 
ter, who  was  bereft  of  reason,  replied,  rising 
from  her  chair  as  she  spoke,  and  quivering  with 
angry  emotion.  "I  know  that  it's  useless  my 
protesting.  I  know  that  my  protests  fall  on 
callous  ears.  I  know  I'm  mad  to  value  them  ; 
but—" 

She  hesitated,  looked  round  at  the  man  Em- 
meline  had  called  Mr.  Carter,  and  burst  out 
crying  in  a  forlorn  hopeless  way  that  was  infi- 
nitely distressing  to  Gilbert  Denham.  Still,  for 
all  the  distress  the  sight  occasioned  him,  he 
could  not,  he  would  not,  tear  himself  away 
from  the  study  of  it. 

"Her  moods  are  variable,"  Carter  said, 
crossing  over  to  Gilbert  Denham.  "I  should 
.strongly  advise  that  you  go  away  now." 
•  "  Who  is  this  man  ?  Is  he  one  of  their 
people?"  Clarice  was  addressing  Carter  now, 
and  she  palpably  included  all  the  race  of  Vic- 
ary when  she  asked  if  he  was  one  of  "their" 
people. 

"He  is  a  friend  of  mamma's,"  Emmeline 
interposed,  "and  of  mine,  too,  which  is  the 
reason  he  wished  to  know  my  sister,"  she  add- 
ed, bluntly  and  defiantly. 

More  anger,  a  fuller  emotion  evidently  swept 
over  Clarice's  soul  and  "  possessed "  it  as  it 
were.  The  sweet  violet  eyes  dilated,  flashed, 
and  then  grew  dim  behind  the  tears  that  rush- 
ed from  them.  In  her  pitiful  powerlessness 
(how  that  powerlessness  was  expressed  in  ev- 
ery feature),  she  turned  to  the  chair  she  had 
just  left,  and  caught  hold  of  its  back  for  sup- 
port as  she  shook  out  these  words — 

"Oh!  my  memory,  my  memory!  Why 
can't  I  even  remember  how  to  prove  that  they 
lie  ?  My  sister  wouldn't  keep  a  cat  shut  up 
in  this  way ;  and  you  call  yourself  '  my  sister.' " 

"You  see  how  unreasonable  she  is,"  Emme- 
line muttered.  "She's  always  like  this— al- 
ways giving  herself  absurd  airs,  and  pretend- 
ing all  sorts  of  things  ;  come  away  now  ;  you 
haven't  spoken  to  her  even — what  is  the  good 
of  staying." 

"I  will  speak  now,"  he  said,  in  the  same 
tone,  and  then  he  advanced  in  an  easy  matter- 
of-fact  way  to  the  side  of  the  poor  shaken  girl, 


who  was  struggling  painfully  to  suppress  her 
sobs,  and  said, 

"  Will  you  allow  me  to  look  at  your  sketch  ?" 

She  turned  large  surprised  eyes  on  him  at 
once. 

"Yes,  you  may  look  if  you  like;  but  it's 
from  what  I  haven't  got  any  longer,  'Mem- 
ory,'" she  replied,  "it's  meant  to  be  a  Sketch 
of  a  lovely  place  I  saw  when  every  place  on 
earth  was  lovely  to  me." 

"Ah!  a  bit  of  the  Mediterranean  coast?" 
he  suggested,  affecting  to  look  critically  at  the 
sketch,  where  some  shaky  strokes  represented 
the  land  line,  and  a  splash  of  blue  the  waters 
of  a  severely  circular  bay. 

"I  don't  know,"  Clarice  answered,  droop- 
ing wearily  down  into  her  chair,  leaning  both 
elbows  on  the  table,  and  making  wedges  of 
both  hands  for  her  face  to  rest  upon,  as  she 
contemplated  the  work  of  art  under  discussion. 
"Where  was  it?  Can  you  remember,  Em- 
ily ?"  she  continued,  turning  her  head  slightly 
with  a  natural  air  of  command  to  her  sister  in 
the  background. 

Miss  Vicary  stepped  forward,  looked  at  the 
sketch,  lifted  her  eyes  with  an  air  of  weary  dep- 
recation for  Gilbert's  benefit,  and  then  replied 
that  she  "  could  not  call  the  spot  to  mind  at 
the  moment." 

"  Can  you,  you  ?"  Clarice  resumed,  address- 
ing Mr.  Carter,  impatiently,  drumming  on  the 
table  with  the  little  hand  that  was  again  folded 
up  tightly  together  the  while.  "  Do  make  an 
effort!"  she  continued,  a  smile  that  would  have 
been  malicious  if  it  had  brightened  a  less  fail- 
face,  beaming  over  hers  suddenly,  "do  make 
an  effort !  I  like  to  hear  you  bungle  over  for- 
eign names." 

"  Clarice  is  not  amiable  !"  was  Gilbert  Den- 
ham's  mental  comment,  "but  she's  a  marvel- 
ous flower  to  have  bloomed  on  such  a  family 
tree  as  the  VicarysV 

"Miss  Clarice  is  about  to  have  one  of  her 
most  trying  attacks,  I  fear,"  Carter  said,  in  an 
insolent  kind  of  style,  aside  to  Gilbert.  "I 
should  strongly  recommend  any  one  to  depart 
who  does  not  desire  to  see  an  unseemly  exhi- 
bition." 

"  Come,  Mr.  Denham,"  Emmeline  pleaded, 
and  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes  as  she  spoke. 
Gilbert,  after  the  manner  of  men  when  they 
like  a  woman,  believed  that  these  tears  flowed 
from  pity's  pure  fount,  that  they  were  in  very 
truth  crystal  tributes  of  sympathy  for  her  sis- 
ter. It  might  possibly  have  occurred  to  a  clear- 
visioned  observer  of  her  own  sex  that  they  were 
tears  of  mortification  and  annoyance  at  the  ex- 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


39 


pression  of  ardent  admiration  which  had  lived 
on  Gilbert's  face  from  the  moment  of  his  gaze 
first  falling  on  the  blonde  beauty  who  had  lost 
what  she  called  her  Memory ;  and  they  affirm- 
ed to  be  her  reason. 

"Come,  Mr.  Denham!"  Emmeline  repeat- 
ed, with  an  impatient  accent  that  Gilbert  saw 
fit  to  disregard. 

"Good-morning,"  he  said  very  gently  to 
Clarice,  holding  his  hand  out  with  an  air  of 
appeal  as  he  spoke. 

"Good-bye,"  she  answered,  promptly  giving 
him  hers  without  hesitation. 

"  Must  this  be  good-bye  ?  may  I  not  call  on 
you  again  ?" 

"  Call  on  me  ?  nonsense !  con>9,  if  they  wilj 
let  you  in — which  I  doubt  their  doing,  as  you 
seem  to  like  me,"  she  wound  up  with  sharply, 
glancing  suspiciously  at  her  sister. 

"Always  unjust  to  me — always  at  her  worst 
when  I  am  near  her,"  Emmeline  pouted  omi- 
nously. "Do  come  away,  Mr.  Denham,  if  you 
don't  want  to  see  a  thunderbolt  launched  at  my 
head.  Good-bye;  Clarice." 

"It's  folly  calling  me  by  a  name  that  was 
never  mine,  even  if  I  have  lost  my  memory," 
Clarice  replied,  and  there  was  again  a  degree 
of  provocation  that  was  almost  insolent  in  her 
manner.  Then,  as  at  last  her  visitors  turned 
to  leave  her,  she  resumed  the  attitude  she  had 
been  in  when  they  entered  the  room,  and  re- 
commenced daubing  brilliant  colors  over  her 
drawing-board. 

"A  wreck,  you  see,  a  complete  wreck,"  Mr. 
Carter  said,  in  a  confidential  tone,  to  Gilbert, 
as  they  walked  the  length  of  the  picture-gallery 
together.  It  was  far  from  the  fair  Emmeline's 
desire  that  the  duet  she  had  designed  executing 
with  Gilbert  should  be  turned  into  a  trio  in  this 
way.  But  she  had  submitted  quietly,  though 
sullenly  enough.  For  it  was  a  received  axiom 
with  the  mother  and  daughter  whom  he  served, 
that  "Carter  always  had  a  meaning  and  mo- 
tive "  for  every  thing  he  did. 

"A  wreck  that  may  be  rebuilt  and  refitted 
into  as  fair  a  form  as  it  ever  wore,  if  proper 
means  are  taken,"  Gilbert  replied.  "Your 
sister  is  a  lovely  creature,  Miss  Vicary — " 

" — You  have  seen  her  at  her  best,"  Emme- 
line interrupted. 

"Indeed!  I  understood  from  you  that  she 
is  always  at  her  worst  in  your  presence ;  this 
has  been  an  exceptional  occasion,  then,  I  infer." 

"  She  was  always  jealous  of  me  from  the  first 
moment  she  set  eyes  on  me,"  Miss  Vicary  was 
beginning  in  tones  of  concentrated  rage,  when 
Carter  interposed. 


"  It  is  quite  idle  on  your  part  to  attempt  to 
explain  or  to  account  for  the  freaks  and  preju- 
dices of  the  insane,  Miss  Vicary  ;  and  this  gen- 
tleman I  believe  I  am  right  in  supposing  to  be 
as  slightly  informed  on  the  subject  as  yourself? 
Never  make  the  mistake  of  advancing  excuses 
for  the  madness  of  a  mad  person." 

They  had  come  to  the  head  of  the  stairs  by 
this  time,  and  as  the  two  men  drew  back  to 
allow  the  lady  to  precede  them,  Gilbert  Den- 
ham managed  to  mutter  the  following  words 
for  Mr.  Carter's  benefit,  unheard  by  Emmeline. 

"  She  is  far  too  sane  for  any  thing  like  co- 
ercion or  restraint  to  be  justifiable  in  her  case  ; 
don't  you  think  it  might  be  awkward  for  you 
professionally  if  a  legal  inquiry  were  made  into 
the  condition  of  that  poor  girl." 

"I  have  not  the  slightest  fear  for  my  pro- 
fessional reputation,  nor  of  your  interference," 
Mr.  Carter  replied,  blandly ;  "  but  I  would  ad- 
vise you  not  to  dabble  in  what  solely  concerns 
her  mother ;  it  will  rebound  on  your  head,  and 
on  the  heads  of  those  nearest  to  you,  if  you  do." 

"Thanks — but  don't  trouble  yourself  to  be 
cautious  on  my  account,"  Gilbert  laughed  light- 
ly, emphasizing  the  last  two  words.  And  then 
he  ran  down  and  rejoined  Emmeline,  leaving 
Carter  on  the  top  stair  in  doubt  as  to  whether 
his  warning  had  been  received  with  considera- 
tion or  with  contumely. 

"But  you'll  surely  stay  to  luncheon?"  Em- 
meline exclaimed,  as  Gilbert  began  taking  leave 
of  her  in  the  hall. 

"Thank you,  not  to-day..  I  have  promised 
myself  to  my  sister." 

He  spoke  hurriedly,  the  fact  being  that  his 
mind  was  thrown  off  its  balance  for  the  mo- 
ment by  the  startling  discrepancy  there  was 
between  the  mad  woman  he  had  imagined,  and 
the  mad  woman  he  had  seen.  He  wanted  to 
get  away  by  himself,  and  endeavor  to  ana- 
lyze the  vague,  uncomfortable  feeling  of  doubt 
that  almost  amounted  to  fear,  which  had  seized 
him  in  her  presence.  He  wanted  to  do  this 
before  he  spoke  about  her  to  any  one — especial- 
ly before  he  spoke  about  her  to  Miss  Vicary. 

But  Miss  Vicary  disliked  the  idea  of  being 
baulked  of  the  prey  which  she  had  pursued 
into  dangerous  places.  The  risk  she  had  run 
would  seem  to  be  for  nothing  if  Gilbert  got 
away  from  her  now.  Moreover,  she  did  not 
desire  to  bear  the  brunt  of  her  mother's  anger 
at  her  rash  exhibition  of  Clarice  alone. 

"But  when  I  ask  you  as  a  favor  to  stay  here 
with  us— with  me  ?"  she  asked  in  her  softest 
tones,  and  again  the  ordinarily  composed  face 
was  stirred,  and  slightly  bent  down  in  a  flush 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


of  unwonted  confusion.  And  he  remembered 
that  the  onus  was  on  him  still  of  pleasing  this 
woman,  and  he  was  a  man,  and  so  pleasantly 
conscious  that  he  had  the  power  of  pleasing  her 
whenever  he  had  the  will,  and  so — he  staid ! 

In  some  undefinable  way  he  found  himself 
treated  very  much  as  if  he  were  the  private 
property  of  the  young  lady  in  whose  society  he 
had  spent  the  long  hours  of  the  morning.  Her 
mother  gave  him  her  left  hand  to  shake  when 
Le  came  into  the  room — she  had  carefully  pick- 
ed up  something  fragile  with  her  right,  the  in- 
stant she  caught  sight  of  him.  Further  she 
insisted  on  explaining  away  this  slight  breach 
of  social  observance. 

"  It's  nearest  to  the  heart,  we  used  to  say  in 
my  young  days,  Mr.  Denham,  and  though  I'm 
the  mother  of  such  a  grown-up  daughter,  my 
young  days  are  not  so  long  over  neither." 

"  One  look  at  you  suffices  to  convince  a  man 
of  that ;  but  the  law  of  compensation  works  ; 
youth  is  glorious,  but  to  be  the  mother  of  two 
such  grown-up  daughters  as  you  have  is  more 
glorious  still." 

Mrs.  Waldron  fluttered  and  moved  her  arms 
in  her  usual  gypsy  queen-like  way,  as  if  she  were 
about  to  wrap  herself  in  the  folds  of  an  imagi- 
nary cloak. 

"Ah!  my  poor  Clarice,"  she  presently  said, 
in  what  was  meant  to  be  a  resigned  tone,  but 
which  failed  to  portray  resignation  by  reason 
of  the  ghastliness  of  the  apparent  effort  with 
which  it  was  made;  "my  poor,  poor  child; 
she  is  a  pitiable  spectacle,  and  it  hurts  me  to 
hear  any  one  refer  to  her  in  the  same  breath  as 
her  sister." 

"Mr.  Denham  has  seen  Clarice,  mamma," 
Emmeline  put  in,  and  there  was  a  light  air  of 
warning  in  the  way  she  said  it. 


"Seen  Clarice-!"  Mrs.  Waldron  exclaimed. 
Then,  to  the  surprise  of  every  one,  the  strong, 
stalwart  woman  turned  pale  with  the  anguish 
of  fainting  as  she  feebly  muttered, 

"  Then  we're —     God  forgive  us  !" 

"Mother!  mother!  mother!"  Emmeline 
cried,  in  encouraging,  re-assuring,  reminding 
accents.  "Mr.  Denham  has  seen  my  unfor- 
tunate sister,  but  her  unhappy  state  has  not 
taught  him  to  despise  us.  You're  too  sensi- 
tive." 

"Far  too  sensitive  about  it,"  Gilbert  said, 
coolly.  "Miss  Clarice's  state  is  not  perfectly 
satisfactory  at  present — so  much  I  must  admit 
— but  it  will  be  entirely  so  in  a  short  time,  I 
should  say,  if  she  is  subjected  to  different  treat- 
ment from  that  of  Mr.  Carter." 

"We  have  the  greatest  reliance  on  Mr.  Car- 
ter's judgment  and  kindness,"  the  mother  said, 
determinedly,  recovering  herself,  and  steadying 
herself  under  the  influence  of  some  long  looks 
from  her  daughter. 

"  Then  your  reliance  is  misplaced,  I  am  in- 
clined to  think,"  Gilbert  said,  lightly.  And  as 
at  that  moment  the  object  under  discussion  en- 
tered the  room,  Mrs.  Waldron  was  spared  the 
necessity  of  answering  a  man  of  whom  she  al- 
ready stood  in  fear. 

"Make  him  love  you,  Emmy?  Emmy, 
make  him  love  you, "she  said,  almost  fiercely 
to  her  daughter,  when  the  latter  was  about  to 
start  for  the  Bridge  House  that  night.  "Tie 
his  hands  through  chaining  his  heart  —  for 
he's  on  the  track,  Emmy,  he's  on  the  track, 
and  if  he  follows  it  up  all  my  labor  for  you  is 
lost." 

"  The  labor  has  been  for  yourself,  mother," 
Emmy  answered,  scornfully ;  "but  all  the  same 
if  I  can  I'll  tie  his  hands." 


CHAPTEE  VIII. 


AT  THE  BRIDGE  HOUSE  AGAIN. 


"/""I  ILBERT,  I  hope  you  won't  crush  me  by 
*Jf  telling  me  that  I  have  done  something 
that  I  had  better  have  left  undone,  on  this  oc- 
casion especially,"  Mrs.  Arthur  Waldron  said, 
addressing  her  brother  laughingly,  and  disre- 
garding the  cloud  of  thought  and  bewilder- 
ment that  was  lowering  over  her  brother's  brow. 

"  What  have  you  done,  Horry,  dear  ?  Wait 
a  minute,  though,  till  I've  breathed  a  little  of 
the  air  that  is  not  full  of  the  choke-damp  of 
mystery." 

"No,  no;  mine  is  an  utterly  unimportant 
communication,  after  all.  I'll  out  with  it  at 
once.  Frank  Stapylton  has  been  here,  and  I 
asked  him  to  come  this  evening.  That  is  my 
news.  But,  Gilbert,  what  is  yours  ?" 

"  That  I  am  more  completely  at  sea — more 
perfectly  puzzled  than  I  have  ever  been  since  I 
first  put  on  my  considering-cap  about  this  busi- 
ness of  yours." 

"  You  have  succeeded,  then,  in  seeing  the 
idiot  sister  ?" 

Horatia  Waldron  asked  the  question  with  an 
amount  of  eager  vehemence  that  was  perfectly 
natural  and  justifiable,  considering  all  the  cir- 
cumstances of  the  case.  But  natural  and  jus- 
tifiable as  it  was,  it  appeared  to  jar  upon  her 
brother. 

"I  have  seen  the  —  a  —  the  lady  who  has 
been  spoken  of  as  a  sister  and  an  idiot  by  that 
mass  of  perverted  feeling  and  cleverness,  Miss 
Vicary." 

He  spoke  impulsively ;  there  was  a  warm 
flush  over  his  brow.  Evidently  some  very 
strong  sympathy,  some  emotion  that  was  more 
powerful  than  pity,  had  been  roused  in  cool, 
debonair  Gilbert  Denham. 

"And  is  she  such  a  distressing  spectacle  as 
they  had  led  you  to  suppose  ?  Is  she  too  ut- 
terly bereft  of  reason  for  us  to  hope  for  any 
clue  from  her  that  may  lead  us  into  the  right 


path,  the  path  that  may  lead  to  the  overthrow 
of  the  Vicarys  ?" 

The  rights  of  her  boy  were  at  stake,  and 
the  thought  that  they  were  so,  that  he  had  been 
defrauded  of  them  in  some  way  by  those  people 
of  whom  she  was  speaking,  brought  the  bright 
color  to  Horatia's  face  and  a  ringing  cadence 
into  her  voice. 

"  You'd  pass  over  any  body's  prostrate  form 
in  pursuing  that  path,  I  believe,  Horry,"  her 
brother  said,  meditatively. 

"  I  would,  I  would.  Let  me  onco  more  see 
the  path,  and  armed  with  my  sense  of  little 
Gerald's  rights  and  wrongs,  I  would  tread  it 
unflinchingly,  even  if  a  hundred  foes  or  friends 
opposed  my  course  and  bid  me  turn  back.  But 
tell  me  of  this  woman." 

"  This  woman  is  the  loveliest,  sweetest  crea- 
ture I  ever  saw  in  my  life,"  Gilbert  answered, 
slowly.  "  She  is  no  more  bereft  of  reason  than 
you  are ;  she  has  no  more  Vicary  blood  in  her 
than  you  have ;  and  she  is  kept  a  prisoner  in 
their  house  for  some  purpose  of  their  own, 
which  I  shall  find  out  by-and-by." 

"Gilbert!"  The  sister's  face  grew  very 
pale,  and  an  indescribable  air  of  flagging  in 
spirit  came  over  her.  "  Gilbert,  do  you  think 
that  she  is  an  undeveloped  antagonistic  influ- 
ence ?" 

"I  don't  care  to  speculate  about  her.  I 
have  a  presentiment  that  before  long  I  shall 
arrive  at  some  certain  conclusion  concerning 
the  reason  why  they  are  treating  her  as  they 
do.  Meanwhile,  feel  as  sure  as  I  do  that  she 
can  never  be  antagonistic  to  any  one  whose 
cause  is  good." 

"Supposing  she  shares  the  Vicary  family 
feelings,"  Horry  persisted;  "supposing  she 
comes  back  to  liberty  and  reason,  and,  backed 
up  by  the  charms  that  have  bewildered  you, 
declares  for  these  people  who  have  in  some 


42 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


way  robbed  my  boy?  What  will  you  say 
then?  Will  you  be  a  traitor  to  me,  Gilbert, 
for  the  sake  of  a  fair  face  ?  Will  you  cease  to 
believe  that  Gerald's  cause  is  good  because  she 
is  antagonistic  to  it  ?" 

He  took  his  sister's  hands  at  this,  and  held 
them  firmly,  while  he  looked  into  her  face. 

"If  her  cause  is  ever  antagonistic  to  your 
boy's,  Horry,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "it  will 
be  because  your  boy  has  no  cause  at  all.  We 
won't  take  fright  at  shadows,  though,  dear. 
At  the  same  time,  we  must  not  shut  our  eyes 
to  some  things  that  we  would  rather  not  see. 
I'm  glad  Stapylton  is  coming  to-night ;  he's  a 
nice  fellow,  and  will  save  you  from  dwelling 
too  much  on  the  Vicary  mystery  in  Miss  Vic- 
ary's  presence." 

"And  /am  sorry  that  you  should  have  seen 
the  mad  Miss  Vicary,"  Horatia  persisted. 
"Probably  they  had  prompted  her  to  say  a 
number  of  things  that  would  help  to  bear  out 
their  story.  Now,  she  would  not  have  imposed 
on  me,  simply  because  she  is  an  innocent  agent 
in  the  imposition,  aided  by  a  pretty  face.  Did 
you  get  her  to  say  a  word  about  her  stepfather?" 
"  Her  what  ?" 
"Her  stepfather.  Poor  George  Waldron 
was  her  stepfather,  of  course.  I  think  I  should 
have  tested  her  by  mentioning  him." 

"It  didn't  occur  to  me  to  put  her  to  the  test 
in  such  a  way,"  Gilbert  answered,  uneasily. 

"I  wonder  if  I  can  ingratiate  myself  with 
Emmeline  to-night  sufficiently  to  induce  her 
to  let  me  see  her  sister." 

"Let  me  entreat  you,  in  the  name  of  com- 
mon sense,  for  your  own  sake  and  your  child's, 
don't  attempt  to  do  it.  Both  mother  and 
daughter  are  as  suspicious  already  as  cats  over 
poisoned  meat,  and  if  you  say  a  word  to  Em- 
my, Emmy  will  interpose  herself,  a  mountain 
of  reserve,  between  me  and  my  goal." 

Mrs.  Arthur  Waldron  smiled,  and  shook  her 
head. 

"I  don't  like  it,  Gilbert ;  I  don't  like  any 
of  it.  I  know  to-night  that  you  will,  by  your 
manner  to  Miss  Vicary,  make  my  face  burn  at 
the  thoughts  of  Bessie ;  and  the  Vicary  wrath 
will  be  hot  and  heavy  when  they  find  out  that 
your  intentions  to  Emmeline  have  been  mean- 
ingless and  empty,  by  reason  of  there  being  a 
Mrs.  Gilbert  Denham  already." 

"Our  armory  is  too  badly  supplied  for  you 
to  quarrel  with  my  choice  of  weapons,"  hei 
brother  replied,  quickly.  "  Poor  Bessie  !  she 
need  never  fear  that  the  shadow  of  unfaithful- 
ness to  her  will  fall  on  my  heart  on  account  of 
Miss  Vicary." 


"What  a  trouble  life  is!"  Horatia  sighed, 
initting  her  brows. 

'Life  being  a  bore,  I  think  we  had  better 
dine,"  Gilbert  laughed.  And  then  they  sat 
down  to  dinner,  and  the  conversation  veered 
round  to  Frank  Stapylton. 

"It's  a  great  pleasure  to  me  to  meet  any 
one  who  knew  Arthur  so  well  as  Mr.  Stapylton 
did,"  Arthur's  widow  began,  pathetically. 

"  Yes ;  more  especially  as  he's  such  an  un- 
commonly nice  fellow,"  her  brother  replied, 
practically. 

"  He  has  asked  if  we  will  go  over  and  lunch 
at  his  place,  Gilbert,  while  you're  here.  He 
spoke  about  including  those  odious  people 
from  Larpington  House  in  his  invitation,  and  I 
didn't  feel  quite  justified  in  saying  '  don't.'  " 

"I  am  glad  you  didn't.  He  might  have 
thought  you  hardly  justified,  and  have  disre- 
garded your  demurrer — and  that  would  have 
been  awkward  for  you." 

"  I  had  no  fear  of  that  before  my  eyes,"  Ho- 
ratia said,  tossing  her  head  ever  so  slightly, 
"  only  I  thought  it  would  have  a  look  of  incon-^ 
sistency,  as  he  is  to  meet  the  junior  member 
of  that  most  obnoxious  firm  here  to-night.  I 
shouldn't  like  Mr.  Stapylton  to  think  me  incon- 
sistent or  weak  at  all,  for  Arthur's  sake." 

"My  dear  Horry,  how  heartily  I  shall  hail 
the  day  when  women  cease  to  think  it  neces- 
sary to  go  through  a  little  bit  of  the  Suttee 
business." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Gilbert?  No,  don't 
tell  me.  If  you  think  that  I  am  capable  of 
feigning  feeling  and  falsifying  motive  in  this 
manner,  then  I  no  kmger  care  either  for  your 
meaning  or  your  opinion." 

She  spoke  with  a  heightened  color,  truly,  but 
with  tones  that  were  not  raised  in  the  slightest 
degree.  She  was  in  a  genuine,  womanly  rage ; 
but  her  brother  liked  her  for  it,  and  admired 
her  for  the  way  she  portrayed  it. 

"  Mymeaning  is  very  simple,  and  very  farfrom 
being  offensive,  Horry,  dear,"  he  said  affection- 
ately. "  It  is  a  form  of  Suttee,  the  spirit  of 
deprecation  in  which  some  very  sweet  and  sen- 
sible women  whose  husbands  have  died,  always 
speak  of  the  possibility  of  their  regard  for  other 
men,  or  other  men's  regard  for  them.  Why  on 
earth  shouldn't  you  desire  that  this  young  fel- 
low should  think  you  'consistent,'  and  other  ad- 
mirable things,  for  your  own  sake,  as  well  as 
for  Arthur's  ?" 

"We  really  need  not  go  into  the  subject  in 
this  exhaustive  way,  Gilbert,"  she  answered, 
lightly.  "  Granted  that  I  spoke  in  a  way  that 
strikes  you  as  being  too  set,  too  conventional,  too 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


43 


carefully  copied  from  the  pattern  the  world  has 
cut  for  us,  you  must  admit  that  your  words  would 
bear  an  interpretation  that  might  hurt  me  a  lit- 
tle. I  love  Arthur's  memory  too  well,  I  am 
too  thoroughly  devoted  to  Arthur's  children,  to 
care  very  much  about  other  men's  opinion  of 
me." 

"  Our  friends  are  coming  in  time  to  save  you 
from  proceeding  with  your  defense,"  he  laugh- 
ed, as  a  peal  at  the  front-door  bell  announced 
the  advent  of  one  of  the  guests.  Then  he  went 
over  to  her,  and  held  the  face,  over  which  a 
half-pouting  expression  had  crept  up,  and  kiss- 
ed her  brow.  "  My  dear  little  sister,"  he  said, 
more  gravely,  "  if  it  isn't  Frank  Stapylton,  it 
will  be  some  other  man,  I  hope.  I'm  tired  of 
your  sacrificing  yourself  to  the  idea  of  little 
Gerald's  future  magnificence.  If  the  boy  is 
ever  to  have  his  own — if  it  is  his  own  to  have — 
he  will  gain  it  without  his  mother  going  through 
the  mildest  form  of  Suttee  on  his  account." 

He  had  to  drop  his  voice,  and  speak  his  last 
words  in  a  very  indistinct  tone,  and  Horatia 
had  not  a  moment  in  which  to  answer  him  ;  for 
the  door  was  opened,  and  Emmeline  Vicary, 
in  a  refulgent  demi-toilette  that  seemed  to  bil- 
low all  over  the  room,  was  upon  them. 

Her  mother's  last  words  were  ringing  in  her 
ears,  and  though,  as  a  rule,  her  mother's  words 
were  not  what  she  cared  to  dwell  upon  very 
carefully,  still,  now  she  did  attach  greater  weight 
to  them,  and  did  mean  to  act  up  to  the  spirit 
of  their  advice.  Her  inclination  and  her  duty 
marched  well  together,  and  were  equally  po- 
tent in  their  demands  upon  her  to  make  this 
man  identify  his  interests  with  her  own  as  soon 
as  possible. 

They  were  not  at  all  in  harmony,  these  three 
who  were  brought  together  thus.  The  hostess 
half  believed  that  her  brother  and  her  guest 
had  a  secret  understanding.  The  guest  half 
believed  the  same  thing  of  her  friend  and  her 
hostess.  Gilbert  Denham  was  the  only  one  of 
the  three,  in  fact,  who  was  not  disturbed  in  the 
slightest  degree  by  the  thoughts  of  the  other 
two. 

In  justice  to  Miss  Vicary's  powers  of  appre- 
ciation, it  must  be  stated  that  from  the  very 
onset  she  never  underrated  the  magnitude  of 
the  task  that  was  before  her.  She  realized  ful- 
ly that  in  this  contest  a  woman  endowed  with 
every  womanly  charm  was  ranged  against  her. 
Emmeline  Vicary  knew  that  family  feeling,  cul- 
tivation, a  sense  of  right,  and.the  sympathy  of 
the  world  were  one  and  all  enrolled  under  Mrs. 
Arthur  Waldron  ^  banner.  And  with  all  this 
knowledge  to  the  K>re,  she  did  not  fear  the  fate 


that  might  be  before  her  too  much.  She  dared 
as  much,  almost,  as  a  thorough-bred  could  have 
dared,  in  confronting  Gilbert  Denham's  sister 
this  night. 

For  the  course  was  such  a  dangerous  one ! 
It  was  so  full  of  patrician  pitfalls  for  her  ple- 
beian feet!  Nevertheless,  she  was  a  danger- 
ous adversary  for  that  gently -born,  honest 
woman,  who  was  awaiting  her  in  fear  and  trem- 
bling. For  Emmeline  was  utterly  unscrupu- 
lous. She  had  so  much  to  gain,  and  so  little 
to  lose.  And,  additionally,  she  was  sufficiently 
in  love  with  Gilbert  Denham  to  soften  and 
subdue  herself,  and  generally  put  herself  at  her 
best. 

By-and-by  matters  were  made  much  pleas- 
anter  for  them  all  by  the  arrival  of  Frank 
Stapylton.  Constraint  vanished  in  his  pres- 
ence, as  ice  does  before  the  sun,  for  he  was  not 
at  this  juncture  sufficiently  fascinated  by  the 
fair  widow  to  feel  awkward  in  her  society. 
That  stage  had  not  been  arrived  at,  although 
an  experienced  eye  could  have  detected  that 
he  was  fast  approaching  it. 

But  this  night  he  was  heart  (or  fancy)  free 
enough  to  be  entertaining — a  thing  a  man  in 
love  never  can  be,  by  any  chance,  save  to  the 
woman  he  is  in  love  with ;  and  so,  under  his 
influence,  the  reign  of  ease  was  inaugurated, 
and  the  quartette  divided  in  a  natural  manner. 
Gilbert  Denham  and  his  prey  conversing  in  low 
tones  on  the  sofa,  Horatia  Waldron  and  her 
prey  at  the  piano,  where  the  lady  warbled  him 
along  skillfully  toward  that  stage  which,  it  has 
been  distinctly  stated,  had  not  yet  been  reach- 
ed by  him  when  he  came  in. 

Emmeline  was  the  first  to  revert  to  the  sub- 
ject of  the  morning's  excitement,  and  she  did 
it  judiciously. 

"I  can't  tell  you  what  a  relief  it  is  both  to 
mamma  and  myself  to  find  that  poor  Clarice 
made  such  a  favorable  impression  upon  you," 
she  said,  softly. 

"  And  I  can't  tell  you  how  glad  I  am  that  I 
succeeded  in  overcoming  your  scruples  about 
my  seeing  her,"  he  replied,  heartily.  "What 
a  pretty  attractive  woman  she  is !  Let  me  in- 
still into  you  a  portion  of  my  own  firm  belief 
in  her  ultimate  perfect  recovery." 

Miss  Vicary  shook  her  head.  "  If  she  did 
recover,  Mr.  Denham,"  she  said,  with  a  height- 
ened color,  "it  would  not  be  for  your  hap- 
piness nor  for  mine,"  she  added,  in  a  faltering 
undertone  that  was  designed  to  make  him 
suppose  that  she  was  suffering  from  a  prelim- 
inary pang  of  jealousy  on  account  of  her  love- 
ly sister's  superior  charms.  Gilbert  Denham 


44 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


knew  well  what  she  meant  him  to  believe ;  but 
though  he  was  a  man,  and  though  he  thought 
that  she  was  in  love  with  him,  he  did  not  put 
faith  in  the  sincerity  of  her  suggestion. 

Her  remark  was  a  perplexing  one  —  or  it 
would  have  been  a  perplexing  one  to  a  less 
ready  man  than  Gilbert  Denham.  Even  he 
hesitated  for  a  moment  before  he  replied  to  it. 
Then  he  went  on  his  self-selected  path  more 
recklessly  than  before. 

"Your  fear  is  groundless."  He  almost 
whispered  these  words,  for  he  shrank  from  let- 
ting his  sister  hear  how  far  he  was  going  in  her 
cause.  "  Your  sister,  under  any  circumstances, 
will  be  powerless  to  affect  our  relations  toward 
one  another.  Try  to  trust  me  fully." 

He  was  leaning  forward,  bending  slightly  in 
her  direction  as  he  spoke,  and  one  of  his  hands 
was  resting  on  the  sofa  between  Emmeline  and 
himself.  Suddenly,  as  he  said  "  trust  me  fully," 
her  hand  slipped  into  his,  and  bending  down  to 
meet  his  gaze,  she  spoke  his  name,  "  Gilbert !" 
with  a  passionate  softness  that  told  of  her  being 
terribly  in  earnest. 

"Let  us  tails;  of  the  sweetest  topic  in  the 
world,  Emmeline,"  he  muttered,  and  his  anxiety 
to  get  to  the  bottom  of  the  mystery  of  Larping- 
ton  House  caused  him  to  mutter  it  very  ardent- 
ly. "Let  us  talk  of  the  sweetest  topic  in  the 
world,  Emmeline.  Tell  me  your  sister's  love- 
story." 

"Her  love-story  is  the  most  painful  topic  in 
the  world  to  me,  instead  of  being  the  sweetest," 
Miss  Vicary  answered,  pettishly. 

"Did  she  love  beneath  her  or  above  her,  a 
star  or  a  clod  ?"  he  persisted,  and  he  constrain- 
ed himself,  in  his  anxiety  for  an  answer,  to 
press  Emmeline's  hand  rather  more  closely. 

"How  keen  you  are  about  it!"  she  replied, 
with  awkward  jealousy.  "Why  will  you 
think  so  much  of  Clarice,  and  so  little  of  me  ?" 

"  Clarice  has  been  the  means  of  furthering 
our  intimacy  greatly.  I  consider  that  I  owe 
her  a  debt  of  gratitude.  In  winning  an  intro- 
duction to  her,  I  have  won  a  more  complete 
knowledge  of  you." 

"And now  that  }*ou  have  the  more  complete 
knowledge  of  me,  what  good  will  it  do  you  or 
me  ?"  she  asked,  earnestly.  And  Gilbert  shrug- 
ged his  shoulders,  and  thought, 

"Verily,  a  determined  young  woman,  this! 
How  is  it  all  to  end  ?" 

Aloud  he  said, 

"  This  much  good,  at  any  rate — it  is  making 
the  present  pass  more  pleasantly,  and  time  is 
young.  We  can  afford  to  let  the  future  take 
care  of  itself." 


"  Shall  you  be  here  so  much  longer,  that  you 
can  afford  to  waste  time  with  me  by  idle  talk 
of  Clarice  ?"  she  asked,  boldly. 

"  Shall  I  say  that  I  shall  stay  here  while  my 
sister  and  yourself  care  to  have  me?  And 
shall  I  add,  that  if  I  am  bidden  I  may  remain 
at  Larpington  altogether." 

"All  this  is  very  fine  and  very  flattering," 
Miss  Vicary  thought,  shrewdly;  "but  none  of 
it's  an  offer  of  marriage,  or  even  a  declaration 
of  love.  He  must  say  something  more  definite 
than  he  has  already  said,  before  mamma  will 
believe  that  I  haven't  been  foolishly  rash  and 
over-confident  in  showing  him  Clarice."  - 

"Mr.  Denham,"  she  murmured,  suddenly, 
"are  you  aware  that  all  this  time  you  have 
been  holding  my  hand  ?" 

"  Quite  aware  of  it ;  and  before  I  relinquish 
it  you  shall  pledge  yourself  to  show  perfect  and 
entire  confidence  in  me,"  he  whispered.  And 
her  fervid  "I  will,"  in  reply,  sounded  ominous. 

"  I  can't  bear  cautious  women,"  Gilbert  Den- 
ham went  on.  "  Caution  in  a  man  is  a  barely 
endurable  quality,  but  in  a  girl  it's  simply  ap- 
palling. I  shouldn't  like  to  think,  for  instance, 
that  you  were  hedging  yourself  round  with  a 
lot  of  small  mysteries  and  precautionary  meas- 
ures. I  shouldn't  like  to  think  that  you  put 
even  an  invisible  fence  up  between  yourself  and 
me." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  She  grew  red  and 
bewildered,  and  the  pair  at  the  piano  ceased 
their  strains  at  the  same  inopportune  moment ;  ; 
and,  altogether,  Gilbert  Denham  had  the  feel- 
ing upon  him  of  being  snatched  from  sudden 
destruction  just  as  he  was  on  the  brink  of  com- 
promising himself  most  horribly. 

"Miss  Vicary,  won't  you  play  something  for 
us,  or  sing  something  ?"  Horatia  asked,  rising 
from  the  music-stool  as  she  spoke,  and  present- 
ing a  perplexed  countenance  to  the  still  more 
perplexed  occupants  of  the  sofa.  The  truth 
was,  that  the  last  words  which  Horatia  had 
been  persuaded  to  warble  to  Frank  Stapylton 
were  charged  with  such  fervor  that  they  seemed 
to  herself,  as  she  sang  them  with  feeling,  like 
an  admission  of  some  sentiment  which  she  was 
most  anxious  to  conceal  from  him.  All  her 
brother's  remarks  about  the  special  form  of  Sut- 
tee which  she  had  indicated  an  intention  of 
practicing,  rankled  in  her  memory,  and  caused 
her  to  feel  and  display  an  amount  of  agitation 
which,  she  felt  painfully  certain,  Frank  Stapyl- 
ton would  attribute  to — the  right  cause.  In 
her  confusion,  she  turned  and  addressed  Miss 
Vicary,  calling  down  Miss  vicary's  curses  and 
her  brother's  blessings  on  her  head  for  inter- 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


45 


rupting  them  at  what  Emmeline  believed  to  be 
a  delicate  crisis. 

Frank  Stapylton,  too,  the  disturbing  element, 
was  a  little  disappointed,  and  altogether  thrown 
out  of  gear,  by  the  abrupt  termination  to  the 
fair  romance  he  had  just  begun  composing. 
There  had  been  something  alternately  soothing 
and  thrilling  in  watching  that  pretty  woman's 
mobile  face,  and  listening  to  her  rich,  soft  con- 
tralto, as  she  sang  different  versions  of  the  old, 
old  story,  with  himself  for  her  sole  audience. 
It  had  come  to  him  to  feel  that  it  would  be 
pleasant  to  watch  that  face  and  listen  to  that 
voice  often — perhaps  always !  And  just  as  this 
feeling  had  developed,  and  imparted  addition- 
al intensity  and  ardor  to  his  gaze,  Horatia  had 
suddenly  wheeled  round  and  addressed  Miss 
Vicary— and  lo !  the  dream  was  dispelled ! 

With  a  man's  perversity,  the  moment  the 
check  came,  Mr.  Stapylton  became  more  eager 
in  the  pursuit.  He  had  told  himself,  or  rather 
allowed  himself  to  feel,  on  first  seeing  her,  that 
if  she  had  not  been  the  widow  of  his  old  friend, 
Arthur  Waldron,  she  was  gifted  with  precisely 
that  sort  of  grace,  and  beauty,  and  intelligence 
which  would  have  taken  captive  his  unoccupied 
heart.  But  to-night,  under  the  influence  of  the 
evidently  happy  feeling  which  had  inspired  her 
as  she  sang  words  of  tenderness  to  him,  he  had 
erased  the  saving  clause,  and  declared  to  him- 
self that  the  fact  of  her  widowhood,  or  rather 
of  her  former  wifehood,  would  no  longer  inter- 
vene. Nothing  that  was  past  had  the  power  of 
making  her  other  than  she  was  in  the  present, 
and  that  was  simply  the  woman  most  to  be  cov- 


eted as  a  wife,  of  any  woman  he  had  ever  seen. 
As  he  thought  of  his  old  home  with  her  in  it  as 
its  mistress,  he  felt  inclined  to  break  all  bonds  of 
prudence  and  etiquette,  and  tell  her  at  once  to 
what  extent  he  was  a  slave  and  she  a  victor. 
And  so,  when  she  turned  away,  and  made  as 
though  she  would  have  joined  her  brother  and 
Miss  Vicary,  he  followed  her  closely,  feeling  ten 
times  more  eager  than  he  had  been  while  the 
opportunity  was  his  own  at  the  piano. 

Miss  Vicary  could  play,  and  sing  too,  after  a 
fashion — a  fashion  that  made  the  ears  to  tingle, 
and  the  understanding  totter,  of  the  cultivated 
minority.  However,  on  this  occasion  she  made 
a  noise,  and  so  Frank  Stapylton  was  grateful 
when,  under  cover  of  a  crushing  series  of 
wrong  notes,  he  contrived  to  whisper  to  hi* 
hostess, 

"Do  take  a  turn  round  the  garden  in  the- 
moonlight.  It's  not  very  cold,  and  I  want,  to 
tell  you  something." 

"What  about?"  she  asked,  uneasily,  and  then 
she  blushed  at  her  own  uneasiness,  grew  con- 
fused, and  weak,  and  remorseful. 

"  What  about !  Oh,  about  George  Waldron's 
marriage,"  he  replied,  adroitly  fixing  on  a  topic 
that  he  knew  would  fetch  her  from  her  strong- 
hold of  confused  reserve.  And  when  he  said 
that,  she  went  out  with  him  without  hesitation 
— without  a  single  thought  of  Suttee. 

"And  now,  Gilbert,"  Miss  Vicary  began,  paus- 
ing in  her  playing  at  once  as  the  other  pair  went 
out  through  the  window,  "  will  you  tell  me  ex- 
actly what  you  mean  by  objecting  to  even  an 
invisible  fence  between  us  ?" 


CHAPTEK  IX. 


ARTHUR  WAS  RIGHT. 


"T17HAT  do  I  mean?"  Gilbert  Denham 
»  '  repeated  the  words  she  had  addressed 
to  him  with  a  force  and  intensity  that  came 
from  his  desire  to  gain  time.  He  knew  well 
enough  himself  what  he  "meant" — to  screw 
her  secret  from  her  at  any  price.  But  he  also 
knew  that  the  abrupt  disclosure  of  his  meaning, 
in  what  she  would  probably  think  its  "  naked 
deformity,"  would  startle  her  clear  away  from 
the  confessional. 

The  time  that  he  deemed  necessary  for  his 
purpose  he  gained  very  easily  after  all.  His 
hand  was  clasping  hers,  his  arm  was  round  her 
waist,  her  face  was  shrouding  itself  upon  his 
shoulder,  and  the  position  was  one  that  the  lady 
was  apparently  in  no  haste  to  free  herself  from. 
It  fell  to  his  part  to  make  the  separating  move ; 
and  having  realized  that  it  was  in  his  part,  he 
made  it  decisively. 

He  rose  up,  still  holding  her  hands  in  his, 
and  stood  before  her.  Love  -  blinded  as  she 
was,  it  struck  her  that  there  was  more  of  the 
jailer  fastening  on  the  handcuffs  than  of  the 
lover  in  his  grasp.  Love-blinded  as  she  was, 
too,  she  saw  that  his  penetrating  gaze  was  not 
concentrated  upon  the  discovery  of  any  veiled 
love  for  him  which  she  might  be  jealously  guard- 
ing, and  she  shrank  and  turned  away  from  it 
with  a  sickening  sensation  of  coming  evil  upon 
her. 

"  I  mean  this,"  he  said,  slowly,  "  that  I  would 
shut  my  heart  against  a  woman  who  withheld 
a  confidence,  however  unimportant  that  confi- 
dence might  be,  from  me." 

"  And  would  you  never  close  it  against  one 
who  riskedj  every  thing  in  reposing  a  confi- 
dence?" she  asked,  eagerly.  "Oh,  Gilbert, 
there's  nothing  that  I  wouldn't  sacrifice  for  you, 
and  to  you  ;  but  if  I  told  you  the  only  secret  I 
have,  it  wouldn't  do  you  any  good,  and  those 
you  love  would  be  no  better  for  it." 


"Let  me  be  the  judge  of  that,"  he  said.  He 
would  have  risked,  dared,  courted  any  danger 
then  for  the  sake  of  carrying  his  point. 

"And  what  is  to  be  my  reward ?" 

She  uttered  the  words  with  a  hot,  clear  force 
that  startled  him.  It  was  quite  evident  that 
she  was  ready  to  part  with  her  secret ;  but  she 
would  sell  it,  would  fix  the  price,  and  see  it 
paid,  and  would  not  contemplate  the  weakness 
of  giving  it  away,  whatever  persuasive  power 
he  might  put  on. 

And  so  he  named  a  price,  with  a  lowered 
head,  with  an  humbled  heart,  with  a  ghastly 
conviction  growing  upon  him,  that  in  some  at 
present  unforeseen  way  he  would  be  enabled  to 
pay  it,  and  would  shrink  from  doing  so. 

His  naming  of  a  price — his  surrender,  as  sho 
rightly  deemed  it  —  gave  Emmeline  Vicary  a 
power  she  had  never  experienced  before  in  her 
intercourse  with  this  man. 

"  The  reward  you  offer  would  be  ample  for 
a  far  more  valuable  prize  than  I  shall  be,  Gil- 
bert," she  said,  with  an  affectedly  light  depre- 
ciation of  herself  that  was  infinitely  irksome 
and  wearisome  to  the  man  who  wanted  her  se- 
cret and  not  her  silliness. 

"Let  me  be  the  judge  of  that,  as  I  said  be- 
fore," he  replied. 

"  No,  no ;  I  have  always  discouraged  impa- 
tience and  curiosity  on  principle.  I  will  only 
gratify  yours  by  telling  you  poor  Clarice's  story 
on  the  day  that  it  will  become  my  duty  to  obey 
you.  When  I'm  your  wife,  you  will  find  that  I 
have  no  concealments  from  you.  Shall  you  tell  } 
your  sister  to-night  ?" 

"  Tell  her  what  ?" 

"That  we  are  engaged  ;  that  you  have  pro- 
posed to  me,  and  I  have  accepted  you." 

He  almost  groaned  as  he  turned  away  from 
her.  Her  words  put  the  position  in  which  he 
had  placed  himself  before  her  in  a  horribly 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


47 


strong  light.  Yet  she  was  justified  in  using 
those  words.  The  sentence  he  had  used  in 
naming  the  price  he  would  pay  would  indis- 
putably bear  the  interpretation  she  had  put 
upon  it. 

The  conviction  that  he  never  could  pay  it — 
the  reflection  that  the  ability  to  do  so  would 
simply  be  odious  to  him — the  remembrance  of 
good,  trusting,  unexacting  Bessie,  his  wife — all 
these  rushed  into  his  mind  in  a  moment  as  Em- 
meline  so  unmistakably  evinced  her  determina- 
tion to  have  her  pound  of  flesh.  And  so  it  was, 
with  a  hardly-suppressed  groan,  that  he  turned 
away  from  her  suggestion  that  he  should  tell 
his  sister  of  the  treachery,  the  perfidy,  the  bit- 
ter folly  he  had  been  guilty  of  this  night,  on 
account  of  her  boy's  unestablished  rights. 

But  he  knew  that  to  falter  in  seeming  would 
be  to  rouse  Miss  Vicary's  suspicions,  and  to 
undo  the  work  he  had  been  laboring  at  so  as- 
siduously lately.  So  he  told  himself  that  just 
for  a  little  while  longer  he  would  play  his  false 
part,  and  when  it  had  won  him  what  he  want- 
ed he  would  proclaim  himself  a  married  man, 
and  openly  avow  the  real  motive  of  his  decep- 
tion. 

"No ;  let  us  keep  our  secret,  the  secret  of 
our  attachment,  of  the  unpremeditated  regard 
which  has  sprung  up  between  us,  for  a  time," 
he  answered.  And  then  he  added,  fearing  to 
trust  himself  alone  with  her  any  longer,  "  Shall 
we  go  out  and  join  the  others  ?" 

"As  you  like,"  she  said,  sulkily.  She  hated 
the  suggestion  of  delay.  Delay  meant  danger 
to  her  before  she  became  Gilbert  Denham's 
wife.  After  that  coveted  consummation,  she 
cared  not  what  happened.  "  For  his  will  sure- 
ly never  be  the  hand  to  throw  me  down  and 
proclaim  me  an  impostor,  when  I'm  his  wife," 
she  argued. 

But  in  spite  of  her  sulkiness,  he  was  firm 
now. 

"Yes,  let  us  join  the  others.  I'll  tell  you 
why,"  he  said,  with  an  air  of  eagerness  that 
was  assumed,  and  the  assumption  of  which  Miss 
Vicary  saw  through  clearly.  "  Horry  has  some 
absurd  notions  about  everlasting  devotion  and 
fidelity  to  the  memory  of  her  late  husband,  and 
she  will  worry  herself  all  night  with  the  idea 
that  she  has  been  doing  violence  to  these  two 
qualities  if  we  let  Stapylton  keep  her  out  tete-a- 
tete  any  longer." 

"It  seemed  to  me  that  she  was  willing 
enough  to  go,"  Miss  Vicary  muttered.  "  I 
believe,  too,  that  you  are  tired  of  our  tete-a-tete, 
and  that  it's  not  consideration  for  your  sister 
only  that  makes  you  in  such  a  hurry  to  join  her." 


"Larpington  House  stands  out  well  in  the 
moonlight— let  us  go  and  look  at  it." 

"  I  wish  I  had  never  seen  Larpington 
House,"  she  cried,  with  quick,  savage  energy. 
I  wish  I  had  never  heard  of  it.  I  shall  come 
to  some  dreadful  sorrow  through  my  connec- 
tion with  Larpington  House.  I  feel  sure  of 
that." 

"Are  those  your  sentiments  really  ?"  he  ask- 
ed. "And  all  the  time  outsiders  fancy  that 
you  are  enjoying  the  thought  of  your  future 
proprietorship.  Indeed,"  here  he  looked  at 
her  keenly,  "some  people  go  so  far  as  to  assert 
that  it  is  on  account  of  your  pride  in  being  the 
sole  heiress  that  you  show  so  little  sisterly  dis- 
tress about  your  sister  Clarice." 

There  swept  across  her  face,  at  this,  such  a 
look  of  pained  uncertainty,  of  doubt,  and  dis- 
tress, that,  out  of  mere  manly  pity  for  the 
"  weaker  vessel,"  he  exclaimed,  hurriedly, 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  hurt  you  by  the  allusion. 
I  only  mentioned  it  as  a  proof  of  the  manner 
in  which  rumor  misrepresents  people." 

"  You  think  me  unnatural  about  Clarice, 
don't  you  ?"  she  interrogated.  Then  suddenly 
she  changed  the  form  of  her  inquiry,  and  asked, 
'You  would  think  worse  of  me  for  being  cal- 
lous about  a  sister's  sorrow  than  about  any 
thing  else,  wouldn't  you  ?" 

"  I  should,"  he  said,  decisively. 

"  Well  then,  I  tell  you — no,  I  don't  think  I 
can  tell  you  to-night.  I  don't  think  I  dare  risk 
any  thing  to-night.  I  should  like  to  be  quite 
happy  a  little  longer." 

This  tone  of  pathos  was  a  new  thing  in  her. 
Hitherto  she  had  vibrated  between  being  over- 
demonstrative  and  unpleasantly  morose  and 
glum.  The  new  phase  was  more  fetching  nat- 
urally to  a  man,  and  like  a  man  Gilbert  Den- 
ham  responded  to  it  kindly  and  injudiciously. 

"  I  shall  regret  it  deeply  if  I  am  ever  the 
cause  of  unhappiness  coming  to  you." 

"  Yet  you  will  be  the  cause  of  the  greatest 
unhappiness  to  me  and  to  others,"  she  said, 
hesitatingly.  "You  can't  help  yourself.  If 
you  don't  betray  the  confidence  I  repose  in  you, 
I  shall  always  feel  that  you're  thinking  of  it, 
and  thinking  less  well  of  me ;  and  if  you  do 
betray  it,  there  can  be  nothing  but  misery  be- 
fore me,  look  which  way  I  will." 

"We  are  drifting  into  a  region  of  the 
most  appalling  verbal  gloom,"  he  said,  lightly. 
"  Come  out  and  look  for  Horry."  And  so  at 
last  he  carried  his  point  of  putting  an  end  to 
confidential  intercourse,  for  that  night  at  least, 
between  the  determined  Miss  Vicary  and  him- 
self. 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


The  other  pair,  meanwhile,  had  not  found 
the  time  long,  nor  the  tete-a-tcte  embarrassing 
in  the  smallest  degree.  There  was  far  less 
confusion  for  Mrs.  Arthur  Waldron  in  the  fact 
of  Frank  Stapylton  occasionally  pressing  the 
hand  which  rested  on  his  arm,  than  there  had 
been  in  the  looks  which  lived  in  his  eyes  and 
would  be  answered  while  she  had  been  singing. 
Moreover,  the  free  night  air  wafted  away  near- 
ly all  the  doubts  and  scruples  which  had  beset 
her  while  sitting  in  a  room  in  which  each  arti- 
cle of  furniture  was  identified  with  Arthur's 
children  and  their  right  to  her  sole  interest, 
and  regard,  and  attention.  Out  in  the  garden, 
in  the  soft,  sweet  moonlight,  she  seemed  to  be- 
long more  to  herself.  And  the  result  of  this 
change  of  feeling  was  that  she  ceased  to  shud- 
der and  turn  away  from  the  thought  of  render- 
ing a  portion  of  her  interest,  and  regard,  and 
attention  to  the  man  by  her  side. 

The  most  sheltered  walk  in  the  garden  was 
one  that,  happily  for  Mr.  Stapylton's  designs 
of  concentrating  her  attention  on  himself,  did 
not  command  a  view  of  Larpington  House. 
And  up  and  down  this  walk  they  sauntered,  he 
talking  of  a  topic  that  is  invariably  the  most 
interesting  to  a  woman  when  she  is  beginning 
to  love  a  man,  himself;  she  listening  with  a 
beautiful  resignation  to  the  circumstances  that 
made  her  his  only  listener. 

With  the  natural  hunger  that  a  woman  feels 
when  her  heart  is  touched  to  hear  if  his  has 
ever  been  touched  by  some  happier  woman, 
she  approached  the  subject  of  his  youth,  and 
his  manner  of  spending  it. 

"What  made  you  flee  your  country  in  the 
way  you  did,  when  you  were  so  young  ?  Was 
it  merely  the  real  English  roving  spirit,  or  had 
you  a  reason  ?" 

"Well,  I  was  always  an  excitable  fellow, 
fond  of  change  of  scene  and  variety  of  acquaint- 
ances," he  confessed,  with  a  laugh. 

"Arthur  used  to  say — "  She  checked  her- 
self, and  he  asked, 

"  What  did  he  say  ?  Tell  me.  That  I  was 
such  a  restless  fellow  that  I  should  never  settle 
down  ?  He  used  to  tell  me  that  often." 

"  No ;  that  was  not  what  I  was  going  to 
say.  B.ut  perhaps  I  had  better  not  say  it." 

How  utterly  feeble  and  meaningless  these 
preliminaries  sound  to  every  other  ear  than  the 
special  one  for  whose  benefit  they  are  uttered. 
How  thoroughly  a  third  person  is  bored  by  the 
false  starts  two  incipient  lovers  make  perpet- 
ually before  they  get  clear  off  on  to  the  straight 
course  of  a  perfect  understanding.  Yet  for  all 
the  feebleness  and  meaninglessness  of  them  to 


others,  one  would  not  one's  self  be  without  the 
glorious  experience  that  they  aid  in  giving. 

"  Perhaps  I  had  better  not  say  it,"  the  ad- 
vocate for  the  observance  of  Suttee  said,  with 
a  falter  in  her  voice ;  and  Frank  Stapylton's 
answer  was  a  pressure  of  her  hand  and  the 
whispered  words, 

"You  may  say  any  thing  to  me — any  thing 
you  like.  Whatever  you  say  will  be  sure  to  be 
right." 

He  was  getting  more  impressive  every  mo- 
ment, and  every  moment  Horatia's  resolve  to 
dedicate  every  soft  and  tender  thought,  for  the 
remainder  of  her  life,  to  the  memory  of  her 
husband,  who  was  growing  weaker.  Her  re- 
membrance of  "what  Arthur  used  to  say" 
seemed  to  her  like  a  direct  interposition  of 
Providence. 

"He  used  to  say  that  he  thought  you  must 
have  had  a  disappointment,  and  that  that  drove 
you  to  change  of  scene,  in  hopes  that  it  might 
prove  a  panacea." 

Even  as  she  put  the  possibility  of  its  having 
been  the  case  to  him,  she  fervently  hoped  that 
he  would  deny  it,  and  affirm  that  Arthur  had 
been  mistaken.  For  wife,  mother,  widow  as 
she  was,  there  was  still  a  certain  amount  of 
young,  unsullied,  womanly  feeling  about  Hora- 
tia  Waldron  ;  and  it  would  have  been  pleasant 
to  know,  if  she  ever  did  allow  him  to  profess 
affection  for  herself,  that  he  had  never  pro- 
fessed it  for  any  one  else. 

It  was  a  little  depressing,  therefore,  for  her, 
when  he  answered  in  sober,  veracious  accents, 

"Arthur  was  right." 

"Forgive  me  for  having  probed  a  wound," 
she  cried,  quickly.  "  I  knew  I  had  better  have 
left  my  remark  unsaid.  How  foolish  I  was  !" 

She  spoke  in  such  eager  deprecation  of  her 
own  indiscretion,  that  he  had  not  the  oppor- 
tunity of  stopping  the  flow  of  the  stream  of  her 
self-reproach  until  it  reached  this  juncture. 
But  when  she  denounced  herself  as  foolish,  he 
said, 

"  Foolish !  Any  thing  but  that.  There  was 
sweet  wisdom,  as  well  as  sweet  kindness,  in 
touching  on  a  topic  that  a  man  never  knows 
how  he  may  treat  until  it  is  touched  upon. 
Yes,  Mrs.  Waldron,  Arthur  was  right.  I  was 
awfully  fond  of  a  girl  when  I  was  a  young  fel- 
low; and  it  was  the  old  story.  Don't  you 
know?  She  didn't  care  for  me." 

The  words,  "What  a  blind  fool  she. must 
have  been!"  were  on  Horatia's  lips,  but  she 
checked  them,  hard  as  the  task  of  doing  so 
was.  A  genuine  woman  is  always  intolerant 
to  any  indifference  shown  toward  a  man  she 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


40 


loves  by  another  woman.     However,  Horatia' 
constrained  herself  strongly,  and  merely  said, 
in  reply  to  his  confession, 

"  Perhaps  she  cared  for  somebody  else  ?" 

"  That  was  just  it,  don't  you  see  ?  It  was  a 
quick  thing  altogether.  I  met  her  at  a  ball  in 
Brighton,  and  she  fetched  me  tremendously  in 
the  course  of  five  round  dances  I  had  with  her. 
Then  I  met  her  at  a  picnic ;  and  then  was  her 
escort  one  day  when  we  made  up  a  riding- 
party.  The  end  of  it  was  that  I,  being  an  im- 
pulsive young  fool,  I  suppose,  proposed  to  her, 
and  had  for  answer  that  she  was  already  en- 
gaged." 

"Was  she  pretty?"  Horatia  asked.  Else- 
where I  have  registered  my  firm  belief  in  this 
being  the  first  question  every  woman  asks  about 
the  one  who  has  been  preferred  to  her,  or  has 
preceded  her,  or  in  any  way  rivaled  her. 

His  answer  was  distressingly  decisive : 

"She  was  beautiful  —  a  glorious  girl  with 
golden  hair,  and  eyes  —  well,  eyes  that  were 
not  a  bit  like  any  that  I  have  ever  seen  in  any 
other  woman's  face." 

"And  she  married?"  Horatia  questioned, 
half  hopefully.  Fully  as  she  intended  immo- 
lating herself  on  the  shrine  of  the  deceased 
Arthur's  memory,  it  would  have  given  her  a 
pang  to  hear  that  the  woman  Frank  Stapylton 
had  loved  was  still  free. 

"Yes ;  I  believe  she  married.  I  have  never 
heard  of,  it ;  but  in  that  one  letter  that  I  had 
from  her  she  said  she  was  '  going  to  be  married 
very  soon.'  She  didn't  tell  me  my  rival's  name, 
or  go  into  any  details  at  all ;  and  I  was  thank- 
ful that  she  didn't,  for  at  the  time  I  was  too 
sore  to  care  to  have  a  well-defined  idea  of  the 
man  she  preferred  to  me." 

"  And  for  her  sake  you  have  remained  un- 
married all  these  years?"  Horatia  continued, 
fluttering  about  a  subject  that  was  painful  to 
her  with  that  curious  persistence  which  char- 
acterizes women  when  their  hearts  are  touched. 

"I  can't  profess  such  constancy,"  he  said, 
with  a  laugh  that  was  infinitely  comforting  to 
her.  «« The  truth  is,  I  got  over  it  so  rapidly 
that  I  was  half  ashamed  of  myself,  it  looked  so 
uncommonly  like  shallowness  of  feeling,  don't 
you  know  ?  I  suppose  the  real  reason  of  my 
remaining  unmarried  was,  that  I  never  saw 
any  one  I  could  fall  in  love  with  again,  until 
lately." 

His  tones  were  very  low  as  he  said  the  last 
two  words,  and  Horatia's  heart  fluttered  in  a 
way  that  she  felt  to  be  very  reprehensible. 
The  conviction  was  borne  in  upon  her  mind 
abruptly  that  the  time  was  ripe  as  far  as  he 
>  4 


was  concerned,  and  that  if  she  did  not  admin- 
ister a  check  to  him,  he  would  rashly  force  her 
to  come  to  a  decision,  or  to  commit  herself  to 
the  promise  of  coming  to  a  decision  this  very 
night. 

And  this  she  certainly  was  not  prepared  to 
do,  in  spite  of  those  pangs  of  self-reproach  from 
which  she  was  suffering.  An  hour  ago  she 
had  told  herself  that  if  this  man  paid  her  the 
crowning  honor  of  making  her  an  open  offer 
of  his  love,  it  would  be  her  duty  to  her  dead 
husband's  memory,  and  to  her  living  children's 
rights,  to  refuse  him.  But  an  hour  had  passed 
since  she  had  given  this  judgment  against  her- 
self, and  the  possibility  of  her  being  eventu- 
ally induced  to  reverse  it  was  already  before 
her. 

For  during  this  hour  they  had  talked  of  love, 
and  although  it  was  not  of  love  for  herself,  the 
topic  had  touched  her  to  additional  tenderness. 
So,  at  least  this  night,  she  could  not  bring  her- 
self to  make  an  end  of  this  new  strain  of  music 
which  was  fast  making  itself  heard  in  her  life. 
Accordingly,  she  put  the  subject  away  from  her 
delicately,  deftly,  as  only  a  woman  can,  stopped 
him  from  further  speech  about  it  just  then  in 
a  way  that  was  almost  more  pleasing  to  hear 
than  if  she  had  suffered  him  to  pursue  it,  for 
he  was  a  man  who  liked  reserve  in  a  woman- 
preferred  wooing  to  being  wooed,  in  fact. 

"  We'll  talk  about  this  another  day,  won't 
we  ?"  she  said,  rather  shyly.  "  In  my  pleasure 
in  listening  to  you,  I  am  forgetting  all  about 
my  other  guest."  And  just  at  that  moment, 
very  opportunely,  Gilbert  Denham  and  Miss 
Vicary  stepped  out  into  the  garden,  and  the 
four  marched  up  and  down  for  a  few  minutes 
longer  in  line. 

But  they  each  and  all  found  that  there  was 
no  increase  of  happiness  to  any  one  of  them  by 
reason  of  this  arrangement.  To  Horatia  it 
appeared  that  all  the  silvery  radiance  had  fled 
from  the  moonbeams,  now  that  they  fell  on 
the  form  of  Miss  Vicary,  who  was  stepping 
steadily  along  on  the  other  side  of  Frank  Sta- 
pylton. A  woman,  when  she  begins  to  be  in 
love,  is  so  prone  to  jealousy,  that  she  is  apt 
to  invest  every  other  woman  who  approaches 
"the  object"  with  some  indefinable  charm 
which  she  was  never  suspected  of  possessing 
before.  It  actually  now  gave  Mrs.  Arthur 
Waldron  a  twinge  of  pain  as  she  reflected, 
"  George  Waldron  was  to  the  full  as  attractive, 
refined,  and  clever,  as  Frank  Stapylton,  and 
George  Waldron  married  this  girl's  mother. 
What  if  the  daughter  exercises  the  same  sort 
of  witchcraft  over  Frank  Stapylton !"  A  chill 


50 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


fell  upon  her  suddenly,  and  she  almost  shud- 
dered as  she  said, 

"  How  much  colder  it  has  got,  Miss  Vicary ! 
I  shall  get  into  disgrace  with  your  mother  if  I 
keep  you  out  in  the  night  air,  and  send  you 
home  with  a  cough.  How  fascinating  the  fire 
looks  from  outside !"  she  added,  passing  in 
through  the  window  as  she  spoke,  and  looking 
round,  expecting  to  see  the  others  follow  her. 

Frank  Stapylton  was  the  only  one  who  obey- 
ed her  invitation.  Miss  Vicary  put  a  detain- 
ing hand  on  Gilbert  Denham's  arm,  and  mut- 
tered, 

11  Stay  out  here  for  a  minute,  will  you  ?  You 
were  anxious  to  come." 

"And  I'm  delighted  to  remain,"  he  an- 
swered, as  lightly  as  his  growing  dread  of  her 
causing  him  to  completely  surrender  would  al- 
low him  to  do. 

" Shall  I  see  you  to-morrow?" 

"Yes,  probably  ;  I  mean  certainly  you  will." 

"  Come  farther  away  from  the  window,"  she 
said,  impatiently,  drawing  him  away  into  the 
shade.  "  Gilbert,  you  have  grown  cool  to  me 
with  veiy  curious  quickness.  What  is  the 
back-thought  that  has  chilled  you  ?  Because  I 
know  you  must  have  had  one  to  have  altered 
so  suddenly." 

"The  thought  of  your  want  of  confidence  in 
me,"  he  answered,  in  a  low  voice.  "  You  have 
a  secret  which  you  persist  in  keeping  concealed 
from  me/' 

She  almost  writhed  as  she  exclaimed, 

"  Gilbert,  don't  press  me  too  hard,  for  I  love 
you." 

"If  you  did  you  would  trust  me,"  he  said, 
quietly. 

"I  will.  You  shall  see  that  I  will.  Not 
to-night,  though— I  dare  not  to-night.  You'll 
know  how  much  I  love  you  when  I  tell  you 
what  will  cost  me  so  much — when  you  know 
what  I  risk.  But  I'd  pay  any  price — I'd  risk 
any  thing  to  keep  you  from  growing  cold  to  me 
— I  would ;  you  know  it.  When  you  come  to- 
morrow, how  will  you  come  ?  Not  merely  as 
a  friend,  surely  ?" 

"  She  is  a  determined  young  person,  and  no 


mistake,"  was  his  mental  comment  on  this  last 
inquiry  of  hers.  But  aloud  he  said, 

"  That  depends  entirely  on  the  way  you 
treat  me." 

"  Ah !  if  it  depends  on  my  treatment  of  you, 
then  you  will  have  no  excuse  for  coldness,"  she 
answered,  triumphantly. 

"I  ought  to  have  said  that  it  depends  en- 
tirely on  how  much  confidence  you  see  fit  to 
do  me  the  honor  of  reposing  in  me." 

"  Those  are  your  terms,  and  you  won't  lower 
them  ?  You'll  stick  to  them,  though  you  see 
they  cut  me  to  the  heart?"  she  asked,  bitterly. 

"  It  is  a  very  small  thing,  after  all,  for  a  man 
to  ask  of  a  woman  who  professes  what  you  have 
professed  for  me,"  he  said,  quietly. 

"The  plain  English  of  it  is,  that  you  want 
to  hear  all  I  can  tell  you  about  Clarice?"  she 
said,  in  an  angry,  despairing  tone. 

"  That  is  the  plain  English  of  it." 

"Well,  on  your  head  be  the  responsibility 
of  all  the  unhappiness  that  will  follow  your 
knowledge.  Be  warned  in  time ;  for  the  sake 
of  every  one  you  love,  let  Clarice  and  her  past 
and  future  alone." 

"Then  we  say  good-bye  to  each  other  for- 
ever when  we  part  to-night,  Miss  Vicary.  I 
shall  pursue  my  investigation  of  Clarice's  case 
in  another  direction." 

"Oh,  Gilbert,  don't,  don't  say  such  words!" 
she  cried,  intemperately.  "When  you  come 
to-morrow,  I'll  tell  you  all  you  want  to  know  ; 
and — you  won't  turn  against  me,  will  you  ?  I've 
done  nothing  that  need  prevent  an  honest  man 
making  me  his  wife." 

She  spoke  ardently,  eagerly,  and  his  con- 
science stabbed  him  sharply. 

"  We  shall  each  have  to  ask  pardon  of  the 
other,  I'm  thinking,"  he  said,  mournfully ;  and 
she  was  about  to  question  him  closely  about 
himself,  when  his  sister  called  from  the  win- 
dow, 

"  Gilbert,  here's  a  telegram  for  you !" 

They  went  in  then,  and  he  opened  it  under 
the  fire  of  the  keen  observation  of  Emmeline 
Vicary ;  opened  it,  and  read,  in  brief  tele- 
graphic language,  that  his  wife  was  dead. 


CHAPTER  X. 
EMMELINE'S  APPEAL. 


THERE  in  his  hand  were  the  tidings  of  the 
sudden  and  awfully  unexpected  death  of 
the  wife  he  had  left  only  a  few  weeks  ago  in 
the  full  vigor  of  health  and  strength.  And 
there  close  beside  him  stood  the  eagerly  ex- 
pectant woman  who  was  so  determined  to  mar- 
ry him,  and  between  whom  and  himself  that 
one  barrier  "Bessie  "  had  been  removed  in  such 
a  ghastly  manner.  He  was  stupefied  by  this 
shock,  but  still  he  had  to  go  on  acting  a  part. 

To  give  forth  the  news — to  let  the  appalling 
fact  escape  him  now,  would  be  to  render  all 
the  plans  and  strategies  of  the  last  two  weeks 
worse  than  idle  and  vain.  It  would  be  to  turn 
them  into  poisoned  weapons  wherewith  Miss 
Vicary  would  be  justified  in  attacking  him. 
It  would  be  to  ruin  little  Gerald's  cause — if  little 
Gerald  had  one— it  would  be  to  cut  himself  off 
forever  from  that  further  sight  of,  and  speech 
with,  Clarice  which  he  had  periled  so  much  to 
gain.  So,  though  his  heart  was  really  wrung, 
though  his  nerves  were  quivering,  though  the 
vanity  and  instability  and  worthlessness  gen- 
erally of  all  things  earthly  were  very  patent  to 
him  as  the  shadow  of  the  shock  fell  upon  him, 
he  still  overmastered  his  emotion,  and  retained 
his  self-possession. 

"What  news  have  you,  Gilbert?"  his  sister 
asked,  anxiously,  as  he  folded  up  the  telegram 
and  put  it  in  his  pocket ;  "  what  news  has  come 
to  our  lotus-eating  village  in  such  haste  ?" 

"A  business  matter  that  I  must  talk  to  you 
about  by-and-by,"  he  said,  and  there  was  an 
unsteady  quaver  in  his  tones,  a  certain  appear- 
ance of  effort  in  his  smiles,  that  made  Emme- 
line  Vicary  regard  him  wistfully. 

"  The  carriage  for  Miss  Vicary  "  was  merci- 
fully announced  just  then,  and  Frank  Stapylton 
was  saying  "good-night"  in  the  low  meaning 
tones  in  which  men  do  say  the  commonplace 
words  when  thev  address  them  to  women  who 


are  beginning  to  be  a  little  more  than  other 
women  to  them.  "And  you  will  come  over 
and  lunch  at  my  place  while  your  brother  is 
with  you  ?"  were  the  first  words  of  the  farewell 
that  fell  on  Gilbert  Denham's  ear. 

"Yes;  that  is,  if  Gilbert—"  Horatia  was 
beginning,  when  her  brother  interrupted  her. 

"  It  mustn't  be  just  yet,  Stapylton.  I  have 
to  run  up  to  town  to-morrow  on  " — (he  had  to 
gulp  down  a  suffocating  sob  before  he  could  say 
the  word) — "business." 

"  Is  your  business  so  imperative  that  you 
must  attend  to  it  in  such  a  hurry  ?"  Emme- 
line  asked,  with  what  appeared  to  Mrs.  Arthur 
Waldron  to  be  most  impertinent  familiarity. 

"It  is  my  first  duty  in  life  to  attend  to  it," 
he  answered,  with  such  startling  force  that 
Emmeline  instantly  had  a  dark  vision  of  some 
"  other  designing  woman  with  a  prior  claim  on 
him" — a  vision  that  roused  all  the  slumbering 
tigress  jealousy  in  her  breast,  and  urged  her  to 
wrestle  with  his  resolve. 

"Can  anything  come  before  the  duty  you 
owe  me  of  coming  to  me  to-morrow  after  what 
has  passed  to-night?"  she  muttered;  and  Gil- 
bert Denham  knew  as  ho  listened  to  her  that 
he  would  be  unable  to  break  her  chains  with 
the  same  light  ease  with  which  he  had  forged 
them. 

"  My  business  will  take  mo  away  by  the  ear- 
liest train  I  can  catch  to-morrow  morning.  I 
must  defer  my  promised  visit  to  you  until  my 
return—" 

"  You  will  be  back  soon,  then  ?"  she  asked, 
eagerly.  And  when  he  had  pledged  himself  to 
"  be  back  soon,"  she  remembered  that  her  host- 
ess was  waiting  to  say  "  good-night "  all  this 
time,  and  that  Mr.  Stapylton  must  think  her 
manner  to  Mr.  Denham  rather  odd,  on  the 
whole. 

The  final  farewells  were  exchanged  present- 


52 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


ly,  and  as  soon  as  the  brother  and  sister  were 
alone,  he  took  out  the  telegram  and  handed  it 
to  her,  and  she  read  it  with  a  burst  of  woman- 
ly woe  and  sympathy  that  brought  the  tears 
into  his  eyes. 

Their  conversation  was  merely  a  stream  of 
confused  conjecture  and  speculation  naturally. 
Bessie  had  been  quite  well  when  her  husband 
heard  from  her  two  days  ago,  and  now  she  was 
dead !  These  were  the  only  two  points  on  which 
they  could  speak  with  any  thing  like  certainty. 
But  still  they  sat  up  discussing  the  subject, 
rolling  it  about  and  viewing  it  miserably  in  ev- 
ery light  until  it  was  time  for  Gilbert  to  leave 
in  the  morning.  And  throughout  their  whole 
discourse  there  was  no  mention  made  by  either 
of  them  of  Emmeline  Vicary. 

As  he  took  leave  of  his  sister,  he  gave  her 
one  caution. 

"  This  must  not  be  mentioned  here  to  any  one 
— not  even  to  Stapylton,  Horry,"  he  said,  sadly. 

"Oh  !  but,  Gilbert,  how  can  I  help  it?"  she 
answered,  in  real  dismay,  as  a  thorough  femi- 
nine difficulty  presented  itself.  "  The  deeper 
mourning  that  I  must  put  on  will  make  people 
wonder  and  question.  Do  let  us  have  done 
with  mystery." 

"Let  them  wonder  and  question,"  he  an- 
swered, almost  savagely.  "Never  mind  the 
deeper  mourning,  child,  don't  make  any  change 
for  my  sake ;  above  all  things,  don't  let  that 
horrible  girl  at  Larpington  House  get  hold  of 
the  facfeof  my  being  really  a  free  man." 

So  Mrs.  Arthur  Waldron  was  left  alone  for 
a  few  days  with  another  secret  to  keep — the 
secret  of  her  sister-in-law's  death.  It  was  a 
harder  one  to  preserve  in  perfect  integrity  than 
even  the  secret  of  poor  Bessie's  existence  had 
been.  A  dozen  times  during  the  day  she  was 
on  the  point  of  explaining  to  her  children  or 
her  servants  why  she  felt  depressed  and  looked 
sad.  Some  people  —  women  especially  are 
addicted  to  the  degrading  weakness — love  to 
be  steeped  in  mystery,  and  to  involve  an  action 
or  a  circumstance  in  an  air  of  guilty  secrecy. 
But  Horatia  Waldron  was  not  of  this  order. 
She  loathed  any  thing  like  subterfuge,  trick- 
cry,  or  concealment,  as  she  loathed  every  form 
of  lying,  both  active  and  passive.  Her  true, 
good,  womanly  intuition  taught  her  that  there 
was  a  foul  taint  in  every  kind  of  machination 
and  mystery.  And  yet  here  she  was,  her  soul 
burdened  with  a  secret  that  made  it  ache,  and 
she  was  told  that  she  was  bound  to  keep  it  for 
her  child's  sake. 

The  burden  became  a  heavier  one  when 
later  in  the  day  Miss  Vicary  came  down  and 


oppressed  the  young  widow  with  her  friendly 
sympathy  about  Gilbert's  departure.  The  se- 
cret nearly  rushed  out  in  wrath  more  than 
once  as  courageous  Emmy  talked  of  him  with 
a  sort  of  affectionate  freedom  that  nearly  drove 
his  sister  wild,  calling  him  "  Gilbert "  even,  and 
assuming  a  sort  of  right  in  him,  that  Horry 
felt  to  be  "  indecent "  under  the  real  circum- 
stances of  the  case.  If  glances  could  have 
slain,  Miss  Vicary  would  have  been  a  dead 
woman  the  instant  she  finished  the  following 
sentence : 

"  His  going  away  just  now  is  worse  for  me 
than  for  you,  dear,  for — how  shall  I  tell  you  ? — 
I  suppose  you  guess  that  we  are  going  to  be 
sisters  ?" 

"What!"  Horatia  said,  in  a  most  uncom- 
plimentary tone  of  utter  amazement  and  dis- 
gust. Then  as  glances  would  not  kill,  and 
she  was  bound  to  keep  this  secret,  she  went 
on — 

"Excuse  my  expression  of  unbounded  as- 
tonishment ;  but  Gilbert  has  never  even  hinted 
at  such  a  possibility ;  as  a  rule,  the  announce- 
ment'is  made  to  a  man's  nearest  relations  by 
himself." 

"But  this  is  such  an  exceptional  case," Miss 
Vicary  pleaded  in  extenuation  of  her  gallant 
defiance  of  all  the  established  rules  of  maiden 
modesty.  "This  is  such  an  exceptional  case; 
he  was  coming  up  to  speak  to  mamma  to-day." 

"He  couldn't  have  promised  that,"  Horatia 
interrupted, in  real  dismay.  "Why,  last  night, 
he  didn't  know — " 

She  checked  herself  just  in  time.  The 
statement  that  he  didn't  know  last  night  till 
the  telegram  came  that  his  wife  was  dead  had 
nearly  rushed  out  then.  But  the  jerk  with 
which  she  checked  herself  hurt  her ;  jarred 
through  all  her  soul,  and  shook  it  into  strong- 
er revolt  than  ever  against  this  system  of  de- 
ception. 

"  He  didn't  know  what  ?"  Miss  Vicary  asked, 
suspiciously ;  "  he  didn't  know  the  news  con- 
tained in  this  telegram,  I  suppose  you  mean  ? 
What  had  that  to  do  with  it  ?" 

"  With  what  ?"  Horatia  asked,  feebly.  She 
was  not  a  proficient  in  the  arts  of  lying  and 
evasion.  It  frightened  her  to  feel  herself 
getting  every  moment  more  and  more  in- 
volved in  a  web  of  deception.  For  the  first 
time  she  felt  that  the  Larpington  House  se- 
cret might  be  purchased  too  dearly. 

"I  ask  what  had  the  news  contained  in 
Gilbert's  telegram  got  to  do  with  his  speak- 
ing to  my  mamma  about  me?"  Miss  Vicary 
repeated,  with  a  fixedness  of  purpose  that 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


made  Horatia  quail.  "And  as  to  its  being 
usual  for  a  man  to  tell  his  nearest  relations 
of  such  a  contemplated  change  in  his  life, 
that's  all  nonsense,  when  he  hasn't  the  oppor- 
tunity, and  the  girl  he  is  engaged  to  has.  I 
•won't  ask  you  to  say  you're  glad  to  hear  what 
I  have  told  you,  for  I  can  sec  you're  not  glad, 
Mrs.  Arthur ;  but  after  all,  if  you  only  knew — " 

"If  I  only  knew  what?"  Horatia  asked, 
wearily.  "No,  it  would  be  absurd  for  me 
to  feign  gladness  about  what  makes  me  feel 
wretched.  I  am  tongue-tied,  for  I  love  my 
brother." 

"And  you  don't  think  me  worthy  to  be  loved 
by  your  brother?" 

"It's  not  that  even — altogether,"  Mrs.  Ar- 
thur Waldron  rejoined ;  "  I  feel  bewildered  and 
unhappy,  and  I  do  wish  you  would  refrain  from 
speaking  any  more  on  this  subject  until  my 
brother  comes  back." 

"I  have  told  mamma,  and  I  have  written 
to  some  of  my  friends,  and  the  servants  in  the 
house  know  it  already,"  Miss  Vicary  said,  with 
dogged  determination.  "I  am  not  ashamed 
of  any  thing  I've  done,  and  if  you  are  ashamed 
for  your  brother — " 

"I  am,  I  am!"  Horatia  burst  in  intemper- 
ately,  thinking  of  the  falsehoods  that  must 
have  been  uttered  and  implied  by  Gilbert — 
thinking  of  them  with  deep  humiliation  for 
him,  and  bitter,  loving  sorrow  that  they  should 
have  been  spoken  by  him  on  little  Gerald's  ac- 
count. "Was  there  no  other  way  to  the  so- 
lution of  the  Larpington  House  mystery  than 
through  this  valley  of  degradation  ?"  she  asked 
herself.  "Must  we  go  on  struggling  in  this 
dismal  swamp  of  deception ;  and  when  we  get 
out  of  it,  shall  we  find  ourselves  on  firm,  fail- 
ground  again?"  As  she  asked  herself  these 
questions,  it  was  a  small  wonder  that  the  truth 
escaped  her  in  words  that  were  not  over-court- 
eous, and  that  in  response  to  Miss  Vicary's 
remark,  "And  if  you  are  ashamed  for  your 
brother,"  she  should  have  sung  out, 

"I  am,  I  am." 

A  flickering,  fast-changing  look  of  dislike 
gleamed  over  Miss  Vicary's  face  for  a  moment. 
Then  it  changed  in  a  wonderful  way  (for  her's 
was  not  a  mobile  face)  into  a  look  of  pity. 
"  The  sacrifice  I  make  to  your  brother's  curi- 
osity and  my  love  for  him,  will  cost  you  more 
than  it  will  me,  my  fine  lady,"  she  thought. 
But  she  guarded  her  gates  of  speech  well,  and 
only  said, 

"  I'll  be  as  honest  as  you  are,  Mrs.  Arthur, 


and  tell  you  that  I  don't  care  a  bit  for  your 
feelings  on  the  subject;  your  brother  and  I 
love  each  other ;  you  will  be  a  very  minor  con- 
sideration to  us  both." 

She  spoke  steadily  and  slowly  as  she  threw 
the  gauntlet  down.  And  for  the  first  time 
during  the  whole  of  their  intercourse  a  tinge 
of  respect  crept  into  Horatia's  feelings  toward 
Miss  Vicary.  "  She's  brave  and  honest,"  the 
widow  thought,  "  in  the  avowal  of  her  love  for 
Gilbert,  in  her  utter  regardlessness  of  all  that 
is  outside  it ;  and  he  is  alluring  her  with  a  lie, 
and  I  am  abetting  him,  and  oh,  the  hollow 
mockery  of  it  all,  the  utter  falsity  of  it  all,  the 
shameful  meanness  of  it  all !" 

"Don't  let  us  quarrel  and  say  hard  things 
to  one  another,"  she  said  aloud,  almost  pite- 
ously ;  "  let  us  speak  of  something  else,  and 
not  try  to  feel  cruel  to  each  other." 

"Will  you  promise  me  not  to  try  and  in- 
fluence your  brother  against  me  ?"  Miss  Vic- 
ary asked,  eagerly. 

"Don't  ask  me  to  make  such  a  promise," 
Horry  pleaded ;  "  it's  too  humiliating  to  us 
both." 

"Has  your  brother  said  much  to  you,  or 
any  thing  to  you,  about  my  sister  Clarice  ?" 

"Very  little." 

"And  has  that  little  interested  you  ?" 

"  Not  very  much  ;  I  am  not  nearly  as  much 
interested  in  her  as  Gilbert  is." 

"  Mrs.  Arthur,"  Miss  Vicary  began,  solemn- 
ly, "if  you  have  any  care  for  yourself  or  your 
children,  check  your  brother's  interest  in  her ; 
crush  his  curiosity  about  her;  induce  him  to 
leave  her  and  her  story  alone." 

"  Why  ?"  Horatia  asked,  simply. 

"Why,  oh!  it's  not  easy  to  give  you  the 
reason  why,  but,  believe  me,  I  speak  for  oth- 
er people's  good,  as  well  as  my  own.  Clarice 
is  very  beautiful,  and  though  she'll  always  be 
mad,  she'll  always  be  cunning  too ",  she  might 
get  Gilbert  to  love  her,  and  then  Heaven 
help  us  all!" 

She  spoke  the  last  words  with  such  deep, 
pathetic  melancholy,  that  Horatia  shuddered. 

"I  feel  inclined  to  pray  that  I  may  never 
hear  your  sister  Clarice's  name  again  at  one 
moment,  and  the  next  I  long  to  see  her," 
she  said. 

"You  shall  see  her  if  you  like,"  Emme- 
line  said,  eagerly.  "  Come  home  with  me, 
you  shall  see  her  to-day."  And  in  her  own 
mind  Miss  Vicary  wondered,  "Will  woman- 
ly secoiid^ight  tell  her  any  thing,  I  wonder?" 


CHAPTER  XL 


CLARICE  S    APPEAL. 


"TS  she  so  lovely  ?"  were  the  first  words 
JL  spoken  by  Mrs.  Arthur  Waldron,  after  a 
silence  that  had  lasted  from  the  gate  of  the 
Bridge  House  garden  until  they  were  well 
on  their  way  up  the  Larpington  avenue. 

"Who  ?"  Emmeline  answered,  ahsently.  Her 
thoughts  had  strayed  from  Clarice  during 
the  silence.  They  had  wandered  whither  the 
thoughts  of  a  woman  in  love  always  will  wan- 
der— namely,  after  the  man  she  is  in  love 
with. 

"Your  sister  Clarice ;  my  brother  spoke  of 
her  beauty  as  being  something  exception- 
al." 

Miss  Vicary  reddened  as  she  listened,  and 
then  grew  pale  with  genuine  jealous  wrath 
as  she  replied, 

"She  has  yellow  hair  and  good  eyes.  I 
have  seen  many  prettier  women  than  Clar- 
ice." 

"  Is  she  at  all  like  you  ?"  Mrs.  Arthur  Wal- 
dron asked. 

"My  mother  thinks  she  can  see  a  family 
likeness  between  us,  but  I  dare  say  you  won't 
see  it,"  the  girl  answered,  slowly;  "let  me 
caution  you,  if  you  do  see  any  likeness,  not  to 
mention  it  before  Clarice ;  she  thinks  herself, 
mad  as  she  is,  infinitely  superior  to  me.  Mr. 
Carter  will  think  I  am  as  mad  as  she  is,  when 
he  sees  me  taking  another  visitor  to  her  to- 
day." 

"Does  she  never  go  out?" 

"Never,"  Miss  Vicary  answered,  quickly. 
"Now,  don't  begin  to  think  that  she's  kept  shut 
up  and  deprived  of  fresh  air  and  exercise  out 
of  wanton  cruelty.  Mr.  Carter  would  take 
her  out  in  the  garden  if  she  would  go,  but  she 
prefers  staying  in  'unless  she  is  let  go  by 
herself,'  she  says.  Of  course  we  can't  allow 
a  mad  woman  to  go  roaming  about  as  she 
pleases,  so  she  has  to  pay  the  penalty  of  her 
obstinacy,  and  remain  in  the  house." 


"Poor  Clarice!  it  seems  to  me  it  would  be 
a  mercy,  indeed,  if  she  died,"  Horatia  said, 
pityingly. 

"It  would  .be  a  greater  mercy  than  you 
think  for,  and  to  more  people  than  you  think 
of,"  Miss  Vicary  said,  gloomingly.  And  by 
this  time  they  were  in  the  picture-gallery,  and 
fast  approaching  Clarice's  room. 

As  on  the  occasion  of  her  having  introduced 
Gilbert  Denham  to  the  mysterious  chamber, 
Emmeline  rang  the  bell  of  the  anteroom.  But 
this  time  it  was  opened  by  the  nurse.  It  seem- 
ed to  be  almost  a  relief  to  Emmeline  to  hear 
that  Mr.  Carter  had  gone  out.  . 

"Is  she  drawing  or  reading,  nurse?" Miss 
Vicary  asked. 

"Neither,  miss;  she's  asleep,  poor  soul," 
the  woman  answered,  sympathetically.  And 
then  she  led  the  way  into  the  room  where  the 
sick  girl  was  lying  stretched  upon  a  couch,  in 
a  deep,  pleasant  sleep,  apparently,  for  a  bright 
smile  kept  on  playing  over  her  perfect  lips. 

The  two  ladies  stood  looking  at  her  for  a 
few  moments,  then  Horatia  spoke. 

"She's  lovelier  than  Gilbert's  description 
led  me  to  believe  she  was,  even.  In  all  my 
dreams  of  fair  women,  I  never  dreamed  of  any 
thing  so  fair  as  this  one." 

"Really;  well,  I  can't  say  I  admire  yellow- 
haired  women  so  much  myself;  they're  gener- 
ally insipid-looking,  I  think ;  and  for  all  their 
mild  milk-and-water  looks,  they've  nearly  al- 
ways horrible  tempers.  It  was  Clarice's  un- 
governable passion,  when  she  had  her  trouble, 
that  broke  her  mind  down." 

"Her  trouble  was  a  love-trouble,  of  course?" 
Horatia  inquired. 

"Yes;  the  man  she'loved  died."  Miss  Vic- 
ary said  the  last  words  with  a  gulp  that  sound- 
ed like  a  sob.  "  Other  people  have  lost  lovers 
in  the  same  way,  but  she  chose  to  think  hers 
the  hardest  case  in  the  world." 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


"Poor  thing !  poor  girl !"  Mrs.  Arthur  mut- 
tered, bending  down  and  touching  the  tiny 
white  hand  that  was  resting  on  the  back  of 
the  sofa.  And  at  the  touch,  light  as  it  was, 
Clarice  woke,  opened  her  eyes,  and  with  won- 
derful composure  instantly  raised  herself  into 
a  sitting  position. 

"You  here  again,"  she  began,  her  violet 
eyes  flashing  angrily  on  Erameline.  "Why 
have  you  come,  and  who  is — " 

She  checked  herself  suddenly,  and  rose  up 
•with  all  the  anger  gone  from  her  eyes,  and  with 
a  look  of  passionate  appeal  reigning  in  its  stead. 

"You'll  know  me,  you'll  know  me,"  she  be- 
gan, piteously ;  "you'll  know  my  face  as  I  know 
yours,  and  you'll  tell  every  one  who  I  am, 
and  what  the  name  that  I  have  forgotten  is. 
You'll  know  me,  won't  you  ?  You'll  free  me, 
won't  you  ?  You'll  turn  these  wretches  out,  and 
tell  me  where  I  am  and  who  I  am,  won't  you  ?" 

She  had  caught  Horatia's  hands  in  her  own 
slight,  nervous  ones;  she  had  drawn  nearer 
and  nearer  as  she  made  her  wild  appeal,  and 
now  as  she  brought  it  to  a  conclusion,  she 
flung  her  arms  round  Mrs.  Arthur's  neck,  and 
pressed  her  soft,  white  cheek  against  the  young 
widow's. 

"Poor  darling,  you  are  a  stranger  to  me," 
Horatia  said,  gently;  and  as  she  said  it  Miss 
Vicary  heaved  a  sigh  of  obvious  relief,  and  the 
mad  girl  drew  back  disappointed. 

"  Yet  I  know  your  face  as  well  as  I  do  my 
own,"  she  said,  dejectedly,  "only  I  can't  put 
a  name  to  it ;  if  I  could,  I  could  remember  my 
own  name,  for  it's  the  same,  I  know." 

"You  see  now  what  delusions  she  labors 
under,"  Miss  Vicary  said,  contemptuously. 
"  Her  name  the  same  as  yours,  indeed !  poor 
Clarice!" 

As  she  spoke,  Miss  Vicary  turned  away 
with  an  irritating  laugh,  and  walked  away  to 
the  window,  where  she  let  herself  drift  into 
thoughts  of  Gilbert.  As  she  stood  thus  ab- 
sorbed, Clarice,  with  the  quick  cunning  of  her 
state,  picked  up  a  little  water-color  study  she 
had  made  of  her  own  face,  and  put  it  into 
Horatia's  hand,  and  Horatia,  with  a  sudden 
and  uncontrollable  impulse,  hid  it  away  in  her 
muff.  The  incident  scarcely  occupied  a  sec- 
ond, and  at  the  end  of  it  Clarice  turned  away, 
singing.  Into  her  darkened  mind  this  gleam 
of  light  had  come — she  had  succeeded  in  es- 
tablishing intercourse  with  the  outer  world  un- 
known to  her  jailers. 

By-and-by,  Emmeline  tore  her  thoughts 
away  from  Gilbert,  and  turned  them  once 
again  toward  Gilbert's  sister. 


"You  have  seen  enough  of  the  enchanted 
princess,  I  suppose,  haven't  you  ?  Come  down 
and  see  mamma  now ;  and  look  here,  please 
don't  mention  the  visit  you  have  paid  to  this 
white  elephant  of  ours  to  mamma,  or  to  Mr. 
Carter ;  I  oughtn't  to  have  brought  you,  only 
I  wanted  to  please  you,  because  you  are  Gil- 
bert's sister." 

"  I  won't  mention  it  either  to  your  mamma 
or  to  Mr.  Carter,"  Horatia  promised.  Then 
she  let  herself  be  hurried  away,  for  she  was 
impatient  to  study  the  sketch  of  the  lovely  face 
in  solitude. 

Clarice  had  relapsed  into  her  normal  state 
of  indifference ;  but  still  it  seemed  to  Horatia 
that  the  beautiful  violet  eyes  looked  steadily 
and  wistfully  into  her  own  as  she  said  good- 
bye, and  unquestionably  Clarice's  hand  gave 
hers  a  most  significant  clasp. 

"  Good-bye,  we  shall  meet  again,  Clarice," 
Mrs.  Arthur  Waldron  said,  gently,  and  Clarice 
replied, 

"We  shall,  and  you'll  not  call  me  Clarice 
then,  for  you'll  know  me,  you'll  know  me, 
you'll  know  me !" 

These  last  words  of  Clarice's  were  ringing 
in  her  ears  some  hours  afterward,  when  she 
was  sitting  at  home,  before  a  bright  fire,  brood- 
ing over  the  events  of  the  last  two  days.  Bes- 
sie's death  had  been  a  shock  to  her ;  but  her 
intercourse  with  that  kindliest  of  creatures  had 
been  very  limited  during  the  last  few  years ; 
and  so  the  announcement  of  her  death,  though 
it  had  been  a  shock,  had  not  been  such  a 
shock  as  Clarice's  urgent,  passionate  appeal 
had  been  this  morning. 

She  sat  there  turning  the  subject  over  and 
over  in  her  mind,  looking  at  it  from  every 
point  of  view  with  which  she  was  acquainted, 
and  finding  it  grow  more  and  more  perplexing 
the  more  she  thought  about  it. 

"I  could  read  in  her  eyes  that  she  was 
speaking  the  truth  when  she  said  she  knew 
my  face,"  Horatia  thought,  "and  yet  I  never 
saw  her,  or  any  one  half  as  lovely  as  she  is, 
before  in  my  life ;  who  can  she  be  ?  I  would 
give  so  much  to  find  out,  for,  as  Gilbert  feels, 
she  is  not  a  Vicary." 

Poor  Horatia!  She  little  knew  what  a 
heavy  price  she  would  be  called  upon  to  pay 
for  the  knowledge  she  now  so  ardently  and 
honestly  desired.  And  so  her  eyes  were  sweet- 
er and  softer  than  he  had  ever  seen  them  be- 
fore, full  of  genuine  womanly  compassion  and 
sympathy,  when  Frank  Stapylton  came  in  to 
call  upon  her. 

They  sat  in  the  gray  winter  twilight  for 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


some  time,  talking  of  Gilbert,  and  hoping  that 
the  business  which  had  wrenched  him  away 
so  suddenly  would  soon  permit  him  to  return. 
And  through  all  the  discussion,  and  the  spec- 
ulations to  which  it  gave  rise  in  Mr.  Stapyl- 
tou's  sympathetic  mind,  Horatia  was  loyal  to 
her  brother's  wishes,  and  kept  the  secret  of 
Bessie's  death.  But  the  necessity  for  being 
on  guard  grew  irksome  to  her,  and  she  was 
glad  to  change  the  subject. 

She  did  it  by  speaking  of  the  Larpington 
House  people,  and  of  the  suspiciously  cautious 
way  in  which  they  concealed  Clarice  from  the 
observation  of  the  neighborhood.  "  Miss  Vic- 
ary  has  broken  through  her  rule  of  reserve, 
as  far  as  I  am  concerned,  to-day,"  she  ex- 
plained;  "sho  wishes  to  please  me  and  to 


buy  my  neutrality  about  my  brother;  so  she 
took  me  up  there  and  let  me  see  her  sister, 
and  her  sister  is — but  I'll  show  you." 

She  rose  up  and  rang  for  lights,  and  when 
they  came  she  took  up  the  slight  water-color 
sketch  in  which  Clarice  had  done  something 
like  feeble  justice  to  her  own  rare  loveliness. 

"  Clarice  managed  to  put  this  in  my  hand 
as  a  memento,"  Horatia  said,  holding  it  out 
to  Frank  Stapylton.  "It  is  like  her,  only 
paint  can't  give  the  sheen  of  her  golden  hair, 
or  the  shimmer  of  her  glorious  eyes." 

He  took  it,  looked  at  it  for  a  moment,  then 
rose  like  a  man  to  meet  the  blow  the  revela- 
tion was  to  him. 

"This  is  the  girl  I  told  you  of;  the  girl  I 
proposed  to  at  Brighton,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER  XII. 


THE  MARTYRDOM  OF  HORATIA  WALDRON. 


FOR  a  few  moments — and  the  moments 
were  full  of  such  pain  and  astonishment 
that  in  living  through  them  she  grew  many 
hours  older — Horatia  Waldron  stood  mute  and 
motionless  before  the  man  whose  mind  had 
traveled  back  to  the  past,  and  whose  heart 
was  beating  at  the  sight  even  of  the  poor 
semblance  of  his  lost  love. 

It  cut  her  to  the  quick  to  see  that  "still 
the  memory  rankled,"  the  memory  of  that 
woman  whom  he  had  loved  in  his  youth,  and 
who  had  preferred  another  man  to  him.  Fi- 
delity is  a  delightful  quality  in  the  eyes  of  a 
woman  where  it  is  exhibited  toward  herself. 
When  it  is  exhibited  toward  another,  she  is 
apt  to  be  blind  to  the  full  beauty  and  excel- 
lence of  it. 

"It  can  only  be  a  most  astonishing  likeness, 
after  all,"  he  said,  presently,  looking  scrutiniz- 
ingly  at  the  sketch  of  the  fair  face  that  had 
moved  him  so  strongly.  "It  can  only  be  one 
of  those  marvelous  accidental  resemblances 
that  one  does  hear  of  occasionally ;  and  yet— 
it's  painfully  like  Cecil  Rashleigh,  don't  you 
know  ?" 

"No,  I  don't  know — how  should  I  know?" 
Horatia  said,  with  the  fatally  visible  petulance 
that  is  born  of  jealousy.  The  current  phrase 
had  not  irritated  when  falling  from  Frank 
Stapylton's  lips  previously.  But  now,  when  he 
foolishly  assumed  that  she  possessed  a  knowl- 
edge of  a  woman  she  had  never  seen,  she  felt 
irritated,  "justly  irritated,"  she  told  herself. 

"  No,  to  be  sure,  how  should  you  ?"  he  said, 
thoughtfully.  "  And  now  I  must  be  mistaken, 
of  course ;  but  it  was  a  shock  to  me  at  first  to 
find  that  Miss  Vicary's  mad  sister  is  so  uncom- 
monly like  the  girl  I  was  in  love  with  once. 
When  I  took  this  up  and  caught  the  first 
glimpse  of  her  face,  I  felt  just  the  same  thrill 
I  did  years  ago  when  I  first  saw  her,  and  fell 


in  love  with  her  on  the  spot.  I  was  awfully 
cut,  to  be  sure." 

Horatia  remained  motionless,  as  motionless 
as  she  could— that  is  to  say,  a  certain  trem- 
bling of  her  nervous  lips,  a  certain  air  of  light 
flutter  that  can  not  be  defined,  would  have  be- 
trayed her  agitation  and  its  cause  to  him,  if  all 
attention  had  not  been  concentrated  on  the 
subject  of  the  wonderful  resemblance  he  had 
discovered  between  the  mad  Miss  Vicary  and 
his  old  love. 

It  was  pitiably  hard  on  Horatia  Waldron. 
Only  the  night  before  he  had  been  worrying 
her  in  words,  and  with  a  manner  that  was  even 
warmer  than  his  words.  He  had  been  show- 
ing her  that  she  held  the  highest  place  in  his 
estimation,  the  first  claim  in  his  interest,  the 
position  of  honor  in  his  heart.  And  now  he 
was  speaking  openly  of  another  woman  in 
terms  of  love  and  admiration,  and  avowing, 
without  hesitation,  that  he  felt  thrilled  at  the 
sight  even  of  an  accidental  likeness  to  that 
other  one.  It  was  pitiably  hard  on  Mrs.  Ar- 
thur Waldron  ;  it  wronged  her  pride  as  well  as 
her  heart.  And  she  could  not  take  refuge 
from  the  pain  of  endurance  by  a  course  of  ac- 
tion that  is  a  natural  and  usual  one  with  proud 
and  passionately  loving  women.  She  could 
not  give  him  his  opportunity  with  the  girl  who 
resembled  the  one  he  still  preferred  to  herself. 
She  could  not  bring  him  nearer  to  Clarice,  and 
defy  him  and  every  one  else  to  suspect  the  ag- 
ony she  endured,  by  aiding  him  to  win  the  girl, 
a  sight  of  whom  thrilled  him.  All  this  she 
would  have  done,  with  all  the  form  and  skill, 
and  tact  and  sympathy  with  which  she  was 
endowed,  though  she  would  have  done  it  at 
the  cost  of  such  anguish  to  herself  as  love  and 
jealousy  only  have  the  power  of  inflicting. 
But  her  hands  were  tied ;  she  could  do  none 
of  these  things,  for  Clarice  was  mad ;  and 


58 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


though  she  would  have  been  ready  to  sacrifice 
herself,  she  was  not  prepared  to  sacrifice  him 
to  such  an  appalling  fate. 

At' last  she  recovered  her  composure  suffi- 
ciently to  enable  her  to  act  the  bitter  part 
which  women  are  often  compelled  to  play. 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  be  able  to  tell  you  honest- 
ly, that  I  think  there  may  be  no  mistake  at  all 
on  your  side,"  she  began,  as  warmly  and  sweet- 
ly as  if  every  word  she  was  talking  were  not 
deepening  the  pain  in  her  heart.  "  My  broth- 
er has  no  faith  at  all  in  her  being  Mrs.  Wal- 
dron's  daughter ;  and  from  what  I  saw  of  her 
to-day — of  her  grace  and  beauty  and  refine- 
ment, I  am  quite  ready  to  indorse  my  broth- 
er's opinion ;  she  may  be  the — lady  you  knew 
once." 

He  shook  his  head  incredulously. 

"No,  no,  it's  utterly  impossible  that  Cecil 
Kashleigh  can  have  fallen  into  their  power  in 
any  way,"  he  said.  And  then,  after  a  brief 
pause,  he  added,  "I  sliould  like  to  get  a  sight 
of  her  very  much,  though  I'm  positive  she  isn't 
Cecil ;  but  the  likeness  is  so  startling,  I  should 
like  to  see  her." 

"You  shall,  if  it  can  be  managed  in  any 
way,"  Horatia  said,  with  all  the  cordial  sympa- 
thy of  manner  which  she  had  at  command. 
"  Listen  to  me,  Mr.  Stapylton,  I  dare  not  raise 
your  hopes  too  high — it  would  be  so  terrible  to 
have  to  dash  them  down  again ;  but  if,  when 
you  have  seen  her,  you  find  her  to  be  the  one 
we  hope  she  may  be,  bear  this  in  mind — that 
Gilbert  is  sure,  under  different  treatment,  her 
mind  would  be  quite  restored." 

Poor,  wretched,  honorable  impostor  that  she 
was !  She  succeeded  perfectly  in  making  him 
believe  that  all  her  interest  was  engaged  on 
the  side  of  the  girl  who  resembled  Cecil.  He 
had  no  more  idea  than  men  usually  have  in 
such  cases,  that  Horatia  was  capable  of  being 
horribly  cruel  to  herself,  for  the  sake  of  doing 
him  what  he  thought  a  kindness.  She  seemed 
to  be  doing  it  all  in  an  effortless  manner,  and 
so  in  this  new  excitement  he  forgot  his  own 
former  warm  feelings  for  her,  and  assumed  eas- 
ily that  her  interest  in  him  was  of  that  true  sis- 
terly order  which  it  is  so  creditable  "for  a  fel- 
low to  gain  from  a  nice  woman."  And  Hora- 
tia saw  that  he  took  this  view  of  the  case,  and 
went  on  acting  her  part  more  perfectly  than 
ever. 

"  I  almost  feel  as  if  the  dream  of  your  youth 
would  be  realized,"  she  said,  with  the  fine  fer- 
vor women  can  portray  about  the  heart  affairs 
of  another,  when  their  own  hearts  are  bleeding 
to  death  sometimes. 


"  Well,  it  won't  be  the  '  dream  of  my  youth,' 
whatever  this  comes  to,  you  see  ;  the  practical, 
all-conquering  girl  I  was  so  awfully  fond  of, 
she  won't  be  the  same,  don't  you  know?— she's 
been  married,  and — " 

"Mad,"  Horatia  said,  impulsively,  letting 
jealous  wrath  have  all  its  own  way  for  a  mo- 
ment. Then  again  she  constrained  herself 
strongly,  to  go  on  making  him  believe  that  all 
this  was  just  as  she  would  have  it. 

"But  the  two  evils  are  things  of  the  past, 
Mr.  Stapleton  ;  for  all  we  know  she  may  never 
have  been  married  at  all ;  and  as  for  the  mad- 
ness, that  exists  chiefly  in  the  imagination  of 
Mrs.  Waldron  and  Miss  Vicary,  I  am  inclined 
to  think.  Let  me  tell  you  how  she  looked  when 
she  was  speaking  to  me  this  morning.  I  am 
such  a  poor  word-painter  that  I  shall  not  do 
her  justice,  but  I  will  do  my  best  to  make  yon 
understand  how  she  interested  and  fascinated 
me,  and  you  know  how  difficult  I  am  about 
women." 

Then  she  did  "  do  her  best,"  believing  that 
she  would  be  guilty  of  some  sort  of  baseness 
and  meanness  if  she  did  not  depict  this  uncon- 
scious rival  of  hers  in  the  most  glowing  colors 
she  could  find  to  use.  And  she  did  her  best  so 
cleverly  that  Frank  Stapylton  believed  she  felt 
an  actual  pleasure  in  doing  it,  and  rewarded 
her  efforts  on  his  behalf  by  being  touched  to 
absolute  emotion  by  the  vision  she  conjured  up 
of  the  pleading,  helpless,  lovely  prisoner  of 
Larpington  House. 

In  blithe  ignorance  of  the  fact  of  the  pain 
Horatia  was  enduring  in  listening  to  these  re- 
trospections, he  adorned  the  subject  of  Cecil 
Rashleigh  with  the  most  ornate  speculations. 
What  he  might  do,  and  she  might  do,  if  she 
proved  to  be  the  she  of  his  boyhood's  romance, 
was  a  fruitful  theme.  And  almost  equally  pro- 
ductive of  happy,  hopeful,  amiable  wonderment, 
was  the  theme  of  what  other  people  would  say 
and  think  and  feel. 

"  At  any  rate,  through  it  all  I  shall  be  sure 
to  have  your  sympathy,  whichever  way  the 
wind  blows,"  he  said,  heartily;  and  Horatia 
smiled  and  told  him  yes,  whatever  came  he 
might  be  sure  of  her  being  glad  if  he  was  glad, 
and  grieved  for  him  if  genuine  cause  of  grief 
arose. 

And  she  brought  herself  to  say  all  this  with 
unfaltering  lips.  It  was  the  first  bit  of  self- 
abrogation  which  she  had  to  practice  with  re- 
gard to  him,  as  she  performed  her  task  as  only 
a  woman  can  who  loves  a  man  too  well  to 
pain  him  by  letting  him  see  how  he  is  paining 
her. 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


But  the  weary  conviction  that  this  was  only 
the  beginning  of  the  end— that  she  would  in 
fact  have  to  go  on  seeming  the  thing  she  was 
not— glad,  namely,  for  that  which  would  be 
probably  a  very  doubtful  blessing  to  him,  and 
the  very  reverse  of  a  blessing  to  her— grew  upon 
and  weakened  her.  Weakened  her  so,  that 
she  was  at  the  very  worst  soon  that  a  woman 
can  be  before  the  man  she  pines  to  please. 
Weary  and  wan-looking,  and  too  wistful  about 
him  altogether  to  have  a  particle  of  the  power 
of  witching  him  left  in  her. 

And  he  was  so  bitterly  oblivious  of  her — of 
what  had  gone  before  during  his  brief  inter- 
course with  her — of  every  thing,  in  short,  that 
did  not  bear  upon  his  own  case  in  connection 
with  the  love  he  had  lost,  and  the  possibilities 
concerning  the  lady  of  Larpington  House.  So, 
being  thus  utterly  oblivious,  he  staid  on,  and 
raked  over  the  ashes  of  the  past,  and  disin- 
terred every  incident  relating  to  those  halcyon 
days  of  youth  and  love  and  hope  in  which  he 
had  known  Cecil  Rashleigh. 

"I  shall  leave  the  matter  entirely  in  your 
hands  at  first,"  he  said  at  length,  when  he  had 
exhausted  his  reminiscences  of  Cecil,  and  poor 
Horatia's  tired  eyes  were  rapidly  losing  the 
power  of  expressing  that  sparkling  interest 
which  she  wished  him  to  believe  she  felt  in  the 
affair.  "I  shall  leave  the  matter  entirely  in 
your  hands  at  first ;  you  manage  to  let  me  have 
a  sight  of  the  girl  herself,  and  after  that  I'll 
undertake  to  clear  up  any  mystery  there  may 
be."  Then  he  added  something  about  Horatia 
being  the  sweetest  fellow-laborer  a  man  could 
have  in  any  work,  and  went  away,  finally,  beam- 
ing with  excited  self-satisfaction. 

On  the  face  of  it,  his  conduct  may  appear 
thoughtless  and  selfish  to  those  who  are  not 
given  to  scanning  human  actions  closely,  and 
analyzing  human  motives  thoroughly.  But 
the  fact  is  that  he  was  only  selfish  and  thought- 
less to  the  same  degree  that  the  noblest-na- 
tured  as  well  as  the  meanest-natured  men  are 
when  the  master-passion  seizes  them.  Only 
the  other  day  he  had  been  charmed,  fasci- 


nated, interested  by  Mrs.  Arthur  Waldron  to 
the  point  of  wishing  to  make  her  full  in  love 
with  him,  and  become  exclusively  his  own 
property,  in  which  no  other  man  should  have 
the  right  to  take  pride  and  pleasure.  Hut  he 
had  not  been  interested  by  her  yet  to  the 
point  of  fulling  in  love  with  her  himself.  Ac- 
cordingly, he  almost  unconsciously  slipped  off 
his  former  hopes  and  sensations'  about  her,  us 
easily  as  he  would  have  slipped  off  a  cloak, 
when  the  chord  was  struck  of  a  sentiment 
that  had  been  stronger  in  the  past,  than  was 
his  sentiment  for  her  in  the  present.  It  was 
all  natural  and  right  and  pardonable  enough 
— above  all,  it  was  essentially  human,  and  Ho- 
ratia Waldron  acknowledged  that  it  was  all 
these  things.  Nevertheless  it  was  uncommon- 
ly hard  to  bear. 

In  almost  a  similar  way  to  this  these  people 
passed  the  next  few  days,  meeting  often,  meet- 
ing always  in  healthy,  open,  undisguised  friend- 
ship, and  still  the  meetings  were  full  of  pleas- 
ure unalloyed  to  the  man  who  loved  to  talk 
of  Cecil,  and  liked  to  have  clever  and  sym- 
pathetic Mrs.  Arthur  Waldron  for  a  listener. 
Full  of  unalloyed  pleasure  to  him,  and  full 
of  such  pain  to  her  as  can  only  be  appreci- 
ated by  a  woman  who  has  been  gnawed  by 
jealousy,  and  at  the  same  time  torn  to  tatters 
by  the  struggles  of  a  self-respect  that  will  not 
permit  the  jealousy  to  manifest  itself. 

Sometimes  Horatia  felt  wildly  anxious  to 
accelerate  matters,  as  one  about  whose  heart 
the  dagger's  point  was  playing  might  feel 
anxious  to  drive  it  home  to  the  hilt.  If  she 
could  have  fought  for  and  won  his  bride  for 
him  on  these  occasions  she  would  have  done 
it,  and  additionally  would  have  been  capable 
of  mounting  the  carriage-box  and  driving  the 
happy  pair  at  full  gallop  to  the  nearest  church. 
There  would  have  been  absolute  relief  to  her 
in  this  heart-suicidal  course  of  action.  But 
to  sit  and  be  the  recipient  of  Frank's  love- 
rhapsodies  about  another  woman !  Well,  she 
won  her  martyr's  crown  nobly ;  that  is  all  that 
can  be  said. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 


THE  MESSAGE. 


MEANWHILE  Gilbert  Denham  buried  the 
wife  whose  life  he  had  counted  on  as 
being  of  such  value  to  him  when  the  time  was 
ripe  for  Miss  Vicary  to  demand  her  pound 
of  flesh,  and  then  suffered  himself  to  be  drag- 
ged back  to  Larpington  by  the  irresistible 
power  of  repulsion.  During  his  absence  he 
found  that  he  had  been  very  securely  assigned 
by  rumor  to  Miss  Vicary.  Her  mother  had 
given  Mrs.  Arthur  Waldron's  unwilling  hand 
an  emphatic  squeeze  when  they  met  on  the 
Sunday  previously,  in  coming  out  of  church. 
"And  that  woman  actually  had  the  audacity 
to  add  that  she  heartily  and  cordially  approved 
of  the  arrangements,  and  that,  when  you  mar- 
ried her  daughter,  she  would  retire  and  leave 
you  in  possession  of  Larpington  House.  As 
if  your  interest  was  to  be  bought  away  from 
my  boy  in  that  way  ;  or  as  if  I  was  to  be  won 
to  sink  his  rights  because  it  may  be  that  my 
own  brother  will  enjoy  them." 

Horatia  panted  out  her  protestation  ea- 
gerly, and  Gilbert  replied  to  it  in  a  way  that 
re-assured  her. 

"Kely  upon  it,  that  no  power  on  earth—- 
or under  it  either,  for  that  matter — shall  ever 
induce  me  to  marry  Miss  Vicary,"  he  said,  in 
a  tone  of  gloomy  desperation  ;  "  but  there  will 
be  some  sharp  and  severe  passages  before  I 
gain  my  point  and  get  free  from  her." 

"You  mean  before  you  gain  the  secret, 
whatever  it  may  be,  about  Clarice  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  the  secret,  whatever  it  may  be,  about 
Clarice  is  the  greatest  interest  I  have  on  earth 
— now." 

The  "now  "was  an  after-thought  added  by 
the  poor  young  widower,  as  a  respectful  tribute 
to  the  memory  of  his  deceased  wife. 

"  Well,  Gilbert,"  his  sister  began,  hesitating- 
ly, with  a  woman's  natural  unwillingness  to 
point  out  to  another  that  the  love  she  had  been 


accredited  with  gaining  was  in  reality  given 
to  somebody  else.  "  Well,  Gilbert,  since  you 
went  away  something  very  extraordinary  has 
happened;"  and  then  she  went  on  to  tell  him 
of  her  visit  to  Clarice,  of  the  water-color 
sketch,  and  all  its  consequences. 

And  as  she  told  him  she  saw  that  another 
complication  would  arise.  For  she  saw  her 
brother's  face  darken  and  flush  ominously,  and 
she  noticed  that  his  voice  had  a  strange,  harsh 
ring  in  it,  as  he  said, 

"I  don't  want  any  aid  from  Stapylton ;" 
and  there  was  about  him  that  air  of  gruff  re- 
jection of  any  thing  that  might  be  construed 
into  a  service  or  favor,  from  a  man  who  might 
develop  into  a  rival,  which  is  so  unmistakable. 
"He  is  going  to  love  her,  too,  and  be  jealous 
of  Frank,"  the  poor  young  widow  thought; 
and  then  her  jealousy  for  her  son — for  the  son 
who  might  live  to  be  a  talented  and  distin- 
guished man,  and  so  glorify  her  (his  mother) 
in  a  way  that  no  new  lover  could  ever  do — en- 
tered in,  and  for  the  time  cast  out  the  jealousy 
of  the  mysterious  Cecil,  with  whom  Frank  Sta- 
pylton fancied  himself  in  love. 

That  her  boy  might  be  worsted  in  this  strug- 
gle— that  her  little  Gerald's  interests  might  be 
swamped  in  this  general  flood  of  feeling  which 
seemed  to  be  setting  in — was  a  possibility  that 
strung  her  up  to  the  point  of  enduring  any 
thing.  She  was  very  ready  to  sacrifice  herself. 
A  woman  who  is  worth  any  thing  is  always 
ready  to  do  that ;  but  she  was  not  ready  to 
sacrifice  her  child — her  boy — the  son  of  whom 
she  was  so  proud  in  his  babyhood,  that  to  live 
to  be  his  mother  in  his  manhood  was  her  most 
fervent  prayer. 

Under  the  influence  of  this  feeling,  she 
spoke  to  her  brother  with  all  the  convincing 
warmth  that  characterizes  a  woman  who  is  in 
loving  earnest. 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


Cl 


"  But,  Gilbert,  why  not  take  his  aid,  if  he 
can  give  you  any !  Take  his  aid  in  clearing 
away  the  mists  which  are  between  my  boy  and 
his  own,  and  give  him  your  help  in  winning 
this  woman  to  be  his  wife ;  help  each  other. 
Do  !  do  !  for  my  sake." 

And  Gilbert  looked  at  her,  pulling  his  mus- 
tache the  while,  in  vague  endeavor  to  compre- 
hend her,  and  didn't  understand  her  in  the 
least,  and  was  indeed  rather  further  from  her 
real  meaning  when  the  conversation  ended 
than  he  had  been  at  the  beginning  of  it. 

"Of  course,  if  you've  so  set  on  his  marrying 
this  girl,  whether  he  wants  to  do  so  or  not, 
you'll  carry  your  point  by  the  force  of  sheer 
pertinacity ;  you  quietly  impulsive  women  are 
apt  to  get  your  way.  But  I  thought  that  the 
wind  was  blowing  quite  another  way ;  really, 
Horry,  I  thought  the  other  night — " 

"  Oh !  don't  tell  me  what  you  thought  the 
other  night,"  she  interrupted.  "You  were 
mistaken ;  and  I  ought  to  be  very  thankful 
that  I  have  not  been  led  into  temptation,  and 
at  the  same  time  I  ought  to  bless  this  vision  of 
Cecil  Rashleigh's  face,  for  through  it  we  may 
find  out  something  about  the  way  that  woman 
got  hold  of  my  boy's  property." 

"I  don't  see  that  you  ought  to  be  very 
thankful  for  either  circumstance,  Horry,"  her 
brother  said,  laughing;  "and  I'm  sure  you  are 
not  either ;  you're  trying  to  delude  yourself, 
my  dear  girl ;  I  shall  think  Stapylton  a  senti- 
mental fool  if  he  falls  off  from  his  preference 
for  you ;  there's  something  maudlin  about  a 
fellow  getting  spooney  on  an  idea  in  this  way 
that  I  don't  like.  I  believe  you,  in  the  zeal  of 
your  desire  to  sacrifice  yourself,  have  been  talk- 
ing him  into  it." 

Mrs.  Arthur  Waldron  shook  her  head,  and 
answered  with  just  a  tinge  of  jealous  bitterness 
in  her  tone. 

"  No,  no ;  there  was  no  need  for  me  to  do 
that,  I  assure  you,  Gilbert ;  it  was  genuine 
emotion  —  the  emotion  produced  by  genuine 
love  which  he  betrayed  on  seeing  that  poor 
faint  sketch  of  a  face  that  I  feel  to  be  fair 
enough  to  chain  any  man's  constancy  for  life. 
I  wish  you  wouldn't  laugh  doubtfully  in  that 
way.  I  want  you  to  believe  that  Frank  Stu- 
pylton  will  have  my  hearty  aid  and  warmest 
wishes." 

"By  Jove,  then,  he  won't  have  mine,"  Gil- 
bert Denham  cried,  hastily ;  and  fellow-feeling 
taught  his  sister  truly  that  he,  too,  was  being 
stung  much  in  the  same  way  that  she  herself 
was.  The  fair  face  had  evidently  made  an  in- 
delible impression  on  him. 


For  a  few  moments,  Horatia  Waldron  allow- 
ed hope  to  thrill  her  heart  as  the  thought  flash- 
ed into  her  mind  that  Gilbert  would  attempt  to 
rival  Frank  Stapylton.  Why  should  not  her 
handsome,  clever  brother  rival  him  successful- 
ly !  There  was  balm  in  the  thought.  Then, 
with  the  absurd  partiality  of  a  woman  in  love, 
she  let  the  hope  fade  away,  as  she  said  to  her- 
self, 

"But  what  chance  would  Gilbert  stand 
against  Frank  ?  She  refused  him  in  his  youth, 
because  she  was  bound  to  some  one  else ;  but 
what  free  woman  could  resist  him  now  ?  Well, 
I  have  my  children." 

"  I  have  my  children."  The  cry  wells  up 
from  many  a  bleeding  heart,  and  the  reflection 
saves  many  a  woman  from  utter  despair.  "I 
have  my  children !"  It  is  a  merciful  dispensa- 
tion that  the  majority  do  not  think  at  the  same 
time:  "But  they  will  soon  grow  awny  from 
finding  their  mother  their  nearest,  dearest  in- 
terest ;  they  will  each  and  all  of  them  learn  to 
love  some  stranger  better  than  me ;  and  it  is 
right  that  it  should  be  so ;  right!  but,  Heaven, 
how  hard!" 

Happily  for  Horatia,  no  thought  of  the  hus- 
band and  wife  of  the  future  who  would  come 
and  take  her  children  from  her  disturbed  her 
peace  now.  She  had  them  still — entirely,  in- 
disputably ;  and  having  them,  she  told  herself 
she  could  see  Frank  Stapylton  lapse  from  her 
without  a  sigh. 

"I  suppose  you  have  that  water-color  sketch 
you  were  speaking  of?  I  should  like  to  have 
a  look  at  it,"  Gilbert  said,  in  a  tone  of  trans- 
parently assumed  carelessness,  presently.. 

"No,  I  haven't,  Gilbert,  I  lent  it  to  Mr.  Sta- 
pylton ;"  and  then  Horatia  went  on  heroically 
to  describe  how  Mr.  Stapylton  had  pleaded  ar- 
dently for  the  poor,  weak  reflection  of  the  beau- 
ty he  adored. 

"I  consider  it  mere  maudlin  sentimentality 
— a  fellow  going  on  in  that  way,"  Gilbert  said, 
angrily;  "  parading  his  puny  constancy  to  a 
woman  who  refused  him  once  as  if  it  was 
something  to  be  proud  of;  Stapylton  hasn't 
half  the  stuff  in  him  that  I  thought  he  had." 

"It's  because  he  is  showing  that  he  has 
such  good  faithful  stuff  in  him  that  you're 
annoyed,  Gilbert,"  she  said,  warmly.  Horatia 
Waldron  suffered  terribly  in  her  own  heart  on 
account  of  that  same  faithfulness  of  Frank's. 
But  she  would  not  hear  him  censured  for  it 
without  uttering  her  protest. 

But  she  saw  how  it  was  with  painful  perspi- 
cuity. Both  these  men— the  two  dearest  to 
her  on  earth— had  gone  over  to  the  side  of  the 


G2 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


unconscious  woman  whom  ordinarily  just  Ho- 
ratia  Waldron  had  come  to  regard  as  her  ene- 
my ;  and  she  felt  piteously  pained,  and  out- 
raged, and  helpless. 

The  avenger  in  the  person  of  Emmeline  Vic- 
ary  was  upon  Gilbert  Denham  before  he  had 
recovered  the  blow  of  hearing  that  Frank  Sta- 
pylton  was  going  to  put  in  a  prior  claim  to  the 
beauty  whose  identity  was  shrouded  in  mystery. 
Miss  Vicary  came  down  in  all  her  glory  upon 
the  inhabitants  of  the  Bridge  House;  came 
down  with  a  chariot  and  horses,  and  a  deter- 
mined-looking mother,  and  raiment  of  price 
upon  her  fine,  expansive  person.  And  she  call- 
ed Gilbert  "Gilbert,"  in  the  tones  of  an  owner, 
and  generally  by  means  of  her  manner  made 
both  Gilbert  and  his  sister  hate  her  more  than 
they  had  done  hitherto. 

In  explanation  of  a  certain  abstraction  of 
mind  and  indifference  of  manner,  which  he 
could  not  help  himself  from  exhibiting,  and 
which  Miss  Vicary,  with  ponderous  warmth, 
promptly  resented,  Gilbert  suffered  the  state- 
ment to  escape  him  that  he  had  just  lost  by 
death  the  dearest  friend  he  had  in  the  world. 
And  forthwith  Emmeline  perplexed  him  with 
inquiries. 

"  Tell  me  about  him,  Gilbert,"  she  said,  lay- 
ing a  suspicious  emphasis  on  the  personal  pro- 
noun; "you  will  find  that  I  shall  never  be 
jealous  of  your  men  friends  occupying  a  warm 
place  in  your  regard ;  I  think  it's  mean  of  a 
woman  to  be  that,  don't  you  ?" 

"I  find  that  women  are  capable  of  any 
amount  of  meanness,"  he  answered,  writhing. 
In  the  present  distorted  state  of  his  judgment, 
he  almost  believed  that  there  was  a  touch  of 
meanness  in  the  fact  of  that  fair-faced  beauty 
up  at  Larpington  House  having  existed  previ- 
ously for  any  other  man.  And  he  was  almost 
inclined  to  accuse  poor  Horatia  of  meanness 
in  being  ready  to  aid  and  abet  that  other  man 
to  win  her  (the  fair-faced  beauty).  He  was 
altogether  out  of  gear,  in  fact;  and  so  Miss 
Vicary  had  him  very  much  at  her  tender 
mercy. 

"You  will  acknowledge  that  I  have  not 
shown  any  thing  like  meanness  in  the  manage- 
ment of  our  affairs,"  she  said,  deprecatingly, 
"in  spite  of  your  leaving  me  so  abruptly,  after 
all,  you  know.  I  was  very  brave,  for  I  told 
mamma  and  your  sister  about  it  myself.  Mam- 
ma was  all  that  was  kind,  but  (you  mustn't  be 
angry  with  me  for  telling  you  the  truth  now 
and  at  all  times,  Gilbert)  your  sister  showed 
very  ill  feeling  about  it." 

She  had  got  him  out  in  the  most  secluded 


part  of  Horatia's  garden  as  she  made  this  com- 
munication, and  she  was  leaning  weightily  on 
his  arm  in  the  ponderously  affectionate  way  in 
which  some  young  women  do  delight  in  making 
manifest  their  right  supreme  to  the  situation. 
He  could  bear  many  things,  when  the  many 
things  were  merely  means  toward  an  end  that 
was  dear  to  him.  But  he  could  not  bear  cen- 
sure of  his  sister  from  Emmeline  Vicary. 

"My  sister  was  naturally  shocked  and  sur- 
prised at  what  you  said  to  her,"  he  said,  coldly. 

"  Why  « naturally  ?' "  Miss  Vicary  asked,  an- 
grily. "There  is  nothing  so  very  out  of  the 
way  in  your  thinking  me  good  enough  to  be 
your  wife ;  your  marriage  with  me  won't  low- 
er you,  or  her  either,  and  it  strikes  me  that's  all 
she  cares  for — " 

"Don't  speak  of  marriage,  I've  just  left  a 
death-bed,"  Gilbert  interrupted,  with  an  amount 
of  emotion  that  under  the  circumstances  must 
have  been  perplexing  and  offensive  to  the  lady 
by  his  side.  However,  she  subdued  any  evi- 
dence of  anger  which  she  might  have  been 
tempted  to  show,  and  said,  almost  humbly,  "I 
hope  you  won't  be  annoyed  at  one  other  thing 
I've  done  during  your  absence ;  I  have  taken 
Mrs.  Arthur  to  see  Clarice  ?" 

"No,  I'm  not  annoyed  at  it,"  he  said;  and 
yet  he  was  unaccountably  annoyed  about  it  the 
whole  time.  "Perhaps,"  he  went  on,  "it 
would  have  been  well  to  have  consulted  me 
first ;  my  sister  is  enthusiastic,  and  enthusiasm 
is  very  penetrating ;  if  there  is  any  thing  to  be 
discovered  about  Clarice  which  you  wish  to 
keep  concealed,  you  have  done  an  unwise 
thing." 

"I  shall  make  you  the  judge  of  whether  it 
will  be  well  for  us  to  conceal  it  or  not,  very 
soon,"  she  said,  in  a  whisper.  "  I'll  trust  you 
entirely — as  I  love  you ;  you  shall  know  Clar- 
ice's story." 

He  felt  that  an  appalling  responsibility  of 
some  unknown  kind  would  be  cast  upon  him 
as  soon  as  he  did  know  it.  Nevertheless  he 
panted  to  hear  all  she  had  to  tell  him. 

"The  sooner  the  better  for  us  all," he  said 
quietly,  and  Emmeline  nerved  herself  to  the 
task,  and  would  have  told  him  "  all "  there  was 
to  tell,  if  her  mother  and  his  sister  had  not 
come  to  the  window  calling  them  just  then. 

"Mr.  Stapylton  is  here,  and  Mrs.  Waldron 
wishes  us  all  to  go  up  and  have  luncheon  with 
her,"  Mrs.  Arthur  Waldron  said  to  her  brother 
as  he  approached  her,  "  and  I  should  like  to  go, 
if  you  will,  Gilbert."  She  went  on  driving  the 
dagger  deeper  into  her  heart  as  she  thought  of 
how  Prank  would  not  only  "thrill,"  but  tell 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


C3 


her  of  his  thrills  when  he  found  himself  under 
the  same  roof  with  the  woman  he  loved. 

And  Gilbert  acquiesced  in  the  plan,  for  any 
thing  was  better  than  delay,  and  so,  as  soon  as 
it  was  settled,  Miss  Vicary  proposed  that  the 
carriage  should  be  sent  home,  and  that  the 
whole  party  should  walk  up  together. 

So  they  went  through  the  village,  a  peace- 
ful procession  apparently,  full  of  all  manner  of 
kindly  feeling  and  good-will  toward  one  an- 
other. And  so  many  of  their  fellow-creatures 
as  observed  them  thought  what  an  auspicious 
spectacle  it  was,  and  how  well  it  augured  for 
the  future  prosperity  of  the  place  that  the  two 
branches  of  the  family  should  be  proclaiming 
in  this  way  their  intention  of  dwelling  in  peace 
and  amity  together. 

The  luncheon  was  a  lengthy  ceremony  at 
Larpington  House  always,  but  to  day  it  seem- 
ed hideous  in  its  extreme  length  to  the  two 
men  who  were  anxious  to  see  it  come  to  an 
end,  and  to  be  on  their  way  to  fresh  discover- 
ies. They  grew  silent,  sad,  utterly  uninterest- 
ing in  their  bored  impatience,  and  it  was  a  re- 
lief even  to  unconscious  Mrs.  Waldron  when  it 
came  to  an  end,  and  Emmeline  moved  an  ad- 
journment to  the  picture-gallery.  "For  there, 
without  making  ourselves  conspicuous,  we  can 
talk  apart,"  she  whispered  to  Gilbert  Den- 
ham.  And  he,  knowing  that  the  picture-gal- 
lery opened  into  Clarice's  room,  said  "Yes" to 
her  proposition,  gladly. 

They  sauntered  up  and  down  for  a  time 
looking  at  the  dead-and-gone  Waldrons,  and 
talking  of  the  extreme  beauty  which  had  char- 
acterized the  last  two  representatives  of  the 
race ;  and  Frank  Stapylton  made  himself  Mrs. 
Arthur  Waldron's  close  escort  during  the  saun- 
tering, and  whispered  to  her  perpetually,  for 
did  she  not  know  his  secret,  and  sympathize 
with  it  ?  Gilbert  Denham  and  Emmeline  mean- 
time strolling  apart,  he  anxious  beyond  the 
bounds  of  mere  common  anxiety  for  the  mo- 
ment to  arrive  which  should  put  him  in  pos- 
session of  Clarice's  story ;  she  striving  with  all 
her  power  to  string  herself  up  to  the  task  of 
telling  it. 

Presently  the  mistress  of  the  house,  seeing 
that  the  quartette  had  arranged  itself  so  happi- 
ly, and  feeling  that  as  the  odd  one  she  was  de 
trop,  left  them,  and  went  back  to  one  of  the 
back  saloons  wherein  she  loved  to  sit,  while 
her  imagination  peopled  it  with  an  aristocratic 
crowd  whom  she  had  had  the  power  of  calling 
together. 

So  the  four  were  left  alone,  without  her 
guarding  presence,  within  a  few  yards  of  the 


secret  which  three  of  them  thirsted  to  find  out. 
Wildly,  impatiently,  without  an  end  or  aim, 
Horatia  Waldron  moved  about  the  gallery, 
and  spoke  as  coherently  as  she  could  of  the 
things  which  she  scarcely  saw.  Tried  to  talk 
Art,  poor  thjng !  with  her  heart  aching  about 
Nature,  and  failed ;  and  still  concealed  her  fail- 
ure from  the  man  who  caused  her  to  make  it. 

That  he  was  not  worth  one  of  these  pangs 
which  she  suffered  on  his  account  was  a  saving 
consideration  which  never  came  to  her  aid  once 
during  these  dark  days.  It  never  does  until  a 
woman  has  endured  all  the  anguish,  and  then 
it  comes  with  overwhelming  force,  and  adds 
terribly  to  her  mortification.  On  the  whole, 
better  the  agony  of  loving  than  the  discovery 
that  the  one  loved  is  not  worth  the  price  of  pain 
one  has  paid  for  him. 

But  Horatia  Waldron  had  not  made  this  dis- 
covery yet.  Most  probably  she  was  one  of  the 
women  who  never  do  make  it,  but  who  go  on 
to  the  end  making  gods  of  mere  idols  of  some 
kind  of  poor  composition.  If  she  is  one  of 
these  women,  all  I  can  say  is  that  her's  will  be 
the  happier  fate.  The  feeling  of  having  been 
deceived  by  one's  own  vain  imaginings  is  about 
as  painful  a  ono  as  a  woman  can  be  called  upon 
to  live  through. 

Frank  Stapylton  was  one  of  the  men  whom 
women  truthfully  enough  speak  of  as  delightful, 
and  men  warmly  mention  as  a  "very  good  fel- 
low." Nevertheless  he  was  not  that  despicable 
thing,  "a  general  favorite."  Far  be  it  from 
me  to  wish  to  depreciate  the  man  Horatia  Wal- 
dron honored  with  her  regard.  He  was  not 
a  general  favorite,  but  he  was  very  well  liked, 
with  very  good  reason,  by  the  great  majority. 
Since  the  fading  away  of  his  first  love-dream, 
he  had  taken  life  very  gayly.  His  real  inner 
cry  had  been — 

"  Then  let  me  live  a  long  romance, 

And  lenrn  to  trifle  well, 
And  write  my  motto  '  Vive  la  danse  /' 
And  Vive  la  bagatelle! 

But  Horatia  Waldron  had  fetched  him  down 
from  this  airy,  unfeeling  sphere.  Fetched  him 
down  only  that  he  might  fall  in  love  with  an- 
other woman. 

Into  the  midst  of  their  quiet  in  this  picture- 
gallery,  this  latter  reflection  would  intrude  and 
disquiet  her.  She  knew  all  the  time  that  he 
was  waiting,  longing,  yearning  for  a  sound  and 
a  sight  of  that  other  woman  as  ardently  as  he 
was  shrinking  from  it.  And  so  presently  she 
said,  with  the  impassioned  fervor  of  despairing 
love  and  defiant  jealousy, 

"If  'Will'  had  any  thing  to  do  with  the  mat- 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


ter  I'd  bring  Clarice  into  our  midst  this  mo- 
ment. It  is  hard  on  us  all— it  is  more  than 
cruel  to  you,  that  circumstances  should  keep 
her  boxed  up  so  close  to  us  when  a  sight  of 
her  might — " 

Into  the  midst  of  her  speech  came  a  strain, 
and  the  cry  of  the  recognition  of  it.     Out  from 


the  barred  and  bolted  chamber  in  which  Clar- 
ice was  imprisoned  there  rang  the  words  of 
Blumenthal's  "Message" — the  first  words  of 
the  witching  melody,  sung  in  a  high  tremulous 
soprano,  and,  in  response  to  it,  Frank  Stapyl- 
ton  stammered  out, 
4 '  It  is  Cecil  herself." 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

"IN  MY  LADY'S  CHAMBER." 


HE  did  not  soften  or  subdue  his  voice, 
he  gave  out  his  conviction  that  it  was 
"  Cecil  herself,"  gladly,  loudly,  gloriously,  as  a 
man  should  give  out  any  conviction  he  may 
hold  about  the  woman  he  loves. 

"Let  us  go  in  at  once,"  he  said,  eagerly, 
to  Horatia  Waldron,  turning  to  her  for  sure 
and  ready  sympathy  and  hearty  acquiescence, 
and  utterly  ignoring  Miss  Vicary's  presence 
and  possible  power.  And  his  hand  was  on 
the  handle  of  the  door  of  Clarice's  prison  in 
a  moment,  and  the  flush  of  love  and  antici- 
pation was  on  his  face,  and  Mrs.  Arthur  Wal- 
dron felt  that  the  hour  had  come  for  another 
to  "  shine  her  down  "  altogether,  as  far  as  he 
was  concerned,  when  suddenly  Miss  Vicary 
interposed. 

Coldly,  mockingly,  tauntingly,  it  almost 
seemed  to  them  all,  Emmeline  spoke. 

"Really,  Mr.  Stapylton, it  seems  to  me  that 
weakness  is  infectious ;  that  is  the  only  way 
I  can  account  for  your  taking  such  an  un- 
pardonable liberty  as  to  attempt  to  enter  that 
room." 

"But  I  tell  you  that  I  know  her,  that  I 
will  see  her!"  he  cried,  excitedly;  and  then, 
lashed  to  fury  by  the  fear  that  the  secret  she 
was  going  to  surrender  for  love,  to  barter  for 
love,  would  be  discovered,  and  so  make  her 
surrender  of  no  avail,  she  ran  to  the  head 
of  the  staircase  and  called  loudly  for  "Mr. 
Carter." 

"Why  on  earth  were  you  so  impetuous, 
so  ridiculously  fast  about  it,".  Gilbert  Denham 
said,  complainingly.  "How  could  it  have  en- 
tered your  mind  for  one  moment  that  the  door 
would  be  unlocked  ?  You  have  done  away 
with  all  chance  of  seeing  her  now." 

And  indeed  it  seemed  as  if  Frank  Stapyl- 
ton had  damaged  an  excellent  cause  when 


Mr.  Carter  appeared,  in  answer  to  Emmeline's 
loud  appeals,  and  with  surly  determination  re- 
fused to  "  permit  his  patient  to  be  made  the 
object  of  idle  curiosity." 

It  was  in  vain  that  Frank,  with  perfect  in- 
genuousness and  utter  want  of  wisdom,  pro- 
tested with  fervor  that  his  curiosity  was  the 
very  reverse  of  idle,  that  he  had  recognized 
the  voice  of  the  friend  who  was  the  dearest 
in  the  world  to  him,  and  that  one  glance  at 
her  face  would  enable  him  to  proclaim  wheth- 
er or  not  a  foul  fraud  had  been  perpetrated. 
It  was  all  in  vain.  Mr.  Carter  denied  the 
possibility  of  the  suspected  identity,  and  de- 
clared that  he  was  endowed  with  power  to 
protect  his  patient  from  intrusion  by  the  au- 
thority of  her  mother.  And  Emmeline  Vic- 
ary backed  him  up  in  his  decision,  in  defi- 
ant disregard  of  all  the  reminding,  appealing 
glances  Gilbert  Denham  leveled  at  her. 

"  You  must  be  as  mad  as  my  patient  to 
have  been  guilty  of  such  an  error  of  judg- 
ment— such  a  breach  of  good  taste  in  the 
house  of  a  friend  and  neighbor,"  Mr.  Carter 
presently  muttered  to  the  bewildered,  enthu- 
siastic, excited  man,  who  was  powerless  to 
do  more  that  repeat  his  firm  and  unalterable 
conviction  that  it  was  "  Cecil  herself "  whose 
voice  he  had  heard. 

It  was  humiliating,  mortifying,  disappoint- 
ing to  a  degree  to  them  all,  to  have  to  leave 
the  mystery  just  as  they  thought  they  were  on 
the  brink  of  elucidating  it.  It  was  doubly 
hard  on  Frank,  who  had  a  decent  feeling  of 
interest  in  the  affair,  as  it  concerned  Mrs. 
Arthur  Waldron's  child,  and  a  desperate  one 
as  it  concerned  Cecil  Rashleigh.  And  it  was 
almost  equally  hard  on  Horatia,  who  had  so 
many  interests  at  stake  in  the  matter. 

They  left  the  house  very  soon,  parting  with 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


Mrs.  Waldron  and  Miss  Vicary  with  marked 
coolness,  and,  on  Frank  Stapylton's  part,  with 
undisguised  suspicion.  "You  have  stopped 
me  from  seeing  her  this  time,"  he  said,  hotly, 
to  Miss  Vicary,  "  but  your  triumph  will  be  a 
very  brief  one,  I  can  assure  you." 

And  in  answer  to  this  last  indiscretion, 
Miss  Vicary  said,  "I  defy  you  ever  to  see 
my  sister." 

Gilbert's  farewell  speech  was  far  less  threat- 
ening to  listen  to  at  the  time,  but  in  thinking 
it  over  afterward  both  the  mother  and  daugh- 
ter came  to  the  conclusion  that  it  was  far  more 
ominous. 

"  Every  secret  unfolds  itself  in  time  ;  every 
thing  comes  to  the  man  who  can  wait ;  I  can 
wait,  you  will  find." 

"  He  may  wait  forever,  and  it  shall  never 
come  to  him,  shall  it,  Emmy  ?"  Mrs.  Waldron 
began,  violently.  "Say  you'll  never  let  him 
wheedle  you  out  of  it,  Emmy  ?  All  that  I 
have  done,  I  have  done  for  you,  my  child." 

"  Nonsense,  mother ;  it  has  been  for  your- 
self quite  as  much  as  for  me;  and  why 
shouldn't  it  be  for  yourself?  It  is  natural 
and  human  to  do  as  much  for  one's  self  as 
for  one's  children,  and  I  never  should  try  to 
deny  any  thing  that  is  natural  and  human." 

"Ah!  you're  not  a  mother,  and  can't  un- 
derstand a  mother's  feelings,"  Mrs.  Waldron 
resumed,  plaintively.  "  Do  you  think  I  would 
have  planned,  and  toiled,  and  schemed  as  I 
have  for  myself  alone  ?" 

"  Yes,"  Emmeline  answered  promptly, "why 
shouldn't  you?  you're  as  fond  of  fine  living 
and  fine  clothes  as  I  am,  and  why  shouldn't 
you  be?  You  wouldn't  like  to  go  back  to 
what  you  were  before  I  took  service  with  her, 
any  more  than  I  should  like  it." 

"It's  what  I  shall  have  to  do  and  you 
will  have  to  do  if  you  let  him  wheedle  you 
out  of  the  truth." 

"If  he  ever  does  wheedle  the  truth  out  of 
me,  it  will  be  his  interest  as  much  as  ours  to 
hold  his  tongue.  The  truth  won't  benefit  his 
sister;  if  it  would,  he'd  sacrifice  me,  I  be- 
lieve ;  but  it  won't,  and  so  his  honorable  scru- 
ples may  be  lulled  to  rest,  I  dare  say,"  Emmy 
replied,  half  contemptuously,  for  she  was  feel- 
ing bitter  against  Gilbert  for  the  coldness  he 
had  shown  to  her  this  morning ;  and  in  her 
bitterness  she  let  the  truth,  which  is  the  most 
mortifying  of  all  for  a  woman  to  realize,  es- 
cape her — namely,  the  conviction  that  she 
was,  after  all,  only  a  secondary  consideration 
to  the  man  she  loved. 

But  suggestive  as  this  conversation  would 
5 


have  been  to  any  one  of  the  disappointed 
trio,  their  conversation  was  still  more  preg- 
nant with  meaning  as  they  sat  until  the  t\vi- 
ight  fell,  in  the  drawing-room  of  the  Bridge 
House  discussing  ways  and  means  and  pos- 
sibilities. Gilbert,  the  practical,  declared  his 
intention  of  getting  a  detective  down  from 
London,  while  Stapylton,  the  ardent,  made  life 
pleasant  for  Mrs.  Arthur  Waldron  by  avow- 
ing that  he  did  not  need  the  sen-ices  of  a 
detective,  and  would  infinitely  prefer  break- 
ing Cecil's  prison  bars  himself  and  carrying 
her  off  to  some  place  where  Love,  aided  by 
Science,  should  restore  reason. 

His  own  assertion,  unpremeditated  and  un- 
thought  of  as  it  was,  worked  in  his  mind, 
and  caused  him  to  devise,  and  plot,  and  plan 
as  he  had  never  done  in  his  life  before.  But, 
after  all,  plotting  and  planning  were  of  no 
avail.  The  scheme  he  eventually  carried  out 
flashed  into  his  mind  in  an  instant,  as  he 
rode  away  from  the  Bridge  House  that  night. 

There  were  but  few  lights  to  be  seen  in 
the  windows  of  Larpington  House.  It  look- 
ed unusually  dull,  in  fact,  for  the  mistress  of 
the  mansion  and  her  daughter,  exhausted  by 
the  fear  and  excitement  of  the  day,  had  gone 
to  bed  early;  so  the  usual  blaze  had  not 
been  made  in  the  big  saloon  and  picture-gal- 
lery. It  all  looked  quiet  and  at  rest,  and  a 
sudden  impulse  prompted  Frank  Stapylton  to 
go  up  and  see  what  the  place  looked  like  by 
moonlight. 

He  tied  his  horse  to  a  tree  in  the  avenue 
and  walked  up  to  the  house,  and  stood  still 
for  a  minute  or  two,  wondering  which  was 
the  window  of  the  room  wherein  his  love  was 
caged. 

It  seemed  to  him,  as  he  stood  there,  that 
there  never  was  a  house  with  so  many  win- 
dows in  it  as  this  one,  and  that  there  never 
was  a  house  in  which  it  was  more  difficult 
to  determine  from  the  outside  the  whereabouts 
of  a  single  room.  It  was  in  vain  at  first  that 
he  tried  to  remember  on  which  part  of  the 
terrace  the  picture-gallery'  windows  opened. 
It  was  in  vain  (at  first)  that  he  strove  to  re- 
member at  which  end  of  the  picture-gallery 
Cecil's  room  was  situated.  But  presently  mem- 
ory and  his  vision  cleared,  and  with  an  in- 
stinct that  was  afterward  proved  to  be  uner- 
ring, he  made  way  straight  to  a  spot  that  was 
immediately  under  the  window  of  her  ante- 


room. 


It  was  still  comparatively  early,  only  about 
eleven  o'clock,  but  deep  peace  reigned  over 
this  portion  of  the  house.  The  only  sound 


66 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


he  heard,  as  he  waited  hero  on  this  clear  win- 
ter night,  was  the  shivering  sigh  of  the  wind 
as  it  passed  through  the  leaves  of  a  mighty 
magnolia -tree  which  was  trained  up  against 
the  wall. 

Its  branches  separated  at  her  window,  met 
again  at  the  top,  and  shot  up  even  higher 
over  the  house,  stout,  strong  branches,  fully 
equal  to  bearing  the  weight  of  a  man.  As 
the  belief  that  they  would  do  so  dawned  upon 
him,  he  acted  upon  it,  and,  without  pausing 
to  consider  what  he  would  do  when  he  got  to 
it,  he  began  ascending  this  natural  ladder  to 
Clarice's  window. 

The  boughs  bent  and  gave,  but  were  tough 
and  did  not  break,  and  presently  he  was  up 
with  his  face  on  a  level  with  the  glass,  and  a 
spasm  of  joy  almost  made  him  exclaim  aloud 
as  he  discovered  there  were  no  shutters.  Heavy 
curtains  concealed  the  room  from  him,  but  there 
were  no  shutters. 

His  position  on  the  bough  of  the  sturdy  shrub 
was  a  secure  one.  He  was  able  to  take  time 
before  deciding  on  his  next  move,  and  the  first 
thing  he  did  was  to  take  a  solemn  oath  that  he 
would  not  go  back  until  he  had  discovered  all 
there  was  to  discover  in  the  room,  between 
which  and  himself  only  a  frail  pane  of  glass 
interposed.  To  smash  it  would  be  to  make  a 
noise,  to  attract  the  attention  of  numbers  who 
would  overpower  himt  and  get  himself  kicked 
out.  To  try  to  lift  the  sash  would  be  mere  fol- 
ly, for  it  was  securely  hasped.  Not  being  ad- 
dicted to  burglarious  exploits,  he  was  unpro- 
vided with  the  proper  tools.  But  —  happy 
thought — he  had  a  diamond  ring. 

To  take  it  off  and  draw  it  sharply  along  the 
side  of  a  pane  was  the  work  of  a  moment ;  and 
though  the  sound  set  his  teeth  on  edge,  he 
knew  that  it  was  not  sufficiently  loud  to  rouse 
a  drowsy  nurse.  He  took  confidence  from 
his  cause  also,  and  from  a  loving  recollection 
of  the  law  of  chances,  and  went  on  making 
sharp  clean  cuts—waiting  a  short  time  between 
each  one  to  find  out  if  he  had  roused  attention 


— until  the  pane  fell  out  into  his  hand,  and  he 
was  enabled  to  undo  the  fastening  of  the  win- 
dow. 

It  all  went  in  a  smooth  groove,  fortunately, 
and  so  he  raised  the  sash  noiselessly,  and  slip- 
ped into  the  room  that  was  not  divided  by  bars 
and  bolts  from  the  love  of  his  life  and  the  mys- 
tery of  Larpington  House. 

It  was  a  perilous  position,  and  what  was  he 
to  gain  by  it  ?  Unquestionably,  he  had  vio- 
lated every  social  and  legal  obligation  by 
breaking  into  his  neighbor's  house  in  the  way 
he  had  at  such  an  hour  of  the  night.  Never- 
theless, the  cause  justified  him,  he  felt ;  and  so 
he  looked  round  for  a  hiding-place  wherein  he 
might  bide  events  until  the  morning. 

Presently  he  found  a  spacious  closet,  before 
the  door  of  which  a  curtain  fell.  It  was  hung 
with  dresses,  and  cloaks,  and  shawls,  and  of 
these  he  made  a  sufficiently  comfortable  couch, 
on  which  he  rested  himself  until  day  broke  and 
Clarice's  voice  roused  him. 

He  had  been  asleep,  sound  asleep,  to  his  own 
great  surprise,  but  a  clear  remembrance  of  all 
the  circumstances  by  which  he  was  surrounded 
was  upon  him  instantly.  He  recollected  his 
poor  horse  in  the  avenue  with  a  pang,  and  his 
love  for  Cecil  and  her  vicinity  with  a  throb  of 
pleasure  that  was  dashed  with  pain — for  si- 
multaneously, also,  he  remembered  her  mar- 
riage and  her  madness. 

Time  passed,  and  by-and-by  he  knew  that 
she  must  be  nearly  dressed,  for  he  heard  the 
nurse  come  into  the  anteroom,  and  then  call 
back  to  her  charge  to  know  "What  dress  she 
would  wear  this  morning  ?"  and  he  felt  that  in- 
stantly the  door  of  the  closet  where  the  dresses 
were  lying  would  be  opened,  and  he  would  be 
discovered. 

"I  shall  be  sorry  to  hurt  the  woman,"  he 
said  to  himself,  "  but  some  way  or  other  I  must 
silence  her  at  once,  before  she  has  time  to  sound 
the  alarm  and  spoil  my  game." 

And  as  he  thought  this  the  closet  door  open- 
ed, and  the  nurse  saw  him. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

EMMY'S  CONFESSION. 


THE  nurse  opened  the  door,  and  looked  at 
him ;  and  her  look  of  ghastly  awe  drove 
him  into  instant  action.  In  another  moment 
he  knew  that  she  would  either  scream  or  gurgle 
herself  off  into  loud-sounding  hysterics.  It 
was  essential  to  his  interests  that  she  should  do 
neither  the  one  nor  the  other.  His  manly  in- 
stinct taught  him  that  if  he  were  melodramatic, 
so  would  she  be ;  whereas,  if  he  exhibited  self- 
possession,  she  would  find  the  manner  infec- 
tious, and  exhibit  it  also.  Accordingly,  in  a 
low,  perfectly  composed  voice,  he  said, 

"I'm  a  friend  of  Mrs.  Waldron's.  You 
needn't  be  alarmed." 

He  looked  so  utterly  unlike  a  burglar,  so  ut- 
terly unlike  any  human  machine  that  could  be 
charged  with  bad  intentions,  that  the  nurse,  in 
spite  of  the  suspicious  nature  of  his  position, 
was  re-assured  to  the  point  of  preserving  strict 
silence,  which  was  all  he  wanted  of  her.  Hav- 
ing rewarded  her  for  her  self-command  with  a 
sovereign,  he  stepped  out  into  the  room,  tell- 
ing her  his  name  at  the  same  time,  and  prom- 
ising her  that,  whatever  was  the  end  of  this  ex- 
ploit of  his,  he  would  take  care  that  she  should 
be  well  rewarded  and  held  guiltless. 

"  Directly  she  is  dressed,  let  me  walk  into  her 
room  without  a  word  of  introduction  from  you, 
and  if  the  result  of  my  sudden  appearance  has 
the  effect  I  anticipate,  we'll  have  her  out  of  this 
house  before  another  hour  is  over  our  heads," 
he  whispered ;  and  the  nurse  mutely  indicated 
that  she  would  obey  him. 

The  few  minutes  that  he  passed  between 
giving  this  information  and  its  being  obeyed, 
were  minutes  of  the  wildest  anxiety.  "  Sup- 
posing," he  told  himself  over  and  over  again, 
"  that  he  should  have  been  misled  by  a  fancied 
resemblance  only  between  the  sketch  and  the 
voice  of  this  Clarice  to  the  Cecil  of  his  youth. 


Well,  the  only  thing  for  him  now  to  do  was  to 
go  at  it  straight,  and  either  bear  her  off,  or 
bear  like  a  man  the  disappointment  of  its  not 
being  her."  Just  as  he  came  to  this  conclu- 
sion, the  nurse  opened  the  door,  and  softly 
beckoned  him  into  the  room  in  which  Gilbert 
had  been  ushered  by  Emmeline  Vicary;  and 
in  another  moment  his  doubts  were  solved,  and 
he  found  himself  once  more  with  her  who  had 
been  Cecil  Rashleigh. 

Her  recognition  of  him  was  as  instantaneous, 
as  thorough,  as  unfeignedly  joyful  as  his  was 
of  her.  In  answer  to  his  cry  of  "Cecil!  "she 
came  swiftly  to  him  with  outstretched  hands, 
with  almost  inarticulate  words  of  joy  and  sur- 
prise, with  a  face  all  aglow  with  hope  and 
pleasure.  As  he  caught  the  hands  and  bent 
over  them,  kissing  them  tenderly,  she  said, 

"  You'll  know  my  name,  won't  you  ?  You'll 
tell  them  that  I  am  Cecil—" 

"Rashleigh," he  said,  as  she  paused.  But 
she  shook  her  head  in  weary  disappointment, 
and  told  him, 

"  I  was  Cecil  Rashleigh  when  I  knew  you — 
oh,  so  long  ago !  but—" 

"  You  have  married  since,  and  had  another 
name,  which  I  have  never  known,"  he  said, 
half  bitterly. 

"And  it's  gone  from  me,  as  Cecil  Rashleigh 
had,  and  as  yours  has.  What  are  you  called  ?" 
she  added,  abruptly ;  and  a  light  of  fuller  and 
more  perfect  recognition  flashed  over  her  face, 
as  he  replied, 

"  Frank  Stapylton." 

"Put  on  her  shawl  and  bonnet,  or  some- 
thing," he  said,  hurriedly,  to  the  nurse.  "She 
is  not  the  person  they  pretend  she  is.  She  is 
not  Mrs.  Waldron's — " 

His  words  were  arrested  by  a  cry  from  Cecil 
that  seemed  to  leap  out  joyfully  from  her  heart. 


G8 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


"Waldron  is  the  name  I  had  forgotten!" 
she  rang  out  thrillingly.  "  I  am  Cecil  Waldron 
now,  Frank  ;  and  you'll  tell  all  the  world  that 
I  am,  won't  you  ?" 

He  realized  the  truth  in  an  instant  then. 
The  girl  he  loved  had  married  his  old  friend, 
George  Waldron,  and  they  had  neither  of  them 
liked  to  hurt  his  (Frank's)  feelings  by  telling 
him  of  the  fact.  She  had  married  George 
Waldron!  She  was  the  woman  of  whom 
George  Waldron  had  written  as  the  fair-faced 
angel  of  his  life !  She  was  the  genuine  owner 
of  Larpington  House,  and  the  woman  who 
passed  as  Mrs.  Waldron  was  an  impostor. 

"I  shall  get  you  out  of  this  place  at  once," 
he  hurriedly  explained.  "I  shall  take  you  to 
the  house  of  the  dearest  friend  I  have  in  the 
world"  —  he  meant  Horatia — until  you  can 
prove  your  right  to  come  back  here  as  the  mis- 
tress of  the  place." 

"The  mistress  of  this  place?"  she  asked, 
vaguely,  and  he  told  her, 

"Yes ;  the  mistress  of  Larpington  House." 

"Ah!  he  used  to  talk  of  Larpington  House," 
she  said,  sadly,  with  the  tears  welling  from  her 
eyes.  "  And  I'm  here,  am  I  ?" 

"  Yes ;  but  you  shall  not  be  here  a  minute 
longer  as  a  prisoner,"  Frank  said,  valiantly,  try- 
ing to  think  out  and  devise  a  means  of  evading 
all  the  difficulties  that  would  bar  their  egress 
as  he  spoke ;  for  he  had  resolved  upon  playing 
the  part  of  a  Lochinvar  to  the  extent  of  bear- 
ing her  away  at  once  upon  the  good  steed  that 
was  waiting  for  him  in  the  avenue.  "You 
shall  not  be  here  a  minute  longer,"  he  was  re- 
peating with  fervor,  and  a  nervous  feeling  that 
he  must  needs  say  something  to  fill  up  the  time 
which  the  nurse  was  wasting  in  looking  for  a 
warm  cloak,  when  a  heavy  hand  was  placed 
upon  his  shoulder,  and  he  found  himself  twist- 
ed round  face  to  face  with  Mr.  Carter. 

"  I  am  come  just  in  time,  it  seems,"  that 
gentleman  observed,  coolly. 

"Not  in  time,"  Frank  said,  hotly;  "for 
I  have  found  out  all  you  have  been  lying 
and  scheming  to  conceal.  I  have  found  out 
that  this  lady  is  George  Waldron's  widow, 
and  that  you  are  a  gang  of  impostors." 

Mr.  Carter  laughed.  "Poor  Clarice!"  he 
said,  in  insulting  tones,  that  made  Frank 
Stapylton's  blood  boil.  "Poor  Clarice!  It 
is  not  often  that  a  girl  who  goes  mad  for 
love  of  her  mother's  husband  finds  another 
man  ready  and  willing  to  take  up  the  cud- 
gels in  her  defense.  Come  quietly  away  with 
me  now,  Mr.  Stapylton,  and  we'll  have  a 
talk  over  the  matter,  and  at  the  end  of  it 


you'll  find  out  how  completely  you  have  been 
deceived  by  a  fair  face  and  a  false  tongue." 

Frank  Stapylton  was  as  heartily  averse  to 
any  thing  like  a  compromising  policy  as  any 
man  could  be.  But  he  felt  his  inability  to 
pursue  any  other.  Indisputably  Mi-.  Carter 
had  the  power  to  turn  him  not  only  out  of 
the  room,  but  out  of  the  house ;  for  every 
servant  in  it  would  have  sided  with  the  mad 
doctor,  not  out  of  love,  but  out  of  fear. 
Accordingly,  after  a  whispered  assurance  to 
Cecil  that  he  would  be  with  her  again  soon, 
backed  by  a  power  that  should  free  her, 
Frank  followed  Carter,  and  had  a  conversa- 
tion which  need  not  be  recorded,  since  it 
was  (and  was  felt  to  be  by  Frank)  merely  a 
neatly-linked-together  chain  of  lies.  How- 
ever, he  felt  it  to  be  necessary  to  lull  to  rest 
the  suspicions  Mr.  Carter  evidently  felt,  in 
spite  of  his  well-assumed  cool  indifference, 
and  finally  went  out  of  the  house,  admitting 
the  possibility  of  its  being  merely  a  case  of 
mistaken  identity. 

As  soon  as  he  was  clear  of  Larpington 
House  grounds  (he  found  that  his  horse  had 
been  carefully  stabled)  he  craved  for  the 
sympathy  in  his  discovery  and  consequent 
joy  which  only  a  woman  could  accord  to 
him,  and  so  rode  back  with  all  speed  to  the 
Bridge  House.  It  was  a  relief  to  him  to 
find  that  Gilbert  Denham  had  gone  out,  and 
that  Horatia  was  alone.  Instinctively  he  felt 
that  the  sister's  co-operation  would  be  heart- 
ier than  the  brother's. 

"I  can  tell  my  tale  better  if  we  go  out 
and  walk  up  and  down  in  the  garden,"  he 
said,  in  his  restlessness.  And  so  they  went 
out,  and  she  listened  to  the  succinctly-told 
first  portion  of  his  adventure,  with  tender 
womanly  interest  that  strenuously  kept  un- 
der any  sign  of  wounded  or  selfishly  jealous 
feeling.  But  when  he  announced  the  fact  of 
his  conviction  that  Cecil  Kashleigh,  his  early 
love,  was  now  Cecil  Waldron,  widow  of  George 
Waldron,  and  rightful  owner  of  the  estates 
that  Horatia  had  always  regarded  as  little 
Gerald's,  the  intensity  of  the  motherly  feeling 
asserted  itself,  and  she  spoke  cruelly, 

"Marry  her,  marry  her,  and  be  happy; 
and  Heaven  bless  your  happiness !  But,  for 
mercy's  sake,  don't  put  her  in  the  way  of 
my  boy's  interests ;  don't  conjure  up  imag- 
inary rights  for  her — rights  that  have  no  ex- 
istence save  in  her  mad  brain.  Mr.  Stapyl- 
ton, don't,  by  your  conduct  to  my  son,  turn 
me,  his  mother,  and  your  warmest  friend, 
into  your  hottest  enemy." 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


"  But  I  believe  so  firmly  in  what  I'm  sug- 
gesting to  you,"  he  said,  simply,  in  his  utter 
amazement.  "I  believe  that  she  is  George 
Waldron's  widow ;  and  if  she  is — " 

"  If  she  is !  Oh,  my  boy,  my  boy,  you'l 
never  get  your  own;  for  she  hasn't  even 
reason  to  urge  her  to  restore  it  to  you!' 
Horatia  broke  out  bitterly.  "Mr.  Stapylton, 
I  have  one  favor  to  ask  of  you.  Before 
you  tell  any  one,  even  my  brother,  of  your 
fancied  discovery,  give  me  a  day  or  two  to 
think  in— give  me  a  little  time  to  get  recon- 
ciled to  the  position.  My  poor  little  boy! 
Why  couldn't  you  have  found  your  fate  in 
her,  without  making  a  romance  about  her 
which  threatens  the  destruction  of  his  for- 
tunes ?" 

"Because  the  romance  is  a  reality,"  he 
answered,  sadly  enough.  "If  I  could  see 
her  herself  again,  and  marry  her,  and  take 
her  away,  I'd  let  Larpington  House,  and  all 
belonging  to  it,  go  to  your  boy,  or  to  any 
one  else,  gladly  enough.  But  I  can't;  it 
wouldn't  be  just,  don't  you  see  ?" 

He  spoke  heartily,  sympathetically,  truth- 
fully; and  she  was  a  woman  to  respond 
heartily  to  any  one  of  these  three  things. 

"No,  it  wouldn't  be  just,  and  it  would 
only  be  generous  to  my  boy  in  a  way  he 
must  resent  when  he  grows  up  to  be  the 
honorable  man  he  must  be.  Tell  my  brother 
— tell  the  whole  world  at  once,  Frank." 

"And  always  remember  that  I  told  you 
first  of  all,"  he  interrupted,  gratefully.  "I 
don't  know  how  it  is,  but  I  think  of  you  and 
turn  to  you  before  any  one  else.  I  never 
made  such  a  friend  of  any  one  before,  never!" 

"It's  because  of  Arthur,"  she  attempted 
to  explain. 

"No.  I  don't  think  that  my  friendship 
for  Arthur  has  any  thing  at  all  to  do  with 
the  much  warmer  friendship  I  have  for  you ; 
it's  sympathy — nothing  else  can  account  for 
it.  I  think  of  you,  and  want  to  tell  you 
every  thing  that  occurs  to  me,  and  nearly 
every  thought  I  have.  You'll  always  be  my 
first  friend,  won't  you,  Mrs.  Arthur?" 

It  was  rather  hard  on  her  this  appeal,  for 
she  loved  the  man  who  made  it,  and  he  only 
wanted  her  friendship.  But  she  was  a  wom- 
an who  could  only  answer  such  an  appeal  gra- 
ciously and  gracefully. 

"  I  will  always  be  your  firm  friend,  Frank ; 
your  first  friend  must  be  your  wife ;  no  wom- 
an can  submit  to  the  idea  of  her  husband 
taking  his  confidences  to  any  other  woman 
than  herself." 


CO 


cil 


"I  suppose  you're  right,"  he  answered, 
thoughtfully ;  "  but  I  haven't  thought  of  Ce- 
as  any  thing  but  the  girl  I  loved,  you 
see ;  I  don't  think  of  talking  to  her  as  I  do  to 
you." 

Horatia  was  strongly  tempted  to  say,  "If 
you  did  she  couldn't  understand  you  ;"  but 
she  checked  the  impulse,  and  said, 

"The  desire  to  talk  to  her  and  her  only 
will  come  quickly  enough,  I  suspect.  How 
bewildering  it  is  to  think  of  the  one  I  have 
only  heard  as  Clarice,  as  George  Waldron's 
widow." 

"  Yes,  and  how  strange  it  is  that  the  wid- 
ows of  the  two  fellows  I  liked  best  in  the 
world  should  be  the  women  who  are  the  dear- 
est to  me ;  you'll  forgive  me  for  saying  that 
you  are  dear  to  me,  Mrs.  Waldron,  for  you 
are  as  dear  as  a  sister." 

All  this  was  very  gratifying  and  compli- 
mentary, but  really  poor  Horatia  may  be  for- 
given for  feeling  that  she  had  had  enough  of 
it.  Platonic  affection  is  a  very  beautiful 
thing  in  itself;  but  when  it  is  proffered  in  the 
place  of  the  love  a  woman  is  yearning  for, 
its  beauty  seems  of  a  pale  and  tamo  order. 
It  was  an  absolute  relief  to  Horatia  Waldron 
now  to  see  her  brother  come  in.  ;His  presence 
she  knew  would  be  a  check  onr  those  ardent 
protestations  of  friendship  which  Frank  was 
so  lavishly  pouring  out. 

"Now  tell  Gilbert  at  once,"  she  said. 
"You'll  tell  the  story  better  without  my  pres- 
ence, perhaps,  so  I'll  leave  you."  And  then 
she  left  the  two  men  alone,  and  Gilbert  Den- 
ham  learned  that  Frank  had  been  beforehand 
in  the  matter  of  clearing  up  the  mystery  about 
Clarice. 

They  soon  arranged  their  plan  of  action. 
Mr.  Stapylton,  as  a  magistrate,  had  the  power 
to  demand  that  the  person  of  a  lady  who 
was  kept  in  confinement  under  false  pretenses, 
should  be  rendered  up  to  her  nearest  friends. 
Mrs.  Arthur  Waldron  was  her  nearest  friend. 
Accordingly,  accompanied  by  two  constables, 
they  went  up  to  Larpington  House,  and  in 
the  name  of  the  law  carried  off  the  lady  who 
had  been  known  there  as  Clarice. 

They  took  her  back  to  the  Bridge  House 
'or  a  few  days  until  Larpington  House  could 
)e  cleared  of  the  impostors,  and  the  mystery 
ibout  the  impostors  cleared  up.  And  there 
was  little  difficulty  about  doiug  this  latter 
;hing;  for  now  that  the  chances  of  securing 
Gilbert  "Denham  were  fading  away.  Emmcline 
Vicary  told  the  whole  story. 

;  There  is  only  one  thing  I  ask  of  you," 


70 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


she  said,  as  she  and  her  mother  came  into 
the  room  in  which  Mrs.  Arthur  Waldron, 
Frank  Stapylton,  and  Gilbert  Denham  sat 
awaiting  the  explanation,  "  and  that  is,  that 
if  I  tell  you  all  there  is  to  be  told,  you  will 
let  us  get  away  —  you  won't  prosecute  us; 
if  you  do,  it  will  do  you  no  good,  and  it 
will  make  us  worse  women  than  we  are  al- 
ready." 

She  commenced  speaking  in  a  hard,  sulky 
tone,  but  as  she  wound  up  her  appeal  her  voice 
shook,  and  the  tears  came  into  her  eyes.  It 
was  the  softest  mood  into  which  she  had  ever 
been  betrayed,  and  she  was  betrayed  into  it 
by  love.  She  knew  that  this  would  be  the 
last  time  she  should  ever  see  Gilbert  Den- 
ham  ;  and  the  agony  of  this  knowledge  was 
stronger  even  than  the  agony  of  feeling  that 
she  was  a  found-out  swindler,  who  would  pres- 
ently he  hurled  from  her  high  estate. 

They  had  none  of  them  the  heart  to  be 
just  and  nothing  more.  So  they  promised 
the  guilty  pair  of  crushed  women  immunity 
from  the  punishment  that  was  due  to  them, 
and  the  freedom  they  did  not  deserve. 

"Go  away  as  soon  as  you  have  told  all 
there  is  to  tell,"  Frank  Stapylton  said,  impa- 
tiently, "and  I  hope  with  all  my  heart  we 
shall  never  see  or  hear  any  thing  more  of  you ; 
couple  of  she-demons  that  you  are,  I  believe 
you  drove  that  angel  mad." 

"That  angel  went  mad  when  her  husband, 
George  Waldron,  died,"  Miss  Vicary  sneered, 
"or  I  should  not  have  been  tempted  to  do 
what  I  have  done ;  but  I'll  begin  at  the  begin- 
ning." 

"I  saw  Mr.  and  Mrs.  George  Waldron 
for  the  first  time  about  six  months  after 
their  marriage,  when  I  entered  her  service 
as  her  inaid.  She  was  a  weak,  excitable 
woman.  Yes,  Mr.  Stapylton,  lovely  as  she 
is,  it  was  a  constant  source  of  wonder  to 
me  how  George  Waldron,  being  what  he 
was,  could  have  attached  himself  as  he  did 
to  a  mere  pretty  fool — and  she  was  an  im- 
perious mistress,  and  from  the  day  I  en- 
tered her  service  she  was  jealous  of  me." 

"Impossible,"  Mrs.  Arthur  Waldron  inter- 
rupted, scornfully. 

"  Ridiculous,"  both  men  exclaimed. 

"  Impossible  and  ridiculous  as  you  think  it, 
I  tell  yotidt  is  true,"  she  went  on  eagerly ;  "  she 
was  jealous  of  me ;  and  if  he  had  lived  longer 
she  would  have  had  reason  to  be  jealous  of  me, 
for  George  Waldron  saw  that  I  was  clever,  and 
knew  that  I*admired  him  more  than  any  man  I 
had  ev«r  seen.  He  was  too  much  in  love  with 


his  fair  angel  Cecil  to  take  notice  of  these  facts 
then,  but  he  was  a  man  just  like  other  men, 
vain  and  selfish ;  and  if  he  had  lived  long 
enough  to  tire  of  his  pretty  fool  he  would  have 
taken  notice  of  them. 

"  I  traveled  about  with  them  for  months  in 
France  and  Italy,  mostly  in  out-of-the-way 
places,  for  they  were  so  satisfied  with  each  oth- 
er that  they  had  no  desire  to  see  any  of  their 
friends  and  acquaintances.  From  being  with 
her  a  great  deal,  and  she  being  weak,  as  I  said, 
I  found  out  a  great  many  things  about  them.  I 
found  out,  for  instance,  that  he  didn't  wish  ever 
to  meet  you,  Mr.  Stapylton,  for  his  angel  had 
told  him  how  madly  in  love  with  her  you  were 
at  Brighton,  and  how  you  wanted  to  marry 
her.  '  He's  George's  dearest  friend,'  she  used 
to  lisp  out,  « and  it  would  be  death  to  him  to 
see  me  as  George's  wife.'  Yes,  Mr.  Stapylton, 
she  used  to  say  that  to  me,  her  servant ;  how 
do  you  like  the  idea  of  that  ?" 

"I  heard  him  pay  you  a  great  compliment 
once,"  she  continued,  abruptly  turning  to  Ho- 
ratia ;  "  he  had  received  a  letter  from  you  and 
your  photograph,  and  he  said,  *  What  a  lucky 
fellow  Arthur  had  been  to  get  such  a  combina- 
tion of  beauty  and  brains.'  That  was  not  too 
pleasing  to  her,  you  may  rest  assured.  If  ever 
she  does  recover  her  reason,  she'll  hate  you 
more  than  any  one  else  in  the  world.  Well, 
these  recollections  are  not  so  pleasant  that  I 
need  dwell  upon  them  so.  I  got  to  care  for 
George  Waldron  more  than  was  good  for  me 
— more  than  I  ever  cared  for  any  one  else  un- 
til " — (she  paused  and  looked  at  Gilbert  Den- 
ham,  nnd  then  went  on) — "until,  no  matter 
what,  for  that's  past  too.  And  when  he  died 
I  was  at  first  nearly  as  broken-hearted  as  my 
mistress.  When  I  came  out  of  my  first  sor- 
row, the  people  of  the  little  inn  where  we  were 
staying,  an  out-of-the-way  place,  told  me  my 
mistress  was  mad.  Then  I  sent  for  my  moth- 
er, and  as  soon  as  she  could  move  Mrs.  George 
Waldron,  we  took  her  away  to  Paris  until 
mother  could  communicate  with  the  lawyer 
who  managed  the  Larpington  property,  and 
learn  enough  from  the  letters  we  found  to  ena- 
ble her  to  pass  herself  off  as  the  widow. 

"It  was  all  easy  enough,  for  none  of  his 
friends  knew  any  thing  of  the  woman  he  had 
married,  and  our  friends  believed  that  my  sis- 
ter Clarice,  who  died  just  about  that  time  in 
her  situation  in  Paris,  had  really  gone  mad, 
and  that  we  didn't  like  her  to  be  seen.  Only 
Mr.  Carter  knew  the  real  truth,  and — perhaps 
you  won't  be  surprised  to  learn  that  he  is  my 
mother's  husband." 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


She  made  a  pause  here,  and  in  pity  for  the 
woman  who  had  so  debased  herself,  none  of 
them  spoke.  Presently  she  resumed, 

"Mrs.  Arthur  Waldron,  your  brother  and 
you,  between  you,  have  hunted  me  into  a  hole 
like  a  rat ;  and  what  have  you  gained  by  it  ? 


I  know  that  you  have  disliked  us  very  much, 
but  I'm  woman  enough  to  know  that  you'll 
ache  more  when  you  see  George  Waldron's 
angel-faced  widow  reigning  here  as  Mr.  Stapyl- 
ton's  wife.  The  real  contest  between  the  Two 
Widows  dates  from  to  day." 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

"YOU  WERE  FREE  TO  CHOOSE." 


IT  is  not  necessary  to  write  down  a  descrip- 
tion of  all  the  wearisome  legal  details  that 
had  to  be  gone  into  by  those  who  acted  on 
behalf  of  George  Waldron's  widow  before  her 
right  to  the  estate  could  bo  clearly  proved. 
Suffice  it  to  say,  that  her  claim  was  finally  es- 
tablished in  the  eyes  of  all  men,  and  that  five 
months  after  the  date  of  Miss  Vicary's  dis- 
closure Mrs.  Waldron  was  back  at  Larpington 
House. 

Very  carefully,  very  considerately,  and  very 
cleverly  had  Horatia  Waldron  acted  during 
this  long  interval  on  her  sister-in-law's  behalf. 
She  had  given  Cecil  all  the  benefits  to  be  de- 
rived from  her  own  tender,  true  womanly  sym- 
pathy, compassion,  and  companionship.  She 
had  carefully  fostered  every  weak  sign  of  re- 
turning memory,  every  faint  indication  of  in- 
terest both  in  the  past  and  present.  She  had 
encouraged  intercourse  between  Cecil  and  the 
man  who  loved  her ;  and  at  the  end  of  five 
months  she  was  rewarded  for  her  prolonged 
self-abnegation  by  seeing  Cecil  in  possession 
of  all  the  powers  of  mind  that  had  been  her 
original  portion. 

And  these  were  not  prodigious. 

In  all  other  things  Miss  Vicary  had  been 
false  and  deceitful,  but  there  had  been  neither 
falsehood  nor  deception  in  the  estimate  she  had 
formed  and  worded  about  her  former  mistress. 
Even  when  in  fullest  possession  of  all  her  facul- 
ties, Cecil  would  never  be  more  than  a  lovely, 
weak-minded,  capricious  woman,  who  would  in- 
fallibly weary  Frank  Stapylton  before  long. 

There  was  mingled  pleasure  and  pain  to  Ho- 
ratia in  this  conviction.  Loyal  and  true  as  she 
was  in  all  her  dealings  with  Cecil,  and  in  all 
her  speeches  about  Cecil,  she  still  was  woman 
enough  to  be  glad  that  Frank  should  be  com- 
pelled to  acknowledge  her  superiority,  both 
mentally  and  morally,  to  Cecil ;  for  he  had 


sought  to  make  Horatia  love  him  before  Cecil 
had  re-appeared  on  the  canvas  of  his  life  and 
obliterated  the  tender  impression  the  other 
woman  had  made. 

And,  on  the  other  hand,  she  was  true  woman 
enough  to  feel  grieved  and  sorry  for  the  disap- 
pointment that  would  surely  be  the  portion  of 
the  man  she  loved  as  soon  as  the  glamour  was 
over.  No  brainless  beauty  would  hold  Frank's 
heart  for  any  length  of  time.  And  in  his  im- 
pulsiveness he  was  likely  to  pledge  his  heart  to 
this  brainless  beauty  before  he  had  time  to  re- 
alize that  she  was  only  this,  and  nothing  more. 

As  so  much  of  mind  as  she  had  recovered 
its  balance  and  its  tone,  and  as  her  memory 
strengthened,  Cecil's  real  nature  developed  it- 
self, and  Horatia  learned  to  know  her  as  the 
shallow  creature  she  was.  Frank  Stapylton 
had  not  formally  worded  his  affection  for  her 
yet ;  but  though  he  was  not  her  declared  lover 
she  gave  herself  all  those  little  airs  of  authority 
over  him,  played  off  all  those  little  coquettish 
caprices  upon  him,  which  are  so  irritating  to 
another  woman  to  witness,  especially  when  that 
other  woman  loves  him. 

And  Frank,  though  he  had  not  declared  him- 
self yet,  seemed  to  like  the  position  of  being  pub- 
licly very  much  at  the  feet  of  the  lovely  Cecil, 
who  flattered  him  by  giving  him  her  undivided 
attention  on  all  occasions  of  their  meeting.  It 
did  not  occur  to  him  that  perhaps  he  owed  this 
honor  to  the  fact  of  there  not  being  any  other 
man  present,  Gilbert  Denham  having  taken  his 
departure  long  ago,  before  Cecil  had  learned  to 
know  him  at  all,  in  fact. 

The  real  Mrs.  Waldron  celebrated  her  resto- 
ration to  reason  and  her  rights  by  making  Lar- 
pington House  the  scene  of  a  constant  succes- 
sion of  gayelies,  that  kept  the  whole  neighbor- 
hood in  a  state  of  excitement.  The  love  for 
her  husband,  which  overbalanced  her  mind 


72 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


when  he  died,  seemed  to  have  evaporated  dur- 
ing her  madness.  She  very  rarely  spoke  of 
him  at  all  j  and  when  she  did,  though  she  call- 
ed him  "poor  George,"  there  was  a  tone  of 
indifference  in  her  mention  of  him  that  made 
Frank  feel  he  need  not  fear  a  dead  rival  in  her 
heart. 

"But  how  about  a  living  one?"  he  asked 
himself  one  day,  when  he  saw  her  surrounded 
by  a  group  of  men,  each  of  whom  was  demon- 
strating devotion  to  the  rich,  beautiful  young 
widow.  And  as  he  watched  the  scene,  a  pang 
of  jealousy  shot  through  his  heart.  He  had 
made  so  sure  of  winning  her,  that  the  first 
shadow  of  a  doubt  of  his  doing  so  cast  him 
down.  Naturally  he  took  his  difficulty  to  Ho- 
ratia. 

"  Do  you  think  that  Cecil  fancies  I  haven't 
been  very  keen  about  it  ?"  he  asked,  moodily, 
directing  Horatia's  attention,  to  Cecil  as  he 
spoke.  Mrs.  Waldron  was  making  up  little 
button-hole  bouquets  for  two  or  three  of  the 
young  men,  "making  them  up  with  a  mean- 
ing," she  said,  "which  they  could  find  out  if 
they  understood  the  language  of  flowers." 

Horatia  looked  at  Cecil  for  a  minute  before 
she  answered  him,  and  he  saw  the  scorn  gath- 
ering in  her  face. 

"Cecil  and  I  are  not  on  confidential  terms, 
you  must  understand  that,  Frank,"  she  said, 
earnestly;  "but  I  don't  think  she  can  fancy  you 
have  shown  any  want  of  keenness  on  the  sub- 
ject. I  am  sure  you  have  exhibited  your  de- 
votion freely  enough." 

"You  don't  think  that  she  has  been  flirting 
with  me,  do  you?"  he  went  on  questioning. 
"I  heard  her  saying  just  the  same  sort  of  things 
to  those  other  fellows  just  now  as  she  has  said 
to  me  over  and  over  again ;  and  I  thought  she 
meant  them,  don't  you  know.  You  don't 
think  she  has  been  flirting  with  me  ?" 

"I  should  think  it  impossible,"  Horatia 
said,  warmly.  To  her  it  seemed  impossible, 
utterly-  impossible,  that  any  woman  should 
dream  of  playing  fast  and  loose  with  Frank 
Stapylton. 

*'I  have  been  fond  of  her  so  long,  you  see. 
I  declare,  after  that  Brighton  affair,  I  never 
thought  of  any  other  woman  but  her  until  I 
met  you ;  and  then  I  got  so  fond  of  you  as  a 
friend,  that  I  can't  help  boring  you  with  my 
troubles  whenever  I'm  in  any."  Then  he 
paused,  and  looked  at  Cecil  again  with  his 
heart  in  his  eyes ;  and  Horatia  had  time  to 
marvel  how  any  one  could  carry  on  "gay  fool- 
ing "  with  other  men  when  Frank  was  looking 
at  her  in  such  a  wav. 


The  group  round  Cecil  had  dispersed,  leav- 
ing only  one  man  sitting  on  a  lower  chair  than 
hers  by  her  side.  She  was  leaning  back,  smell- 
ing a  rose,  and  kissing  it,  and  affectedly  refus- 
ing to  give  it  to  him.  As  he  bent  forward, 
pleading  for  it,  with  upturned  face  and  admir- 
ing eyes,  by-standers  might  reasonably  have 
been  forgiven  for  seeing  in  him  a  worshiper  at 
Cecil's  shrine. 

"Come  and  play  and  sing,  Frank,"  Horatia 
said,  impatiently,  as  she  marked  the  jealousy 
gathering  in  his  face.  "Don't  let  any  one 
else  see  how  it  affects  you." 

"  I'm  not  in  the  vein  for  it  to-night.  Hear 
her!  She's  telling  that  fool,  Danvers,  who 
boasts  about  every  woman,  that  she  couldn't 
flirt  with  him.  She  has  told  me  that  I  am  the 
only  man  she  couldn't  flirt  with.  She  has  given 
him  that  rose  after  kissing  it." 

He  muttered  all  this  angrily  in  a  low  voice  ; 
but  low  as  the  muttering  was,  Mrs.  Waldron 
caught  a  sound  of  it,  and  with  a  light  whisper 
dismissed  her  other  attendant,  and  then  called 
Frank  to  her  side.  He  went,  meaning  to  be 
frigid  and  bitter,  and  at  the  first  word  from 
her  his  revengeful  resolve  melted  away,  and 
she  wound  another  coil  of  the  blue  ribbon  round 
his  neck. 

She  had  another  rose  in  her  hand  by  this 
time,  and  Horatia  watched  the  pantomime  of 
the  flower  with  mixed  amusement  and  indig- 
nation. 

"  Frank,"  Cecil  began,  laying  the  rose  on 
his  arm  as  he  seated  himself,  "  I  thought  you 
were  never  coming  near  me  this  evening.  Why 
have  you  condemned  me  to  the  task  of  enter- 
taining Mr.  Danvers  and  Co.,  when  I  wanted 
you  to  entertain  me  ?" 

"  It  seems  to  me  you  accepted  the  task  read- 
ily enough,"  he  answered,  striving  to  keep  up 
an  appearance  of  cool  dignity.  But  all  his 
striving  was  proved  vain  a  moment  after,  when 
she  said, 

"I  am  obliged  to  be  attentive  to  other  peo- 
ple in  my  own  house ;  that  reserved,  ill-tem- 
pered Mrs.  Arthur  Waldron  won't  help  me; 
so  it  all  falls  on  me ;  and  you  make  the  task 
more  difficult  for  me  by  looking  displeased." 

"It's  because  I  can  think  of  you,  and  you 
only,"  he  told  her, fervently.  "It's  because  I 
grudge  every  look  and  word  you  give  to  any 
other  fellow."  At  this  juncture  the  rose  was 
surrendered  to  him.  "  It's  because  I  love  you 
so  dearly,  Cecil ;  because  I  hope  and  believe 
that  you  will  give  me  a  different  answer  to  the 
one  you  gave  me  at  Brighton." 

"That  horrid  Mrs.  Arthur  is  watching  us," 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


73 


she  laughed  out.  "I'm  afraid  she  guesses  ev- 
ery word  we  are  saying,  and  it  wouldn't  do  for 
us  to  be  publicly  engaged  yet,  after  all  the  sen- 
sation there  has  been  about  me.  I  do  give  a 
different  answer  to  the  one  I  gave  at  Brighton, 
Frank ;  but  we  must  be  careful,  and  not  show 
ourselves  too  openly.  You'll  know  that  I  love 
you,  and  mean  to  marry  you,  and  that  is 
enough — " 

"No,  it's  not  enough,"  Frank  interrupted. 
"If  you  love  me,  and  mean  to  marry  me,  why 
shouldn't  we  show  our  feelings  openly ! — And 
why  shouldn't  all  the  world  know  that  we  are 
going  to  be  married  ?" 

"  So  many  unforeseen  things  occur,"  she  said, 
pensively  shaking  her  head ;  and  by  this  time 
her  hand  was  on  his  arm,  and  she  was  pressing 
it  tenderly. 

"You're  doubtful  of  me,  are  you?"  he  cried 
out,  in  a  much  louder  voice  than  "was  de- 
sirable," the  discreet  young  widow  thought. 
"  You're  not  doubtful  of  me,  are  you  ?  Oh  no, 
Cecil,  you're  not  doubtful  of  me !" 

"No,  no,  no  ;  I'm  not  in  the  least  doubtful 
of  you.  But,  Frank,  impulsiveness  and  haste 
are  forgiven  in  very  young  people,  but  not  when 
a  woman  has  had  experiences,  and  another  hus- 
band. Do  be  reasonable." 

"  Then  you're  doubtful  of  yourself,"  he  de- 
clared. 

"No,  I  am  not  doubtful  of  myself,  I'm  only 
prudent.  Men  are  so  imprudent.  Now,  do  go 
and  talk  to  that  wet  blanket,  Mrs.  Arthur  Wal- 
dron.  I  believe  she's  jealous  of  me ;  I  know 
sho  hates  me.  I  must  try  and  make  it  pleas- 
ant for  Mr.  Danvers.  He  came  down  from 
London  on  purpose  to  be  introduced,  so  the 
reward  of  a  little  conversation  that  means 
nothing  won't  be  too  great,  will  it  ?" 

"It  seems  to  mean  so  much,"  Mr.  Stapyl- 
ton  remarked,  reproachfully. 


"  But  it  does  not,  and  you  know  tlmt  it 
does  not.  Why,  it's  all  light  and  superficial 
with  Mr.  Danvers.  I  am  only  real  with  you, 
dear  Frank." 

And  with  this  "  Dear  Frank "  had  to  be 
satisfied,  for  Mr.  Danvers  had  his  reward 
immediately,  and  Frank  was  cast  adrift  on  his 
own  resources. 

"She  can't  be  flirting  with  me,  can  she?" 
he  said,  reverting  to  the  original  topic,  and 
returning  to  his  original  position  by  Horn- 
tia's  side;  and  then  he  went  on  to  tell  her, 
under  the  seal  of  the  strictest  secrecy,  that 
Cecil  and  himself  had  just  pledged  them- 
selves to  one  another,  and  Horatia  had  to 
relinquish  the  last  hope  that  had  lightened 
life  to  her  lately,  namely,  that  the  folly  of 
the  feeble  beauty  would  have  weaned  him 
before  he  took  the  fatal  step. 

The  hope  died  in  agony  in  that  woman's 
heart,  as  the  man  she  loved,  who  was  BO 
sure  of  her  sympathy,  made  the  communi- 
cation; and  as  soon  as  he  had  finished  it 
she  spoke. 

"I  will  preserve  your  secret,  Frank  ;  though 
why  there  should  be  any  thing  *  secret '  in  the 
affair  at  all  I  don't  understand.  She  is  free 
to  be  chosen ;  you  were  free  to  choose. 
From  the  bottom  of  my  heart  I  hope  you 
have  done  wisely  and  well." 

He  looked  up  at  her  suddenly ;  there  were 
tears  in  her  eyes,  and  her  lips  were  quiv- 
ering. The  conviction  smote  him  in  that 
instant  that  it  would  have  been  wiser  and 
better  to  have  chosen  her  instead  of  that  old 
love  of  his.  And  something  in  her  face  told 
Horatia  what  he  was  feeling. 

It  was  a  very  brief  scene,  but  the  faces 
of  the  actors  in  it  wero  very  eloquent,  and 
the  beautiful  violet  eyes  of  Cecil  Waldron 
took  in  every  detail  of  it. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


"THE  VESTAL  REASON  SHALL  WATCH  THE  FIRE  WAKED  BY  LOVE.' 


THE  one  thing  needful  to  render  the  fact 
of  being  engaged  to  be  married  more 
harassing  than  it  is  its  normal  condition  to 
be,  both  to  man  and  woman,  is  the  folly  of 
keeping  the  said  fact  secret. 

Very  young  girls,  especially  if  they  have 
led  the  ordinary,  uneventful  girlish  life,  may 
be  believed  when  they  state  that  they  were 
"never  so  happy  in  their  lives"  as  now, 
when  they  have  solemnly  pledged  themselves 
to  take  up  life's  most  important  responsibil- 
ities in  company  with  some  man  of  whose 
qualifications  for  the  office  they  know  little, 
and  think  less.  But  I  really  doubt  if  any 
woman  of  five-and-twenty  feels  any  thing 
but  sore  perplexity  and  half-repentance  when 
she  finds  that  she  has  gone  into  the  bond- 
age of  a  promise  to  marry. 

Miserable  doubts  arise  the  instant  the  prom- 
ise is  given — doubts  that  never  suggested  them- 
selves while  he  was  the  wooer  only,  not  the  win- 
ner— doubts  of  his  temper,  of  his  tact,  of  his 
talent — doubts  of  his  possessing  half  such  a 
capacity  for  loving  as  does  some  other  man  who 
possibly  might  have  proposed  if  this  one  had 
not  intervened — doubts  of  one's  own  stability 
and  power  of  enduring  the  long  monotony  of 
an  engagement  that  sets  a  young  woman  apart 
from  the  throng,  and  suggests  to  other  men  the 
propriety  of  their  not  attempting  to  make  them- 
selves agreeable  to  her — doubts  of  his  being 
the  Lancelot  of  one's  life,  and  dread  fears  of 
his  being  only  the  king,  only  Arthur,  and  of 
Lancelot  turning  up  later  on,  when  to  love  him 
will  be  sin,  and  to  leave  him  will  be  death — 
doubts  of  every  thing,  in  fact,  save  the  truth  of 
the  feeling  that  one  has  made  a  fool  of  one's 
self. 

Ah  me!  if  I  had  my  time  to  go  over 
again,  I  would  save  myself  a  world  of  doubt- 
ing agony  by  marrying  a  man  the  same  hour 


I  accepted  him,  provided  that  hour  were  ca- 
nonical, of  course.  And  as  for  bearing  the 
burden  in  secrecy,  unsupported  by  the  sym- 
pathy of  a  sensible  section  of  my  fellow- 
creatures,  verily  I  should  have  lived  in  vain 
if  I  could  be  guilty  of  pursuing  that  course. 

The  majority  of  these  sentiments  and  sensa- 
tions were  the  portion  of  Prank  Stapylton  to 
the  full  as  much  as  they  were  the  portion  of 
Cecil  Waldron  in  those  of  which  I  am  writing. 
Their  betrothal  had  been  hasty,  but  it  was 
binding ;  and  both  of  them  felt  it  to  be  so,  and 
both  of  them  disliked  bonds. 

It  is  a  fact  that  from  the  moment  Frank 
Stapylton  attained  what  he  firmly  believed  had 
been  the  hot  desire  of  his  heart  for  so  many 
years,  his  heart  ceased  to  have  any  share  in  the 
matter.  His  taste  and  his  honor  told  him  that 
he  ought  to  love  and  marry  her ;  but  his  reason 
and  his  heart  told  him  that  he  ought  not  to  have 
taken  such  an  obligation  upon  himself.  Truly 
he  might  have  addressed  these  words  to  her  : 

"  Couldst  thou  look  as  dear  as  when 

First  I  sighed  for  thee ; 
Conldst  thou  make  me  feel  again 
Every  wish  I  breathed  thee  then, 

Oh,  how  blissful  life  would  be ! 
Hopes  that  now  beguiling  leave  me, 

Joys  that  lie  in  slumbers  cold, 
All  would  wake,  conldst  thou  but  give  me 

One  smile  '  dear '  as  those  of  old." 

Cecil  gave  him  smiles  freely  enough  .when 
there  was  no  other  man  to  share  them  with 
him ;  but  the  magic  was  gone  from  them  for 
him.  They  were  very  bright,  very  sweet,  very 
becoming  to  the  radiant  violet  eyes  and  perfect 
mouth  ;  but  they  had  lost  their  power  of  warm- 
ing his  heart.  The  changeability,  the  caprices, 
the  light  gayety  of  manner,  the  indifference  to 
every  bit  of  real  life  that  was  not  amusing — 
all  these  things,  which  had  seemed  charmingly 
child-like  and  unsophisticated  to  him  before, 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


bored  and  slightly  disgusted  him  after  his  en- 
gagement. Frank  Stapylton  was  not  a  genius, 
but  he  had  a  strong  understanding,  and  equally 
strong  affections,  and  he  did  shrink  from  the 
thought  of  what  his  life  would  be  when  this 
woman,  who  had  neither  head  nor  heart,  was 
his  wife. 

For  all  her  beauty,  her  grace,  and  her  wom- 
anly wiles,  she  was  a  wearisome  woman  to  make 
love  to.  She  could  flirt  from  behind  her  fan, 
give  soft,  sweet  looks  from  her  glorious  eyes, 
and  kiss  roses  effusively ;  but  she  could  not 
respond  to  the  touch  or  the  tone  of  love.  He 
would  as  soon  have  kissed  and  caressed  the 
marble  Venus  in  her  saloon  as  he  would  press 
her  lips  or  clasp  her  hand.  It  was  no  greater 
trial  to  leave  her  than  it  was  joy  to  come  to  her. 
And  he  acknowledged  these  truths  to  himself, 
and,  being  an  honorable  fellow,  mourned  over 
them. 

Essentially  a  soulless  woman,  but  fair  enough 
to  bewilder  any  man,  fully  realizing  her  own 
fairness,  and  utterly  failing  to  appreciate  her 
own  want  of  soul,  the  idea  never  occurred  to 
her  that  there  was  any  thing  wanting  in  Frank's 
love,  or  in  his  manner  of  developing  it.  While 
he  would  come  to  her  obediently  at  her  own 
appointed  time ;  while  he  would  listen  without 
interruption  to  her  recital  of  how  "jealous  poor 
George  "  was  of  every  man  who  caught  sight  of 
her ;  while  he  portrayed  interest  in  her  new 
dresses  and  her  interminable  schemes  of  gay- 
ety  and  plans  for  "getting  people  together,' 
Cecil  was  perfectly  happy  and  satisfied.  She 
did  not  desire  any  display  of  ardent  love — when 
there  was  no  one  by  to  witness  it  and  say  how 
"madly  infatuated  that  fellow  is!"  She  in- 
finitely preferred  soft  speeches  and  subtle  hints 
of  hopeless  attachment  and  desperate  devotion 
from  two  or  three  men  at  the  same  time. 
These  she  could  answer,  parry,  respond  to 
brightly,  lightly,  eagerly  enough.  But  a  touch 
of  "thoroughness"  would  have  revealed  her  in 
all  her  beautiful  hollowness — and  so,  perhaps, 
it  was  just  as  well  that  the  touch  of  thorough- 
ness was  wanting  in  Frank  Stapylton's  love- 
making. 

Meantime  the  touch  of  thoroughness  was 
not  wanting  in  his   friendship  with  Horatia 
Waldron.     Though  he  did  not  belong  to  the 
order  of  men  who  wear  their  hearts  on  their 
sleeves,  there  was  nothing  secretive  about  him 
and  so,  being  tongue-tied  toward  the  rest  of 
the  world,  by  Cecil's  desire,  he  spoke  out  the 
more  freely  to  this  woman,  from  whose  truth 
ful  lips  friendship's  balmy  words  fell  with  such 
thrilling  force.     No  wonder  that  he  sought  he 


often  —  far  oftener  than  was  wise,  she  knew, 
but  still  not  oftener  than  was  dearly  pleasant  to 
her.  No  wonder  that  he  told  out  his  thoughts 
to  her,  that  he  talked  of  hopes  that  had  been 
iigh,  of  love  that  had  been  true,  of  life  as  it 
might  have  been,  to  this  woman  who  could  re- 
pond  to  him. 

He  came  to  her  in  the  long  summer  even- 
ngs,  when  Cecil  did  not  want  him ;  he  never 
defrauded  his  liege  lady  of  aught  that  was  her 
rightful  due ;  and  somehow  or  other  the  long 
summer  evenings,  when  Cecil  did  not  want 
him,  came  to  be  the  most  eagerly  anticipated 
and  the  most  fondly-looked-back-upon  of  this 
period  of  his  life.  Ho  came  to  Horatia  for 
rest,  for  sympathy,  for  interest,  for  companion- 
ship, for  pleasure ;  and  she  gave  him  all  these 
things  in  unconsciously  giving  him  her  love — 
love  so  profound,  so  intense,  so  unselfish,  that 
she  would  have  sacrificed  every  thing  on  earth 
(but  her  children)  to  have  made  Cecil,  who 
was  to  be  his  wife,  the  first  object  of  interest 
to  him  in  the  world. 

There  came  one  evening  when  the  mask 
(put  on  by  such  faithful  hands)  nearly  fell  off, 
when  the  narrow  boundary-line  between  love 
and  friendship  was  so  nearly  crossed,  that 
Horatia  awoke  to  a  sense  of  her  own  danger. 
Awoke  to  a  sense  of  her  own  danger,  but  re- 
mained steeped  in  slumberous  ignorance  as  to 
his.  Then — being  only  a  woman — she  deter- 
mined to  bear,  and  brave,  and  risk  all  possible 
pain  for  herself,  saying,  "On  my  head  this 
fatal  folly  of  loving  in  the  wrong  place  will  re- 
bound—on my  head  only ;  ho  knows  nothing 
about  it.  While  the  dream  will  last,  it  shall 
last,  without  my  making  an  effort  to  wake  from 
it." 

The  scene  in  which  she  played  the  leading 
part  on  this  occasion  was  such  a  pretty  one ! 
A  fair,  soft  evening  in  June,  with  the  "lilies 
and  languors  of  virtue,  and  the  roses  and  rap- 
tures of  love,"  lading  the  air  with  a  wealth  of 
perfume  that  made  every  one  who  inhaled  it 
believe  for  the  time  that  life  was  meant  to  be 
beautiful  and  sweet,  and  that  those  who  lived 
in  it  were  to  blame  when  ugly  sights  and  hid- 
eous sounds  and  evil  odors  prevailed. 

A  dull  evening — according  to  the  ordinary 
estimate  of  dullness — it  had  promised  to  be  at 
first.  It  is  true  that  she  was  well  supplied 
with  new  books,  that  a  new  song  of  Gounod's 
had  been  sent  to  her  this  day  by  her  brother, 
and  that  all  the  world  seemed  to  be  steeped  in 
the  rich  goldea  light  of  the  setting  sun ;  but 
there  was  no  one  near  to  hear  her  comments 
on  the  books,  no  one  to  listen  to  the  rapturous 


7G 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


words  of  the  song,  no  one  to  bask  with  her  in 
the  beautiful  golden  light ;  and  so  her  heart 
felt  sadder  than  it  was  wont  to  feel,  and  terri- 
bly alone. 

But  it  so  happened  that  Cecil  did  not  want 
Frank  Stapylton  this  evening ;  and  he,  having 
the  habit  of  female  companionship  upon  him 
very  strongly  at  this  juncture,  came  and  be- 
stowed his  liberty  on  Horatia.  Ho  came  in 
with  that  look  of  weary  dissatisfaction  on  his 
face  that  appeals  so  powerfully  to  women  when 
they  behold  it  on  the  faces  of  the  men  who  in- 
terest them;  and  instantly  she  divined  that 
something  was  vexing  and  perplexing  him,  and 
made  it  her  task  to  chase  away  the  shadow  of 
the  vexation  and  perplexity  by  a  frank  display 
of  all  the  sympathy  for  him  with  which  her 
heart  was  charged. 

"  The  heat  has  been  too  much  for  us  both, 
Frank.  I  am  languid  and  weary.  I  feel  house- 
bound, in  fact,  and  I've  done  nothing  all  day 
but  lie  on  the  sofa  and  wish  that,  as  we  are 
having  tropical  heat,  we  could  have  tropical 
customs.  What  a  boon  a  slave  and  a  punkah 
would  have  been  to  me !" 

"And  I  have  done  nothing  but  lie  on  the 
grass  and  try  every  kind  of  cooling  drink  that 
the  ingenuity  of  man  ever  invented,"  he  an- 
swered, "and  all  to  no  purpose.  I  reached  fe- 
ver-heat before  midday,  and  have  kept  at  it 
ever  since  until  I  came  in  here  and  saw  you." 

"  And  I  have  had  a  chilling  effect  on  you  ?" 
she  laughed.  "Well,  Frank,  for  once  I  am 
glad  to  hear  it.  Prolonged  fever-heat  is  ex- 
hausting." 

"Any  thing  but  chilling,"  he  answered,  in  a 
low  voice.  "I  hardly  know  what  effect  you 
have  on  me,"  he  went  on.  "I  think  I  feel 
about  you  as  Foe  did  about  his  Helen  when  he 

wrote — 

" '  Thy  beauty  is  to  me 
Like  those  Nician  barks  of  yore, 
That  gently  o'er  a  perfumed  eea 
The  weary  way-worn  traveler  bore 
To  his  own  native  shore.' 

I  felt  weary  and  way-worn  when  I  came  in,  and 
now  I  feel—" 

He  paused  abruptly,  and  from  some  cause  01 
other  no  words  came  from  her  to  fill  up  the 
pause.  They  were  sitting  by  the  open  window 
she  leaning  her  head  back  against  the  sash,  he 
by  her  side,  lounging  on  his  elbow,  idly  turning 
over  the  leaves  of  a  new  magazine ;  and  th 
dying  light  of  day  streamed  softly  in  upon 
them,  harmonizing  the  whole  picture. 

"  It's  like  an  idyl,  isn't  it  ?"  he  questioned 
after  a  few  moments'  pause,  glancing  up  sud 
denly  from  the  page  he  had  not  been  reading 


and  letting  his  eyes  rest  on  hers.     "You,  in 
hat  white  dress  that  folds  about  you  so  grace- 
ully,  and  your  dusky  hair  clouding  about  your 
)row — you're  like  a  dream  of  peace  and  love." 
"  How  is  Cecil?"  she  asked,  quietly. 
"  Very  Avell,  and  very  happy,  with  Mr.  Dan- 
vers  very  much  at  her  feet,  and  a  suspicion  in 
her  mind  that  I  am  getting  jealous  of  him, 
which  suspicion  is  utterly  unfounded."* 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it ;  jealousy  is  a  horrible 
mssion,  I  think." 

;'Oh,  horrible;  nevertheless,  I  should  de- 
velop it  fast  enough  under  certain  conditions,  I 
assure  you,"  he  answered,  laughing. 

"I  am  glad,  then,  for  your  sake  as  well  as 
tiers,  that  those  conditions  are  not  fulfilled; 
you  are  quite  right  in  feeling  that  you  needn't 
be  jealous  of  Mr.  Danvers." 

"But  I  tell  you,"  he  said,  earnestly,  "that  I 
should  be  jealous  of  Danvers  or  any  other  fel- 
low if  I  felt  about  Cecil  as  I  hoped  to  feel  when 
I  asked  her  to  be  my  wife.  The  truth  of  the 
matter  is,  she — " 

"Don't  let  us  say  any  thing  about  her," 
Horatia  pleaded,  eagerly.  "You're  annoyed 
at  the  present  moment.  Don't  say  that  you 
are  not ;  and  it  wouldn't  be  fair  to  her  to  say 
any  thing  about  her  to  me,  nor  would  it  be  fair 
for  me  to  listen.  Oh  dear!  the  atmosphere 
will  be  so  much  clearer  for  us  all  when  you  are 
married !" 

There  was  a  pathetically  tired  strain  in  her 
tone,  as  she  said  this,  that  revealed  a  little  more 
than  she  intended  to  reveal  to  him.  But,  like 
a  man,  he  craved  for  more  light,  for  a  fuller 
revelation,  even  though  it  should  be  made  to 
no  useful  end. 

"Will  the  atmosphere  be  clearer  for  you?" 
he  asked,  softly. 

"Yes,  because  now  I  am  the  repository  of 
your  secret,  and  I  hate  secrets  and  abhor  mys- 
teries." 

"And  is  that  your  only  reason?"  He  had 
taken  her  hand,  and  was  holding  it  as  he  spoke 
— holding  it  as  if  by  so  doing  he  would  compel 
her  to  attend  to  and  answer  him. 

"That  is  the  only  reason  I  can  give  you," 
she  said,  gravely.  And  he  lifted  her  hand  to 
his  lips,  and  pleaded, 

"Do  give  me  another.  I  tell  you  every 
thing.  Do  give  me  perfect  confidence  in  re- 
turn. You  will,  won't  you  ?  You  will  if  you 
have  ever  cared  for  me  at  all." 

Ever  cared  for  him  at  all,  when  at  that  very 
moment  she  was  caring  for  him  so  wildly,  so 
madly,  so  hopelessly,  that  all  her  life  looked 
dark  before  her,  because  she  must  yield  him  to 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


77 


another  woman!  How  could  he — how  dared 
he  plead  so  hotly  for  her  friendship,  when  he 
had  so  coldly  renounced  her  love  —  and  re- 
nounced it  for  the  frivolous  fancy  of  a  woman 
who  was  her  inferior  in  head,  and  heart,  and 
mind,  her  inferior  in  every  thing  but  beauty, 
indeed,  which  last  possession  is,  after  all,  the 
best  dowry  we  can  wish  for  our  daughters, 
for  men  prize  it  above  all  others — very  prop- 
erly, of  course ! 

For  one  moment  Horatia  let  him  read  her 
eyes  —  for  one  moment  she  let  him  hold  her 
hand  after  he  had  pressed  that  warm  kiss  upon 
it — and  in  that  one  moment  the  mask  nearly 
fell  off,  the  boundary-line  was  nearly  crossed. 
Then  she  recovered  herself,  and  released  them 
both  from  the  spell. 

"There  is  no  other  reason  to  give;  if  there 
were,  I  would  treat  you  quite  as  the  brother  I 
regard  you  as  " — poor,  struggling,  loving  hypo- 
crite!—  "and  give  it  to  you.  King  for  the 
lamp,  will  you  ?" 

"No,  no ;  let  us  have  this  quiet  light  a  little 
longer. 

" '  Stay  with  me,  lady,  while  you  may, 
For  life's  so  sad,  this  hour's  so  sweet.* " 

And  again  he  pleaded,  with  wistful  eyes  and  a 
detaining  hand.  But  she  would  not  consent  to 
be  spell-bound  a  second  time. 

"In  spite  of  your  poetical  appeal,"  she 
laughed,  "I  must  have  my  lamp.  Cecil  and 
you  may  have  the  half-light,  but  I  want  to  try 
a  new  song,  and — " 

"Cecil  and  I!"  he  muttered,  impatiently. 
"What  has  come  to  you  to-night,  that  you 
bring  in  Cecil's  name  in  season  and  out  of  sea- 
son ?  Are  you  afraid  that  I  shall  forget  her  ?" 

"No,"  she  said,  stoutly,  though  it  was  a 
hard  thing  to  say. 

"Not  that  she  gives  me  much  to  remember 
her  by,"  he  went  on,  complainingly.  "Poor 
George's  views  aro  things  that  pall  upon  a  man 
after  any  number  of  vain  repetitions ;  and  she 
can  hardly  expect  me  to  carry  a  catalogue  of 
her  dresses  in  my  mind,  or  to  dwell  with  fer- 
vor on  the  memory  of  Mr.  Danvers's  vain 
speeches." 

"You  did  remember  her  very  devotedly  as 
the  only  woman  you  had  ever  loved,"  she  said 
with  an  effort. 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  I  remembered  her 
with  a  sort  of  fictitious  fidelity,  as  the  only  girl 
I  had  ever  loved.  My  love  for  a  woman  would 
be  something  very  different." 

"Cooler,  more  reasonable,  having  to  do 
more  with  the  head  than  the  heart,"  she  said, 


in  desperation,  for  the  subject  had  a  fell  fasci- 
nation for  her,  dangerous  as  she  felt  it  to  be. 

"  More  reasonable,  if  you  like,  but  certainly 
not  cooler ;  and  naturally  it  would  have  to  do 
with  the  head  as  well  as  the  heart.  I  know 
now,  when  it  is  too  late,  the  sort  of  woman — 
the  only  woman  —  for  whom  I  could  feel  a 
grand  passion." 

'  And  now,  as  it  is  too  late,  you  had  better 
not  nourish  the  idle  feeling  by  talking  about 
t." 

"  If  by '  idle '  you  mean  '  unreal,'  you're  mis- 
taken," he  said.  "  The  feeling  is  real  enough ; 
unluckily  the  chances  of  gratifying  it  are 
wretchedly  small." 

She  got  up,  half  vexed,  half  pleased,  like  the 
thorough  woman  she  was.  Naturally  she  was 
vexed  that  the  knowledge  of  his  love  for  her- 
self had  come  to  him  when  it  was  too  late.  It 
was  equally  natural  that  she  should  be  pleased 
by  the  knowledge  of  the  fact  that  he  loved  her 
at  all,  inopportunely  as  it  was  made  known  to 
him.  Still,  as  I  have  said,  she  was  a  thorough 
woman,  and  pleasure  was  her  dominant  sen- 
sation as  she  moved  from  the  window  to  the 
piano. 

He  was  following  her,  but  she  looked  back 
and  shook  her  head. 

"No,  no;  stay  where  you  are.  The  high 
notes  will  go  through  your  brain  if  you  come 
any  nearer."  And  then  she  sang  Gounod's 
new  song,  and  her  voice  sounded  as  delightful- 
ly in  the  ears  of  the  man  who  loved  her  as  if 
she  had  been  a  Patti  or  a  Nilsson. 

Presently  she  turned  round  on  the  music- 
stool  and  told  him  of  a  "  resolution  she  had 
formed."  She  did  not  mention  that  she  had 
only  formed  it  since  that  unfortunate  fit  of  can- 
dor of  his  had  warned  her  that  the  mask  might 
full  off  at  any  moment. 

"I  am  quite  tired  of  life  at  Larpington," 
she  began,  "and  my  children  will  soon  require 
educational  advantages  that  they  can  not  get 
here.  Don't  you  think  I  am  a  wiso  woman  in 
determining  to  leave  this  place,  and  go  to  Lon- 
don, or  near  London  ?" 

"  Good  heavens,  no !"  he  answered,  disobey- 
ing her  injunction  to  remain  where  he  was,  and 
coming  over  to  her  in  haste  that  betokened  far 
too  great  an  interest  in  her  and  her  proceed- 
ings. 

"Yes,  indeed;  and  I  thought  you  would 
have  approved  of  my  intention.  When  I  woke 
from  my  dream  "—it  may  be  supposed  that  she 
was  referring  to  that  dream  of  her  boy's  com- 
ing into  possession  of  the  Larpington  estate, 
which  was  never  destined  to  be  fulfilled  now— 


78 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


"when  I  woke  from  my  dream,  I  felt  that 
there  was  nothing  left  to  keep  me  here  now." 

"Nothing  left  to  keep  you  here!"  he  said, 
reproachfully.  "  Of  course,  I  have  no  right  to 
expect  that  you  should  think  of  me  for  an  in- 
stant ;  but,  by  Jove !  what  a  ghastly  vacuum 
in  my  life  your  going  will  cause  !" 

Her  heart  palpitated  in  response  to  the  gen- 
nine  regret,  the  genuine,  jealous  chagrin  he  was 
displaying.  But  she  did  not  dare  to  let  its 
palpitations  betray  themselves  by  means  of  fal- 
tering tones  or  quivering  lips.  Very  lightly 
and  steadily  she  spoke. 

11  You  will  soon  fill  up  that  vacuum  with  a  far 
nearer  and  dearer  interest,  Frank ;  and  though 
I  don't  think  for  a  second  that  you'll  forget  me 
— our  friendship  has  been  too  true  and  sweet  a 
thing,  I  think,  for  either  of  us  ever  to  forget  it 
— still,  you  won't  miss  me  much,  believe  me." 

"  Not  miss  you  much !  My  life  will  be  a 
blank  without  you,"  he  said,  desperately.  And 
when  he  said  that,  Horatia  knew  that  it  was 
well,  it  was  wise,  it  was  needful  that  she  should 
go. 

His  mind  was  full  of  her  the  next  day — full 


of  her  and  her  winning  charm,  and  the  weari- 
ness that  stretched  out  before  him  as  he  thought 
of  her  going  away— full  of  her  to  the  point  of 
rendering  him  abstracted  in  the  presence  of 
Cecil,  who  observed  the  abstraction  after  a  time, 
unobservant  as  she  was  generally. 

"  Were  you  very  much  disappointed  at  my 
not  telling  you  to  come  here  last  evening?" 
she  asked. 

"No,"  he  answered,  truthfully ;  "you  told 
me  the  other  day,  you  know,  that  you  would 
be  engaged.  Was  Danvers  up  to  his  usual  at- 
tractive mark  ?" 

"  He  was  more  charming  than  ever,  and  he 
seemed  to  think  me  more  charming  than  ever. 
Is  that  what  is  making  you  so  glum  to-day, 
Frank?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  What  is  it,  then  ?  You  are  not  np  to  your 
usual  attractive  mark,  I  can  assure  you.  Where 
were  you  last  night  ?" 

"I  called  on  Mrs.  Arthur,"  he  stammered, 
a  little  confusedly. 

"  Then  you  must  never  call  there  again,"  she 
said,  slowly. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 


CECIL  DRAWS  HER  SWORD. 


THEN  ensued  one  of  those  foolish,  recrimi- 
natory, futile  dialogues  which  are  so  pain- 
fully humiliating  to  look  back  upon ;  dialogues 
which  leave  the  conductors  of  them  exactly  in 
the  same  place  at  the  end  as  they  were  at  the 
beginning;  dialogues  in  which  spite  supplies 
the  eloquence  of  the  accusation  on  the  one  side, 
and  a  full  knowledge  of  having  a  very  poor 
cause  makes  the  defense  a  lame  and  impotent 
one  on  the  other;  dialogues  in  which  the  ma- 
jority of  us  have  taken  part  at  some  period  or 
other  of  our  lives,  it  is  to  be  presumed,  for  we 
have  all  been  unjustly  treated  in  our  time,  or 
have  treated  some  other  unjustly — we  have  all 
spoken  or  been  spoken  to  in  jealous  warmth — 
we  have  all  done  battle  against  some  imaginary 
foe  or  rival,  or  defended  some  friend  or  lover 
from  the  one  who  depicts  them  as  antagonists. 
And  so  we  can  all  understand  that  Frank  Sta- 
pylton  was  not  exalted  in  his  own  eyes  when 
he  came  out  of  the  excited  verbal  contest  with 
Cecil,  in  which,  for  the  first  time,  she  showed 
openly  her  animosity  against,  and  jealousy  of, 
Horatia  Waldron. 

Cecil  had  the  power  which  is  invested  in  the 
hands  of  a  beautiful  woman  who  holds  a  man's 
pledge  to  marry  her— a  power  which  is  in- 
creased tenfold  when  a  man  has  professed  more 
love  than  he  feels,  and  when  he  is  heartily 
ashamed  of  falling  short  of  his  profession. 
The  real  Cecil  was  very  different  to  the  ideal 
Cecil,  but  he  could  not  utterly  separate  them 
yet ;  and  he  shrank  from  the  thought  of  the 
woman  whom  he  had  loved  so  long  discovering 
that  he  loved  her  no  longer. 

Her  jealousy  was  very  patient  to  him,  but  it 
was  not  the  jealousy  an  exhibition  of  which 
flatters  a  man's  loving  self-esteem.  It  was  the 
jealousy  of  vanity,  not  of  love.  She  grudged 
Mrs.  Arthur  Waldron  the  confidence  and  the 
friendship  of  Frank  Stapylton,  not  because  she 
desired  to  have  these  things  herself,  but  be- 


cause she  disliked  Mrs.  Arthur  Waldron,  and 
would  have  preferred  to  feel  that  Horatia's  life 
was  barren  of  all  those  interests  which  made 
up  the  sum  of  life  to  Cecil  herself. 

"  It's  a  slight  to  me — a  slight  that  no  other 
man  on  earth  would  offer  me,"  she  said,  **  that 
you  should  go  and  pay  her  such  attention  that 
every  one  in  the  village  must  know  you  like 
her.  When  a  man  is  engaged,  his  time  belongs 
to  the  woman  to  whom  he  is  engaged.  Poor 
George  never  gave  a  look  or  a  word  to  any  one 
but  me." 

"  You  must  remember  that  my  opportunities 
of  giving  you  either  looks  or  words  are  rather 
limited,  Cecil.  I  should  be  with  you  much 
more  than  I  am,  if  you'd  let  me  come." 

"  Oh,  how  unjust,  how  dreadfully  unjust  you 
are,  Frank,  reproaching  me  for  my  considera- 
tion for  you  in  that  way !  I  don't  want  other 
people  to  say  that  I  am  making  a  slave  and  a 
fool  of  you,  and  that  is  what  would  be  said  if 
you  were  always  about  after  me." 

"It  seems  to  me,"  Frank  grumbled,  "that 
no  one  could  say  that  if  it  were  known  that  we 
were  engaged." 

"  But  it  can't  be  known  that  we  are  engaged. 
I  don't  want  it  to  be  known  that  we  are  en- 
gaged— yet.  After  all  I  have  gone  through  " 
— Cecil  always  reverted  to  "  all  she  had  gone 
through,"  when  she  wanted  to  subdue  strong 
men — 1<  it's  cruel,  cruel  of  you  to  want  to  make 
me  the  talk  of  the  neighborhood  again  so  soon  ; 
but  because  I  won't  make  myself  a  subject  for 
idle  gossip  is  no  reason  that  you  should  go  and 
make  yourself  conspicuous  with  Mrs.  Arthur, 
and  hurt  my  feelings.  If  you  had  a  real  re- 
gard for  me  you  would  cut  her." 

"  Cecil,  you  would  despise  me  if  I  were  such 
a  pusillanimous  cur ;  for  I  should  be  that  if, 
without  the  slightest  reason,  the  faintest  shad- 
ow of  a  cause,  I  were  to  cut  a  woman  who  has 
been  uniformly  my  friend— a  woman  whose 


80 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


judgment,  and  heart,  and  life  arc  as  golden  as 
they  can  be." 

"That's  nonsense,"  Cecil  said,  pettishly; 
"  she  professes  a  great  deal,  I  know,  but  she's 
reserved,  and  I  hate  reserved  people ;  they're 
all  bad.  And  as  for  your  friendship  with  her 
— poor  George  used  to  say  that  friendships  be- 
tween young  men  and  women  were  always  in 
questionable  taste ;  and  though  she  isn't  so 
very  young — " 

"What  would  poor  George  have  said  of 
your  rather  pronounced  friendship  with  Mr. 
Danvers ?"  Frank  interrupted,  coolly.  "I  am 
rather  interested  in  hearing  what  his  views 
would  have  been  on  that  subject." 

"That  is  quite  a  different  affair.  I  am  an 
engaged  woman — " 

"And  I  am  an  engaged  man." 

"But  she  doesn't  know  it." 

"And  he  doesn't  know  it." 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  Mrs.  Waldron 
laughed,  with  a  little  air  of  triumph;  "when 
men  are  in  love,  they  are  very  quick  to  see. 
You  needn't  grudge  him  my  society.  He  feels, 
poor  fellow,  I  know  he  feels,  that  I  am  not  for 
him." 

"I  wish  with  all  my  heart  you  were!"  was 
Frank  Stapylton's  inward  thought ;  but  he  said, 

"  Then,  on  my  word,  I  don't  think  you  ought 
to  keep  him  dangling  after  you  in  this  way. 
If  you  can  see  that  the  fellow  is  ready  to  make 
a  fool  of  himself—" 

"I  said  ready  to  fall  in  love  with  me.  It's 
not  very  complimentary  to  me  to  find  that  you 
think  that  is  making  a  fool  of  himself." 

"  It  is,  under  the  circumstances." 

"  Then  what  are  you  making  of  Mrs.  Arthur 
Waldron  ?" 

"  It  is  impossible  to  make  any  thing  of  her 
but  the  best  and  nicest  woman  in  the  world." 

"It  is  cruel  to  say  that,"  Cecil  piped,  "when 
you  know  how  I  hate  her,  when  you  know  what 
good  reason  I  have  to  hate  her." 

"  Now,  what  reason  on  earth  can  you  possi- 
bly assign  for  hating  her  ?  My  dear  Cecil,  do 
be  reasonable,  and — " 

"Be  reasonable,  indeed  !  I  believe  she  has 
taught  you  to  taunt  me  by  using  that  phrase. 
Why  can't  she  and  you  let  me  forget  that  I 
have  been  mad  ?" 

"Now,  my  darling,  this  is  too  much,"  he 
groaned;  "I  would  spare  you  every  thought 
of  that  wretched  time  when  your  life  was  dark- 
ened by  sorrow  and  cruelty,  and  so  would  she, 
I  know." 

"I  don't  care  whether  she  would  or  not, 
Frank.  If  she  thinks  I  am  ashamed  of  having 


been  afflicted  because  my  heart  was  so  much 
more  tender,  and  my  feelings  so  much  more 
sensitive  than  other  people's,  she  is  mistaken  ; 
it's  no  use  her  attempting  to  plav  upon  me  for 
that." 

"You're  making  her  out  to  be  a  monster 
of  cruelty,"  he  said,  with  a  tone  of  despairing 
resignation. 

"And  evidently  you  can  say  nothing  in  her 
defense." 

"  My  partisanship  does  her  more  harm  than 
good  with  you,  and  makes  you  hurl  accusations 
that  you  will  bitterly  repent  having  made  at 
her." 

"  Oh,  Frank,  you  threaten  me  with  the  pangs 
of  remorse  about  her !  How  can  you  do  that  ? 
I  couldn't  live  if  I  felt  remorseful  about  any 
thing ;  and  you  quietly  tell  me,  with  mys- 
terious certainty,  that  I  shall  feel  remorseful 
about  her !  You  couldn't  do  it  if  you  loved 
me." 

Feeble  woman's  last  and  strongest  weapon 
of  attack ! 

"You  couldn't  do  it  if  you  loved  me!" 
What  is  a  man  who  is  professing  love  for  her 
to  do  but  declare  that  he  does  love  her,  and 
that  he  "won't  do  it  again,"  as  the  children 
say.  Happily,  however,  for  himself,  and  for 
the  reader's  toleration  toward  Horatia's  opinion 
of  him,  Frank  did  not  so  demean  himself. 

"  Even  if  you  doubted  my  love,  you  would 
not  put  it  to  such  a  degrading  test,  seriously, 
Cecil,"  he  said,  rather  gravely.  "  But  you  do 
not  doubt  it,  therefore  why  wrong  yourself  and 
me  with  these  mere  chimeras  of  your  brain  ?" 

"  My  brain,  always  my  brain,  becomes  the 
topic  when  you  have  been  with  her,"  Cecil 
cried,  petulantly.  "  The  clever  woman !  She 
never  let's  you  forget  that  my  'brain'  was 
weaker  for  a  time  than  hers  is !  How  kind, 
and  womanly,  and  sisterly,  and  nice  it  is  of  her ! 
Danvers  sees  through  her,  though  you  don't. 
Danvers  is  so  sympathetic  with  me,  that  he 
sees  through  her  thoroughly." 

"I  wish  Mr.  Danvers  would  keep  the  ex- 
pression of  his  keen  sympathy  to  himself," 
Frank  said,  stiffly,  for  it  is  one  of  the  most  beau- 
tifully marked  traits  in  our  inconsistent  natures, 
that  however  lightly  we  may  prize  our  own,  we 
do  not  glow  with  satisfaction  when  we  discover 
that  our  own  keenly  appreciates  being  highly 
prized  by  others. 

"Ah!  but  he's  one  of  the  men  who  can't 
keep  things  to  themselves.  He's  not  deceitful  ; 
you  can  see  in  a  moment  in  his  eyes  what  he 
feels ;  they're  really  speaking  eyes,  Frank. 
Have  you  noticed  them  ?" 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


81 


Frank  had  failed  to  "  notice  Mr.  Danvers's 
eyes." 

"Well,  I  wonder  at  that,  because  they're  so 
peculiar — quite  beautiful.  There's  a  sort  of 
'  love  me '  look  in  them  that  one  doesn't  often 
see." 

"Thank  Heaven  for  that!"  Mr.  Stapylton 
observed. 

"  Now,  why  do  you  say  that,  Frank  ?"  Cecil, 
who  was  well  mounted  and  eager  to  be  off  on 
the  new  hobby,  asked.  "  Now,  why  do  you 
say  that  ?" 

"Because  the  fewer  fellows  who  go  about 
with  an  idiotic,  languishing  'love  me'  look  in 
their  eyes  the  better,  I  should  say." 

"  Yes,  certainly ;  I  should  agree  with  you, 
if  it  was  idiotic.  But  his  is  not ;  it's  a  most 
thrilling,  soul-filled  glance.  I  wish  you  could 
see  it  as  I  do." 

"Thank  you;  but  I  haven't  the  slightest 
desire  to  do  so ;  the  sight  would  be  rather  a 
sickening  one." 

"I  really  believe  you're  doing  Mr.  Danvers 
the  honor  to  be  jealous  of  him." 

"  You're  mistaken,  Cecil ;  I'm  not  doing  my- 
self the  dishonor  of  doing  any  thing  of  the  sort. 
The  moment  I  found  myself  jealous  of  a  fellow 
like  Danvers,  I  should  relinquish  my  right  to 
be  jealous  of  you  at  all." 

"That  is  one  of  Mrs.  Arthur  Waldron's  sen- 
tences. She  thinks  she  talks  well,  and — " 

"  I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  having  words  put 
into  my  mouth  by  Mrs.  Arthur  Waldron,  or 
any  one  else,  Cecil,  my  child.  Why  will  you 
do  yourself  and  me  so  much  injustice  ?" 

"Why  will  you  irritate  me  into  being  un- 
just (not  that  I  am  unjust)  by  extolling  and 
flattering  a  woman  I  dislike,  with  good  rea- 
son ?" 

Frank  sighed  heavily.  Cecil  argued  in  a 
circle,  and  was  now  beginning  at  exactly  the 
same  part  of  the  round  from  whence  she  had 
originally  started. 

"Let  us  leave  her  name  out  of  the  con- 
versation," he  said ;  and  she  answered  quick- 
ly, 

"  So  I  will,  if  you'll  leave  her  out  of  your 
life." 

From  this  day,  Cecil  steadily  interposed 
herself  and  her  commands  between  Frank 
Stapylton  and  every  opportunity  he  might 
have  had  of  seeing  Horatia.  Mrs.  Waldron 
would  still  invite  the  pair  to  meet  under 
her  auspices,  but  she  sedulously  kept  them 
apart  when  she  was  not  present  to  keep  her 
wary  watch  and  see  with  delight  how  Ho- 
ratia winced  under  the  estranged  and  altered 
G 


manner  of  the  man  who  was  conscious  of  act- 
ing a  double  part. 

For  Cecil,  in  drawing  her  sword  on  Horatia, 
had  driven  him  over  the  narrow  boundary- 
line,  and,  to  his  own  sorrow,  he  knew  that 
that  which  he  felt  for  Arthur's  widow  was 
not  friendship,  but  love.  What  wonder  that, 
in  his  impotent  remorse,  in  his  pitiful  help- 
lessness, in  his  fettered  misery,  he  should 
have  taken  refuge  in  a  demeanor  that  was 
utterly  foreign,  and  be  sometimes  almost  re- 
pellent, and  at  others  almost  penitential,  and 
at  others  almost  bitter  toward  the  woman  to 
whom  he  dared  not  be  natural  ? 

And  she  partially  fathomed  the  real  mo- 
tive of  his  chameleon-like  manner  at  times, 
and  at  others  was  pained,  puzzled,  almost 
maddened  by  it.  The  change  from  such  free, 
frank  friendship  as  theirs  had  been  to  mere 
conventional  civilities,  or  studied  avoidance,  or 
bitter  badinage,  wrung  her  heart  and  hurt 
her  pride,  but  failed  to  kill  her  love. 

It  soon  had  the  effect  upon  her  of  making 
her  long  to  quit  the  place.  "  If  I  could  only 
get  out  of  it — get  away  from  the  probability 
of  seeing  him,  and  seeing  him  with  Cecil,  who 
likes  to  show  him  as  her  slave  to  me ;  if  I 
could  only  wake  up  of  a  morning  with  the 
knowledge  that  at  least  I  had  done  something 
to  put  myself  out  of  his  orbit,  perhaps  the 
sting  would  be  less  sharp,  and  this  change 
might  strengthen  me  to  bear  the  truth." 

So  thinking,  so  hoping  and  believing,  she  has- 
tened her  preparations  for  leaving  the  Bridge 
House.  She  wrote  to  her  brother  Gilbert,  beg- 
ging him  to  come  and  help  her  to  separate  the 
household  gods  she  meant  to  take,  from  the 
household  gods  she  meant  to  leave  behind. 
And  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  Gilbert  Den- 
ham  was  deaf  to  the  request  of  his  sister.  He 
would  not  come  back  to  Larpington. 

During  all  the  dreary  time  of  selecting,  and 
packing,  and  bewildering  herself  about  a  future 
residence,  Frank  Stapylton  kept  away  from 
Mrs.  Arthur  Waldron,  greatly  to  his  own  shame 
and  sorrow,  and  intensely  to  the  satisfaction 
of  Cecil,  who  felt  like  a  victorious  general 
driving  a  foe  from  the  field. 

"You  see,"  young  Mrs.  Waldron  would  say 
triumphantly  to  her  humbled  betrothed,  "di- 
rectly you  leave  off  going  there  she  finds  the 
place  unendurable,  and  quits  it.  That  con- 
vinces me  that  she  thought  you  were  making 
love  to  her,  whether  you  were  or  not." 

"Perbap?  we  had  better  not  analyze  the 
reasons  why  I  don't  go  there  any  more,"  he 
answered,  in  intemperate  haste;  and  some- 


82 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


thing  in  his  face,  and  tone,  and  manner  made 
Cecil  feel  that  it  would  be  as  well  for  her  to 
proclaim  the  engagement  and  bind  him  faster 
without  delay. 

The  day  dawned  that  was  the  last  before 
that  fixed  for  Horatia  Waldron  to  leave  the 
house  to  which  she  had  come  in  hope  for  her 
boy,  and  was  now  leaving  in  something  very 
like  despair  about  herself.  She  was  glad,  and 
she  was  sorry,  that  the  time  was  so  near  for 
her  to  get  out  of  the  atmosphere  that  was  full 
of  such  sweet  poison  for  her ;  glad  with  a  glad- 
ness, and  sorry  with  a  sorrowfulness,  that  can 
only  be  felt  and  only  be  understood  by  a  wom- 
an who  is  in  love. 

The  house  was  dismantled;  its  charm  was 
altogether  dispelled.  The  children  were  play- 
ing at  wild  beasts  in  the  empty  drawing-room, 
and  the  servants  were  looking  as  if  the  "curse 
had  come  upon  them"  because  the  appliances 
that  tended  to  their  comfort  were  most  of 
them  packed  up.  There  was  something  un- 
canny about  the  familiar  place,  something  un- 
real, perplexing,  disturbing.  She  longed  to  get 
away  from  it ;  and  yet  she  loved  it  so  well  for 
its  associations !  For  it  was  here  that  she  had 
shackled  herself  with  the  shackles  woman  loves 
so  well ;  it  was  here  she  had  come  to  a  knowl- 
edge of  all  her  strength  and  all  her  weakness ; 
here  she  had  lost  her  peace,  and  found  her 
master. 

Small  marvel  that  she  longed  to  leave  a 
place  that  was  to  her  both  Paradise  and  pris- 
on !  Small  marvel  that  there  was  no  rest  for 
her  body  or  mind  during  the  whole  of  this  day, 
for  she  was  feeling 

"  A  few  short  hours,  and  I  am  borne 
Far  from  the  fetters  I  have  worn ! 
A  few  short  hours,  and  I  am  free ! 
And  yet  I  shrink  from  liberty, 
And  look,  and  long  to  give  my  soul 
Back  to  thy  cherishing  control. 
Control?    Ah !  no ;  thy  bond  was  meant 
Far  less  for  bond  than  ornament, 
And  tho'  its  links  be  firmly  set, 
I  never  found  them  gall  me  yet. 

And  now  the  truth  comes  swiftly  on— 
The  truth  I  dare  not  think  upon, 
The  last  sad  truth  so  oft  delayed— 
'These  joys  were  only  born  to  fade.1" 

In  her  pitiful  restlessness,  in  her  desperate 
disquiet,  in  her  agonizing  knowledge  that  nev- 
er again — oh!  never  again  after  this  day — 
would  she  have  even  the  miserable  satisfaction 
of  knowing  that  he  was  near  her,  she  could  not 
remain  in  one  place,  nor  beguile  the  time  with 
any  occupation.  £>he  had  taken  leave  of  Mrs. 
Waldron — who  had  taken  the  opportunity  of 
treating  the  subject  of  her  engagement  to 


Frank  in  an  exhaustive  manner — and  she  had 
said  good-bye  to  all  the  people  in  the  village. 
The  only  one  whom  she  had  known  in  this 
place  who  had  not  wished  her  farewell  and 
God-speed  was  Frank  Stapylton.  •» 

And  she  was  going  away  to-morrow. 

She  tried  hard,  poor  thing,  to  think  that  the 
greater  part  of  the  sorrow  she  felt  in  leaving 
Larpington  was  caused  by  the  forced  renuncia- 
tion of  all  her  hopes  respecting  little  Gerald  and 
the  succession  to  the  estates.  But,  loving,  loy- 
al mother  as  she  was,  she  knew  that  in  striv- 
ing to  do  this  she  was  striving  to  lie  to  herself; 
the  real  sting  lay  in  the  fact  that  she  was  leav- 
ing Frank  Stapylton. 

The  woods  were  in  all  their  summer  beauty 
now,  wreathed  with  honeysuckle  and  brier 
roses,  fragrant  with  wild  thyme,  radiant  with 
the  scarlet  pimpernel,  the  blue  "bird's-eyes," 
and  the  purely  golden  celandine.  "  The  woods 
will  be  better  than  the  house,"  she  thought, 
"for  no  one  will  come  there,  and  I  can  look 
as  I  like,  without  fear  of  any  one  making  mis- 
takes." 

The  woods  stretched  all  round  Larpington, 
but  the  one  to  which  she  went  had  a  river  run- 
ning through  it,  and  this  decided  her  choice ; 
for  the  river  was  well  filled  with  trout;  and 
with  a  rod  and  a  fly  in  one's  hand  a  human  be- 
ing may  be  as  sadly  preoccupied  in  mind,  as 
absorbed  and  altogether  apart  from  others,  as 
he  or  she  pleases,  without  reproach. 

She  placed  herself  under  the  shade  of  the 
bank,  on  the  trunk  of  a  tree  that  had  fallen 
right  across  the  stream,  forming  a  natural 
bridge ;  and  there  she  sat  through  the  heat  of 
the  day,  dreaming,  and  letting  the  trout  escape 
her. 

By-and-by,  from  under  her  screen,  she  saw 
two  figures  sauntering  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  river,  and  her  heart  jumped  to  the  conclu- 
sion that  they  were  Cecil  and  Frank.  The 
man  was  partly  concealed  from  her  by  Cecil's 
floating  draperies  and  Cecil's  sun-shade,  but  he 
sauntered  by  Cecil's  side  as  only  a  lover  would 
saunter.  He  turned  his  head  to  her  now  and 
again,  as  only  a  lover  would  turn  it. 

She  would  not  be  a  coward ;  she  would  not 
rise  up  and  flee  from  before  that  loving  pair. 
They  might  see  her  if  they  liked  to  rouse  them- 
selves from  their  absorption  in  each  other  and 
look  across  the  stream.  So  she  sat  on  whip- 
ping the  stream,  with  balls  of  fire  dancing  be- 
fore her  eyes,  and  such  a  longing  for  the  mor- 
row in  her  heart ! 

Presently  the  airy  draperies  ceased  to  flutter 
in  the  wind,  the  slow  stroll  that  suggested  Fuch 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


a  love  of  lingering  together  on  the  part  of  the 
strollers  ceased,  and  Horatia's  unwilling  eyes 
saw  Cecil  place  herself  on  a  piece  of  the  high, 
broken  bank,  and  rest  her  arm  upon  her  com- 
panion's shoulder;  and  as  she  did  so  he  bent 
his  head  and  met  her  upturned  face,  and  kissed 
her,  unrebuked,  with  a  privileged  lover's  easy 
assurance.  And  as  he  raised  his  head  again 
and  looked  across  the  stream,  Horatia  saw  that 
it  was  not  Frank  Stapylton. 

Then  rose  such  a  storm  of  wrathful  indig- 
nation in  her  heart  that  the  man  she  loved  so 
well  should  be  so  lightly,  shamefully  betrayed 
by  the  woman  he  loved— such  a  storm  of  feel- 
ing, such  a  tempest  of  conflicting  emotions, 
such  a  passionate  despair  as  the  conviction  of 
her  own  peculiar  inability  to  set  the  matter 
straight  came  home  upon  her. 

She,  nourishing  such  feelings  as  she  did  her- 
self about  him  in  her  heart,  could  not  go  to 
him  with  the  tale  of  Cecil's  toying  with  another 
man.  Even  he,  knowing  her  as  he  did  (every 
woman  in  love  flatters  herself  with  the  delu- 
sion that  the  object  really  understands  her), 
even  he  might  misconstrue  her  motives,  and 
imagine  that  she  was  vainly  hoping  to  catch 
his  heart  in  the  rebound.  She  could  not  tell 
him  of  it,  but  she  would  get  away  from  the 
sight  of  such  hideous  perfidy. 


So  she  rose,  collecting  her  tackle,  and  mak- 
ng  a  slight,  unintentional  gurgle  in  the  water 
by  means  of  some  big  pieces  of  decayed  bark 
which  she  knocked  off  the  fallen  tree.  And 
as  she  did  so  they  looked  across  and  saw  her, 
and  knew  that  they  themselves  were  seen. 

"It  was  only  a  kiss;  why  worry  yourself 
about  it?  It  was  only  a  kiss,  and  you  have 
given  me  many,  darling.  Surely  you're  not 
going  to  regret  them  ?" 

"But  she  will  go  and  tell  of  it ;  it  will  be 
just  like  her  to  tell,"  Cecil  said,  plaintively. 
"  It's  just  what  a  mean,  jealous  thing  like  she 
is  would  do.  I  am  sure  I  would  never  tell 
if  I  saw  a  dozen  men  kissing  her.  She'd 
be  welcome  to  it.  But  she  will  muke  mis- 
chief." 

"But  she  can't  make  mischief,"  Danvcrs 
said.  "Your  delicacy  exaggerates  every  thing. 
What  mischief  can  be  made  by  the  fact  get- 
ting about  (even  if  it  does  get  about)  that  the 
man  you're  going  to  marry  kissed  you  ?  You're 
not  ashamed  of  your  love  for  me,  are  you,  dar- 
ling ?" 

"  Ashamed !  No.  But,  Charlie,  I'm  so  cru- 
elly hampered,"  she  whispered.  "You  don't 
know  what  I  have  to  go  through— what  press- 
ure is  put  upon  me.  Frank  Stapylton  thinks 
I'm  going  to  marry  him." 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


DOUBLY  FALSE. 


"VTERVOUSLY,  in  her  haste  to  avoid  a  rep- 
•1.1  etition  of  the  sight  that  had  hurt  and 
shocked  her  for  Frank's  sake,  Mrs.  Arthur 
Waldron  stumbled  and  slipped  now  and  again 
as  she  mounted  the  rugged  bank  of  the  river. 
She  was  encumbered  with  her  rod  and  tackle ; 
she  was  enfeebled  by  the  fact  of  the  light  sum- 
mer dress  she  wore  perpetually  catching  in 
some  jagged  knoll  and  pulling  her  back ;  she 
was  harassed  by  the  consciousness  that  the  pair 
on  the  other  side  of  the  river  were  watching 
her  progress ;  but,  above  all,  she  was  burdened 
by  the  knowledge  she  had  of  having  witnessed 
that  with  which  Frank  Stapylton  ought  to  be 
made  acquainted,  and  the  feeling  that  it  would 
be  impossible  for  her  to  tell  him  of  it. 

It  had  been  a  terrible  trial  to  her  that  she 
should  thus  have  played  the  part  of  uninten- 
tional spy  on  the  dubious  actions  of  a  pair  whom 
she  thoroughly  disliked  and  heartily  despised. 
To  a  generous  nature  there  must  always  be  a 
large  amount  of  pain  in  getting  the  advantage 
of  an  adversary  by  chance.  She  felt  supreme- 
ly disgusted  with  Cecil  for  her  perfidy ;  but,  at 
the  same  time,  she  felt  a  good  deal  of  soft  pity 
for  the  pangs  of  humiliation  which  she  imag- 
ined Cecil  must  be  enduring  on  account  of  hav- 
ing been  found  out.  That  Cecil  was  not  en- 
during them  is  not  at  all  to  the  purpose.  Ho- 
ratia  went  through  just  as  much  vicarious  suf- 
fering as  if  Cecil  had  been  a  better  woman. 

It  seemed  such  a  tedious,  long,  never-ending 
ascent,  that  from  the  river  brink  to  the  level 
road  through  the  wood ;  and  yet  she  was 
only  two  or  three  minutes  in  making  it.  But 
the  knowledge  of  being  watched  and  disliked 
for  having  existed  at  this  juncture  on  this  spot, 
and  of  being  regarded  as  altogether  a  superflu- 
ity in  the  great  scheme  of  humanity  by  the  pair 
opposite,  acted  like  a  clog  on  her  feet.  She 
seemed  to  herself  to  be  walking  as  one  walks 


in  a  dream,  to  be  making  strenuous  efforts  to 
get  on,  that  were  rendered  null  and  void  by 
nothing  in  particular;  and  every  thing  became 
more  perplexing,  dream-like,  and  bewildering 
still,  when,  on  turning  into  the  deep  shadow  of 
the  wood,  she  found  herself  face  to  face  with 
Frank  Stapylton. 

lie  was  walking  slowly,  but  there  was  some- 
thing in  his  gait,  slow  as  it  was,  that  told  of 
impatience,  and  a  vexed  anxiety  to  get  over  or 
go  through  with  something.  He  was  kicking 
the  rich,  streaming  summer  grasses  that  grew 
in  his  path,  and  switching  off  the  foliage  that 
hung  down  about  him  motionless  in  the  soft 
midsummer  air.  There  was  on  his  face  both 
flush  and  frown ;  there  was  angry  light  in  his 
eyes,  and  this  light  did  not  die  out  when  he 
lifted  them  and  saw  Horatia. 

In  her  vivid  remembrance  of  the  scene  she 
had  just  witnessed,  she  felt  like  a  guilty  crea- 
ture before  him  as  he  paused  and  said  to  her, 

"  The  woods  seem  to  be  the  favorite  haunt 
to-day.  Cecil  promised  to  meet  me  here  an 
hour  ago,  but  she  has  forgotten  her  promise,  or 
missed  the  trysting-place.  Which  is  it,  do  you 
think  ?" 

With  her  face  burning,  with  her  heart  beat- 
ing unequally,  with  her  whole  frame  quivering 
with  indignation  at  her  own  falseness  and  Ce- 
cil's folly,  she  answered, 

"It  is  so  easy  to  be  unpunctual  in  these 
woods  at  this  season.  I  meant  to  be  at  home 
an  hour  ago,  and  see,  here  I  am  still." 

He  looked  at  her  steadily  as  she  spoke,  with 
a  look  he  had  never  given  her  before — a  look 
of  such  interrogation  and  of  such  command 
that  she  absolutely  winced  under  it. 

"You  know  very  well,"  he  said,  quietly, 
"that  if  you  had  promised  to  meet  me  here 
— me  or  any  one  else — you  would  have  been 
here ;  you  wouldn't  have  gone  off  for  a  walk 


THE  TWO 

with — or  without— any  one  else.  You  would 
have  been  here." 

For  one  moment  she  tried  to  nerve  herself 
to  the  task  of  telling  this  man  that  he  was  be- 
ing betrayed,  cajoled,  befooled.  But  she  could 
not  do  it.  The  dread  of  misapprehension,  the 
fear  of  being  malicious,  the  horror  of  being 
treacherous,  in  seeming  even,  to  one  of  her 
own  sex— all  these  feelings  were  too  strong  for 
her  to  wrestle  with  them  successfully.  She 
could  only  be  silent — and  sorry  for  him. 

"My  time  here  is  nearly  run  out,"  she  said, 
trying  to  shift  the  subject.  "  I  go  away  to- 
morrow, and  always  at  the  last  hour  there  are 
so  many  things  to  be  done;  so  I  shall  say 
good-bye  to  you  now,  Frank;  and  I  hope 
I  shall  hear  of  you  soon  as  married  and 
happy." 

It  was  a  courageous  thing  to  say,  and  she 
said  it  courageously.  Let  us  hope  and  pray 
that  our  daughters  may  never  be  called  upon 
to  utter  similar  words  to  the  men  they  love — 
for  after  it,  the  utterance  of  every  other  lie  is 
an  easy  thing. 

He  took  the  hand  she  held  out  to  him,  and 
retained  it — but  not  lovingly,  no  one  need  be 
shocked  —  retained  it  severely  almost,  as  he 
said, 

"  What  is  it  ?  Your  eyes  don't  deceive,  you 
see;  one  can  look  right  through  them  into 
your  soul.  You're  keeping  something  from 
me.  What  is  it  ?" 

"  What  is  it  ?"  she  said,  evasively.  "  False 
emotional  folly,  I  think,  about  leaving  Larping- 
ton,  and  its  woods  and  associations.  Do  let 
me  be  sorry  without  asking  why,  Frank.  I 
have  so  many  things  to  think  about,  you  know. 
Railway  traveling  may  upset  my  children,  and 
my  chairs  and  tables  may  all  be  smashed  to 
pieces  in  the  transit.  When  Cecil  and  you 
come  to  see  me  in  London,  you'll  find  me  much 
more  at  my  ease." 

He  flung  her  hand  from  him,  and  leaned 
back  against  a  tree,  while  he  lighted  a  cigar 
in  the  convulsive  way  in  which  men  do  light 
cigars  occasionally,  when  the  conviction  is 
brought  home  to  them  that  there's  "  nothing 
new  and  nothing  true." 

"  Don't  try  to  humbug  me.  You  have  seen 
Cecil?" 

She  felt  her  cheeks  grow  scarlet  as  he  spoke, 
looking  at  her  the  while  with  that  glance  of 
keen  interrogation  under  which  she  found  it  so 
difficult  a  matter  to  stand  at  ease  and  look  as 
though  she  had  a  clear  conscience. 

"You  have  seen  Cecil!"  he  repeated  ;  and 
this  time  there  was  no  interrogation  in  his 


WIDOWS.  85 

tone  ;  there  was  confident,  rather  angry  asser- 
tion only. 

"  Yes  ;  I  have  seen  her,  but  I  have  not  seen 
her  to  speak  to  her,"  she  answered,  hurriedly. 
"  Now,  Frank,  you  must  let  me  go  home.  Do 
be  pitiful,  and  think  of  all  my  traveling  trials 
to-morrow." 

"And  you  know  the  cause  of  her  not  being 
here  to  meet  me  as  she  promised  ?" 

"  I  have  told  you  that  I  have  not  seen  her 
to  speak  to,"  she  answered,  impatiently ;  and 
then  he  melted  her  to  softest  pity  by  shaking 
his  head  mournfully,  and  saying, 

"There  is  no  need  to  speak  to  her;  you 
saw  the  cause,  and  so  did  I.  Don't  you  try  to 
throw  dust  in  my  eyes.  That  fellow  is  with 
her — making  love  to  her!" 

There  was  bitter  denunciation  of  Mr.  Dan- 
vers and  his  conduct  in  Frank's  tone  and  man- 
ner, and  the  conviction  that  he  was  a  trifle  un- 
just smote  her.  For  if  ever  a  man  could  plead 
in  extenuation  of  an  offense,  "  It  was  the  wom- 
an tempted  me,"  Mr.  Danvers  might  plead  this 
with  respect  to  Cecil  Waldron. 

"Perhaps  he  is  not  altogether  to  blame," 
she  said  ;  "  he  may  not  know  that  Cecil  is  en- 
gaged to  you,  and  you  ought  to  understand, 
better  than  any  one  else,  how  very  strong  the 
temptation  to  love  her  must  be." 

"I  don't  understand  a  woman  promising  to 
many  one  fellow,  and  fooling  with  another, 
and  I  don't  understand  a  man  with  any  sense 
of  honor  making  love  to  another  man's  prom- 
ised wife.  You  know  they're  wrong  all  round  ; 
you  must  know  it,  though  you  won't  admit  it 
to  me." 

"And  you  know,  though  perhaps  you  won't 
even  admit  it  to  yourself,  that  you  would  feel 
very  indignant  with  me  if  I  even  censured  Ce- 
cil by  implication,"  she  said,  promptly.  "  No, 
no,  Frank  ;  she  is  too  dear  to  you  and  too  near 
to  you  for  any  other  woman's  opinion  to  come 
between  you  with  impunity  to  thatotherwoman." 

"  If  that  were  quite  true  I  should  not  be 
listening  here  now,  while  Cecil  is  improving 
the  shining  hours  over  yonder  with  Danvers. 
No ;  the  fact  is,  she  was  very  dear  to  me,  but 
she  has  nearly  cured  me  ;  and  if  she  will  only 
ask  for  her  liberty,  she  shall  have  it  without  a 
word  of  reproach  from  me." 

"It  would  be  giving  her  what  she  would  not 
value,  and  leaving  you  poor  indeed." 

"It  would  be  leaving  me  a  richer  man  than 
I  shall  be  if  she  does  eventually  bestow  herself 
upon  me/'  he  replied,  bitterly.  "  You  know 
well  enough  that  a  man  isn't  easily  blinded  af- 
ter the  sight  we  have  seen  to-day." 


80 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


And  she  thought,  "Oh,  fool  that  I  am,  to 
fancy  he  is  cured  of  the  folly  of  loving  in  the 
wrong  place,  any  more  than  I  am  myself! 
Though  his  eyes  have  been  opened  to-day,  he 
will  trust  her  again  and  again,  as  blindly  as 
ever— for,  ah  me !  she  has  a  lovely  face." 

Even  as  she  thought  it,  Cecil  advanced  gayly 
into  their  midst,  walking  freely  and  prettily,  as 
though  not  a  single  doubt  fettered  her  foot- 
steps ;  and  by  her  side  was  the  companion  of 
her  idyllic  stroll,  Mr.  Danvers. 

It  is  hard,  after  a  man  has  just  been  de- 
scribed as  occupying  an  ignominious  position, 
to  think  of  him  as  any  other  than  ignominious 
in  character  and  aspect.  Unquestionably  Mr. 
Danvers  had,  according  to  the  judgment  of 
Mrs.  Arthur  Waldron  and  Frank  Stapylton, 
been  playing  a  mean  and  dubious,  not  to  say 
false  and  unpardonable  part.  He  had  been 
making  warm  love  to  the  woman  who  was  the 
promised  wife  of  another  man,  and  who,  ac- 
cording to  all  the  sacred  laws  of  honor,  ought 
to  have  been  held  sacred  to  that  other  man. 
Looked  at  from  this  point  of  view,  his  conduct 
admitted  of  no  excuse.  There  were  no  exten- 
uating circumstances  about  it ;  it  was  altogeth- 
er vain  and  unprofitable ;  it  was  altogether  bad. 

But  there  was  a  reverse  to  this  bold,  brazen 
shield,  on  which  his  conduct  was  blazoned  un- 
blushingly.  His  worst  folly,  in  reality,  was 
that  he  believed  in  the  woman  by  his  side ;  his 
worst  sin  was  his  utter  surrender  of  all  his 
judgment  and  his  will  to  her  caprices ;  his 
only  fault  in  the  matter  was  his  ignorance  of 
the  relations  that  existed  between  Frank  Sta- 
pylton and  Cecil  Waldron. 

The  love  of  deceiving  is  the  dominant  ele- 
ment in  the  natures  of  some  women.  If  their 
paths  lie  straight  before  them,  they  shrink  from 
following  those  paths,  and  seek  out  the  tortu- 
ous and  the  winding  ways  by  preference.  Ce- 
cil had  no  love  for  Mr.  Danvers;  he  did  not 
even  interest  her  greatly ;  but,  for  the  sake  of 
keeping  him  in  her  thrall,  she  was  freely  false 
to  him  about  the  man  to  whom  she  was  en- 
gaged ;  she  made  light,  contemptuous  mention 
of  Frank's  devotion  to  her ;  she  implied  that  it 
bored  her ;  she  insinuated  that  she  had  reject- 
ed his  proffered  love,  and  that  it  was  only  the 
blindest,  maddest,  most  persistent  infatuation 
which  kept  him  in  her  path  still.  And  all  the 
time  she  meant  to  marry  Frank  Stapylton,  and 
meant  to  let  Mr.  Danvers  drift  whithersoever 
fate  willed  that  he  should  drift. 

She  was  staggered  for  a  moment  when  she 
found  herself  face  to  face  with  Frank,  but  it  was 
only  for  a  moment  that  her  vanity-flushed  face 


changed  in  hue,  and  her  purpose  faltered.  She 
was  certainly  an  able  woman  in  this  matter  of 
wriggling  herself  out  of  a  difficulty.  That  mo- 
ment passed,  and  she  was  portraying  light,  lov- 
ing displeasure  at  meeting  Frank  with  Mrs. 
Arthur  Waldron. 

"It  was  a  fortunate  thing  that  I  had  some 
one  to  speak  to,  Mr.  Stapylton,"  she  said, 
"while  I  was  waiting  all  this  weary  time  for 
you.  You,  it  seems,  had  forgotten  your  ap- 
pointment." 

"His  appointment!  Oh,  Cecil,  you  didn't 
expect  him,  did  you?"  Danvers  whispered. 

"Hush!  and  don't  call  me  Cecil,"  she  took 
an  opportunity  of  muttering,  as  Horatia  was 
shaking  hands  with,  and  saying  good-bye  to, 
Frank  Stapylton  once  more.  Then  she  turned 
to  her  sister-in-law. 

"It's  quite  a  pleasant  surprise  to  see  you 
again,  Mrs.  Arthur.  I  thought  you  had  left 
this  morning.  Did  you  want  to  watch  unseen 
over  any  of  your  friends,  that  you  struck  a  pre- 
mature note  of  departure  ?" 

All  this  time  Frank  had  not  spoken,  but 
there  was  more  than  the  shadow  of  the  suspi- 
cion of  a  taunt  in  Cecil's  last  word,  and  he  an- 
swered her  coldly, 

"I  can  answer  for  it,  Mrs.  Arthur  Waldron 
wouldn't  watch  unseen  over  the  meanest  crea- 
ture on  earth,  with  the  idea  of  bringing  con- 
fusion on  that  rriean  creature's  head."  And 
Danvers  telegraphed  an  inquiry  with  his  eyes 
to  Cecil  as  to  whether  she  meant  to  put  up 
with  that  ? 

She  had  every  trick  at  command  wherewith 
to  deceive  any  number  of  her  fellow-creatures 
who  were  in  any  degree  better,  truer,  and  more 
loyal  than  she  was  herself;  she  had  every  trick 
at  command,  and  she  could  use  all  tricks  at  any 
given  moment.  Credit  her  with  wonderful 
adaptability.  She  could  look  as  mournfully 
pathetic  as  a  monkey,  whenever  she  thought 
that  by  so  looking  she  might  possibly  serve  her 
own  interests.  So  she  looked  her  most  mourn- 
fully pathetic  now — looked  it  at  each  man 
quickly,  spasmodically,  cleverly,  until  each  man 
believed  in  her  again,  as  all  his  own  in  her 
heart — until  each  man  distrusted  the  other  out 
of  all  bounds  of  reason,  and  was  ready  to  trust 
her  again  to  his  own  destruction ;  and  each 
man  was  ready  to  blame  the  other  for  so  trust- 
ing; and  each  one  would  have  writheringly 
blamed  the  other  had  he  expressed  or  enter- 
tained hard  thoughts  of  her.  In  short,  each 
one  was  bewitched  for  the  time  being,  and  so 
ready  to  have  his  feelings  tinged  by  any  color 
she  chose  to  throw  over  her  proceedings. 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


"  At  any  rate,  either  seen  or  unseen,  I  shall 
watch  over  Larpington  no  longer,  for  I  really 
go  to-morrow  morning,  Cecil,  and  so  good-bye 
to  you  all."  And  thus  at  last  Horatia  got  her- 
self away  from  their  midst,  and  hoped  heartily, 
as  she  walked  away,  that'she  had  "done  witli 
them "  and  with  their  distracting  influences 
"forever." 

At  least,  she  conscientiously  and  honestly 
hoped  this  for  a  brief  period ;  and  after  this 
brief  period — it  was  a  very  brief  one — she  be- 
gan to  conjecture  which  of  the  two  men  Cecil 
really  loved,  and  which  she  would  make  really 
happy  eventually,  and  which,  by  losing  Cecil, 
would  be  the  winner;  and,  in  fact,  generally  to 
vex  her  own  soul,  as  does  a  woman  most  surely 
who  ever  makes  the  mistake  of  taking  too  much 
interest  about  any  of  her  fellow-creatures. 

And  so  the  hours  came  and  went,  finding 
her  and  leaving  her  in  perplexity,  until  the 
time  came  for  her  to  start  and  enter  upon  the 
new  life  in  the  new  London  home  she  had 
chosen,  far  from  all  those  who  had  entangled 
themselves  about  her  path,  and  whom  she  could 
not  hate  for  so  doing.  And  even  as  she  trav- 
eled away  from  it  all,  to  the  monotonous  buz- 
zing and  whirring  of  the  train  the  words  set 
themselves,  "How  will  it  end?  how  will  it 
end  ?" 

A  cleverer  woman  than  Cecil  might  have  been 
excused  for  finding  it  difficult  to  discover  and 
take  a  safe  and  pleasant  path  out  of  this  maze 
into  which  she  had  wandered ;  but  she  was 
equal  to  the  call  that  was  made  upon  her  pow- 
ers of  strategy  and  diplomacy.  Calmly,  as 
soon  as  Horatia  left  them,  did  Cecil  place  her- 
self between  the  two  men,  and  addressing  Mr. 
Danvers,  who  looked  the  more  warmly  angry 
of  the  two,  said, 

"  Now  that  we  have  been  fortunate  enough 
to  meet,  Mr.  Stapylton,  we  may  as  well  all  three 
of  us  walk  back  to  that  lovely  river.  It's  like 
a  bit  of  fairy-land.  You  must  come  and  enjoy 
it  with  me,  Frank." 

She  dropped  her  voice  to  a  mere  murmur  as 
she  pronounced  his  name  with  a  fulteringly  ten- 
der accent ;  and  for  the  moment  he  was  earned 
away  against  his  reason  into  the  folly  of  be- 
lieving that  she  felt  what  she  was  seeming  to 
feel.  Still,  it  had  not  been  in  the  bond  that  he 
was  to  meet  Danvers  in  the  wood,  and  that 
Danvers  should  mount  guard  over  the  inter- 
view. It  was  altogether  ridiculous  and  incon- 
gruous ;  it  was  altogether  unjust  and  heartless 
of  Cecil ;  it  was  a  thing  against  which  it  be- 
hooved him  to  make  a  stand. 

"Probablv  Mr.  Danvers  has  had   enough 


of  the  bank  of  the  river  for  one  day.  Why 
should  we  take  him  back  there  ?" 

We !  It  was  identifying  himself  with  her 
in  a  way  that  was  as  the  root  of  bitterness 
to  poor  Danvers.  We!  How  could  Cecil, 
whom  he  looked  upon  as  his  own— Cecil,  who 
had  let  him  kiss  her  on  the  lips  only  just 
now — Cecil,  who  had  been  sweetlv  protesting 
to  him  that  she  was  more  than  indifferent 
to  Frank  Stapylton— how  could  she  permit 
Stapylton  to  link  himself  together  with  her 
in  this  way  unrebuked  ?  lie  waited  for  a 
moment,  and  then,  as  Cecil  did  not  rebuke 
the  bold  imputation  of  an  alliance,  Danvers 
took  the  matter  of  chastisement  into  his  own 
hands. 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  it's  rather  the  other 
way,"  he  said;  "I'm  entirely  at  Mrs.  Wal- 
dron's  orders  for  the  day— and  forever,  as  far 
as  that  goes.  We  needn't  take  you  out  of 
the  way  to  go  to  the  river — " 

"Oh,  hush!  hush!"  she  interrupted  ;  and  she 
was  at  her  sweetest  and  prettiest  as  she  said 
it.  "  Here  am  I  monopolizing  you  both  so 
selfishly,  and  I'm  sure  I  hear  something — n 
cry  just  as  if  somebody  were  calling  out.  Oh, 
listen!  Don't  you  think  its  Horatia,  Frank? 
What  can  have  happened  ?" 

They  did  not  hear  any  thing,  these  men 
whom  she  addressed ;  but  how  could  they  real- 
ize this  unimportant  fact  when  she  was  ad- 
dressing them  in  accents  of  panting  anxiety  ? 
She  was  startled,  anxious,  miserable  appar- 
ently about  that  other  woman  who  had  just 
quitted  them.  What  could  they  bo  but  star- 
tled and  anxious  too  ? 

"Hush!  hush!"  she  kept  on  saying  in  her 
overwhelming  manner.  "Perhaps  she  has 
slipped  into  the  river — the  bank  is  so  apt  to 
crumble.  I  feel  sure  it's  that.  Do  run  and 
see." 

She  addressed  Frank ;  and  though  ho  felt 
convinced  that  Horatia  had  not  been  guilty 
of  the  folly  of  slipping  into  the  river,  nor  of 
doing  any  thing  else  that  was  melodramatic 
and  awkward,  still  ho  felt  himself  bound  to 
go  off  on  his  vague  mission,  and  set  the  fic- 
titious fears  of  his  liege  lady  at  rest.  But 
even  as  he  went,  he  had  upon  him  the  sting- 
ing sense  of  being  befooled  by  her.  "For 
some  reason  or  other,  she  wants  to  get  rid 
of  me,  and  her  rust  is  so  contemptibly  trans- 
parent," he  thought.  Still  he  walked  on,  and 
Cecil  had  the  opportunity  she  wanted. 

"  Charlie,  you  must  put  up  with  Mr.  Stapyl- 
ton's  manner,"  sho  began,  imploringly.  "  I 
haven't  had  the  courage  to  tell  you  before, 


83 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


but  really  he  has  some  reason  for  assum- 
ing it." 

"You  don't  mean  to  tell  me,  you  can't 
wish  me  to  believe  that  you  have  been  giv- 
ing him  encouragement  ?"  Danvers  asked,  re- 
proachfully. And  then  she  gave  him  a  pret- 
ty effective  garbled  version  of  the  state  of  the 
case. 

"He  pressed  me  hard  when  I  was  getting 
better,  you  know,  and  he  had  been  so  kind ! 
It  was  through  him  that  I  was  found  and 
taken  away  from  those  dreadful  women  whose 
cruelty  drove  me  out  of  my  mind ;  and  then 
he  had  loved  me  for  so  many  years,  and  I 
was  so  weak  and  so  afraid  of  every  body, 
that  I  really  hadn't  the  courage  to  refuse 
him." 

"You  don't  mean  that  you're  engaged  to 
him  ?" 

"  Well,  I  have  promised  to  marry  him." 

"  Oh,  Cecil,  this  is  not  fair  to  me.  You 
must  tell  him  at  once  how  things  are  with  us. 
I  will  not  have  my  promised  wife  placed  for 
another  hour  in  such  a  dubious  position." 

"But  I'm  his  promised  wife  too,"  she  whim- 
pered. "  How  cruel  every  one  is !  I  believe, 
between  you,  you  will  drive  me  mad  again.  I 
believe  it's  what  you  want  to  do.  How  can 
you,  Charlie  ?  And  you  pretend  to  be  so  fond 
of  me!" 

He  felt  that  it  was  a  feeble-minded  thing  on 
his  part  to  do,  but  he  actually  at  this  attempted 
to  reason  with  her. 

"My  darling,  should  I  be  fond  of  you  if  I 
could  tamely  allow  this  order  of  things  to  ex- 
ist an  hour  longer  ?" 

"  But  it  must  exist  an  hour  longer,  and  a 
good  many  hours  longer,  unless  you  want  to  kill 
me.  I  must  break  it  to  him  by  degrees.  Oh, 
why  won't  you  let  me  do  it  my  own  way,  com- 
fortably?" 

"  Our  ideas  of  comfort  don't  coincide  at  all, 
Cecil.  You  must  promise  me  that  you  won't 
let  him  harbor  this  delusion  an  hour  longer,  or 
I  shall  think  that  your  vows  and  protestations 
to  me  have  been  false  as  the  devil." 

"And. when  I  tell  him  he  will  say  just  the 
same  things— just  the  same  cruel  things, "Cecil 


murmured,  with  an  air  of  large  appeal  against 
the  injustice  of  it  all.  "He's  gone  off  now  as 
jealous  as  he  can  be,  I  can  see  it." 

"  But  he  has  no  right  to  be  jealous,"  Dan- 
vers persisted.  "  If  he  wrung  an  unwilling  as- 
sent from  you  when  you  were  ill,  it  was  a  mean 
and  cowardly  thing  of  him  to  do ;  it  was  tak- 
ing advantage  of  your  gratitude  and  gentle 
womanly  feeling  in  a  way  that  makes  me  think 
not  too  highly  of  him.  The  thing  is  simple 
enough.  Tell  him  you  find  you  can't  marry 
him,  as  you  love  me.  You  do  love  me,  don't 
you,  Cecil  ?" 

Cecil  was  prompt  with  assurances  to  the  ef- 
fect of  his  being  "  the  only  man  she  had  ever 
loved."  Her  feeling  for  "poor  George"  had 
been  something  quite  different.  She  rather 
thought  it  had  been  respect  which  she  had  felt 
for  the  husband  of  her  youth. 

"Well,  then,  will  you  promise  me  to  clear 
the  matter  up  with  Stapylton  to-day?  You 
must  promise  me  this.  You  shall  promise  me 
— you  will  promise  me  if  you  love  me." 

Frank  Stapylton  was  coming  toward  them 
again ;  she  had  no  time  to  lose,  and  as  her  one 
object  was  to  get  out  of  the  difficulty  for  the 
present,  she  gave  him  the  promise  he  asked  for, 
and  gave  it  fervently. 

"Your  mind  may  be  relieved,  Cecil,"  Frank 
Stapylton  said,  carelessly,  as  he  rejoined  them  ; 
"  Mrs.  Arthur  Waldron  has  not  fallen  into  the 
river,  nor  has  she  fallen  a  prey  to  any  of  the 
wild  beasts  with  which  you  seemed  suddenly  to 
think  these  woods  are  infested." 

"I'm  very  glad.  Still,  I'm  sure  I  heard 
something;  and  it  was  so  good  and  kind  of 
you  to  go.  I'm  tired,  and  must  go  home  now. 
Shall  I  say  good-bye  to  you  here,  or  will  you 
walk  up  to  the  house  with  me  ?" 

Both  men  declared  their  intention  of  walk- 
ing back  to  the  house  with  her;  but  at  the 
door  Mr.  Danvers  took  his  leave.  "I  shall  see 
you  to-morrow,"  he  said  to  Cecil,  and  Frank 
writhed  under  the  glance  that  accompanied  the 
words.  Then  they  went  in  together,  and  Frank 
commenced  at  once. 

"  Cecil,  what  does  all  this  mean  ?  Be  frank 
with  me,  if  you  can." 


CHAPTER  XX. 


A  NET  IS  SPREAD  FOR  GILBERT. 


,  if  you  can,"  Frank  said ; 
and  the  fact  of  his  saying  it  at  all  is  con- 
clusive evidence  that  he  had  utterly  failed  in 
gauging  the  depths  of  his  future  wife's  charac- 
ter. It  was  not  in  Cecil's  power  to  be  frank 
with  any  human  being,  if  by  being  frank  she 
ran  the  risk  of  plunging  herself  into  even  the 
slightest  temporary  trouble.  She  infinitely  pre- 
ferred uttering  an  easy  lie.  The  lie  might  or 
might  not  gain  credence  from  the  one  for 
whom  it  was  designed,  but,  at  any  rate,  it  rare- 
ly failed  to  stop  conversation  on  the  disagree- 
able point.  The  game  was  well  worth  the 
candle,  in  her  estimation.  What,  indeed,  did 
a  lie  more  or  less  matter  to  a  woman  who  ha- 
bitually uttered  them. 

So  now,  when  Frank  Stapylton  made  the 
plea  that  was  reasonable  enough  in  seeming, 
and  ridiculously  wild  in  fact,  she  weaved  a  ro- 
mance on  the  spot. 

"  I  hardly  understand  it  myself,  Frank.  Mr. 
Danvers  has  something  on  his  mind,  I'm  afraid, 
and  I  think  that  he  wants  to  tell  me  about  it. 
Do  you  know,  I  can't  help  associating  it  with 
Mrs.  Arthur  Waldron,  your  immaculate  Ho- 
ratia.  He  turned  quite  pale  to-day  when  he 
caught  sight  of  her  first,  and  his  manner 
changed  from  that  time — quite  changed,  I  as- 
sure you." 

"I  don't  wonder  at  that,"  he  was  begin- 
ning, coldly,  when  she  interrupted  him  trem- 
ulously. 

«*  Frank,  I  wish  you  would  not  assume  that 
air  of  mysterious  annoyance.  You  are  ready 
enough  to  talk  about  my  brain,  and  to  imply 
that  every  suggestion  I  make  is  the  emanation 
of  an  unhealthy  brain.  I  wish  you  would  bear 
in  mind  what  that  poor  brain  has  endured,  and 
not  torture  it  by  suspense  and  an  air  of  mys- 
tery." 

"  I  won't  keep  you  in  suspense,  and  there 


shall  be  no  mystery  in  my  dealings  with  you, 
at  any  rate,  Cecil,"  he  said,  more  gently  than 
he  had  hitherto  spoken.  "  I  don't  like  double- 
dealing.  I  dislike  it  so  much,  that  I  will  tell 
you  without  hesitation  that  which  it  hurts  me 
horribly  to  think  about,  much  more  to  speak 
about.  What  can  your  feelings  for  me  be,  what 
can  your  thoughts  of  me  be,  when  you  can  per- 
mit another  man  to  kiss  you  ?" 

He  asked  it  with  a  choking  spasm  in  his 
throat— a  spasm  of  righteous  wrath  and  indig- 
nation, and  outraged,  jealous  feeling.  And 
she  answered  him  with  an  irritating  calmness 
that  did  credit  to  her  powers  of  artistic  duplicity. 

"Then  Mrs.  Arthur  Waldron  has,  as  I  im- 
agined she  would,  magnified  and  distorted  an 
accident  into  an  act  of  disloyalty  to  you—" 

"Stop!"  he  said,  passionately.  "I  saw  it 
myself." 

"  If  you  go  into  a  rage  and  rave  at  me,  it's 
quite  impossible  for  me  to  give  you  the  expla- 
nation," she  answered,  carelessly.  "I  must 
submit,  I  suppose,  to  a  piece  of  broad  and  coarse 
injustice  because  you  are  too  intemperate,  and 
too  much  under  the  influence  of  a  woman  who 
dislikes  me,  to  allow  me  to  justify  myself.  I 
may  look  forward  to  a  happy  life  indeed,  if  the 
rule  is  to  be  established  that  I  am  to  submit  to 
all  accusations  in  silence." 

"  I  can't  endure  the  idea  of  putting  a  woman 
— a  woman  who  had  promised  to  be  my  wife — 
on  her  defense  in  such  a  matter.  Why  didn't 
you  trust  me,  Cecil  ?  Why  didn't  you  tell  me 
you  had  come  to  love  this  man  better  than  you 
do  me  ?  I  would  not  have  held  you  to  your 
promise  ;  I  would  not  have  enforced  my  claim 
an  instant  after  it  ceased  to  be  a  claim  to  which 
you  acceded  with  all  your  heart." 

"Oh,  what  nonsense !"  she  cried,  in  accents 
of  large-hearted  impatience  of  the  pettifogging 
nature  of  his  complaint.  "I  haven't  come  to 


90 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


love  Charles  Danvers  better  than  I  do  you ;  and 
I  do  accede  to  your  claim  with  all  my  heart. 
Why  should  I  be  going  to  many  you  if  I  didn't 
love  you  ?  Shall  I  gain  so  much  by  the  mar- 
riage, Mr.  Stapylton,  that  it  would  be  worth 
my  while  to  make  myself  miserable  and  take 
you,  if  it  would  make  me  •  happier  to  take 
Charlie  Danvers  ?" 

"All  this  only  proves  you  an  adept  in  the 
art  of  weaving  spells,"  he  said  ;  "  but  they  are 
magical  for  me  no  longer.  No,  Cecil" — she 
had  risen  up,  and  was  standing  with  her  hands 
on  his  shoulders,  looking  through  his  eyes  into 
his  soul  with  those  wonderful  violet  eyes  of  hers, 
that  were  full  of  such  witching — uno,  Cecil; 
one  of  us  two  men — either  Danvers  or  myself 
— must  be  made  a  fool  of  by  you  in  this  busi- 
ness. I  will  not  be  the  one." 

"You  mean  that  you  will  break  off  our  en- 
gagement— desert  me — wrong  me  in  your  cow- 
ardice, in  revenge  for  my  rejection  of  you  in 
our  youth!" 

"  I  mean  nothing  of  the  sort.  I  only  mean 
to  leave  you  free  to  go  to  the  man  you  love," 
he  said,  sadly,  for  she  was  very  pretty,  and  it 
was  for  the  "last  time,"  he  told  himself;  and 
he  was  only  a  man,  and  it  is  horribly  unpleas- 
ant for  any  man  to  have  the  conviction  thrust 
home  to  him  that  he  has  been  befooled. 

And  then  he  rose,  and  said  "  good-bye  "  to 
her  rather  falteringly,  bidding  "  God  bless  her  " 
as  he  went,  though  in  his  heart  of  hearts  he 
felt  that  she  did  not  deserve  the  benediction, 
and  was  not  in  the  least  likely  to  benefit  by  it ; 
while  she,  strong  in  a  purpose  she  had  formed, 
stronger  still  in  the  perfect  knowledge  she  had 
of  her  own  perfect  beauty,  said  farewell  to  him 
with  prettily  portrayed  resignation.  As  she 
held  his  hand  in  a  parting  clasp,  she  slipped  a 
ring,  with  the  word  "Mizpah"  engraved  upon 
it,  on  his  finger.  And  he  was  deeply  touched 
by  the  incident ;  for  how  was  he  to  know  that 
she  had  a  small  stock  of  them,  and  had  touched 
Charlie  Danvers's  heart  by  exactly  the  same 
means  a  few  hours  before  ?  His  mind  was  in 
a  sadly  complicated  state  as  he  went  home  from 
the  Cecil  who  had  been  his,  and  was  his  no 
longer,  this  day ;  for,  though  he  had  arrived  at 
a  curing  knowledge  of  some  of  her  weaknesses, 
he  had  also  arrived  at  a  most  consoling  knowl- 
edge of  his  own. 

An  hour  after  he  had  left  her,  Cecil  was  at 
the  Bridge  House,  sitting  on  a  rolled-up  bundle 
of  carpet  that  was,  in  the  present  disorganized 
state  of  affairs,  the  only  moderately  comforta- 
ble seat  in  the  drawing-room.  She  had  come 
down  nominally  to  take  a  last  farewell  of  Hora- 


tia ;  in  reality,  she  had  come  to  goad  that  un- 
happy woman  into  reinstating  her  (Cecil)  into 
her  empire  over  Frank  Stapylton's  soul. 

It  was  rather  an  effective  narrative,  that 
which  she  told  of  the  events  of  the  day  ;  but 
Horatia  was  not  dazzled  by  it.  It  was  rather 
a  strong  case,  that  which  she  made  out  of  her 
love  for  Frank,  and  her  longing  that  he  should 
think  well  of  her ;  but  Horatia  was  not  deceived 
into  sympathy  by  it.  It  was  a  subtle  stroke, 
that  which  she  gave  when  she  said, 

"You  are  so  clever  that  you  could  make 
him  see  the  folly  of  his  resolve  in  a  minute,  but 
— I  can  hardly  expect  you  to  do  it." 

"No,"  Horatia  said,  thinking  of  that  kiss  by 
the  river-side ;  "  you  can  hardly  expect  me  to 
do  it." 

"For  you're  fond  of  him  yourself,"  Cecil 
murmured,  softly ;  "and  it  would  be  cruel, 
cruel,  and  what  no  woman  with  womanly  feel- 
ing could  do,  to  drag  you  in  as  intercessor  be- 
tween him  and  the  one  he  loves.  Oh,  Horatia, 
what  a  pity  for  his  own  sake,  poor  boy,  that  he 
couldn't  care  for  you !  Your  desperate  devo- 
tion would  have  satisfied  him ;  but  he  will  al- 
ways be  craving  for  more  from  me." 

It  was  a  subtle  stroke,  and  Horatia  fell  un- 
der it. 

"  I  thought  you  said  you  had  parted  I  What 
is  the  use,  in  that  case,  of  thinking  of  what 
the  effect  might  be  of  intercession  for  which 
you  can  not  ask?  Moreover,  my  influence 
with  Mr.  Stapylton  is  very  slight,  and  could  I 
use  it  after  that  scene  between  Mr.  Danvers 
and  you  ?  I  couldn't — I  couldn't !" 

"Nonsense,  nonsense!"  Cecil  protested, 
warmly.  "  That  scene,  as  you  call  it,  was  such 
an  accident,  it's  cruel  of  you  to  aid  in  deepen- 
ing the  impression  on  Frank's  mind  ;  for  I  love 
him,  and  he  adores  me.  He  thinks  Charlie 
Danvers  kissed  me  ;  as  if  I  would  let  any  man 
but  the  one  I'm  going  to  marry  do  that !  He 
was  bending  down  to  watch  a  trout,  and  I 
looked  up  suddenly,  and  I  think  my  hat  knock- 
ed against  his,  and  all  this  harm,  that  may 
make  the  misery  of  my  life,  has  been  made  of 
it !  And  you  can't  help  me  because  you  care 
for  him  yourself." 

"  Care  for  him  !  Yes,  of  course  I  care  for 
him— so  much  that  I'll  do  any  thing  to  make 
him  happy  if  I  can,  for  he's  like  a  brother  to 
me,"  she  added,  feebly.  And  then  Cecil  sub- 
mitted a  plan  of  reconciliation  to  her  which 
was  very  beautiful  in  itself,  if  Frank  could 
only  be  made  to  believe  in  its  perfect  integri- 
ty. And,  spurred  on  by  a  dread  which  she 
dared  not  analyze,  Horatia  wrote  a  fervent  ap- 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


91 


peal  on  behalf  of  Cecil  and  Cecil's  pitifully  help- 
less and  besieged  condition  to  Frank  Stapylton. 
"He  knows  what  I  am,"  Cecil  whimpered. 
**  He  knows  that  I  can't  bear  to  be  rough,  and 
rude,  and  repulse  people.  I'm  too  grateful  to 
them  for  being  kind  to  me ;  and  so,  because  I 
can't  be  false  to  my  nature — the  nature  he  pre- 
tended not  so  very  long  ago,  he  fell  in  love  with 
—  he's  going  to  make  me  a  by -word  and  a 
scorn  here,  where  I  have  been  dragged  through 
the  mud  already ;  and,  of  course,  I  ought  to 
bear  it  all  in  silence,  because  it's  cruel  of  me  to 
speak  about  it  to  you." 

"  No,  it's  not,  it's  natural ;  and  I'm  very  glad 
that  you  do,"  Horatia  answered,  stung  into  men- 
dacity, and  chilled  into  coolness,  "  as  Frank's 
friend  and  —  a  —  yours.  Don't  you  see  I'm 
ready  to  do  all  in  my  power  to  remove  the  im- 
pression that  you  assure  me  is  false  ?" 

"Of  course  it  is,"  Cecil  cried,  eagerly. 
"  Can't  you  see — doesn't  your  own  reason  tell 
you  that  it's  all  a  mistake  ?  Frank  is  the  only 
man  I  have  ever  really  loved  ;  but  he  must  not 
presume  upon  that  fact ;  he  must  make  some 
concession  to  show  me  that  he  cares  as  much 
for  me  as  I  do  for  him.  I  shall  have  been  ut- 
terly deceived  in  his  character,  and  you  have 
helped  to  deceive  me,  if  he  does  not  do  this." 

"  I  can  have  had  no  motive  in  deceiving  you," 
Mrs.  Arthur  Waldron  said.  "  Heaven  knows, 
I  don't  think  that  a  marriage  with  you  must 
prove  such  a  blessing  to  a  man  that  I  should 
descend  to  a  subterfuge  in  order  to  bring  it 
about  between  you  and  a  friend  I  cared  for." 

"No;  that's  it,"  Cecil  answered,  whirling 
lightly  round  in  her  argument.  "You  care 
for  him  so  much  that,  even  at  the  cost  of  his 
own  happiness,  you  would  keep  him  to  yourself, 
wouldn't  you  ?  I  often  think  that  he  likes  you 
best ;  he  says  himself  his  feeling  of  liking  for 
you  is  very  strong — only,  you  see,  his  feeling 
for  me  is  stronger.  It's  a  pity  he  ever  saw 
me ;  he  might  have  been  contented  with  you 
if  he  hadn't,  and  so  happy !  Don't  I  trust  you 
entirely  ?  I  can't  do  any  thing  deceitful ;  it's 
not  my  nature.  I  know  you  care  for  him,  and 
yet  I  come  and  tell  you  every  thing,  I  trust  you 
so." 

So  she  prattled  on ;  and  how  grateful  Mrs. 
Arthur  Waldron  was  for  the  honor  done  to  her 
by  the  fact  of  the  prattler  reposing  such  a  full 
meed  of  confidence  in  her,  may  be  better  im- 
agined than  described.  At  any  rate,  as  has 
been  told,  the  forces  brought  to  bear  upon  her 
by  the  weaker  woman  were  sufficiently  strong 
to  induce  her  to  use  every  agency  she  had  at 
command  for  the  furtherance  of  that  weaker 


woman's  wishes  ;  and  still  she  knew  the  whole 
time  that  there  would  be  destruction  for  him 
n  Cecil's  love,  and  the  possibility  of  a  glorious 
salvation  for  him  in  her  own,  if  it  could  ever 
be  gratified  ;  but  that  possibility  was  out  of  the 
question,  and  she  knew  herself  to  be  an  utter 
fool  for  even  contemplating  it. 

But  then,  unluckily  (in  spite  of  all  that  re- 
viewers may  say — and  they  sny  u  great  many 
pungent  things  on  the  subject),  women,  and 
very  nice  and  respectable  women  too,  are  utter 
fools,  and  will  continue  to  be  utter  fools  ns 
long  as  the  w,orld  lasts.  Accordingly,  though 
she  wrote  the  letter  that  was  designed  and  des- 
tined to  deprecate  Frank's  wrath  against  Ce- 
cil, she  disliked  writing  it,  and  revolted  against 
her  part  of  dove  with  the  olive  branch  with  all 
the  force  of  revolt  that  there  was  in  her  deli- 
cate nature  against  an  utterly  repugnant  task. 

In  due  time  he  received  her  letter  ;  and  his 
heart,  or  rather  his  taste,  added  to  his  jealous 
desire  of  possession,  being  already  well  inclined 
toward  the  woman  whose  cause  was  advocated 
in  that  letter,  he  prepared  to  make  concession 
to  Cecil,  and  under  certain  conditions  to  claim 
her  as  his  own  again.  "  But  she  must  give  up 
fooling  Danvers,"  he  told  himself.  With  par- 
donable short-sightedness,  he  preferred  to  see 
things  as  he  found  it  pleasant  to  see  them. 
With  a  pardonable  craving  to  give  a  euphe- 
mistic reading  of  the  fact,  he  preferred  calling 
it  Cecil's  "  fooling  Danvers  "  to  "  Cecil's  fool- 
ing with  Danvers."  But  in  the  inmost  recesses 
of  his  heart  he  knew  that  he  was  paltering  with 
the  truth. 

Horatia's  letter  gave  him  some  grounds  to 
go  upon ;  and  ho  was  very  glad  to  venture 
upon  those  grounds  at  once.  He  told  himself 
that  Horatia  was  a  clever,  true,  keen-sighted 
woman — a  woman  who  was  quite  as  much  his 
friend  as  Cecil's — rather  more  his  friend  than 
Cecil's,  in  fact,  and  so  not  at  all  likely  to  be 
prejudiced  in  favor  of  that  faulty  but  bewitch- 
ing person.  It  behooved  him  to  pay  attention 
to  Horatia's  arguments,  therefore,  and  to  soft- 
en his  heart  to  her  appeal  on  behalf  of  that  sis- 
ter-woman of  hers  whom  she  (Horatia)  de- 
spised, and  disliked,  and  distrusted.  Cecil's 
cause  must  be  very  good  indeed,  he  argued, 
when  even  her  rival  became  her  special  coun- 
sel and  pleader. 

That  she  had  conquered  them  both  by  sub- 
tlety—and by  subtlety  in  which  there  was  a 
strong  element  of  cruelty,  was  a  truth  which 
Cecil  did  rot  attempt  for  an  instant  to  deny  to 
herself,  when  Frank  presented  himself  before 
her  in  an  obedient  sort  of  way,  that  made  her 


92 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


comprehend  that  he  did  it  partially  at  the  bid- 
ding of  her  cat's-paw  Horatia ;  and  at  the  same 
time,  though  she  was  proud  of  her  subtle  con- 
quest, she  hated  them  both  for  showing  her 
that  they  had  been  made  subservient  to  her 
will  through  their  liking  for  each  other  — 
through  that,  and  not  through  the  blind  and 
mad  devotion  to  herself  which  she  desired  to 
develop  on  all  sides. 

We  all  know  that  a  relapse  is  very  much 
worse  than  an  original  attack.  Frank  bent 
lower,  crawled  more  abjectly,  wore  his  blue  rib- 
bon more  openly  in  the  eyes  of  all  men  for  a 
little  after  that  coming  back  to  Cecil  in  which 
Horatia  had  been  mainly  instrumental.  Nev- 
ertheless, though  he  did  these  things,  he  dis- 
liked doing  them,  and  she  dived  to  the  very 
bottom  of  that  dislike,  and  knew  that  it  had  its 
source  in  a  sense  of  her  umvorthiness.  "And 
he  has  gained  his  knowledge  of  that  through 
another,"  she  told  herself  bitterly,  and  in  idio- 
matic English  she  promised  herself  that  he 
"  should  smart  for  it."  For  though  he  bent 
lower,  and  crawled  abjectly,  and  let  her  lead 
him  along,  the  day  of  his  credulity  was  over, 
and  the  faith  he  had  had  in  her  had  fallen 
away  forever. 

"Come  and  keep  my  house,  dear,"  Gilbert 
Denham  had  said  to  his  sister  one  day  when 
she  had  summoned  him  to  her  lodgings,  in  or- 
der to  consult  him  about  her  future  residence. 
"Come  and  keep  my  house,  dear,  until  you 
can  find  one  you  like  better.  Mine  is  a  very 
lonely  life,  Horry ;  you  and  your  children  will 
make  it  much  pleasanter,  and  keep  me  from 
going  to  the  dogs." 

"  You'll  never  do  that,  Gilbert  ?"  his  sister 
had  asked,  anxiously ;  for  in  spite  of  her  lov- 
ing predisposition  to  believe  her  brother  inca- 
pable of  erring  deeply — or  at  all,  in  fact — she 
could  not  help  seeing  that  there  were  lines  in 
his  face  which  time  had  not  traced,  and  shad- 
ows in  his  eyes  which  had  not  been  deepened 
by  Bessie's  death. 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  he  answered;  "I 
have  had  one  or  two  hard  knocks  lately;  and 
whether  a  fellow  has  any  heart  or  not,  he  has 
something  within  him  that  gets  sore  and  hard- 
ened. You  had  better  come  and  look  after 
me." 

She  felt  that  he  meant  them  when  he  said 
these  words ;  and  as  she  believed  in  him,  and 
in  herself,  and  in  her  power  over  him,  she  ac- 
cepted this  invitation,  and  put  herself  to  the 
extreme  misery  of  trying  to  regulate  the  con- 
duct of  her  riotous  children  in  another  person's 
house ;  not  that  Gilbert  ever  pointed  this  mis- 


ery for  her;  he  appeared  to  be  utterly  oblivi- 
ous of  whether  the  children  made  a  noise  or 
not.  But  his  housekeeper  had  nerves,  and  dis- 
liked intruders,  and  was  altogether  very  severe 
in  her  master's  service. 

One  day,  when  this  latter  fact  had  been 
brought  very  prominently  before  Horatia  for 
many  hours,  she  pondered  over  it  deeply,  and 
the  result  of  her  pondering  was  that  she  said 
to  her  brother  after  dinner, 

"Gilbert,  I  can't  help  hoping  that  in  time 
you  will  marry  again.  I  shall  rejoice  when 
you  say  to  me  you  have  seen  a  woman  you  can 
love." 

"I  have  seen  one  already,"  he  said. 

' '  Where  ?"  She  could  not  control  the  quick, 
conscious  anxiety  which  manifested  itself  in 
that  one  word. 

"  At  Larpington,  last  Christmas.  Probably 
you'll  think  me  a  fool  for  it,  or  for  confessing 
it ;  but  the  fact  is,  I  was  more  interested  in 
Mrs.  Waldron  than  I  have  ever  been  in  any 
woman  I've  ever  seen." 

"And  she's  so  unworthy  of  interest,  or  love, 
or  any  thing  of  the  sort,"  Horatia  said,  emphat- 
ically; and  then  she  went  on  to  tell  her  broth- 
er a  few  episodes  in  the  life  of  the  beautiful 
Cecil  since  she  had  recovered  her  senses. 

"  Such  conduct  is  enough  to  cure  any  man 
of  even  liking  her,  isn't  it,  Gilbert  ?"  she  ask- 
ed, injudiciously,  like  a  woman. 

And  like  a  man  he  agreed  with  her  that 
such  "  conduct  was  enough  to  cure  any  man;" 
but  he  felt  within  himself,  at  the  same  time, 
that  it  had  not  cured  him. 

"Neither  of  those  fellows  can  hold  her. 
How  should  they  be  able  to  do  it  ?"  he  asked 
himself,  contemptuously ;  and  he  flattered  him- 
self into  the  belief  that  she  would  have  behaved 
very  differently  if  he  could  have  won  her  be- 
fore Frank  Stapylton  had  intervened. 

There  was  a  dead  calm  for  the  brother  and 
sister  for  a  month  or  two,  during  which  time 
they  grew  very  closely  to  one  another,  and 
sympathized  about  every  thing  but  the  interests 
that  were  dearest  to  each  in  life,  namely,  her 
love  for  Frank,  and  his  for  Cecil.  Of  course, 
the  brother  thought  the  sister  foolish  for  enter- 
taining any  thing  like  gentle  feelings  toward  a 
man  who  had  been  guilty  of  the  despicable  act 
of  cutting  him  (the  brother)  out ;  while  as  for 
Horatia,  she  could  only  excuse  Gilbert's  infatu- 
ation by  saying  to  herself, 

"  But  if  she  could  beguile  Frank,  it's  only 
natural  that  other  men  should  fall  a  prey  to 
her." 

But  the  end  of  the  period  of  quiet  came, 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


03 


most  unexpectedly.  Disturbed  and  startled  by 
the  commencement  of  a  letter  she  received  one 
morning  by  the  early  post,  she  forthwith  in- 
stantly disturbed  and  startled  her  brother,  be- 
fore she  had  mastered  its  contents. 

"  Oh,  Gilbert,  how  can  they  do  it?  I  hear 
from  Cecil  that  they  are  going  to  be  married 
directly  almost,  and  are  coming  here." 

"  Coming  here !"  he  repeated  after  her ;  and 
his  bronzed  face  grew  pale  with  the  chalky  pal- 
lor which  is  so  unpleasant  to  witness.  "  How 
he  loves  the  lovely  fool,  too  !"  his  sister  thought, 
bitterly. 

"Yes;  stop  a  minute,  though.  No;  she 
wants  to  come  here  (heartless  of  her!)  before 
she's  married,  that  I  may  help  her  to  get  her 
trousseau,  Gilbert.  I  won't  have  her,  don't 
fear." 

Does  the  man  live  who  ever  voluntarily  puts 
himself  out  of  temptation,  I  wonder?  His 
heart  beat  with  the  quick  pulsations  of  a  most 
foolish  joy,  as  he  heard  and  answered, 

"Not  have  her  here!  Why  not,  Horry? 
Where  should  she  go,  poor  girl,  but  to  you  at 
such  a  time  as  this  ?  Let  her  come  here,  of 
course.  I'll  welcome  her,  gladly." 

"But,  Gilbert,  he'll  come  to  sec  her,  you 
know,"  Horatia  explained ;  "and  it  will  be  so 
uncomfortable,  for  we  shall  be  called  upon  to 
help  to  adjust  the  differences  that  are  sure 
to  arise  between  such  a  fool  as  Cecil  is, 
and  any  man  who  is  unhappy  enough  to  like 
her." 

"  I  call  that  a  most  unwomanly  sentiment," 
Gilbert  said,  hotly,  perfectly  unconscious  of  the 
fact  of  its  being  the  most  womanly  sentiment 
to  which  his  sister  could  have  given  rent. 
"  You  can  easily  make  him  understand  that  it 
will  be  rather  bad  form  his  coming  here— much 


— while  she's  here  with  us  ;  and — and — Hurry, 
make  her  as  happy  as  you  can,  won't  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  you  deluded  mortal !"  Horatio,  thought, 
shaking  her  head  pitifully  as  he  went  out  of 
the  room,  after  administering  this  wholesome 
rebuke  to  her ;  "  why  can't  you  see  her  as  even 
Frank  sees  her  ?  Make  her  as  hnppy  as  I  can, 
you  say !  She  will  make  herself  happy,  or 
unhappy,  as  it  pleases  her.  Why,  she  would 
stand  on  my  throat  and  suffocate  mo  at  any 
given  moment,  if  it  made  her  a  prettier  height 
in  the  eyes  of  men." 

But  though  this  was  her  private  opinion,  she 
refrained  from  expressing  it  openly;  and  so, 
when  Cecil  arrived,  she  had  such  a  reception 
as  satisfied  all  her  delicate  tastes  and  require- 
ments. And  at  dinner  thnt  day  she  arrived, 
for  the  first  time,  at  a  knowledge  of  what  a  dis- 
tinguished-looking man  Horatia's  brother  was. 

The  insatiable  creature  began  lamenting  at 
once  that  she  had  not  "  made  more  of  Ilora- 
tia"  in  the  old  days  at  Larpington.  "Sho 
would  have  been  so  useful  to  me  now,"  she 
thought.  "  Frank  is  not  here,  and  there's  no 
one  else  in  the  way.  Why,  if  I  had  only  man- 
aged properly,  I  might  have  got  up  quite  fra- 
ternal terms  with  Gilbert  Denham.  Well,  my 
trousseau  won't  be  got  in  a  hurry,  that  is  cer- 
tain." 

She  spoke  the  prologue  to  the  comedy  she 
intended  to  act  that  same  night.  Lounging 
back  among  the  cushions  of  a  stout,  comforta- 
ble sofa,  her  beautiful,  supple  form,  robed  in 
soft-colored  maize  silk,  only  a  tone  or  two  less 
golden  than  her  hair,  she  looked  such  a  per- 
fectly harmonious  creature,  that  he  would  have 
been  more  or  less  than  man  if  he  had  resisted 
her  invitation  to  come  and  "fan  away  her 
headache." 


CHAPTER  XXL 


THE  CHAIN  GROWS  LOOSE  IX  EVERY  LINK. 


y°u  Believe  *u  suddenly-formed  friend- 
ships?"  Cecil  began,  holding  her  face 
up  caressingly  toward  the  fan  which  he  was 
waving  before  her.  "I  do.  I  know  at  once, 
directly  I  see  a  person,  if  I  shall  like  that  per- 
son, and  if  he  is  worthy  to  be  liked.  I  felt 
that  I  could  trust  you  the  instant  I  saw  you. 
What  did  you  feel  when  you  first  saw  me  ?" 

It  was  a  difficult  question  to  answer  at  all. 
It  was  impossible  to  answer  it  truthfully.  Had 
Gilbert  Denham  been  veracious  at  this  mo- 
ment, he  would  have  been  guilty  of  perfidy  to- 
ward the  absent  Frank.  Accordingly,  he  took 
refuge  in  that  poor,  weak  sanctuaiy,  evasion. 

"I'm  not  good  at  defining  passing  impres- 
sions," he  said,  as  coolly  as  he  could,  with  those 
intensely  violet  eyes  bent  beseechingly  upon 
him;  "and  I  am  not  a  woman,  and  do  not 
arrive  at  things  by  intuition.  You're  quite 
right,  though,  in  feeling  that  you  can  trust  me ; 
you  may,  thoroughly." 

"I  have  never  had  a  friend  before,"  she 
murmured,  plaintively.  "  Girlish  alliances 
mean  nothing,  do  they?  Then  I  married 
young,  and  after  that — "  She  paused,  and 
filled  the  silence  with  a  sigh. 

"I  should  have  thought,  to  quote  the  old 
song,  that 

'"Friends  in  all  the  aged  yon'd  meet, 
And  lovers  in  the  young.' " 

He  tried  to  say  it  with  that  air  of  light,  af- 
fected gallantry  which  invariably  fails  to  touch 
a  sensitive  woman,  and  ho  could  not  succeed 
in  his  attempt.  He  said  it,  instead,  with  that 
thrill  of  truth  in  his  tone  which  goes  home,  as 
only  truth  can,  to  the  heart  of  even  a  shallow 
nature  such  as  Cecil's. 

"Shorn  of  his  strength  already,"  she 
thought,  delightedly ;  and  she  bent  her  head 
down  lower,  and  seemed  to  blush.  The  wom- 
en to  whose  cheeks  vanity  drives  the  blood  al- 


ways get  the  credit  for  being  possessed  by  a 
sweeter  spirit  of  modesty  than  those  are  accred- 
ited with  who  only  blush  from  love. 

"  Shorn  of  his  strength  already !"  the  beauti- 
ful, mediocre-minded,  modern  Delilah  thought ; 
and  then  she  glanced  at  his  sister  sitting  by, 
and  saw  that  his  sister  looked  contemptuously 
displeased,  and  went  on  her  way  rejoicing. 

"Lovers,  for  some  reason  or  other,  I  have 
had  in  abundance,  but  never  a  real  friend  such 
as  you'll  be  to  me,  Mr.  Denham.  Any  number 
of  men  have  professed  to  like  me,  but  I  have 
always  been  ready,  too  ready,  to  distrust  them. 
Now,  you  don't  even  profess  to  like  me ;  but 
you  do,  don't  you  ?  Yes ;  I  feel  that  you  do." 

"Not  like  her!  In  Heaven's  name,  what 
would  she  have  me  say?"  he  asked  himself. 
"  With  her  honest,  sweet  nature,  she  can  never 
wish  to  wrest  idle  confessions  from  a  man  that 
will  pain  him  in  the  making,  and  merely  win 
absolution  from  her."  Then  he  went  on  at- 
tributing many  beautifully  refined  feelings  to 
her  which  she  did  not  possess ;  not  speaking 
his  thoughts  aloud — had  he  done  so,  the  mere 
wording  of  the  belief  might  have  shown  him 
that  his  faith  was  not  founded  on  a  rock — but 
letting  himself  think  it  until  he  loved  the 
thought  that  did  her  honor. 

Through  all  time,  probably,  this  great  prob- 
lem will  remain  unsolved :  Why  will  men  go 
on  giving  their  worthiest  affections  to  the  un- 
.vorthiest  objects  that  are  thrown  in  their  way  ? 
Propinquity  has  a  great  deal  to  do  with  it ;  but 
the  fact  of  its  being  an  element  in  the  affair 
does  not  solve  the  question  satisfactorily.  We 
can  only  leave  it  as  we  find  it.  Since  the  world 
began,  worth  has  failed  to  win  the  best  love  of 
either  man  or  woman. 

Some  of  these  thoughts  rushed  through  Ho- 
ratia  Waldron's  mind  as  she  sat  silently  watch- 
ing the  graceful  spider  weaving  her  web,  and 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


the  honest,  foolish,  deluded  fly  fluttering  to- 
ward it.  Her  feminine  instincts  told  her  that 
Cecil  was  resolved  upon  winning  a  declaration 
of  love  from  Gilbert  Denham  ;  that  she  was  de- 
termined to  have  his  scalp ;  that  she  felt  her 
power,  and  meant  to  have  it.  But  more  than 
•  this,  Horatia's  feminine  instincts  failed  to  tell 
her.  In  Cecil's  suddenly-born  desire  to  con- 
quer Gilbert,  Gilbert's  sister  could  not  clearly 
read  a  motive  that  might  even  partially  justify 
the  woman  who  seemed  to  feign  to  love  all  she 
looked  on.  "If  she  is  weary  of  Frank,  she 
must  be  as  devoid  of  feeling  as  she  is  of  sense," 
Mrs.  Arthur  Waldron  thought ;  and  though 
she  sighed  to  see  Frank  free,  she  revolted  in- 
dignantly at  the  possibility  of  his  gaining  his 
freedom  through  another  woman's  non-appre- 
ciation of  him. 

Presently  she  spoke,  being  determined,  even 
at  the  cost  of  a  pang  to  herself,  to  recall  Cecil 
to  a  sense  of  decent  remembrance  of  Frank. 

«*  When  will  Mr.  Stapylton  be  here,  Cecil  ? 
Do  you  expect  him  to-morrow  ?" 

"To-morrow!  Good  gracious,  no!"  Cecil 
answered,  with  pettish  emphasis.  "What  a 
bore  he  would  develop  into  after  we  were  mar- 
ried, if  he  followed  me  up  so  closely  now !  I 
didn't  ask  him  when  he  was  coming ;  but  I 
don't  expect  him  for  a  week,  at  least." 

"  Certainty  strikes  the  death-blow  to  senti- 
ment very  often,  I  have  heard,"  Horatia  said, 
coldly. 

"Sentiment!"  Cecil  echoed,  half  contempt- 
uously. "There  never  has  been  any  senti- 
ment in  my  feeling  for  Frank.  He's  a  good 
fellow  and  a  clever  fellow,  and  he  has  been 
faithful  to  me  for  so  many  years ;  but  when 
you  talk  of  sentiment,  you  talk  of  something  I 
don't  feel  for  him." 

She  roused  herself  up  to  say  this,  directing 
lightning  glances  toward  Gilbert  as  she  said  it. 
And  Gilbert  ("  men  are  such  fools  in  such  mat- 
ters," his  sister  thought)  looked  pleased. 

"Stapylton's  a  happy  fellow  to  have  won 
your  esteem,"  he  said,  awkwardly.  "A  man 
to  whom  that  is  rendered  up  freely  is  a  man  to 
be  envied." 

"And  you,  in  ordinary  matters,  are  so  clear- 
sighted and  sensible,"  Horatia  thought.  "But 
one  look  in  her  face  blurs  all  your  vision  ;  one 
foolish,  false  sentence  from  her  swamps  all 
your  common  sense.  Why  doesn't  your  manli- 
ness revolt  at  the  perfidy  which  is  making  her 
disparage  her  future  husband  to  you." 

Poor,  foolish  questioner !  As  if  the  manliness 
of  the  manlipst  on  earth  ever  revolted  at  light 
mention  of  a  rival  from  the  lips  that  he  loved ! 


"And  yet,  when  I  think  how  cold  life  is 
without  sentiment  to  warm  it,  I  feel  that  poor 
Frank  is  to  be  pitied,"  she  went  on,  vainglo- 
riously.  "Don't  you  agree  with  me,  Horatia, 
in  thinking—"  She  paused,  for  it  dawned 
upon  her  that  Horatia  was  gone,  and  that  she 
was  alone  with  Gilbert  Denham. 

A  slight  flush  of  excitement  rose  to  her 
cheek.  That  he  was  weak  about  her  already, 
she  knew ;  but  why  should  he  not  confess  his 
weakness,  and  make  her  triumph  complete  ? 

"A  poor  triumph  enough,"  it  may  be  argued. 
Granted.  A  very,  very  poor  triumph  ;  but, 
then,  a  grand  triumph  can  never  be  achieved 
by  a  mean  nature.  And,  on  the  other  hand, 
as  all  things  are  relative,  it  must  be  conceded 
that  these  feminine  victories  ore  not  utterly 
despicable.  They  are  evidences  of  our  power, 
poor  as  they  may  be,  and  poor  as  our  power 
may  be.  And  when  one  considers  how  utterly 
powerless  a  woman  becomes  from  the  day  of 
her  marriage,  who  can  marvel  at  her  struggles 
to  develop  the  attribute  as  fully  as  she  can  be- 
fore she  goes  into  bondage  ? 

Doubtless  there  is  a  faint  foreshadowing  of 
the  powerlessness  that  will  be  her  portion  as 
soon  as  she  has  gained  the  hallowed  name  of 
wife,  in  every  woman's  heart.  But  on  the  girl's 
future  the  shadow  is  limned  forth  faintly  and 
weakly.  The  touches  are  put  in  by  intuition 
only,  and  are  often  obliterated  by  hope ;  but 
the  woman  who  has  been  once  married  knows 
that  though  she  may  shut  her  eyes  to  the  fact, 
the  fact  remains — the  man  she  is  going  to  mar- 
ry will  be  her  master,  and  according  to  the 
strength  or  the  weakness  of  his  nature  will  he 
display  the  mastery  over  her. 

Cecil  Waldron  was  essentially  a  non-reason- 
ing creature ;  but  she  was  a  woman,  and  there- 
fore had  subtle  intuitions  which  were  usually 
correct.  The  wisest  woman  on  earth  could 
not  have  been  more  thoroughly  convinced  of 
the  truth  of  the  presentiment  she  had,  that  on 
the  day  of  her  marriage  with  Frank  her  wings 
would  be  clipped,  than  this  will-o'-the-wisp- 
minded  creature  was ;  but  being  so  thoroughly 
convinced  of  it,  probably  a  wiser  woman  would 
have  drawn  back,  even  at  the  eleventh  hour, 
had  she  objected  to  such  clipping.  Cecil  had 
no  definite  intention  of  drawing  back,  but  she 
determined  to  gather  all  the  roses  that  grew 
about  her  path  openly  before  her  marriage, 
surreptitiously  afterward. 

Oh,  the  pity  of  it  for  honest-hearted  Frank 
Stapylton !  There  was  no  protection  for  him 
in  his  own  loyal  nature  against  such  a  woman 
as  this.  The  men  who  are  fractiously  jealous, 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


wearifully  masterful,  bent  on  the  exalted  task 
of  continually  supervising  and  directing  the 
footsteps  of  the  woman  they  have  vowed  to 
trust — these  men  deserve  to  be  deceived  ;  and 
there  is  broad  injustice  in  the  fact  that  as  a 
rule  these  are  the  men  whose  wives  are  far  too 
good  to  deceive  them  ;  while  the  men  who  are 
too  strong  and  too  generous  to  make  a  woman 
feel  that  she  has  the  bit  in  her  mouth  every 
minute  reap  the  rich  reward  of  their  gener- 
osity and  strength  by  getting  such  spouses  as 
Cecil. 

"I  think,"  Cecil  commenced,  in  touching  ac- 
cents of  plaintive  regret,  as  soon  as  the  oppor- 
tunity of  solitude  was  given  to  her,  "I  think 
there  must  be  something  very  bad  about  me, 
Mr.  Denham — some  strong  taint  of  original 
sin,  that  good  people  detect  and  revolt  from 
at  once." 

"  Something  bad !"  he  exclaimed,  indignant- 
ly. "  Don't  pain  me  by  being  so  horribly  un- 
just to  yourself,  even  in  jest." 

"  But  I  am  in  earnest — in  sad,  terrible,  bitter 
earnest."  She  had  pre-arranged  this  speech, 
and  was  determined  to  utter  it  in  season  or  out 
of  season.  "  Your  sister  is  a  courteous  woman 
generally,  and  quite  a  woman  of  the  world,- 
yet  both  her  courtesy  and  her  worldly  tact  give 
way  when  she  sees  any  one  she  likes  show  any 
preference  for  me.  She  was  hurt  and  angry 
about  Frank  Stapylton ;  now  she  is  hurt  and 
angry  because  she  sees  that  I  crave  your  friend- 
ship. And  if  she  is  right,  how  very,  very  wrong 
and  bad  I  must  be !" 

She  let  a  tear  or  two  well  up  into  her  eyes 
at  this  juncture,  and  Gilbert  felt  that  all  his 
strength  would  be  weakness  soon  unless  he 
could  get  away.  At  the  same  moment  he 
thought  what  a  tight  hand  he  would  keep  over 
this  great  enchantress  should  he  ever  be  so 
blessed  by  fate  as  to  have  her  for  his  own. 
Heaven  knows  she  needed  the  curb  enough, 
but  so  would  he  have  decided  on  using  it  if 
she  had  been  the  quietest  and  straightest  goer 
in  the  world.  As  it  happened,  she  was  incapa- 
ble of  discerning  these  conflicting  sentiments. 
Had  she  done  so,  even  she  would  have  loathed 
the  idea  of  the  possibility  of  becoming  the  wife 
of  a  man  who  desired  to  marry  a  woman  he 
degraded  by  suspecting. 

"It  is  only  the  womanly  dislike  to  seeing 
another  preferred  to  herself  that  is  influencing 
Horry's  manner — if  her  manner  is  not  what  it 
ought  to  be  toward  you,"  he  said,  sacrificing 
his  sister  to  his  passion  without  compunction. 
"Do  you  crave  for  my  friendship?  I  wish  I 
could  prove  to  your  satisfaction  that  it  was 


yours  to  command  as  you  liked,  long  before 
you  even  desired  it." 

"  Ah !  you  can't  tell  how  soon  the  desire  for 
it  was  formed  in  my  poor,  weak  mind,"  she  said, 
with  a  charming  humility  that  almost  imposed 
upon  him  as  real.  "It  has  passed  before  me 
like  a  vision  that  your  friendship  wns  mine. 
Was  the  vision  unreal  ?" 

"I  am  afraid  that  Stapylton  and  you  will 
find  it  a  tedious  reality.  You'll  be  seeing  a 
great  deal  more  of  me  than  you'll  care  to  see," 
he  said,  in  an  affectedly  light  tone. 

"I  can't  answer  for  him,  but  I  can  for  my- 
self," she  said,  in  a  low  voice.  And  then  she 
rose  and  said  "  good-night "  to  him,  pleading 
fatigue  as  an  excuse  for  retiring  so  early.  She 
knew  when  to  stop  before  satiety  set  in. 

There  was  some  light  fencing  '  ne  through 
between  the  two  widows  this  nig,.*  oefore  they 
parted.  Cecil  was  gifted  with  the  graceful, 
chameleon-like  quality  of  changing  her  colors 
at  any  given  moment ;  and  so,  as  soon  as  she 
had  left  Gilbert,  she  developed  a  warm,  roseate 
tint  of  satisfaction  in  the  friendship  of  Gilbert's 
sister. 

"  Do  come  and  talk  to  me  in  my  room,  Ho- 
ratia,"  she  pleaded,  as  she  invaded  Horatia  in 
a  pet  sanctuary  into  which  the  latter  had  re- 
tired to  commune  with  herself  on  the  subject 
of  the  weakness  of  men — an  inexhaustible  sub- 
ject, about  which  the  less  is  said  the  better,  I 
think.  "  Do  come  and  talk  to  me  in  my  room. 
It  is  such  a  comfort  to  me  to  have  you  and — 
your  brother  to  rely  upon  at  this  time.  You'll 
counsel  me,  won't  you  ?" 

"  What  about  ?"  Horatia  asked,  briefly  and 
coldly.  And  Cecil  poisoned  some  arrow-tips 
before  she  shot  them  at  the  woman  whose 
friendship  she  solicited. 

"About  my  marriage.  It's  an  awful  thing, 
isn't  it,  for  a  perfectly  open,  straight-forward 
woman  like  myself  to  let  a  man  suppose  that 
I'm  marrying  him  loving  him  as  much  as  he 
does  me,  when  I  don't  ?" 

"I  should  call  it  acting  a  lie;  but  don't  be 
guided  by  me,"  Mrs.  Arthur  Waldron  said, 
hastily. 

"That's  what  I  feel  it  to  be;  and  yet  he 
will  break  his  heart  if  I  break  it  off,"  Cecil  an- 
swered, watching  the  effect  of  her  own  words 
keenly.  "  I  wish — how  I  wish — he  could  have 
fallen  in  love  with  you  instead." 

"That  being  an  utter  impossibility,  we  will 
not  discuss  it,"  Horatia  answered,  in  those 
stagnant  tones  which  betray  hopeless  heart- 
pain,  when  hopeless  heart-pain  is  felt.  And 
then  Cecil  gave  her  sharpest  thrust. 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


97 


"Oh,  Horatia,  I  see,  I  understand;  and  I 
can  do  nothing.  I  would  give  him  up  to  you, 
and  gladly,  but  he  is  so  human,  that  he  will 
not  see  what  is  best  for  him." 

Imagine  the  feelings  of  the  woman  to  whom 
this  was  said.  Imagine,  if  you  can,  the  depth 
and  breadth  of  the  outrage  that  was  thus  gra- 
tuitously offered  to  her  purity,  her  pride,  and 
her  love.  But  no  one  can  imagine  it  who  has 
not  been  stung  to  worse  than  death  by  such  an 
affected  renunciation  of  a  love  that  is  to  the 
one  more  than  life,  and  to  the  renouncer  less 
than  nothing.  We  may  depict  and  realize 
mere  murders  of  the  body  without  having 
soiled  our  hands  in  human  blood,  but  we  must 
have  been  victims  before  we  can  realize  such 
soul-murders  as  these. 

She  trr;^  to  think  of  her  children — tried  to 
think  savhifcJy  of  the  poor  little  straws  at  which 
failing  women  always  clutch  when  the  waters 
of  tribulation  are  rising  up  and  threatening  to 
overwhelm  them.  But  the  recollection  of 
their  utter  inability  to  sympathize  with  her 
came  upon  her  and  thrust  her  back  upon  her- 
self, upon  her  own  strength — which  was  gone. 

She  could  not,  to  have  saved  her  life,  have 
spoken  conventional  words  now ;  she  could 
not,  to  have  saved  her  life,  have  tried  to  turn 
into  a  joke  that  which  was  the  most  solemn 
earnest  of  her  life;  she  could  only  let  the 
thought  that  was  in  her  heart  fall  from  her  lips 
in  broken  words  that  told  her  tormentor  of  her 
agony. 

"Heaven  forgive  you,  and  help  me  if  it 
can!" 

Mrs.  Waldron  slept  the  sleep  of  the  just  that 
night,  a  balmy  conviction  spreading  itself  over 
her  slumbers  that  she  had  tied  the  hands  of 
the  only  woman  in  the  world  of  whom  she  was 
afraid.  "  However  much  I  may  go  on  with 
Gilbert  now,"  she  thought,  as  she  bound  her 
yellow  hair  round  her  shapely  head  the  next 
morning,  "  Horatia  won't  dare  to  strike  the 
note  of  discord  should  Frank  appear  out  of 
season.  I  wonder  if  she  suspects  that  he  likes 
her.  If  she  does,  half  my  triumph  over  her  is 
marred,  when  she  has  time  to  think." 

She  planned  out  her  day  before  she  went 
down.  She  would  indicate  that  she  wished 
for  a  quiet  walk  in  Kensington  Gardens,  and 
by  a  droop  of  her  lashes  she  would  inform  Gil- 
bert Denham  that  he  might  be  her  companion ; 
and  once  under  green  trees — well,  Gilbert  Den- 
7 


ham  would  be  more  than  man  if  he  refrained 
from  telling  her  whatever  she  desired  to  hear. 

As  soon  as  breakfast  was  over,  the  pretty 
woman  made  herself  prettier  than  ever  in  a 
walking  costume,  and  managed  to  make  Gil- 
bert understand  that  he  was  to  be  her  escort, 
and  Horatia  was  left  to  her  household  cares, 
and  the  contemplation  of  the  injustice  of  all 
things,  for  an  hour  in  solitude. 

At  the  end  of  that  hour  an  impatient  han- 
som drove  up  to,  and  an  impatient  knock  re- 
sounded at,  the  door,  and  handsome  Frank 
Stapylton  was  ushered  in,  looking  eager  and 
expectant. 

"You  are  but  just  too  late  to  have  joined 
Cecil  in  her  walk,"  she  said,  as  collectedly  as 
she  could,  for  her  mind  was  in  a  turmoil.  And 
there  was  nothing  but  satisfaction  with  things 
as  they  were  in  his  reply. 

"  Never  mind  ;  it's  so  long  since  I  have  had 
a  word  with  you  that  I'm  delighted  to  find  you 
alone." 

"This  early  devotion  will  be  surprising, 
even  to  Cecil,  accustomed  as  she  is  to  be  the 
object  of  it,"  she  answered,  resolutely.  "She 
told  me  yesterday  that  she  didn't  expect  you 
yet  awhile,  but  the  devotee  can  not  be  kept 
from  the  shrine." 

"The  devotee  in  this  case  has  been  kept 
from  his  shrine  far  too  long,"  he  muttered. 
And  then  he  drew  back  with  the  air  of  a  man 
who  felt  he  had  been  overstepping  the  bounds 
of  prudence  ;  and  Horatia  knew  that  the  onus 
of  maintaining  ease  at  this  interview  was  laid 
upon  her. 

"I'm  glad  to  hear,  Frank,  that  the  brief 
time  you  have  been  absent  from  the  woman 
you  are  going  to  marry  seems  long  to  you. 
I'm  more  and  more  convinced  that  the  feeling 
of  entire  devotion  is  the  one  feeling  necessary, 
if  you  would  make  a  happy  marriage.  It  is 
the  needful  feeling—" 

"And  Cecil  has  not  inspired  it  in  me,"  he 
interrupted.  "  I  have  come  to  talk  to  you  as 
a  friend,  Horatia.  I  have  come  to  make  a 
confession,  before  the  greatest  error  I've  ever 
been  guilty  of  in  my  life  is  indissolubly  con- 
summated." 

"  Make  it  to  any  one  but  me— to  any  one 
on  earth  but  me,"  she  pleaded,  ardently.  And 
his  answer  was — 

"  You  owe  it  to  me  to  listen.  If  you  refuse, 
my  faith  in  all  womankind  will  be  shaken." 


CHAPTEE  XXII. 

"SO  SLIGHT  A  THING.' 


OWEVER  much  you  may  wish  that  I 
should  marry.  Cecil,"  Frank  began, 
probing  Horatia's  feelings,  as  woman's  feelings 
arc  perpetually  being  probed  for  the  gratifica- 
tion of  man's  selfish  vanity — "however  much 
you  may  wish  that  I  should  marry  Cecil,  you'll 
hardly  advise  me  to  be  so  rash,  I  fancy,  when 
you  have  heard  what  I  have  to  say." 

"You  ought  to  say  it  to  her,  not  to  me," 
Horatia  protested. 

"  If  I  did,  it  might  drive  her  mad  with  mor- 
tification ;  she  shall  hear  what  has  happened 
from  the  other  side." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  the  other  side? 
Why  speak  in  parables?"  she  remonstrated. 

"She  has  perpetuated  the  stalest  stage- 
trick,  and  blundered  in  doing  it,"  he  said, 
scornfully;  "the  most  effete  of  dramatists 
would  hesitate  about  introducing  such  an  epi- 
sode into  his  maiden  piece,  even.  She  has 
put  a  letter  that  was  destined  for  another  man 
into  an  envelope  that  was  addressed  to  me,  and 
probably  he  finds  himself  the  recipient  of  all 
the  ardent  expressions  of  affection  she  feels 
called  upon  to  lavish  on  me  in  writing." 

"And  you  can  speak  of  this  mockingly?" 
she  asked,  sadly.  "Oh,  Frank !  I  pity  you  so 
much!" 

"  What  for  ?"  he  asked,  in  manly  wonder- 
ment at  the  pathetic  veracity  there  was  in  her 
tone.  Frank  was  only  a  man,  therefore  utter- 
ly incapable  of  looking  round  two  or  three  cor- 
ners when  treading  the  mazes  of  such  delicate 
ground.  It  never  occurred  to  him  that  it  was 
natural  for  the  woman  who  loved  him  to  really 
pity  him  for  being  deceived  by  the  woman  he 
loved. 

"  What  for  ?"  she  repeated,  with  magnificent 
amazement  at  his  inability  to  grasp  the  sub- 
ject, and  hold  it  up  in  the  full  light,  and  see  it 


as  her  clearer  vision  saw  it.  "What  for? 
Why,  Frank,  poor  fellow,  you  must  be  shamed 
through  all  your  nature,  to  have  loved  so  slight 
a  thing,  if  she  has  written  to  that  other  man  as 
you  would  not  have  had  her  write." 

"Yes,  I  have  been  done  most  horribly,"  he 
answered,  meditatively,  "and  I  acknowledge 
that  I  feel  sore  and  savage  ;  but  I  wish  you  to 
believe  me  when  I  tell  you  it  is  only  a  wound 
to  my  vanity.  My  heart,  if  I  have  one,  is  nofc 
hurt  by  Cecil's  conduct ;  I'm  thankful  to  be 
free  of  her—" 

"Frank,"  she  cried  out,  "for  Heaven's  sake 
respect  the  memory  of  your  dead  love,  hoAvever 
violently  that  love  has  been  killed."  And  then 
he  rose  up  and  went  and  stood  before  her,  and 
dared  his  fate. 

"Horatia,  I  won't  ask  for  the  boon  at  your 
hand  immediately,  or  soon  even,  but  by-and-by, 
when  time  has  effaced,  partially,  at  least,  from 
your  mind  the  shadow  of  the  untrustworthy 
love  I  have  had  for  Cecil." 

"Time  never  will  give  back  the  love  you 
have  wasted  on  her,"  she  interrupted,  passion- 
ately. "Without  doubt  you  will  recover  the 
blow  she  has  given — but  the  heart  you  could 
offer  to  another — how  cold  it  would  be!  I 
could  not  live  with  such  knowledge  as  I  have 
of  your  past,  oppressing  my  heart  and  my  brain. 
We  will  still  be  the  best  of  friends,  Frank ;  but 
I  will  not  burden  my  life  with  the  ten  thousand 
doubts  and  cares  and  the  miseries  of  a  lightly- 
loved  wife." 

She  passed  from  the  room  as  she  spoke,  and 
he  stood  still,  startled  and  pleased,  recalling 
each  phase  of  that  passionate  mood,  which  be- 
trayed that  she  loved  him  already. 

"  She  has  been  the  right  one  all  through,"  he 
assured  himself,  "  the  other  has  been  all  phan- 
tasy and  glamour." 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


The  breeze  was  sweet  and  low  in  Kensington 
Gardens  this  day.  Faint  fragrance  from  far- 
off  boxes  of  mignonnette  was  borne  upon  it, 


lines,  no  coarse  patches  of  over-warm  coloring 
in  the  manner  of  her  flirtation.  He  floated 
"gently  o'er  a  perfumed  sea"  of  danger,  with- 


telling  pretty  tales  of  carefully-tended  window-    out  a  rock,  a  beacon,  or  a  cloud  to  warn  him 
gardens,  and  flower -laden   balconies  in  the    of  his  peril. 


squares  and  streets  contingent  to  this  crown- 
ing glory  of  the  western  suburbs — the  glorious 
green  trees  and  sward  that  lie  like  an  Emerald 
Isle  between  Bayswater  and  Kensington. 

Along  one  of  the  velvet-turfed  alleys,  under 
a  leafy  canopy,  that  did  away  with  the  heat  of 
the  sunbeams,  and  added  to  their  beauty  as 
they  broke  through  and  fell  flickeringly  in  her 
pleasant  path,  Cecil  Waldron  sauntered  along, 
enjoying  the  present. 

Enjoying  it  with  a  thorough  abandonment  to 
such  delights  as  it  was  affording  her,  as  is  rare- 
ly found  in  the  purely  English  nature.  For  all 
her  fair  Saxon  beauty,  there  must  have  been  a 
touch  of  Southern  sensuousness  in  the  woman 
who  could  so  entirely  cut  herself  off  from  the 
contemplation  of  both  past  and  future  as  she 
was  doing  now. 

The  conditions  that  were  essential  for  this 
isolation  of  herself  from  all  that  had  gone 
before,  and  all  that  might  come  after,  were  not 
of  extreme  rarity.  A  pleasant  warmth  in  the 
atmosphere,  a  golden  radiance  in  the  sky,  the 
knowledge  that  she  was  dressed  to  perfection, 
and  the  conviction  that  a  man  who  had  not 
done  so  before  was  on  the  brink  of  allowing 
himself  to  be  the  victim  of  her  bow  and  spear. 
These  were  the  sole  conditions  she  demanded, 
and  she  had  them  now. 

It  was  in  this  woman's  nature  to  turn  away 
as  carelessly  from  the  human  creature  who  had 
but  just  before  excited  her  keenest  interest,  as 
a  child  does  from  the  air-ball  it  has  burst— the 
air-ball  that  was  so  beautiful  and  bewitching  a 
thing  before  it  was  broken.  The  pleasure  of 
the  present  moment  was  the  one  thing  that  she 
craved  for.  And  her  way  of  throwing  herself 
heartily  into  the  present,  without  even  giving  a 
tender  thought  to  any  thing  else,  won  for  her  a 
far  larger  meed  of  confidence  from  her  current 
companions,  than  those  women  can  ever  gain 
who  have  consciences  sufficiently  tender  to  be 
retrospective,  and  hearts  sufficiently  warm  to  be 
prophetic. 

How  was  he  to  know  that  this  game  which 
she  was  playing  with  such  consummate  grace 
and  skill  she  had  played  with  Frank  Stapylton 
and  Danvers,  without  ceasing,  during  the  las 
few  months  ?  Practice  had  made  her  so  ver) 
perfect  that  it  never  occurred  to  him  that  sh< 
had  been  trying  her  'prentice  hand  on  others 
For  there  were  no  harsh  angles,  no  cruel  hard 


Gradually,  cautiously  as  they  insensibly  grew 
more  intimate  and  at  ease,  she  approached  the 
subject  of  Horatia's  reserve  toward  herself,  and 
the  possible  cause  of  it.  "Dare  I  tell  you 
what  I  think?"  she  questioned;  "dare  I  tell 
you  how  doubly  unfortunate  I  am  ?" 

"You  wrong  yourself  by  believing  either 
hat  you  are  disliked  by  her,  or  that  you  can 
uppose  she  has  a  shadow  of  a  cause  for  dis- 
iking  you.  You're  over-sensitive." 

I  know  that  I  am  that,"  she  answered, 
vith  delightful  readiness,  "but  my  sensitive- 
ness rarely  leads  me  astray ;  and  I  am  not  an- 
gry with  her  for  entertaining  feelings  of  dislike 
o  me.     Poor  thing !  she  can't  help  them  ;  she 
vill  never  know,  perhaps,  how  willingly  I  would 
lave  had  things  as  she  wishes;  she  will  never 
;now  that  what  would  add  to  her  happiness 
vould  also  add  to  mine." 

She  said  these  words  in  her  softest  voice, 
said  them  with  her  violet  eyes  shaded  by  trem- 
ulous lashes,  and  with  the  faint  rose-tint  flush- 
ng  her  face.  And  the  manner  of  her  speech 
shook  him  sorely,  and  made  him  curse  the  hon- 
orable bonds  that  kept  her  from  him. 

Still  he  restrained  himself,  and  suffered  si- 
lence to  reign ;  and  she  was  compelled  to  own 
to  herself,  with  something  like  admiration,  that 
he  was  less  weak  than  she  had  thought  him. 
But  a  demon  of  vanity  whispered  to  her  that 
to  leave  things  as  they  were  now  would  be  to 
own  herself  defeated.  And  the  day  was  so 
warm  and  sunny,  and  what  was  the  worth  of  all 
the  warmth  and  sunshine  without  love? 

"Don't  be  angry  with  me,"  she  resumed, 
imploringly;  "but  I  am  such  a  sympathetic 
woman,  that  I  must  speak.  I  can't  maintain 
cool,  indifferent  silence  when  I  see  things  go- 
ing all  wrong.  Horatia  would  have  been  such 
a  devoted  wife  to  Frank,  and  she's  so  clever, 
that,  if  she  could  have  once  gained  it,  she  would 
have  kept  his  heart." 

He  was  a  clever  man,  but  he  no  more  de- 
tected the  underlying  cruelty  of  her  remark 
than  a  fool  would  have  done.  Even  a  dog 
would  have  ceased  wagging  his  honest  tail  if 
ho  had  heard  the  stealthiness  which  crept  into 
her  tones.  But  Gilbert  Denham  was  a  man 
in  love. 

"How  generous  you  are!"  he  exclaimed; 
"  you  can  speak  of  the  possibility  of  resigning 
a  man  you  love,  to  a  woman  whom  you  think 


100 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


distrusts  you.  Heaven  forgive  him  if  he  does 
not  value  you  as  you  deserve  to  be  valued." 

"  I  think  Frank  does  that,"  Cecil  thought 
to  herself,  with  a  certain  sly  humor  in  which 
she  was  not  deficient.  Then  she  said  aloud, 
in  a  spasmodic  way,  as  if  the  truth  were  being 
wrested  from  her,  which  it  was  not— 

"Resign  a  man  I  love!  No,  no,  no;  not 
even  to  a  sister!" 

He  was  a  boy  in  her  hands  for  all  his  years 
of  seniority — a  slave,  a  fool !  There  was  some- 
thing pitiful  even,  she  felt,  in  the  way  he  suffer- 
ed her  to  wield  him. 

"  You  shouldn't  say  such  things  to  me  if  you 
don't  mean  them ;  they  madden  a  man,  and 
you  would  resent  the  promptings  of  madness, 
and  hurl  me  down  to  such  depths  as  my  pre- 
sumption deserves.  Cecil,  you  shouldn't  do 
it." 

They  had  come  close  up  to  the  Kensington 
end  of  the  Row  by  this  time,  and  she  was  turn- 
ing her  head  away  from  him  as  he  stood  by 
the  rails,  feigning  so  sweetly  to  be  embarrassed 
by  his  words — watching  so  keenly  for  the  ap- 
pearance of  one  gallant  rider  whom  she  knew 
to  be  an  habitue  of  this  place. 

"What  a  bright  scene!  the  flower  of  the 
land!"  she  exclaimed  presently.  "Pick  out 
the  prettiest  woman  and  the  handsomest  horse, 
Mr.  Denham." 

"An  impossible  thing  to  do,"  he  answered, 
as  group  after  group  trooped  by.  "  There's  a 
woman  who  looks  like  riding,  on  that  slippery- 
looking  chestnut ;  she  has  a  rattling  good  seat, 
too,  or  that  would  have  shaken  her." 

He  pointed  with  his  cane  as  he  spoke  toward 
a  lady  who  was  coming  down  from  the  Ken- 
sington end  of  the  Row,  close  along  by  the 
railings  against  which  Cecil  and  himself  were 
standing.  She  was  unattended,  either  by  cav- 
alier or  groom,  and  there  was  something  mark- 
ed about  her  costume,  quiet  as  it  was.  A  dead- 
black  cloth  habit,  unrelieved  by  either  braid  or 
button,  contrasted  strongly  and  strikingly  with 
the  glossy  golden  chestnut  coat  of  the  horse 
which  carried  her.  Her  hat  was  of  dull  felt. 
Her  veil  was  of  thick  black  gauze.  "  She  looks 
a  terrible  woman  to  me,  however  well  she  may 
ride,"  Cecil  said,  as  the  woman  on  the  chestnut 
approached  them,  holding  her  nervous,  excita- 
ble horse  down  with  firm,  steady  hands.  And 
as  she  turned  her  face  to  them  with  an  air  of 
dogged  defiance  of  their  worst  opinion,  they 
looked  in  questioning  wonderment,  one  to  the 
other,  as  they  saw  her  to  be  Emmeline  Vicary. 

He  felt  so  sorry  for  her.  In  spite  of  all 
that  had  gone  before,  he  felt  so  sorry  for  the 


woman  who  would  make  a  futile  effort  to  tri- 
umph in  her  own  abasement.  He  watched 
her  pityingly  as  she  rode  along  in  that  solitude 
to  which  she  was  self-condemned,  and  he  saw 
a  certain  weariness,  a  certain  hopeless  renunci- 
ation of  all  attempts  to  seem  happier  than  she 
was,  that  touched  him  infinitely. 

"I'm  sorry  to  see  her  here  in  this  way,"  he 
said,  turning  to  his  companion  appealingly ;  he 
hoped  that  the  beautiful,  true,  womanly  feeling 
with  which  he  accredited  Cecil  would  come  to 
the  fore  now,  and  manifest  itself  in  a  genuine- 
ly sympathetic  speech  about  the  woman  who 
must  have  fallen  low  indeed  before  she  could 
have  climbed  to  this  prominent  height.  And 
Cecil  was  not  capable  of  responding  to  such  an 
appeal,  even  in  seeming,  since  she  had  nothing 
to  gain  by  it. 

"You  surely  never  expected  to  see  her  here 
in  any  other  way,  did  you  ?"  she  asked,  con- 
temptuously ;  "  it's  just  the  platform  upon 
which  an  aspiring  lady's-maid  would  alight. 
She  never  desired  any  thing  better,  let  me  as- 
sure you.  Why  on  earth  should  you  delude 
yourself  with  the  notion  that  she  deserved 
something  higher." 

If  an  ugly,  unattractive,  awkward  woman 
had  spoken  thus,  what  a  homily  Gilbert  Den- 
ham  would  have  read  himself  on  the  elastic 
subject  of  the  proverbial  uncharitableness  of 
women  toward  all  womanly  shortcomings. 
But  she  who  spoke  now  was  so  very  greatly 
gifted  with  all  those  glorious  graces  of  body  to 
which  men  are  ever  ready  to  subordinate  their 
minds,  that  he  felt  it  to  be  quite  worth  his 
while  to  appeal  against  her  condemnatory  dicta. 

"You're  so  good  and  true  yourself  that  you 
can't  realize  that  a  woman  may  step  aside  from 
the  straight  path,  without  designing  to  go  ut- 
terly to  the  bad,"  he  said,  haltingly.  It  shock- 
.ed  him  that  Cecil  should  be  so  evidently  will- 
ing to  resign  a  fellow-creature  to  the  worst  of 
wordly  fates.  And  so  he  tried  to  make  her  at- 
tribute to  her  ignorance  that  which  was  entire- 
ly due  to  her  jealous  ill-nature. 

She  laughed  viciously,  and  leaned  forward 
uneasily  to  watch,  as  the  subject  of  their  dis- 
course wheeled  her  horse  round  lightly  and 
cantered  up  the  opposite  side  of  the  Row.  And 
Gilbert  Denham  ached  as  he  saw  that  the  feel- 
ing which  was  paramount  in  the  breast  of  the 
woman  by  his  side  was  not  one  of  pitiful 
shrinking,  but  a  strong,  bold,  wicked  hatred  of 
the  apparent  success  of  the  one  who  was  mak- 
ing a  subdued  parade  of  her  infamy. 

"  Shall  we  walk  on  ?"  he  asked.  There  was 
the  old  fascination  of  repulsion  for  him  about 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


101 


that  black-habited  rider  of  the  skittish  chest- 
nut horse.  But  fascinating  as  it  was,  he 
shrunk  from  watching  her  progress.  The 
sight  of  the  woman  alone,  unattended,  was 
painful  enough,  but  to  see  any  light  and  easy 
claim  made  upon  her  powers  of  recognition 
would  be  harder  still. 

"Walk  on! — no,"  Cecil  cried,  querulously. 
"  Look  at  her  now,  bowing,  pulling  up,  claim- 
ing acquaintance  with  that  man  on  the  white 
horse,  as  if  she  had  any  more  right  to  it  than 
the  mud  under  his  feet !  Look,  look,  Gilbert ; 
and  you  pitied  her  just  now !" 

She  turned  an  angry,  furrowed  face  toward 
him.  She  spoke  out  each  word  with  harsh, 
thrilling  emphasis.  She  became  violently,  ter- 
ribly in  earnest  all  at  once,  as  she  made  a  slight 
gesture  toward  the  pair  on  whom  her  attention 
was  fixed. 

"  Do  come  on,  Mrs.  Waldron,"  Gilbert  Den- 
ham  pleaded.  "  It's  a  beautiful  panorama  this 
for  five  minutes,  but  after  the  expiration  of  five 
minutes  it's  only  a  delusively  beautiful  purga- 
tory. Do  come  on!" 

"Do  look  at  the  man  on  the  white  horse," 
she  cried  out,  sharply.  "See  him  by  that 
black  demon's  side ;  my  waiting- woman  riding 
with  him.  Do  you  know  that  man  ?" 

She  turned  and  fronted  him,  her  fair  face 
whitened  with  passion,  her  violet  eyes  deepen- 
ing with  a  cruel  intensity  that  was  painfully 
suggestive  of  madness. 

"Do  you  know  that  man  by  her  now? 
Don't  you  know  that  man  ?"  she  repeated  ; 
"  it's  Charlie  Danvers,  and  it's  an  insult  to  me 
that  he  should  notice  her  existence.  Oh,  Gil- 
bert, Gilbert  Denham,  I  must  tell  you  he  pro- 
fesses to  love  me." 

"And  you  have  accepted  his  professions  of 
love  ?" 

"  Yes— in  a  measure ;  you  don't  know  how 
I'm  persecuted;  I  should  die,  I  believe,  if  I 
didn't  feel  that  I  had  you  to  turn  to.  What 
can  it  mean  ?" 

She  asked  the  question  eagerly,  as  the  wom- 
an on  the  chestnut  and  a  man  on  a  white  Arab 
passed  by.  And  Gilbert  Denham's  conscience 
whispered  to  him  that  the  man  on  the  white 
horse  had  found  out  the  fascinating  falsehood 
by  his  (Gilbert's)  side. 

"  Let  us  go  home ;  Horatia  will  be  waiting 
luncheon  for  us,"  he  suggested. 

"No;  I  won't  go  home  until  I  have  had  a 
word  with  Charlie  Danvers.  Why,  he  came 
here  to  meet  me  ;  we  expressly  arranged  that 
we  should  both  be  here  to-day  at  this  house ; 
and  now,  see  how  he  treats  me !  see  it !  see  it !" 


She  was  growing  reckless  in  her  wrath.  She 
was  throwing  down  her  cards  and  making  her 
plaint  most  openly,  and  still  he  would  not  quite 
condemn  her.  That  the  man  about  whom  her 
anger  was  rife  was  treating  her  precisely  as  she 
deserved  to  be  treated,  Gilbert  felt  morally 
sure.  But  then  justice  should  be  tempered 
with  mercy,  and  though  he  was  beginning  to 
find  her  out  as  so  weak,  he  did  not  desire  to 
see  her  weakness  punished  openly  before  the 
eyes  of  all  men  in  this  way. 

"  He  can't  know  you  are  here,"  he  said,  hur- 
riedly;  "  and  even  if  he  did  know  it,  Miss  Vic- 
ary  has  held  the  position  of  a  gentlewoman, 
don't  you  know?  There's  no  insult  offered, 
there's  no  insult  intended  ;  she's  not  sufficient- 
ly well  versed  in  the  ways  of  this  wicked  world 
to  know  that  it's  a  reprehensible  thing  to  ride 
unattended." 

"Well,  if  you're  false  enough  to  your  real 
feelings  to  say  such  things  to  me,  I  needn't 
combat  the  sentiment  you  defend,"  she  said, 
bitterly.  "  He  knows  that  I  am  here,  he  knows 
why  I  am  here,  he  knows  what  that  woman  is, 
and  he  means  me  to  understand  that  my  reign 
is  over,  that  I  am  a  dethroned  queen,  that  the 
light  love  of  one  woman  is  as  good  in  his  eyes 
as  the  love  that  seems  light  of — " 

s<  Don't  say  a  word  now — don't  say  a  word 
now,"  he  interrupted,  confusedly,  for  it  hurt 
him,  for  her  sake,  to  feel  how  unadvisedly,  how 
recklessly,  she  was  exposing  herself. 

"  Why  shouldn't  I  say  a  word  more  ?"  she 
cried,  imperiously,  "  there's  nothing  more  to  be 
lost — or  gained.  Do  you  think  I  value  Frank's 
fealty  or  your  paltry  homage?  I  may  be  mad 
to  say  it,  but  it  is  the  truth,  if  Charles  Danvers 
could  persuade  me  that  this  was  a  sham,  I'd 
value  it  ten  thousand  times  higher  than  any 
thing  I  felt  to  be  a  reality  from  any  one  else. 
I  like  him  —  I  like  him ;  look  at  the  way  he 
looks  at  her,  and  ask  yourself  if  I  can  stand  it." 

She  nervously  opened  and  shut  her  parasol 
as  she  spoke,  for  the  pair  under  discussion 
were  nearing  them  rapidly,  and  the  rider  of 
the  chestnut  seemed  to  have  her  hands  full,  as 
far  as  regarded  the  management  of  her  horse. 
The  sleek,  beautiful  white  Arab  undulated 
along  as  if  it  hadn't  a  kick  or  a  buck  in  it ;  but 
for  all  that  apparent  quiescence,  there  was  a 
restless  glance  in  its  sweet  eyes  that  spoke  its 
own  story  of  hardly  suppressed  power. 

"The  beautiful  beast!  doesn't  it  seem  to 
suit  him?"  she  said,  savagely.  "Look  at  him 
laying  Ins  hand  on  that  arching  neck!  Look 
at  him  nearing  me,  and  looking  me  in  the  face 
mockingly  !  Oh,  Gilbert !  has  the  end  come  ?" 


102 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


Culpable,  evanescent  as  her  feeling  was  for 
the  man  who  was  riding  the  white  Arab,  it  was 
bitter  to  bear  at  this  moment.  She  was  a 
thorough  woman  in  this,  that  she  yearned  al- 
ways to  "  reign  and  reign  alone,  and  always 
give  the  law."  It  absolutely  hurt  her  to  feel 
that  her  power  was  waning  over  any  man's 
soul,  lightly  as  she  might  have  estimated  the 
honor  while  her  empire  lasted.  That  Charlie 
Danvers  should  give  her  the  initiative,  and 
show  thus  clearly  and  openly  that  he  no  longer 
had  any  "appetite  for  her  proffered  love," 
stung  her  as  sho  had  never  been  stung  before. 
For  though  she  had  never  meant  one  of  them, 
she  had  offered  her  vows  to  him  freely,  and 
now  he  had  found  her  out,  and  was  slighting  her. 

As  he  passed  away  out  of  their  sight  she 
made  one  valiant  effort  to  seem  the  thing  she 
was  not — unconcerned,  namely.  Now  that  the 
first  paroxysm  of  her  fury  had  spent  itself,  she 
was  aware  that  she  had,  by  her  open  expressions 
of  wrathful,  jealous  disappointment,  weakened 
her  cause  with  the  man  by  her  side.  To  be 
sure,  there  was  Frank,  foolishly  faithful,  loyal- 
ly-loving Frank,  to  fall  back  upon,  even  if  all 
the  others  should  prove  defaulter^.  But  there 
was  no  triumph  in  developing  the  loving  fidel- 
ity of  a  man  who  was  on  the  brink  of  pledging 
it  to  her  publicly,  and  of  legally  binding  her 
claims  about  himself.  It  would  be  terribly 
tame  to  be  the  recipient  of  Frank's  love  and 
homage  only.  It  would  be  painfully  monot- 
onous not  to  have  any  other  man  to  turn  to, 
with  the  certain  knowledge  that  the  other  man 
was  aching  at  heart  and  soured  in  spirit  on  her 
account.  Accordingly,  Gilbert  being  the  only 


man  at  hand  who  might  be  made  to  suffer  in 
this  way,  she  turned  to  him  with  all  the  subtle 
suavity  of  which  she  was  mistress,  and  bent  all 
her  powers  to  the  task  of  banishing  the  remem- 
brance of  her  burst  of  jealous  wrath  from  his 
mind. 

"  Quick  with  the  tale,  and  ready  with  the 
lie,"  she  promptly  compiled  a  pretty  fable  con- 
cerning the  sisterly  nature  of  her  feelings  for 
Charles  Danvers,  and  the  affectionate  hopes 
she  had  been  weak  enough  to  nourish  of  see- 
ing him  married,  by-and-by,  to  a  dear  friend 
of  her  own.  "I  won't  tell  you  her  name, for 
she  has  seen  and  liked  him,  and  I  think  there 
is  nothing  baser  than  one  woman  betraying  the 
confidence  of  another,"  she  murmured,  plaint- 
ively. 

And  though  Gilbert  felt  convinced  that  the 
suddenly-mentioned  friend  was  merely  a  crea- 
ture of  her  own  brain,  he  was  touched  for  the 
moment  by  the  tone  of  tenderness,  and  the 
enunciation  of  such  sweet  sentiments.  To  use 
his  own  graphic  idiom,  he  had  just  had  a 
thorough  "eye-opener"  about  the  lady  by  his 
side.  But  while  it  was  close  to  him,  the  in- 
fluence of  her  fair  face  was  very  potent. 

She  had  nearly  soothed  away  all  unpleasant 
recollections  of  that  scene  in  the  Row  by  the 
time  they  reached  home.  Once  more  he  was 
letting  himself  be  lulled  into  temporary  oblivion 
upon  the  "perfumed  sea  "of  unwise,  unlawful 
love.  And  so  it  was  with  a  queer  admixture 
of  pleasure  and  pain  that  he  heard  from  his 
sister  that  Frank  Stapylton  had  come  up  to 
town  to  release  Cecil  from  vows  which  she  had 
already  broken. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 


SELF-RELEASED. 


AFTER  asking  for  Horatia's  advice  a  score 
of  times,  and  not  taking  it  on  a  single 
point  once,  as  is  the  manner  of  men— after  al- 
tering his  determination  again  and  again  as  to 
the  way  in  which  he  would  convey  to  the  wom- 
an who  had  deceived  him  the  knowledge  that 
he  had  discovered  her  duplicity — after,  in  fact, 
making  a  vast  number  of  complex  plans  that 
cost  him  a  great  deal  of  trouble,  Frank  Stapyl- 
ton  came  back  to  commonplace  and  common 
sense,  and  decided  on  writing  a  plain  statement 
to  Cecil,  which  was  the  obvious  thing  for  him 
to  have  done  at  first. 

The  writing  of  the  plain  statement,  by  a  man 
to  a  woman  who  has  been  dear  to  him,  that 
he  has  discovered  her  to  be  a  perfidious  fool, 
must  be  an  unpleasant  task  under  any  circum- 
stances. It  was  doubly,  desperately  unpleasant 
to  Frank.  In  the  first  place,  there  was  the  in- 
evitable wrenching  off  of  every  tender  associa- 
tion ;  and  added  to  this  there  was  that  equally 
inevitable  contiguity  of  theirs  in  the  county, 
which  would  make  it  impossible  for  that  per- 
fect severing  of  every  link  between  them  which 
alone  seemed  tolerable  to  him  now. 

And  there  was  something  else  which  made 
his  task  an  unpalatable  one.  There  was  a 
dawning  consciousness  in  the  breast  of  this 
man,  who  was  as  little  of  a  hero  as  are  the 
majority  of  men  whom  one  meets  in  real  life, 
there  was  a  dawning  consciousness  in  his  breast 
that  his  own  shield  was  a  trifle  dimmed.  If 
Cecil  had  been  deserving  of  his  fullest  love  and 
most  perfect  faith,  how  would  it  have  been  about 
that  feeling  which  intertwined  itself  so  luxuri- 
antly about  the  fabric  of  his  friendship  for  Ho- 
ratia,  and  made  the  fabric  a  far  fairer  thing  than 
it  would  otherwise  have  been.  In  very  truth 
he  knew  himself  to  be  no  Knight  of  Purity — 
he  acknowledged  with  very  little  shame,  and 


no  contrition  at  all,  that  his  faith  had  wavered 
from  the  hour  he  pledged  it  to  Cecil,  and  that 
his  love  had  strayed  from  the  moment  it  had 
been  her  sole  right. 

Now  this  perfect  knowledge  of  his  own  weak- 
ness, although  he  had  no  manner  of  shame  and 
contrition  about  it,  did  fetter  him  for  the  per- 
formance of  his  task.  She,  the  one  whom  he 
was  openly  going  to  cast  out  from  her  place  in 
his  heart,  had  erred  deeply  in  daring  to  have  a 
preference  for  another  man,  also  in  having-been 
found  out.  But  how  about  himself?  it  must 
be  asked  again.  He,  too,  had  dared  to  have  a 
preference  for  another  woman,  and  he  had  not 
been  found  out,  though  he  had  also  dared  to 
show  that  other  woman  that  he  felt  it.  His 
secret  was  enshrined  in.  hk  own  breast,  and  in 
the  breast  of  one  of  the  staunchest  women  in 
the  world.  Otherwise,  his  conscience  would 
insist  on  putting  the  question,  Would  he  have 
been  able  to  sit  in  the  seat  of  the  scornful,  above 
Cecil,  as  he  did  in  the  present  instance  ? 

Nevertheless,  "Two  wrongs  never  make  a 
right,"  as  he  told  himself  re-assuringly.  Man 
is  more  strongly  subjected  to  temptation,  is 
more  liable  to  errors,  and  is,  of  course,  to  be 
more  leniently  judged  on  all  occasions  of  his 
slipping  and  tumbling  down  by  the  rest  of  his 
fellow-sinners  than  woman  is.  This  rule  is 
too  firmly  established  for  it  ever  to  be  broken 
through  in  this  world.  Let  us  humbly  hope, 
that  if  the  Spiritualists'  theory  is  correct,  and 
the  next  is  a  "progressive"  world,  there  will 
be  a  fair  field  and  no  favor  shown  between  the 
two  sexes  when  the  everlasting  race  for  re- 
wards and  punishments  is  run. 

Meanwhile,  the  old  order  obtaineth,  and 
Frank  acted  according  to  it— writing  his  let- 
;er  of  renunciation  of  Cecil  in  as  strong  a  con- 
demnatory spirit  as  he  dared  display  to  a  worn- 


104 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


an  whom  he  was  releasing  from  his  thrall. 
But  in  one  respect  he  was  very  generous — gen- 
erous in  a  way  that  many  men  are  when  called 
upon  to  commit  the  cruelty  of  showing  women 
that  they  don't  care  for  them  any  more. 

"  The  statement  that  our  engagement  is  at 
an  end  must  go  forth  to  the  world  at  once,"  he 
wrote  ;  "  but  I  entreat  you  to  give  it  what  col- 
or you  think  best ;  let  every  one  believe  that 
yours  has  been  the  severing  hand.  I  shall 
i:ever  contradict  you." 

And  then  he  sealed  and  sent  it;  and  the 
thing  was  done. 

Cecil  had  gone  to  her  own  room  at  once  on 
her  return  from  her  saunter  by  the  Kow  which 
had  been  the  means  of  such  mortification  to 
her.  She  had  gone  at  once  to  her  own  room, 
and  comforted  herself  considerably  by  reclining 
in  the  easiest  of  easy-chairs  before  a  huge  che- 
.val-glass,  and  contemplating  the  reflection  of 
her  own  person  in  its  attitude  of  gracefully  in- 
dolent ease.  After  all,  this  morning's  episode 
was  only  a  temporary  slur  on  the  fair,  shining 
surface  of  her  general  satisfaction.  A  man 
who  had  been  her  slave  had  probably  heard 
something  which  had  made  him  jealous — had 
scented  another  of  her  wild  flirtations — and 
determined  on  being  her  slave  no  longer. 
Well !  there  were  many  more  men  in  the  world, 
and,  as  she  really  meant  to  marry  Frank, 
Charles  Danvers's  claims  might  have  developed 
into  proportions  of  tedious,  troublesome  magni- 
tude. It  was  all  better  as  it  was — only  she  did 
wish  that  her  white  elephant  had  rid  her  of 
himself  in  another  way — and  not  in  the  pres- 
ence of  his  possible  successor  in  her  favor. 

She  had  refused  to  go  down  to  luncheon,  and 
Horatia,  with  that  burden  of  Frank's  visit  and 
communication  on  her  mind,  had  gladly  kept 
away  from  her  guest's  chamber ;  and  so  now, 
late  in  the  afternoon,  that  guest  was  still  in  ig- 
norance of  the  other  cloud  that  was  arising — 
was  still  deriving  half  unconscious  comfort  from 
the  thought  that  there  was  always  Frank  to  rely 
on,  and  Gilbert  to  fall  back  upon  in  the  mean 
time. 

1  "Half  an  hour  in  that  flowery,  shady  draw- 
ing-room will  be  delicious  before  dinner,"  she 
thought,  rousing  herself  up  and  setting  about 
her  toilet  duties-  with  a  skill  and  whole-heart- 
edness  she  had  never  displayed  about  duties  of 
any  other  kind  in  the  whole  of  her  vain  life. 
And  very  perfectly  she  succeeded  in  them,  was 
a  verdict  that  any  observer  would  have  been 
compelled  to  give  by-and-by,  when  the  soft  gold- 
color  silk  dress  fell  in  rich,  unstiffened  folds 
about  her.  She  understood  the  secret  of  har- 


monious coloring,  this  woman  who  understood 
so  little  else  that  was  good.  The  color  of  her 
dress  was  the  same  as  her  glorious  golden  hair, 
only  a  tone  or  two  less  bright ;  and  the  sheen 
on  the  ribbon  that  passed  through  that  hair 
matched  the  wood-violet  tint  of  her  eyes  ex- 
actly. She  loitered  about  her  room  until  sev- 
en, deferring  going  down  until  the  half-hour 
bell  rang,  as  she  had  no  desire  for  a  tete-a-tete 
with  Horatia ;  but  when  this  signal  was  given, 
she  began  her  progress  down  with  a  little  air. 
She  determined  to  do  away  with  any  impres- 
sion he  might  have  of  her  passion  and  depres- 
sion of  the  morning,  and  so  she  went  out  of  her 
room  with  a  sort  of  cheerful  rush,  and  passed 
with  a  light  true  step  along  the  corridor,  sing- 
ing as  she  went. 

Singing  out  a  bar  or  two  of  a  melody  that  is 
always  sweet  in  our  ears,  even  if  we  hear  it 
ground  out  by  a  barrel-organ,  or  brayed  out 
by  a  German  band,  a  melody  by  means  of  which 
Louisa  Pyne  taught  us  how  wondrous  witching 
English  words  sang  by  an  English  tongue  can 
be— "The  Power  of  Love." 

But  Gilbert  Denham,  hearing  it  distinctly  as 
he  did,  fetching  as  he  felt  it  to  be,  would  not 
allow  himself  to  be  fetched  by  it  on  this  occa- 
sion. He  was  not  in  his  dressing-room,  as  she 
had  supposed.  He  was  smoking  a  pipe  leisure- 
ly, previous  to  dressing — smoking  and  blow- 
ing hazy  clouds  of  disbelief  around  himself,  in 
the  integrity  of  women  in  general,  and  Mrs. 
Waldron  in  particular. 

"  I  hear  the  voice  of  the  charmer  most  dis- 
tinctly," he  laughed  to  himself  as  he  listened. 
"  You're  warbling  very  pleasantly,  and  yester- 
day I  should  have  followed,  believing  both  in 
you  and  your  lay :  you  pretty  liar !"  he  thought 
contemptuously,  as  he  roused  himself  from  his 
inert  enjoyment  of  his  pipe,  and,  looking  at  his 
watch,  saw  that  the  hour  had  come  for  him  to 
go  and  dress  and  dine.  "  You  pretty  liar !  it 
seems  almost  cruel  to  have  found  you  out." 

The  exquisite  balance  of  Horatia's  system 
of  household  management  had  been  upset  this 
day,  in  consequence  of  that  invasion  upon  her 
time  and  sympathies  which  Frank  Stapylton 
had  made  in  the  morning.  And  so  the  cook 
had  received  her  orders  later,  and  the  butcher 
had  taken  a  mean  advantage  of  the  situation, 
and  declined  to  redeem  the  lost  hour  at  the 
cost  of  extra  speed  on  the  part  of  his  boys  and 
horse,  and  the  result  was  a  course  of  unpnnctu- 
ality  during  the  day,  culminating  in  the  half- 
past  seven  o'clock  dinner  being  unappetizingly 
under-cooked  at  eight  o'clock;  a  delay  which 
allowed  Cecil  to  receive  Frank  Stapylton's  let- 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


105 


ter  before  the  banquet  for  which  she  had  pre- 
pared herself  so  bewilderingly. 

She  received  it,  and  read  it  in  the  room  that 
was  "flowery  and  shady,"  the  room  in  which 
she  had  designed  to  carry  out  the  captivation 
of  Gilbert  Denham ;  and  as  she  read  it  some 
resolve,  some  desire,  some  determination,  seem- 
ed to  give  way  within  her.  But  she  braced 
herself  by  a  timely  recollection  of  the  necessity 
for  immediate  action,  and  turned  to  take  the 
arm  that  Mr.  Denham  offered  her  deferential- 
ly, with  a  bright,  gleaming  smile  that  would 
have  seemed  a  funny  thing  even  on  the  face 
of  a  satisfied  woman. 

"Poor  thing!  she's  writhing  under  the  re- 
membrance of  the  blow  she  has  had,"  Gilbert 
thought,  in  his  ignorance  of  the  fact  that  she 
had  received  that  "  worst  blow,"  and  was  car- 
rying it  in  her  pocket  at  the  present  moment. 

Accordingly,  assisted  in  their  endeavors  by 
a  misunderstanding,  they  dined  together  very 
comfortably,  Horatia  aiding  them  unconscious- 
ly by  her  perfect  ignorance  of  two  upsetting 
fects,  the  first  being  that  rencontre  in  the  Row, 
the  second  the  receipt  of  that  letter  from 
Frank  ;  for,  fond  as  she  was  of  the  man  herself, 
she  would  have  assuredly  tendered  some  mute, 
disabling  sympathy  to  the  woman  he  had  sur- 
rendered, if  she  had  known  that  the  terms  of 
the  surrender  were  then  in  that  woman's  pocket. 

Some  subtle,  undefinable  essence  of  intelli- 
gence breathed  through  all  of  this,  and  made 
clear  to  Cecil  that,  however  much  Horatia 
might  know  of  Frank's  mind,  the  knowledge 
of  the  worst  that  had  befallen  her  (Cecil)  was 
still  to  come.  "And  until  she  knows  that  he 
has  found  me  out,  and  found  me  worthless,  she 
will  be  very  tolerant  to  me  for  his  sake,"  the 
frail-brained  schemer  thought  as  she  reviewed 
the  situation,  and  made  an  excellent  dinner  to- 
ward filling  that  situation  properly.  The  old 
widely-accepted  statement  as  to  a  woman  in 
love  having  no  appetite  may  be  true  or  false— it 
is  impossible  to  verify  it.  But  there  is  not  the 
faintest  shadow  of  a  doubt  about  the  fact  of  a 
woman  who  is  feigning  to  be  in  love  with  sev- 
eral people  simultaneously,  needing  a  fair  por- 
tion of  good,  stimulating  diet,  and  developing 
into  a  decidedly  carnivorous  creature.  The 
occupation  is  exhaustive  —  to  be  alternately 
queen  and  slave  in  rapid  succession  to  differ- 
ent people  is  fatiguing  to  the  last  degree.  Ce- 
cil recognized  the  calls  that  would  probably 
be  made  upon  her,  and  strengthened  herself  to 
bear  them  to  the  best  of  her  ability. 

She  realized,  as  soon  as  she  had  mastered 
the  contents  of  the  letter  which  had  cost  Frank 


o  mucli  trouble  to  word  properly — to  word 
vith  the  discreet  determination  which  was  nec- 
sssary— she  realized  at  once,  as  soon  as  she 
lad  read  this  letter,  that  there  was  no  appeal 
against  its  decision.  Frank  would  never  re- 
'oke  it ;  would  never  be  wax  again  to  receive 
any  impression  which  she  might  desire  to  give  • 
him.  He  had  done  with  her,  done  with  her 
definitely.  At  once  through  the  darkness  of 
he  shadow  cast  over  her  pride,  gleamed  the 
encouraging  light  of  a  resolve  to  show  him  that 
he  could  be  supplanted  at  a  moment's  notice,  f 
Mrs.  Arthur  Waldron,  constrained  by  the 
knowledge  she  had  of  Frank's  fully- pledged 
vrath,  and  by  the  miserable  uncertainty  she 
vas  in  as  to  his  but  half-pledged  intentions 
about  Cecil,  was  utterly  incapable  of  backing 
up  the  conversational  efforts  that  Cecil  made 
with  flippant  facility,  and  Gilbert  responded  to 
with  convulsive  zeal.  There  was  something 
Imost  ghastly  to  Horatia  in  the  fact  that  her 
guest  and  rival  grew  more  sparklingly  excited, 
more  feverishly  animated,  more  bewilderingly 
pretty  each  moment.  And  how  eagerly  Gil- 
bert watched  her  too,  watched  her  with  an  air 
of  puzzled,  wondering  admiration  that  startled 
his  sister,  and  stirred  the  object  of  his  watch 
up  to  more  strenuous  efforts. 

She  never  relaxed  these  efforts  to  be  amus- 
ing, to  be  bewitching,  for  a  minute,  until  sho 
and  Horatia  had  got  themselves  away  into  the 
drawing-room  alone ;  then  she  heaved  a  short, 
passionate  sigh  of  genuine  fatigue,  and  flung 
herself  on  the  sofa,  her  hands  clasped  together, 
tightly  covering  her  tired,  gleaming  eyes. 

"  Shall  I  sing,  if  you're  going  to  rest  a  little, 
Cecil  ?"  Horatia  asked.  Infinitely  more  agree- 
able to  her  was  the  prospect  of  a  little  of  her 
own  music  than  more  of  Cecil's  mirth,  which 
had  seemed  to  have  a  jarring  strain  in  it. 
Therefore  Mrs.  Arthur  accepted  another  short, 
passionate  sigh,  which  burst  from  Cecil  as  a 
sign  of  acquiescence  in  her  proposition,  and  so 
sat  down  and  sang  resolutely  through  two  or 
three  songs  until  her  brother  joined  them. 

At  his  entrance  Cecil  took  her  hands  away 
from  her  eyes,  raised  herself  on  her  elbow,  and 
called  him  to  her  side. 

"Gilbert,  Gilbert  Denham,"  she  whispered 
softly,  as  he  placed  himself  on  a  chair  close  to 
the  head  of  the  sofa,  "  I  have  passed  hours  in 
very  serious  thought  since  I  came  home  from 
our  walk  this  morning ;  do  you  care  to  hear 
what  it  has  been  about  ?" 

There  was  a  flickering  impatience  in  her 
eyes  that  gave  them  an  entirely  new  expres- 
sion. There  was  a  bitterness  in  the  movement 


106 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


of  her  hands  and  arms  that,  wildly  graceful  as 
it  was,  struck  him  painfully,  suggesting  as  it 
did  that  she  was  overwrought  either  in  body 
or  mind. 

"Don't  you  think  it  would  be  well  for  you 
to  rest  to-night  instead  of  talking  about  any 
thing  that  might  possibly  agitate  you  ?"  he  re- 
plied, very  gently.  She  was  such  a  pretty 
woman,  that  grievously  as  he  had  grown  to  dis- 
trust her,  he  could  not  help  being  gentle,  al- 
most tender,  to  her  when  she  appealed  to  him 
in  this  way. 

"Don't  you  care  to  hear  what  I've  been 
thinking  of,  Gilbert,"  she  resumed,  placing  her 
hand  on  his  arm,  and  gradually  tightening  her 
clasp,  in  a  way  that  involuntarily  made  him 
think  of  the  detaining  claws  coming  out  with 
stealthy  force  from  the  velvet  paw  of  a  sweet- 
faced,  cruel-hearted  cat;  "don't  you  care,  af- 
ter pretending  to  care  for  me  so  much  ?" 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Waldron — "  he  was  begin- 
ning, but  she  interrupted  him  impatiently, 

"  Call  me  Cecil ;  who  has  a  better  right  to 
address  me  familiarly  than  you  ?" 

"  The  man  you're  going  to  marry  might  ob- 
ject to  it,"  he  said,  as  steadily  as  he  could,  un- 
der a  swiftly-growing  sense  of  there  being  dan- 
ger in  the  air ;  "  as  to  not  caring  to  hear  what 
you  have  been  thinking  about,  I  assure  you  I 
should  be  delighted  to  listen,  if  you  didn't  look 
so  hopelessly  tired." 

"The  man  I'm  going  to  marry!"  she  re- 
peated slowly  ;  "  I  wonder  who  that  man  is  !" 

"  Horry's  right,  then  ;  there  is  a  screw  loose 
with  that  fellow  Stapylton,"  Gilbert  thought; 
and,  rather  to  his  own  surprise,  he  found  that 
he  had  not  the  faintest  desire  to  avail  himself 
of  the  opportunity  that  would  have  seemed  so 
golden  a  one  to  him  a  few  days  ago. 

"Yes,  I  wonder  who  that  man  is,"  she  said, 
flinging  her  head  back  on  the  sofa  cushion, 
and  tossing  her  arms  up  in  an  arch  above  her 
crown  of  golden  hair.  "  It's  not  Frank  Sta- 
pylton, let  me  tell  you  that ;  I'm  going  to  break 
off  my  engagement  with  him ;  I  entered  into 
it  for  gratitude,  not  love's  sake  ;  I'll  be  bound 
by  it  no  longer.  Gilbert,  will  you  be  glad  that 
I  do  so?" 

"If  it  adds  to  your  happiness,  yes,"  he  an- 
swered, gravely ;  and  he  had  a  hint  of  a  coming 
storm  in  the  fierce  impatience  with  which  she 
writhed  up  from  her  recumbent  position  and 
confronted  him. 

"Disappointment,  disappointment,  nothing 
all  my  weary  life  but  disappointment!"  she 
cried  out  sharply.  "Why  did  you  men  be- 
tween you  tear  me  from  my  living  tomb,  when 


at  least  I  had  no  memory  one  hour  for  the 
troubles  of  the  hour  before  it  ?  why  did  you  be- 
tween you  wake  my  reason  and  my  heart,  only 
to  torture  both  ?  why — " 

"Oh!  Cecil,  don't  excite  yourself  to-night 
when  you're  so  weary,"  Horatia  said,  soothing- 
ly, coming  and  putting  her  cool  hands  on  the 
hot,  throbbing  brow  of  the  almost  raving  wom- 
an. But  the  soothing  words  and  soft,  sympa- 
thetic touch  fell  like  oil  on  flames. 

"Don't  touch  me,  scorpion!"  Cecil  shrieked 
out ;  "you  have  taken  one  of  them  from  me — 
you  have  poisoned  his  mind  against  me  "  (she 
pointed  to  Gilbert  as  she  spoke),  "  and  all  you 
have  done  will  seem  right,  and  all  I  have  done 
will  seem  wrong — "  She  stopped  herself  sud- 
denly, and  then  broke  out  into  a  hollow,  pitiful 
laugh,  and  the  brother  and  sister  looked  at 
each  other  with  the  dawning  of  the  dread  that 
was  in  their  minds,  legibly  written  in  their  eyes. 

And  this  was  the  dread  that  was  soon  to  be- 
come a  certainty,  that  the  weak  mind  was  wav- 
ering. Wavering  under  the  influence  of  the 
strongest  passion  of  which  its  owner  was  capa- 
ble— a  disappointed,  thwarted  vanity. 

It  was  a  terrible  task  that  which  was  laid 
upon  Gilbert  Denham  and  his  sister  now.  It 
was  an  awful  responsibility,  a  ghastly  onus. 
Each  knew  that  every  action  respecting  her 
was  liable  to  misconstruction.  Each  felt  that 
they  were  bound  to  work  for  her  weal  far  more 
earnestly  than  if  they  had  loved  her  well,  and 
her  sanity  had  been  a  desirable  thing. 

The  relapse  was  not  one  of  those  gradual 
things  that  rack  lookers-on  with  suspense.  It 
came  on  with  one  of  those  shocks  that  stir  up 
the  sensibilities  strongly  at  first,  and  then  stul- 
tify them  by  the  sheer  force  of  exhaustion.  It 
was  appalling  to  see  her  mind  going  further 
and  further  astray  every  hour.  It  was  crush- 
ing to  Horatia  to  reflect  on  how  very  nearly 
one  who  was  dear  and  precious  to  her  had 
been  entangled  in  the  river  of  that  mind.  But 
the  time  came  when  the  reaction  against  the 
power  of  these  reflections  set  in  of  necessity. 

"  She  may  recover  after  an  interval,"  was 
the  verdict  eventually  passed  upon  her  case  by 
the  first  medical  authorities  in  matters  of  insan- 
ity. Meanwhile  her  property  was  taken  charge 
of  by  agents  who  were  legally  appointed.  A 
certain  income  for  her  benefit  was  paid  to  the 
head  of  the  private  asylum  in  which  she  was 
placed ;  and  poor  little  Gerald's  chances  of 
succession  to  the  Larpington  estate  faded  away 
from  the  realms  of  probability  again. 

And  during  this  perplexing  period  Frank 
Stapylton's  position  was  a  curious  and  rather 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


107 


harassing  one.  Publicly  he  was  in  the  posi- 
tion still  of  the  man  who  was  pledged  to  be- 
come Cecil's  husband.  And  though  he  knew, 
and  quickly  made  Horatia  comprehend  that  he 
was  released  from  that  pledge,  still  he  could 
not  proclaim  it  to  the  world  at  large,  and  the 
memory  that  it  had  existed  erected  itself  as  a 
barrier  between  himself  and  a  closer  intimacy 
with  Horatia. 

The  power  of  the  woman  mad,  in  fact,  was 
greater  against  them  than  the  power  of  the 
woman  sane  had  been.  For  they  were  perpet- 
ually remembering  her,  and  with  the  perversi- 
ty of  reasoning  creatures,  unreasonably  remem- 
bering what  might  have  happened  to  her,  and 
to  them,  if  she  had  been  utterly  different  to 
what  she  was.  And  these  remembrances,  al- 
though they  were  foolish  and  futile,  had  a  very 
separating  force  about  them ;  and  so  neither 
Mrs.  Arthur  Waldron  nor  Frank  Stapylton  felt 
much  else  beside  a  sense  of  immediate  relief 
when  all  things  concerning  Cecil  were  settled, 
and  they  felt  themselves  free  to  part  —  with 
very  vague  notions  as  to  whether  they  would 
ever  meet  again  or  not. 

A  few  months  passed  away  without  there 
being  any  very  material  change  in  the  condi- 
tion of  the  two  widows — any  material  change 
in  their  outward  condition,  that  is  to  say.  Ce- 
cil was  rather  more  disordered  in  mind  than 
heretofore,  but  she  was  equally  beautiful,  and 
all  the  arrangements  for  her  physical  comfort 
were  equally  perfect  in  their  organization. 
Horatia  still  kept  her  brother's  house,  and  be- 
lieved in  the  propriety  of  every  other  earthly 
right  being  rendered  up  to  her  children.  But 
her  mind  was  better  ordered  than  of  old.  For 
good  or  ill  (who  can  tell  ?)  to  her  a  change  had 
come.  She  had  outlived  the  romance  of  her 
life.  She  had  not  tried  to  kill  it,  but  she  had 
seen  it  die.  And  in  watching  its  death  she 
had  not  suffered  such  agony  as  makes  a  wound 
that  may  never  be  healed. 

When  I  say  that  she  had  not  tried  to  kill  it, 
it  must  be  distinctly  understood  that  this  state- 
ment has  reference  only  to  the  time  when  it 
became  a  justifiable  act  on  her  part  to  let  it 
live.  She  tried  hard  enough  to  strangle  it,  to 
crush  it,  to  put  it  aside  in  any  way,  poor  thing, 
while  Cecil's  apparent  sanity  rendered  it  a  rep- 
rehensible thing.  But  afterward  she  suffered 
its  existence  with  patient,  mute  endurance. 
And  when  it  might  have  grown  and  strength- 
ened, it  was  an  altogether  new  pain  to  her  to 
see  it  fade  away  and  die. 

How  the  withering  influences  set  in,  why 
changes  should  have  come,  she  could  not  tell. 


No  jealous  vision  intervened  on  the  one  side, 
no  higher  ideal  dazzled  her  on  the  other.  She 
would  have  shrank  from  the  thought  of  his 
being  superseded  in  her  regard  as  from  some- 
thing soiling.  She  would  have  felt  degraded 
in  her  own  estimation  if  she  had  ever  experi- 
enced the  most  passing  twinges  of  regret  or  re- 
morse, or  mortification  or  annoyance  for  that 
she  had  unconsciously  thrown  a  halo  of  ro- 
mance over  her  sentiments  toward  him.  She 
could  bear  that  they  should  be  forced  into  the 
full  light  of  day  if  needs  be,  although  she  knew 
that  they  were  those  most  harrowing  of  all  the 
friends  we  have  left  behind  us— "  the  feelings" 
of  the  past. 

She  turned  to  the  contemplation  of  her  own 
case,  and  studied  it  analytically,  as  though  it 
had  been  the  case  of  an  interesting  friend  or 
enemy,  and  she  could  make  out  nothing  about 
it.  Here  was  no  fresh  interest  introduced,  no 
sort  of  satiety  involved,  no  feminine  vanity 
mixed  up  with  the  question.  He  had  not 
wearied  her,  nor  piqued  her,  nor  had  any  other 
man  put  his  light  out.  He  had  simply  ceased 
to  be  the  one  paramount  interest  life  held  for 
her.  And  how  had  this  come  about  ? 

She  could  not  tell ;  it  was  impossible  to  tell ! 
But  indulging  all  this  belief  in  the  impossibili- 
ty of  accurately  discerning  and  declaring  the 
"reason  why"  this  change  had  come,  there 
ran  a  silver  stream  of  suspicion  of  herself, 
which  compelled  her  to  seek  for  her  own  mo- 
tives, for  her  own  meaning,  for  her  own 
meannesses,"  in  short. 

Of  all  the  agonies  which  we  are  called  upon 
to  endure,  perhaps  this  supreme  one  of  leaving 
off  a  feeling  that  has  given  nil  the  vitality  to 
our  existence  for  a  given  period,  is  the  bitter- 
est, the  most  barren,  the  most  unsatisfying,  the 
most  demoniacally  tantalizing.  I  am  not  speak- 
ing now  of  those  common  cases  in  which  one 
nail  has  been  knocked  out  by  another,  or  in 
which  jealousy  has  done  battle  with  love  in 
our  souls,  or  in  which  a  certain  lightness  of 
heart,  and  slightness  of  feeling  has  carried  one 
away  from  the  secure  ground  of  "what  ought 
to  be  "  to  the  shifting  sands  of  what  "  might 
perhaps  be  pleasanter."  I  am  not  speaking 
now  of  these  which  are  comparatively  common 
cases.  I  am  speaking  of  the  far  sharper  pang 
a  woman  experiences  who  is  by  her  nature 
compelled  to  "leave  off"  suddenly  a  liking  or 
a  love  which  has  heretofore  been  like  life  to 
her,  and  who  can  not  even  to  herself  assign  a 
ren«on  for  doing  so. 

This  sort  of  self-release  is  one  that  if  we 
dared  to  tell  the  truth,  we  would  gladly  ex- 


108 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


change  for  the  harshest  bondage  love  can  im- 
pose upon  us.  '  For  after  we  have  achieved  it, 
the  world  is  apt  to  seem  "nothing  worth" — 
and  what  is  worse  even,  we  are  apt  to  regard 
the  follies  of  the  past,  committed  under  such  a 
much  gentler  regime,  as  so  very  inexcusable. 


"Is  it  a  phase?"  one  asks  with  anxiety. 
"Or  is  it  the  real,  right,  permanent  feeling 
which  ought  to  obtain  with  us ;  is  it  false,  and 
is  all  the  rest  true  ?" 

Echo  feebly  answers,  "  Is  all  the  rest  true  ?" 
but  who  can  answer  that  question. 


CHAPTER  XXIY. 

"LOVE    IS    ENOUGH." 


IX  months  to-day  since  poor  Cecil  went 
to  the  asylum !  By  Jove !  how  time 
passes !  It  doesn't  seem  so  long,  does  it,  now  ?" 

The  speaker  was  Frank  Stapylton,  the  time 
evening,  the  scene  just  above  the  old  Kingston 
Bridge. 

He  addressed  his  remarks  to  the  company 
generally,  and  the  company  consisted  of  one 
other  man  and  one  lady.  The  lady  only  an- 
swered it. 

"  Sometimes  it  seems  like  six  years  to  me : 
that's  when  I  think  of  all  the  changes  in  my- 
self. At  other  times  it  only  seems  like  six 
days :  that's  when  I  see  how  utterly  unchanged 
all  the  people  and  conditions  are  about  me." 

It  was  Horatia  Waldron  who  made  this  re- 
sponse, lifting  herself  up  from  her  cushioned 
seat,  and  resting  her  hand  on  the  shoulders  of 
the  man  who  was  pulling  bow" — her  brother 
Gilbert. 

"  You  see  a  change  of  color  here,  at  least, 
don't  you  ?"  Gilbert  Denham  said,  turning 
round,  lifting  his  cap  off,  and  running  his  fin- 
gers through  his  hair.  "  I'm  in  the  silvery  age 
thoroughly,  Horry.  I  wasn't  that  six  months 
ago,  dear ;  yet  you  speak  of  the  people  about 
you  being  *  utterly  unchanged.'  " 

"Perhaps  I  was  thinking  more  of  their 
hearts  than  their  heads,  Gilbert,"  she  said,  in  a 
free,  unthinking  way;  and  then  she  remem- 
bered how  much  fire  had  gone  out  in  her  own 
heart,  and  how  much  feeling  had  veered  about 
in  Frank  Stapylton's,  and  blushed  the  first  blush 
that  had  colored  her  cheeks  connected  with  him 
for  some  weeks. 

"  Do  you  think  there  has  been  no  change  in 
the  hearts  of  some  of  those  about  you,  then?"  he 
cried,  briskly,  cutting  into  the  conversation  in 
a  loud  tone,  as  his  honorable  position  of  stroke 
demanded.  "You  haven't  marked  signs  very 
closely,  I'm  afraid— in  my  case,  for  instance." 


She  looked  at  him  as  he  ceased  speaking, 
and  liked  him  so  much!  He  would  always 
have  such  a  thoroughly  good  place  in  her  esti- 
mation ;  but  how  could  she  ever  have  throbbed 
about  him  as  she  had  done  once  ?  Or,  rather, 
having  so  throbbed,  how  could  she  have  grown 
so  strangely  still,  and  calm,  and  cold,  as  she 
was  now  ?" 

She  asked  herself  this  question  as  he  looked 
back  at  her  with  his  old  unaltered,  bright,  frank 
smile ;  and  she  hated  herself  for  having  to  ask 
it.  He  was  the  same;  he  was  so  essentially 
the  same,  that  it  shamed  her  to  think  that  only 
the  other  day  she  had  regarded  him  with  such 
utterly  different  feelings.  He  was  the  same 
frank,  fine,  candid,  impressionable,  slightly  self- 
ish fellow,  whose  indifference  had  made  her 
purgatory  and  whose  interest  had  made  her 
heaven  but  a  short  time  ago ;  and  now,  though 
she  liked  him  as  well  as  ever,  she  found  herself 
now  and  again  attempting  to  give  herself  a  sat- 
isfactory reason  why  she  ever  loved  him. 

Presently  the  subject  that  was  uppermost  in 
the  thoughts  of  each  one  of  them  this  evening 
came  to  the  fore,  and  insisted  on  being  treated 
with  open  consideration. 

"Our  last  hours  in  the  Old  World  togeth- 
er, Horry!"  her  brother  said,  tenderly,  turning 
round  again  to  address  his  sister.  "  Will  you 
think  me  worth  following  into  the  New,  I 
wonder?  Or  will  you  wait  here  on  a  forlorn 
hope  ?" 

"  The  chances  are  that  I  shall  follow  you," 
she  said,  quietly.  And  then  their  stroke  roused 
himself,  and  came  lightly  back  to  join  them. 

"  You're  not  going  to  try  and  inveigle  Mrs. 
Arthur  across  the  herring-pond,  are  you,  Gil- 
bert ?"  he  said,  deprecatingly.  "  Putting  every 
other  consideration  out  of  the  question  (if  she 
wishes  it  to  be  so  put),  there  is  still  the  ques- 
tion of  the  succession  to  the  Larpington  estates 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


109 


to  be  watched  over  and  settled.  Poor  Cecil  is 
dying  as  fast  as  she  can,  they  tell  me,  and  she 
has  never  made  a  will." 

"If  it's  Gerald's  it  will  come  to  him  in  time," 
Horatia  answered,  cheerfully.  "  Meanwhile  I 
shall  do  him  more  efficient  service  in  trying 
to  teach  him  to  be  self-reliant  and  self-depend- 
ent, than  in  thrusting  my  hand  into  a  fire  that 
scorched  me  to  the  point  of  disabling  me  once 
before.  Besides,  if  I  follow  Gilbert — I  don't 
say  that  I  shall — but  if  I  do,  you'll  remain 
here,  and  you'll  always  have  a  keen  eye  on  my 
boy's  interests,  won't  you,  Frank  ?" 

She  said  it  with  such  heart-felt  intensity  of 
belief  in  him,  that  she  felt  taken  down  with  a 
jerk  when  he  answered, 

"You  don't  think  that  I  shall  remain  here 
if  you  and  Gilbert  go,  do  you  ?" 

'*  To  tell  the  truth,  I  had  never  thought  of 
forming  any  plans  for  myself  when  Gilbert 
shall  be  gone,  until  he  asked  me  just  now  if  I 
'thought  him  worth  following.'  As  for  you, 
Frank,  why,  of  course,  you'll  remain  here. 
Why  should  you  go  ?" 

"  Because  you  do,"  he  said,  abruptly.  And 
then  the  two  men  fell  to  their  work  of  pulling 
again,  and  the  lady  relapsed  into  silence,  with 
a  strong  feeling  that  it  would  have  been  better 
if  the  subject  had  not  been  mooted  at  all.  Ac- 
cording to  the  best  of  her  genuine  belief,  her 
sentiment  for  him  had  so  entirely  died  out,  that 
the  suggestion  of  the  possibility  of  his  love  re- 
awakening for  her  was  startling  and  perplex- 
ing. 

It  was  perplexing,  too,  when  they  idly  float- 
ed, as  they  did  now  and  again  for  the  men 
to  rest  on  their  oars  and  drink  Champagne,  to 
avoid  meeting  Frank's  questioning  gaze.  The 
old  love  which  she  had  had  for  him  so  long  had 
'  grown  faint  and  died  so  gradually,  had  merged, 
in  fact,  into  such  warm,  true  friendship,  that  he 
had  been  almost  unconscious  of  the  death  of 
that  which  had  been  Horatia's  life  for  a  weary 
period.  It  is  true  that  at  times  he  had  noted  a 
change.  Friendship  pure  and  simple  can  never 
feel  and  never  feign  the  engrossing,  monopoliz- 
ing, jealous,  eager  interest  in  the  thoughts,  and 
words,  and  deeds  of  the  friend,  that  love  can 
not  keep  itself  from  exhibiting  far  too  freely 
to  the  lover.  He  had  discovered  that  though 
Mrs.  Arthur  Waldron  was  very  glad  to  see  him 
when  he  came,  she  was  not  very  miserable 
when  he  staid  away  ;  but  though  he  had  dis- 
cerned this  change,  he  was  neither  hurt,  nor 
mortified,  nor  piqued  by  it.  He  really  be- 
lieved that  it  was  due  to  her  sense  of  certainty 
about  him.  He  fancied  that  as  he  thoroughly 


intended  to  propose  to  her  to  become  his  wife 
by-and-by,  she  had  fathomed  that  intention, 
and  that  therefore  her  heart  was  at  peace — the 
demons  of  doubt  and  restless,  jealous  anxiety 
exorcised,  and  satisfied  certainty  ruling  in  the 
place  of  suspense  that  was  sometimes  almost 
despair. 

But  her  words  this  evening  undeceived  him. 
They  showed  him,  without  any  design  on  her 
part,  that  he  had  passed  out  of  the  radius  of 
her  calculations.  He  knew  at  once  that  this 
abnegation  was  a  genuine  thing.  Horatia  was 
not  a  woman  to  feign  to  retire  in  order  to  make 
a  man  advance.  It  was  a  genuine  thing,  a  re- 
ality, and  no  coquettish  sham  ;  and  he  could  not 
refrain  from  fastening  his  eyes  on  hers  with  a 
look  that  besought  her  to  tell  him  the  reason 
why. 

And  she  understood  that  questioning  look, 
and  felt  sorry  for  him  that  he  should  cure  to 
ask,  and  sorry  for  herself  that  she  should  bo 
compelled  to  answer — sorry  for  the  change,  too, 
in  a  measure.  Why  had  it  not  come  when  she 
would  have  hailed  it  as  her  deliverer  and  sav- 
ior ?  Why  had  it  not  foreshadowed  itself  in 
those  old  days  when  to  have  dreamed  of  the 
possibility  of  one  day  being  indifferent  to  him 
would  have  been  such  a  boon  to  her  harassed 
heart  ?  But  to  come  now,  when  it  would  only 
bring  disappointment  to  his  heart,  and  nothing 
but  passive  peace  to  hers !  It  was  hard,  too 
hard,  to  be  a  just  dispensation. 

"Shall  I  go  home  with  you  this  evening?" 
he  asked,  as  she  was  going  into  the  carriage 
that  was  waiting  for  them;  and  before  she 
could  say  "  yes,"  Gilbert  interposed. 

*'  Don't  think  me  an  inhospitable  brute  for 
saying  *  No '  to-night,  Stapylton.  I  have  some- 
thing to  say  to  her  that  it's  time  she  heard, 
and  that  I  can't  well  say  before  a  third  person. 
Come  and  lunch  with  us  to-morrow,  will  you  ?" 

"I  wish  he  had  been  let  come  to-night,  that 
I  might  have  got  it  over,"  Horatia  thought ; 
and  then  she  let  herself  drift  away  into  a  sea 
of  conjecture  and  dread  about  her  brother's 
promised  communication.  "I  do  hope  that 
he  is  not  going  to  tell  me  that  it's  his  feeling 
for  Cecil  that  is  driving  him  from  the  coun- 
try," she  thought.  "  She  is  such  an  unworthy 
object  for  a  man  to  develop  constancy  about. 
I'm  glad  poor  Frank  got  over  that,  at  any  rate 
—though  he  isn't  much  wiser  now."  And  then 
she  sighed  sorrowfully,  partly  from  fatigue,  and 
partly  because  she  had  a  dim  sense  that  she 
really  deserved  to  be  made  unhappy,  because 
she  was  not  ready  to  take  the  good  the  gods 
were  willing  to  give  her.  Her  long,  full- 


110 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


drawn  sigh  depressed  her  brother,  filling  him 
as  it  did  with  dismal  forebodings  of  the  recep- 
tion she  would  give  to  his  news — with  dismal 
forebodings  as  to  the  wisdom  of  the  fact  which 
he  was  about  to  communicate  —  with  drear 
doubts  as  to  the  advisability  of  any  thing  he 
had  ever  done  or  intended  to  do — and  with  a 
dire,  rapidly-dawning  conviction  that  perfect 
happiness  and  contentment  with  all  things 
would  no  more  be  his  portion  in  the  New 
World  than  they  had  been  in  the  Old. 

He  was  about  to  leave  England  in  two  or 
three  days,  in  order  to  go  out  to  New  York 
and  carry  out  a(  commercial  scheme  which  had 
been  projected  by  a  company  of  which  he  was 
the  principal  part.  It  was  not  this  fact  which 
he  shrank  from  communicating  to  his  sister. 
She  knew  this  well,  and  had  talked  to  him 
about  it  a  great  deal,  discussing  it  rather  ag- 
gravatingly,  from  the  real  womanly  point  of 
view,  and  arguing  that  as  he  had  so  much 
money  already,  why  should  he  seek  to  increase 
his  capital  in  a  sphere  and  by  means  that  were 
not  congenial  to  him  ?  It  was  not  this  plan  of 
self-expatriation  that  he  had  to  submit  to  her ; 
but  it  was  something  that  kept  him  strangely 
silent  as  they  drove  home,  and  his  silence  steep- 
ed her  in  a  sort  of  hazy,  wondering  mood,  that 
caused  her  to  seem  absent,  and  made  him  fear, 
with  a  pang,  that  she  would  be  unsympathetic. 

Unsympathetic  about  what?  Ay,  that  she 
would  know  far  too  soon  for  her  sisterly  satis- 
faction. 

They  had  a  late  repast  that  night,  a  meal 
that  was  dinner  in  substance  and  supper  in 
seeming  —  a  free,  fetterless  sort  of  meal,  at 
which  they  were  not  restrained  from  speech,  or 
constrained  to  take  that  which  they  did  not 
want,  by  the  presence  of  servants.  And  it  was 
toward  the  close  of  this  out-of-course  banquet 
that  Gilbert  Denham  said, 

"Horry,  I'm  going  to  tell  you  a  decision 
I've  come  to  lately.  When  you  hear  it,  bear 
in  mind  that  you  are  the  only  person,  the  only 
consideration  in  the  world  that  has  made  me 
waver  as  to  my  own  wisdom  in  having  come 
to  it." 

He  spoke  earnestly,  and  she  was  thrown  off' 
her  balance  at  once. 

"Gilbert,  whatever  you  have  done  or  are 
going  to  do  must  be  right,  and  the  best  thing, 
I'm  sure  of  that.  But — you  haven't  been  rash, 
have  you,  dear  ?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  will  think  when 
you  know  all  about  it,"  he  said,  with  a  gasp 
and  an  effort.  "  You  have  wished  that  I  would 
marry  again." 


"  I  have,  I  have ;  but,  Gilbert,  forgive  me,  I 
hope  you  have  chosen  some  one  who  is  so  es- 
sentiiil  to  your  happiness,  so  sure  to  conduce  to 
it,  as  to  make  it  unimportant  to  you  whether  I 
subscribe  heartily  to  the  new  scheme  or  not. 
I  shall  be  glad,  proud  to  hear  you  say,  '  Here 
is  my  bride ;  renounce  me  if  you  don't  rely 
upon  her  as  thoroughly  as  I  do.'  It's  what  a 
man  ought  to  feel  for  the  woman  he  marries." 

She  spoke  with  a  sort  of  panting  enthusi- 
asm. She  was  so  very  anxious  that  her  broth- 
er should  mate  himself  metely  this  second 
time.  She  started,  visibly  shocked,  as  though 
she  had  received  a  shower-bath,  when,  in  an- 
swer to  her  appeal,  he  said, 

"  Your  opinion  can  never  be  unimportant  to 
me,  Horry.  I  hope  it  won't  be  a  very  bad  one 
of  the  whole  business,  when  I  tell  you  that  I 
am  going  to  marry  Emmeline  Vicary." 

His  sister  could  not  control  her  nerves ;  they 
would  betray  the  surprise,  the  almost  horror 
she  felt.  But  she  could  and  she  did  control 
her  tongue.  She  recovered  her  breath  with  a 
sigh,  and,  as  she  did  not  break  the  silence,  he 
went  on : 

"It  must  all  seem  very  strange  to  you  :  it 
does  to  myself  at  times ;  but  I  have  not  been 
so  madly  rash  as  you  are  certainly  justified  in 
supposing  me  to  be.  You  remember  that  time 
I  saw  her  in  the  Kow  that  last  time  I  was  out 
with  poor  Cecil?  Well,  appearances  were 
against  her,  as  I  told  you,  and  I  was  sorry  for 
her,  as  any  man  would  have  been  for  a  womnn 
who  had  loved  him  as  she  undoubtedl}1-  had 
loved  me.  So  I  found  her  out,  and  discovered 
that  it  was  only  appearances  that  were  against 
her.  In  her  ignorance  of  the  ways  of  the 
world,  she  took  dubious  means  to  attain  an  end 
that  was  not  altogether  unjustifiable  in  her  po- 
sition. '  My  mother  is  always  throwing  in  my 
teeth  that  I'm  a  burden  to  her,  and  that  it's 
through  me  we  shall  taste  poverty  again,'  she 
said.  *  She  says  if  I  show  myself  in  the  Park 
some  rich  fool  may  take  a  fancy  and  make  me 
his  wife.  It  doesn't  matter  to  me ;  my  feel- 
ings are  all  blunted,  and  I've  nothing  more  to 
lose.' " 

"  I  was  sorry  for  her,  very  sorry  for  her ;  she 
spoke  and  she  looked  restless,  but  through  all 
her  restlessness  there  ran  the  strong  vein  of 
genuine  liking  for  me.  She  had  done  wrong, 
and  I  had  been  the  means  of  her  wrong-doing 
and  her  mother's  being  discovered,  but  she 
never  gave  me  one  reproach,  or  seemed  to  have 
one  hard  thought  about  me ;  one  isn't  loved 
like  that  every  day;  it  told  on  me  in  time. 
Without  having  any  definite  aim,  I  let  myself 


THE  TWO  WIDOWS. 


Ill 


drift  along,  seeing  her  often,  finding  out,  grad- 
ually, that  there  was  a  fine  original  nature, 
perverted  as  it  had  been  by  training,  and  edu- 
cation, and  example ;  and  at  last  I  took  the 
leap,  and  asked  her  to  be  my  wife.  Her  de- 
votion to  me  is  absolute.  We  shall  begin  our 
new  life  with  as  fair  a  chance  of  happiness,  per- 
haps, as  most  people,  for  we  shall  begin  it  in  a 
place  where  there  will  be  no  knowledge  of  her 
past  life  to  prejudice  people  against  her,  and 
mortify  me." 

He  ceased  speaking,  and  looked  wistfully  at 
his  sister ;  and  she  went  over  to  him  and  kiss- 
ed him,  and  wished  him  happiness  firmly,  and 
felt  the  while  that  the  ground  had  been  cut  from 
under  her  feet  completely  by  this  last  announce- 
ment of  his.  The  home  over  which  Emmeline 
Vicary  presided,  could  never  be  a  home  for  her 
and  her  children,  however  excellent  a  person 
love  might  cause  Emmeline  to  develop  into. 
She  constrained  herself,  and  would  utter  no 
word  of  censure  to  her  brother  now.  But  she 
knew  that  his  wife  would  be  a  barrier  between 
Gilbert  and  herself,  and  she  did  feel  terribly 
alone  in  the  world. 

In  her  bewilderment  she  felt  a  return  of  the 
old  craving  for  Frank  Stapylton's  sympathy— a 
return  of  the  old  longing  to  tell  him  of  all  that 
interested  her,  and  concerned  her  nearly  —  a 
positive  need  of  friendly  companionship  in  this 
unexpected  trouble  of  hers. 

"He  likes  Gilbert,  and  will  never  say  any 
thing  cutting  or  unkind,  and  yet  he  will  know 
so  well  what  I  must  feel  about  it,"  she  said  to 
herself  as  she  sat  alone  that  night,  pondering 
over  all  the  changes  that  had  been  wrought  in 
the  affairs  of  those  who  were  dearest  and  near- 
est to  her  during  the  last  two  years.  And 
when  she  did  rouse  herself  from  her  somewhat 
gloomy  meditations  at  last,  it  was  with  a  return 
to  the  old  glad  conviction  that  at  least  she  could 
rely  in  full  security  on  Frank  Stapylton. 

He  came  to  luncheon  the  next  day  as  had 
been  arranged,  and  all  things  were  in  favor  of 


his  scheme  of  happiness  at  any  rate.  Horatia 
was  openly  anxious  to  greet  him,  openly  glad 
to  see  him— impatient  to  tell  him  her  news— 
and  Gilbert  was  absent  on  duty  with  Miss  Vic- 
ary. 

She  told  him  "  all  about  it "  in  the  eager,  dis- 
jointed way  in  which  people  do  tell  facts  to  a 
sympathetic  auditor  of  whom  they  are  sure, 
and  he  listened  as  eagerly  and  responded  as 
heartily  as  even  she  could  desire.  And  she 
pleaded  her  brother's  cause  so  warmly  and  so 
well,  that  Frank  soon  found  himself  declaring 
that  "Gilbert  was  quite  right— that  a  wife  who 
loved  him  was  more  to  a  man  than  the  world's 
pproval,"  and  that  altogether,  in  this  world  of 
folly  and  sin,  that  human  being  is  the  wisest 
and  the  best  who  realizes  before  it  is  too  late 
that  love  is  enough. 

All  the  surrounding  conditions  were  in  his 
favor,  and  she  had  not  the  heart  nor  the  wish 
to  break  one  of  them.  The  reign  of  romance 
might  bo  over  with  her,  but  reason  told  her 
that  she  would  be  infinitely  happier  with  Frank 
than  without  him,  and  that,  after  all,  good  had 
come  out  of  that  exaggerated  longing  for  Lar- 
pington  which  had  carried  her  down  to  wsiteh 
on  the  spot  where  first  she  had  known  Frank 
Stapylton. 

That  the  hope  still  lives  that  when  Cecil 
dies  little  Gerald's  claim  as  next  of  kin  will  be 
established  to  the  Larpington  estates  is  only 
natural.  But  it  is  no  longer  th.e  engrossing 
hope  of  her  life.  For  she  is  the  well-cared- 
for  wife  of  a  wealthy  man,  who  will  take  good 
care  of  her  children's  future,  even  should  that 
poor  creature  in  the  asylum  linger  on  for  years. 

As  for  Gilbert,  he  is  thriving,  prosperous,  sat- 
isfied, and  perfectly  contented  with  a  wife  who 
worships  him ;  while  Frank  is  thriving,  prosper- 
ous, and  perfectly  satisfied  with  a  wife  whom 
he  worships.  In  matrimony,  as  in  friendship 
and  love,  to  be  perfectly  happy,  one  of  tho  firm 
must  feel  and  act  on  the  feeling  that  it  is  "more 
blessed  to  give  than  to  receive." 


Besant,  (Sir)  Walter 
4104       My  little  girl 
M9 
1873 


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