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CORNELL

UNIVERSITY

LIBRARY

GIFT OF

Mr, & Mrs, Bernard Herman

Cornell University Library
<^*A 4842.T9 1906

Two years ago,

3 1924 008 847 356

The original of tliis book is in
tlie Cornell University Library.

There are no known copyright restrictions in
the United States on the use of the text.

http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924008847356

TWO YEARS AGO

TWO YEARS AGO

BY

CHARLES KINGSLEY

ILonUon

MACMILLAX AND CO., Limited

NEW YORK : THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1906

All rights reser^'ed

First printed i^Z Vols. Crozun 2>vo) February 1857. Second, April 1857

Third Edition (i I'ol. Crown Zvo) 1859. Fourth^ 1866. Reprinted 1871

1872, 1873, 1874, 1875, 1876, 1877, 1879, 1880, 1881, 1882, 1883, 1884,

1886, 1887, 1888

Fi/tk Edition, January 1889. Rcpri?ited August 1889, February 1890;

1891, 1B92, 1893, 18^5, 1898, 1900, 1902, 1906

Eversley Edition (2 Vols. Globe %vd) 1881. Reprinted 1893

Pocket Edition (2 Vols. Pot %vo) 1835

Sixpenny Edition 1893. Reprinted iZgi.

CONTENTS

CHAP.

Introdtjctort

PAGE
1

I. Poetry and Prose . . . , ,

. 18

II. Still Life

. 38

III. Anything but Still Life ....

. 52

IV. Flotsom, Jetsom, and Lagend

. 63

V. The Wat to win Them

. 84

\l. An Old Foe with a New Face

. 95

VII. La Cordifiamma

. 100

VIII. Taking Root

. 113

IX. 'Am I not a Woman and a Sister?'

127

X. The Recognition . ...

. 140

XI. The First Insialment of an Old Debt

169

XII. A Peer in Trouble

. 183

XIII. L'HoMME Incompris

. 191

!vIV. The Doctor at Bay .....

201

XV. The Cruise of the ' AVateiiwitch

235

XA'I. Come at Last

272

XVII. Baalzebue's Banquet

28-i

XVIII. The Black Hound .

, 299

XIX. Beddgelert

. 311

VI rONTIOXTS

CHAP. PAGE

XX. Both Sides of the Moon at onoe . . . 333

XXI. N.^tuue'.s Melodrama . . . 353

XXII. Fond, yet not Foolish . 369

XXIII. The Broad Stone of Honour . ... 376

XXIV. The Thirtieth of September . 384
XXV. The Banker and his Daughter . . . 403

XXVI. Too Late . . . . . 428

XXVII. A Recent Explosion in ax Ancient Crater . 445

XXVIII. Last Christmas Eve . . ..,458

TWO YEARS AGO

INTRODUCTORY

It may seem a somewhat Irish method of beginning the story
of Two Years Ago by a scene which happened but a month
since. And yet, will not the story be on that very account a
better type of many a man's own experiences 1 How few of us
had learnt the meaning of 'Two years ago' until this late quiet
autumn time ; and till Christmas, too, with its gaps in the old
ring of friendly faces, never to be filled up again on earth, began
to teach us somewhat of its lesson.

Two years ago, while pestilence was hovering over us and
ours, while the battle -roar was ringing in our ears, who had
time to think, to ask what all that meant ; to seek for the deep
lesson which we knew must lie beneath ? Two years ago was
the time for work : for men to do with all their might what-
soever their hands found to do. But now the storm has lulled
once more ; the air has cleared awhile, and we can talk calmly
over all the wonders of that sudden, strange, and sad ' Two years
ago.'

So felt, at least, two friends who went down, just one week
before Christmas Day, to Whitbury in Berkshire. Two years
ago had come to one of them, as to thousands more, the crisis of
his life ; and he was talking of it with his companion ; and was
on his way, too, to learn more of that story which this book
contains, and in which he had borne his part.

They were both of them men who would at first sight interest
a stranger. The shorter of the two he might have seen before —
at picture sales. Royal Academy meetings, dinner parties, even-
ing parties, anywhere and everywhere in town ; for Claude
Mellot is a general favourite, and a general guest.

He is a tiny, delicate-featured man, with a look of half -lazy
enthusiasm about his beautiful face, which reminds you much
of Shelley's portrait ; only he has what Shelley had not, cluster-
ing auburn curls, and a rich brown beard, soft as silk. You set
B ffi T. Y. A.

2 TWO YEARS AGO

him down at once as a man of delicate susceptibility, sweetness,
thoughtfulness ; probably (as he actually is) an artist.

His companion is a man of statelier stamp, tall, dark, and
handsome, with a very large forehead : if the face has a fault, it
is that the mouth is too small ; that, and the expression of face
too, and the tone of voice, seem to indicate over-refinement,
possibly a too aristocratic exclusiveness. He is dressed like a
very fine gentleman indeed, and looks and talks like one. Aris-
tocrat, howe\'er, in the common sense of the word, he is not ;
for he is a native of the ]\Iodel Republic, and sleeping jjartner in
a great New York merchant firm.

He is chatting away to Claude Mellot, the artist, about Fre-
mont's election ; and on that point seems to be earnest enough,
though patient and moderate.

' ily dear Claude, our loss is gain. The delay of the next four
years was really necessary, that we might consolidate our party.
And T leave you to judge, if it has grown to its present size in
but a few months, what dimensions it will have attained before
the next election. We require the delay, too, to discover who
are our really best men ; not merely as orators, but as workers ;
and you English ought to know, better than any nation, that the
latter class of men are those whom the world most needs — that
though Aaron may be an altogether inspired preacher, yet it is
only slow-tongued, practical Moses, whose spokesman he is, who
can deliver Israel from their taskmasters. Besides, my dear
fellow, we really want the next four years — " tell it not in Gath"
— to look about us, and see what is to be done. Your wisest
Englishmen justly complain of us, that our " platform " is as yet
a merely negative one ; that we define what the South shall not
do, but not what the North shall. Ere four years be over, we
will have a " positive platform," at which you shall have no cause
to grumble.'

' I still think with !Marie, that your " positive platform '' is
already made for you, plain as the sun in heaven, as the light-
nings of Sinai. Free those slaves at once and utterly ! '

' Impatient idealist ! By what means ? By law, or by force?
Leave us to draw a cordon mnitaire round the tainted States, and
leave the system to die a natural death, as it rapidly will if it be
prevented from enlarging its field. Don't fancy that a dream of
mine. None know it better than the Southerners themselves.
What makes them ready just now to risk honour, justice, even
the common law of nations and humanity, in the struggle for
new slave territory ? What but the consciousness that without
^irgin soil, which will yield rapid and enormous profit to slave
labour, they and their institution must be ruined ! '

' The more reason for accelerating so desirable a consumma-
tion by freeing the slaves at once.'

' Humph ! ' said Stangrave, with a smile. ' Who so cruel at
times as your too-benevolent philanthropist ? Did you ever

INTRODUCTORY 3

count the meaning of those words ? Disruption of the Union,
an invasion of the South by the North ; and an intei-necine war,
aggravated by the horrors of a general rising of the slaves, and
such scenes as Hayti beheld sixty years ago. If you have ever
read them, you will pause ere you determine to repeat them on
a vaster scale.'

' It is dreadful, Heaven knows, even in thought ! But, Stan-
grave, can any moderation on your part ward it off? Where
there is crime, there is vengeance ; and without shedding of
blood is no remission of sin.'

' God knows ! It may be true : but God forbid that I should
ever do aught to hasten what may come. O Claude, do you
fancy that I, of all men, do not feel at moments the thirst for
brute vengeance 1 '

Claude was silent.

' Judge ior yourself, you who know all — what man among us
Northerners can feel, as I do, what those hapless men may have
deserved ? — I who have day and night before me the brand of
their cruelty, filling my heart with fire ? I need all my strength,
all my reason, at times to say to myself, as I say to others —
"Are not these slaveholders men of like passions with yourself?
What have they done which you would not have done in their
place ? " I have never read that Key to Uncle Tom's Cabin. I
will not even read this Dred, admirable as I believe it to be.'

' Why should you ? ' said Claude. ' Have you not a key to
Uncle Tom's Cabin more pathetic than any word of man's or
woman's ? '

' But I do not mean that ! I will not read them, because I
have the key to them in my own heart, Claude : because con-
science has taught me to feel for the Southerner as a brother,
who is but what I might have been ; and to sigh over his mis-
directed courage and energy, not with hatred, not with contempt,
but with pity, all the more intense the more he scorns that pity;
to long, not merely for the slaves' sake, but for the masters'
sake, to see them — the once chivalrous gentlemen of the South
— delivered from the meshes of a net which they did not spread
for themselves, but which was round their feet, and round their
fathers', from the day that they were born. You ask me to
destroy these men. I long to save them from their certain
doom ! '

' You are right, and a better Christian than I am, I believe.
Certainly they do need pity, if any sinners do ; for slavery seems
to be — to judge from Mr. Brooks' triumph — a great moral curse,
and a heavier degradation to the slaveholder himself, than it
can ever be to the slave.'

' Then I would free them from that curse, that degradation.
If the negro asks, " Am I not a man and a brother ? " have they
no right to ask it also ? Shall I, pretending to love my country,
venture on any rash step which may shut out the whole Southern

4 TWO YEARS AGO

white population from their sliare in my country's future gloryl
No ; have but patience with us, you comfortable liberals nf tlie
Old World, who find freedom ready made to your hands, and we
will pay you all. Remember, we are but children yf-t ; our sins
are the sins of youth, — greediness, intemperance, petulance,
self-conceit. When we are purged from our youthful sins, Eng-
land will not be ashamed of her child.'

' Ashamed of you ? I often wish I could make Americans
understand the feeling of England to you — the honest pride, as
of a mother who has brought into the world the biggest baby
that ever this earth beheld, and is rather proud of its stamping
about and beating her in its pretty pets. Only the old lady
does get a little cross when she hears you talk of the wrongs
which you have endured from her, and teaching your children to
hate us as their ancient oppressors, on the ground of a foolish
war, of which every Englishman is utterly ashamed, and in the
result of which he glories really as much as you do.'

' Don't talk of " you," Claude ! You know well wliat I think
on that point. Xe\-er did one nation make the mnemle Iionornble
to another more fully and nobly than you have to us ; and those
who try to keep up the quarrel are — I won't say what. But the
truth is, Claude, we have had no real sorrows ; and therefore we
can afford to play with imaginary ones. God grant that we
may not have our real ones — that we may not have to drink of
the cup of which our great mother drank two years ago ! '

' It was a wholesome bitter for us ; and it may be so for you
likewise : but we will ha^e no sad forebodings on the eve of the
blessed Christmas-tide. He lives, He loves. He reigns ; and all
is well, for we are His, and He is ours.'

' Ah,' said Stangrave, ' when Emerson sneered at you English
for believing your Old Testament, he little thought that that was
the lesson which it had taught you ; and that that same lesson
was the root of all your greatness. Th.nt that belief in God's
being, in some mysterious way, the living King of England and
of Christendom, has been the very idea which has kept you in
peace and safety now for many a hundred years, moving slowly
on from good to better, not without many backslidings and
many shortcomings, but still finding out, quickly enough, when
you were on the wrong road, and not ashamed to retrace your
steps, and to reff»-m, as brave strong men should dare to do ; a
people who have been for many an age in the vanguard of all
the nations, and the champions of sure and solid progress
throughout the world ; because what is new among you is not
patched artificially on to the old, but grows organically out of
it, with a growth like that of your own English oak, whose
every new-year's leaf -crop is fed by roots which burrow deep in
many a buried generation, and the rich soil of full a thousand
years.'

' Stay ! ' said the little artist. ' We are quite conceited enough

INTRODUCTORY 5

already, without your eloquent adulation, sir ! But there is a
truth in your words. There is a better spirit roused among us,
and that not merely of two years ago. I knew this part of the
country well in 1846-7-8, and since then, I can bear witness, a
spirit of self-reform has been awakened round here, in many a
heart which I thought once utterly frivolous. I find, in every
?ircle of every class, men and women asking to be taught their
duty, that they may go and do it ; I find everywhere schools,
libraries, and mechanics' institutes springing up : and rich and
poor meeting together more and more in the faith that God has
made them all. As for the outward and material improvements
— you know as well as I, that since free trade and emigration,
the labourers confess themselves better off than they have been
for fifty years ; and though you will not see in the chalk counties
that rapid and enormous agricultural improvement which you
will in Lincolnshire, Yorkshire, or the Lothians, yet you shall
see enough to-day to settle for you the question whether we old-
country folk are in a state of decadence and decay. Par
exemple '

And Claude pointed to the clean large fields, with their neat
close-clipt hedge-rows, among which here and there stood cot-
tages, more than three-fourths of them new.

'Those well-drained fallow fields, ten years ago, were poor
clay pastures, fetlock deep in mire six months in the year, and
accursed in the eyes of my poor dear old friend. Squire Laving-
ton ; because they were so full of old moles'-nests, that they threw
all horses down. I am no farmer : but they seem surely to be
somewhat altered since then.'

As he spoke, they turned off the main line of the rolling clays
toward the foot of the chalk-hills, and began to brush through
short cuttings of blue gault and ' green sand,' so called by geo-
logists, because its usual colours are bright brown, snow-white,
and crimson.

Soon they get glimpses of broad silver Whit, as she slides,
with divided streams, through bright water-meadows, and stately
groves of poplar, and abele, and pine ; while, far aloft upon the
left, the downs rise steep, crowned with black fir spinnies, and
dotted with dark box and juniper.

Soon they pass old Whitford Priory, with its numberless
gables nestling amid mighty elms, and the Nunpool flashing and
roaring as of old, and the broad shallow below sparkling and
laughing in the low, but bright December sun.

' So slides on the noble river, for ever changing, and yet for
ever the same — always fulfilling its errand, which yet is never
fulfilled,' said Stangrave, — he was given to half-mystic utter-
ances, and hankerings after pagan mythology, learnt in the
days when he worshipped Emerson, and tried (but unsuccess-
fully) to worship Margaret Fuller Ossoli. 'Those old Greeks
had a deep insight into nature, when they gave to each river

6 TWO YEARS ACO

not merely a name, but a semi-human personality, a river-god
of its own. It may be but a collection of ever-changing atoms
of water ; what is your body but a similar collection of atoms,
decaying and renewing every moment ? Yet you are a jierson ;
and is not the river, too, a person — a live thing? It has an
individual countenance which you love, which you would recog-
nise again, meet it where you will ; it marks the whole land-
scape : it determines probably the geography and the society of
a whole district. It draws you, too, to itself by an indefinable
mesmeric attraction. If you stop in a strange place, the first
instinct of your idle half-hour is, to lounge by the river. It is
a person to you ; you call it — Scotchmen do, at least — she, and
not it. How do you know that you are not philosophically
correct, and that the river has a spirit as well as you ? '

' Humph ! ' said Claude, who talks mysticism himself by the
hour, but snubs it in every one else. ' It has trout, at least ;
and they stand, I suppose, for its soul, as the raisins did for
those of Jean Paul's gingerbread bride and bridegroom and per-
adventure baby.'

' Oh you materialist English ! sporting-mad all of you, from
the duke who shooteth stags to the clod who poacheth rabbits ! '

' And who therefore can fight Russians at Inkermann, duke
and clod alike, and side by side ; never better (says the chronicler
of old) than in their first battle. I can neither fight nor fish, and
on the whole agy-ee with you : but I think it proper to be as
English as I can in the presence of an American.'

A whistle — a creak — a jar ; and they stop at the little Whit-
ford station, where a cicerone for the vale, far better than Claude
was, made his appearance, in the person of Mark Armsworth,
banker, railway director, and de facto king of Whitbury town,
long since elected by universal suffrage (his own vote included)
as permanent locum tenens of her gracious Majesty.

He hails Claude cheerfully from the platform, as he waddles
about, with a face as of the rising sun, radiant with good fun,
good humour, good deeds, good news, and good living. His coat
was scarlet once, but purple now. His leathers and boots were
doubtless clean this morning ; but are now afflicted with ele-
phantiasis, being three inches deep in solid mud, which his old
groom is scraping off" as fast as he can. His cap is duntled in ;
his back bears fresh stains of peat ; a gentle rain distils from
the few angles of his person, and bedews the platform ; for !Mark
Armsworth has ' been in Whit ' to-day.

All porters and guards touch their hats to him ; the station-
master rushes up and down frantically, shouting, 'Where are
those horse-boxes 1 Now then, look alive ! ' for Mark is chair-
man of the line, and everybody's friend beside ; and as he
stands there being scraped, he finds time to inquire after every
one of the officials by turns, and after their wives, children, and
sweethearts beside.

INTRODUCTORY 7

'What a fine specimen of your English squire!' says Stan-
grave.

' He is no squire ; he is the Whitbury banker, of whom I
told you.'

' Annsworth ? ' said Stangrave, looking at the old man with
interest.

' Mark Armsworth himself. He is acting as squire, though,
now ; for he has hunted the Whitford Priors ever since poor
old Lavington's death.'

' Now then — those horse-boxes ! ' . . .

' Very sorry, sir ; I telegraphed up, but we could get but one
down.'

' Put the horses into that, then ; and there's an empty
carriage ! Jack, put the hounds into it, and they shall all go
second-class, as sure as I'm chairman ! '

The grinning porters hand the strange passengers in, while
i\Iark counts the couples with his whip-point, —

' Eavager — Roysterer ; Melody — Gay-lass ; all right. Why,
Where's that old thief of a Goodman ? '

' Went over a gate as soon as he saw the couples ; and
wouldn't come in at any price, sii-,' says the huntsman. ' Gone
home by himself, I expect.'

' Goodman, Goodman, boy ! ' And forthwith out of the
station-room slips the noble old hound, gray-nosed, gray-eye-
browed, who has hidden, for purposes of his own, till he sees all
the rest safe locked in.

Up he goes to Mark, and begins wriggling against his knees,
and looking up as only dogs can. ' Oh, want to go first-class
with me, eh ? Jump in, then ! ' And in jumps the hound, and
Mark struggles after him.

' Hillo, sir ! Come out ! Here are your betters here before
you,' as he sees Stangrave, and a fat old lady in the opposite
corner.

' Oh, no ; let the dog stay ! ' says Stangrave.

' I shall wet you, sir, I'm afraid.'

'Oh, no.'

And Mark settles himself, puffing, with the hound's head on
his knees, and begins talking fast and loud.

' Well, Mr. Mellot, you're a stranger here. Haven't seen you
since poor Miss Honour died. Ah, sweet angel she was !
Thought my Mary would never get over it. She's just such
another, though I say it, barring the beauty. Goodman, boy !
You recollect old Goodman, son of Galloper, that the old squire
gave our old squire 1 '

Claude, of course, knows — as all do who know those parts —
who the Old Squire is ; long may he live, patriarch of the
chase ! The genealogy he does not.

' Ah, well — Miss Honour took to the pup, and used to walk
him out ; and a prince of a hound he is ; so now he's old we let

8 TWO YEARS AGO

him have liis own way, for her sake ; and nobody '11 ever bully
you, will they, (ioodman, my boy?'

' I want to introduce you to a friend of mine.'

'Proud to know any friend of yours, sir.'

'iMr. Stangrave — Mr. Armsworth. ^Ir. 8tangrave is an
American gentleman, who is anxious to see Whitbury and the
neighbourhood.'

' Well, I shall be happy to show it him, then — can't have a
better guide, though I say it — know everything by this time,
and everybody, man, woman, and child, as I hope Mr. Stan-
grave '11 find when he gets to know old ^lark.'

' You must not speak of getting to know you, my dear sir ; I
know you intimately already, I assure you ; and more, am under
very deep obligations to you, which, I regret to say, I can only
repay by thanks.'

' Obligation to me, my dear sir ?'

' Indeed I am : I will tell you all when we are alone.' And
Stangrave glanced at the fat old woman, who seemed to be
listening intently.

' Oh, never mind her,' says Armsworth ; ' deaf as a post :
very good woman, but so deaf — ought to speak to her, though ' —
and, reaching across, to the infinite amusement of his com-
panions, he roared in the fat woman's face, with a voice as of a
speaking-trumpet, 'Glad to see you, Mrs. Grove! Got those
dividends ready for you next time you come into town.'

' Yah ! ' screamed the hapless woman, who (as the rest saw)
heard perfectly well. ' What do you mean, frightening a lady
in that way ? Deaf, indeed ! '

' Why,' roared I\lark again, ' ain't you ilrs. Grove, of Drytown
Dirty water ? '

' No, nor no acquaintance ! What business is it of your'n,
sir, to go hollering in ladies' faces at your age ? '

' Well : — but I'll swear if you ain't her, you're somebody else.
I know you as well as the town clock.'

' Me ? If you must know, sir, I'm Mrs. Pettigrew's mother,
the linendraper's establishment, sir ; a-going down for Christ-
mas, sir ! '

'Humph!' says Mark; 'you see — was sure I knew her —
know everybody here. As I said, if she wasn't ^Irs. Grove, she
was somebody else. Ever in these parts before 1 '

' Never : but I have heard a good deal of them ; and very
much charmed with them I am. I have seldom seen a more
distinctive specimen of English scenery.'

' And how you are improving round here I ' said Claude, wlio
knew ^Mark's weak points, and wanted to draw him out. ' Your
homesteads seem all new ; three fields have been thrown into
one, I fancy, over half the farms.'

ilark broke out at once on his favourite topic. ' I believe
you I I'm making the mare go here in Whitford, without the

INTRODUCTORY 9

money too, sometimes. I'm steward now, bailiff— ha ! ha ! these
four years past — to ilrs. Lavington's Irish husband ; I wanted
him to ha\e a regular agent, a canny Scot, or Yorkshiieman.
Faith, the poor man couldn't afford it, and so fell back on old
Mark. Paddy loves a job, you know. So I've tiie votes and
the fishing, and send him his rents, and manage all the rest
pretty much my own way.'

When the name of Lavington was mentioned, Mark observed
Stangrave start ; and an expression passed over his face difficult
to be defined — it seemed to Mark mingled pride and shame.
He turned to Claude, and said, in a low voice, but loud enough
for !Mark to hear, —

'LaN-ington? Is this their country also ? As I am going to
N^isit the graves of my ancestors, I suppose I ought to visit those
of hers.'

Mark caught the words which he was not intended to.

' Eh ? Sir, do you belong to these parts ? '

' ily family, I believe, lived in the neighbourhood of Whit-
bury, at a place called Stangrave-end.'

'To be sure! Old farmhouse now; fine old oak carving in
it, though ; fine old family it must have been ; church full of
their monuments. Hum, — ha ! Well ! that's pleasant, now !
I've often heard there were good old families away there in New
England ; never thought that there were Whitbury people among
them. Hum — well ! the world's not so big as people think,
after all. And you spoke of the Lavingtons ? They are great

folks here — or were ' He was going to rattle on : but he saw

a pained expression on both the travellers' faces, and Stangrave
stopped him, somewhat drily

' I know nothing of them, I assure you, or they of me. Your
country here is certainly charming, and shows little of those
signs of decay which some people in America impute to it.'

' Decay ! ' Mark went off at score. ' Decay be hanged !
There's life in the old dog yet, sir ! and dead pigs are looking
up since free trade and emigration. Cheap bread and high
wages now ; and instead of lands going out of cultivation, as
they threatened — bosh ! there's a greater breadth down in wheat
in the vale now than there ever was ; and look at the roots.
Farmers must farm now, or sink ; and, by George ! they are
farming, like sensible fellows ; and a fig for that old turnip
ghost of Protection ! There was a fellow came down from the
Carlton — you know what that is?' Stangrave bowed, and
smiled assent. 'From the Carlton, sir, two years since, and
tried it on, till he fell in with old Mark. I told him a thing or
two ; among the rest, told him to his face that he was a liar ;
for he wanted to make farmers believe they were ruined, when
he knew they were not ; and that he'd get 'em back Protection,
when he knew that he couldn't — and, what's more, he didn't mean
to. So he cut up rough, and wanted to call me out.'

10 TWO YEARS AGO

'Did you go?' asked Stangrave, who was fast becoming
amused with his man.

' I told him that that wasn't my line, unless he'd try Eley's
greens at forty yards ; and then I was his man : but if he laid
a finger on me, I'd give him as sound a horsewhipping, old as I
am, as ever man had in his life. And so I would.' And Mark
looked complacently at his own broad shoulders. ' And since
then, my lord and I have had it all our own way ; and ilin-
champstead and Co. is the only firm in the vale.'

' What's become of a Lord Vieuxbois, who used to live some-
where hereabouts ? I used to meet him at Home.'

'Eome?' said ^Mark solemnly. 'Yes; he was too fond of
Rome, awhile back : can't see what people want running into
foreign parts to look at those poor idolaters, and their Punch
and Judy plays. Pray for 'em, and keep clear of them, is the
best rule : but he has married my lorcf's youngest daughter ;
and three pretty children he has, — ducks of children. Always
comes to see me in my shop, when he drives into town. Oh ! —
he's doing pretty well. One of these new between-the-stools,
Peelites they call them — hope they'll be as good as the name.
However, he's a free-trader, because he can't help it. So we
have his votes ; and as to his Conservatism, let him conserve
hips and haws if he chooses, like a 'pothecary. After all, why
pull down anything, before it's tumbling on your- head ? By
the by, sir, as you're a man of money, there's that Stangrave-
end farm in the market now. Pretty little investment, — I'd see
that you got it cheap ; and my lord wouldn't bid against you,
of course, as you're a Liberal — all Americans are, I suppose.
And so you'd oblige us, as well as yourself, for it would give us
another vote for the county.'

' Upon my word, you tempt me ; but I do not think that this
is just the moment for an American to desert his own country,
and settle in England. I should not be here now, had I not this
autumn done all I could for America in America, and so crossed
the sea to serve her, if possible, in England.'

' Well, perhaps not ; especially if you're a Fremonter.'

' I am, I assure you.'

' Thought as much, by your looks. Don't see what else an
honest man can be just now.'

Stangrave laughed. ' I hope every one thinks so in England.'

' Trust us for that, sir ! We know a man when we see him
here ; I hope they'll do the same across the water.'

There was silence for a minute or two ; and then Mark began
again.

' Look ! — there's the farm ; that's my lord's. I should like to
show you the shorthorns there, sir ! — all my Lord Ducie's and
Sir Edward Knightley's stock ; bought a bull-calf of him the
other day myself for a cool hundred, old fool that I am. Never
mind, spreads the breed. And here are mills — four pair of

INTRODUCTORY 11

new stones. Old Whit don't know herself again. But I dare
say they look small enough to you, sir, after your American
water-power.'

' What of that 1 It is just as honourable in you to make the
most of a small river, as in us to make the most of a large one.'

'You speak like a book, sir. By the by, if you think of
taking home a calf or two, to improve your New England breed
— there are a good many gone across the sea in the last few
years — I think we could find you three or four beauties, not so
very dear, considering the blood.'

' Thanks ; but I really am no farmer.'

' Well — no offence, I hope : but I am like your Yankees in
one thing, you see ; — always have an eye to a bit of business.
If I didivt, I shouldn't be here now.'

' How very tasteful ! — our own American shrubs ! what a pity
that they are not in flower ! What is this,' asked Stangrave —
' one of your noblemen's parks 1 '

And they began to run through the cutting in Minchampstead
Park, where the owner has concealed the banks of the rail for
nearly half a mile in a thicket of azaleas, rhododendrons, and
clambering roses.

' Ah ! — isn't it pretty 1 His lordship let us have the land for
a song ; only bargained that we should keep low, not to spoil
his view ; and so we did ; and he's planted our cutting for us.
I call that a present to the county, and a very pretty one too. !
Ah, give me these new brooms that sweep clean ! '

'Your old brooms, like Lord Vieuxbois, were new brooms
once, and swept well enough five hundred years ago,' said Stan-
grave, who had that filial reverence for English antiquity which
sits so gracefully upon many highly educated and far -sighted
Americans.

' Worn to the stumps now, too many of them, sir ; and want
new-heathing, as our broom -squires would say; and I doubt
whether most of them are worth the cost of a fresh bind. Not
that I can say that of the young lord. He's foremost in all
that's good, if he had but money ; and when he hasn't, he gives
brains. Gave a lecture in our institute at Whitford, last winter,
on the four great Poets. Shot over my head a little, and other
people's too ; but my Mary — my daughter, sir — thought it
beautiful ; and there's nothing that she don't know.'

'It is very hopeful to see your aristocracy joining in the
general movement, and bringing their taste and knowledge to
bear on the lower classes.'

' Yes, sir ! We're going all right now in the old country.
Only have to steer straight, and not put on too much steam.
But give me the newcomers, after all. They may be close men
of business ; how else could one live ? But when it comes to
giving, I'll back them against the old ones for generosity, or
taste either. They've their proper pride, when they get hold of

12 TWO YEARS AGO

the land ; and they like to show it, and quite right they. You
must see my little place too. It's not in such bad order, thougli
I say it, and am but a country banker : but I'll back iiiy
flowers against half the squires round — my Mary's, that is —
and nij' fruit, too. Sei% there ! There's my lord's new schools,
and his model cottages, witli more comforts in them, saving the
size, than my father's house had ; and there's his barrack, as he
calls it, for the unmarried men — reading-room and dining-
room in common ; and a library of books, and a sleeping-room
for each.'

' It seems strange to complain of prosperity,' said Stangrave ;
' but I sometimes regret that in America there is so little room
for the very highest virtues ; all are so well off that one never
needs to give ; and wiiat a man does here for others, they do
for themselves.'

'So much the better for them. There are other ways of
being generous besides putting your hand in your pocket,
sir ! By Jove ! there'll be room enough (if you'll excuse me)
for an American to do fine things, as long as those poor negro
slaves '

' I know it ; I know it,' said Stangrave, in the tone of a man
who had already made up his mind on a painful subject, and
wished to hear no more of it. 'You will excuse me ; but I am
come here to learn what I can of England. Of my own country
I. know enough, I trust, to do my duty in it when I return.' •

Mark was silent, seeing that he had touched a tender place ;
and pointed out one object of interest after another, as they ran
through the flat park, past the great house with its Doric
faqade, which the eighteenth century had raised above the quiet
cell of the Minchampstead recluses.

'It is very ugly,' said Stangrave ; and truly.

'Comfortable enough, though ; and as someljody said, people
live inside their houses, and not outside 'em. You should see
the pictures there, though, while you're in the country. I can
show you one or two, too, I hope. Ne^ei' grudge money for
good pictures. The pleasantest furniture in the world, as long
as you keep them ; and if you're tired of them, always fetch
double their price.'

After Minchampstead, the rail leaves the sands and clays, and
turns up between the chalk hills, along the barge river, which
it has rendered useless, sa\ e as a supernumerary trout-stream ;
and then along ^Vhit, now flowing clearer and clearer, as we
approach its springs amid the lofty downs. On through more
water-meadows, and rows of pollard willow, and peat-pits
crested with tall golden reeds, and still dykes — each in summer
a floating flower-bed ; while Stangraxe looks out of the window,
his face lighting up with curiosity.

' How perfectly English ! At least, how perfectly un-Ameri-
can ! It is just Tennyson's beautiful dream —

INTRODUCTORY 13

'"On either side the river lie
Long fieldx of barley :ind of rye,
Which clothe the wold and meet the sky,
And throngh the field the stream runs by.
To many-towered Camelot. "

'Why, what is this?' as they stop again at a station, where
tlie board bears, in large letters, 'Shalott.'
' Shalott ? Where are the

' Fonr gray walls and four gray towers,'

which overlook a space of flowers ?'

There, upon the little island, are the castle-ruins, now con-
verted into a useful bone-mill. ' And the lady ? — is that she ? '

It was only the miller's daughter, fresh from a boarding-
school, gardening in a broad strnw hat.

'At least,' said Claude, 'she is tending far prettier flowers
than ever the lady saw ; while the lady herself, instead of
weaving and dreaming, is reading Miss Yonge's novels, and be-
coming all the wiser thereby, and teaching poor children in
Hemmelford National School.'

' And where is her fairy kuight 1 ' asked Stangrave, ' whom
one half hopes to see I'iding down from that grand old house
which sulks there above among the beech-woods, as if frowning
on all the change and civilisation below 1 '

'You do old Sidricstone injustice. Vieuxbois descends from
thence, nowadays, to lecture at mechanics' institutes, instead of
the fairy knight, toiling along in the blazing summer weather,
sweating in burning metal, like poor Perillus in his own bull.'

' Then the fairy knight is extinct in England 1 ' asked Stan-
grave, smiling.

' No man less ; only he (not Vieuxbois, but his younger
brother) has found a wide-awake cooler than an iron kettle, and
travels by rail when he is at home ; and, when he was in the
Crimea, rode a shaggy pony, and smoked cavendish all through
the battle of Inkermann.'

' He showed himself the old Sir Lancelot there,' said Stan-
grave.

' He did. Wherefore the lady married him when the Guards
came home ; and he will breed prize pigs ; and sit at the board
of guardians ; and take in the Times; clothed, and in his right
mind ; for the old Berserk spirit is gone out of him ; and he is
become respectable, in a respectable age, and is nevertheless
just as brave a fellow as ever.'

' And so all things are changed, except the river ; where
still—

' " Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dash and shiver
On the stream that runneth ever." '

14 TWO YEARS AGO

'And,' said Claude, smiling, 'the descendants of mediaeval
trout snap at the descendants of mediaeval flies, spinning about
upon just the same sized and coloured wings on which their
forefathers spun a thousand years ago ; having become, in all
that while, neither bigger nor wiser.'

'But is it not a grand thought,' asked Stangrave, 'the
silence and permanence of nature amid the perpetual flux and
noise of human life? — a grand thought that one generation
goeth, and another cometh, and the earth abideth for ever ?'

' At least it is so much the worse for the poor old earth, if her
ioom is to stand still, while man improves and progresses from
age to age.'

' May I ask one question, sir ? ' said Stangrave, who saw that
their conversation was puzzling their jolly companion. 'Have
you heard any news yet of ^Ir. Thurnall ? '

Mark looked him full in the face.

' Did you know him ? '

' I did, in past years, most intimately.'

'Then you knew the finest fellow, sir, that ever walked
mortal earth.'

' I have discovered that, sir, as well as you. I am under
obligations to that man which my heart's blood will not repay.
I shall make no secret of telling you what they are at a fit time.'

Mark held out his broad red hand and grasped Stangrave's
till the joints cracked : his face grew as red as a turkey-cock's ;
his eyes tilled with tears.

' His father must hear that ! Hang it ; his father must hear
that ! And Grace too ! '

' Grace ! ' said Claude : ' and is she with you ? '

' With the old man, the angel ! tending him night and day.'

' And as beautiful as ever ? '

' Sir ! ' said Mark solemnly, ' when any one's soul is as beauti-
ful as hers is, one never thinks about her face.'

' Who is Grace ? ' asked Stangrave.

'A saint and a heroine ! ' said Claude. ' You shall know all ;
for you ought to know. But you have no news of Tom ; and I
have none either. I am losing all hope now.'

' I'm not, sir ! ' said Mark fiercely. ' Sir, that boy's not dead ;
he can't be. He has more lives than a cat, and if you know
anything of him, you ought to know that.'

' I have good reason to know it, none more : but '

' But, sir. But what ? Harm come to him, sir ? The Lord
wouldn't harm him, for his father's sake ; and as for the devil !
I tell you, sir, if he tried to fly away with him, he'd have to
drop him before he'd gone a mile ! ' And Mark began blowing
his nose violently, and getting so red that he seemed on the
point of going into a fit.

' Tell you what it is, gentlemen,' said he at last, ' you come
and stay with me, and see his father. It will comfort the old

INTRODUCTORY 15

man — and — and comfort me too ; for I get down-hearted about
him at times.'

' Strange attraction there was about that man,' says Stan-
grave, sotto voce, to Claude.

' He was like a son to him '

' Now, gentlemen. Mr. Mellot, you don't hunt ? '

' No, thank you,' said Claude.

' Mr. Stangrave does, I'll warrant.'

' I have at various times, both in England and in Virginia.'

' Ah ! Do they keep up the real sport there, eh ? WeU, that's
the best thing I've heard of them. Sir ! — my horses are yours !
A friend of that boy, sir, is welcome to lame the whole lot,
and I won't grumble. Three days a week, sir. Breakfast at
eight, dinner at 5.30 — none of your late London hours for me.
Sir ; and after it the best bottle of port, though I say it, short
of my friend S 's, at Reading.'

' You must accept,' whispered Claude, ' or he will be angry.'

So Stangrave accepted ; and all the more readily because he
wanted to hear from the good banker many things about the
lost Tom Thurnall.

' Here we are,' cries Mark. ' Now, you must excuse me : see
to yourselves. I see to the puppies. Dinner at 5.30, mind !
Come along, Goodman, boy ! '

' Is this Whitbury ? ' asks Stangrave.

It was Whitbury, indeed. Pleasant old town, which slopes
down the hillside to the old church, — just ' restored,' though, by
Lords Minchampstead and Vieuxbois, not without Mark Arms-
worth's help, to its ancient beauty of gray flint and white clunch
chequer-work, and quaint wooden spire. Pleasant churchyard
round it, where the dead lie looking up to the bright southern
sun, among huge black yews, upon their knoll of white chalk
above the ancient stream. Pleasant white wooden bridge, with
its row of urchins dropping flints upon the noses of elephantine
trout, or fishing over the rail with crooked pins, while hapless
gudgeon come dangling upward between stream and sky, with a
look of sheepish surprise and shame, as of a schoolboy caught
stealing apples, in their foolish visages. Pleasant new national
schools at the bridge end, whither the urchins scamper at the
sound of the two o'clock bell. Though it be an ugly pile enough
of bright red brick, it is doing its work, as Whitbury folk know
well by now. Pleasant, too, though still more ugly, those long
red arms of new. houses which Whitbury is stretching out along
its fine turnpikes, especially up to the railway station beyond
the bridge, and to the smart new hotel, which hopes (but hopes
in vain) to outrival the ancient ' Angler's Eest.' Away thither,
and not to the Railway Hotel, they trundle in a fly, leaving
Mark Armsworth all but angry because they will not sleep, as
well as breakfast, lunch, and dine with him daily, and settle in

16 TWO YEARS AGO

the good old inn, with its thi-ee whitu gables overhanging the
pavement, and its long lattice window buried deep beneath
them, like — so 8tangrave says— to a shrewd kindly eye under a
bland white foreliead.

No, good old inn : not such shall be thy fate, as long as trovit
are trout, and men have wit to catch them. For art thou not a
sacred house 1 Art thou not consecrate to the Whitbury
brotherhood of anglers? Is not the wainscot of tliat long low
parlour inscribed with many a famous name ? Are not its
walls hung with many a famous countenance ? Has not its oak-
ribbed ceiling rung, for now a hundred years, to the laughter of
painters, sculptors, grave divines (unbending at least there),
great lawyers, statesmen, wits, even of Foote and Quin them-
selves ; while the sleek landlord wiped the cobwebs off another
magnum of that grand old port, and took in all the wisdom
with a quiet twinkle of his sleepy eye ? He rests now, good old
man, among the yews beside his forefathei's ; and on his tomb
his lengthy epitaph, writ by himself ; for Barker was a poet in
his way.

Some people hold the said epitaph to be irreverent, because
in a list of Barker's many blessings occurs the profane word
' trout : ' but those trout, and the custom which they brought
liim, had made the old man's life comfortable, and enabled him
to leave a competence for his children ; and why should not a
man honestly thank Heaven for that whicli he knows has done
him good, even though it be but fish 1

He is gone : but the Whit is not, nor the Wliitbury club ; nor
will, while old Mark Armsworth is king in Whitbury, and sits
every evening in the May-fly season at the table head, retailing
good stories of the great anglers of his youth, — names which
you, reader, have heard many a time, — and who could do many
things besides handling a blow-line. But though the club is
not what it was fifty years ago, — before Norway and Scotland
became easy of access, — yet it is still an important institution
of the town, to the members whereof all good subjects touch
their hats ; for does not the club bring into the town good
money, and take out again only fish, which cost nothing in the
breeding? Did not the club present the Town -hall with a
portrait of the renowned fishing sculptor ? and did it not (only
stipulating that the school should be built beyond the bridge to
avoid noise) give fifty pounds to the said school but five years
ago, in addition to Mark's own hundred ?

But enough of this : only may the Whitbury club, in recom-
pense for my thus handing them down to immortality, give me
another day next year, as they gave me this ; and may the May-
fly be strong on, and a south-west gale blowing !

In the course of the next week, in many a conversation, the
three men compared notes as to the events of two years

INTRODUCTORY 17

ago ; and each supplied the other with new facts, which shall
be duly set forth in this tale, saving, and excepting, of course,
the real reason why everybody did everything. For — as every-
body knows who has watched life — the true springs of all
human action are generally those which fools will not see, which
wise men will not mention ; so that, in order to present a
readable tragedy of Hamlet, you must always ' omit the part of
Hamlet,' and probably tlie ghost and the queen into the
bargain.

CHAPTER I

POETRY AND PKOSE

Now, to tell my story — if not as it ought to be told, at least as
I can tell it, — I must go back sixteen years, to the clays when
Whitbury boasted of forty coaches per diem, instead of one
railway, and set forth how in its southern suburb, there stood
two pleasant houses side by side, with their gardens sloping
down to the Whit, and parted from each other only by the high
brick fruit- wall, through which there used to be a door of com-
munication ; for the two occupiers were fast friends. In one of
these two houses, sixteen years ago, lived our friend ]\Iark Arms-
worth, banker, solicitor, land-agent, churchwarden, guardian of
the poor, justice of the peace, — in a word, viceroy of Whitbury
town, and far more potent therein than her gracious majesty
Queen Victoria. In the other, lived Edward Thurnall, esquire,
doctor of medicine, and consulting physician of all the country
round. These two men were as brothers ; and had been as
brothers for now twenty years, though no two men could be
more different, save in the two common virtues which bound
them to each other ; and that was, that they both were honest
and kind-hearted men. What Mark's character was, and is, I
have already shown, and enough of it, I hope, to make my
readers like the good old banker : as for Doctor Thurnall, a
purer or gentler soul never entered a sick-room, with patient
wisdom in his brain and patient tenderness in his heart. Be-
loved and trusted by rich and poor, he had made to himself a
practice large enough to enable him to settle two sons well in
his own profession ; the third and youngest was still in Whit-
bury. He was something of a geologist, too, and a botanist,
and an antiquarian ; and Mark Armsworth, who knew, and
knows still, nothing of science, looked up to the doctor as an
inspired sage, quoted him, defended his opinion, right or wrong,
and thrust him forward at public meetings, and in all places
and seasons, much to the modest doctor's discomfiture.

The good doctor was sitting in his study on the morning on
which my tale begins ; having just finished his breakfast, and

CHAP. I POETRY AND PKOSE 19

settled to his microscope in the bay-window, opening on the
lawn.

A beautiful October morning it was ; one of those in which
Dame Nature, healthily tired with the revelry of summer, is
composing herself, with a quiet satisfied smile, for her winter's
sleep. Sheets of dappled cloud were sliding slowly from the
west ; long bars of hazy blue hung over the southern chalk
downs which gleamed pearly gray beneath the low south-eastern
sun. In the vale below, soft white flakes of mist still hung over
the water meadows, and barred the dark trunks of the huge
elms and poplars, whose fast-yellowing leaves came showering
down at the very rustle of the western breeze, spotting the
grass below. The river swirled along, glassy no more, but
dingy gray with autumn rains and rotting leaves. All beyond
the garden told of autumn ; bright and peaceful, even in decay :
but up the sunny slope of the garden itself, and to the very
window-sill, summer still lingered. The beds of red verbena
and geranium were still brilliant, though choked with fallen
leaves of acacia and plane ; the canary plant, still untouched
by frost, twined its delicate green leaves, and more delicate
yellow blossoms, through the crimson lacework of the Virginia-
creeper ; and the great yellow noisette swung its long canes
across the window, filling all the air with fruity fragrance.

And the good doctor, lifting his eyes from his microscope,
looked out upon it all with a quiet satisfaction, and though his
lips did not move, his eyes seemed to be thanking God for it all ;
and thanking Him, too, perhaps, that he was still permitted to
gaze upon that fair world outside. For as he gazed, he started,
as if with sudden pain, and passed his hand across his eyes, with
something like a sigh, and then looked at the microscope no
more, but sat, seemingly absorbed in thought, while upon his
delicate toil-worn features and high, bland, unwrinkled fore-
head, and the few soft gray locks which not time — for he was
scarcely fifty-five — but long labour of brain, had spared to him,
there lay a hopeful calm, as of a man who had nigh done his
work, and felt that he had not altogether done it ill ; an
autumnal calm, resigned, yet full of cheerfulness, which har-
monised fitly with the quiet beauty of the decaying landscape
before him.

'I say, daddy, you must drop that microscope, and put on
your shade. You are ruining those dear old eyes of yours again,
in spite of what Alexander told you.'

The doctor took up the green shade which lay beside him,
and replaced it with a sigh and a smile.

' I must use the old things now and then, till you can take
my place at the microscope, Tom ; or till we have, as we ought
to have, a firstrate analytical chemist settled in every county
town, and paid, in part at least, out of the county rates.'

The ' Tom ' who had spoken was one of two youths of

20 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

eighteen, who stood in opposite corners of the hay- window,
gazing out upon the landscape, but evidently with thoughts as
different as were their complexions.

Tom was of that bull-terrier type so common in England ;
sturdy, and yet not coarse ; middle-sized, deep-chested, broad-
shouldered ; with small, well-knit hands and feet, large jaw,
bright gray eyes, crisp brown hair, a heavy projecting brow ;
his face full of shrewdness and good -nature, and of humour
withal, which might be at whiles a little saucy and sarcastic, to
judge from the glances which he sent forth from the corners of
his wicked eyes at his companion on the other side of the
window. He was evidently prepared for a day's shooting, in
velveteen jacket and leather gaiters, and stood feeling about in
his pockets to see whether he had forgotten any of his tackle,
and muttering to himself amid his whistling, — ' Capital day.
How the birds will lie. Where on earth is old Mark ? Why
must he wait to smoke his cigar after breakfast ? Couldn't he
have had it in the trap, the blessed old chimney that he is ? '

The other lad was somewhat taller than Tom, awkwardly and
plainly dressed, but with a highly-developed Byronic turn-down
collar, and long black curling locks. He was certainly hand-
some, as far as the form of his features and brow ; and would
have been very handsome, but for the bad complexion which at
his age so often accompanies a sedentary life and a melancholic
temper. One glance at his face was sufficient to tell that he
was moody, shy, restless, perhaps discontented, perhaps
ambitious and vain. He held in his hand a volume of Percy's
Reliques, which he had just taken down from Thurnall's
shelves ; yet he was looking not at it, but at the landscape.
Nevertheless, as he looked, one might ha\e seen that he was
thinking not so much of it as of his own thoughts about it. His
eye, which was very large, dark, and beautiful, with heavy lids
and long lashes, had that dreamy look so common among men
of the poetic temperament ; conscious of thought, if not con-
scious of self ; and as his face kindled, and his lips moved more
and more earnestly, he began muttering to himself half-aloud,
till Tom Thurnall burst into an open laugh.

' There's Jack at it again ! making poetry, I'll bet my head
to a China orange.'

' And why not ? ' said his father, looking up quietly, but re-
provingly, as Jack winced and blushed, and a dark shade of
impatience passed across his face.

' Oh ! it's no concern of mine. Let everybody please them-
selves. The country looks very pretty, no doubt, I can tell
that ; only m.\' notion is, that a wise man ought to go out and
enjoy it — as I am going to do — with a gun on his shoulder,
instead of poking at home like a yard -dog, and behowling
oneself in po-o-oetry;' and Tom lifted up his voice into a
doleful mastiff's howl.

I POETRY AND PROSE 21

' Then be as good as your word, Tom, and let every one please
themselves,' said the doctor ; but the dark youth broke out in
sudden passion

' Mr. Thomas Thurnal ! I will not endure this ! Why are
you always making nie your butt, — insulting me, sir, even in
your father's house ? You do not understand me ; and I do not
care to understand you. If my presence is disagreeable to you,
I can easily relieve you of it ! ' and the dark youth turned to go
away, like Naaman, in a rage.

' Stop, John,' said the doctor. ' I tliink it would be the
more courteous plan for Tom to relieve you of his presence. Go
and find ilark, Tom ; and please to remember that John Briggs
is my guest, and that I will not allow any rudeness to him in
my house.'

' I'll go, daddy, to the world's end, if you like, provided you
won't ask me to write poetry. But Jack takes ofience so soon.
Give us your hand, old tinder-box ! I meant no harm, and you
know it.'

John Briggs took the proti'ered hand sulkily enough ; and
Tom went out of the glass door, whistling as merry as a cricket.

' My dear boy,' said the doctor, when they were alone, ' you
must try to curb this temper of yours. Don't be angry with
me, but '

' I should be an ungrateful brute if I was, sir. I can bear
anything from you. I ought to, for I owe everything to you ;
but '

' But, my dear boy — " better is he tliat ruleth his spirit, than
he that taketh a city." '

John Briggs tapped his foot on the ground impatiently. ' I
cannot help it, sir. It will drive me mad, I think, at times, —
this contrast between what I might be, and what I am. I can
bear it no longer — mixing medicines here, when I might be
educating myself, distinguishing myself — for I can do it ; have
you not said as much yourself to me again and again ? '

' I have, of course ; but '

' But, sir, only hear me. It is in vain to ask me to command
my temper while I stay here. I am not fit for this work ; not
fit for the dull country. I am not appreciated, not understood ;
and I shall never be, till I can get to London, — till I can find
congenial spirits, and take my rightful place in the great parlia-
ment of mind. I am Pegasus in harness, here ! ' cried the vain,
discontented youth. 'Let me but once get there, amid art,
civilisation, intellect, and the company of men like that old
Mermaid Club, to hear and to answer

' ' ' words,
So nimble, and so full of subtle flame.
As one had put his whole soul in a jest ; ''

and then you shall see wliether Pegasus has not wings, and can

22 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

use them too ! ' And he stopped suddenly, choking with emotion,
his nostril and chest dilating, his foot stamping impatiently on
the ground.

The doctor watched him with a sad smile.

' Do you remember the devil's temptation of our Lord—" Cast
thyself down from hence : for it is written, He shall give his
angels charge over thee " ?

' I do ; but what has that to do with me ? '

' Throw away the safe station in which God has certainly put
you, to seek, by some desperate venture, a new, and, as you
fancy, a grander one for yourself ? Look out of that window,
lad ; is there not poetry enough, beauty and glory enough, in
that sky, those fields, — ay, in every fallen leaf, — to employ all
your powers, considerable as I believe them to be ? Why spurn
the pure, quiet, country life, in which such men as AYordsworth
have been content to live and grow old 1 '

The boy shook his head like an impatient horse. ' Too slow
— too slow for me, to wait and wait, as Wordsworth did, through
long years of obscurity, misconception, ridicule. No. What I
have, I must have at once ; and, if it must be, die like Chatterton
^f only, like Chatterton, I can have my little day of success,
and make the world confess that another priest of the beautiful
has arisen among men.'

Now, it can scarcely be denied that the good doctor was
guilty of a certain amount of weakness in listening patiently to
all this rant. Not that the rant was very blameable in a lad of
eighteen ; for have we not all, while we are going through our
course of Shelley, talked very much the same abominable stuff,
and thought ourselves the grandest fellows upon earth on
account of that very length of ear which was patent to all the
world save orfr precious selves ; blinded by our self-conceit, and
wondering in wrath why everybody was laughing at us ? But
the truth is, the doctor was easy and indulgent to a fault, and
dreaded nothing so much, save telling a lie, as hurting people's
feelings ; beside, as the acknowledged wise man of Whitbury,
he was a little proud of playing the Mecsenas ; and he had, and
not unjustly, a high opinion of John Briggs' powers. So he had
lent him books, corrected his taste in many matters, and, by
dint of petting and humouring, had kept the wayward youth
half-a-dozen times from running away from his father, who was
an apothecary in the town, and from the general practitioner,
Mr. Bolus, under whom John Briggs fulfilled the office of
co-assistant with Tom Thurnall. Plenty of trouble had both
the lads given the doctor in the last five years, but of very
different kinds. Tom, though he was in everlasting hot water,
as the most incorrigible scapegrace for ten miles round, con-
trived to confine his naughtiness strictly to play-hours, while he
learnt everything which was to be learnt with marvellous
quickness, and so utterly fulfilled the ideal of a bottle-boy (for

I POETRY AND PROSE 23

of liim, too, as of all things, I presume, an ideal exists eternally
in the supra -sensual Platonic universe), that Bolus told his
father, ' In hours, sir, he takes care of my business as well as
I could myself ; but out of hours, sir, I believe he is possessed
by seven devils.'

John Briggs, on the other hand, sinned in the very opposite
direction. Too proud to learn his business, and too proud also
to play the scapegrace as Tom did, he neglected alike work and
amusement for lazy mooning over booksj and the dreams which
books called up. He made perpetual mistakes in the shop ; and
then considered himself insulted by an ' inferior spirit,' if poor
Bolus called him to account for it. Indeed, had it not been for
many applications of that ' precious oil of unity,' with which the
good doctor daily anointed the creaking wheels of Whitbury
society, John Briggs and his master would have long ago
' broken out of gear,' and parted company in mutual wrath and
fury. And now, indeed, the critical moment seemed come at
last ; for the lad began afresh to declare his deliberate intention
of going to London to seek his fortune, in spite of parents and
all the world.

'To live on here, and never to rise, perhaps, above the post
of correspondent to a country newspaper ! To publish a volume
of poems by subscription and have to go round, hat in hand,
begging five shillings' worth of patronage from every stupid
country squire — intolerable ! I must go ! Shakspeare was never
Shakspeare till he fled from miserable Stratford, to become at
once the friend of Sidney and Southampton.'

' But John Briggs will be John Briggs still, if he went to the
moon,' shouted Tom Thurnall, who had just come up to the
window. ' I advise you to change that name of yours, Jack, to
Sidney, or Percy, or Walker if you like ; anything but the illus-
trious surname of Briggs the poisoner ! '

' What do you mean, sir 1 ' thundered John, while the doctor
himself jumped up ; for Tom was red with rage.

'What is this, Tom?'

' What's that ? ' screamed Tom, bursting, in spite of his pas-
sion, into roars of laughter. ' What's that 1 ' — and he held out
a phial. ' Smell it ! taste it ! Oh, if I had but a gallon of it
to pour down your throat ! That's what you brought Mark
Arrasworth last night, instead of his cough mixture, while your
brains were wool-gathering after poetry ! '

' What is it ? ' gasped John Briggs.

' Miss Twiddle s black dose ; — strong enough to rive the giz-
zard out of an old cock ! '

'It's not!'

' It is ! ' roared Mark Armsworth from behind, as he rushed
in, in shooting-jacket and gaiters, his red face redder with fury,
his red whiskers standing on end with wrath like a tiger's, his
left hand upon his hapless hypogastric region, his right brand-

24 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

ishing an empty glass, which smelt strongly of brandy and
water. ' It is ! And you've given me the cholera, and spoilt my
day's shooting : and ir I don't serve you out for it there's no law
in England ! '

' And spoilt my day's shooting, too ; the last I shall get before
I'm off to Paris ! To have a day in Lord Minchampstead's pre-
serves, and to be baulked of it in this way ! ' •
John Briggs stood as one astonied.
' If I don't serve you out for this ! ' shouted Mark.
' If I don't serve you out for it ! You shall never hear the
last of it ! ' shouted Tom. ' I'll take to writing after all. I'll
put it in the papers. I'll make the name of Briggs the poisoner
an abomination in the land.'
John Briggs turned and fled.

' Well ! ' said Mark, ' I must spend my morning at home, I
suppose. So I shall just sit and chat with you, doctor.'

'And I shall go and play with Molly,' said Tom, and walked
off to Armsworth's garden.

' I don't care for myself so much,' said Mark ; ' but I'm
sorry the boy's lost his last day's shooting.'

' Oh, you will be well enough by noon, and can go then ;
and as for the boy, it is just as well for him not to grow too
fond of sports in which he can never indulge.'

' Never indulge ? Why not ? He vows he'll go to the Rocky
Mountains, and shoot a grizzly bear ; and he'll do it.'

' He has a great deal to do before that, poor fellow ; and a
great deal to learn.'

' And he'll learn it. You're always down-hearted about the
boy, doctor.'

'I can't help feeling the parting with him ; and for Paris,
too — such a seat of temptation. But it is his own choice ;
and, after all, he must see temptation wherever he goes.'

' Bless the man ! if a boy means to go to the bad, he'll go
just as easily in Whitbury as in Paris. Give the lad his head,
and never fear ; he'll fall on his legs like a cat, I'll warrant him,
whatever happens. He's as steady as old Time, I tell you ;
there's a gray head on green shoulders there.'

' Steady ? ' said the doctor, with a smile and a shrug.
' Steady, I tell you, at heart ; as prudent as you or I ; and
never lost you a farthing, that you know. Hang good boys !
give me one who knows how to be naughty in the right place ;
I wouldn't give sixpence for a good boy : I never was one myself,
and have no faith in them. Give me the lad who has more steam
up than he knows what to do with, and must needs blow off a
little in larks. When once he settles down on the rail, it'll send
him along as steady as a luggage-train. Did you never hear a
locomotive puffing and roaring before it gets under way ? well,
that's what your boy is doing. Look at him now, with my poor
little Molly.'

I POETRY AND PROSE 25

Tom was cantering about the garden witli a little weakly
child of eight in his arms. The little thing was looking up in
his face with delight, screaming at his jokes.

' You are right, Mark ; the boy's heart cannot be in the wrong
place while he is so fond of little children.'

' Poor Molly ! How she'll miss him ! Do you think she'll
ever walk, doctor ? '

' I do indeed.'

' Hum ! ah ! well ! if she grows up, doctor, and don't go to
join her poor dear mother up there, I don't know that I'd wish
her a better husband than your boy.'

' It would be a poor enough match for her.'

' Tut ! she'll have the money, and he the brains. Mark my
words, doctor, that boy'U be a credit to you ; he'll make a noise
in the world, or I know nothing. And if his fancy holds seven
years hence, and he wants still to turn traveller, let him. If
he's minded to go round the world, I'll back him to go, somehow
or other, or I'll eat my head, Ned Thurnall ! '

The doctor acquiesced in this hopeful theory, partly to save
an argument ; for Mark's reverence for his opinion was coniined
to scientific matters ; and he made up to his own self-respect by
patronising the doctor, and, indeed, taking him sometimes
pretty sharply to task on practical matters.

'Best fellow alive is Thurnall ; but not a man of business,
poor fellow. None of your geniuses are. Don't know what
he'd do without me.'

So Tom carried j\Iary about all the morning, and went to
ilinchampstead in the afternoon, and got three hours' good
shooting ; but in the evening he vanished ; and his father went
into Armsworth's to look for him.

' Why do you want to know where he is ? ' replied Mark,
looking sly. 'However, as you can't stop him now, I'll tell
you. He is just about this time sewing up Briggs' coat-sleeves,
putting copperas into his water-jug and powdered galls on his
towel, and making various other little returns for this morning's
favour.'

'I dislike practical jokes.'

' So do I ; especially when they come in the form of a black
dose. Sit down, old boy, and we'll have a game at cribbage.'

In a few minutes Tom came in. ' Here's a good riddance.
The poisoner has fabricated his pilgrim's staff, to speak scientifi-
cally, and perambulated his calcareous strata.'

'What!'

' Cut his stick, and walked his chalks ; and is off to London.'

' Poor boy,' said the doctor, much distressed.

' Don't cry, daddy ; you can't bring him back again. He's
been gone these four hours. I went to his room at Bolus's
about a little business, and saw at once that he had packed up,
and carried off all he could. And, looking about, I found a

26 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

letter directed to his father. 80 to his father I took it ; and
really I was sorry for the poor people. I left them all crying in
chorus.'

' I must go to them at once ; ' and up rose the doctor.

'He's not worth the trouble you take for him — the addle-
headed, ill-tempered coxcomb,' said Mark. ' But it's just like
your soft-heartedness. Tom, sit down, and finish the game with
me.'

So vanished from Whitbury, with all his aspirations, poor
John Briggs ; and save an occasional letter to his parents,
telling them that he was alive and well, no one heard anything
of him for many a year. The doctor tried to find him out in
London, again and again ; but without success. His letters had
no address upon them, and no clue to his whereabouts could be
found.

And Tom Thurnall went to Paris, and became the best pistol-
shot and billiard-player in the Quartier Latin ; and then went
to St. Mumpsiinus' Hospital in London, and became the best
boxer therein, and captain of the eight-oar, besides winning
prizes and certificates without end, and becoming in due time
the most popular house-surgeon in the hospital : but nothing
could keep him permanently at home. Stay drudging in London
he would not. Settle down in a country practice he would not.
Cost his father a farthing he would not. So he started forth
into the wide world with nothing but his wits and his science,
as anatomical professor to a new college in some South Ameri-
can republic. Unfortunately, when he got there, he found that
the annual revolution had just taken place, and that the party
who had founded the college had been all shot the week before.
Whereat he whistled, and started off again, no man knew
whither.

' Having got round half the world, daddy,' he wrote home,
' it's hard if I don't get round the other half. So don't expect
me till you see me ; and take care of your dear old eyes.'

With which he vanished into infinite space, and was only
heard of by occasional letters dated from the Rocky ^Mountains
(where he did shoot a grizzly bear), the Spanish West Indies,
Otaheite, Singapore, the Falkland Islands, and all manner of
unexpected places ; sending home valuable notes (sometimes
accompanied by valuable specimens), zoological and botanical ;
and informing his father that he was doing very well ; that work
was plentiful, and that he always found two fresh jobs before
he had finished one old one.

His eldest brother, John, died meanwhile. His second
brother, William, was in good general practice in Manchester.
His father's connections supported him comfortably ; and if the
old doctor ever longed for Tom to come home, he never hinted
it to the wanderer, but bade him go on and prosper, and
become (which he gave high promise of becoming) a distin-

I POETRY AND PROSE 27

guished man of science. Nevertheless the old man's heart sunk
at last, when month after month, and at last two full years, had
passed without any letter from Tom.

At last, when full four years were passed and gone since Tom
started for South Ameiica, he descended from the box of the
day-mail, with a serene and healthful countenance ; and with
no more look of interest in his face than if he had been away on
a two days' visit, shouldered his carpet-bag, and started for his
father's house. He stopped, however, as there appeared from
the inside of the mail a face which he must surely know. A
second look told him that it was none other than John Briggs.
But how altered ! He had grown up into a very handsome man
— tall and delicate-featured, with long black curls, and a black
moustache. There was a slight stoop about his shoulders, as of
a man accustomed to too much sitting and writing ; and he
carried an eye-glass, whether for fashion's sake, or for his eyes'
sake, was uncertain. He was wrapt in a long Spanish cloak,
new and good : wore well-cut trousers, and (what Tom, of course,
e.xamined carefully) French boots, very neat, and very thin,
iloreover, he had lavender kid-gloves on. Tom looked and
wondered, and walked half round him, sniflfing like a dog when
he examines into the character of a fellow-dog.

'Hum! his mark seems to be at present P. P. — prosperous
party : so there can be no harm in renewing our acquaintance.
What trade on earth does he live by, though ? Editor of a
newspaper? or keeper of a gambling-table 1 Begging his pardon,
he looks a good cfeal more like the latter than the former.
However '

And he walked up and offered his hand, with ' How d'e do,
Briggs ? Who would have thought of our falling from the skies
against each other in this fashion 1 '

Mr. Briggs hesitated a moment, and then took coldly the
offered hand.

'Excuse me ; but the circumstances of my visit here are too
painful to allow me to wis^h for society.'

And Mr. Briggs withdrew, evidently glad to escape.

' Has he vampoosed with the contents of a till, that he wishes
so for solitude ? ' asked Tom ; and, shouldering his carpet-bag a
second time, with a grim inward laugh, he went to his father's
house, and hung up his hat in the hall, Just as if he had come in
from a walk, and walked into the study ; and not finding the
old man, stepped through the garden to Mark Armsworth's, and
in at the drawing-room window, frightening out of her wits a
short, pale, ugly girl of seventeen, whom he discovered to be his
old play-fellow, Mary. However, she soon recovered her equa-
nimity : he certainly never lost his.

' How d'e do, darling ? How you are grown ! and how well
you look ! How's your father ? I hadn't anything particular to do,
so I thought I'd come home and see you all, and get some fishing.'

28 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

And ^laiy, who had longed to throw her arms round his neck,
as of old, and was restrained by the thought that she was grown
a great girl now, called in her father and all the household ; and
after a while the old doctor came home, and the fatted calf was
killed, and all made merry over the return of this altogether un-
repentant prodigal son, who, whether from affectation, or from
that blunted sensibility which often comes by continual change
and wandering, took all their afTection and delight with the most
provoking coolness.

Nevertheless, though his feelings were not ' demonstrative,' as
fine ladies say nowadays, he evidently had some left in some
corner of his heart ; for after the fatted calf was eaten, and they
were all settled in the doctor's study, it came out that his car-
pet-bag contained little but presents, and those valuable ones —
rare minerals from the Ural for his father ; a pair of Circassian
pistols for Mark ; and for little Mary, to her astonishment, a
Eussian malachite bracelet, at which Mary's eyes opened wide,
and old Mark said —

' Pretty fellow you are, to go fooling your money away like
that. What did that gimcrack cost, pray, sir 1 '

' That is no concern of yours, sir, or mine either ; for I didn't
pay for it.'

' Oh I ' said Mary doubtingly.

' No, Maiy. I killed a giant, who was carrying off a beautiful
princess ; and this, you see, he wore as a ring on one of his
fingers : so I thought it would just suit your wrist.'

' Oh, Tom — Mr. Thurnall — what nonsense ! '

' Come, come,' said his father ; ' instead of telling us these
sort of stories, you ought to give an account of yourself, as you
seem quite to forget that we have not heard from you for more
than two years.'

' Whew ! I wrote,' said Tom, ' whenever I could. However,
you can have all my letters in one now.'

So they sat round the fire, and Tom gave an account of him-
self ; while his father marked with pride that the young man
had grown and strengthened in body and in mind ; and that
under that nonchalant, almost cynical outside, the heart still
beat honest and kindly. For before Tom began, he would
needs draw his chair closer to his father's, and half-whispered
to him, —

' This is very jolly. I can't be sentimental, you know.
Knocking about the world has beat all that out of me : but it is
very comfortable, after all, to find oneself with a dear old daddy,
and a good coal tire.'

' Which of the two could you best do without ? '

'Well, one takes things as one finds them. It don't do to
look too deeply into one's feelings. Like chemicals, the more
you analyse them, the worse they smell.'

So Tom began his story.

I POETRY AND PROSE 29

' You heard from me at Bombay ; after I'd been up to the
Himalaya with an old Mumpsimus friend V

'Yes.'

' Well, I worked my way to Suez on board a ship whose
doctor had fallen ill ; and then I must needs see a little of
Egypt ; and there robbed was I, and nearly murdered too ; but
I take a good deal of killing.'

' I'll warrant you do,' said Mark, looking at liim with pride.

' So I begged my way to Cairo ; and tliere I picked up a
Yankee — a New Yorker, made of money, who had a yacht at
Alexandria, and travelled en prince ; and nothing would serve
him but I must go with him to Constantinople ; but there he
and I quarrelled — more fools, both of us ! I wrote to you from
Constantinople. '

' We never got the letter.'

' I can't help that ; I wrote. But there I was on the wide
world again. So I took up with a Russian prince, whom I met
at a gambling-table in Pera, — a mere boy, but such a plucky
one, — and went with him to Circassia, and up to Astrakhan,
and on to the Kirghis steppes ; and there I did see snakes.'

' Snakes ? ' says Mary. ' I should have thought you had seen
plenty in India already.'

' Yes, Mary ! but these were snakes spiritual and meta-
phorical. For, poking about where we had no business, Mary,
the Tartars caught us, and tied us to their horses' tails, after
giving me this scar across the cheek, and taught us to drink
mares' milk, and to do a good deal of dirty work beside. So
there we stayed with them six months, and observed their
manners, which were none, and their customs, which were dis-
gusting, as the midshipman said in his diary ; and had the
honour of visiting a pleasant little place in No-man's Land,
called Khiva, which you may find in your atlas, Mary ; and of
very nearly being sold for slaves into Persia, which would not
have been pleasant ; and at last, INIary, we ran away — or rather,
rode away, on two razor-backed Calmuc ponies, and got back to
Russia, vid Orenberg, — for which consult your atlas again ; so
the young prince was restored to the bosom of his afflicted
family ; and a good deal of trouble I had to get him safe there,
for the poor boy's health gave way. They wanted me to stay
with them, and offered to make my fortune.'
' I'm so glad you didn't,' said Mary.

'Well — I wanted to see little Mary again, and two worthy
old gentlemen beside, you see. However, those Russians are
generous enough. They filled my pockets, and heaped me with
presents ; that bracelet among them. What's more, Mary, I've
been introduced to old Nick himself, and can testify, from per-
sonal experience, to the correctness of Shakespeare's opinion
that the prince of darkness is a gentleman.'

' And now you are going to stay at home 1 ' asked the doctor.

30 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

' Well, if you'll take me in, daddy, I'll send for my traps
from London, and stay a month or so.'

' A month,' cried the forlorn father.

' Well, Daddy, you see, there is a chance of more fighting in
Mexico, and I shall see such practice there ; beside meeting old
friends who were with me in Texas. And — and I've got a little
commission, too, down in Georgia, that I should like to go and
do.'

' What is that ? '

' Well, it's a long story and a sad one ; but there was a poor
Yankee surgeon with the army in Circassia — a Southerner, and
a very good fellow ; and he had taken a fancy to some coloured
girl at home — poor fellow, he used to go half mad about her
sometimes, when he was talking to me, for fear she should have
been sold — sent to the New Orleans market, or some other
devilry ; and what could I say to comfort him ? Well, he got
his mittimus by one of Schamyl's bullets ; and when he was
dying, he made me promise (I hadn't the heart to refuse) to take
all his savings, which he had been hoarding for years for no
other purpose, and see if I couldn't buy the girl, and get her
away to Canada. I was a fool for promi-sing. It was no con-
cern of mine ; but the poor fellow wouldn't die in peace else.
So what must be, must.'

' Oh, go ! go ! ' said Mary. ' You will let him go, Doctor
Thurnall, and see the poor girl free? Think how dieadful it
must be to be a slave.'

' I will, my little Miss Mary ; and for more reasons than you
think of. Little do you know how dreadful it is to be a slave.'

' Hum ! ' said Mark Armsworth. ' That's a queer story. Tom,
have you got the poor fellow's money ? Didn't lose it when you
were taken by those Tartars ? '

' Not I. I wasn't so green as to carry it with me. It ought
to have been in England six months ago. ^ly only fear is, it's
not enough.'

' Hum ! ' said Mark. ' How much more do you think you'll
want 1 '

' Heaven knows. There is a thousand dollars ; but if she be
half as beautiful as poor Wyse used to swear she was, I may
want more than double that.'

'If you do, pay it, and I'll pay you again. No, by George ! '
said Mark, ' no one shall say that while Mark Armsworth had a

balance at his bankers' he let a poor girl ' and, recollecting

•Mary's presence, he finished his sentence by sundry stamps and
thumps on the table.

' You would soon exhaust your balance, if you set to work to
free all poor girls who are in the same case in Georgia,' said the
doctor.

' Well, what of that 1 Them I don't know of, and so I ain't
responsible for them ; but this one I do know of, and so — there

I POETRY AND PROSE 31

I can't argue ; but, Tom, if you want the money, you know
where to find it.'

' Very good. By the by — I forgot it till this moment — who
should come down in the coach with me but the lost John
Briggs.'

' He is come too late, then,' said the doctor. ' His poor
father died this morning.'

'Ah ! then Briggs knew that he was ill? That explains the
Manfredic mystery and gloom with which he greeted me.'

'I cannot tell. He has written from time to time, but he
has never given any address ; so that no one could write in
return.'

'He may have known. He looked very downcast. Perhaps
that explains his cutting me dead.'

' Cut you ?' cried Mark. 'I dare say he's been doing some-
thing he's ashamed of, and don't want to be recognised. That
fellow has been after no good all this while, I'll warrant. I
always say he's connected with the swell mob, or croupier at a
gambling-table, or something of that kind. Don't you think it's
likely, now ? '

Mark was in the habit of so saying for' the purpose of tor-
menting the doctor, who held stoutly to his old belief, that John
Briggs was a very clever man, and would turn up some day as
a distinguished literary character.

' Well,' said Tom, ' honest or not, he's thriving , came down
inside the coach, dressed in the distinguished foreigner style,
with lavender kid-gloves, and French boots.'

' Just like a swell pickpocket,' said Mark. ' I always told
you so, Thurnall.'

'He had the old Byron collar, and Eaphael hair, though.'

' Nasty, effeminate, un-English foppery,' grumbled ^lark ; ' so
he may be in the scribbling line after all.'

' I'll go and see if I can find him,' quoth the doctor.

' Bother you,' said Mark, 'always running out o'. nights after
somebody else's business, instead of having a jolly evening.
You stay, Tom, like a sensible fellow, and tell me and Mary
some more travellers' lies. Had much sporting, boy ? '

' Hum ! I've shot and hunted every beast, 1 think, shootable
and huntable, from a humming-bird to an elephant ; and I had
some splendid fishing in Canada ; but, after all, give me a
Whitbury trout, on a single-handed Chevalier. We'll at them
to-morrow, Mr. Armsworth.'

' We will, my boy ! never so many fish in the river as this
year, or in season so early.'

The good doctor returned ; but with no news whicli could
throw light on the history of the now mysterious Mr. John
Briggs. He had locked himself into the room with his father's
corpse, evidently in great excitement and grief ; spent several
hours in walking up and down there alone ; and had then gone

32 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

to an attorney in the town, and settled everything about tlie
funeral ' in the handsomest way,' said the man of law ; ' and
was quite the gentleman in his manner, but not much of a man
of business ; never had even thought of looking for his father's
will ; and was quite surprised when I told him that there ought
to be a fair sum — eight hundred or a thousand, perhaps — to
come in to him, if the stock and business were properly dis-
posed of. So he went off to London by the evening mail, and
told me to address him at the post-office in some street otf tiie
Strand. Queer business, sir, isn't it ? '

John Briggs did not reappear till a few minutes before his
father's funeral, witnessed the ceremony evidently with great
sorrow, bowed off silently all who attempted to speak to him,
and returned to London by the next coach, leaving matter for
much babble among all Whitbury gossips. One thing at least
was plain, that he wished to be forgotten in his native town ;
and forgotten he was, in due course of time.

Tom Thurnall stayed his month at home, and then went to
America ; whence he wrote home, in about six months, a letter,
of which only one paragraph need interest us.

' Tell Mark I have no need for his dollars. I have done the
deed ; and, thanks to the underground railway, done it nearly
gratis ; which was both cheaper than buying her, and infinitely
better for me ; so that she has all poor Wyse's dollars to start
with afresh in Canada. I write this from New York. I could
accompany her no farther ; for I must get back to the South in
time for the Mexican expedition.'

Then came a long and anxious silence ; and then a letter, not
from Mexico, but from California, — one out of several which
had been posted ; and then letters more regularly from Aus-
tralia. Sickened with Californian life, he had crossed the
Pacific once more, and was hard at work in the diggings,
doctoring and gold-finding by turns.

' A rolling stone gathers no moss,' said his father.

' He has the pluck of a hound, and the cunning of a fox,' said
Mark ; 'and he'll be a credit to you yet.'

And Mary prayed every morning and night for her old play-
fellow ; and so the years slipped on till the autumn of 18.33.

As no one has heard of Tom now for eight months and more
(the pulse of Australian postage being of a, somewhat inter-
mittent type), we may as well go and look for him.

A sheet of dark rolling ground, quarried into a gigantic
rabbit burrow, with hundreds of tents and huts dotted about
among the heaps of rubbish ; dark evergreen forests in the dis-
tance, and, above all, the great volcanic mountain of Buninyong
towering far aloft — these are the ' Black Hills of Ballarat ; ' and
that windlass at that shaft's mouth belongs in part to Thomas
Thurnall.

At the windlass are standing two men, whom we may have

r POETRY AND PROSE 33

seen in past years, self-satisfied in countenance, and spotless in
array, sauntering down Piccadilly any July afternoon, or loung-
ing in Haggis's stable-yard at Cambridge any autumn morning.
Alas ! how changed from the fast young under-graduates, witli
powers of enjoyment only equalled by their powers of running
into debt, are those two black -bearded and mud -bespattered
ruffians, who once were Smith and Brown of Trinity. Yet who
need pity them, as long as they have stouter limbs, healthier
stomachs, and clearer consciences, than they ha\e had since they
left Eton at seventeen? Would Smith ha\e been a happier
man as a briefless barrister in a dingy Inn of Law, peeping now
and then into thirdrate London society, and scribbling for the
daily press? Would Brown have been a happier man had he
been forced into those holy orders for which he never felt the
least vocation, to pay off his college debts out of his curate's
income, and settle down on his lees, at last, in the family living
of Xomansland-cum-Clayhole, and support a wife and five
children on five hundred a year, exclusive of rates and taxes ?
Let them dig, and be men.

The windlass rattles, and the rope goes down. A shout from
the bottom of the shaft proclaims all right ; and in due time,
sitting in the noose of the rope, up comes Thomas Thurnall,
bare-footed and bare-headed, in flannel trousers and red jersey,
begrimed with slush and mud ; with a mahogany face, a brick-
red neck, and a huge brown beard, looking, to use his own
expression, ' as jolly as a sandboy.'

'A letter for you, doctor, from Europe.'

Tom takes it, and his countenance falls ; for it is black-edged
and black-sealed. The handwriting is Mary Armsworth's.

' I suppose the old lady who is going to leave me a fortune is
dead,' says he drily, and turns away to read.

' Bad luck, I suppose,' he says to himself. ' I have not had
any for full six months, so I suppose it is time for Dame For-
tune to give me a sly stab again. I only hope it is not my
father ; for, begging the dame's pardon, I can bear any trick of
hers but that.' And he sets his teeth doggedly, and reads.

' My dear Mr. Thurnall — My father would have written him-
self, but he thought, I don't know why, that I could tell you
better than he. Your father is quite well in health,' — Thurnall
breathes freely again — ' but he has had heavy trials since your
poor brother William's death.'

Tom opens his eyes and sets his teeth more firmly. ' Willy
dead ? I suppose there is a letter lost : better so ; better to
have the whole list of troubles together, and so get them sooner
over. Poor Will ! '

' Your father caught the scarlet fever from him, while he was
attending him, and was very ill after he came back. He is quite
well again now ; but if I must tell you the truth, the disease
has aflected his eyes. You know how weak they always were,

34 TWO YEARS AGO fiiAr.

and how much worse they have grown of late years ; and the
doctors are afraid that he has little chance of recovering the
sight, at least of the left eye.'

'Recovering? He's blind, then.' And Tom set his teeth
more tightly than ever. He felt a sob rise in his throat, but
choked it down, shaking his head like an impatient bull.

' Wait a bit, 'Tom,' said he to himself, ' before you have it out
with Dame Fortune. There's more behind, I'll warrant. News
like this lies in pockets, and not in single nuggets.' And he
read on —

' And— for it is better you should know all — something has
happened to the railroad in which he had invested so much.
My father has lost money in it also, but not much ; but I fear
that your poor dear father is very much straitened. !My father
is dreadfully vexed about it, and thinks it all his fault in not
having watched the matter more closely, and made your father
sell out in time ; and he wants your father to come and live
with us, but he will not hear of it. So he has given up the old
house, and taken one in Water Street ; and oh ! I need not tell
you that we are there every day, and that I am trying to make
him as happy as I can — but what can I do ? ' And then followed
kind womanly common-places, which Tom hurried over with
lierce impatience.

' He wants you to come home ; but my father has entreated
him to let you stay. You know, while we are here, he is safe ;
and my father begs you not to come home, if you are succeeding
as well as you have been doing.'

'There was much more in the letter, which I need not repeat ;
and, after all, a short postscript by Mark himself followed : —

' Stay where you are, boy, and keep up heart ; while I have a
pound, your father shall have half of it ; and you know Mark
Armsworth.'

He walked away slowly into the forest. He felt that the
crisis of his life was come ; that he must turn his hand hence-
forth to quite new work ; and as he went he ' took stock,' as it
were, of his own soul, to see what point he had attained — what
he could do.

Fifteen years of adventure had hardened into wrought metal
a character never very ductile. Tom was now, in his own way,
an altogether accomplished man of the world, who knew (at
least in all companies and places where he was likely to find
himself) exactly what to say, to do, to make, to seek, and to
avoid. Shifty and thrifty as old Greek, or modern Scot, there
were few things he could not invent, and perhaps nothing he
could not endure. He had watched human nature under every
disguise, from the pomp of the ambassador to the war-paint of
the savage, and formed his own clear, hard, shallow, practical esti-
mate thereof. He looked on it as his raw material, which he
had to work up into subsistence and comfort for himself. He

I rOETRY AND PROSE 35

did not wish to live on men, but live by them he must ; and for
that purpose he must study tliem, and especially their weak-
nesses. He would not clieat them ; for there was in him an
innate vein of lionesty, so surly and explosive, at times, as to
give him much trouble. The severest part of his self-education
had been the repression of his dangerous inclination to call a
sham a sham on the spot, and to answer fools according to their
folly. That youthful rashness, however, was now well-nigli
subdued, and Tom could flatter and bully also, when it served
his turn — as who cannot? Let him that is without sin among
my readers cast the first stone. Self-conscious he was, there-
fore, in every word and action ; not from morbid vanity, but a
necessary consequence of hi" mode of life. He had to use men,
and therefore to watch how he used them ; to watch every word,
gesture, tone of voice, and, in all times and places, do the fitting
thing. It was hard work ; but necessary for a man who stood
alone and self -poised in the midst of the universe ; fashioning
for himself everywhere, just as far as his arm could reach, some
not intolerable condition ; depending on nothing but himself,
and caring for little but himself and the father whom, to do him
justice, he never forgot. If I wished to define Tom Thurnall by
one epithet, I should call him specially an ungodly man — were
it not that scriptural epithets have, nowadays, such altogether
conventional and oflicial meanings, that one rears to convey, in
using them, some notion quite foreign to the truth. Tom was
certainly not one of those ungodly whom David had to deal with
of old, who robbed the widow, and put the fatherless to death.
His morality was as high as that of the average ; his sense of
honour far higher. He was generous and kind-hearted. No
one ever heard him tell a lie ; and he had a blunt honesty about
him, half real, because he liked to be honest, and yet half affected
too, because he found it pay in the long run, and because it
threw off their guard the people whom he intended to make his
tools. But of godliness in its true sense — of belief that any
Being above cared for him, and was helping him in the daily
business of life — that it was worth while asking that Being's
advice, or that any advice would be given if asked for ; of any
practical notion of a Heavenly Father, or a Divine education —
Tom was as ignorant as thousands of respectable people who go
to church every Sunday, and read good books, and believe firmly
that the Pope is Antichrist. He ought to have learnt it, no
doubt, for his father was a religious man ; but he had not learnt
it, any more than thousands learn it, who have likewise reli-
gious parents. He had Been taught, of course, the common
doctrines and duties of religion ; but early remembrances had
been rubbed out, as off a schoolboy's slate, by the mere current
of new thoughts and objects, in his continual wanderings.
Disappointments he had had, and dangers in plenty ; but
only such as rouse a brave and cheerful spirit to bolder self-

36 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

reliance and invention ; not those deei) sorrows of the heart
wliich leave a man lielpless in the lowest pit, crying for help
from without, for there is none within. He had seen men of
all creeds, and had found in all alike (so he held) the many
rogues, and the few lionest men. All religions were, in his eyes,
equally true and equally false. Superior morality was owing
principally to the influences of race and climate ; and devo-
tional e.xperiences (to .iudge, at least, from American camp-
meetings and popish cities) the results of a diseased nervous
system.

Upon a man so hard and strong this fearful blow liad fallen,
and, to do him justice, he took it like a man. He wandered on
and on for an hour or more, up the hills, and into the forest,
talking to himself.

'Poor old Willy ! I should have liked to have looked into his
honest face before he went, if only to make sure that we were
good friends. I used to plague him sadly with my tricks. But
what is the use of wishing for what cannot be ? I recollect I
had just the same feeling when John died ; and yet I got over
it after a time, and was as cheerful as if lie were alive again, or
liad never lived at all. And so I shall get over this. Why
should I gi\'e way to what I know will pass, and is meant to
pass ? It is my father I feel for. But I couldn't be there ; and
it is no fault of mine that I was not there. No one told me
what was going to happen ; and no one could know ; so again,
— why grieve over what can't be helped ? '

And then, to give the lie to all his cool arguments, he sat
down among the fern, and burst into a violent fit of crying.
' Oh, my poor dear old daddy ! '

Yes ; beneath all the hard crust of years, that fountain of
life still lay pure as when it came down from heaven — love for
his father.

' Come, come, this won't do ; this is not the way to take stock
of my goods, either mental or worldly. I can't cry the dear old
man out of this scrape.'

He looked up. The sun was setting. Beneath the dark roof
of evergreens the eucalyptus boles stood out, like basalt pillars,
black against a background of burning flame. The flying foxes
shot from tree to tree, and moths as big as sparrows whirred
about the trunks, one moment black against the glare beyond,
and vanisliing the next, like imps of darkness, into their native
gloom. There was no sound of living thing around, save the
ghastly rattle of the dead bark tassels which swung from every
tree, and, far away, the faint clicking of the diggers at their
work, like the rustle of a gigantic ant-hill. Was there one
among them all who cared for him ? who would not forget him
in a week with — ' Well, he was pleasant company, poor fellow,'
and go on digging without a sigh ? What, if it were his fate to
die, as he had seen many a stronger man, there in that lonely

I POETRY AND PROSE 37

wilderness, and sleep for ever, unhoiioured and unknown, be-
neath that awful forest roof, while his father looked for bread
to others' hands ?

No man was less sentimental, no man less superstitious, than
Thomas Thurnall ; but crushed and softened — all but terrified
(as who would not have been 1) — by that day's news, he could
not struggle against the weight of loneliness which fell upon
him. For the first and last time, perhaps, in his life, he felt
fear ; a vague, awful dread of unseen and inevitable possibili-
ties. Why should not calamity fall on him, wave after wave ?
Was it not falling on him already ? Why should he not grow
sick to-morrow, break his leg, his neck — why not 1 What
guarantee had he in earth or heaven that he might not be
' snufl'ed ovit silently,' as he had seen hundreds already, and die
and leave no sign ? And there sprung up in him at once the
intensest yearning after his father and the haunts of his boy-
hood, and the wildest dread that he should never see them.
!Might not his father be dead ere he could return ? — if ever he
did return. That twelve thousand miles of sea looked to him a
gulf impassable. Oh, that he were safe at home ! that he could
start that moment ! And for one minute a helplessness, as of a
lost child, came over him.

Perhaps it had been well for him had he given that feeling
vent, and, confessing himself a lost child, cried out of the dark-
ness to a Father ; but the next minute he had dashed it proudly
away.

'Pretty baby I am, to get frightened, at my time of life,
because I find myself in a dark wood — and the sun shining all
the while as jollily as ever away there in the west ! It is morn-
ing somewhere or other now, and it will be morning here again
to-morrow. "Good times and bad times, and all times pass
over ; " — I learnt that lesson out of old Bewick's vignettes, and
it has stood me in good stead this many a year, and shall now.
Die ? Nonsense. I take more killing than that comes to. So
for one more bout with old Dame Fortune. If she throws me
again, why, I'll get up again, as I have any time these fifteen
years. Clark's right. I'll stay here and work till I make a hit,
or luck runs dry, and then home and settle ; and, meanwhile,
I'll go down to Melbourne to-morrow, and send the dear old
man two hundred pounds ; and then back again here, and to it
again.'

And with a fate-defiant smile, half bitter and half cheerful,
Tom rose and went down again to his mates, and stopped their
inquiries by — 'What's done can't be mended, and needn't be
mentioned ; whining won't make me work the harder, and harder
than ever I must work.'

Strange it is, how mortal man, ' who cometh up and is cut
down like the flower,' can thus harden himself into stoical
security, and count on the morrow, which may never come.

^^ TWO ^EARS AGO chap.

\ et so it is ; and, perhaps, if it were not so, no work would get
done on earth, — at least by the many wlio know not that God
is guiding them, while they fancy that they are guiding them-
selves.

CHAPTER II

STILL LIFE

I MUST now, if I am to bring you to ' Two years ago,' and to
my story, as it was told to me, ask you to fullow me into the
good old West Country, and set you down at the back of an old
harbour pier ; thirty feet of gray and brown boulders, spotted
aloft with bright yellow lichens, and black drops of tar, polished
lower down by the surge of centuries, and towards the foot of
the wall roughened with crusts of barnacles, and mussel-nests
in crack and cranny, and festoons of coarse dripping weed.

On a low rock at its foot, her back resting against the Cyclo-
pean wall, sits a young woman of eight -and -twenty, soberly,
almost primly dressed, with three or four tiny children cluster-
ing round her. In front of them, on a. narrow spit of sand
between the rocks, a dozen little girls are laughing, romping,
and pattering about, turning the stones for 'shannies' and
' bullies,' and other luckless tish left by the tide ; while the
party beneath the pier wall look steadfastly down into a little
rock-pool at their feet, full of the pink and green and purple
cut-work of delicate weeds and coraline, and starred with great
sea-dahlias, crimson and brown and gray, and with the waving
snake-locks of the Cereus, pale blue, and rose-tipped like the
fingers of the dawn. One delicate Medusa is sliding across the
pool, by slow pantings of its crystal bell ; and on it the eyes
of the whole group are fixed — for it seems to be the subject of
some story which the village schoolmistress is finishing in a
sweet, half-abstracted voice —

' And so the cruel soldier was changed into a great rough red
starfish, who goes about killing the poor mussels, while nobody
loves him, or cares to take his part ; and the poor little girl was
changed into a beautiful bright jelly-fish, like that one, who
swims about all day in the pleasant sunshine, with a. red cross
stamped on its heart.'

' Oh, mistress, what a pretty story ! ' cry the little ones,
with tearful eyes. ' And what shall we be changed to when we
die?'

' If we will only be good we shall go up to .Tesus, and be
beautiful angels, and sing hjrmns. Would that it might be
soon, soon ; for you and me, land all ! ' And she draws the
children to her, and looks upward, as if longing to bear them
with her aloft.

Let us leave the conversation where it is, and look into the

II STILL LIFE 39

face of the speaker, who, young as she is, has already meditated
so long upon the mystery of death that it has grown lovely in
her eyes.

Her figure is tall, graceful, and slight, the severity of its out-
lines suiting well witli the severity of her dress, with the brown
stuff' gown and plain gray whittle. Her neck is long, almost
too long ; but all defects are forgotten in the first look at her
face. We can see it fully, for her bonnet lies beside her on the
rock.

The masque, though thin, is perfect. The brow, like that of
Greek statue, looks lower than it really is, for the hair springs
from below the bend of the forehead. The brain is very long,
and sweeps backward and upward in grand curves, till it attains
above the ears a great expanse and height. She should be a
character more able to feel than to argue ; full of all a woman's
veneration, devotion, love of children, — perhaps, too, of a woman's
anxiety.

The nose is slightly aquiline ; the sharp-cut nostrils indicate
a reserve of compressed strength and passion ; the mouth is
delicate ; the lips, which are full and somewhat heavy, not from
coarseness, but rather from languor, show somewhat of both the
upper and the under teeth. Her eyes are bent ou the pool at
her feet ; so that we can see nothing of them but the large
sleepy lids, fringed with lasiies so long and dark that the eye
looks as if it had been painted, in the Eastern fashion, with
antimony ; the dark lashes, dark eyebrows, dark hair, crisped
(as West-country hair so often is) to its very roots, increase the
almost ghost-like paleness of the face, not sallow, not snow-white,
but of a clear, bloodless, waxen hue.

And now she lifts her eyes — dark eyes, of preternatural large-
ness ; brilliant, too, but not with the sparkle of the diamond ;
brilliant as deep clear wells are, in which the mellow moonlight
sleeps fathom-deep between black walls of rock ; and round
them, and round the wide-opened lips, and arching eyebrow, and
slightly wrinkled forehead, hangs an air of melancholy thought,
vague doubt, almost of startled fear ; then that expression
passes, and the whole face collapses into a languor of patient
sadness, which seems to say, ' I cannot solve the mystery. Let
Him solve it as seems good to Him.'

The pier has, as usual, two stages ; the upper and narrower
for a public promenade, the lower and broader one for business.
Two rough collier lads, strangers to the place, are lounging on
the wall above, and begin, out of mere mischief, dropping pebbles
on the group below.

' Hillo ! you young rascals,' calls an old man lounging like
them on the wall ; ' if you don't drop that, you're likely to get
your heads broken.'

'Will you do it r

' I would thirty years ago ; but I'll find a dozen in five minutes

40 TWO YEARS AllO chap.

who will do it nmv. Here, lads ! liere's two Welsh vagabonds
pelting our schoolmistress,'

This is spoken to a group of 8e;i Titans, who are sitting
about on the pier-way behind liim, in red caps, blue jackets,
striped jerseys, bright brown trousers, and all tlie picturesque
comfort of a fisherman's costume, superintending the mending
of a boat.

Up jumped half a dozen off the logs and baulkings, where
they liave been squatting, doubled up knee to nose, after the
fashion of their class, and a volley of execrations, like a storm
of grape, almost blo^is the two offenders off the wall. The
bolder, however, lingers, anathematising in turn; wliereon a
black -bearded youth, some six feet four in height catches up an
oar, makes a sweej) at the shins of the lad alcove Jiis head, and
brings him writhing down upon the upper pier-way, wlience he
walks off howling, and muttering threats of 'taking the law.'
In vain ; there is not a magistrate within ten miles ; and
custom, lynch -law, and the coastguard lieutenant settle all
matters in Aberalva town, and do so easily enough ; for tiie
petty crimes which fill our gaols are all unknown among those
honest Vikings' sons ; and any man who covets liis neighbour's
goods instead of stealing them lias only to go and borrow them,
on condition, of course, of lending in his turn.

' What's that collier lad hollering about, Cajitain Willis ?
asks Mr. Tardrew, steward to Lord Scoutbush, landlord of Aber-
alva, as he comes up to the old man.

'Gentleman Jan cut him over, for pelting tlie schoolmistress
below here.'

'Serve him right; lie'll have to cut over that curate next, I
reckon.'

' Oh, Mr. Tardrew, don't you talk so ; the young gentleman
is as kind a man as I ever saw, and comes in and out of our
house like a lamb.'

' AVolf in sheep's clothing,' growls Tardrew. ' What d'ye
think he says to me last week ? Wanted to turn the school-
mistress out of her place because .she went to chapel sometimes.'

'I know, I know,' replied Willis, in tiie tone of a man who
wished to avoid a painful subject. 'And what did you answer,
then, ilr. Tardrew ? '

' I told him he might if he liked ; but he'd make the place
too hot to hold him, if he hadn't done it already, witli his bow-
ings and his crossings, and his chantings, and his popish
Gregories — and tells one he's no papist ; called him Pope
Gregory himself. What do we want with popes' tunes here,
instead of the Old Hundred and Martyrdom ? I should like
to see any pope of the lot make a tune like them.'

Captain Willis listened with a face half sad, half slily amused.
He and Tardrew were old friends ; being the two most notable
persons in the parish, save Jones the lieutenant, Heale the

11 STILL LIFE 41

doctor, and another gentleman, of wliom we shall speak pre-
sently. Both of them, too, were thorough-going Protestants, and,
though Churchmen, walked sometimes into the Brianite Chapel
of an afternoon, and thought it no sin. But each took the cur-
ate's 'Puseyism' in a different way, being two men as unlike
each other as one could well find.

Tardrew — steward to Lord Scoutbusli, the absentee landlord
— was a shrewd, hard-bitten, choleric old fellow, of the shape,
colour, and consistence of a red brick ; one of those English
types which ilr. Emerson has so well hit off in his rather
confused and contradictory Traits : —

' He hides virtues under vices, or, rather, under the semblance
of them. It is the misshapen, hairy, Scandinavian Troll again
who lifts the cart out of the mire, or threshes the corn which
ten day-labourers could not end : but it is done in the dark, and
with muttered maledictions. He is a churl with a soft place in
his heart, whose speech is a brash of bitter waters, but who
loves to help you at a pinch. He says, No ; and serves you,
and his thanks disgust you.' Such was Tardrew — a true British
bull-dog, who lived pretty faithfully up to his Old Testament,
but had, somehow, forgotten the existence of the New.

Willis was a very different and a very much nobler person ; the
most perfect specimen which I ever have met (for I knew him
well, and loved him) of that type of British sailor which good
Captain JIarryat has painted in liis Jfastermnn Heady, and
painted far better than I can, even though I do so from life. A
tall and graceful old man, though stooping much from lumbago
and old wounds ; with snow-white hair and whiskers, delicate
aquiline features, the manners of a nobleman, and the heart of
a child. All children knew that latter fact, and clung to him
instinctively. Even ' the Boys,' that terrible Berserk-tribe, self-
organised, self-dependent, and bound together in common ini-
quities and the dread of common retribution, who were in
Aberalva, as all fishing towns, the torment and terror of all
douce fogies, male and female — even 'the Boys,' I say, respected
Captain Willis, so potent was the influence of his gentleness ;
nailed not up his shutters, nor tied fishing-lines across his door-
way ; tail-piped not his dog, nor sent his cat to sea on a barrel-
stave ; put not live crabs into his pocket, nor dead dog-fish into
his well ; yea, even when judgment, too long provoked, made
bare her red right hand, and the lieutenant vowed by his com-
mission that he would send half a dozen of them to the treadmill,
they would send up a deputation to ' beg Captain Willis to beg
the schoolmistress to beg them off.' For between Willis and
that fair young creature a friendship had grown up, easily to be
understood. Willis was one of those rare natures upon whose
purity no mire can cling ; who pass through the furnace, and yet
not even the smell of fire has passed upon them. Bred, almost
born, on board a smuggling cutter, in the old war-times ; then

42 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

liunting, in the old coast-blockade service, the smugglers among
whom he had been trained ; watching the slow horrors of the
Walcheren ; lighting under Collingwood and Nelson, and many
another valiant Captain ; lounging away years of temptation
on the West-Indian station, as sailing-master of a ship-of-the-
line ; pensioned co:nfortably now for many a year in his native
town, he had been always the same gentle, \'aliaut, righteous
man ; sober in life, strict in duty, and simple in word ; a soul
as transparent as crystal, and as pure. He was the oracle of
Aberalva now ; and even Lieutenant Brown would ask his
opinion — non-commissioned officer though he was — in a tone
which was all the more patronising, because he stood a little in
awe of the old man.

But why, when the boys wanted to be begged off, was the
schoolmistress to be their advocate? Because Grace Harvey
exercised, without intending anything of the kind, an almost
mesmeric influence on e\'ery one in the little town. Goodness
rather than talent had given her wisdom, and goodness rather
than courage a power of using that wisdom, which, to those
simple, superstitious folk, seemed altogether an inspiration.
There was a mystery about her, too, which worked strongly on
the hearts of the West-country people. She was supposed to be
at times ' not right ; ' and wandering intellect is with them, as
with many primitive peoples, an object more of awe than of pity.
Her deep melancholy alternated with bursts of wild eloquence,
with fantastic fables, witli entreaties and warnings against sin,
full of such pity and pathos that they melted, at times, the
hardest hearts. A whole world of strange tales, half false, half
true, had grown up around her as she grew. She was believed
to spend whole nights in prayer ; to speak with visitors from
the other world ; even to have the power of seeing into futurity.
The intensity of her imagination ga\ e rise to the belief that she
had only to will, and she could see whom she would, and all that
they were doing, even across the seas ; her exquisite sensibility,
it was whispered, made her feel every bodily suffering she wit-
nessed as acutely as the sufferer's self, and in the very limb in
which he suffered. Her deep melancholy was believed to be
caused by some dark fate — by some agonising sympathy with
evil-doers; and it was sometimes said in Aberalva — 'Don't
do that, for poor Grace's sake. She bears the sins of all the
parish.'

So it befell that Grace Harvey governed, she knew not how or
why, all hearts in that wild simple fishing town. Rough men,
fighfJing on the quay, shook hands at Grace's bidding. Wives
who could not lure their husbands from the beer-shop, sent
Grace in to fetch them home, sobered by shame ; and woe to the
stranger who fancied that her entrance into that noisy den gave
him a right to say a rough word to the fair girl ! The maidens,
instead of en\ying her beauty, made her the confidante of all

II STILL LIFE 43

their loves ; for though many a man would gladly have married
her, to woo her was more than any dared ; and Gentleman Jan
himself, the rightful bully of the quay, as being the handsomest
and biggest man for many a mile, besides owning a tidy trawler
and two good mackerel boats, had said openly, that if any man
had a right to her, he supposed he had ; but that lie sliould as
soon think of asking her to marry him, as of asking the
moon.

But it was in the school, in the duty which lay nearest to her,
that Grace's inward loveliness shone most lovely. Whatever dark
cloud of melancholy lay upon her own heart, she took care that
it should never overshadow one of those young innocents, whom
she taught by love and ruled by love, always tender, always
cheerful, even gay and playful ; punishing, when she rarely
punished, with tears and kisses. To make them as happy as
she could in a world where there was nothing but temptation,
and disappointment, and misery ; to make them ' fit for heaven,'
and then to pray that they might go thither as speedily as
possible, this had been her work for now seven years ; and that
Manichseism which has driven darker and harder natures to
destroy young children, that they might go straight to bliss,
took in her the form of outpourings of gratitude (when the first
natural tears were dried), as often as one of her little lambs was
' delivered out of the miseries of this sinful world.' But as long
as they were in the world, she was their guardian angel ; and
there was hardly a mother in Aberalva who did not confess her
debt to Grace, not merely for her children's scholarship, but for
their characters.

Frank Headley the curate, therefore, had touched altogether
the wrong chord when he spoke of displacing Grace. And when,
that same afternoon, he sauntered down to the pier-head, wearied
with his parish work, not only did Tardrew stump away in
silence as soon as he appeared, but Captain Willis's face
assumed a grave and severe look, which was not often to be
seen on it.

' Well, Captain Willis ? ' said Frank, solitary and sad ; long-
ing for a talk with some one, and not quite sure whether he was
welcome.

' Well, sir 1 ' and the old man lifted his liat, and made one
of his princely bows. ' You look tired, sir ; I am afraid you're
doing too much.'

'I shall have more to do soon,' said the curate, his eye
glancing towards the schoolmistress, who, disturbed by the noise
above, was walking slowly up the beach, with a child holding to
every finger, and every fold of her dress.

Willis saw the direction of his eye, and came at once to tlie
point, in his gentle, straightforward fashion.

'I hear you have thoughts of taking the school from her,
sir ? '

44 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

'Why — indeed— I shall be very sorry ; but if she will persist
in going to the chapel, I cannot overlook the sin of schism.'

'She takes the children to churcli twice a Sunday, don't she ?
And teaches them all that you tell her '

'Why— yes— I ha\e taken the religious instruction almost
into my own hands now.'

Willis smiled quietly.

' You'll excuse an old sailor, sir ; but I think that's more
than mortal man can do. There's no hour of the day but what
she's teaching them something. She's telling them Bible stories
now, I'll warrant, if you could hear her.'

Frank made no answer.

' You wouldn't stoji hei- doing that 1 Oh, sir,' and the old
man spoke with a, quiet earnestness which was not without its
effect, 'just look at her now, like the Good Shepherd with His
lambs about His feet, and tiiink whether that's not much too
pretty a sight to put an end to, in a poor sinful world like this.'

' It is my duty,' said Frank, hardening himself. ' It pains
me exceedingly, Willis ; I hope I need not tell you that.'

' If I know aught of Jlr. Headley's heart by his ways, you
needn't indeed, sir.'

' But I cannot allow it. Her mother a class leader among
these Dissenters, and one of the most actixe of them, too. The
school next door to her house. The preacher, of course, has
influence there, and must have. How am I to instil Church
principles into them, if he is counteracting me the moment my
back is turned ? I ha\ e made up my mind, Willis, to do nothing
in a hurry. Lady-day is past, and she must go on till Mid-
summer ; then I shall take the school into my own hands, and
teach them myself, for I can pay no mistress or master ; and
Mr. St. Just '

Frank checked himself as he was going to speak the truth ;
namely, that his sleepy old absentee rector. Lord Scoutbush's
uncle, would yawn and grumble at the move, and wondering
why Frank ' had not the sense to leave ill alone,' would give
him no manner of assistance beyond his pittance of eighty
pounds a-year, and five pounds at Christmas to spend on the
poor.

' Excuse me, sir, I don't doubt that you'll do your best in
teaching, as you always do : but I tell you honestly, you'll get
no children to teach.'

'No children?'

'Their mothers know the worth of Grace too well, and the
children too, sir ; and they'll go to her all the same, do what
you will ; and never a one will enter the church door from that
day forth.'

' On their own heads be it ! ' said Frank, a little testily ; ' but
I should not have fancied Miss Har\cy the sort of person to set
up herself in defiance of me.'

II STILL LIFE -15

'The more reason, sir, if you'll forgi\o me, for your not
putting upon her.'

' I do not want to put upon her or any one. I will do every-
thing. I will — I do — work day and night for these people,
Mr. Willis. I tell you, as I would my own father. I don't think
I have another object on earth — if I have, I hope I shall for-
get it — than the parish : but Church principles I must carry
out.'

' Well, sir, certainly no man e\er worked here as you do. If
all had been like you, sir, there would not be a Dissenter here
now ; but excuse nie, sir, the Church is a \ery good thing, and
I keep to mine, having served under her Majesty, and her
^lajesty's forefathers, and learnt to obey orders, I hope ; but
don't you think, sir, you're taking it as the Pharisees took the
Sabbath-day?'

'How then?'

' Why, as if man was made for the Church, and not the
Church for man.'

'That is a shrewd thought, at least. WJiere did you pick it
up?'

' 'Tis none of my own, sir ; a bit of wisdom that my maid let
fall ; and it has stuck to me strangely ever since.'

' Your maid ? '

' Yes, Grace there. I always call her my maid ; having no
father, poor tiling, she looks up to me as one, pretty much — the
dear soul. Oh, sir ! I hope you'll think over this again, before
you do anything. It's done in a day : but years won't undo it
again.'

So Grace's sayings were quoted against him. Her power was
formidable enough, if she dare use it. He was silent awhile, and
then —

' Do you think she has heard of this — of my '

' Honesty's the best policy, sir : she has ; and that's the truth.
You know how things get round.'

' Well ; and what did she say ? '

' I'll tell you her very words, sir ; and they were these, if
you'll excuse me. " Poor dear gentleman," says she, " if he
thinks chapel-going so wrong, why does he dare drive folks to
chapel ? I wonder, every time he looks at that deep sea, he
don't remember what the Lord said about it, and those who
cause his little ones to offend." '

Frank was somewhat awed. The thought was new ; the ap-
plication of the text, as his own scholarship taught him, even
more exact than Grace had fancied.

' Then she was not angry ? '

' She, sir ? You couldn't anger her if you tore her in pieces
with hot pincers, as they did those old martyrs she's always
telling about.'

'Good-bye, Willis,' said Franks in a hopeless tone of voice,

46 TWO YEARS AGO 'HAp.

and sauntered to the pier-end, down tlie steps, and along the
lower pier-way, burdened with many thoughts. He came up to
the knot of chatting sailors. Not one of them touclied his cap,
or moved out of the way for him. The boat lay almost across
the whole pier-way ; and he stopped, awkwardly enough, for
there was not room to get by.

' Will you be so kind as to let me pass ? ' asked lie, meekly
enough. But no one stirred,

' Why don't you get up, Tom ? ' asked one.

' I be lame.'

'So be I.'

' The gentleman can step over me, if lie likes,' said big Jan,
a proposition the impossibility whereof raised a horse-laugh.

'Ain't you ashamed of yourselves, lads ? ' said tlie severe
voice of Willis, from above. The men rose sulkily ; and Frank
liastened on, as ready to cry as ever he had been in his life.
Poor fellow ! he had been labouring among these people for
now twelve months, as no man had ever laboured before, and
he felt that he had not won the confidence of a single human
being, — not even of the old women, who took his teaching foi-
the sake of his charity, and who scented popery, all the while,
in words in which there was no popery, and in doctrines which
were just the same, on the whole, as those of the dissenting
preacher, simply because he would sprinkle among them certain
words and phrases which had become ' suspect,' as party badges.
His church was all but empty ; the general excuse was, that it
was a mile from the town ■ but Frank knew that that was not
the true reason ; that all the parish had got it into their heads
that he had a leaning to popery ; that he was going over to
Rome ; tliat he was probably a Jesuit in disguise.

Now, be it always remembered, Frank Headley was a good
man, in every sense of the word. He had nothing, save the out-
side, in common with those undesirable coxcombs who have
not been bred by the High Church movement, but have taken
refuge in its cracks, as they would have done forty years ago in
those of the Evangelical, — youths who hide their crass ignor-
ance and dulness under the cloak of Church infallibility, and
having neither wit, manners, learning, humanity,nor any other
dignity whereon to stand, talk loud, pour jns al/er, a,hout the
dignity of the priesthood. Sucli men 1 rank had met at neigh-
bouring clerical meetings, overbearing and out-talking the
elder and the wiser members ; and finding that he got no good
from them, had withdrawn into his parish work, to eat his own
heart, like Bellerophon of old. For Frank was a gentleman,
and a christian, if ever one there was. Delicate in person, all
but consumptive ; graceful and refined in all his works and
ways ; a, scholar, elegant rather than deep, yet a scholar still :
full of all love for painting, architecture, and poetry, he had
come down to bury himself in this remote curacy, in the honest

II STILL LIFE 47

desire of doing good. He liad been a curate in a fasliionable
London church ; but finding the atmosphere thereof not ovei-
wliolesome to his soul, he had liad the courage to throw off St.
Nepomuc's, its brotherlioods, sisterlioods, and all its gorgeous
and highly-organised appliances for enabling five thousand
rich to take tolerable care of five hundred poor ; and had
fled from 'the holy virgins' (as certain old ladies, who do
twice their work with half their noise, call tliem) into the wilder-
ness of Bethnal Green. But six months' gallant work there,
with gallant men (for there are High Churchmen there who are
an honour to England), brought him to death's door. The
doctors commanded some soft western air. Frank, as chival-
rous as a knight-errant of old, would fain have died at his post,
but his mother interfered ; and he could do no less than obey
her. So he had taken this remote West-country curacy ; all the
more willingly because he knew that nine-tenths of the people
were Dissenters. To recover that place to the Cliurch would
be something worth living for. So he had come, and laboured
late and early ; and behold, he had failed utterly ; and seemed
further than ever from success. He had opened, too hastily, a
crusade against the Dissenters, and denounced where he should
have conciliated. He had overlooked — indeed he hardly knew
— the sad truth, that the mere fact of his being a clergyman
was no passport to the hearts of his people. For the curate
who preceded him had been an old man, mean, ignorant, incap-
able, remaining there simply because nobody else would have
him, and given to brandy-and-water as much as his ilock. The
rector for the last fifteen years. Lord Scoutbush's uncle, was a
cypher. The rector before him had notoriously earned the
living by a marriage with a lady wlio stood in some question-
able relation to Lord Scoutbush's father, and who had never
had a thought above his dinner and his tithes ; and all that the
Aberalva fishermen knew of God or I'ighteousness, they had
learnt from the soi-disant disciples of John Wesley. So Frank
Headley had to make up, at starting, the arrears of half a
century of base neglect ; but instead of doing so, he had con-
trived to awaken against himself that dogged hatred of
popery which lies inarticulate and confused, but deep and
firm, in the heart of the English people. Poor fellow ! if he
made a mistake, he suffered for it. There was hardly a sadder
soul than poor Frank, as he went listlessly up the village
street that afternoon, to his lodging at Captain Willis's,
which he had taken because he preferred living in the village
itself to occupying the comfortable rectory a mile out of
town.

However, we cannot set him straight ; — after all, every man
must perfoi-m that office for himself. So the best thing we can
do, as we landed, naturally, at the pier-head, is to walk up-street
after him, and see what sort of a place Aberalva is.

48 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

Beneath us, to tlie left hand, is the quay-pool, now lying dry,
in which a dozen trawlers are lopping over on tlieir sides, their
red sails drying in 'the sun, the tails of the trawls hauled up to
the topmast heads ; while the more handy of their owners are
getting on board by ladders, to park away tiie said I'ed sails ;
for it will blow to-night. In the long furrows which their keels
liave left, and in the shallow muddy pools, He innumerable frag-
ments of exenterated maids (not human ones, pitiful reader,
but belonging to the order Tisces, and the family Raia), and
some twenty non - exenterated ray - dogs and picked dogs
(Anglice, dog-fish), together with a fine basking shark, at least
nine feet long, out of which the kneeling Mr. (tcorge Thomas,
clothed in pilot cloth patches of every hue, bright scarlet, blue,
and brown (not to mention a large square of white canvas
which has been let into that part of his trousers whicli is now
uppermost), is dissecting the liver, for the purpose of greasing
his ' sheaves ' with the fragrant oil thereof. Tlie pools in
general are bedded with black mud, and creamed over with
oily flakes which may proceed from the tar on the \essels' sides,
and may also from ' decomposing animal matter,' as we euphe-
mise it nowadays. The hot pebbles, at high tide mark, —
crowned with a long black row of herring and mackerel boats,
laid up in ordinary for the present, — are beautifully variegated
with mackerel's heads, gurnets' fins, old hag, lobworm, and
mussel-baits, and the inwards of a whole ichthyological
museum ; save at one spot where the Cloaca Maxima and Port
Esquiline of Aberalva town (small enough, considering the
place holds fifteen hundred souls) murmurs from beneath a gray
stone arch toward the sea, not unfraught with dead rats and
cats, who, their ancient feud forgotten, combine lovingly at
last in increasing the health of the blue-trousered urchins who
are sailing upon that Acherontic stream bits of board with a
feather stuck in it, or of their tiny sisters, who are dancing
about in the dirtiest pool among the trawlers in a way which
(if your respectable black coat be seen upon the pier) will elicit
from one of the balconied windows above, decked with reeking
shirts and linen, some such shriek as

' Patience Penberthy, Patience Penberthy — a ! You nasty,
dirty, little ondecent hussy — a ! What be playing in the quay-
pool for — a ? A pulling up your pesticoats before the quality
— a ! ' Each exclamation being followed with that droning
grunt, with which the West-country folk, after having screamed
their lungs empty through their noses, recover their breath for
a fresh burst.

Xever mind ; it is no nosegay, certainly, as a whole : but did
you ever see sturdier, rosier, nobler-looking children, — rounder
faces, raven hair, bright gray eyes, full of fun and tenderness ?
As for the dirt, that cannot harm them ; poor people's children
must be dirty — why not? Look on fifty yards to the left.

II STILL, LIFE 49

Between two ridges of high pebble bank, some twenty yards
apart, comes Alva river rushing to the sea. On the opposite
ridge, a low white house, witli three or four white canvas-
covered boats, and a flag-staff with sloping cross-yard, betokens
the coastguard station. Beyond it rise black jagged cliffs ; mile
after mile of iron-bound wall : and here and there, at the glens'
mouths, great banks and denes of shifting sand. In front of
it, upon the beach, are half a dozen great green and gray heaps
of Welsh limestone ; behind it, at the cliff foot, is tlie lime-kiln,
witli its white dusty heaps, and brown dusty men, its quivering
mirage of hot air, its strings of patient hay-nibbling donkeys,
which look as if they had just awakened out of a flour bin.
Above, a green down stretches up to bright yellow furze-crofts
far aloft. Behind, a reedy marsh, covered with red cattle,
paves the valley till it closes in ; the steep sides of the hills are
clothed in oak and ash covert, in which, three months ago, you
could have shot more cocks in one day than you would in Berk-
shire in a year. Pleasant little glimpses there are, too, of gray
stone farmhouses, nestling amongst sycamore and beech ;
bright-green meadows, alder-fringed ; squares of rich red
fallow-field, parted by lines of golden furze ; all cut out with a
peculiar blackness, and clearness, soft and tender withal,
wliich betokens a climate surcharged with rain. Only, in the
very bosom of the valley, a. soft mist hangs, increasing th«
sense of distance, and softening back one liill and wood behind
another, till the great brown moor which backs it all seems to
rise out of the empty air. For a thousand feet it ranges up, in
huge sheets of brown heather, and gray cairns and screes of
granite, all sharp and black-edged against the pale blue sky ;
and all suddenly cut off" above by one long horizontal line of
dark gray cloud, which seems to hang there motionless, and yet
is growing to windward, and dying to leeward, for ever rushing
out of the invisible into sight, and into the invisible again, at
railroad speed. Out of nothing the moor rises, and into nothing
it ascends — a great dark phantom between earth and sky, boding
rain and howling tempest, and perhaps fearful wreck — for the
groundswell moans and thunders on the beach behind us, louder
and louder every moment.

Let us go on, and up the street, after we have scrambled
through the usual labyrinth of timber-baulks, rusty anchors,
boats which have been dragged, for the purpose of mending and
tarring, into the very middle of the road, and old spars stowed
under walls, in the vain hope that they may be of some use for
something some day, and have stood the stares and welcomes of
the lazy giants who are sitting about upon them, black-locked,
black -bearded, with ruddy, wholesome faces, and eyes as bright
as diamonds ; men who are on their own ground, and know it ;
who will not touch their caps to you, or pull the short black
pipe from between their lips as you pass, but expect you to

50 TAVO YEARS AGO ciiAr.

prove yourself a gentleman, by speaking respectfully to tlieui ;
which, if you do, you will find them as hearty, intelligent, brave
fellows as ever walked this earth, capable of anything, from
working the naval-brigade guns at Sevastopol down to running
up to .a liundred miles in a cockleshell lugger, to forestall
the early mackerel market. God be with you, my brave lads,
and with your children after you ; for as long as you are what
I have known you, Old England will rule the seas, and many a
land beside !

But in going up Aberalva Street, you remark several things ;
first, that the houses were all whitewashed yesterday, except
wliere the snowy white is picked out by buttresses of pink and
blue ; next, that they all have bright green palings in front,
and bright green window-sills and frames ; next, that they are
all roofed with shining gray slate, and tlie space between the
window and the pales flagged with the same ; next, that where
such space is not flagged, it is full of flowers and shrubs which
stand the winter only in our greenhouses. The fuchsias are ten
feet high, laden with ripe purple berries running over (for there
are no birds to pick them off) ; and there, in the front of the
coast-guard lieutenant's house, is Cobsea scandens, covered with
purple claret-glasses, as it has been ever since Christmas : for
Aberalva knows no winter : and there are grown-up men in it
who never put on a skate, or made a snowball in their lives. A
most cleanly, bright -coloured, foreign -looking street, is that
long straggling one which runs up the hill towards Penalva
Court : only remark, that this cleanliness is gained by making
the gutter in the middle street the common sewer of the town,
and tread clear of cabbage-leaves, pilchard bones, et id gentn.
omne. For Aberalva is like Paris (if the answer of a celebrated
sanitary reformer to the Emperor be truly reported), ' fair with-
out but foul within.'

However, the wind is blowing dull and hollow from south-
west ; the clouds are rolling faster and faster up from the
Atlantic ; the sky to westward is brassy green ; the glass is
falling fast ; and there will be wind and rain enough to-night
to sweep even Aberalva clean for the next week.

Grace Harvey sees the coming storm, as she goes slowly
homewards, dismissing her little flock ; and she lingers long
and sadly outside her cottage door, looking out over the fast
blackening sea, and listening to the hollow thunder of the
groundswell against the back of the point which shelters
Aberalva Cove.

Far away on the horizon, the masts of stately ships stand out
against the sky, driving fast to the eastward with shortened
sail. They, too, know what is coming ; and Grace prays for
them as she stands, in her wild way, with half outspoken words.

'AH those gallant ships, dear Lord ! and so many beautiful
men in them, and so few of them ready to die ; and all those

II STILL LIFE 51

gallant soldiet-s going to the war ; — Lord, wilt tliou not have

mercy ? Spare them for a little time before Is not that

cruel, man-devouring sea full enough, Lord ; and brave men's
bones enough, strewn up and down all rocks and sands? And
is not that dark place full enough, O Lord, of poor souls cut off
in a moment, as my two were ? Oh, not to-night, dear Lord !
Do not call any one to-night — give them a day more, one chance
more, poor fellows — they have had so few, and so many tempta-
tions, and, perhaps, no schooling. They go to sea so early, and
young things will he young things. Lord. Spare them but one
night more — and yet He did not spare my two — they had no
time to repenc, and have no time for ever, evermore ! '

And she stands looking out over the sea ; but she has lost
sight of everything, save her own sad imaginations. Her eyes
open wider and wider, as if before some unseen horror ; the eye-
brows contract upwards; the cheeks sharpen ; the mouth parts ;
the lips draw back, showing the white teeth, as' if in intensest
agony. Thus she stands long, motionless, awe-frozen, save when
a shudder runs through every limb, with such a countenance as
that ' fair terror ' of which Shelley sang —

' Its horror ami its beauty are divine ;
Upon its lips and eyelids seem to lie
Loveliness like a shadow, from which shine,
Fiery and lucid, struggling underneath,
The agonies of anguish and of death. '

Her mother comes out from the cottage door behind, and
lays her hand upon the girl's shoulder. The spell is broken ;
and hiding her face in her hands, Grace bursts into violent
weeping.

' What are you doing, my poor child, here, in the cold night
air?'

' My two, mother, my two ! ' said she ; ' and all the poor souls
at sea to-night ! '

' You mustn't think of it. Haven't I told you not to think of
it ? One would lose one's wits if one did too often.'

' If it is all true, mother, what else is there worth thinking of
in heaven or earth ? '

And Grace goes in with a dull, heavy look of utter exhaus-
tion, bodily and mental, and quietly sets the things for supper,
and goes about her cottage work, as one who bears a heavy
chain, but has borne it too long to let it hinder the daily drud-
gery of life.

Grace had reason to pray at least for the soldiers who were
going to the war. For as she prayed, the Orinoco, Rijion, and
Manilla were steaming down Southampton Water, with the
Guards on board ; and but that morning little Lord Scoutbush,
left behind at the depot, had bid farewell to his best friend,

52 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

opposite Buckingliam Palace, wliile the bearskins were on tlie
bayonet-points, with —

' Well, old fellow, you have the fun, aftPi- all, and I the work ;'
and had been answered with —

'Fun? there will be no fighting; and I shall only have lost
my season in town.'

Was there, then, no man among them that day, who

' As the trees began to w}iisper and the wind began to roll,
Heard in the wihl March morning the angels call his soul ' ?

Verily tliey are gone down to Hade.s, even many stalwart
souls of heroes.

CHAPTER III

ANYTHIMi Bl'T STILL LIFE

Pexalva Court, about half a mile fi-om the quay, is 'like a
house in a story ; ' — a house of seven gables, and those very
shaky ones ; a house of useless long passages, useless turrets,
vast lumber attics where maids see ghosts, lofty garden and
yard walls of gray stone, round wliich the wind and rain are
lashing through the dreary darkness ; low oak-ribbed ceilings ;
windows which once were mullioned with stone, but now with
wood painted white ; walls which were once oak-wainscot, but
have been painted like the muUions, to the disgust of Elsley
Vavasour, poet, its occupant in March 1854, who forgot that,
while the oak was left dark, no man could have seen to read in
the rooms a yard from the window.

He has, however, little reason to complain of the one draw-
ing-room, where he and his wife are sitting, so pleasant has she
made it look, in spite of the plainness of the furniture. A
bright log-fire is burning on the hearth. There are a few good
books too, and a few handsome prints ; while some really valu-
able knick-knacks are set out, with pardonable ostentation, on
a little table covered with crimson \eh-et. It is only cotton
velvet, if you look close at it ; but the things are pretty enough
to catch the eye of all visitors ; and Mrs. Heale, the doctor's
wife (who always calls Mrs. Vavasour 'my lady,' though she
does not love her), and Mrs. Trebooze, of Tiebooze, always finger
them o\er when they have any opportunity, and whisper to each
other, half contemptuously, ' Ah, poor thing ! there's a sign that
she has seen better days.'

And better days, in one sense, Mrs. Vavasour has seen. I am
afraid, indeed, that she has more than once regretted the morn-
ing when she ran away in a hack-cab from her brother Lord
Scoutbush's house in Eaton Square, to be married to Elsley
Vavasour, the gifted author of A Sovl's Aijunies, and other Pucms.

Ill ANYTHING BUT STILL LIFE 53

He was a lion then, with foolish women running after him, and
turning his head once and for all ; and Lucia St. Just was a
wild Irish girl, new to London society, all feeling and romance,
and literally all ; for there was little real intellect underlying
her passionate sensibility. So when the sensibility burnt itself
out, as it generally does ; and when children, and the weak
health which comes with them, and the cares of a household,
and money difficulties, were absorbing her little powers, Elsley
Vavasour began to fancy that his wife was a very common-place
person who was fast losing even her good looks and her good
temper. So, on the whole, they were not happy. Elsley was
an aft'ectionate man, and honourable to a fantastic nicety ; but
he was vain, capricious, over-sensiti\'e, craving for admiration
and distinction ; and it was not enough for him that his wife
loved him, bore him children, kept his accounts, mended and
moiled all day long for him and his ; he wanted her to act the
public for him exactly when he was hungry for praise ; and
that not the actual, but an altogether ideal, public ; to worship
him as a deity, ' live for him and him alone,' ' realise ' his poetic
dreams of marriage bliss, and talk sentiment with him, or listen
to him talking sentiment to her, when she would much sooner
be safe in bed burying all the petty cares of the day, and the
pain in her back too, poor thing ! in sound sleep ; and so it
befell that they often quarrelled and wrangled, and that they
were quarrelling and wrangling this very night.

Who cares to know how it began ? Who cares to hear how
it went on, — the stupid, aimless skirmish of bitter words, be-
tween two people who had forgotten themselves ? I believe it
began with Elsley's being vexed at her springing up two or
three times, fancying that she heard the children cry, while he
wanted to be quiet, and sentimentalise over the roaring of the
wind outside. Then — she thought of nothing but those children.
Why did she not take a book and occupy her mind ? To which
she had her pert, though just answer, about her mind having
quite enough to do to keep clothes on the children's backs, and
so forth, — let who list imagine the miserable little squabble ; —
till she says, — 'I know what has put you out so to-night;
nothing but the news of my sister's coming.' He answers, —
' That her sister is as little to him as to any man ; as welcome
to come now as she has been to stay away these three years.'

' Ah, it's very well to say that ; but you have been a different
person ever since that letter came.' And so she torments him
into an angry self-justification (which she takes triumphantly
as a confession) that ' it is very disagreeable to have his thoughts
broken in on by one who has no sympathy with him and his

pursuits — and who ' and at that point he wisely stops short,

tor he was going to throw down a very ugly gage of battle.

Thrown down or not, Lucia snatches at it.

' Ah, I understand ; poor Valentia ! You always hated her.'

54 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

'I did not : but she is so brusque, and excited, and '

' Be so kind as not to abuse my family. You may say what
you will of me ; but '

' And what lia\ e your family done for me, pray ? '

'Why, considering that v.-e are now living rent-fic>e in my

brother's house, and ' Slie stops in her turn ; for her pride

and her prudence also will not let her tell him that Valentia has
been clothing her and the children for the last three years. He is
just the man to forbid her on the spot to recei\e any more pre-
sents, and to sacrifice her comfort to his own pride. But what
she has said is quite enough to bring out a very angry answer,
which she expecting, nips in tlie bud by —

' For goodness' sake, don't speak so loud ; I don't want the
ser\ants to hear.'

' I am not speaking loud ' (he has not yet opened his lips).
' That is your old trick to prevent my defending myself, while
you are driving one mad. How dare you taunt me with being
a pensioner on your brother's bounty ? I'll go up to town again
and take lodgings there. I need not be beholden to any aristo-
crat of them all. I ha\ e my own station in the real world, — the
world of intellect ; I have my own friends ; I have made myself
a name without his help ; and I can li\ e without his help, he
shall find!'

' Which name were you speaking of 1 ' rejoins she, looking up at
him, with all her native Irish humour flashing up for a moment
in her naughty eyes. The next minute she would have given
her hand not to have said it ; for, with a very terrible word,
Elsley springs to his feet and dashes out of the room.

She hears him catch up his hat and cloak, and hurry out into
the rain, slamming the door behind him. She springs up to call
him back, but he is gone ; — and she dashes herself on the flooi',
and bursts into an agony of weeping over ' young bliss never to
return ' ! Not in the least. Her principal fear is, lest he should
catch cold in the rain. She takes up her work again, and
stitches away in the comfortable certainty that in half an hour
she will have recovered her temper, and he also ; that they will
pass a sulky night ; and to-morrow, by about mid-day, without
explanation or formal reconciliation, have become as good
friends as ever. ' Perhaps,' says she to herself, with a woman's
sense of power, 'if he be very much ashamed and very wet, I'll
pity him and make friends to-night.'

Miserable enough are these little squabbles. Why will two
people, who have sworn to love and cherish each other utterly,
and who, on the whole, do what they have sworn, behave to
each other as they dare for very shame behave to no one else ?
Is it that, as every beautiful thing has its hideous antitype, this
mutual shamelessness is the devil's ape of mutual confidence ?
Perhaps it cannot be otherwise with beings compact of good
and evil. When the veil of reserve is withdrawn from between

rii ANYTHING BUT STILL LIFE 55

two souls, it must be withdrawn for evil, as for good, till the two
natures, which ought to seek rest, each in the other's inmost
depths, may at last spring apart, confronting each other reck-
lessly witli — ' There, you see me as I am ; you know the worst of
me, and I of you ; take me as you find me — what care I V

Elsley and Lucia have not yet arrived at that terrible crisis ;
though they are on the path toward it, — the path of little care-
lessnesses, rudenesses, ungoverned words and tempers, and,
worst of all, of that half-confidence, which is certain to avenge
itself by irritation and quarrelling ; for if two married people
will not tell each other in love what they ought, they will be
sure to tell each other in anger what they ought not. It is plain
enough already that Elsley has his weak point, which must not be
touched ; something about ' a name,' which Lucia is to be expected
to ignore, — as if anything which really exists could be ignored
while two people live together night and day, for better for
worse. Till the thorn is out, the wound will not heal ; and till
the matter (whatever it may be) is set right by confession and
absolution, there will be no peace for them, for they are living
in a lie ; and unless it be a very little one indeed, better, perhaps
that they should go on to that terrible crisis of open defiance.
It may end in disgust, hatred, madness ; but it may, too, end
in each falling again upon the other's bosom, and sobbing out
through holy tears — ' Yes, you do know the worst of me, and yet
you love me still. This is happiness, to find oneself most loved
when one most hates oneself ! God, help us to confess our sins
to Thee, as we have done to each other, and to begin life again like
little children, struggling hand in hand out of this lowest pit,
up the steep path which leads to life, and strength, and peace.'

Heaven grant that it may so end ! But now Elsley has gone
raging out into the raging darkness ; trying to prove himself to
himself the most injured of men, and to hate his wife as much
as possible : though the fool knows the whole time that he loves
her better than anything on earth even than that 'fame,'
on which he tries to fatten his lean soul, snapping greedily at
every scrap which falls in his way, and in default snapping at
everybody and everything else. And little comfort it gives him.
Why should it 1 What comfort, save in being wise and strong ?
And is he the wiser or stronger for being told by a reviewer
that he has written fine words, or has failed in writing them ;
or to have silly women writing to ask for his autograph, or for
leave to set his songs to music T Nay, — shocking as the question
may seem, — is he the wiser and stronger man for being a poet
at all, and a genius ? — provided, of course, that the word genius
is used in its modern meaning, of a person who can say prettier
things than his neighbours. I think not. Be it as it may, away
goes the poor genius ; his long cloak, picturesque enough in
calm weather, fluttering about uncomfortably enough, while the
rain washes his long curls into swabs ; out through the old

56 TWO YEARS ACQ chap.

garden, between storm-swept laurels, beneath dark groaning
pines, and through a door in the wall which opens into the
lane.

The road leads downward, on the right, into the village. He
is in no temper to meet his fellow-creatures — even to see the
comfortable gleam through their windows, as the sailors close
round the fire with wife and child ; so he turns to the left, up
the deep stone-banked lane, which leads towards the clitf, dark
now as pitch, for it is overhung, right and left, with deep oak-
wood.

It is no easy matter to proceed, though, for the wind pours
down the lane as throuah a funnel, and the road is of slippery
bare slate, worn here and there into puddles of greasy clay, and
Elsley slips back half of every steji, w hile his wrath, as he tires,
oozes out of his heels. JIoreo\er, those dark trees above him,
tossing their heads impatiently against the scarcely less dark
sky, strike an awe into him, — a sense of loneliness, almost of
fear. An uncanny, bad night it is ; and he is out on a bad
errand ; and lie knows it, and wishes that he were home again.
He does not believe, of course, in those 'spirits of the storm,'
about whom he has so often written, any more than he does in
a great deal of his fine imagery ; but still, in such characters as
his, the sympathy between the moods of nature and those of the
mind is most real and important ; and Dame Nature's equinoc-
tial night-wrath is weird, gruesome, crushing, and can be faced
(if it must )x faced) in real comfort only when one is going on
an errand of mercy, with a clear conscience, a light heart, a good
cigar, and plenty of mackintosh.

So, ere Elsley had gone a quarter of a mile, he turned back,
and resolved to go in, and take up his book once more. Perhaps
Lucia might beg his pardon ; and if not, why, perhaps he might
beg hers. The rain was washing the spirit out of him, as it does
out of a thin-coated horse.

Stay ! What was that sound above the roar of the gale ? A
cannon ?

He listened, turning his head right and left to escape the
howling of the wind in his ears. A minute, and another boom
rose and rang aloft. It was near, too. He almost fancied that
he felt the concussion of the air.

Another, and another ; and then in the village below, he
could see lights hurrying to and fro. A wreck at sea? He
turned again up the lane. He had never .seen a wreck. What
an opportunity for a, poet ; and on such a night too : it would
be magnificent if the moon would but come out ! Just the scene,
too, for his excited temper ! He will work on upward, let it
blow and rain as it may. He is not disappointed. Ere he has
gone a hundred yards, a mass of dripping oilskins runs full butt
against him, knocking him against the bank ; and, by the clank
of weapons, he recognises the coast-guard watchman.

iiT ANYTHING BUT STILL LIFE 57

' Hillo ! — wlio's that 1 Beg your pardon, sir,' as the man re-
cognises Elsley's \oice.

' What is it ? — wliat are the guns ? '

' God knows, sir ! Overright the Chough and Crow ; on 'em,
I'm afeared. There they go again ! — liard up, poor souls ! God
help them ! ' and the man runs shouting down the lane.

Another gun, and another ; but long ere Elsley reaches the
clifij they are silent ; and nothing is to be lieard but the noise
of the storm, which, loud as it was below among the wood, is
almost intolerable now that he is on the open down.

He struggles up the lane toward the cliff, and there pauses,
gasping, under the shelter of a wall, trying to analyse that
enormous mass of sound which fills his ears and brain and flows
through his heart like maddening wine. He can bear the sight
of the dead grass on the cliff-edge, weary, feeble, expostulating
with its old tormentor the gale ; then the fierce screams of the
blasts as they rush up across the layers of rock below, like
hounds leaping up at their prey ; and, far beneath, the horrible,
confused battle-roar of that great leaguer of waves. He cannot
see them, as he strains his eyes over the wall into the blank
depth, — nothing but a confused welter and quiver of mingled
air, and rain, and spray, as if the very atmosphere were writh-
ing in the clutches of the gale : but he can hear, — what can he
not hear 1 It would have needed a less vivid brain than Elsley's
to fancy another Badajos beneath. There it all is : — the rush
of columns to the breach, officers cheering them on, — pauses,
breaks, wild retreats, upbraiding calls, whispering consultations,
fresh rush on rush, now here, now there, — fierce shouts above,
below, behind, — shrieks of agony, choked groans and gasps of
dying men, — scaling-ladders hurled down with all their rattling
freight, — dull mine explosions, ringing cannon thunder, as the
old fortress blasts back its besiegers pell-mell into the deep. It
is all there : truly enough there, at least, to madden yet more
Elsley's wild angry brain, till he tries to add his shouts to the
great battle-cries of land and sea, and finds them as little audible
as an infant's wail.

Suddenly, far below him, a bright glimmer ; and, in a
moment, a blue-light reveals the whole scene, in ghastly hues,
— blue leaping breakers, blue weltering sheets of foam, blue
Tocks, crowded with blue figures, like ghosts, flitting to and fro
upon the brink of that blue seething Phlegethon, and rushing
up towards him through the air, a thousand flying blue foam-
sponges, which dive over the brow of the hill and ^'anish, like
delicate fairies fleeing before the wrath of the gale : — but where
is the wreck ? The blue-light cannot pierce the gray A-eil of
mingled mist and spray which hangs to seaward ; and her guns
have been silent for half an hour and more.

Elsley hurries down, and finds lialf the village collected on
the long sloping point of down below. Sailors wrapped in

58 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

pilot-cloth, oil-skinned coast -guardsmen, women with their
gowns turned over their lieads, staggering restlessly up and
down, and in and out, while every moment some freshcomer
stumbles down the slope, tlirusting himself into his clothes as
he goes, and asks, ' Where's the w reck ? ' and gets no answer,
but a surly advice to ' hold his noise,' as if they liad hope of
hearing the wreck which they cannot see ; and kind women,
with their hearts full of mothers' instincts, declare that they
can hear little children crying, and are pooh-poohed down by
kind men, who man's fashion, don't like to believe anything too
painful, or, if they believe it, to talk of it.

'What were the guns from, then. Brown?' asks tlie lieu-
tenant of the head-boatman.

' Off the Chough and Crow, I thought, sir. God grant not!'

' You thought, sir,' says the great man, willing to ^ent his
vexation on some one. ' Why didn't you make sure ? '

Why, just look, lieutenant,' says Brown, pointing into the
' blank height of the dark ; ' ' and I was on the pier too, and

couldn't see ; but the look-out man here says ' A shift of

wind, a drift of cloud, and the moon flashes out a moment.
' There she is, sir.'

Some three hundred yards out at sea lies a long curved black
line, beautiful, severe, and still, amid those white wild leaping
hills. A murmur from the crowd, which swells into a roar, as
they surge aimlessly up and down.

Another moment, and it is cut in two by a white line —
covered — lost — all hold their breaths. No ; the sea passes on,
and still the black curve is there ; enduring.

' A terrible big ship ! '

'A Liverpool clipper, by the lines of her.'

' God help the poor passengers, then ! ' sobs a woman.
' They're past our help : she's on her beam ends.'

'And her deck upright towards us.'

' Silence ! Out of the way you loafing long-shores ! ' shouts
the lieutenant. ' Brown — the rockets ! '

What though the lieutenant be somewhat given to strong
Liquors, and stronger language. He wears the Queen's uniform ;
and what is more, he knows his work and can do it ; all make a
silent ring while the fork is planted ; the lieutenant, throwing
away the end of his cigar, kneels and adjusts the stick ; Brown
and his mates examine and shake out the coils of line.

Another minute, and the magnificent creature rushes forth
with a triumphant roar, and soars aloft over the waves in a long
stream of fire, defiant of the gale.

Is it over her? Xo ! A tierce gust, which all but hurls the
spectators to the ground ; the fiery stream sweeps away to the
left, in a grand cur\e of sparks, and drops into the sea.

'Try it again!' shouts the lieutenant, his blood now up.
' We'll see which will beat, wind or powder.'

Ill ANYTHING BUT STILL LIFE 59

Again a rocket is fixed, with more allowance for the wind ;
but the black cur\e has disappeai-ed, and he must wait awhile.

' There it is again ! Fly swift and sure,' cries Elsley, ' thou
liery angel of mercy, bearing the saviour-line ! It may not be
too late yet.'

Full and true tlie rocket went across her ; and 'Tliree cheers
for the lieutenant ! ' rose above the storm.

' Silence, lads ! Not so bad, though ; ' says he, rubbing his
wet hands. ' Hold on by the line, and watch for a bite, Brown.'

Five minutes pass. Brown has the line in his hand, waiting
for any signal touch from the ship : but the line sways limp in
the surge.

Ten minutes. The lieutenant lights a fresh cigar, and paces
up and down, smoking fiercely.

A quarter of an hour ; and yet no response. The moon is
shining clearly now. They can see her hatchways, the stumps
of her masts, great tangles of rigging swaying and lashing down
across her deck ; but that delicate upper curve is becoming more
ragged after every wave ; and the tide is rising fast.

' There's a pull ! ' shouts Brown. . . ' No, there ain't !

. . . God have mercy, sir ! She's going ! '

The black curve boils up, as if a mine had been sprung on
board, leaps into arches, jagged peaks, black bars crossed and
tangled ; and then all melts away into the white seething
waste ; while the line floats home helplessly, as if disappointed ;
and the billows plunge more sullenly and sadly towards the
shore, as if in remorse for their dark and reckless deed.

All is over. What shall we do now 1 Go home, and pray
that God may have mercy on all drowning souls ? Or think
what a picturesque and tragical scene it was, and what a beauti-
ful poem it will make, when we have thrown it into an artistic
form, and bedizened it with conceits and analogies stolen from
all heaven and earth by our own self-willed fancy 1

Elsley Vavasour — through whose spectacles, rather than with
my own eyes, I have been looking at the wreck, and to whose
account, not to mine, the metaphors and similes of the last two
pages must be laid — took the latter course ; not that he was not
awed, calmed, and even humbled, as he felt how poor and petty
his own troubles were, compared with that great tragedy ; but
in his fatal habit of considering all matters in heaven and earth
as bricks and mortar for the poet to build with, he considered
that he had ' seen enough ; ' as if men were sent into the world
to see, and not to act ; and going home too excited to sleep,
much more to go and kiss forgiveness to his sleeping wife, sat
up all night, writing ' The Wreck,' which may be (as the
reviewer in The Parthenon asserts) an exquisite poem ; but I
cannot say that it is of much importance.

So the delicate genius sat that night, scribbling verses by a
w.irm lire, and the rough lieutenant settled himself down in his

60 TWO YEARS AGO chat.

mackintoshes, to sit out those weary hours on tlie bare rock,
ha\'ing done all that he could do, and yet knowing that liis duty
was not to leave the place as long as there was a chance of
saving — not a life, for that was past all hope — but a chest of
clothes or a stick of timber. There he settled himself, grum-
bling yet faithful ; and tilled up the time with sleepy maledic-
tions against some old admiral, who had — or had not — taken a
spite to him in the West Indies thirty years before, else he
would have been a- post captain by now, comfortably in bed on
board a ciack frigate, instead of sitting all night out on a rock,
like an old cormorant, etc. etc. Who knows not the \\'oes of
ancient coast-guard lieutenants ?

But as it befell, Elsley Vavasour was justly punished for
going home, by losing tlie nio.st ' poetical ' incident of the whole
night.

For with the coast-guardsmen many sailors stayed. There
was nothing to be earned by staying : but still, who knew but
they might be wanted 1 And they hung on with the same
feeling which tempts one to linger round a grave ere the earth
is filled in, loth to give up the last sight, and with it the last
hope. The ship herself, over and abo^e her lost crew, was in
their eyes a person to be loved and regretted. And Gentleman
Jan spoke, like a true sailor —

'Ah, poor dear! And she such a beauty, Mr. Brown ; as
any one might see by her lines, e\en that way off. Ah, poor
dear ! '

' And so many bra\e souls on board ; and, perhaps, some of
them not ready, Mr. Beer,' says the serious elderly chief boat-
man. ' Eh, Captain Willis 1 '

'The Lord has had mercy on them, I don't doubt,' answers
the old man, in his quiet sweet voice. ' One can't but hope
that He would give them time for one prayer before all was
over ; and having been drowned myself, Mr. Brown, three times,
and taken up for dead — that is, once in Gibraltar Bay, and once
when I was a total wreck in the old Seahrrrse, that was in the
hurricane in the Indies ; after that, when I fell over quay-head
here, fishing for bass, — why, I know well how quick the prayer
will run through a man's heart, wlien he's a-drowning, and the
light of conscience, too, all one's life in one minute, like '

' It arn't the men I care for,' says Gentleman Jan ; ' they're
gone to heaven, like all brave sailors do as dies by wreck and
battle : but the poor clear ship, d'ye see. Captain Willis, she
ha'n't no heaven to go to, and that's why I feel for her so.'

Both the old men shake their heads at Jan's doctrine, and
turn the subject off'.

' You'd better go home, captain, 'fear of the rheumatics. It's
a rough night for your years ; and you've no call, like me.'

' I would, but for my maid there ; and I can't get her home ;
and I can't leave her.' And Willis points to the schoolmistress, who

Ill ANYTHING BUT STILL LIFE 61

sits upon the flat slope of rock, a little apart from the rest, with
her face resting on lier hands, gazing intently out into the wild
waste.

' Make her go ; it's her duty — we all have our duties. Why
does her mother let her out at this time of night ? I keep
my maids tighter than that, I warrant.' And disciplinarian
Mr. Brown makes a step towards her.

'Ah, jMr. Brown, don't now! She's not one of us. There's
no saying what's going on there in her. Maybe she's praying ;
maybe she sees more than we do, over the sea there.'

' What do you mean ? There's no living body in those
breakers, be sure ! '

'There's more living things about on such a night than have
bodies to them, or than any but such as she can see. If any
one ever talked with angels, that maid does ; and I've heard her,
too ; I can say I have — certain of it. Those that like may call
her an innocent : but I wish I were such an innocent, Mr.
Brown. I'd be nearer heaven then, here on earth, than I fear
sometimes I ever shall be, even after I'm dead and gone.'

' Well, she's a good girl, mazed or not ; but look at her now !
What's she after ? '

The girl had raised her head, and was pointing, witli one arm
stretched stiffly out, toward the sea.

Old Willis went down to her, and touched her gently on the
shoulder.

' Come home, my maid, then, you'll take cold, indeed ; ' but
she did not move or lower her arm.

The old man, accustomed to her fits of fixed melancholy,
looked down under her bonnet, to see whetlun- she was 'past,' as
he called it. By the moonlight he could see her great eyes
steady and wide open. She motioned him away, half im-
patiently, and then sprang to her feet with a scream.

'A man! A man ! Save him ! '

As she spoke, a huge wave rolled in, and shot up the sloping-
end of the point in a broad sheet of foam. And out of it
struggled, on hands and knees, a human figure. He looked
wildly up, and round, and then his head dropped again on his
breast ; and he lay clinging with outspread arms, like Homer's
polypus in the Odyssey, as the wave drained back, in a thousand
roaring cataracts, over the edge of the rock.

'Save him !' shrieked she again, as twenty men rushed for-
ward — and stopped short. The man was fully thirty yards
from them ; but close to him, between them and him, stretched
a long ghastly crack, some ten feet wide, cutting the point
across. All knew it : its slippery edge, its polished upright
sides, the seething cauldrons within it ; and knew, too, that the
next wave would boil up from it in a hundred jets, and suck in
the strongest to his doom, to fall, with brains dashed out, into a
chasm from which was no return.

62 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

Eie they could nerve tliemselves for action, the wave had
come. Up the slope it went, one-half of it burying the wretched
mariner, and fell over into the chasm. The otlier half rushed
up the cliasm itself, and spouted forth again to the moonlight in
columns of snow, in time to meet tlie wave from which it had
just parted, as it fell from above ; and then the two boiled up,
and round, and over, and swirled along the smooth rock to their
\"ery feet.

The schoolmistress took one long look ; and as the wave
retired, rushed after it to the very brink of the chasm, and flung
herself on her knees.

' Slie'.s mazed ! '

' No, slie's not ! ' almost screamed old Willis, in mingled pride
and terror, as he rushed after her. 'The wave has cariied him
across tlie crack, and she's got liim ! ' And he sprang upon her,
and cauglit her round the waist.

' Now, if you be men ! ' shouted lie, as the rest hurried down.

' Now, if you be men ; before the next wave comes ! ' shouted
big Jan. ' Hands together, and make a line ! ' And he took a
grip with one liand of the old man's waistband, and held out the
other for who would to seize.

Who took it? Frank Headley, the curate, wjio had been
watching all sadly apai-t, longing to do something which no one
could mistake.

'Be you man enougli V asked big Jan doubtfully.

'Try,' said Frank.

' Really, you ben't, sir,' said Jan, civilly enough. ' Means nc
offence, sir ; your heart's stout enough, I see ; but you don't
know what it'll be.' And he caught the hand of a huge fellow
next him, while Frank shrank sadly back into the darkness.

Strong hand after hand was clasped, and strong knee after
knee dropped almost to the rock, to meet the coming rush of
water ; and all who knew their business took a long breath, —
they might have need of one.

It came, and surged over the man, and the girl, and up to old
Willis's throat, and round the knees of Jan and his neighbour ;
and then followed the returning out-draught, and every limb
quivered with the strain ; but when the cataract had dis-
appeared, the chain was still unbroken.

' Raved ! ' and a cheer broke from all lips, sa\e tliose of the
girl herself; she was as senseless as he whom she had saved.
They hurried her and him up the rock ere another wave could
come ; but they had much ado to open her hands, so firmly
clenched together were they round Iiis waist.

Gently they lifted each, and laid them on the rock ; while old
Willis, having recovered his breath, set to work crying like a
child, to restore breath to 'his maiden.'

' Run for Dr. Heale, some good christian ! ' But Frank,
longing to escape from a company who did not love him, and to

IV FLOTSOM, .lETSOJr, AND LAGEND 6",

he of some use ere the night was out, was already half- way to
the village on that very errand.

However, ere the doctor could be stirred out of Iiis boozy
slumbers, and thrust into his clothes by his wife, the school-
mistress was safe in bed at her mother's house ; and the man,
weak, but alive, carried triumphantly up to Heale's door ; which
jiaving been kicked open, the sailors insisted in carrying him
right upstairs, and depositing him on the best spare bed.

' If you won't come to your patients, doctor, your patients
shall come to you. Why were you asleep in your liquors, in-
stead of looking out for poor wratclies, like a christian ? You
see whether his bones be broke, and gi un his medicines proper ;
and then go and see after the schoolmistress ; she'm worth a
dozen of any man, and a tliousand of you ! We'll pay for 'un
like men ; and if you don't, we'll break every bottle in your shop.'

To which, what between bodily fear and real good-nature,
old Heale assented ; and so ended that eventful night.

CHAPTER lY

FLOTSnjI, JETSOM, AND LAG END

About nine o'clock the next morning, Gentleman Jan strolled
into Dr. Heale's surgery, pipe in mouth, with an attendant
satellite ; for every lion, poor as well as rich, in country as in
town, must needs have his jackal.

Heale's surgery — or, in plain English, shop — was a doleful
hole enough ; in such dirt and confusion as might be expected
from a drunken occupant, with a practice which was only not
decaying because there was no rival in the field. But monopoly
made the old man, as it makes most men, all the more lazy and
careless ; and there was not a drug on his shelves which could
be warranted to work the effect set forth in that sanguine and
too trustful book, the Pharmacopoeia, which, like Sir. Pecksniff's
England, expects every man to do his duty, and is, accordingly
(as the Lancet and Dr. Letheby know too well), grievously dis-
appointed.

In this kennel of evil savours Heale was slowly trying to
poke things into something like order ; and dragging out a few
old drugs with a shaky hand, to see if any one would buy them,
in a vague expectation that something must needs have
happened to somebody the night before, which would require
somewhat of his art.

And he was not disappointed. Gentleman Jan, without
taking his pipe out of his mouth, dropped his huge elbows on
the counter, and his black -fringed cliin on his fists ; took a look
round the shop, as if to find something which would suit him ;
and then —

U TWO YEARS AGO chap.

'I say, doctor, gi's some tackleum.'

'Some diachylum plaster, Mr. Beer?' says Heale meekly.
'What for, then?'

'To tackle my shins. I barked 'em cruel against King
Arthur's nose last night. Hard in tlie bone he is ; — wish I was
as hard.'

'How much diachylum will you want, then, ^Ir. Beer?'

' Well, I don't know. Let's see ! ' and Jan pulls up his blue
trousers, and pulls down his gray rig and furrows, and considers
his broad and shaggy shins.

' ilatter of four pennies broad ; two to each leg ; ' and then
replaces his elbows, and smokes on.

'I say, doctor, that 'ere curate came out ■\\ell last night. I
shall go to church next Sunday.'

' What,' asks the satellite, ' after you upset he that fashion
yesterday ? '

'I don't care what you thinks,' says Jan, who, of course,
bullies his jackal like most lions ; 'but I goes to church. He's
a good 'un, say I, — little and good, like a \\Vlshman's cow ; and
clapped me on the back when we'd got the man and the maid
safe, and says, — " Well done our side, old fellow ! " and stands
something hot all round, what's more, in at the ilariner's Best.
— I say, doctor, where's he as we hauled ashore ? I'll go up and
see 'un.'

' Not now, then, !Mr. Beer ; not now, then. He's sleeping,
indeed he is, like any child.'

'So much the better. We wain't be bothered with his
hollering. But go up I will. Do ye let me now ; I'll be as still
as a maid.'

And Jan kicked off his shoes, and marched on tiptoe through
the shop, wliile Dr. Heale, moaning professional ejaculations,
showed him the way.

The shipwrecked man was sleeping sweetly ; and little was
to be seen of his face, so covered was it with dark tangled curls
and thick beard.

'Ah! a Stralian digger, by the beard of him, and his red
jersey,' whispered Jan, as he bent tenderly over tlie poor fellow,
and put his head on one side to listen to his breathing. ' Beau-
tiful he sleeps, to be sure ! ' said Jan ; 'and a tidy-looking chap,
too. 'Tis a pity to wake 'un, poor wratch ; and he, perhaps,
witli a sweetheart aboard, and drownded ; or else all his kit
lost. Let 'un sleep so long as he can : he'll find all out soon
enough, God help him ! '

And big Jan stole down the stairs gently and reverently, like
a true sailor ; and took his diachylum, and went off to plaster
his shins.

About ten minutes afterwards, Heale was made aware that
his guest was awake by sundry grunts and ejaculations, which
ended in a series of long and doleful whistles, and then broke

IV FLOTSOM, JETSOM, AXD LAGENB G5

out into a song. So he went up, and found tlie stranger sitting
upright in bed, combing his curls with his fingers and chanting
unto himself a cheerful ditty.

'Good morning, doctor,' quoth he, as his host entered. 'Very
kind of you, this. Hope I haven't turned a better man than
myself out of his bed.'

' Delighted to see you so \\ell. Very near drowned, though.
We were pumping at your lungs for a full half hour.'

' Ah ? nothing, though, for an experienced professional man
like you ! '

' Hum ! speaks well for your discrimination,' says Heale,
flattered. ' \'ery well-spoken young person, though his beard is
a bit wild. How did you know, then, that I was a doctor ? '

' By the reverend looks of you, sir. Besides, I smelt the rhu-
barb and senna all the way upstairs, and knew that I'd fallen
among professional brethren : —

' "Oil, then tins valiant mariner,
Which sailed across the sea,
He came home to his own sweetheart.
With his lieart so full of glee ;

' ' ' With his heart so full of glee, sir,
And his pockets full of gold,
And his bag of drugget, with many a nugget,
As heavy as he could hold."

Don't you wish yours was, doctor 1 '

' Eh, eh, eh,' sniggered Heale.

' Mine was last night. Now, doctor, let's have a glass of
brandy-and-water, hot with, and an hour's more sleep ; and then
kick me out, and into the workhouse. Was anybody else saved
from the wreck last night ? '

' Nobody, sir,' said Heale ; and said ' sir,' because, in spite of
the stranger's rough looks, his accent, — or rather, his no-accent
— showed him that he had fallen in with a very different, and
probably a very superior stamp of man to himself ; in the light
of which conviction (and being withal a good-natured old soul),
he went down and mixed him a stiff glass of brandy-and-water,
answering his wife's remonstrances by —

' The party upstairs is a bit of a frantic party, certainly ; but
he is certainly a very superior party, and has the true gentle-
man about him, any one can see. Besides, he's shipwrecked, as
you and I may be any day ; and what's like brandy-and-water ? '

' I should like to know when I'm like to be shipwrecked, or
you either ; ' says Airs. Heale, in a tone slightly savouring of
indignation and contempt. ' You think of nothing but brandy-
and-water.' But she let the doctor take the glass upstairs,
nevertheless.

A few minutes afterwards, Frank came in, and inquired for
the shipwrecked man.

F T. Y. A.

66 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

'Well enough in body, »ir ; and ratlier requires your skill
than mine,' said the old time-server. 'Won't you walk up?'

So up Frank was shown.

The stranger was sitting up in bed. ' Capital your brandy is,
doctor. — Ah, sir,' seeing J rank, 'it is very kind of you, I am
sure, to call on me ! I presume you are the clergyman ? '

But before Frank could answer, Heale had broken forth into
loud praises of him, setting forth how the stranger owed his life
entirely to his superhuman strength and courage.

"Pon my word, sir,' said the stranger, looking them both
over and over, through and through, as if to settle how much of
all this he was to believe, ' I am deeply indebted to you for your
gallantry. I only wish it had been employed on a better
subject.'

' My good sir,' said Frank, blushing, ' you owe your life not
to me. I would have helped if I could ; but was not thought
worthy by our sons of Anak here. Your actual preser\er was a
young girl.'

And Frank told him the story.

' Whew ! I hope she won't e.xpect me to marry her as pay-
ment. Handsome ? '

'Beautiful,' said Frank.

'Money?'

' The village schoolmistress.'

'Clever?'

' A sort of half-baked body,' said Heale.

'A very puzzling intellect,' said Frank.

' Ah — well — that's a fair excuse for declining the honour. I
can't be expected to marry a frantic party, as you called me
downstairs just now, doctor.'

'I, sir?'

' Yes, I heard : no offence, though, my good sir, but T\e the
ears of a fox. I hope really, though, that she is none the worse
for her heroic flights.'

' How is she this morning, ilr. Heale ? '

' Well — poor thing, a little li.ght-headed last night : but kindly
when I went in last.'

' Whew ! I hope she has not fallen in love with me. She
may fancy me her property — a private waif and stray. Better
send for the coast-guard officer, and let him claim me as belong-
ing to the Admiralty, as flotsom, jetsom, and lagend ; for 1 was
all three last night.'

'You were indeed, sir,' said Frank, who began to be a little
tired of this levity ; ' and very thankful to Heaven you ought
to be.'

Frank spake this in a somewhat professional tone of voice ;
at which the stranger arched his eyebrows, screwed his lips up,
and laid his ears back, like a horse when lie meditates a kick.

' You must be better acquainted with my afiairs than I am,

TV FL0TS05I, JETSOM, AND LAGEND 67

my dear sir, if you are able to state that fact. Doctor ! I hear
a ]iatient coming into the surgery.'

'Extraordinary power of lieariug, to be sure,' said Heale,
toddling downstairs, while the stranger went on, looking Frank
full in the face.

'Now that old fogy's gone downstairs, my dear sir, let us
come to an understanding at the beginning of our acquaintance.
Of course, you're bound by your cloth to say that sort of thing
to me, just as I am bound by it not to swear in your company :
but you'll allow me to remark, that it would be rather trying
even to your faith, if you wei-e to be thrown ashore with nothing
in the world but an old jersey and a bag of tobacco, two hundred
miles short of the port where you hoped to land with fifteen
hundred well-earned pounds in your pocket.'

' My dear sir,' said Frank, after a pause, ' whatsoever comes
from our Father's hand must be meant in love. "The Lord
gave, and the Lord hath taken away." '

A quaint wince passed over the stranger's face.

' Father, sir ? That fifteen hundred pounds was going to my
father's hand, from whosesoever hand it came, or the loss of it.
And now what is to become of the poor old man, that hussy
Dame Fortune only knows — if she knows her own mind an hour
together, which I very much doubt. I worked early and late for
that money, sir ; up to my knees in mud and water. Let it be
enough for your lofty demands on poor humanity, that I take
my loss like a man, with a whistle and a laugh, instead of howl-
ing and cursing over it like a baboon. Let's talk of something
else ; and lend me five pounds and a suit of clothes. I shan't
run away with them, for as I've been thrown ashore here, here
I shall stay.'

Frank almost laughed at the free and easy request, though he
felt at once pained by the man's irreligion, and abashed by his
stoicism ; — would he have behaved even as well in such a case ?

' I have not five pounds in the world.'

' Good ! we shall understand each other better.'

' But the suit of clothes you shall have at once.'

' Good again ! Let it be your oldest ; for I must do a little
rock-scrambling here, for purposes of my own.'

So off went Frank to fetch the clothes, puzzling over his new
parishioner. The man was not altogether well bred, either in
voice or manner ; but there was an ease, a confidence, a sense of
power, which made Frank feel that he had fallen in with a very
strong nature; and one which had seen many men, and many
lands, and profited by what it had seen.

When he returned, he found the stranger busy at his ablu-
tions, and gradually appearing as a somewhat dapper, handsome
fellow, with a bright gray eye, a short nose, a firm, small mouth,
a broad and upright forehead, across the left side of which ran
a fearful scar.

68 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

'That's a shrewd mark,' said he, as he caught Frank's eye
fixed on it, while he sat coolly arranging himself on the bedside.
' I got it in fair tiglit, though, by a Crow's tomahawk in tin'
Rocky ^Mountains. jVnd here's anotliei- token' (lifting up his
black curls), ' whicli a ( Jreek robber gave me in tlio Morea. I've
another under my head, for which I have to thank a Tartar, and
one or two more little remembrances of flood and field up and
down me. Perhaps they may explain to you why I take life and
death so coolly. I've looked too often at the little razor-bridge
which parts them, to care mucli for either. Xo\\-, don't let me
trouble you any longer. You have your flock to see to, I don't
doubt. You'll find me at church on Sunday. I always do at
Eome as Rome does.'

' Then you will stay away,' said Frank, witli a sad smile.

' Ah ? No. Church is respectable and aristocratic ; and there
one don't get sent to a place unmentionable, ten times an hour,
by some inspired tinker. Beside, country people like the doctor
to go to church with their betters ; and the very fellows who go
to the ilethodist meeting themselves would tliink it infra dig.
in me to walk in there. Xow, good-bye — though I haven't in-
troduced myself — not knowing the name of my kind pre-
server.'

' My name is Frank Headley, curate of the parish,' said Frank,
smiling : though he saw the man was rattling on for the purpose
of preventing his talking on serious matters.

'And mine is Tom Thurnall, F.E.CS., Licentiate of the
Universities of Paris, Glasgow, and whilome surgeon of the
good clipper Jleaperns, which you saw wrecked last night. So,
farewell ! '

'Come over with me, and have some breakfast.'

' No, thanks ; you'll be busy. I'll screw some out of old
bottles here.'

' And now,' said Tom Thurnall to himself, as Frank left the
room, ' to begin life again with an old pen-knife and a pound of
honeydew. I wonder which of them got my girdle. I'll stick
here till I find out that one thing, and stop the notes by to-
day's post if I can but recollect them all ; — if I could but stop
the nugget, too ! '

So saying, he walked do^vn into the surgery, and looked
round. Everything was in confusion. Cobwebs were over the
bottles, and armies of mites played at bo-peep behind them.
He tried a few drawers, and found that they stuck fast ; and
when he at last opened one, its contents were two old dried-up
horse-balls and a dirty tobacco-pipe. He took down a jar
marked Epsom salts, and found it full of Welsh snuff"; the
next, which was labelled cinnamon, contained blue vitriol. The
spatula and pill-roller were crusted with deposits of every hue.
The pill-box drawer had not a dozen wliole boxes in it ; and the
counter was a quarter of an inch deep in deposit of every vege-

IV FLOTSOM, JETSOM, AND LAGEND 69

table and mineral matter, including ends of string, tobacco
ashes, and broken glass.

Tom took up a dirty duster, and set to work coolly to clear
up, whistling away so merrily that he brought in Heale.

' I'm doing a little in the way of business, you see.'

' Then you really are a professional practitioner, sir, as j\Ii .
Headley informs me : though, of course, I don't doubt the fact ? '
.said Heale, summoning up all the little courage he had to ask
the question with.

' F.R.C.S. London, Paris, and Glasgow. Easy enough to write
and ascertain the fact. Have been medical officer to a poor-law
union, and to a Brazilian man-of-war. Have seen three choleras,
two army fevers, and yellow -jack without end. Have doctored
gunshot wounds in the two Texan wars, in one Paris revolution,
and in the Schleswig-Holstein row ; beside accident practice in
every country from California to China, and round the world
and back again. There's a fine nest of Mr. Weekes' friend (if
not creation), Acarus Horridus,' and Tom went on dusting and
arranging.

Heale had been fairly taken aback by the imposing list of
acquirements, and looked at his guest awhile with considerable
awe : suddenly a suspicion flashed across him, which caused him
(not unseen by Tom) a start and a look of self-congratulatory
wisdom. He next darted out of the shop, and returned as
rapidly, rather redder about the eyes, and wiping his mouth
with the back of his hand.

'But, sir, though, though' — began he — 'but, of course, you
will allow me, being a stranger — and as a man of business — all
I have to say is, if — that is to say '

' You want to know why, if I'\e had all these good businesses,
why I haven't kept them ? '

' Ex — actly,' stammered Heale, mucli relieved.

■ A very sensible and business-like question : but you needn't
have been so delicate about asking it as to want a screw before
beginning.'

' Ah, you're a wag, sir,' keckled the old man.

' I'll tell you frankly ; I have an old father, sir, — a gentleman,
and a scholar, and a man of science ; once in as good a country
practice as man could ha^e, till, God helj) him, he went blind,
sir, and I had to keep him, and have still. I went over the
world to make my fortune, and never made it ; and sent him
home what I did make, and little enough too. At last, in my
despair, I went to the diggings, and had a pretty haul — I
needn't say how much. That matters little now ; for I suppose
it's at the bottom of the sea. There s my story. Sir, and a poor
one enough it is, — for the dear old man, at least.' And Tom's
\ oice trembled so as he told it, that old Heale belie\ ed e\ eiy
word, and what is more, being — like most hard drinkers — not
'unused to the melting mood,' wiped his eyes fervently, and

70 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

went off for another drop of comfort ; while Tom dusted and
arranged on, till the shop began to look quite smart and
business-like.

'"Now, sir'' — when the old man came back — 'business is
business, and beggars must not be choosers. I don't want to
meddle with your practice ; I know the rules of the profession :
but if you'll let me sit here, and mix your medicines for you,
you'll have the more time to visit your patients, that's clear,' —
and, perhaps (thought he), to drink your brandy-and-water, —
' and when any of them are poisoned by me, it will be time to
kick me out. All I ask is, bed and board. Don't be frightened
for your spirit-bottle — I can drink water ; I've done it many a
time for a week together in the prairies, and been thankful
for a half -pint in the day.'

' But, sir, your dignity as a — '

' Fiddlesticks for dignity ; I must live, sir. Only lend me a
couple of sheets of paper and two queen's heads, that I may tell
my friends my whereabouts, — and go and talk it over with Mrs.
Heale. We must never act without consulting the ladies.'

That day Tom sent off the following epistle : —

' To Cii.\.i;LKs Shutee, Esq., ^I.D., St. Mvmjisijnui Hospital,

London.
'Dear Charley —

' " I do adjure thee, by old pleasant days,

Quartier Latin, and neatly-shod grisettes,
By all our wanderings in quaint liy-ways,
By ancient frolics, and by ancient debts,"

go to the United Bank of Australia forthwith, and stop the
notes whose numbers — all, alas ! which I can recollect — are
enclosed. Next, lend me five pounds. Next, send me do'wn, as
quick as possible, five pounds' worth of decent drugs, as per list ;
and — if you can borrow me one — a tolerable microscope, and a
few natural history books, to astound the yokels here with : for
I was shipwrecked here last night, after all, at a dirty little
West-country port, and wliat's worse, robbed of all I had made
at the diggings, and start fair, nnce more, to run against cruel
Dame Fortune, as Colson did against the Indians, without a
shirt to my back. Don't be a hospitable fellow, and ask me to
come up and camp with you. Mumpsimus and all old faces
would be a great temptation : but here I must stick till I hear
of my money, and physic the natives for my daily bread.'

To his father he wrote thus, not having tlie heart to tell the
truth :^

'To Edw.^rd Thuenall, Esq., M.D., Whitbury.

'My dearest oi.n Fatiiee — I hojie to see you again in a few
weeks, a.s soon as I have settled a little business here, where I

IV FLOTSOM, JETSOM, AND LAGEND 71

have found a capital opening for a mediciil man. ]\[ean\vliile
let Mark or Mary write and tell me how you are ; and for
sending you every penny I can spare, trust me. I have not
had all the luck I expected ; but am as hearty as a bull, and as
merry as a cricket, and fall on my legs, as of old, like a cat. I
long to come to you ; but I mustn't yet. It is near three years
since I had a sight of that blessed white head, which is the only
thing I care for under the sun, except !Mark and little Mary —
big Mary I suppose she is now, and engaged to be married to
some "bloated aristocrat." Best remembrances to old !Mark
Armsworth. — Your affectionate son, T. T.'

' Mr. Heale,' said Tom next, ' are we Whigs or Tories here ? '
'Why — ahem, sir, my Lord Scoutbush, who owns most
hereabouts, and my Lord Minchampstead, who has bought
Carcarrow moors above, — very old Whig connections, both of
them ; but Mr. Trebooze, of Trebooze, he, again, thorough-going
Tory — very good patient he was once, and may be again — ha !
ha ! Gay young man, sir — careless of his health ; so you see as

a medical man, sir '

' Which is the liberal paper ? This one ? Very good.' And
Tom wrote off to the liberal paper that evening a letter, which
bore fruit ere the week's end, in the shape of five columns,
headed thus : —

' WRECK OF THE " HESPERUS."

'The following detailed account of this lamentable catas-
trophe has been kindly contributed by the graphic pen of the
only survivor, Thomas Thurnall, Esquire, F.R.C.S., etc. etc. etc.,
late surgeon on board the ill-fated vessel.' Which five columns
not only put a couple of guineas into Tom's pocket, but, as he
intended they should, brought him before the public as an
interesting personage, and served as a very good advertisement
to the practice which Tom had already established in fancy.

Tom had not worked long, however, before the coast-guard
lieutenant bustled in. He had trotted home to shave and get
his breakfast, and was trotting back again to the shore.

' Hillo, Heale ! can I see the fellow who was saved last
night ? '

' I am that fellow,' says Tom.

' The dickens you are ! you seem to have fallen on your legs
quickly enough.'

' It's a trick I've had occasion to learn, sir,' says Tom. ' Can
I prescribe for you this morning 1 '

'Medicine?' roars the lieutenant, laughing. 'C'.itch me at
it ! No ; I want you to come down to the shore, and help to
identify goods and things. The wind has chopped up north,
and is blowing dead on ; and, with this tide, we shall have a
good deal on shore. So, if you're strong enough '

' I'm always strong enough to do my duty,' said Tom.

72 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

' Hum ! Very good sentiment, young man. Always strong
enougli for duty. Hum ! wortliy of Nelson ; said pretty much
the same, didn't he? something about duty 1 know it was, and
always thought it uncommon fine. Xow, then, what can you
tell me about this business 1 '

It was a sad story ; but no sadder than hundreds besides.
They had been struck by the gale to the westward two days
before, with the wind south ; had lost their foretopmast and
boltsprit, and become all but unmanageable ; had tried during
a lull to rig a jury-mast, but were prevented by the gale, which
burst on them ^\'ith fresh fury from the south-west, with very
heavy rain and fog ; had passed a liglit in the niglit, which they
took for Scilly, but which must have been the Longships ; had
still fancied that they were safe, running up Channel with a
wide berth, when, about sunset, the gale had chopped again to
north-west ; — and Tom knew no more. ' I was standing on the
poop with the captain about ten o'clock. The last words he
said to me were, " If this lasts, we shall see Brest harbour to-
morrow," when she struck, and stopped dead. I was chucked
clean oft' the poop, and nearly overboard ; but brouglit up in the
mizzen rigging. Where the ciqitain went, poor fellow, Heaven
alone knows ; for I never saw him after. The mainmast went
like a carrot. The mizzen stood. I ran round to tlie cabin-doors.
There were four men steering ; the wheel had broke out of the
poor fellows' hands, and knocked them over, — broken their
limbs, I believe. I was stooping to pick them up, when a sea
came into the waist, and then aft, washing me in through the
saloon-doors, among the poor half -dressed women and children.
Queer sight, lieutenant ! I've seen a good many, but never
worse than that. I bolted to my cabin, tied my notes and gold
round me, and out again.'

' Didn't desert the poor things 1 '

' Couldn't if I'd tried ; they clung to me like a swarm of bees.
'Gad, sir, that was hai-d lines ! to have all the pretty women one
had waltzed with every evening through the Trades, and the
little children one had been making playthings for, holding
round one's knees, and screaming to the doctor to save them.
And how the . . . was I to save them, sir ? ' cried Tom, with a
sudden burst of feeling, which, as in so many Englishmen,
exploded in anger to avoid melting in tears.

' Ought to be a law against it, sir,' growled the lieutenant ;
'against women-folk and children going to sea. It's murder
and cruelty. I've been wrecked, scores .of times ; but it was
with honest men, who could shift for themselves, and if they
were drowned, drowned ; but didn't screech and catch hold — I
couldn't stand that ! Well ? '

'AVell, there was a pretty little creature, an officer's widow,
and two children. I caught her under one arm, and fine of tlie
children under the other; .said, "I cant take you all at once;

IV FLOTSOM, JETSOM, AND LAGEND 73

I'll come back for the rest, one by one." Not that I believed
it ; but anything to stop the screaming ; and I did hope to put
some of them out of the reach of the sea, if I could get them
forward. I knew the forecastle was dry, for the chief officer
was firing there. You heard him ? '

' Yes, live or six times ; and then he stopped suddenly.'

' He had reason. — We got out. I could see her nose up in the
air forty feet above us, covered with fore-cabin passengers. I
warped the lady and the children upward — Heaven knows how,
for the sea was breaking over us \ery sliarp — till we were at
the mainmast stump, and holding on by the wreck of it. I felt
the ship stagger as if a whale had struck her, and heard a roar
and a swish behind me, and looked back just in time to see
mizzen, and poop, and all the poor women and children in it, go
bodily, as if they had been shaved off with a knife. I suppose
that altered her balance ; for before I could turn again she
dived forward, and then rolled over u]3on her beam ends to
leeward ; and I saw the sea walk in over her from stem to stern
like one white wall, and I was washed from my hold, and it was
all over.'

' What became of the lady ? '

' I saw a white thing flash by to leeward ; what's the use of
asking 1 '

' But the child you held r

' I didn't let it go till there was good reason.'

'Eh?'

Tom tapped the points of his fingers smartly against the side
of his head, and then went on, in the same cynical drawl, which
he had affected throughout —

' I heard that — against a piece of timber as we went over-
board. And, as a medical man, I considered after that, that I
had done my duty. Pretty little boy it was, just six years old ;
and such a fancy for drawing.'

The lieutenant was quite puzzled by Tom's seeming non-
chalance.

'What do you mean, sir? Did you leave the child to
perish ? '

' Confound you, sir ! If you will have plain English, here it
is. I tell you I heard the child's skull crack like an egg-shell !
There, let's talk no more about it, or the whole matter. It's a
bad business, and I'm not answerable for it, or you either ; so
let's ^o and do what we are answerable for, and identify '

'Sir ! you will be so. good as to recollect,' said the lieutenant,
with ruffled plumes.

' I do ; I do ! I beg your pardon a thousand times, I'm sure,
for being so rude ; but you know as well as I, sir, thei-e are a
good many things in the world wliicli won't stand too much
thinking over ; and last night was one.'

' Very true, xerj true ; but how did you get ashore ? '

71 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

' I get ashore ? Oh, well enough ! Why not ? '

' 'Gad, sir, you were near enough being drowned at last :
only that girl's pluck saved you.'

' Well ; but it did save me ; and here I am, as I knew I should
be when I first struck out from the ship.'

' Knew ! that is a bold word for mortal man at sea.'

' I suppose it is ; but we doctors, you see, get into the way of
looking at things as men of science ; and the ground of science
is experience ; and, to judge from experience, it takes more to
kill me than I have yet met with. If I had been going to be
snuffed out, it would have happened long ago.'

'Hum ! It's well to carry a cheerful heart ; but the pitcher
goes often to the well, and comes home broken at last.'

' I must be a gutta-percha pitcher, I think, then, or else —

' "There's a sweet little cherub who sits up aloft," etc.

as Dibdin has it. Now, look at the facts yourself, sir,' con-
tinued the stranger, with a recklessness half true, half assumed,
to escape from the malady of thought. ' I don't want to boast,
sir ; I only want to show you that I have some practical reason
for wearing as my motto, "Never say die." I have had the
cholera twice, and yellow-jack beside ; five several times I have
had bullets through me ; I have been bayoneted and left for
dead ; I have been shipwrecked three times — and once, as now,
I was the only man who escaped ; I have been fatted by savages
for baking and eating, and got away with a couple of friends
only a day or two before the feast. One really narrow chance
I had, which I never expected to squeeze through ; but, on the
whole, I have taken full precautions to prevent its recurrence.'

' What was that, then ? '

'I have been hanged, sir,' .said the doctor quietly.

'Hanged?' cried the lieutenant, facing round upon his
strange companion with a visage which asked plainly enough,
' You hanged ? I don't believe you ; and if you have been hanged,
what have you been doing to get hanged ? '

' You need not take care of your pockets, sir — neither robbery
niir murder was it which brought me to the gallows ; but inno-
cent bug-hunting. The fact is, I was caught by a party of
Mexicans, during the last war, straggling after plants and
insects, and hanged as a spy. I don't blame the fellows ; I had
no business where I was ; and they could not conceive that a
man would risk his life for a few butterflies.'

'But if you were hanged, sir '

'Why did I not diel By my usual luck. The fellows were
clumsy, and the noose would not work ; so that the Mexican
doctor, who meant to dissect me, brought me round again ; and
being a freemason, as I am, stood by me, got me sate off, and
cheated the devil.' •

IV FLOTSOM, JETSOM, AND LAGEND 75

The wortliy lieutenant walked on in silence, stealing furtive
glances at Tom, as if he had been a guest from the other world,
but not disbelieving his story in the least. He had seen, as
most old navy men, so many strange things happen, that he was
prepared to give credit to any tale when told, as Tom's was,
with a sti-aightforward and unboastful simplicity.

' There lives the girl who saved you,' said he, as they passed
Grace Harvey's door.

' Ah 1 I ought to call and pay my respects.'

But Grace was not at home. The wreck had emptied the
school ; and Grace had gone after her scholars to the beach.

' We couldn t keep her away, weak as she was,' said a neigh-
bour, 'as soon as she heard the poor corpses were coming
ashore."

' Hum ! ' said Tom. ' True woman. Quaint — that appetite
for horrors the sweet creatures have. Did you ever see a man
hanged, lieutenant t No ? If you had, you would have seen
two women in the crowd to one man. Can you make out the
philosophy of that ? '

' I suppose they like it, as some people do hot peppers.'

' Or donkeys thistles — find a little pain pleasant ! I had a
patient once in France, who read Dumas' Crimes Celebres all
the week, and the Vies des Saints on Sundays, and both, as far
as I could see, for just the same purpose — to see how miserable
people could be, and how much pinching and pulling they could
bear.'

So they walked on, along a sheep-path, and over the Spur,
and down to the Cove.

It was such a morning as often follows a gale, wlien the great
firmament stares down upon the ruin which it has made, bright,
and clear, and bold ; and seems to say, with shameless smile,
' There, I have done it, and am as merry as ever after it
all ! ' Beneath a cloudless sky, the breakers, still gray and foul
from the tempest, were tumbling in before a cold northern
breeze. Half a mile out at sea, the rough backs of the Chough
and Crow loomed black and sulky in the foam. At their feet,
the rocks and shingle of the Cove were alive with human beings
— groups of women and children clustering round a corpse or a
chest ; sailors, knee-deep in the surf, hauling at floating spars
and ropes ; oilskinned coast-guardsmen pacing up and down in
charge of goods, while groups of farmers' men, who had hurried
down from the villages inland, lounged about ou the top of the
cliff, looking sulkily on, hoping for plunder ; and yet half afraid
to mingle with the sailors below, who looked on them as an
inferior race, and refused, in general, to intermarry with them.

The lieutenant plainly held much the same opinion ; for as
a party of them tried to descend the narrow path to the beach,
he shouted after them to come back.

' Eh ? you won't ? ' and out rattled from its scabbard the old

76 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

worthy's sword. 'Come back, I say, you loafing, miching,
wrecking crowkeepers ; tliere are no pickings for you here
Brown, send those fellows l):u;k \\itli the bayonet. Ncme but
blue-jackets allowed on the beach ! ' And the labourers go u])
again, grumblin.g.

' Can't trust those landsharks. They'll plunder e\'en the rings
otfa corpse's fingers. They think every wreck a godsend. I've
known them, after the.vve been driven ott', roll great stones o\ er
the cliff at night on the coast-guard, just out of spite ; while
these blue-jackets here, I can depend on them. Can you tell
me the reason of that, as you seem a bit of a philosopher ? '

' It is easy enough ; the sailors have a fellow-feeling with
sailors, and the landsmen have none. Besides, tlie sailors are
finer fellows, body and soul ; and the reason is that they have
been brought up to face danger, and the landsmen haven't.'

' Well,' said the lieutenant, ' unless a man has been taught
to look death in tlie face, he never will grow up, I belie\ e, to be
much of a man at all.'

'Danger, my good sir, is a better schoolmastei' than all your
new model schools, diagrams, and scientific apparatus. It made
our forefathers the masters of the sea, though they never heard
of popular science; and I dare say couldn't, one out of ten of
them, spell their own names.'

This sentiment elicited from the lieutenant a grunt of ap-
probation, as Tom intended that it should do ; shrewdly arguing
that the old martinet was no friend to the modern superstition,
that all which is required to cast out the devil is a smattering
of the 'ologies.

' Will the gentlemen see the corpses ? ' asked Brown ; ' we
have fourteen already ; ' — and he led the way to where, along
the shingle at high-water mark, lay a ghastly row, some fear-
fully bruised and mutilated, cramped together by the death
agony ; others with the peaceful smile which showed that they
had sunk to sleep in that strange water-death, amid a wilder-
ness of pleasant dreams. Strong men lay there, little children,
women, whom the sailors wi\es had covered decently with
cloaks and shawls ; and at their heads stood Grace Harvey,
motionless, with folded hands, gazing into the dead faces witli
her great solemn eyes. Her mother and Captain Willis stood
by, watching her with a sort of superstitious aw e. Slie took no
notice either of Thurnall or of the lieutenant, as the doctor
identified the bodies one by one, without a remark which
indicated any human emotion.

'A \'ery sensible man, Willis,' said the lieutenant apart, as
Tom knelt awhile to examine the crushed features of a sailor ;
and then looking up, said simply —

'James Macgillivray, second mate. Caiisp of death, contu-
sions ; probably by the fall of the mainmast.

' A very sensible man, and has seen a deal of life, and kept

IV FLOTSOM, JETSOM, AND LAGEND 77

his eyes open ; but a terrible hard-plucked one. Talked like a
book to me all the way ; but, be hanged if I don't think he has
a thirt3'-two pound shot under his ribs instead of a heart. —
Doctor Thurnall, that is ^liss Harvey, the young person who
saved your life last night.'

Tom rose, took off his hat (Frank Headley's), and made her a
bow, of which an ambassador need not have been ashamed.

' I am exceedingly shocked that ^Nliss Harvey should
have run so much danger for anything so worthless as my
life.'

She looked up at him, and answered, not him, but her own
thoughts.

' Strange, is it not, that it was a duty to pray for all these
poor things last night, and a sin to pray for them this
morning ? '

' Grace, dear ! ' interposed her mother, ' don't you hear the
gentleman thanking you ? '

She started, as one awaking out of a dream, and looked into
his face, blushing scarlet.

' Good heavens, what a beautiful creature ! ' said Tom to him-
self, as quite a new emotion passed through him. Quite new it
was, whatsoever it was ; and he was aware of it. He had had
his passions, his intrigues, in past years, and prided himself —
few men more — on understanding women ; but the expression
of the face, and the strange words with which she had greeted
him, added to the broad fact of her having offered her own life
for his, raised in him a feeling of chivalrous awe and admira-
tion, which no other woman had ever called up.

' Madam,' he said again, ' I can repay you with nothing but
thanks; but, to judge from your conduct last night, you are
one of those people who will find reward enough in knowing
that you have done a noble and heroic action.'

She looked at him very steadfastly, blushing still. Thurnall,
be it understood, was (at least, while his face was in the state in
which Heaven intended it to be, half hidden in a silky-brown
beard) a very good-looking fellow ; and (to use Mark Arms-
worth's description) ' as hard as a nail ; as fresh as a rose ; and
stood on his legs like a game-cock.' Moreover, as Willis said
approvingly, he had spoken to her ' as if he was a duke, and she
was a duchess.' Besides, by some blessed moral law, the surest
way to make oneself love any human being is to go and do him
a kindness ; and therefore Grace had already a tender interest
in Tom, not because he had saved her, but she him. And so it
was, that a strange new emotion passed through her heart also,
though so little understood by her, that she put it forthwith
into words.

' You might repay me,' she said, in a sad and tender tone.

' You ha^•e only to command me,' said Tom, wincing a little
as the words passed his lips.

78 TWO YEARS AGO niiAP.

'Tlien turn to God, now in the day of His mercies. ITnless
you liave turned to Him alre;idy ? '

One glance at Tom's rising eyebrows told her what lie thought
upon those matters.

She looked at him sadly, lingeringly, as if conscious that slie
ought not to look too long, and yet unable to withdraw her
eyes. ' Ah ! and such a precious soul as yours must be ; a
precious soul — all taken, and you alone left ! God must have
high thiags in store for you. He must have a great work for
you to do. Else, why are you not as one of these ? Oil, think !
where would you have been at this moment if God had dealt
with you as with them ? '

' Where I am now, I suppose,' said Tom quietly.

' Where you are now ? '

'Yes ; , where I ought to be. I am where I ought to be now.
I suppo.se if I had found myself anywhere else this morning, T
should have taken it as a sign that I was wanted there, and not
here.'

Grace heaved a sigh at words which were certainly startling.
The Stoic optimism of the world-hardened doctor was new and
frightful to her.

' ily good madam,' said he, ' the part of Scripture which I
appreciate best, just now, is the case of poor Job, where Satan
has leave to rob and torment him to the utmost of his wicked
will, provided only he does not touch his life. I wish,' he went
on, lowering his voice, ' to tell you something which I do not
wish publicly talked of ; but in which you may help me. I
had nearly fifteen hundred pounds about me when I came
ashore last night, sewed in a belt round my waist. It is gone.
That is all.'

Tom looked steadily at her as he spoke. She turned pale,
red, pale again, her lips quivered : but she spoke no word.

' She has it, as I live ! ' thought Tom to himself. ' " Frailty,
thy name is woman ! " The canting little methodistical hum-
bug ! She must have slipped it off my waist as I lay senseless.
I suppose she means to keep it in pawn, till I redeem it by
marrying her. Well, I might take an uglier mate, certainly ;
but when I do enter into the bitter bonds of matrimony, I
should like to be sure, beforehand, that my wife was not a
thief ! '

Why, then, did not Tom, if he were so very sui-e of Grace's
having the belt, charge her with the theft ? Because he had
found out already how popular she was, and was afraid of
merely making himself unpopular ; because, too, he took for
granted that whosoever had his belt, had hidden it already
beyond the reach of a search warrant ; and because, after all,
an honourable shame restrained him. It would be a poor return
to the woman who had saved his life to charge her with theft
the next morning ; and more, there was something about that

IV FLOTSOM, JETSOM, AND LAGEND 79

girl's face wliich liad made liim feel that, if he liad seen her put
tlie belt into her pocket before iiis eyes, he could not have found
the heart to liave sent her to gaol. ' No ! ' thought he ; ' I'll get
it out of her, or whoever has it, and stay here till I do get it.
One place is as good as another to me.'

But what was Grace saying ?

She had turned, after two or tliree minutes' astonished silence,
to her mother and Captain Willis —

'Belt! Mother! Uncle! What is this? The gentleman
has lost a belt ! '

'Dear me ! — a belt? Well, child, that's not much to grieve
over, when the Lord has spared his life and soul from the pit ! '
said her mother, somewhat testily.

' You don't understand. A belt, I say, full of money — fifteen
hundred pounds ; he lost it last night. Uncle ? Speak, quick !
Did you see a belt ? '

Willis shook his head meditatively. ' I don't, and yet I do :
and yet I don't again. My brains were well-nigh washed out or
me, I know. However, sir, I'll think, and talk it over with you
too ; for if it be in the village, found it ought to be, and will be,
with God's help.'

' Found ? ' cried Grace, in so high a key, that Tom entreated
her to calm herself, and not make the matter public. 'Found 1
yes ; and shall be found, if there be justice in heaven. Shame,
that West-country folk should turn robbers and wreckers !
Mariners, too, and mariners' wives, who should be praying for
those who are wandering far away, each man with his life in
his hand ! Ah, what a world ! When wdll it end ? soon, too
soon, when West-country folk rob shipwrecked men ! But you
will find your belt ; yes, sir, you will find it. Wait till you
have learnt to do without it. Man does not live by bread alone.
Do you think he lives by gold ? Only be patient ■ and when
you are worthy of it, you shall find it again, in the Lord's good
time.'

To the doctor this seemed a mere burst of jargon, invented
for the purpose of hiding guilt ; and his faith in womankind
was not heightened when he heard Grace's mother say, sotto mice
to Willis, that 'In wrecks, and fires, and such like, a many
people complained of having lost more than ever they had.'

' Oh ho ! my old lady, is that the way the fox is gone ? '
quoth Tom to that trusty counsellor, himself • and began care-
fully scrutinising Mrs. Harvey's face. It had been very hand-
some : it was still very clever : but the eyebrows, crushed
together downwards above her nose, and rising high at the
outer corners, indicated, as surely as the restless down-dropt
eye, a character self-conscious, furtive, capable of great incon-
sistencies, possibly of great deceits.

' You don't look me in the face, old lady ! ' quoth Tom to
himself. 'Very well! between you two it lies; unless that

80 TWO YEARS \r,0 chap.

old gentleman implicates himself also, in liis .apjoroaching con-
fession.'

He took his part at ><uc\: 'Well, well, you will oblige mc liy
saying nothing more about it. After all, as this good lady says,
the loss of a little money is not worth complaining over, when
one has escaped with life. Good morning ; and many thanks
for all your kindness ! '

And Tom made another grand bow, and went off to the lieu-
tenant.

Grace looked after him awhile, as one stunned ; and then
turned to her mother.

' Let us go home.'

' Go home ? Why there, dear ? '

'Let me go home ; you need not come. I am sick of this
world. Is it not enough to have misery and death ' (and she
pointed to the row of corpses), 'but we must have sin, too,
wherever we turn ! ^Meanness and theft : — and ingratitude too ! '
she added, in a lower tone.

She went homeward ; her mother, in spite of her entreaties,
accompanied her ; and, for some reason or other, did not lose
sight of her all that day, or for several days after.

Meanwhile, Willis had beckoned the doctor aside. His face
was serious and sad, and his lips were trembling.

' This is a \ery shocking business, sir. Of course, you've told
the lieutenant.'

' Not yet, my good sir.'

' But — excuse my boldness ; what plainer way of getting it
back from the rascal, whoever he is ? '

'Wait awhile,' said Tom ; 'I have my reasons.'

'But, sir, for the honour of the place, the matter should be
cleared up ; and till the thief's found, suspicion will lie on a
dozen innocent men ; mj^self among the rest, for that matter.'

' You ? ' said Tom, smiling. ' I don't know who I have the
honour to speak to ; but you don't look much like a gentleman
who wishes for a trip to Botany Bay.'

The old man chuckled, and then his face dropped again.

' I'm glad you take the thing so like a man, sir ; but it is
really no laughing matter. It's a scoundrelly job, only fit for a
Maltee oflT the Nix ^langeery. If it had been a lot of those
carter fellows that had carried you up, I could have understood
it ; wrecking's born in the bone of them : but for those four
sailors that carried you up, 'gad, sir, they'd have been shot
sooner. I've known 'em from boys ! ' and the old man spoke
quite fiercely, and looked up ; his lip trembling, and his eye
moist.

'There's no doubt that you are honest — whoever is not,'
thought Tom ; so he ventured a further question.

' Then you were by all the while ? '

' All the while ? Who more? And that's just what puzzles me.'

IV FLOTSOM, JETSOM, AND LAGEND 81

'Pray don't speak loud,' said Tom. 'I have my reasons for
keeping things quiet.'

'I tell you, sir. I lield the maid, and big Jolin Beer (Gentle-
man Jan they call liim) Iield me ; and the maid had both her
liands tight in your belt. I saw it as plain as I see you, jvist
before the wave covered us, though little I thought what was in
it ; and should never have remembered you had a belt at all, if
I hadn't thought over things in the last iive minutes.'

' Well, sir, I am lucky in having come straight to the foun-
tain head ; and must thank you for telling me so frankly what
you know.'

' Tell you, sir ? What else should one do but tell you ? I
only wish I knew more ; and more I'll know, please the Lord.
And you'll excuse an old sailor (though not of your rank, sir)
saying that he wonders a little that you don't take the plain
means of knowing more yourself.'

' ilay I take the liberty of asking your name ? ' said Tom ;
who saw by this time that the old man was worthy of his con-
fidence.

' WlUis, at your service, sir. Captain they call me, though
I'm none. Sailing-master I was, on board of His Majesty's ship
Niohe, 84 ; ' and Willis raised his hat with such an air, that Tom
raised his in return.

'Then, Captain Willis, let me have five words with you
apart ; first thanking you for having helped to save my life.'

'I'm very glad I did, sir ; and thanked God for it on my
knees this morning : but you'll excuse me, sir, I was thinking —
and no blame to me — more of saving my poor maid's life than
yours, and no offence to you, for I hadn't the honour of know-
ing you ; but for her, I'd have been drowned a dozen times
over.'

' No ofience, indeed,' said Tom ; and hardly knew what to
say next. ' Jlay I ask, is she your niece ? I heard her call you
uncle.'

' Oh, no — no relation ; only I look on her as my own, poor
thing, having no father ; and she always calls me uncle, as most
do us old men in the West.'

' Well, then, sir,' said Tom, ' you will answer for none of the
four sailors having robbed me ? '

' I've said it, sir.'

' Was any one else close to her when we were brought ashore?'

' No one but I. I brought her round myself.'

' And who took her home ? '

' Her mother and I.'

' Very good. And you never saw the belt after she had her
hands in it ? '

' No ; I'm sure not.'

' Was her mother by her when she was lying on the rock ? '

' No ; came up afterwards, just as I got her on her feet.'

G T. Y. A.

82 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

' Humpli ! What sort of a character is her mother ? '

' Oh, a tidy, God - fearing person enough. One of these
Methodist class-leaders, Brianites they call themselves. I don't
hold with them, tiiough I do go to chapel at whiles ; but there
are good ones among them ; and I do belie \e she's one, though
she's a little fretful at times. Keeps a little shop that don't
pay over well ; and those preachers live on her a good deal, I
think. Creeping into widows' houses, and making long prayers
— you know the text.'

'Well, now. Captain Willis, I don't want to hurt your feel-
ings ; but do you not see that one of two things I must believe
— either that the belt was torn off my waist, and washed
back into the sea, as it may ha\e been after all ; or else,
that '

' Do you mean that she took it 1 ' asked Willis, in a voice of
such indignant astonishment that Tom could only answer by a
shrug of the shoulders.

'Who else could have done so, on your own showing ? '

'Sir!' said Willis slowly. 'I thought I had to do with a
gentleman : but I have my doubts of it now. A poor girl risks
her life to drag yoa out of that sea, which but for her would have
hove your body up to lie along with that line there,' — and
Willis pointed to the ghastly row — ' and your soul gone to give
in its last account — you only know what that would have been
like — and the first thing you do in payment is to accuse her of
robbing you — her, that the very angels in heaven, I believe, are
glad to keep company with ; ' and the old man turned and paced
the beach in fierce excitement.

'Captain Willis,' said Tom, 'I'll trouble you to listen
patiently and civilly to me a minute.'

AVillis stopped, drew himself up, and touclied his hat me-
chanically.

' Just because I am a gentleman, I have not accused her : but
held my tongue, and spoken to you in confidence. Xow,
perhaps, you will understand why I have said nothing to the
lieutenant.'

Willis looked up at him.

' I beg your pardon, sir. I see now, and I'm sorry if I was
rude ; but it took me aback, and does still. I tell you, sir,'
quoth he, warming again, 'whate^■er■s true, that's false.
\ ou're wrong there, if you never are wrong again : and you'll
say so yourself, before you'\e known her a week. No, sir ! If
you could make me believe that, I should never belie^ e in good-
ness again on earth ; but hold all men, and women too, and
those above, for aught I know, that are greater than men and
Momen, for liars together.'

What ■was to be answered ? Perhaps only what Tom did
answci',

' My good sir, I will say no more. I would not have said

IV FLOTSOM, JETSOII, AND LAGEND 83

that much if T h;wl thought T should have pained you so. I
suppose tliat the belt was washed into the sea. ^^ liy
not ? '

'AVliy not, indeed, sir? That's a much more christian -like
way of looking at it than to blacken your own soul before God
by suspecting that sweet innocent creature.'

' Be it so, then. Only say nothing about tlie matter ; and
beg them to say nothing. If it be jammed among the rocks (as
it might be, heavy as it is), talking about it will only set people
looking for it ; and I suppose there is a man or two, even in
Aberalva, who would find fifteen hundred pounds a tempting-
bait. If, again, some one finds it, and makes away with it, he
will only be the more careful to hide it if he knows that I am on
the look-out. So just tell Miss Harvey and her mother that I
think it must have been lost, and beg them to keep my secret.
And now shake hands with me.'

' The best plan, I believe, though bad, is the best,' said
Willis, holding out his hand ; and he walked away sadly. His
spirit had been altogether rufHed by the imputation on (i race's
character ; and, besides, the chances of Thurnall's recovering his
money seemed to him \'ery small.

In five minutes he returned.

'If you would allow me, sir, there's a man there of whom I
should like to ask one question. He who held me, and, after
that, helped to carry you up ; ' and he pointed to Gentleman
Jan, who stood, dripping from the waist downward, over a chest
which he had just secured. ' Just let us ask him, off-hand like,
whether you had a belt on when he carried you up. You may
trust him, sir. He'd knock you down as soon as look at you ;
but tell a lie, never.'

They went to the giant, and after cordial salutations, Tom
propounded his question carelessly, with something like a white
lie.

'It's no great matter ; but it was an old friend, you see, with
fittings for my knife and pistols, and I should be glad to find it
again.'

Jan thrust his red hand through his black curls, and medi-
tated while the water surged round his ankles.

' Never a belt seed I, sir ; leastwise while you were in my
hands. I had you round the waist all the way up, so no one
could have took it oS'. Why should they ? And I undressed
you myself ; and nothing, save your presence, was there to get
off, but jersey and trousers, and a lump of backy against your
skin that looked the right sort.'

'Have some, then,' said Tom, pulling out the honeydew.
'As for the belt, I suppose it's gone to choke the dog-fish.'

And there the matter ended, outwardly at least ; but only
outwardly. Tom had his own opinion, gathered from Grace's
seemingly guilty face, and to it he held, and called old Willis,

84 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

in liis heart, a simple-minded old dotard, wjio had been taken in
by her hypocrisy.

And Tom accompanied the li<'iitenant on his dreary eii;uul
that day, and several days after, through depositions hi fore a
justice, interviews with Lloyd's underwriters, and all the sad
details which follow a wreck. Ere the week's end, forty bodies
and more had been recovered, and brought up, ten or twehe at
a time, to the churchyard, and upon the down, and laid side by
side in one long shallow pit, where Frank Headley read over
them the blessed words of hope, amid the sobs of women, and
the grand silence of stalwart men, who knew not how soon their
turn might come ; and after each procession came Grace
Harvey, with all her little scholars two and two, to listen to the
funeral service ; and when the last corpse was buried, they
planted flowers upon the mound, and went their way again to
learn hymns and read their Bible — little ministering angels to
whom, as to most sailors' children, death was too common a
sight to have in it aught of hideous or strange.

And this was the end of the good ship Hesperus^ and all her
gallant crew.

Verily, however important the mere animal li\ es of men may
be, and ought to be, at times, in our eyes, they ne\er have been
so, to judge from floods and earthquakes, pestilence and storm,
in the eyes of Him who made and loves us all. It is a strange
fact : better for us, instead of shutting our eyes to it because it
interferes with our modern tenderness of pain, to ask honestly
what it means.

CHAPTEK V

THE WAY TO WIN THEM

So, for a week or more, Tom went on thrivingly enough, and
became a general favourite in the town. Heale had no reason
to complain of boarding him, for he had dinner and supper
thrust on him every day by one and another, who were glad
enough to have him for the sake of his stories, and songs, and
endless fun and good-humour. The lieutenant, above all, took
the newcomer under his special patronage, and was paid for
his services in some of Tom.'s incomparable honeydew. The
old fellow soon found that the doctor knew more tlian one old
foreign station of his, and ended by pouring out to him his
ancient wrongs, and the evil doings of the wicked admiral ; all
of which Tom heard with deepest sympathy, and surprise that
so much naval talent had remained unappreciated by the unjust
upper powers ; and the lieutenant, of course, reported of him
accordingly to Heale.

'A very civil spoken and intelligent youngster, Mr. Heale,
d'ye see, to my mind ; and you can t do better than accept his

V THE WAY TO "WIN THEM 85

offer ; for you'll find him a great help, especially among the
ladies, d'ye see. They like a good-looking chap, eh, !Mrs.
Jones ? '

On the fourth day, by good fortune, what should come ashore
but Tom's own chest — moneyless, alas ! but with many useful
matters still unspoilt by salt water. So all went well, and
indeed somewhat too well (if Tom would have let it), in the case
of ]\Iiss Anna ilaria Heale, the doctor's daughter.

She was just such a girl as her father's daughter was likely
to be ; a short, stout, rosy, pretty body of twenty, with loose
red lips, thwart black eyebrows, and right naughty eyes under
them, of which Tom took good heed : for Miss Heale was
exceedingly inclined, he saw, to make use of them in his behoof.
Let others who have experience in, and taste for such matters,
declare how she set her cap at the dapper young surgeon ; how
she rushed into the shop with sweet abandon ten times a day, to
find her father ; and, not finding him, giggled, and blushed, and
shook her shoulders, and retired, to peep at Tom through the
glass door which led into the parlour ; how she discovered that
the muslin curtain of the said door would get out of order every
ten minutes ; and at last called Mr. Thurnall to assist her in
rearranging it ; how, bolder grown, she came into the shop to
lielp herself to various matters, inquiring tenderly for Tom's
health, and giggling vulgar sentiments about 'absent friends,
and hearts left behind ; ' in the hope of fishing out whether Tom
had a sweetheart or not. How, at last, she was minded to con-
tide her own health to Tom, and to instal him as her private
physician ; yea, and would have made him feel her pulse on the
spot, had he not luckily found some assafcetida, and therewith
so perfumed the shop, that her 'nerves' (of which she was
always talking, though she had nerves only in the sense wherein
a sirloin of beef has them) forced her to beat a retreat.

But she returned again to the charge next day, and rushed
bravely through that fearful smell, cleaver in hand, as the
carrier set down at the door a huge box, carriage paid, all the
way from London, and directed to Thomas Thurnall, Esquire.
She would help to open it ; and so she did, while old Heale and
his wife stood by curious, — he with a maudlin wonder and awe
(for he regarded Tom already as an altogether awful and incom-
prehensible ' party '), and Mrs. Heale with a look of incredulous
scorn, as if she expected the box to be a mere sham, filled prob-
ably with shavings. For (from reasons best known to herself)
she had never looked pleasantly on the arrangement which
entrusted to Tom the care of the bottles. She had given way
from motives of worldly prudence, even of necessity ; for Heale
had been for the greater part of the week quite incapable of
attending to his business ; but black envy and spite were
seething in her foolish heart, and seethed more and more fiercely
when she saw that the box did not contain shavings, but valu-

86 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

ables of every sort and kind — drugs, instruments, a large micro-
scope (which Tom delivered out of Miss Heale's fat clumsy
fingers only by strong warnings that it would go off and shoot
her), books full of prints of unspeakable monsters ; and finally,
a little packet, containing not one five ])Ound note, but four,
and a letter which Tom, after perusing, put into Mr. Heale's
hands with a look of honest pride.

The ^Mumpsimus men, it appeared, had ' sent round the hat '
for him, and here were the results ; and they would send the
hat round again every month, if he wanted it ; or, if lie would
come up, board, lodge, and wash him gratis. Tlie great Doctor
Bellairs, House Physician, and Carver, the famous oi^erator
(names at which Heale bowed his head and worshipped), sent
compliments, condolences, offers of employment — never was so
triumphant a testimonial ; and Heale, in liis simplicity, thought
himself (as indeed he was) the luckiest of country doctors ;
while Mrs. Heale, after swelling and choking for five minutes,
tottered into the back room, and cast herself on the sofa in
violent hysterics.

As she came round again, Tom could not but overhear a little
that passed. And this he overheard among other matters : —

'Yes, ilr. Heale, I see, I see too well, which your natural
blindness, sir, and that fatal easiness of temper, will bring you
to a premature grave within the paupers' precincts ; and this
young designing infidel, with his science and his magnifiers, and
his callipers, and philosophy falsely so called, which in our true
Protestant youth there was none, nor needed none, to supplant
you in your old age, and take the bread out of your gray hairs,
which he will bring with sorrow to the grave, and mine like-
wise, which am like my poor infant here, of only too sensitive
sensibilities ! Oh, Anna ilaria, my child, my poor lost child !
which I can feel for the tenderness of the inexperienced heart !
My Virgin Eve, which the Serpent has entered into your youth-
ful paradise, and you will find, alas ! too late, that you have
warmed an adder into your bpsom ! '

'Oh, ma, how indelicate ! ' giggled Anna Maria, e%i(lently not
displeased. ' If you don't mind he will liear you, and I should
never be able to look him in the face again.' And therewith]
she looked round to the glass door.

What more passed, Tom did not choose to hear ; for he began
making all the bustle he could in the shop, merely saying to
himself —

' That flood of eloquence is symptomatic enough : I'll lay my
life the old dame knows her way to the laudanum bottle.'

Tom's next business was to ingratiate himself with the young
curate. He had found out already, cunning fellow, that any
extreme intimacy with Headley would not increase his general
l)opularity ; and, as we have seen already, he bore no great
attection to ' the cloth ' in general ; but the curate was an

V THE WAY TO WIN THEM 87

educated gentleman, and Tom wished for some more rational
conversation than that of tlie lieutenant and Heale. Besides,
he was one of those men with whom the possession of power,
sought at first from self-interest, has become a passion, a species
of sporting, which he follows for its own sake. To whomsoever
he met he must needs apply the moral stethoscope ; sound him,
lungs, heart, and liver ; put his tissues under the microscope,
and try conclusions on him to the uttermost. They might be
useful hereafter ; for knowledge was power ; or they might not.
What matter? Every fresli specimen of humanity which he
examined was so much gained in general knowledge. Very
true, Thomas Thurnall ; piovided the method of examination be
the sound and the deep one, which will lead you down in each
case to the real living heart of humanity ; but what if your
method be altogether a shallow and a cynical one, savouring
much more of Gil Bias than of St. Paul, grounded not on faith
and love for human beings, but on something very like suspicion
and contempt ? You will be but too likely, doctor, to make the
coarsest mistakes, when you fancy yourself most penetrating ;
to mistake the mere scurf and disease of the character for its
healthy organic tissue, and to find out at last, somewhat to your
confusion, that there are more things, not only in heaven, but
in the earthiest of the earth, than are dreamt of in your philo-
sophy. You have already set down Grace Harvey as a hypo-
crite, and Willis as a dotard. Will you make up your mind, in
the same foolishness of over-wisdom, that Frank Headley is a
merely narrow-headed and hard-hearted pedant, quite unaware
that he is living an inner life of doubts, struggles, prayers, self-
reproaches, noble hunger after an ideal of moral excellence, such
as you, friend Tom, never yet dreamed of, which would be to
you as an unintelligible gibber of shadows out of dreamland,
but which is to him the only reality, the life of life, for which
everything is to be risked and suffered ? You treat his opinions
(though he never thrusts them on you) about ' the Church,' and
his duty, and the souls of his parishioners, with civil indiffer-
ence, as much ado about nothing ; and his rubrical eccentricities
as puerilities. You have already made up your mind to ' try
and put a little common sense into him,' not because it is any
concern of yours whether he has common sense or not, but
because you think that it will be better for you to have the
parish at peace ; but has it ever occurred to you how noble the
man is, even in his mistakes ? How that one thought, that the
finest thing in the world is to be utterly good, and to make
others good also, puts him three heavens at least above you, you
most unangelic terrier-dog, bemired all day long by grubbing after
vermin! What if his idea of 'the Church' be somewhat too
narrow for the year of grace 1854, is it no honour to him that
he has such an idea at all ; that there has risen up before him
the vision of a perfect polity, a 'Divine and wonderful Order,'

88 TWO YEARS AOO chap.

linking earth to lieaven, and to the very throne of Him who
died for men ; witnessing to each of its citizens what the world
tries to make him forget, namely, that he is the child of God
himself ; and guiding and strengthening him, from the cradle to
the grave, to do his Father's work ? Is it a shame to him that
he has seen that such a polity must exist, that he Ijelieves that
it does exist ; or that he thinks he finds it in its highest, if not
its perfect form, in the most ancient and august ti-aditions of
his native land ? True, he has much to learn, and you may
teach him something of it ; Ijut you will find some day, Thomas
Thurnall, that, granting you to be at one pole of the English
character, and Frank Headley at the other, he is as good an
Englishman as you, and can teach you more than you can him.

The two soon began to pass almost e^'ery evening together,
pleasantly enough ; for the reckless and rattling manner which
Tom assumed with the mob, he laid aside with the curate, and
showed himself as agreeable a companion as man could need •
while Tom in his turn found that Headley was a rational and
sweet-tempered man, who, even where he had made up his mind
to differ, could hear an adverse opinion, put sometimes in a
startling shape, without falling into any of those male hysterics
of saci-ed horror, wliich are the usual refuge of ignorance and
stupidity, terrified by what it cannot refute. And soon Tom
began to lay aside the reserve which he usually assumed to
clergymen, and to tread on ground which Headley would gladly
have avoided. For, to tell the truth, ever since Tom had heard
of Graces intended dismissal, the curate's opinions liad assumed
a practical importance in his eyes ; and he had vowed in secret
that, if his cunning failed him not, turned out of her school
she should not be. Whether she had stolen his money or not,
she had saved his life ; and nobody should wrong her, if he
could help it. Besides, perhaps she had not his money. The
belt might have slipped off in the struggle ; some one else might
have taken it off in carrying him up ; he might have mistaken
the shame of innocence in her face for that of guilt. Be it as it
might, he had not the heart to make the matter public, and
contented himself with staying at Aberalva, and watching for
every hint of his lost treasure.

By which it befell that he was thinking, the half of every day
at least, about Grace Harvey ; and her face was seldom out of
his mind's eye : and the more he looked at it, either in fancy
or in fact, the more did it fascinate him. They met but rarely,
and then interchanged the most simple and modest of saluta-
tions : but Tom liked to meet her, would have gladly stopped
to chat with her ; however, whether from modesty or from n
guilty conscience, she always hurried on in silence.

And she ? Tom's request to her, through Willis, to say
nothing about the matter, she had obeyed, as her mother also
had done. That Tom suspected her was a thought which never

V THE WAY TO MIN THEM 89

crossed lier mind ; to suspect any one lieiself was in her eyes a
sin ; and if the fancy that this man or that, among the sailors
wlio liad carried Tom up to Heale's, might ha\ c been capable of
the baseness, slie thrust the thought from her, and prayed to be
forgiven for her uncharitable judgment.

But night and day there weighed on that strange and delicate
spirit the shame of the deed, as heavily, if possible, as if she
herself had been the doer. There was another soul in danger of
perdition ; another black spot of sin, making earth hideous to
her. The village was disgraced ; not in the public eyes, true :
but in the eye of heaven, and in the eyes of that stranger for
whom she was beginning to feel an interest more intense than
she ever had done in any human being before. Her saintliness
(for Grace was a saint in the truest sense of that word) had long
since made her free of that ' communion of saints ' which con-
sists not in Pharisaic isolation from ' the world,' not in the
mutual flatteries and congratulations of a self-conceited clique ;
but which bears the sins and carries the sorrows of all around :
whose atmosphere is disappointed hopes and plans for good, and
the indignation which hates the sin because it loves the sinner,
and sacred fear and pity for the self-inilicted miseries of those
who might be (so runs the dream, and will run till it becomes a
waking reality) strong, and free, and safe, by being good and
wise. To such a spirit this bold cunning man had come, stiff-
necked and heaven -defiant, a 'brand plucked from the burn-
ing : ' and yet equally unconscious of his danger, and thankless
for his respite. Given, too, as it were, into her hands ; tossed
at her feet out of the very mouth of the pit — why but that she
might save him ? A far duller heart, a far narrower imagination
than Grace's would have done what Grace's did — concentrate
themselves round the image of that man with all the love of
woman. For, ere long, Grace found that she did love that man,
as a woman loves but once in her life ; perhaps in all time to
come. She found that her heart throbbed, her cheek flushed,
when his name was mentioned ; that she watched, almost un-
awares to herself, for his passing ; and she was not ashamed of
the discovery. It was a sort of melancholy comfort to her that
there was a great gulf fixed between them. His station, his
acquirements, his great connections and friends in London (for
all Tom's matters were the gossip of the town, as, indeed, lie
took care that they should be), made it impossible that he
should ever think of her ; and therefore she held herself excused
for thinking of him, without any fear of that ' self-seeking,' and
'inordinate afi'ection,' and 'unsanctified passions,' which her
religious books had taught her to dread. Besides, he was not
'a christian.' That five minutes on the shore had told her
that ; and even if her station had been the same as his, she
must not be 'unequally yoked with an unbelie\er.' And thus
the very hopelessness of her love became its food and strength ;

90 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

the feeling whicli she would have cliecked with maidenly
modesty, had it been connected even remotely \\ ith marriage,
was allowed to take immediate and entire dominion ; and she
held herself permitted to keep him next her heart of hearts,
because she could do nothing for liim but pray for his conversion.

And pray for him she did, the noble, guileless girl, day and
night, that lie miglit be converted ; that he might prosper, and
become — perhaps rich, at least useful ; a mighty instrument in
some good work. And then she would build up one beautiful
castle in tlie air after another, out of her fancies about what
such a man, wliom she had invested in her own mind with all
tlie wisdom of Solomon, might do if his ' talents weie sanctified.'
Then she prayed that lie might recover his lost gold — when it
was good for him ; that he might discover tlie thief : no — that
would only involve fresh shame and sorrow ; that the thief,
then, might be brought to repentance, and confession, and
restitution. That was the solution of the dark problem, and
for that she prayed ; while her face grew sadder and sadder day
by day.

For a while, over and above the pain whicli the theft caused
her, there came — how could it be otherwise ? — sudden pangs of
regret that this same lo\ u was hopeless, at least upon this side
of the grave. Inconsistent they were witli tlie chivalrous un-
selfishness of her usual temper ; and as such she dashed them
from her, and conquered them, after a while, by a metliod which
many a woman knows too well. It was but ' one cross more ; '
a natural part of her destiny — the child of sorrow and heaviness
of heart. Pleasure in joy slie was never to find on earth ; she
would find it, then, in grief. And nursing her own melancholy,
she went on her w:iy, sad, sweet, and steadfast, and lavished
more care and tenderness, and even gaiety, than ever upon her
neighbours' children, because she knew that slie should never
have a child of her own.

But there is a third damsel, to whom, whetlier more or less
engaging than Grace Harvey or Miss Heale, my readers must
needs be introduced. Let jNliss Heale herself do it, with eyes
full of jealous curiosity.

' There is a foreign letter for Mr. Thurnall, marked ^Montreal,
and sent on here from Whitbury,' said she, one morning at
breakfast, and in a significant tone ; for the address was
evidently in a woman's hand.

'For me — ah, yes ; I see,' said Tom, taking it carele.-^sly, and
thrusting it into his pocket.'

'Won't you read it at oncp, Mr. Thurnall? I'm sure you
must be anxious to hear from friend.-, abroad ;' with an emphasis
on the word friends.

'I have a good many acquaintances all over the world, but
no friends that I am aware nf,' said Tom, anc' went on witli liis
bi'eakfast.

V THE WAY TO WIN THEM 91

'Ah — but some people are more than friends. Are the
Montreal ladies pretty, Mr. Thurnall ? '

' Don't know ; for I never was there.'

Miss Heale was silent, being mystified : and, moreover, not
quite sure whether Montreal was in India or in Australia, and
not willing to show her ignorance.

She watched Tom through the glass door all the morning to
see if he read the letter, and betrayed any emotion at its con-
tents : but Tom went about his business as usual, and, as far as
she saw, never read it at all.

However, it was read in due time ; for, finding himself in a
lonely place that afternoon, Tom pulled it out with an anxious
face, and read a letter written in a hasty ill-formed hand, under-
scored at every fifth word, and plentifully bedecked with notes
of exclamation.

'What? my dearest friend, and fortune still frowns upon
you? Your father blind and ruined! Ah, that I were there to
comfort him for your sake ! And ah, that I were anywhere,
doing any drudgery, which might prevent my being still a
burden to my benefactors. Not that they are unkind ; not that
they are not angels ! I told them at once that you could send
me no more money till you reached England, perhaps not then;
and they answered that God would send it : that He who had
sent me to them would send the means of supporting me ; and
ever since they have redoubled their kindness : but it is intoler-
able, this dependence, and on you, too, who have a father to
support in his darkness. Oh, how I feel for you ! But to tell
you the truth, I pay a price for this dependence. I must needs
be staid and sober ; I must needs dress like any Quakeress ; I
must not read this book or that ; and my Shelley— taken from
me, I suppose, because it spoke too much " Liberty," though, of
course, the reason given was its infidel opinions — is replaced by
Laiv's Serious Call. 'Tis all right and good, I doubt not : but
it is very dreary ; as dreary as these black fir-forests, and brown
snake fences, and that dreadful, dreadful Canadian winter which
is past, which went to my very heart, day after day, like a sword
of ice. Another such winter, and I shall die, as one of my own
humming-birds would die, did you cage him here, and prevent
him from fleeing home to the sunny South when the first leaves
begin to fall. Dear children of the sun ! my heart goes forth to
them ; and the v/hir of their wings is music to me, for it tells
me of the South, the glaring South, with its glorious flowers,
and glorious woods, its luxuriance, life, fierce enjoyments — let
fierce sorrows come with them, if it must be so ! Let me take
the evil with the good, and live my rich wild life through bliss
and agony, like a true daughter of the sun, instead of crys-
tallising slowly here into ice, amid countenances rigid with
respectability, sliarpened by the lust of gain ; without taste,
without emotion, without even sorrow ! Let who will be the

92 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

stagnant mill-head, crawling in its ugly spade-cut ditch to turn
the mill. Let me be the wild mountain brook, whicli foams and
Hashes over the rocks — what if they tear it? — it Ipajis theiji
nevertheless, and goes laughing on its way. Let me go thus, for
weal or woe ! And if I sleep a while, let it be like the brook,
beneath the shade of fragrant magnolias and lu.vuriant ^•il)es,
and image, meanwhile, in my bosom nothing but the beauty
around.

'Yes, my friend, I can livf no longer this dull chi'ysalid life,
in comparison with which, at times, even that jjast dark dream
seems tolerable — for amid its lurid smoke were Bashes of bright-
ness. A slave ? A\'ell ; I ask myself at times, and what were
women meant for but to be slaves? Free them, and they en-
slave themselves again, or languish unsatished ; for they must
lo\p. And what blame to them if they love a wliite man, tyrant
though he be, rather than a fellow-slave ? If the men of our
own race will claim us, let tliem prove themselves worthy of us!
Let them rise, exterminate their tyrants, or, failing that, show
that they know how to die. Till then, those wlio are tlie masters
of their bodies will be the masters of our hearts. If they crouch
before the white like brutes, what wonder if we look up to him
as to a god ? Woman must worship, or be wretched. Do I not
know it ? Ha\e I not had my dream — too beautiful for earth ?
\Vas there not one whom you knew, to hear whom call me slave
would ha^e been I'apture ; to whom I would have answered on
my knees, JIaster, I have no will but yours ? But that is past
— past. One happiness alone was possible foi' a slave, and exfu
that they tore from niP ; and now I ha\'e no thought, no purpose,
sa\'e revenge.

' These good people bid me forgi-i e my enemies. Easy enough
for them, who have no enemies to forgi\e. Forgiw ? Forgive
injustice, oppression, baseness, cruelty ? Forgive the devil, and
bid him go in peace, and work his wicked will ? AVliy have they
put into my liands, these last three years, books worthy of a free
nation ? — books which call jjatriotism divine ; which tell me how
in e\ery age and clime men ha^e been called heroes who rose
against their conquerors ; women martyrs who stabbed their
tyrants, and then died ? Hypocrites ! 1 )id their grandfathers
meekly turn the other cheek when your English taxed them
somewhat too heavily ? Do they not now teach e^ ery school-
child to glory in their own revolution, their ow n declaration of
independence, and to Hatter themselves into the conceit that
they are the lords of creation, and the examples of the world,
because they asserted that sacred right of resistance which is
discovered to be unchristian in the African? They will free us,
forsooth, in good time (is it to lie in ( lod's good time, or in their
own ?), if we will but be patient, and endun; the rice-swamp, the
scourge, the slave-mai'ket, and shame unspeakable, ^i few years
more, till all is ready and safe, — for them. Dreamers as well as

V THE WAY TO WIN THEM 93

hypocrites ! What nation was ever freed by others' help ? I
have been reading history to see, — yon do not know how much
I have been reading, —and I find tiiat freemen have always freed
tliemselves, as we must do ; and as they will never let us do, be-
cause they know that with freedom must come retribution ; that
our Southern tyrants have an account to render, which the cold
Northerner has no heart to see him pay. For, after all, he loves
the Southerner better than the slave ; and fears him more also.
What if the Southern aristocrat, who lords it over him as the
panther does over the ox, should transfer (as he lias threatened
many a time) the cowhide from the negro's loins to his ? No ;
we must free ourselves ! And there lives one woman, at least,
who, having gained her freedom, knows how to use it in eternal
war against all tyrants. Oh, I could go down, I think at
moments, down to New Orleans itself, with a brain and lips of
fire, and speak words — you know how I could speak them —
which would bring me in a week to the scourge, perhaps to the
stake. The scourge I could endure. Have I not felt it already?
Do I not bear its scars even now, and glory in them ; for they
were won by speaking as a woman should speak ? And even
the fire ? — Have not women been martyrs already ? and could
not I be one ? ilight not my torments madden a people into
manhood, and my name become a war-cry in the sacred fight l
Ajid yet, oh my friend, life is sweet ! — and my little day has
been so dark and gloomy ! — may I not have one hour's sunshine
ere youth and vigour are gone, and my swift- vanishing Southern
womanhood wrinkles itself up into despised old age ? Oh,
counsel me, — help me, my friend, my preserver, my true master
now, so brave, so wise, so all-knowing ; under whose mask of
cynicism lies hid (have I not cause to know it ?) the heart of a
hero. ^Iarie.'

If Miss Heale could have watched Tom's face as he read, much
more could she have heard his words as he finished, all jealousy
would have passed from her mind : for as he read, the cynical
smile grew sharper and sharper, forming a fit prelude for the
' Little fool ! ' which was his only comment.

' I thought you would have fallen in love with some honest
farmer years ago : but a martyr you shan't be, even if I have to
send for you hither ; though how to get you bread to eat I don't
know. However, you have been reading your book, it seems, —
clever enough you always were, and too clever ; so you could go
out as governess, or something. Why, here's a postscript dated
three months afterwards ! Ah, I see ; this letter was written
last July, in answer to my Australian one. What's the meaning
of this ? ' And he began reading again.

' I wrote so far ; but I had not the heart to send it ; it was so
full of repinings. And since tlien, — must I tell the truth ? — I
have made a step ; do not call it a desperate one ; do not blame

94 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

me, for your blame I cannot bear : but I have gone on the stage.
There was no other means of independence open to me ; and I
had a dream, I have it still, that there, if anywhere, I might do
my work. You told me that I might become a great actress : I
have set my heart on becoming one ; on learning to move the
hearts of men, till the time comes when I can tell them, show
them, in living flesh and blood, upon the stage, the secrets of a
slave's sorrows, and that slave a woman. The time has not
come for that yet here : but I have Iiad my success already,
more than I could liave expected ; and not only in Canada, but
in the States. I ha\-e been at New York, acting to crowded
houses. Ah, when they applauded me, how I longed to speak !
to pour out my whole soul to them, and call upon them, as men,

to . But that will come in time. I have found a friend,

who has promised to write dramas especially for me. ^Merely re-
publican ones at first ; in which I can give full vent to my pas-
sion, and hurl forth the eternal laws of liberty, which their
consciences may — must — at last, apjjly for themselves. But
soon, he says, we shall be able to dare to approach the real sub-
ject, if not in America, still in Euroije ; and then, I trust, the
coloured actress will stand forth as the championess of her race,
of all who are oppressed, in every capital in Europe, save, alas !
Italy and the Austria who crushes her. I have taken, I should
tell you, an Italian name. It was better, I thought, to hide my
African taint, forsooth, for awhile. So the wise New Yorkers
have been feting, as ilaria Cordifianima, the white woman (for am
I not fairer than many an Italian signora ?), whom tliey would
have looked on as an inferior beiiig under the name of Marie
Lavington : though there is finer old English blood running in my
veins, from your native Berkshire they say, than in many a
Down-Easter's who hangs upon my lips. Address me henceforth,
then, as La Signora Maria Cordifiamma. I am learning fast,
by the by, to speak Italian. I shall be at Quebec till the end
of the month. Then, I believe, I come to London ; and we shall
meet once more ; and I shall thank you, thank you, thank you,
once more, for all your marvellous kindness.'

' Humph ! ' said Tom, after a while. ' Well, she is old enough
to choose for herself. Five-and-twenty she must be by now. . . .
As for the stage, I suppose it is the best place for her ; better,
at least, than turning governess, and going mad, as she would
do, over her drudgery and her dreams. But who is this friend?
Singing-master, scribbler, or political refugee ? or perhaps all
three together ? A dark lot, those fellows. I must keep my
eye on him, though it's no concern of mine. I've done my duty
by the poor thing ; the devil himself can't deny that. But
somehow, if this play-writing worthy plays her false, I feel very
much as if I should be fool enough to try whether I ha\e for-
gotten my pistol-shooting.'

VI AN OLD FOE WITH A NEAV FACE Pr.

CHAPTEE VI

AN OLD FOE WITH A NEW FACE

' This child's head is dreadfully hot ; and how yellow he does
look ! ' says Mrs. Vavasour, fussing about in her little nursery.
' Oh, Clara, what shall I do ? I really dare not give them any
more medicine myself ; and that horrid old Dr. Heale is worse
than no one.'

' Ail, ma'am,' says Clara, who is privileged to bemoan herself,
and to have sad confidences made to her, 'if we were but in
town now, to see ]\Ir. Chilvers, or any one that could be trusted ;
but in this dreadful out-of-the-way place '

' Don't talk of that, Clara ! Oh, what will become of the
poor children ? ' And Mrs. Vavasour sits down and cries, as she
does three times at least every week.

'But indeed, ma'am, if you thought you could trust him,
there is that new assistant '

' The man who was saved from the wreck ? Why, nobody
knows who he is.'

' Oh, but indeed, ma'am, he is a very nice gentleman, I can
say that ; and so wonderfully clever ; and has cured so many
people already, they say, and got down a lot of new medicines
(for he has great friends among the doctors in town), and such
a wonderful magnifying glass, with which he showed me himself,
as I dropped into the shop promiscuous, such horrible things,
ma'am, in a drop of water, that I haven't dared hardly to wash
my face since.'

' And what good will the magnifying glass do to us ? ' says
the poor little Irish soul, laughing up through its tears. ' He
won't want it to see how ill poor Frederick is, I'm sure ; but you
may send for him, Clara.'

'I'll go myself, ma'am, and make sure,' says Clara; glad
enough of a run, and chance of a chat with the young doctor.

And in half an hour Mr. Thurnall is announced.

Though Mrs. Vavasour has a flannel apron on (for she will
wash the children herself, in spite of Elsley's grumblings), Tom
sees that she is a lady ; and puts on, accordingly, his very best
manner, which, as his experience has long since taught him, is
no manner at all.

He does his work quietly and kindly, and bows himself out.

'You will be sure to send the medicine immediately, Mr.
Tliurnall.'

' I will bring it myself, madam ; and, if you like, administer
it. I think the young gentleman has made friends with me
sufficiently already.'

Tom keeps his word, and is back, and away again to his

96 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

shop, in a marvellously short space, having 'struck a fresh
root,' as lie calls it ; for —

' What a very well-behaved sensible man that ilr. Thurnall
is,' says Lucia to Elsley, an hour after, as she meets him coming
in from the garden, wiiere he has been polishing his ' Wreck.'
' I am sure he understands his business ; he was so kind and
quiet, and yet so ready, and seemed to know all the child's
symptoms beforehand, in such a strange way. I do hope he'll
stay here. I feel happier about the poor children than I ha\e
for a long time.'

' Thurnall 1 ' asks Elsley, who is too absorbed in the ' Wreck '
to ask after the children ! but the name catches his ear.

'^[r. Heale's new assistant — the man who was wrecked,'
answers she, too absorbed, in her turn, in the children to notice
her husband's startled face.

' Thurnall ? Which Thu rnall ? '

' Do you know the name ? It's not a common one,' says she,
moving to the door.

' No — not a common one at all ! You said the children were
not well ? '

'I am glad that you thought of asking after the poor
things.'

'Why, really, my dear ' But before he can finish his

excuse (probably not worth hearing), she has trotted upstairs
again to the nest, and is as busy as ever. Possibly Clara might
do the greater part of what she does, and do it better ; but still,
are they not her children ? Let those who will call a mother's
care mere animal instinct, and liken it to that of the sparrow
or the spider ; shall we not rather call it a Divine inspiration,
and doubt whether the sparrow and the spider must not have
souls to be saved, if they, too, show forth that faculty of
maternal love which is, of all human feelings, most inexplicable
and most self-sacrificing ; and therefore, surely, most heavenly ?
If that does not come down straight from heaven, a ' good and
perfect gift,' then what is heaven, and what the gifts which it
sends down ?

But poor Elsley may have had solid reasons foi- thinking
more of the name of Thurnall than of his children's health ; we
will hope so for his sake ; for, after sundry melodramatic
pacings and starts (Elsley was of a melodramatic turn, and fond
of a scene, even when he had no spectator, not even a looking-
glass) ; besides ejaculations of ' It cannot be ! ' ' If it were ! ' ' I
trust not ! ' ' A fresh ghost to torment me ! ' ' When will come
the end of this accursed coil which I have wound round my
life ? ' and so forth, he decided aloud that the suspense was in-
tolerable ; and enclosing himself in his poetical cloak and
Mazzini wide-awake, strode down to the town, and into the
shop. And as he entered it, ' his heart sank to his midriff, and
his knees below were loosed.' For there, making up pills, in a

VI AN OLD FOE "WITH A NEW FACE 97

pair of brown-holland sleeves of his own manufacture (for Tom
was a good seamster, as all travellers should be), whistled Lilli-
burlero, as of old, the Tom of other days, which Elsleys muse
would fain have buried in a thousand Lethes.

Elsley came forward to the counter carelessly, nevertheless,
after a moment. 'What with my beard, and the lapse of time,'

thought he, ' he cannot know me.' So he spoke

'I understand you have been visiting my children, sir. I
hope you did not find them seriously indisposed ? '
' ilr. Vavasour ? ' says Tom, with a low bow.
' I am ilr. Vavasour ! ' But Elsley was a bad actor, and hesi-
tated and coloured so much as he spoke, that if Tom Iiad known
nothing, he might have guessed something.

' Nothing serious, I assure you, sir ; unless you are come to
announce any fresh symptom.'

' Oh, no — not at all — that is — I was passing on my way to
the quay, and thought it as well to have your own assurance ;
Mrs. Va\asour is so over-anxious.'

' You seem to partake of her infirmity, sir^' says Tom, with
a smile and a bow. ' However, it is one which does you both
honour.'

An awkward pause.

' I hope I am not taking a liberty, sir ; but I think I am

bound to '

' What in heaven is he going to say ? ' thought Elsley to
himself, feeling very much inclined to run away.

' Thank you for all the pleasure and instruction whicli your
writings have given me in lonely hours, and lonely places too.
Your first volume of poems has been read by one man, at least,
beside wild watch-fires in the Rocky Mountains.'

Tom did not say that he pitched the said volume into the
river in disgust ; and that it was, probably, long since used up
as house material by the caddis-baits of those parts, — for doubt-
less there are caddises there as elsewhere.

Poor Elsley rose at the bait, and smiled and bowed in
silence.

'I have been so long absent from England, and in utterly
wild countries, too, that I need hardly be ashamed to ask if you
have written anything since The SmiUx Agonies ? Xo doubt
if you have, I might have found it at ^Melbourne, on my way
home ; but my visit there was a very hurried one. However,
the loss is mine, and the fault too, as I ought to call it.'

' Pray make no excuses,' says Elsley delighted. ' I have
written, of course. Who can help writing, sir, while Nature is
so glorious, and man so wretched ? One cannot but take refuge
from the pettiness of the real in the contemplation of the ideal.
Yes, I have written. I will send you my last book down. I
don't know whether you will find me improved.'
' How can I doubt that I shall ? '

98 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

'Saddened, perhaps ; perhaps more severe in my taste ; but
we will not talk of that. I owe you a debt, sir, for having fur-
nished me with one of the most striking "motifs" I ever had.
I mean that miraculous escape of yours. It is seldom enough,
in this dull e very-day world, one stumbles on such an incident
ready made to one's hands, and needing only to be described as
one sees it.'

And the weak, vain man chatted on, and ended by telling
Tom all about his poem of ' The Wreck,' in a tone which seemed
to imply that he had done Tom a serious favour, perhaps raised
him to immortality, by putting him in a book.

Tom thanked him gravely for the said honour, bowed him at
last out of the shop, and then vaulted back clean over the
counter, as soon as Elsley was out of sight, and coiimienced an
Indian war-dance of frantic character, accompanying himself by
an extemporary chant, with which the name of John Briggs
was frequently intermingled : —

' '" If I don't know you, Johnny, my boy,
In spite of all your beard ;
AVhy then I am a slower fellow,
Than ever has yet appeared."

' Oh if it was but he ! what a card for nie ! What a world it
is for poor honest rascals like me to try a fall with ! —

' " M'hy didn't I take bad verse to make,
And call it poetry ;
And so make up to an earl's daughter,
Which was of high degi'ee ? "

But perhaps I am wrong after all ; no — I saw he knew me, the
humbug ; though he never was a humbug, never rose abo\e the
rank of fool. However, I'll make assurance doubly sure, and
then — if it pays me not to tell him I know him, 1 won't tell
him ; and if it pays me to tell him, I will tell him. Just as
you choose, my good Mr. Poet.' And Tom returned to his work
singing an extempore parody of ' We met, 'twas in a crowd,'
ending with —

■ And thou art the cause of this anguish, my pill-bo.\,'

in a howl so doleful, that ilrs. Heale marched into the shop,
evidently making up her mind for an explosion.

'I am very sorry, sir, to have to speak to you upon such a
subject, but I must say, that the profane songs, sir, which our
house is not at all accustomed to them ; not to mention that at
your time of life, and in your position, sir, as my husband s
assistant, though there's no saying ' (with a meaning toss of the
head) ' how long it may last,' — and there, her grammar having
got into a hopeless knot, she stopped.

VI AN OLD FOE WITH A NEW FACE 99

Tom looked at her cheerfully and fixedly. ' I had been ex-
pecting this,' said he to himself. ' Better show the old cat at
once that I carry claws as well as she.'

'There is saying, madam, humbly begging your pardon, how
long my present engagement will last. It will last just as long
as I like.'

^Irs. Heale boiled over with rage ; but ere the geyser could
explode, Tom had continued in that dogged, nasal Yankee
twang which he assumed when he was venomous :

' As for the songs, ma'am, there are two ways of making one-
self happy in this life ; you can .iudge for yourself which is
best. One is to do one's work like a man, and hum a tune, to
keep one's spirits up ; the other is to let the work go to rack
and ruin, and keep one's spirits up, if one is a gentleman, by a
little too much brandy ; if one is a lady, by a little too much
laudanum.'

'Laudanum, sir?' almost screamed Mrs. Heale, turning pale
as death.

' The pint bottle of best laudanum, which I had from town a
fortnight ago, ma'am, is now nearly empty, ma'am. I will
make affidavit that I have not used a hundred drops, or diunk
one. I suppose it was the cat. Cats have queer tastes in the
West, I believe. I have heard the cat coming downstairs into
tlie surgery, once or twice after I was in bed ; so I set my door
ajar a little, and saw her come up again ; but whether she had
a vial in her paws '

' Oh, sir ! ' says !Mrs. Heale, bursting into tears. ' And after
the dreadful toothache which I have had this fortnight, which
nothing but a little laudanum would ease it ; and at my time
of life, to mock a poor elderly lady's infirmities, which I did not
look for this cruelty and outrage ! '

' Dry your tears, my dear madam,' says Tom, in his most
winning tone. ' You will always find me the thorough gentle-
man, I am sure. If I had not been one, it would have been
easy enough for me, with my powerful London connections, —
though I won't boast, — to set up in opposition to your good
husband, instead of saving him labour in his good old age.
Only, my dear madam, how shall I get the laudanum-bottle re-
filled without the doctor's — you understand ? '

The wretched old woman hurried upstairs, and brought him
down a half-sovereign out of her private hoard, trembling like
an aspen leaf, and departed.

'So — scotched, but not killed. You'll gossip and lie too.
Never trust a laudanum drinker. You'll see me, by the eye of
imagination, committing all the seven deadly sins ; and by the
tongue of inspiration go forth and proclaim the same at the
town-head. I can't kill you, and I can't cure you, so I must
endure you. What said old Goethe, in all the German I ever
cared to recollect—

100 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

' " Der AVallfisch li;it (loch seine Laus ;
Muss auch die meiuf haben."

' Xow, then, for Mrs. Penljertliy's draughts. I wonder how
that pretty schoohiii.stress goes on. If .she were but honest,
now, and had fifty thousand pounds — why then, she wouldn't
marry me ; and so wliy now, I wouldn't marry she, — as my
native Berkshire grammar would render it.'

CHAPTER VII

LA CORDIFI.^MM.V

This chapter shall becciu, good reader, with one of those startling
bursts of ' illustration,' with which our most popular preachers
are wont now to astonish and edify their hearers, and after
staiting with them at the opening of the sermon from the north
pole, the Crystal Palace, or the nearest cabbage-garden, float
them safe, upon the gushing stream of oratory, to the safe and
well-known shores of doctrinal common-place, lost in admiration
at the skill of the good man who can thus make all roads lead,
if not to heaven, at least to strong language about its opposite.
True, the logical sequence of their periods may be, like tliat of
the coming one, somewhat questionable, reminding one at
moments of Fluelleu's comparison between Macedon and Mon-
mouth, Henry the Fifth and Alexander : but, in the logic of the
pulpit, all's well that end's well, and the end must needs sanctify
the means. There is, of course, some connection or other be-
tween all things in heaven and earth, or how would the universe
hold together? And if one has not time to find out the true
connection, what is left but to invent the best one can for one-
self? Thus argues, probably, the popular preacher, and fills
his pews, proving thereby clearly the excellence of his method.
So argue also, probably, the popular poets, to whose ' luxuriant
fancy' everything suggests anything, and thought plays leap-
frog witli thought down one page and up the next, till one
fancies at moments that they had got permission from the
higher powers, before looking at the universe, to stir it all up a
few times with a spoon. It is notorious, of course, that poets
and preachers alike pride themselves upon this method of
astonishing ; that the former call it, ' seeing the infinite in the
finite ; ' the latter, ' pressing secular matters into the service
of the sanctuary,' and other pretty phrases which, for rever-
ence' sake, shall be omitted. No doubt they have their reasons
and their reward. The style takes ; the style pays ; and what
more would you have ? Let them go on rejoicing, in spite of
the cynical pedants in the HalimJuy Eevieti\ who dare to accuse
(will it be believed ?) these luminaries of the age of talking

vii LA CORniFIAMMA 101

merely irreverent nonsense. ^Feanwhile, so evident is the
success (sole test of merit) wliich lias attended the new method,
that it is wortii while trying whether it will not be us taking in
the novel as it is in the chapel ; and therefore the reader is
requested to pay special attention to the following paragraph,
modelled carefully after the exordiums of a famous Irish
preacher, now drawing crowded houses at the West End of
Town. As thus : — ' It is the pleasant month of ^lay, when, as
in old Chaucer's time, the —

■ " Sinale foules maken nielodie,

That slepen alle night with open eye
So priketh hem nature in their corages.
Then longen folk to goe on pilgrimages,
And specially from every shire's enil
Of Englelond, to Exeter-hall they wend," '

till the low places of the Strand blossom with white cravats,
those lilies of the valley, types of meekness and humility, at
least in the pious palmer — and why not of similar virtues in the
undertaker, the concert-singer, the groom, the tavern-waiter,
the croupier at the gaming-table, and Frederick Augustus Lord
Scoutbush, who, white-cravated like the rest, is just getting
into his cab at the door of the Never-mind-what Theatre, to
spend an hour at Kensington before sauntering in to Lady
:\I 's ball ?

Why not, I ask, at least in the case of little Scoutbush ? For
Guardsman though he be, coming from a theatre and going to
a ball, there is meekness and humility in him at this moment,
as well as in the average of the white-cravated gentlemen who
trotted along that same pavement about eleven o'clock this
forenoon. Why should not his white cravat, like theirs, be
held symbolic of that fact ? However, Scoutbush belongs
rather to the former than the latter of Chaucer's categories ;
for a 'smale foule' he is, a little bird-like fellow, who maketh
melodie also, and warbles like a cock-robin ; we cannot liken
him to any more dignified songster. ^Moreover, he will sleep all
night with open eye ; for he will not be in bed till five to-
morrow morning ; and pricked he is, and that sorely, in his
courage ; for he is as much in love as his little nature can be,
with the new actress. La Signora Cordifiamma, of the Never-
mind-what Theatre.

How exquisitely, now (for this is one of the rare occasions
in ^^■hich a man is permitted to praise himself), is established
liereby an unexpected bond of linked sweetness long drawn out
between things which had, ere they came beneath the magic
touch of genius, no more to do with each other than this book
has with the Stock Exchange. Who would have dreamed of
travelling from the Tabard in Southwark to the last new
singer, via Exeter-hall and the lilies of the valley, and touching

102 TWO YEARS AnO chap.

/•n passant on two cardinal virtues and an Irish Viscount?
But see ; given only a little impudence, and less logic, and hey
presto ! the thing is done ; and all that remains to be done is
to dilate (as the Rev. Dionysius O'Blareaway would do at this
stage of the process) upon the moral question which has been
so cunningly raised, and to inquire, firstly, how the virtues
of meekness and humility could be predicated of Frederick
Augustus St. Just, Viscount Scoutbush and Baron Torytown,
in the peerage of Ireland ; and secondly, how those virtues
were called into special action by his questionably wise attacli-
ment to a new actress, to whom he had never spoken a word in
his life.

First, then, ' Little Freddy Scoutbush,' as his compeers irre-
verently termed him, was, by common consent of her Majesty's
Guards, a 'good fellow.' Whether the St. James' Street defini-
tion of that adjective be the perfect one or not, we will not
stay to inquire ; but in the Guards' club-house it meant this :
tliat Scoutbush had not an enemy in the world, because he
deserved none ; that he lent, and borrowed not ; gave, and
asked not again ; envied not ; hustled not ; slandered not ; never
bore malice, never said a cruel word, never played a dirty trick,
would hear a fellow's troubles out to the end, and if he could
not counsel, at least would not laugh at them, and at all times
and in all places lived and let live, and was accordingly a
general favourite. His morality was neither better nor worse
than the average of his companions ; but if he was sensual, he
was at least not base ; and there were frail women who blessed
'little Freddy,' and his shy and secret generosity, for having
saved them from the lowest pit.

Au reste, he was idle, frivolous, useless : but with these two
palliating facts, that he knew it and regretted it, and that he
never had a chance of being aught else. His father and mother
had died when he was a child. He had been sent to Eton at
seven, where he learnt nothing, and into the Guards at seven-
teen, where he learnt less than nothing. His aunt, old Lady
Knockdown, who was a kind old Irish woman, an ex-blue and
ex-beauty, now a high evangelical professor, but as worldly as
her neighbours in practice, had tried to make him a good boy
in old times : but she had given him up, long before he left
Eton, as a ' vessel of wrath ' (which he certainly was, with his
hot Irish temper) ; and since then she had only spoken of him
with moans, and to him just as if he and she had made a
compact to be as worldly as they could, and as if the fact that
he was going, as she used to tell her private friends, straight
to the wrong place, was to be utterly ignored before the press-
ing reality of getting him and his sisters well married. And
so it befell that Lady Knockdown, like many more, having
begun with too high (or at least precise) a spiritual standard,
was forced to end practically in having no standard at all ;

vir LA CORDIFIAMMA 103

and that for ten years of Scoutbush's life, neither she nor
any other human being had spoken to him as if he had a soul
to be saved, or any duty on earth save to eat, drink, and be
merry.

And all the while there was a quaint and pathetic conscious-
ness in the little man's heart that he was meant for something
better ; that he was no fool, and was not intended to be one.
He would thrust his head into lectures at the Polytechnic and
the British Institution, with a dim endeavour to guess what
they were all about, and a good-natured envy of the clever
fellows who knew about ' science, and all that.' He would sit
and listen, puzzled and admiring, to the talk of statesmen, and
confide his woe afterwards to some chum. 'Ah, if I had
had the chance now that my cousin Chalkclere has ? If I had
had two or three tutors, and a good mother, too, keeping
me in a coop, and cramming me with learning, as they cram
chickens for the market, I fancy I could have shown my
comb and hackles in the House as well as some of them. I
fancy I could make a speech in parliament now, with the help
of a little Irish impudence, if I only knew anything to speak
about.'

So Scoutbush clung, in a childish way, to any superior man who
would take notice of him, and not treat him as the fribble which
he seemed. He had taken to that well-known artist, Claude
Mellot, of late, simply from admiration of his brilliant talk
about art and poetry ; and boldly confessed that he preferred
one of ^Mellot's orations on the sublime and beautiful, though he
didn't understand a word of them, to the songs and jokes (very
excellent ones in their way) of Mr. Hector Harkaway, the dis-
tinguished Irish novelist, and boon companion of her Majesty's
Life Guards (ireen. His special intimate and Mentor, however,
was a certain ilajor Campbell, of whom more hereafter ; who,
however, being a lofty-minded and perhaps somewhat Pharisaic
person, made heavier demands on Scoutbush's conscience than
he had yet been able to meet ; for fully as he agreed that Her-
cules' choice between pleasure and virtue was the right one, still
he could not yet follow that ancient hero along the thorny path,
and confined his conception of ' duty ' to the minimum guard
and drill. He had estates in Ireland, which had almost cleared
themselves during his long minority, but which, since the famine,
had cost him about as much as they brought him in ; and
estates in the West, which, with a Welsh slate-quarry, brought
him in some seven or eight thousand a year ; and so kept his
poor little head above water, to look pitifully round the universe,
longing for the life of him to make out what it all meant, and
hoping that somebody would come and tell him.

So much for his meekness and humility in general : as for the
particular display of those virtues which he has shown to-day,
it must be understood that he has given a promise to Mrs. Mellot

104 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

not to make love to La Cordifiamma ; and, on that only con-
dition, has been allowed to meet her to-niglit at one of Claude
^Mellot's petitu smipers.

La t'ordiiiamiiia has been staying, ever since she came to
England, with tlie !Mellots in the wilds of Brompton ; unap-
proachable there, as in all other places. In public, she is a very
Zenobia, who keeps all animals of the other sex at an awful
distance ; and of the fifty young puppies who are raving about
her beauty, her air, and iier voice, not one lias obtained an in-
troduction ; while Claude, whose studio used to be a favourite
lounge of young Guardsmen, has, as civilly as he can, closed liis
doors to those magnificent personages ever since the new singer
became his guest.

Claude Mellot seems to have come into a fortune of late years,
large enough, at least, for his few wants. He paints no longer,
save when he chooses ; and has taken a, little old liouse in one
of those back lanes of Brompton, where islands of primseval
nursery garden still remain undevoured by the advancing surges
of the brick and mortar deluge. There he lives, happy in a
green lawn, and windows opening thereon ; in three elms, a
cork, an ilex, and a mulberry, with a great standard pear, for
flower and foliage the queen of all suburban trees. There lie
lies on the lawn, upon strange skins, the summer's day, playing
with cats and dogs, and making lo\'e to his Sabina, who has not
lost her beauty in the least, though she is on the \\rong side of
five-and-thirty. He deludes himself, too, into the belief that he
is doing something, because he is writing a treatise on the
'Principles of Beauty'; which will be published, probably,
about the time the Thames is purified, in the season of Latter
Lammas and the Greek Kalends ; and the more certainly so,
because he has wandered into the abyss of conic sections and
curves of double curvature, of which, if the truth must be
spoken, he knows no more than his friends of the Life Guards
Green.

To this charming little nest has Lord Scoutbush procured an
evening's admission after abject supplication to Sabina, who
pets him because he is musical, and solemn promises neither to
talk norlookany manner of foolislniess.

'My dearest Mrs. .Mellot,' says the poor wretch, 'I will be
good, indeed I \\\\\ ; I ^^■ill not even speak to her. Only let me
sit and look, — and — and, — why, I thought you understood all
about such things, and could pity a poor fellow who was
spoony.'

And Sabina, who prides herself much on understanding sucli
things, and on having, indeed, reduced them to a science in
which she gives gratuitous lessons to all young gentlemen and
ladies of her acquaintance, receives him pityingly, in that
delicious little back drawing-room, whither whosoever enters is
in no hurry to go out again.

vii LA CORDIFIAMMA 105

Claude's house is arranged with liis usual defiance of all con-
Nentionalities. Dining or drawing-room proper there is none ;
the large front room is the studio, where he and Siibina eat and
drink, as well as work and paint ; but out of it opens a little
room, the walls of which are so covered with gems of art (where
the rogue finds money to buy them is a puzzle) tliat the eye can
turn nowhere without taking in some new beauty, and wander-
ing on from picture to statue, from portrait to landscape, dream-
ing and learning afresh after e\ery glance. At the back, a glass
bay has been thrown out, and forms a little conservatory, for
ever fresh and gay with tropic ferns and flowers ; gaudy orchids
dangle from the roof, creepers hide the framework, and you
hardly see where the room ends and the winter-garden begins ;
and in the centre an ottoman invites you to lounge. It costs
Claude money, doubtless ; but he has his excuse — 'Having once
seen the tropics, I cannot live without some love-tokens from
their lost paradises ; and which is the wiser plan, to spend
money on a horse and brougham, which we don't care to use, and
on scrambling into society at tlie price of one great stupid party
a year, or to make our little world as pretty as we can, and let
those who wish to see us, take us as they find us ? '

In this 'nest,' as Claude and Sabina call it, sacred to the
everlasting billing and cooing of that sweet little pair of human
love-birds who have built it, was supper set. La Cordifiamnia,
all the more beautiful from the languor produced by the excite-
ment of acting, lay upon a sofa ; Claude attended, talking
earnestly ; Sabina, according to her custom, was fluttering in
and out, and arranging supper with her own l)ands ; both hus-
band and wife were as busy as bees ; and yet any one accus-
tomed to watch the little ins and outs of married life, could have
seen that neither forgot for a moment that the other was in the
room, but basked and purred, like two blissful cats, each in the
sunshine of the other's presence ; and he could have seen, too,
that La Cordifiamma was divining their thoughts, and studying
all their little expressions, perhaps that she might use them on
the stage ; peihaps, too, happy in sympathy with their happi-
ness : and yet there was a shade of sadness on her forehead.

Scoutbush enters, is introduced, and receives a salutation
from the actress, haughty and cold enough to check the for-
wardest ; puts on the air of languid nonchalance which is con-
sidered (or was before the little experiences of the Crimea) fit
and proper for young gentlemen of rank and fashion. So he
sits down, and feasts his foolish eyes upon his idol, hoping for a
few words before the evening is over. Did I not say well, then,
that there was as much meekness and humility under Scout-
bush's white cravat as under others ? But his little joy is soon
dashed ; for the black boy announces (seemingly much to his
own pleasure) a tall personage, whom, from his dress and his
moustachio, Scoutbush takes for a Frenchman, till he hears him

106 TWO YEARS AfiO thap.

called Stangrave. The intruder is introduced to Lord Scout-
bush, which ceremony is consummated by a microscopic nod on
either side ; he then walks straight up to La C'ordifiamma ; and
Scoutbush sees her cheeks flush as he does so. He takes her
hand speaks to her in a low voice, and sits down by her, C'laude
making room for him ; and the two engage earnestly in con-
versation.

Scoutbush is much inclined to walk out of the room ; was
he brought there to see that ? Of course, however, he sits still,
keeps his own counsel, and makes himself agreeable enough all
the evening, like a good-natured kind-hearted little man, as he
is. Whereby he is repaid ; for the conversation .soon becomes
deep, and even too deep for him ; and he is fain to drop out of
the race, and leave it to his idol and to the newcomer, wlio
seems to have seen, and done, and read e\'ery tiling in lieaven
and earth, and probably bought everything also ; not to mention
that he would be happy to sell the said universe again, at a very
cheap price, if any one would kindly take it oft' his hands. Xot
that he boasts, or takes any undue share of the conversation ;
he is evidently too well-bred for tliat ; but e\ery sentence shows
an acquaintance with facts of which Eton has told Scoutbush
nothing, the barrack-room less, and after which he still craves,
the good little fellow, in a very honest way, and would soon
have learnt, had he had a chance ; for of nati\e Irish smartness
he had no lack.

'Poor Flake was half mad about you, signora, in the stage-
box to-night,' said Sabina. ' He says that he shall not sleep till
he has painted you.'

' Do let him ! ' cried Scoutbusli : ' what », picture lie will
make ! '

'He may paint a picture, but not me; it is quite enough.
Lord Scoutbush, to be some one else for two hours every night,
without going down to posterity as some one else for ever. If
I am painted, I will be painted by no one who cannot represent
my very self.'

' You are right ! ' said Stangi-ave : ' and you will do the man
himself good by refusing ; he lias some notion still of what a
portrait ought to be. If he once begins by attempting passing
expressions of passion, which is all stage portraits can give, he
will find them so much easier than honest representations of
character, that he will end, where all our moderns seem to do, in
merest melodrama.'

' Explain ! ' said slie.

'Portrait painters now depend for their eftect on the mere
accidents of entoiirarie ; on dress, on landscape, even on broad
hints of a man's ocupation, putting a plan on the engineer's
table, and a roll in the statesman's hands, like the old Greek
who wrote "this is an o.x" under his picture. If they wish to
give the face expression, tliough they seldom aim so high, all

vit LA CORDIFIAMMA 107

they can compass is a passing emotion ; and one sitter goes down
to posterity with an eternal frown, anotiier with an eternal
smile.'

' Or, if he be a poet,' said Sabina, ' rolls his eye for evoi- in a
fine frenzy.'

' But would you forbid them to paint passion ? '

' Xot in its place ; when the picture gives the causes of the
passion, and the scene tells its own story. But then let us not
have merely Kean as Hamlet, but Hamlet's self ; let the painter
sit down and conceive for himself a Hamlet, such as Shak-
speare conceived ; not merely give us as much of him as could be
pressed at a given moment into the face of Mr. Kean. He will
be only unjust to both actor and character. If Flake paints
ilarie as Lady Macbeth, he will give us neither her nor Lady
Macbeth ; but only the single point at which their two characters
can coincide.'

' How rude ! ' said Sabina, laughing : ' what is he doing but
hinting that La Signora's conception of Lady Macbeth is a very
partial and imperfect one 1 '

'And why should it not be?' asked the actress, humbly
enough.

'I meant,' he answered warmly, 'that there was more, far
more, in her than in any character which she assumes ; and I do
not want a painter to copy only one aspect, and let a part go
down to posterity as a representation of the whole.'

'If you mean that, you shall be forgiven. No; when she is
painted, she shall be painted as herself, as she is now. Claude
shall paint her.'

'I have not known La Signora long enough,' said Claude, 'to
aspire to such an honour. I paint no face which I have not
studied for a year.'

'Faith!' said Scoutbush, 'you would find no more in most
faces at the year's end, than you did the first day.'

'Then I would not paint them. If I paint a portrait, which
I seldom do, I wish to make it such a one as the old masters
aimed at — to give the sum total of the whole character ; traces
of every emotion, if it were possible, and glances of every ex-
pression which have passed over it since it was born into the
world. They are all here, the whole past and future of the man ;
and every man, as the ^Mohammedans say, carries his destiny on
his forehead.'

' But who has eyes to see it ? '

' The old masters had ; some of them at least. Raphael had,
Sebastian del Piombo had, and Titian, and Giorgione. There
are portraits painted by them which carry a whole life-history
concentrated into one moment.'

' But they,' said Stangrave, ' are the portraits of men such as
they saw around them ; natures who were strong for good and
evil, who were not ashamed to show their strength. Where will

108 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

a painter find such among the poor, thin, unable mortals who
come to him to buy immortality at a hundred and fifty guineas
apiece, after having spent their lives in religiously rubbing off
their angles against each other, and forming their characters,
as you form shot, by shaking them together in a bag till they
have polished each other into dullest uniformity?'

' It's very true,' said Scoutbush, who suffered much at times
from a certain wild Irish vein, which stirred him up to kick
over the traces. ' People are horribly like each other ; and if a
poor fellow is bored, and tries to do anything spicy oi- original,
he has half a dozen people pooh-poohing him down on the score
of bad taste.'

' Men can be just as original now as ever,' said La Signora,
' if they had but the courage, even the insight. Heroic souls in
old times had no more opportunities than we have ; but tliey
used them. There were daring deeds to be done then — are there
none now ? Sacrifices to be made — are there none now ? Wrongs
to be redressed — are there none now 1 Let any one set his lieart,
in tliese days, to do what is right, and nothing else ; and it will
not be long ere his brow is stamped with all that goes to make
up the heroical expression — with noble indignation, noble self-
restraint, great hopes, great sorrows ; perhaps, even, with the
print of the martyr's crown of thorns.'

She looked at Stangrave as she spoke, with an expression
which Scoutbush tried in vain to read. The American made no
answer, and seemed to hang his head awhile. After a minute
he said tenderly —

' You will tire yourself if you talk tlius, after the evening's
fatigue. Mrs. J\Iellot will sing to us, and give us leisure to think
over our lesson.'

And Sabina sang ; and then Lord Scoutbush was made to
sing ; and sang his best, no doubt.

So tlie evening slipped on, till it was past eleven o'clock, and
Stangrave rose. 'And now,' said he, 'I must go to Lady
M 's ball ; and Marie must rest.'

As he went, he just leaned o\er La Cordifiamma.

' Sliall I come in to-morrow morning ? We ought to read over
that scene together before tlie rehearsal.'

' Early then, or Sabina will be gone out ; and she must play
soubrette to our hero and lieroine.'

'Y'ou will rest? ^Irs. ^lellot, you will see that she does not
sit up ? '

'It is not very polite to rob us of her, as soon as you cannot
enjoy her yourself.'

'I must take care of people who do not take care of them-
selves ; ' and Stangrave departed.

Great was Scoutbush's wrath wlien he saw Marie rise and
obey orders. ' Who was this man ? what right had he to com-
mand her ? '

VII LA CORDIFIAMMA 109

He asked as much of Sabina the moment La Corditiamma had
retired.

'Are you not going to Lady M 's, too V

'No ; tliat is, I won't go yet ; not till you have explained all
this to me.'

'Explained what?' asked Sabina, looking as demure as a
little brown mouse.

'Why, what did you ask me here for?'

' Lord vScoutbush should recollect that he asked himself.'

' You cruel venomous creature ! do you think I would have
come, if I had l{novvn that I was to see anotjier man making love
to her before my very eyes ? I could kill the fellow ; who
is he?'

' A New York merchant, unworthy of your aristocratic powder
and ball.'

' The confounded Yankee ! ' muttered Scoutbush.

'If people swear in my house, I line them a dozen of kid
gloves. Did you not promise me that you would not make love
to her yourself ? '

' Well — but, it is too cruel of you, before my very eyes.'

' I saw no love-making to-night.'

' None ? Were you blind ? '

' Not in the least ; but you cannot well see a thing making
which has been made long ago.'

' What ! Is he her husband ? '

'Xo.'

' Engaged to her ? '

'No.'

' What then ? '

' Don't you know already that this is a house of mystery, full
of mysterious people ? I tell you this only, that if she ever
marries any one, she will marry him ; and that if I can, I will
make her.'

' Then you are my enemy after all.'

' I ! Do you think that Sabina Mellot can see a young
viscount loose upon the universe, without trying to make up a
match for him ? No ; I have such a prize for you — young, hand-
some, better educated than any woman whom you will m6et
to-night. True, she is a ^Manchester girl ; but then she has
eighty thousand pounds.'

' Eighty thousand nonsense ! I'd sooner have that divine
creature without a penny, than '

'And would my lord viscount so far debase himself as to
marry an actress ? '

' Humph ! Faith, my grandmother was an actress ; and we
St. Justs are none the worse for that fact, as far as I can see —
and certainly none the uglier — the women at least. Oh Sabina
—Mrs. Mellot, 1 mean — only help me this once ! '

' This once ? Do you intend to marry by my assistance, this

no TWO YEARS AGO chap.

time, and by your own the next 1 How many viscountesses are
there to be ? '

' Don't laugh at me, you cruel woman ; you don't know ; you
fancy that I am not in love,' and the poor fellow began pouring
out these common-places, which one has lieard too often to take
the trouble of repeating, and yet which are real enough, and
pathetic too ; for in every man, however frivolous, or even
worthless, love calls up to tlie surface the real heroism, tlie real
depth of character — all the more deep because common to poet
and philosopher, guardsman and country clod.

'I'll leave town to-morrow. I'll go to the Land's end — to
Norway, to Africa '

' And forget lier in the bliss of lion-hunting.'

'Don't, I tell you ; here I will not stay to be driven mad.
To think that she is here, and that hateful Yankee at her elbow.
I'll go '

'To Lady M 'sbalir

' No, confound it ; to meet tliat fellow there ! I should quarrel
with him, as sure as there is hot Irish blood in my veins. The
self-satistied puppy ! to be flirting and strutting there, while
such a creature as tliat is l.ying thinking of him.'

' Would you liave him shut liimself up in his hotel, and write
poetry ; or walk the streets all niglit, sighing at tlie moon 1 '

' No ; but the cool way in which he went off liimself, and sent
her to bed. Confound him ! commanding her. It made my
blood boil.'

' Claude, get Lord Scoutbush some iced soda-water.'

' If you laugli at me, I'll never speak to you again.'

' Or buy any of Claude's pictures ? '

' Why do you torment me so ? I'll go, I say — leave town to-
morrow — only I cijn't with this horrid depot work ! What shall
I do? It's too cruel of you, while Campbell is away in Ireland,
too ; and I have not a soul but you to ask advice of, for Valentia
is as great a goose as I am ; ' and the poor little fellow buried
his hands in his curls, and stared fiercely into the fire, as if to
draw from thence omens of his love, by the spodomantic augury
of the ancient Greeks ; wliile Sabina tripped up and down the
room, putting things to rights for the night, and enjoying his
torments as a cat does those of the mouse between her paws ;
and yet not out of spite, but from pure and simple fun.

Sabina is one of those charming bodies who knows evei-y-
body's business, and manages it. She lives in a world of intrigue,
but without a thouglit of intriguing for her own benefit. She
has always a match to make, a disconsolate lover to comfort, a
young artist to bring forward, a refugee to conceal, a spend-
thrift to get out of a scrape ; and, like David in the mountains,
' every one that is discontented, and every one that is in debt,
gather themselves to her.' The strangest people, on the strangest
errands, run over each other in that cosy little nest of hers.

vn LA CORDIFIAMMA 111

Fine ladies witli over-full hearts, and seedy gentlemen with
over-empty pockets, jostle each other at her door ; and she has
a smile, and a repartee, and good, cunning, practical wisdom for
each and every one of them, and then dismisses them to bill and
coo with Claude, and laugh over everybody and everything.
The only price which she demands for lier services is, to be
allowed to laugh ; and if that be permitted, she will be as busy,
and earnest, and tender, as Saint Elizabeth herself. 'I have no
children of my own,' she says, 'sol just make everybody my
children, Claude included ; and play with them, and laugh at
them, and pet them, and help them out of their scrapes, just as
I should it they were in my own nursery.' And so it befalls
that she is every one's confidante ; and though every one seems
on the point of taking liberties with her, yet no one does ; partly
because they .are in her power, and partly because, like an
Eastern sultana, she carries a poniard, and can use it, though
only in self-defence. So, if great people, or small people either
(who can give themselves airs as well as their betters), take her
plain speaking unkindly, she just speaks a little more plainly,
once for all, and goes off smiling to some one else ; as a humming
bird, if a flower has no honey in it, whirs away, with a saucy
flirt of its pretty little tail, to the next branch on the bush.

'I must know more of this American,' said Scoutbush, at
last.

' Well, he would be very improving company for you ; and I
know you like improving company.'

' I mean — what has he to do with her ? '

'That is just what I will not tell you. One thing I will tell
you, though, for it may help to quench any vain hopes on your
part ; and that is, the reason which she gives for not marrying
him.'

'Welir

' Because he is an idler.'

' What would she say of me, then ? ' groaned Scoutbush.

' Very true ; for, you must understand, this ]\Ir. Stangrave is
not what you or I should call an idle man. He has travelled
over half the world, and made the best use of his eyes. He has
filled his house in New York, they say, with gems of art gathered
from every country in Europe. He is a finished scholar ; talks
half a dozen different languages, sings, draws, writes poetry,
reads hard every day at every subject, from gardening to
German metaphysics — altogether, one of the most highly
cultivated men I know, and quitean Admirable Crichton in his
way.'

' Then why does she call him an idler ? '

' Because, she says, he has no great purpose in life. She will
marry no one who will not devote himself, and all he has, to
some great, chivalrous, heroic enterprise ; whose one object is to
be of use, even if he has to sacrifice his life to it. She says that

112 TWO YKAKS AGO fHAr.

there must be such men still left in the world ; and that if she
finds one, him she will marry, and no one else.'

' Why, there are none such to be found nowadays, I
thought V

'You heard what she herself said on that very point.'

There was a silence for a minute or two. Scoutbush had
heard, and was pondering it in his heart. At last, —

'lam not cut out for a hero ; so I suppose I must give her
up. But I wish sometimes I could be of use, Mrs. ilellot ; but
what can a fellow do ? '

' I thought there was an Irish tenantry to be looked after,
my lord, and a Cornish tenantry too.'

' That's what Campbell is always saying ; but what more can
I do than I do ? As for those poor Paddies, I never ask them
for rent ; if I did, I should not get it ; so there is no generosity
in that. And as for the Aberalva people, they ha\e got on very
well without me for twenty years ; and I don't know them, nor
what they want ; nor even if they do want anything, except
fish enough, and I can't put more fish into the sea, Mrs. Mellot ?'

'Try and be a good soldier, then,' said she, laughing. 'Why
should not Lord Scoutbush emulate his illustrious countryman,
conquer at a second Waterloo, and die a duke ? '

' I'm not cut out for a general, I am afraid ; but if — I don't
say if. I could marry that woman — I suppose it would be a
foolish thing — though I shall break my heart, I believe, if I do
not. Oh, Mrs. Mellot, you cannot tell what a fool I have made
myself about her ; and I cannot help it ! It's not her beauty
merely ; but there is something so noble in her face, like one of
those Greek goddesses Claude talks of ; and when slie is acting,
if she has to say anything gi-and or generous — or — you know
the sort of thing, — she brings it out with such a voice, and such
a look, from the very bottom of her heart, — it makes me
shudder ; just as she did when she told that Yankee, that every
one could be a hero, or a martyr, if he chose. Mrs. Mellot, I
am sure she is one, or she could not look and speak as she
does.'

' She is one ! ' said Sabina ; ' a heroine, and a martyr too.'

' If I could, — that was what I was going to say, — if I could
but win that woman's respect — as I live, I ask no more ; only
to be sure she didn't despise me. I'd do — I don't know what I
wouldn't do. I'd — I'd study the art of war : I know there are
books about it. I'd get out to the East, away from this depot
work ; and if there is no fighting there, as every one says there
will not be, I'd go into a marching regiment, and see service.
I'd, — hang it, if they'd have me, — I'd even go to the senior
department at Sandhurst, and read mathematics ! '

Sabina kept her countenance (though with difKculty) at this
magnificent bathos ; for she saw that the little man was really
in earnest, and that the looks and words of the strange actress

vni TAKING ROOT 113

liad awakened in him something far deeper and nobler than the
mere sensual passion of a boy.

' Ah, if I had but gone out to Varna with the rest ! I thouglit
myself a lucky fellow to be left here.'

' Do you know that it is getting very late ? '

So Frederick Lord Scoutbush went home to his rooms ; and
there sat for three hours and more with his feet on the fender,
rejecting tlie entreaties of Mr. Bowie, his servant, either to have
something, or to go to bed ; yea, he forgot even to smoke, by
which Mr. Bowie 'jaloused' tliat he was hit very hard indeed :
but made no remark, being a Scotchman, and of a cautious
temperament.

However, from that night Scoutbush was a changed man,
and tried to be so. He read of nothing but sieges and stockades,
brigade evolutions, and conical bullets ; he drilled his men till
he was an abomination in their eyes, and a weariness to their
flesh ; only every evening he went to the theatre, watched La
Cordifiamma with a heavy heart, and then went home to bed ;
for the little man had good sense enough to ask Sabina for no
more interviews with her. So in all things he acquitted himself
as a jnodel officer, and excited the admiration and respect of
Serjeant- ilajor MacArthur, who began fishing at Bowie to dis-
cover the cause of this strange metamorphosis in the rackety
little Irishman.

'Your master seems to be qualifying himself for tlie
adjutant's post, Mr. Bowie. I'm jalousing he's fired with
martial ardour since the war broke out.'

To which Bowie, being a brother Scot, answered Scottice, by
a crafty paralogism.

' I've always held it as my opeeeenion, that his lordship is a
youth of very good parts, if he was only compelled to employ
them.'

CHAPTER VIII

TAKIXG ROOT

Whosoever enjoys the sight of an honest man doing his work
well, would have enjoyed the sight of Tom Thurnall for the next
two months. Indoors all the morning, and out of doors all the
afternoon, was that shrewd and good-natured visage, calling up
an answering smile on every face, and leaving every heart a
little lighter than he found it. Puzzling enough it was, alike to
Heale and to Ileadley, how Tom contrived, as if by magic, to
gain every one's good word, their own included. For Frank,
in spite of Tom's questionable opinions, had already made all
but a confidant of the doctor ; and Heale in spite of envy and
suspicion, could not deny that the young man was a very
valuable young man, if he wasn't given so much to those new-
fangled notions of the profession.

I T. V. A.

114 TWO YEARS AOO chap.

By which terra Heale indicated the, to liim, astounding fact,
tliat Tom charged tlie patients as little, instead of as much as
possible, and applying to medicine the principles of an en-
lightened political economy, tried to increase the demand by
cheapening the supply.

' Which is revolutionary doctrine, sir ' said Heale to Lieu-
tenant Jones, over the brandy-and-water, 'and just like what
the Cobden and Bright lot used to talk, and ha^'e been the ruin
of British agriculture, though don't say I said so, because of my
Lord Minchampstead. But conceive my feelings, sir, as the
father of a family who have my bread to earn, this very
morning. — In comes old Dame Penaluna (which is good pay I
know, and has two hundred and more out on a mercliant brig)
for something ; and what was my feelings, sir, to hear this
young party deliver himself — " Well, ma'am," says he, as I am a
living man, " I can cure you, if you like, with a dozen bottles of
lotion, at eighteenpence a-piece ; but if you'll take my advice,
you'll buy twopennyworth of alum down street, do what I tell
you with it, and cure yourself." It's robbery, sir, I say, all
these out-of-the-way cheap dodges, which arn t in the pharma-
copoeia, half of them ; it's unprofessional, sir — quackery.'

'Tell you what, doctor, robbery or none, I'll go to him to-
morrow, d'ye see, if I live as long, for this old ailment of mine.
I never told you of it, old pill and potion, for fear of a swingeing
bill : but just grinned and bore it, d'ye see.'

'There it is again,' cries Heale in despair. 'He'll ruin me.''

' No, he won't, and you know it.'

'What d'ye think he served me last week ? A young chap
comes in, consumptive, he said, and I dare say he's light — he is
uncommonly 'cute about what he calls diagnosis. Says he, " ^'ou
ought to try Carrageen moss. It's an old drug, but it's a good
one." There was a drawer full of it to his hand ; had been lying
there any time this ten years. I go to open it : but what was
my feelings when he goes on, as cool as a cucumber, "And
there's bushels of it here," says he, "on every rock ; so if you'll
come down with me at low tide this afternoon, I'll show you the
trade, and tell you how to boil it." I thought I should have
knocked him down.'

' But you didn't,' said Jones, laughing in every mu-scle of his
body. 'Tell you what, doctor, you've got a treasure ■ he's just
getting back your custom, d'ye see, and when he's done that,
he'll lay on the bills sharp enough. Why, I hear he's up at
Mrs. Vavasour's every day.'

' And not ten shillings' worth of medicine sent up to tiie house
any week.'

' He charges for his \ isits, I suppose.'

' Not he ! If you'll believe nie, when I asked him if he wasn't
going to, he says, says he, that ^Nlrs, '\^avasour's company was
quite payment enough for him.'

VIII TAKING ROOT 115

' Shows his good taste. Wliy, what now, Mary ? ' as the maid
opens the door.

' ilr. Thurnall wants Mr. Heale.'

'Always wanting me,' groans Heale, hugging his glass,
' driving me about like any negro slave. Tell him to come in.'

' Here, doctor,' says the lieutenant, ' I want you to prescribe
for me, if you'll do it gratis, d'ye see. Take some brandy-and-
water.'

' Good advice costs nothing,' says Tom, filling ; ' ]\Ir. Heale,
read that letter.'

And the lieutenant details his ailments, and their supposed
cause, till Heale has the pleasure of hearing Tom answer —

' Fiddlesticks ! That's not what's the matter with you. I'll
cure you for half a crown, and toss you up double or quits.'

' Oh ! ' groans Heale, as he spells away over the letter, —

'Lord Minchampstead having been informed by Mr. Arms-
worth that ilr. Thurnall is now in tlie neighbourhood of his
estates of Pentremochyn, would feel obliged to him at his
earKest convenience to examine into the sanitary state of the
cottages thereon, which are said to be much haunted by typhus
and other epidemics, and to send him a detailed report, indicat-
ing what he thinks necessary for making them thoroughly
healthy, ilr. Thurnall will be so good as to make his own
charge.'

'Well, Mr. Thurnall, you ought to turn a good penny by
this,' said Heale, half envious of Tom's connection, half con-
temptuous at his supposed indifference to gain.

' I'll charge what it's worth,' said Tom. ' Meanwhile, I hope
you're going to see Miss Beer to-night.'

' Couldn't you just go yourself, my dear sir ? It is so late.'

' Xo ; I never go near young women. I told you so at first,
and I stick to my rule. You'd better go, sir, on my word, or if
she's dead before morning, don't say it's my fault.'

' Did you ever hear a poor old man so tyrannised over ? ' said
Heale, as Tom coolly went into the passage, brought in the old
man's greatcoat and hat, arrayed him and marched him out,
civilly but firmly.

' Now, lieutenant, I've half an hour to spare ; let's have a
jolly chat about the West Indies.'

And Tom began with anecdote and joke, and the old seaman
laughed till he cried, and went to bed vowing that there never
was such a pleasant fellow on earth, and he ought to be physician
to Queen Victoria.

Up at five the next morning, the indefatigable Tom had all
his work done by ten ; and was preparing to start for Pentre-
mochyn ere Heale was out of bed, when a customer came in
who kept him half an hour.

He was a tall broad-shouldered young man, with a red face,
protruding bull's eyes, and a moustachio. He was dressed in a

116 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

complete suit of pink and white plaid, cut jauntily enough. A
bright blue cap, a thick gold watch-chain, three or four large
rings, a dog-whistle from his buttonhole, a fancy cane in his
hand, and a little Oxford meerschaum in his mouth, completed
his equipment. He lounged in, with an air of careless superi-
ority, while Tom, who was behind the counter, cutting up his
day's provision of honeydew, eyed him curiously.

' Who are you, now 1 A gentleman ? Xot quite, I guess.
Some squireen of the parts adjacent, and look in somewhat of a
crapulocomatose state moreover. I wonder if you are the great
Trebooze, of Trebooze.'

'I say,' yawned the young gentleman, 'where's old Heale?'
and an oath followed the speech, as it did every other one herein
recorded.

' The playing half of old Heale is in bed, and I'm his working
half. Can I do anything for you ? '

' Cool fish,' thought the customer. ' I say — what have you
got there ? '

'Australian honeydew. Did you ever .'iuioke it?'

'I've heard of it ; let's see : ' and Mr. Trebooze — for it was lie
— put his hand across the counter unceremoniously, and clawed
up some.

'Didn't know you sold tobacco here. Prime stuff". Ton
strong for me, though, this morning, somehow.'

' Ah 1 A little too much claret last night ? I thought so.
We'll set that right in five minutes.'

' Eh 1 How did you guess that ? ' asked Trebooze, with a
larger oath than usual.

' Oh, we doctors are men of the world,' said Tom, in a cheerful
and insinuating tone, as he mixed his man a draught.

' You doctors ? You're a cook of a diti'erent hackle from old
Heale, then.'

' I trust so,' said Tom.

' By George, I feel better already. I say, you're a trump ; I
suppose you're Heale's new partner, the man who was washed
ashore ? '

Tom nodded assent.

' I say — how do you sell that honeydew 1 '

' I don't sell it ; I'll give you as much as you like, only you
shan't smoke it till after dinner.'

' Shan't ? ' said Trebooze, testy and proud.

' Not with my leave, or you'll be complaining two hours hence
that I'm a humbug, and have done you no good. Get on your
horse, and have four hours' gallop on the downs, and you'll feel
like a buffalo bull by two o'clock.'

Trebooze looked at him with a stupid curiosity and a little
awe. He saw that Tom's cool self-possession was Rot meant for
impudence ; and something in his tone and manner told him
that the boast of being ' a man of the world ' was not untrue.

VIII TAKING ROOT 117

And of all kinds of men, a man of the world was the man of
whom Trebooze stood most in awe. A small squireen, cursed
with six or seven hundreds a year of his own, never sent to
school, college, or into the army, he had grown up in a narrow
circle of squireens like himself, without an object save that of
gratifying his animal passions ; and had about six years before,
being then just of age, settled in life by marrying his housemaid
— the only wise thing, perhaps, he ever did. For slie, a clever
and determined woman, kept him, though not from drunken-
ness and debt, at least from delirium tremens and ruin, and was,
in her rough, vulgar way, his guardian angel — such a one, at
least, as he was worthy of. !More than once has one seen the
same seeming folly turn out in practice as wise a step as could
well have been taken ; and the coarse nature of tlie man, which
would have crushed and ill-used a delicate and high-minded
wife, subdued to something like decency by a help literally meet
for it.

There was a pause. Trebooze fancied, and wisely, that the
doctor was a cleverer man than he, and of course would want
to show it. So, after the fashion of a country squireen, he felt
a longing to ' set him down.' ' He's been a traveller, they say,'
thought he in that pugnacious, sceptical spirit which is bred,
not, as twaddlers fancy, by too extended knowledge, but by the
sense of ignorance and a narrow sphere of thought, which
makes a man angry and envious of any one who has seen more
than he.

' Buffalo bulls ? ' said he, half contemptuously ; ' what do you
know about buffalo bulls t '

' I was one once myself,' said Tom, ' where I lived before.'

Trebooze swore. ' Don't you put your traveller's lies on me,
sir.'

' Well, perhaps I dreamt it,' said Tom placidly ; ' I remember
I dreamt at the same time that you were a grizzly bear, fourteen
feet long, and wanted to eat me up : but you found me too
tough about the hump ribs.'

Trebooze stared at his audacity.

' You're a rum hand.'

To which Tom made answer in the same elegant strain ; and
then began a regular word-battle of slang, in which Tom showed
himself so really witty a proficient, that Mr. Trebooze laughed
himself into good humour, and ended by —

'I say, you're a good fellow, and I think you and I shall
suit.'

Tom had his doubts, but did not express them.

' Come up this afternoon and see my child ; ilrs. Trebooze
thinks it's got swelled glands, or some such woman's nonsense.
Bother them, why can't they let the child alone, fussing and
doctoring : and she will have you. Heard of you from Mrs.
Vavasour, I believe. Our doctor and I have quarrelled, and she

118 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

said, if I could get you, she'd sooner have you than that old
i-um-puncheon Heale. And then, you'd better stop and take
pot-luck, and we'll make a night of it.'

' I have to go round Lord Minchampstead's estates, and will
take you on my way : but I'm afraid I shall be too dirty to have
the pleasure of dining with ilrs. Trebooze coming back.'

' Mrs. Trebooze ! She must take what I like ; and what's
good enough for me is good enough for iier, I hope. Come as
you are — Liberty-hall at Trebooze ; ' and out he swaggered.

'Does he bully her?' thought Tom, 'or is he hen-pecked, and
wants to hide it? I'll see to-night, and play my cards ac-
cordingly.'

All which Miss Heale had heard. Slip had been peeping and
listening at the glass-door, and her mother also ; for no sooner
had Trebooze entered the shop, than she had run off to tell her
mother the surprising fact, Trebooze's custom liaving been, for
some years past, courted in vain by Heale. So Miss Heale
peeped and peeped at a man whom she regarded with delighted
curiosity, because he bore the reputation of being 'such a
naughty, wicked man ! ' and ' so very handsome too, and so dis-
tinguished as he looks ! ' said the poor little fool, to whose
novel-fed imagination Mr. Trebooze was an ideal Lothario.

But the surprise of the two dames grew rapidly as they heard
Tom's audacity towards the country aristocrat.

' Impudent wretch ! ' moaned Mrs. Heale to herself. ' He'd
drive away an angel if he came into the shop.'

' Oh, ma ! hear how they are going on now.'

' I can't bear it, my dear. This man will be the ruin of us.
His manners are those of the pot-house, when the cloven foot is
shown, which it's his nature as a child of wrath, and we can't
expect otherwise.'

' Oh, ma ! do you hear that !Mr. Trebooze has asked him to
dinner ? '

' Nonsense 1 '

But it was true.

' Well ! if there ain't the signs of the end of the world, which
is ? All the years your poor father has been here, and never so
much as send him a hare, and now this young penniless inter-
loper ; and he to dine at Trebooze off purple and fine linen.'

' There is not much of that there, ma ; I'm sure they are poor
enough, for all his pride ; and as for her '

' Yes, my dear ; and as for her, though we haven't married
squires, my dear, yet we haven't been squire's housemaids, and
have adorned our own station, which was good enough for us,
and has no need to rise out of it, nor ride on Pharaoh's chariot-
wheels after filthy lucre '

Miss Heale hated poor Mrs. Trebooze with a bitter hatred,
because she dreamed insanely that, but for her, she might have
secured Mr. Trebooze for herself. And though her ambition

VIII TAKING ROOT 119

was now transferred to the unconscious Tom, that need not
make any diflerence in tlie said amiable feeling.

But that Tom was a most wonderful person, she' had no
doubt. He had conquered her heart — so she informed herself
passionately again and again ; as was very necessary, seeing
that the passion, having no real life of its own, required a good
deal of blowing to keep it alight. Yes, he had conquered her
heart, and he was conquering all liearts likewise. There must
be some mystery about him — there should be. And she settled
in her novel-bewildered brain, that Tom must be a nobleman in
disguise — probably a foreign prince, exiled for political offences.
Bah ! perhaps too many lines have been spent on the poor little
fool ; but as sucli fools exist, and people must be as they are,
there is no harm in drawing her ; and in asking, too — Who will
help those young girls of the middle class who, like ]\Iiss Heale,
are often really less educated than the cliildren of their parents'
workmen ; sedentary, luxurious, full of petty vanity, gossip,
and intrigue, without work, without purpose, except tnat of
getting married to any one who will ask them — bewildering
brain and heart witli novels, which, after all, one hardl.y grudges
them ; for what other means have they of learning that there
is any fairei', nobler life possible, at least on earth, than that of
the sordid money-getting, often the sordid puffery and adultera-
tion, which is the atmosphere of their home ? Exceptions there
are, in thousands, doubtless ; and the families of the great city
tradesmen stand, of course, on far higher ground, and are often
far better educated, and more high-minded, than the fine ladies,
their parents' customers. But, till some better plan of educa-
tion than the boarding-school is devised for them ; till our towns
shall see something like in kind to, though sounder and soberer
in quality than, the high schools of America ; till in country
villages the ladies who interest themselves about the poor will
recollect that the farmers' and tradesmen's daughters are just
as much in want of their influence as the charity children, and
will yield a far richer return for their labour, though the one
need not interfere with the other ; so long will England be full
of Miss Heales ; fated, when they marry, to bring up sons and
daughters as sordid and unwholesome as their mothers.

Tom worked all that day in and out of the Pentremochyn
cottages, noting down nuisances and dilapidations : but his
head was full of other thoughts, for he had received, the evening
before, news which was to him very important, for more reasons
than one. The longer he stayed at Aberalva, the longer he felt
inclined to stay. The strange attraction of Grace had, as we
have seen, something to do with his purpose : but he saw, too,
a good opening for one of those country practices in which he
seemed more and more likely to end. At his native Whitbury,
he knew, there was no room for a fresh medical man ; and
gradually he was making up his mind to settle at Aberalva ; to

120 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

buy out Heale, either with liis own money (if he recovered it),
or with nioiuy borrowed from ilark ; to bring his father down
to live with him, and in that pleasant wild western place, fold
his wings after all his wanderings. And therefore certain news
which he had obtained the night before was very valuable to
him, in that it put a fresh peisou into his jiower, and might, if
cunningly used, give him a hold upon the ruling family of the
place, and on Lord Scoutbush himself. He liad found out that
Lucia and Elsley were unhajipy together ; and found out, too,
a little more than was there to find. He could not, of course,
be a month among the gossips of Aberaha, without hearing
hints tliat the great folks at the court did not always keep their
tempers ; for of family jars, as of e\erything else on earth, the
great and just law stands true : ' What you do in the closet,
shall be proclaimed on the housetop.'

But the gossips of Aberalva, as women are too often wont to
do, had altogether taken the man's side in the quarrel. The
reason was, I suppose, that Lucia, conscious of having fallen
somewhat in rank, 'held up her head' to ilrs. Trebooze and
]\Irs. Heale (as they themsehes expressed it), and to various
other little notabilities of the neighbourhood, rather more than
she would have done had she married a man of her own class.
She was afraid that they miglit boast of being intimate with
her ; that they might take to advising and pati'onising her as
an inexperienced young creature ; afraid, even, that she miglit
be tempted in some unguarded moment to gossip with them,
confide lier unhappiness to them, in the blind longing to open
her heart to some human being ; for there were no resident
gentry of her own rank in the neighbourhood. She was too
liigh - minded to complain much to Clara ; and her sister
Valentia was the very last person to whom she would confess
that her runaway match had not been altogether successful.
So she lived alone and friendless, shrinking into herself more
and more, while the vulgar women round mistook her honour
for pride, and revenged themselves accordingly. She was an
uninteresting fine lady, proud and cross, and Elsley was a
martyr. ' So handsome and agreeable as he was ' (and, to do
him justice, he was tlie former, and he could be the latter when
he cliose), ' to be tied to that unsociable, stuck-up woman ; ' and
so forth.

All which Tom had heard, and formed his own opinion
thereof : which was, —

'AH very fine ; but I flatter myself I know a little what
women are made of ; and this I know, that where man and
wife quarrel, even if she ends the battle, it is he who has begun
it. I never saw a case yet where the man was not the most in
fault ; and I'll lay my life John Briggs lias led her a jsretty life :
what else could one expect of him ? '

However, he held his tongue, and kect his eyes open withal

vitt TAKING ROOT 121

wlienever he went up to Penalva Court, wliicli he had to do
very often : for tliough he had cured the children of tlieir ail-
ments, yet Mrs. ^'avasour was perpetually, more or less, unwell,
and he could not cure her. Her low spirits, headaches, general
\\ant of tone and \ itality, puzzled him at first, and would ha^•e
puzzled him longer, had he not settled with himself that their
cause was to be sought in the mind, and not in the body ; and
at last, gaining courage from certainty, he had hinted as much
to ]\Iiss Clara the night before, when she came down (as she
was very fond of doing) to have a gossip with him in his shop,
under the pretence of fetching medicine.

'I don't think I shall send Mrs. Vavasour any more. Miss
Clara. There is no use running up a long bill while I do no
good ; and, what is more, suspect that I can do none, pooi-
lady.' And he gave the girl a look which seemed to say, ' You
had better tell me the truth ; for I know everything already.'

To which Clara answered by trying to find out how much he
did know : but Tom was a cunninger diplomatist than she ; and
in ten minutes, after having given solemn promises of secrecy,
and having, by strong expressions of contempt for Mrs. Heale
and the village gossips, made Clara understand that he did not
at all take their view of the case, he had poured out to him
across the counter all Clara's long - pent indignation and
contempt.

' I never said a word of this to a living soul, sir ; I was too
proud, for my mistress' sake, to let vulgar people know what
we suffered. We don't want any of their pity indeed ; but you,
sir, who have the feelings of a gentleman, and know what the
world is, like ourselves '

' Take care,' whispered Tom ; ' that daughter of Heale's may
be listening.'

' I'd pull her hair about her ears if I caught her ! ' quoth
Clara ; and then ran on to tell how Elsley ' never kept no hours,
nor no accounts either ; so that she has to do everything, poor
thing ; and no thanks either. And never knows when he'll
dine, or when he'll breakfast, or when he'll be in, wandering in
and out like a madman ; and sits up all night, writing his non-
sense. And she'll go down twice and three times a night in the
cold, poor dear, to see if he's fallen asleep ; and gets abused like
a pickpocket for her pains (which was an exaggeration) ; and
lies in bed all the morning, looking at the flies, and calls after
her if his shoes want tying, or his finger aches ; as helpless as
the babe unborn ; and will never do nothing useful himself, not
even to hang a picture or move a chair, and grumbles at her if
he sees her doing anything, because she ain't listening to his
prosodies, and snaps, and worrits, and won't speak to her some-
times for a whole morning, the brute.'

' But is he not fond of his children ? '

'Fond 1 Yes, his way, and smalls thanks to him, the little

122 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

angels ! To play with 'em when they're good, and tell them
cock-and-a-bull fairy-tales — wonder why he likes to put such
stuff into their heads — and then send 'em out of the room if
they make a noise, because it splits his poor head, and his
nerves are so delicate. Wish he had hers, or mine either. Doctor
Thurnall ; then he'd know what nerves was, in a frail woman,
which he uses us both as his negro slaves, or would if I didn't
stand up to him pretty sharp now and then, and give him a
piece of my mind, which I will do, like the faithful servant in
the parable, if he kills me for it. Doctor Thurnall ! '

' Does lie drink 1 ' asked Tom bluntly.

' He ! ' she answered, in a tone which seemed to imply that
even one masculine vice would have raised him in her eyes.
'He's not man enough, I think ; and lives on his slops, and his
coffee, and his tapioca ; and hows he ever to liave any appetite,
always a sitting about, heaped up together over his books, with
his ribs growing into his backbone ? If he'd only go and take
his walk, or get a spade and dig in the garden, or anything but
them everlasting papers, which I hates the siglit of ; ' and so
forth.

From all which Tom gathered a tolerably clear notion of the
poor poet's state of body and mind ; as a self-indulgent, unme-
thodical person, whose ill-temper was owing partly to perpetual
brooding over his own thoughts, and partly to dyspepsia,
brought on by his own effeminacy — in both cases, not a thing to
be pitied or excused by the hearty and valiant doctor. And
Tom's original contempt for Vavasour took a darker form,
perhaps one too dark to be altogether just.

'I'll tackle him. Miss Clara.'

' I wish you would : I'm sure he wants some one to look after
him just now. He s half wild about some review that some-
body s been and done of him in the Times, and has been flinging
the paper about the room, and calling all mankind vipers, and
adders, and hooting herds — it's as bad as swearing, I say — and
running to my mistress, to make her read it, and see how the
whole world's against him, and then forbidding her to defile her
eyes with a word of it ; and so on, till she's been crying all the
morning, poor dear ! '

' Why not laughing at him ! '

'Poor thing; that's where it all is; she's just as anxious
about his poetry as he is, and would write it just as well as he,
I'll warrant, if she hadn't better things to do ; and all her fuss
is, that people should " appreciate " him. He's always talking
about appreciating, till I hate the sound of the word. How any
woman can go on so after a man that behaves as he does ! but
we're all soft fools, I'm afraid. Doctor Thurnall.' And Clara
began a languishing look or two across the counter, which made
Tom answer to an imaginary Doctor Heale, whom he heard
calling from within.

vm TAKING ROOT 123

' Yes, doctor ! coming tliis moment, doctor ! Good - bye,
Miss Clara. I must hear more next time ; you may trust me,
you know ; secret as the grave, and always your friend, and
your lady's too, if you will allow me to do myself such an
honour. Coming, doctor ! '

And Tom bolted through the glass door, till !Miss Clara was
safe on her way up the street.

' Very well,' said Tom to himself. ' Knowledge is power : but
how to use it ? To get into Mrs. Vavasour's confidence, and
show an inclination to take her part against her husband ? If
she be a true woman, she would order me out of the house on
the spot, as surely as a lish-wife would fall tooth and nail on me
as a base intruder, if I dared to interfere with her sacred right
of being beaten by her husband when she chooses. No ; I must
go straight to John Briggs himself, and bind him over to keep
the peace ; and I think I know the way to do it.'

So Tom pondered over many plans in his head that day ; and
then went to Trebooze, and saw the sick child, and sat down to
dinner, where his host talked loud about the Treboozes of Tre-
booze, who fought in the Spanish Armada — or against it ^ and
showed an unbounded belief in the greatness and antiquity of
his family, combined with a historic accuracy about equal to
that of a good old dame of those parts, wlio used to say ' her
family comed over the water, that she knew ; but whether it
were with the Conqueror, or whether it were wi' Oliver, she
couldn't exactly say ! '

Then he became great on the subject of old county families
in general, and poured out all the vials of his wrath on ' that
confounded upstart of a Newbroom, Lord Minchampstead,' sup-
planting all the fine old blood in the country. 'Why, sir, that

Pentremochyn, and Carcarrow moors too ( good shooting

there, there used to be), they ought to be mine, sir, if every man
had his rights ! ' And then followed a long story ; and a con-
fused one withal, for by this time Mr. Trebooze had drunk a
great deal too much wine, and as he became aware of the fact,
became proportionately anxious that Tom should drink too
much also ; out of which story Tom picked the plain facts, that
Trebooze's father had mortgaged Pentremochyn estate for more
than its value, and that Lord Minchampstead had foreclosed ;
while some equally respectable uncle, or cousin, just deceased,
had sold the reversion of Carcarrow to the same mighty cotton
Lord twenty years before. 'And this is the way, sir, the land
gets eaten up by a set of tinkers, and cobblers, and money-lend-
ing jobbers, who suck the blood of the aristocracy ! ' The oaths
we omit, leaving the reader to pepper Mr. Trebooze's conversa-
tion therewith, up to any degree of heat which may suit his
palate.

Tom sympathised with him deeply, of course ; and did not
tell him, as he might have done, that he thought the sooner such

124 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

cumberers of the ground were cleared off, whether by an en-
cumbered estates' act, such as we may see yet in England, or by
their own suicidal folly, the better it would be for the universe
in general, and perhaps for themselves in particular. But he
only answered with pleasant effrontery —

'Ah, my dear sir, I am sure there are hundreds of good
sportsmen who can sympathise with you deepl.y. The wonder
is, that you do not unite and defend yourselves. For not only
in the west of England, but in Ireland, and in Wales, and in tlie
north, too, if one is to believe those novels of Currer liell's, and
her sister, there is a large and important class of landed pro-
prietors of the same stamp as yourself, and exposed to the very
same dangers. I wonder at times that you do not all join, and
use your combined influence on the Government.'

'The Government? All a set of Whig traitors ! Call them-
selves Conservative, or what they like. Traitors, sir ! from
that fellow Peel upwards — all combined to crush the landed
gentry — ruin the Church — betray the country party — D'Israeli
— Derby — Free-trade — ruined, sir ! — Maynooth — Protection —
treason — help yourself, and pass the — you know, old fellow '

And Mr. Trebooze's voice died away, and he slumbered, but
not softly.

Tlie door opened, and in niarclied !Mrs. Trebooze, tall, tawdry,
and terrible.

' Mr. Trebooze, it's past eleven o'clock ! '

' Hush, my dear madam ! He is sleeping so sweetly,' said
Tom, rising, and gulping down a glass, not of wine, but of strong
ammonia and water. The rogue had put a phial thereof in his
pocket that morning, expecting that, as Trebooze had said, lie
would be required to make a night of it.

She was silent ; for to rouse her tyrant was more than she
dare do. If awakened, he would crave for brandy-and-water ;
and if he got that sweet poison, he would probably become
furious. She stood for half a minute ; and Tom, who knew her
story well, watched her curiously.

' She is a fine woman : and with a far finer heart in her than
that brute. Her eyebrow and eye, now, have the true Siddons'
stamp ; the great white forehead, and sharp-cut little nostril,
breathing scorn — and what a Siddons-like attitude ! — I should
like, madam, to see the child again before I go.'

' If you are tit, sir,' answered she.

' Brave woman ; comes to the point at once. 1 am a poor
doctor, madam, and not a country gentleman ; and have neither
money nor health to spend in drinking too much wine.'

' Then why do you encourage him in it, sir ? I had expected
a very difierent sort of conduct from you, sir.'

Tom did not tell her what she would not (no woman will)
understand ; that it is morally and socially impossible to escape
from the table of a fool, till either he or you are conquered ; and

vni TAKING ROOT 125

she was too shrewd to be taken in by common-place excuses ; so
he looked her very full in the face, and replied a little haughtily,
with a slow and delicate articulation, using his lips more than
usual, and yet compressing them : —

' I beg your pardon, madam, if I have unintentionally dis-
pleased you : but if you ever do me the honour of knowing more
of me, you will be the lirst to confess that your words are unjust.
Do you wish me to see your son, or do you not ? '

Poor Mrs. Trebooze looked at him with an eye which showed
that she had been accustomed to study character keenly, perhaps
in self-defence. She saw that Tom was sober ; he had taken
care to prove that, by the way in which he spoke ; and she saw,
too, that he was a better bred man than her husband, as well as
it cleverer. She dropped her eye before his ; heaved something
very like a sigh ; and then said, in her curt, fierce tone, which
yet implied a sort of sullen resignation —

' Yes ; come upstairs.'

Tom went up, and looked at the boy again, as he lay sleeping.
A beautiful child of four years old, as large and fair a child as
man need see ; and yet there was on him the curse of his father's
sins ; and Tom knew it, and knew that his mother knew it also.

'What a noble boy!' said he, after looking, not without
honest admiration, upon the sleeping child, who had kicked off
his bedclothes, and lay in a ^^ ild graceful attitude, as children
are wont to lie ; just like an old Greek statue of Cupid. ' It all
depends upon you, madam, now.'

'On me?' she asked, in a startled, suspicious tone.

' Yes. He is a magnificent boy : but — I can only give pallia-
tives. It depends upon your care now.'

' He will have that, at least, I should hope,' she said, nettled.

'And on your influence ten years hence,' went on Tom.

' My influence 1 '

' Yes ; only keep him steady, and he may grow up a magnifi-
cent man. If not — you will excuse me — but you must not let
him \ive as freely as his father ; the constitutions of the two are
very different.'

' Don't talk so, sir. Steady ? His father makes him drunk
now, if he can ; teaches him to swear, because it is manly — God
help him and me ! '

"Tom's cunning and yet kind shaft had sped. He guessed that
with a coarse woman like Mrs. Trebooze his best plan was to
come as straight to the point as he could ; and he was right.
Ere half an hour was over, that woman had few secrets on earth
which Tom did not know.

'Let me give you one hint before I go,' said he at last.
' Persuade your husband to go into a militia regiment.'

' Why ? He would see so much company, and it would be so
expensive.'

' The expense would repay itself ten times over. The com-

126 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

pany wliich he would see would be sober company, in which he
would be forced to keep in order. He would have something to
do in the world ; and he'd do it well. He is just cut out for a
soldier, and might have made a gallant one by now, if he had
had other men's chances. He will find he does his militia work
well ; and it will be a new interest, and a new pride, and a new
life to him. And mean^xhile, madam, what you have said to me
is sacred. I do not pretend to ad\ ise or interfere. Only tell
me if I can be of use — how, when, and where — and command
me as your servant.'

And Tom departed, having struck another root ; and was up
at four the next morning (he never worked at night ; for, he
said, he never could trust after-dinner brains), drawing out a
detailed report of the Pentremochyn cottages, which he sent to
Lord Minchampstead, with —

'And your Lordship will excuse my saying, that to put the
cottages into the state into which your Lordship, with your
known wish for progress of all kinds, would wish to see them, is
a responsibility which I dare not take on myself, as it would in-
volve a present outlay of not less than £4.")(). This sum would
be certainly repaid to your Lordship and your tenants, in the
course of the next three years, by the saving in poor-rates ; an
opinion for which I subjoin my grounds drawn from the books
of the medical officer, Mr. Heale : but the responsibility and
possible unpopularity which employing so great a sum
would involve is more than I can, in the present dependent
condition of poor-law medical officers, dare to undertake, in
justice to ilr. Heale, my employer, save at your special com-
mand. I am bound, however, to inform your Lordship, that
this outlay would, I think, perfectly defend the hamlets, not
only from that visit of the cholera which we have every reason
to expect next summer, but also from those zymotic diseases
which (as your Lordship will see by my returns) make up more
than sixty-five per cent of the aggregate sickness of the estate.'

Which letter the old cotton Lord put in his pocket, rode into
Whitbury therewith, and showed it to Mark Armsworth.

' Well, Mr. Armsworth, what am I to do ? '

' Well, my Lord ; I told you what sort of a man you'd have to
do with ; one that does his work thoroughly ; and, I think,
pays you a compliment, by tliinking that you want it done
thoroughly.'

Lord Minchampstead was of the same opinion ; but he did
not say so. Few, indeed, have ever heard Lord Minchampstead
give his opinion : though many a man has seen him act on it.

'I'll send down orders to my agent.'

'Don't.'

' Why, then, my good friend ? '

' Agents are always in league with farmers, or guardians, or
builders, or drain-tile makers, or attorneys, or bankers, or some-

IX 'AJ[ I NOT A WOMAN AND A SISTER?' 127

body ; and either you'll be told that the work don't need
doing, or have a job brewed out of it, to get off a lot of unsale-
able drain-tiles, or cracked soil-pans ; or to get farm ditches dug,
and perhaps the highway rates saved building culverts, and fifty
dodges beside. I know their game ; and you ought, too, by now,
my Lord, begging your pardon.'

'Perhaps I do, ]\lark,' said liis Lordsliip with a chuckle.

'So, I say, let the man that found the fox run the fox, and
kill the fox, and take the brush home.'

' And so it shall be,' quoth my Lord Minchampstead.

CHAPTER IX

'AM I XOT A WOMAN AND A SISTER?'

But what was the mysterious bond between La Cordifiamma
and the American, which had prevented Scoutbush from follow-
ing the example of his illustrious progenitor, and taking a
viscountess from off the stage ?

Certainly, any one who had seen her with him on the morning
after Scoutbush's visit to the Mellots, would have said that, if
the cause was love, the love was ail on one side.

She was standing by the fireplace in a splendid pose, her arm
resting on the chimney-piece, the book from which she had been
reciting in one hand, the other playing in her black curls, as
lier eyes glanced back ever and anon at her own profile in the
mirror. Stangrave was half sitting in a low chair by her side,
half kneeling on the footstool before her, looking up beseech-
ingly, as she looked down tyrannically.

' Stupid, this reciting ? Of course it is ! I want realities, not
.shams ; life, not the stage ; nature, not art.'

'Throw away the book, then, and words, and art, and
live ! '

She knew well what he meant ; but she answered as if she
had misunderstood him.

' Thanks, I live already, and in good company enougli. My
ghost-husbands are as noble as they are obedient ; do all which
I demand of them, and vanish on my errands when I tell them.
Can you guess who my last is ? Since I tired of Egmont, I have
taken Sir Galahad, the spotless knight. Did you e\er read the
Mc»-td' Arthur?'

' A hundred times.'

' Of course ! ' and she spoke in a tone of contempt so strong
that it must liave been affected. 'What have you not read ?
And what have you copied ? No wonder that these English
liave been what they have been for centuries, while their heroes
]ia\e been the Galaliads, and their Homer the Mort d' Arthur.'

' Enjoy your Utopia ! ' said he bitterly. ' Do you fancy they

128 TWO YEARS AOO chap.

acted up to their ideals i They dreamed of the Quest of the
Sangreal : but which of them ever went upon it ? '

'And does it count for nothing that they felt it the finest
thing in the world to ha\ e gone on it, had it been possible ? Be
sure if their ideal was so self-sacrilicing, so lofty, their i^ractice
was ruled by something higher tlian the alniiglity dollar.'

' And so are some other men's, ]Marie,' answered he reproach-
fully.

'Yes, forsooth ; — when the almighty dollar is there already,
and a man has ten times as much to spend every day as he can
possibly invest in Fi-enrh cookery, and wines, and tine clothes,
then he begins to lay out his surplus nobly on self -education, and
tiie patronage of art, and the theatre — for merely iesthetic pur-
poses, of course ; and when the lust of the flesh has been satisfied,
thinks himself an archangel, because he goes on to satisfy the
lust of the eye and the pride of life. Christ was of old the
model, and Sir Galahad was tiie hero. Now the one is exchanged
for Goethe, and the other for Wilhelm ileister.'

'Cruel! You know that my Goethe fever is long pa.st. How
would you have known of its existence if I had not confessed it
to you as a sin of old years ? Have I not said to you, again and
again, show me the thing which you would have me do for
your sake, and see if I will not do it ! '

' For my sake ? A noble reason ! Show yourself the thing
which you will do for its own sake ; because it ought to be done.
Show it yourself, I say ; I cannot show you. If your own eyes
cannot see the Sangreal, and the angels who are bearing it be-
fore you, it is because they are dull and gross ; and am I Milton's
archangel, to purge them with euphrasy and rue ? If you have
a noble lieart, you will find for yourself the noblest Quest. If
not, who can prove to you that it is noble ? ' And tapping
impatiently with her foot, she went on to herself —

' .V gentle sound, an awful light !

Three angels bear the holy Grail :
With folded feet, in stoles of white,

On sleeping wings they sail.
Ah, blessed vision ! blood of God !

The spirit beats her mortal bars,
As down dark tides the glory slides,

And star-like mingles with the stars.'

' Why, there was not a knight of the round table, was there,
who did not give up all to go upon that Quest, though only one
was found worthy to fulfil it? But no wadaj^s, the knights sit
drinking hock and champagne, or drive sulky-wagons, and never
fancy that there is a Quest at all.'

' Why talk in these parables 1 '

' So the Jews asked of their prophets. They are no parables

IX ' AM I NOT A WOMAN AND A SISTER 1 ' 129

to my gl^ost-husband Sir Galahad. Now go, if you please ; I
must be busy, and write letters.'

He rose with a look, half of disappointment, half amused, and
yet his face bore a firmness which seemed to say, ' You will be
mine yet.' As he rose, he cast his eye upon the writing-table,
and upon a letter which lay there : and as he did so, his cheek
grew pale, and his brows knitted.

The letter was addressed to ' Thomas Thurnall, Esq., Aber-
alva.'

' Is this, then, your Sir Galahad ? ' asked he, after a pause,
during which he had choked down his rising jealousy, while she
looked first at herself in the glass, and then at him, and then at
herself again, with a determined and triumphant air.

'And what if it be?'

' So he, then, has achieved the Quest of the Sangreal ? '

Stangrave spoke bitterly, and with an emphasis upon the
'he ;' and —

' What if he have ? Do you know him ? ' answered she, while
her face lighted up with eager interest, which she did not care
to conceal, perhaps chose, in her woman's love of tormenting,
to parade.

' I knew a man of that name once,' he replied, in a carefully
careless tone, which did not deceive her; 'an adventurer — a
doctor, if I recollect — who had been in Texas and Mexico, and
I know not where besides. Agreeable enough he was ; but as
for your Quest of the Sangreal, whatever it may be, he seemed
to have as little notion of anything beyond his own interest as
any Greek I ever met.'

' Unjust ! Your words only show how little you can see !
That man, of all men I ever met, saw the Quest at once, and
followed it, at the risk of his own life, as far at least as he was
concerned with it — ay, even when he pretended to spe nothing.
Oh, there is more generosity in that man's affected selfishness,
than in all the noisy good-nature which I have met with in the
world. Thurnall ! oh, you know his nobleness as little as he
knows it himself.'

' Then he, I am to suppose, is your phantom-husband, for as
long, at least, as your present dream lasts ?' asked he, with white,
compressed lips.

' He might have been, I believe,' she answered carelessly, ' if
he had even taken the trouble to ask me.'

' Marie, this is too much ! Do you not know to whom you
speak ? To one who deserves, if not common courtesy, at least
common mercy.'

'Because he adores me, and so forth? So has many a man
done ; or told me that lie has done so. Do you know that I
might be a viscountess to-morrow, so Sabina informs me, if I
but chose.'

' A viscountess ? Pray accept your effete English aristocrat,

13(1 TWO YEARS A(!0 oii.vp.

and, as far as I am concerned, accept my best wislips for your
liappiness.'

' My effete English aristocrat, did I sliow liim that pedigree
of mine which 1 have ere now threatened to show you, would
perhaps be less horrified at it than you are.'

' ilarie, I cannot bear this ! Tell me only what you mean.
Wliat cj,re I for pedigree ? I want you — worship you — and that
is enough, Marie ! '

'You admire me because I am beautiful. AYhat thanks do I
owe you for finding out so patent a fact ? AYhat do you do
more to me than I do to myself ? ' and she glanced back once
more at the mirror.

' Marie, you know that your words are false ; I do more '

'Y'ou admire me,' interrupted she, 'because I am clever.
^Yhat thanks to you for that, again ? What do you do more to
me than you do to yourself ? '

' And this, after all '

' After what 1 After you found me, or rather I found you —
you the critic, the arbiter of the green-room, the highly-organised
do-nothing — teaching others how to do nothing most gracefully ;
the would-be Goethe who must, for the sake of his own self-
development, try experiments on e\"ery weak woman whom he
met. And I, the new phenomenon, whom you must appreciate
to show your own taste, patronise to show your own liberality,
develop to show your own insight into character. Y'ou found
yourself mistaken ! You had attempted to play with the tigress
— and behold she had talons ; to angle for the silly fish — and
behold the fish was the better angler, and caught you.'

' Marie, have mercy ! Is your heart iron ? '

' Xo ; but fire, as my name shows : ' and she stood looking
down on him with a glare of dreadful beauty.

' Fire, indeed ! '

'Yes, fire, that I may scorch you, kindle you, madden you,
to do my work, and wear the heart of fire which I wear day and
night ! '

Stangrave looked at her startled. \Yas she mad ? Her face
did not say so : her brow was white, her features calm, her eye
fierce and contemptuous, but clear, steady, full of meaning.

'So you know Mr. Thurnall ?' said she, after a while.

' Yes ; why do you ask ?

'Because he is the only friend I have on earth.'

' The only friend, .Marie ? '

' The only one,' answered she calmly, ' who, seeing the right,
has gone and done it forthwith. ^Vhen did you see him
last ? '

'I have not been acquainted with ^Ir. Thurnall for some
years,' said Stangrave haughtily.

' In plain words, you have quarrelled with him 1 '

Stangrave bit his lip.

IX 'AM I NOT A WOMAN AND A SISTER ■? ' 131

' He and I liad a difference. He insulted my nation, and we
parted.'

She lauglied a long, loud, bitter laugh, which rang tlirougli
Stangrave's ears.

' Insulted your nation ? And on what grounds, pray ? '

' About that accursed slavery question ! '

La Cordifiamma looked at him with firm-closed lips a
while.

' So, then ! I was not aware of this ! Even so long ago you
saw the Sangreal, and did not know it when you saw it. No
wonder that since then you have been staring at it for months,
in your very hands, played with it, admired it, made verses
about it, to show off your own taste, and yet were blind to it
the whole time ! Farewell, then ! '

' Marie, what do you mean ? ' and Stangrave caught both her
jiands.

' Hush, if you please. I know you are eloquent enough, when
you choose, though you have been somewhat dumb and mono-
syllabic to-night iu the presence of the actress whom you under-
took to educate. But I Know that you can be eloquent, so spare
me any brilliant appeals, which can only go to prove that
already settled fact. Between you and me lie two great gulfs.
The one I have told you of ; and from it I shrink. The other I
liave not told you of ; from it you would shrink.'

' The first is your Quest of the Sangreal.'

She smiled assent, bitterly enough.

' And the second ? '

She did not answer. She was looking at herself in the mirror ;
and Stangra^•e, in spite of his almost doting affection, flushed
with anger, almost contempt, at her vanity.

And yet, was it vanity which was expressed in that face ?
No ; but dread, horror, almost disgust, as she gazed with side-
long, startled eyes, struggling, and yet struggling in vain, to
turn her face from some horrible sight, as if her own image had
been the Gorgon's head.

' What is it ? Marie, speak ! '

But she answered nothing. For that last question she liad
no heart to answer ; no heart to tell him that in her veins were
some drops, at least, of the blood of slaves. Instinctively she
had looked round at the mirror — for might he not, if he had
eyes, discover that secret for himself ? Were there not in her
features traces of that taint ? And as she looked, — was it the
mere play of her excited fancy, — or did her eyelid slope more
and more, her nostril shorten and curl, her lips enlarge, her
mouth itself protrude ?

It was more than the play of fancy ; for Stangrave saw it as
well as she. Her actress's imagination, fixed on the African
type with an intensity proportioned to her dread of seeing it in
hei-self, had moulded her features, for the moment, into the

132 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

very shape which it dreaded. And Stangra\e saw it, and
shuddered as he saw.

Another half minute, and tliat face also had melted out of the
mirror, at least for ilarie's eyes ; and in its place an ancient
negress, white-haired, withered as the wrinkled ape, but with
eyes closed — in death. ^larie knew that face well ; a face which
haunted many a dream of hers ; once seen, but ne\er forgotten
since ; for to that old dame's coffin had her mother, the gay
quadroon woman, flaunting in tinery which was the price of
shame, led Marie when she was but a three years' child ; and
Marie had seen her bend over the corpse, and call it her dear
old granny, and weep bitter tears.

Suddenly she shook oflF the spell, and looked round and down,
terrified, self-conscious. Her eye caught Stangrave's ; she saw,
or thought she saw, by the expression of his face, that he knew
all, and burst away with a shriek.

He sprang up and caught lier in his arms. ' ilarie ! Beloved
Marie ! ' She looked up at him struggling ; the dark expression
had vanished, and Stangrave's love-blinded eyes could see no-
thing in that face but the refined and yet rich beauty of the
Italian.

' Marie, this is mere madness ; you excite yourself till you
know not what you say, or what you are '

' I know what I am,' murmured she ; but he hurried on un-
heeding.

' You love me, you know you love me ; and you madden your-
self by refusing to confess it ! ' He felt her heart throb as he
spoke, and knew that he spoke truth. ' What gulfs are these you
dream of ? No ; I will not ask. There is no gulf between me
and one whom I adore, who has thrown a spell over me which
I cannot resist, which I glory in not resisting ; for you have
been my guide, my morning star, which has awakened me to
new life. If I have a noble purpose upon earth, if I have roused
myself from that conceited dream of self -culture which now
looks to me so cold, and barren, and tawdry, into the hope of
becoming useful, beneficent — to whom do I owe it but to you,
Marie ? No ; there is no gulf, Marie ! You are my wife, and
you alone ! ' And he held her so firmly, and gazed down upon
her with such strong manhood, that her woman's heart quailed ;
and he might, perhaps, have conquered then and there, had not
Sabina, summoned by her shriek, entered hastily.
' Good heavens ! what is the matter ? '

'Wait but one minute, .Mrs. Mellot," said he; 'the next, I
shall introduce you to my bride.'

' Never ! never ! never ! ' cried she, and breaking from him,
flew into Sabina's arms. 'Leave me, leave me to bear my curse
alone ! '

And she broke out into such wild weeping, and refused so
wildly to hear another word from Stangrave, that he went

IX ' AM 1 NOT A AVOMAN AND A SISTER ? ' 133

away in despair, tlie prize snatched from his grasp in the very
moment of seeming victory.

He went in search of Claude, who had agreed to meet him at
the Exhibition in Trafalgar Square. Thither Stangrave rolled
away in his cab, his heart full of many thoughts. Marie's
words about him, though harsh and exaggerated, were on the
whole true. She had fascinated him utterly. To marry her
was now the one object of his life ; she had awakened in him,
as he had confessed, noble desires to be useful ; but the discovery
that he was to be useful to the negro, that abolition was the
Sangreal in the quest of which he was to go forth, was as dis-
agreeable a discovery as he could well have made.

From public life in any shape, with all its vulgar noise, its
petty chicanery, its pandering to the mob whom he despised, he
had always shrunk, as so many Americans of his stamp have
done. He had no wish to struggle, unrewarded and disap-
pointed, in the ranks of the minority ; wliile to gain place and
power on the side of the majority was to lend himself to that
fatal policy which, ever since tlie ^Missouri Compromise of 1820,
has been gradually making the northern states more and more
the tools of the southern ones. He had no wish to be threatened
in Congress with having his Northerner's 'ears nailed to the
counter, like his own base coin,' or to be informed that he, with
the 17,000,000 of the north, were the 'White Slaves' of a
southern aristocracy of 350,000 slaveholders. He had enough
comprehension of, enough admiration for the noble principles of
the American Constitution to see that the democratic mobs of
Irish and Germans, who were stupidly playing into the hands of
the Southerners, were not exactly carrying them out : but he had
no mind to face either Irish or Southerners. The former were
too vulgar for his delicacy ; the latter too aristocratic for his
pride. Sprung, as he held (and rightly), from as fine old English
blood as any Virginian (though it did happen to be Puritan, and
not Cavalier), he had no lust to come into contact with men
who considered him much furtlier below tliem in rank than an
English footman is below an English nobleman ; who, indeed,
would some of them look down on the English nobleman him-
self as a mushroom of yesterday. So he compounded with his
conscience by ignoring the whole matter, and by looking on the
state of public affairs on his side of the Atlantic with a cynicism
which very soon (as is usual with rich men) passed into Epicure-
anism. Poetry and music, pictures and statues, amusement and
travel, became his idols, and cultivation his substitute for the
plain duty of patriotism ; and wandering luxuriously over the
world, lie learnt to sentimentalise over cathedrals and monas-
tei'ies, i)ictures and statues, saints and kaisers, with a lazy regret
that such 'forms of beauty and nobleness' wci-e no longei'
possible in a world of scrip and railroads ; but without any
notion that it was his duty to reproduce in his own life, or that

134 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

of his country, as much as he could of tlie said beauty and noble-
ness. And now he was sorely tried. It was interesting enough
to ' develop ' the peculiar turn of ilarie's genius, by writing for
her plays about liberty, just as he would ha\e written plays
about jealousy, or anything else for representing which she had
' capabilities.'. But to be called on to act in that slavery ques-
tion, the one on which he knew (as all sensible Americans do)
that the life and death of his country depended, and which for
that very reason he had carefully ignored till a more convenient
season, finding in its \ery difficulty and danger an excuse for
leaving it to solve itself : to have this thrust on him, and hj
her, as the price of the thing which he must have, or die ! If
she had asked for his right hand, he would have given it sooner ;
and he entered the Royal Academy that day in much the same
humour as that of a fine lady who should find herself suddenly
dragged from the ballroom into the dust-hole, in lier tenderest
array of gauze and jewels, and there peremptorily compelled to
sift the cinders, under the superintendence of the sweep and the
pot-boy.

Glad to escape from questions which he had rather not
answer too soon, he went in search of Claude, and found him
before one of those pre-Eaphaelite pictures, which Claude does
not appreciate as he ought.

' Desinit in Culicem mulier formosa superne,' said Stangrave,
as he looked over Claude's shoulder ; ' but I suppose he followed
nature, and copied his model.'

' That he didn't,' said Claude, ' for I know who his model was ;
but if he did, he had no business to do so. I object on principle
to these men's notion of what copying nature means. I don't
deny him talent. I am ready to confess that there is more
imagination and more honest work in that picture than in any
one in the room. The hysterical, all but grinning joy upon the
mother's face is a miracle of truth : I have seen the expression
more than once • doctors see it often, in the sudden revulsion
from terror and agony to certainty and peace ; I only marvel
where he ever met it ; but the general effect is unpleasing,
marred by patches of sheer ugliness, like that child's foot.
There is the same mistake in all his pictures. Whatever they
are, they are not beautiful ; and no magnificence of surface-
colouring will make up, in my eyes, for ^vilful ugliness of form.
I say that nature is beautiful ; and therefore nature cannot
have been truly copied, or the general effect would have been
beautiful also. I never found out the fallacy till the other day,
when looking at a portrait by one of them. The woman foi'
whom it was meant was standing by my side, young and lovely ;
the portrait hung there neither young nor lovely, but a wrinkled
caricature twenty years older than the model.'

'I surely know the portrait you mean ; Lady D s.'

' Yes. He had simply, under pretence of following nature,

IX 'AM I NOT A WOMAN AND A SISTER?' 135

(.aiicaturecl lier into a woman twenty years older than
she is.'

' But did you ever see a modern portrait wliicli more jh ifectly
expressed character ; wliicli more completely fulfilled the re-
quirements which you laid down a few evenings since ? '

'Never; and that makes me all the more cross witli the
wilful mistake of it. He had painted every wrinkle.'

' Why not, if they were there ? '

'Because lie had painted a face not one-twentieth of the size
of life. What right had he to cram into that small space all the
marks which nature had spread over a far larger one ? '

'Why not, again, if he diminished the marks in proportion ?'

' Just what neither he nor any man could do, without mak-
ing them so small as to be invisible, save under a microscope :
and the result was, that he had caricatured every wrinkle,
as his friend has in those horrible knuckles of Sliem's wife.
Besides, I deny utterly your assertion that one is bound to
paint what is there. On that very fallacy are they all making
shipwreck.'

' Not paint what is there 1 And you are the man who talks
of art being highest when it copies nature.'

' Exactly. And tlierefore you must paint, not what is there,
but what you see there. They forget that human beings are
men with two eyes, and not daguerreotype lenses with one eye,
and so are contriving and striving to introduce into their
pictures the ^'ery defect of the daguerreotype which the stereo-
scope is required to correct.'

' I comprehend. They forget that the double vision of our
two eyes gives a softness, and indistinctness, and roundness, to
eveiy outline.'

'Exactly so; and therefore, while for distant landscapes,
motionless, and already softened by atmosphere, the daguerreo-
type is invaluable (I shall do nothing else this summer, but
work at it), yet for taking portraits, in any true sense, it will
be always useless, not only for the reason I just gave, but for
another one which the pre-Eaphaelites have forgotten.'

' Because all the features cannot be in focus at once ? '

' Oh no, I am not speaking of that. Art, for aught I know,
may overcome that ; for it is a mere defect in the instrument.
What I mean is this : it tries to represent as still what never
yet was still for the thousandth part of a second : that is, the
human face ; and as seen by a spectator who is perfectly still,
which no man ever yet was. ^ly dear fellow, don't you see thali
what some painters call idealising a portrait is, if it be wisely
done, really painting for you the face which you see, and know,
and love ; her ever-shiftmg features, with expression varying
more rapidly than the gleam of the diamond on her finger ;
features which you, in your turn, are looking at with ever-shift-
ing eyes ; while, perhaps, if it is a face which you love and

136 TWO YEARS AGO thap.

have lingered over, a dozen other expressions equally belonging
to it are hanging in your memory, and blending themselves
with the actual picture on your retina : — till every little angle
is somewhat rounded, every little wrinkle somewhat softened,
every little shade somewhat blended with the surrounding
light, so that the sum total of what you see, and are intended
by Heaven to see, is something far softer, lovelier — younger, per-
haps, thank Heaven — than it would look if your head was
screwed down in a vice, to look with one eye at her head
screwed down in a vice also : — though even that, thanks to the
muscles of the eye, would not produce the required ugliness ;
and the only possible method of fulfilling the pre-Raphaelite
ideal would be, to set a petrified Cyclops to paint his petrified
brother.'

' You are spiteful.'

' Not at all. I am standing up for art, and for nature too.
For instance : Sabina has wrinkles. She says, too, tliat she
has gray hairs coming. The former I won't see, and therefore
don't. The latter I can't see, because I am not looking for
them.'

' Nor I either,' said Stangrave, smiling. ' I assure you tlie
announcement is new to me.'

' Of course. Who can see wrinkles in the light of tliose eyes,
that smile, that complexion ? '

' Certainly,' said Stangrave, ' if I asked for her portrait, as I
shall do some day, and the artist sat down and painted the said
" wastes of time," on pretence of tlieir being there, I should con-
sider it an impertinence on his part. What business has
he to spy out what nature is taking such charming trouble to
conceal 1 '

' Again,' said Claude, ' such a face as C'ordifiamma's. When
it is at rest, in deep thought, there are lines in it which utterly
puzzle one — touclies which are Eastern, Kabyle, almost Quad-
roon.'

Stangrave started. Claude went on unconscious : —

' But who sees them in the light of that beauty ? They are
defects, no doubt, but defects which no one would observe
without deep study of the face. Tliey express her character
no more than a scar would ; and therefore when I paint her, as
I must and will, I shall utterly ignore tliem. If, on the other
hand, I met the same lines in a face wliicli I knew to have
Quadroon blood in it, I should religiously copy them ; because
then they would be integral elements of the face. You under-
stand?'

' Understand ? — yes,' answered Stangrave, in a tone whicli
made Claude look up.

That strange scene of lialf an hour before ilaslied across liim.
What if it were no fancy 1 AYhat if Marie had African blood
in her veins ? And Stangrave shuddered, and felt for the mo-

IX • AM I NOT A WOMAN AND A SISTRR r 137

ment that thousands of pounds would be a cheap price to pay
for tlie discovery tliat his fancy was a false one.

' Yes — oh — I beg your pardon,' said he, recovering liimself .
'I was thinking of something else. But, as you say, what if
she had Quadroon blood V

'I ? I never said so, or dreamt of it.'

'Oh ! I mistook. Do you know, though, where she came
from?'

' I ? You forget, my dear fellow, that you yourself introduced
her to us.'

' Of course ; but I thought Mrs. !Mellot might — women always
make confidences.'

' All we know is, what I suppose you knew long ago, that
her most intimate friend, next to you, seems to be an old friend
of ours, named Thurnall.'

' An old friend of yours ? '

' Oh yes ; we have known him these fifteen years. Met him
first at Paris ; and after that went round the world with him,
and saw infinite adventures. Sabina and I spent three months
with him once, among the savages in a South-sea Island, and a
very pretty romance our stay and our escape would make. We
were all three, I believe, to have been cooked and eaten, if Tom
had not got us off by that wonderful address which, if you know
him, you must know well enough.'

' Yes,' answered Stangrave coldly, as in a dream; 'I have
known Jlr. Thurnall in past-years ; but not in connection with
La Signora Cordifiamma. I was not aware till this moment —
this morning, I mean — that they knew each other.'

' You astound me ; why, she talks of him to us all day long,
as of one to whom she has tlie deepest obligations ; slie was
ready to rush into our arms when slie first found that we knew
him. He is a greater liero in her eyes, I sometimes fancy, than
even you are. She does nothing (or fancies that she does no-
thing, for you know her pretty wilfulness) without writing foi-
his advice.'

' I a hero in her eyes ? I was really not aware of that fact,'
said Stangrave, more coldly than ever ; for bitter jealousy had
taken possession of liis lieart. ' Do you know, then, A\hat this
same obligation may be ? '

' I never asked. I hate gossiping, and I make a rule to
inquire into no secrets but such as ate voluntarily confided to
me ; and I know that slie has never told Sabina.'

' I suppose she is married to him. That is the simplest ex-
planation of the mystery.'

'Impossible! What can you mean? If slie ever marries
living man, she will marry you.'

'Then she will never marry living man,' said St:ingra\e to
himself. ' Good-bye, my dear fellow ; I li:i\e an engagement at
the Traveller's.' And away went Stangrave, leaving Claude

138 TWO YEARS AOO chap.

sorely puzzled, but little dreaming of the powder-uiagaziue into
which he had put a match.

But he was puzzled still more that niglit, when by the latest
post a note came —

'From Stangrave ! ' said Claude. 'Why, in the name of all
wonders ! ' — and he read : —

'Good-bye. I am just starting for the Continent, on sudden
and urgent business. What my destination is I hardly can
tell you yet. You will hear from me in the course of the
summer.'

Claude's countenance fell, and the note fell likewise. Sabina
snatched it up, read it, and ga\ e La Corditiamma a look which
made her spring from the sofa, and snatch it in turn.

She read it through, with trembling hands and blanching
cheeks, and then dropped fainting upon the floor.

They laid her on the sofa, and while they were recovering her,
Claude told Sabina the only clue wliich he had to the American's
conduct, namely, that afternoon's con\ersation.

Sabina shook her head over it ; for to her, also, the .Ameri-
can's explanation had suggested itself. Was JIarie Thurnall's
wife ? Or did she — it was possible, however painful — stand to
him in some less honourable relation, which she would fain
forget now, in a new passion for Stangrave? For that Marie
loved Stangrave, Sabina knew well enough.

The doubt was so ugly that it must be solved ; and when she
had got the poor thing safe into her bedroom she alluded to it
as gently as she could.

Marie sprang up in indignant innocence.

' He ? Whatever he may be to others, I know not : but to me
he has been purity a:id nobleness itself — a brother, a father.
Yes ; if I had no otlier reason for trusting him, I should love
liim for that alone ; that howe's-er tempted he may have been,
and Heaven knows he was tempted, he could respect the honour
of his friend, though that friend lay sleeping in a soldier's grave
ten thousand miles away.'

And ilarie threw herself upon Sabina's neck, and under the
pressure of her misery sobbed out to lier the .story nt' her life.
What it was need not be told. .V little common sense, and a
little knowledge of human nature, will enable the reader to fill
up for himself the story of a beautiful slave.

Sabina soothed her, and cheeied her ; and soothed and cheered
her most of all by telling her in return the story of her own life ;
not so dark a one, but almost as sad and strange. And poor
Marie took heart, when she found in her great need a sister in
the communion of sorrows.

'And you have been through all this, so beautiful and bright
as you are ! You whom I should have fancied always living the
life of the humming-bird : and vet not a scar or a wrinkle has
it left behind I '

IX ' AM I NOT A WOMAN AND A SISTER 1 ' 139

' They were there once, JMarie ; but God and Claude smoothed
them away.'

' I have no Claude, — and no God, I think, at times.'

' No God, Marie ! Then how did you come hither ? '

^[arie was silent, repioved ; and then passionately —

' Why does He not right my people ? '

That question was one to which Sabiua's little scheme of the
universe had no answer ; why should it, while many a scheme
which pretends to be far master and more infallible has none
as yet ?

So she was silent, and sat with Marie's head upon her bosom,
caressing the black curls, till she had soothed her into sobbing
exhaustion.

' There ; lie there and rest : you shall be my child, my poor
Marie. I have a fresh child every week ; but I shall lind plenty
of room in my heart for you, my poor hunted deer.'

' You will keep my secret 1 '

' Why keep it ? No one need be ashamed of it here in free
England.'

' But he — he — you do not know, Sabina ! Those Northerners,
with all their boasts of freedom, shrink from us just as much as
our own masters.'

' Oh, Marie, do not be so unjust to him ! He is too noble, and
you must know it yourself.'

' Ay, if he stood alone ; if he were even going to live in Eng-
land ; if he would let himself be himself ; but public opinion,'
sobbed the poor self- tormentor. ' It has been his God, Sabina,
to be a leader of taste and fashion — admired and complete — the
Crichton of Newport and Brooklyn. And he could not bear
scorn, the loss of society. Why should he bear it for me ? If he
had been one of the Abolitionist party, it would have been
different ; but he has no sympathy witli them, good, narrow,
pious people, or they with him : he could not be satisfied in their
society — or I either, for I crave after it all as much as he —
wealth, luxury, art, brilliant company, admiration — oh, incon-
sistent wretch that I am ! And that makes me love him all the
more, and yet makes me so harsh to him, wickedly cruel, as I was
to-day ; because when I am reproving his weakness, I am
reproving my own, and because I am angry with myself, I grow
angry with him too — envious of him, I do believe at moments,
and all his success and luxury ! '

And so poor !Marie sobbed out her confused confession of that
strange double nature which so many Quadroons seem to owe
to their mixed blood ; a strong side of deep feeling, ambition,
energy, and intellect rather Greek in its rapidity than English in
sturdiness ; and withal a weak side, of instability, inconsistency,
hasty passion, love of present enjoyment, sometimes, too, a
tendency to untruth, which is the mark, not jjerhaps of the
African specially, but of every enslaved race.

140 TWO YEaES ago chap.

Consolation was all that Sabina could give. It was too late

to act. Stangrave was gone, and week after week rolled by
without a line from the wanderer.

CHAPTER X

THE RECOGNITION

Elsley Vavasour is sitting one morning in Iiis study, every
comfort of which is of Lucia's arrangement and invention, beat-
ing the home-preserve of his brains for pretty thoughts. On he
struggles through that wild and too luxuriant cover ; now
brought up by a "lawyer," now stumbling o^er a root, now
bogged in a green spring, now flusliing a stray covey of birds of
Paradise, now a sphinx, chimsera, strix, lamia, liredrake, flying-
donkey, two-headed eagle (Austrian, as will appear shortly), or
other portent only to be seen nowadays in tlie recesses of that
enchanted forest, the convolutions or a poet's brain. Up they
whir and rattle, making, like most game, more noise than they
are worth. Some get back, some dodge among the trees ; tlie
fair shots are few and far between : but Elsley blazes away
right and left with trusty quill ; and, to do him justice, seldom
misses his aim, for practice has made him a sure and quick
marksman in his own line. ^loreover, all is game which gets up
to-day ; for he is shooting for tlie kitchen, or rather for the
London market, as many a noble sportsman does nowadays, and
thinks no shame. His new volume of poems (' Tlie Wreck ' in-
cluded) is in the press ; but behold, it is not as long as the
publisher thinks fit, and Messrs. Brown and Younger have written
down to entreat in haste for some four hundred lines more, on
any subject which ilr. Va\asour may choose. And therefore is
Elsley beating his home covers, lieavily shot over tliough they
have been already tliis season, in hopes that a few head of his
own game may still be left : or in default (for human nature is
the same, in poets and in sportsmen), that a few Jiead may have
strayed in out of his neighbours' manors.

At last the sport slackens ; for the sportsman is getting tiied,
and hungry also, to carry on the metaphor ; for he has seen the
postman come up the front walk a quarter of an liour since, and
the letters have not been brought in yet.

At last there is a knock at tlie door, whicli lie answers by a
somewhat testy 'come in.' But lie checks the coming grumble,
when not the maid, but Lucia enters.

Why not grumble at Lucia? He has done so many .i time.

Because she looks this morning so cliarniing ; ri-ally ciuite
pretty again, so radiant is her face with Miiilcs. And because,
also, she holds triumphant above her head a newspaper.

She dances up to him —

X THE RECOGNITION 141

' I have something for you.'

'For me? Why, the post has been in this lialf-liour.'

' Yes, for you, and that's just the reason wliy I kept it myself.
D'ye understand my Irish reasoning ? '

' No, you pretty creature,' said Elsley, wlio saw tliat whatever
the news was, it was good news.

' Pretty creature, am I ? I was once, I know ; but I thought
you had forgotten all about that. But I was not going to let
you have the paper till I had devoured every word of it myself
first.'

' Every word of what 1 '

' Of what you shan't have unless you promise to be good for
a week. Such a Review ; and from America ! What a dear man
he must be who wrote it ! I really think I should kiss him if I
met him.'

' And I really think he would not say no. But as he's not
here, I shall act as his proxy.'

'Be quiet, and read that, if you can, for blushes ;' and she
spread out the paper before him, and then covered his eyes with
her hands. 'No, you shaii't see it ; it will make you vain.'

Elsley had looked eagerly at the honeyed columns (as who
would not have done ?), but the last word smote him. What was
he thinking of? his own praise, or his wife's lo\e ?

' Too true,' he cried, looking up at her. ' You dear creature !
Vain I am, God forgive me ; but before I look at a word of this
I must have a talk with you.'

' I can't stop ; I must run back to the children. No ; now
don't look cross,' as his brow clouded, ' I only said that to tease
you. I'll stop with you ten whole minutes, if you won't look so
verv solemn and important. I hate tragedy faces. Now, what
is it ? '

As all this was spoken while both her hands were clasped round
Elsley's neck, and with looks and tones of the very sweetest as
well as the very sauciest, no oflence was given, and none taken :
but Elsley's voice was sad as he asked —

' So you really do care for my poems ? '

' You great silly creature ! Why else did I marry you at all ?
As if I cared for anything in the world but your poems ; as if I
did not love everybody who praises them ; and if any stupid
reviewer dares to say a word against them I could kill him on
the spot. I care for nothing in the world but what people say
of you. And yet I don't care one pin ; I know what your poems
are, if nobody else does ; and they belong to me, because you
belong to me, and I must be the best judge, and care for nobody,
no, not I ! ' And she began singing, and then hung over him,
tormenting him lovingly while he read.

It was a true American review, utterly extravagant in its
laudations, whether from over-kindness, or from a certain love
of exaggeration and magniloquence, whicli makes one suspect

U2 TWO YEARS AGO fn.vp.

tliat a large proportion of tlie Transatlantic gentlemen of the
press must be natives of the sister isle ; but it was all the moie
pleasant to the soul of Elslej-.

'There,' said Lucia, as she clung croodling to him, 'there is a
pretty character of you, sir ! Make the most of it, for it is all
those Yankees will ever send you.'

'Yes,' said Elsley, 'if they would send one a little money,
instead of making endless dollars by printing one's books, and
then a few more by praising one at a penny a line.'

' That's talking like a man of business : if, instead of the
review, now, a cheque for fifty pounds had come, how I would
Iiave rushed out and paid the bills ! '

' And liked it a great deal better than the review ? '

' You jealous creature ! No. If I could always ha^•e you
praised, I'd live in a cabin, and go about the world barefoot,
like a wild Irish girl.'

' You would make a very charming one.'

' I used to, once, I can tell you. Valentia and I used to run
about without shoes and stockings at Kilanbaggan, and you
can't think how pretty and white this little foot used to look
on a nice soft carpet of green moss.'

' I shall write a sonnet to it.'

' You may if you choose, provided you don't publish it.'

' You may trust me for that. I am not one of those who
anatomise their own married happiness for the edification of the
whole public, and make fame, if not money, out of their own
wives' hearts.'

' How I should hate you, if you did ! Not that I believe
their fine stories about themselves. At least, I am certain it's
only half the story. They have their quarrels, my dear, just as
you and I have : but they take care not to put them into
poetry.'

' Well, but who could ? Whether they have a right or not to
publish the poetical side of their married life, it is too much to
ask them to giNe you the unpoetical also.'

'Then they are all humbugs; and I believe, if they really
h)\e their wives so very much, they would not be at all that
pains to persuade the world of it.'

' Y'^ou are very satirical and spiteful, ma'am.'

'I always am when I am pleased. If I am particularly
happy, I always long to pinch somebody. I suppose it's
Irish —

' " Comes out, meets a friend, and for love knocks him down." '

' But you know, you rogue, that you care to read no poetry
but love poetry.'

' Of course not ; every woman does ; but let me find you
publishing any such about me, and see what I will do to you !
There, now I must go to my work, and you go and write some-

X THE RKCOfiNITIOX 14r!

thing extra-superfinely grand, because I have been so good to
you. No. Let nie go ; what a botlici' you are. Good-bye.'

And away she tripped, and he returned to his work, liappier
than he had been for a week past.

His happiness, truly, was only on the surface. The old
wound had been sahed — as what wound cannot be ? — by
woman's lo^'e and woman's wit : but it was not healed. The
cause of his wrong-doing, the vain, self-indulgent spirit, was
there still unchastened ; and he was destined, that very day, to
find that he had still to bear the punishment of it.

Now the reader must understand, that though one may laugh
at Elsley Vavasour, because it is more pleasant than scolding at
liim, yet have Philistia and Fogeydom neither right nor reason
to consider him a despicable or merely ludicrous person, or to
cry, ' Ah, if he had been as we are ! '

Had he been merely ludicrous, Lucia would never liave
married him ; and he could only ha^ e been spoken of with
indignation, or left utterly out of the story, as a simply un-
pleasant figure, beyond the purposes of a novel, though
admissible now and then into tragedy. One cannot heartily
laugh at a man if one has not a lurking love for him, as one
really ought to ha\e for Elsley. How much \'alue is to be
attached to his mere power of imagination and fancy, and so
forth, is a question ; but there was in him more than mere
talent : there was, in thought at least, virtue and magnanimity.

True, the best part of him, perhaps almost all the good part
of him, spent itself in ^\•ords, and must be looked for, not in his
life, but in his books. But in those books it can be found ; and
if you look through them, you will see that he has not touched
upon a subject without taking, on the whole, the right, and pure,
and lofty view of it. Howsoever extravagant he may be in his
notions of poetic licence, that licence is never with him a syno-
nym for licentiousness. Whatever is tender and true, whatever
is chivalrous and high-minded, he lo%'es at first sight, and repro-
duces it lovingly. And it may be possible that his own estimate
of his poems ^^'as not altogether wrong ; that his words may
have awakened here and there in others a love for that which is
morally as well as physically beautiful, and may have kept alive
in their hearts the recollection that, both for the bodies and the
souls of men forms of life far nobler and fairer than those which
we see now are possible ; that they have appeared, in fragments
at least, already on the earth ; that they are destined, perhaps,
to reappear and combine themselves in some ideal state, and in

' One far-off divine event,
Toward whicli the whole creation moves.'

This is the special and proper function of the poet ; that he
mav do this, does God touch his lips with that wliich, however

144 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

it may be misused, is still fire from off the altar beneatli whicli
the spirits of his saints cry, 'Lord, how long?' If he ' i<'
produce the beautiful' with this intent, however so little, then
is he of the sacred guild. And because Vavasour had this gift,
therefore he was a poet.

But in this he was weak : tliat he did not feel, or at least was
forgetting fast, that this gift Jiad been bestowed on him for any
practical purpose. No one would demand that he should have
gone forth with some grand social scheme, to reform n world
which looked to him so mean and e\il. He was not a man of
business, and was not meant to be one. But it was ill for him
that in his fastidiousness and touchiness he had shut himself
out from that world, till lie had quite forgotten how much good
there was in it as well as evil ; how many people — common-
place and unpoetical it may be — but still heroical in God's sight,
were working harder than he e\er worked, at tlie divine
drudgery of doing good, and that in dens of darkness and
sloughs of filth from which he would have turned with disgust ;
so that the sympathy with the sinful and fallen which marks
his earlier poems, and which perhaps verges on sentimentalism,
gradually gives place to a Pharisaic and contemptuous tone ; a
tone more lofty and manful in seeming, but far less divine in
fact. Perhaps comparative success had injured him. Whilst
struggling himself against circumstances, poor, untaught, un-
iiappy, he had more fellow-feeling with those whom circumstances
oppressed. At least, the pity which he could once bestow upon
the misery which he met in his daily walks, he now kept for
the more picturesque woes of Italy and Greece.

In this, too, he was weak ; that he had altogether forgotten
that the fire from off the altar could only be kept alight by con-
tinual self-restraint and self-sacrifice, by continual gentleness
and humility, shown in the petty matters of every-day home-
life ; and that he who cannot rule his own household can never
rule the Church of God. And so it befell, that amid the little
cross-blasts of home squabbles the sacred spark was fast going
out. Tlie poems written after he settled at Penalva are marked
by a less definite purpose, by a lower tone of feeling : not,
perhaps, by a lower moral tone ; but simply by less of any
moral tone at all. They are more and more full of meiely
sensuous beauty, mere word-painting, mere word-hunting. The
desire of finding something worth saying gives place more and
more to tliat of saying something in a new fashion. As the
originality of thought (which accompanies only vigorous moral
purpose) decreases, the attempt at originality of language
increases. ^Manner, in short, has taken the place of matter.
The art, it may be, of his latest poems is greatest : but it has
been expended on the most unworthy themes. Tlie later are
mannered caricatures of the earlier, without their soul ; and
the same change seems to have passed over him which (with Mr.

\ THE RECOnXITION' 14ri

Ruskiii's pardon) transfdiined tiie Turnor of 1S20 into the
Turner of ISoO.

Tims had Elsley transferred wliat sympathy he liad left from
needle-women and ragged schools, dwellers in Jacob's Island and
sleepers in the dry arches of Waterloo Bridge, to sufferers of a
more poetic class. Whether his sympathies showed thereby that
lie had risen or fallen, let my readers decide each for himself.
It is a credit to any man to feel for any human being ; and
Italy, as she is at this moment, is certainly one of the most
tragic spectacles which the world has ever seen. Elsley need
not be blamed for pitying her • only for holding, with most of
our poets, a vague notion that her woes were to be cured by a
hair of the dog that bit her ; viz. by homoeopathic doses of that
same ' art ' which has been all along her morbid and self -deceiv-
ing substitute for virtue and industry. So, as she had sung
herself down to the nether pit, Elsley would help to sing her up
again ; and had already been throwing off, ever since 1848, a
series of sonnets which he entitled Eurydice, intimating, of
course, that he acted as the Orpheus. Whether he had hopes of
drawing iron tears down Pluto Kadetzky's cheek, does not
appear ; but certainly the longer poem which had sprung from
his fancy, at the urgent call of Messrs. Brown and Younger,
would have been likely to draw nothing but iron balls from
Radetzky's cannon ; or failing so vast an effect, an immediate
external application to the poet himself of that famous herb
Pantagruelion, cure for all public ills and private woes, which
men call hemp. Nevertheless, it was a noble subject ; one
wliich ought surely to have been taken up by some of our poets,
for if they do not make a noble poem of it, it will be their own
fault. I mean that sad and fantastic tragedy of Era Dolcino
and ilargaret, wliich Signer Mariotti has lately given to the
English public, in a book which, both for its matter and its
manner, should be better known than it is. Elsley's soul had
been filled (it would have been a dull one else) with the con-
ception of the handsome and gifted patriot-monk, his soul
delirious with the dream of realising a perfect Church on earth ;
battling with tongue and pen, and at last with sword, against
the villanies of pope and kaiser, and all the old devourers of the
earth, cheered only by the wild love of her who had given vip
wealth, fame, friends, all which render life worth ha\ing, to
die with him a death too horrible for words. And he had con-
ceived (and not altogether ill) a vision in which, wandering
along some bright Italian bay, he met Dolcino sitting, a spirit
at rest but not yet glorified, waiting for the revival of that dead
land for which he had died ; and Afargaret by him, dipping her
scorched feet for ever in the cooling wave, and looking up to the
hero for whom she had given up all, with eyes of everlasting
love. There they were to prophesy to him such things as
seemed fit to him, of the future of Italy and of Europe, of the

1-1'i TWO YEARS AnO riiu'.

doom of prie.^ts and tyrants, of the sorrows and rewards of
genius unappreciated and before its age ; for Elslcy's secret
vanity could see in himself a far greater likeness to Dolcino
than Dolcino — the preacher, confessoi-, bender of all hearts, man
of the world and man of action, at last crafty and all but un-
conquerable guerilla warrior — would ever have acknowledged
in the self-indulgent dreamer. However, it was a fair concep-
tion enougli ; though perhaps it ne\er would have entered
Elsley's liead, had Shelley never written the ojjening canto of
tlie Revolt of Islam.

So Elsley, on a burning July forenoon, strolled up the lane
and over the down to King Arthur's Nose, that lie might lind
materials for his seashore scene. For he was not one of those
men who li\e in such quiet, everyday communication witli
nature, that they drink in her various aspects as unconsciously
as the air they breathe ; and so can reproduce them, out of an
inexhaustible stock of details, simply and accurately, and yet
freshly too, tinged by the peculiar hue of the mind in which
they have been long sleeping. He walked the world, either
blind to the beauty round him, and trying to compose instead
some little scrap of beauty in liis own self-imprisoned thoughts ;
or else he was looking out consciously and spasmodically for
views, eftects, emotions, images ; something striking and un-
common which would suggest a poetic figure, or help out a
description, or in some way re-furnish his mind with thouglit.
From which method it befell, that his lamp of truth was too
often burnt out just when it was needed : and that, like the
foolish \irgins, he had to go and buy oil when it was too late ; or
failing that, to supply its place with some baser artificial material.

That day, however, he was fortunate enough ; for wandering
and scrambling among the rocks, at a dead low spring tide, he
came ujoon a spot which would have made a poem of itself
better than all Elsley ever wrote, had he, forgetting all about
Fra Dolcino, Italy, priests, and tyrants, set down in black and
white just what he saw ; provided, of course, that he liad
jjatience first to see the same.

It was none other than that ghastly chasm across which
Thurnall had been so miraculously swept on the night of his
shipwreck. The same ghastly chasm ; but ghastly now no
longer ; and as Elsley looked down, the bsauty below invited
him, and the coolness also ; for the sun beat on the flat rock
above till it scorched the feet, and dazzled the eye, and crisped
up the blackening sea-weeds ; while every sea-snail crept to
hide itself under the bladdei'-tangle, and nothing dared to peep
or stir save certain grains of gunpowder, which seemed to have
gone mad, so merrily did they hop about upon the surface of the
fast e\'aporating salt-pools. That wonder, indeed, Elsley stooped
to examine, and drew back his hands with an ' Ugh ! ' and a
gesture of disgust, when he found that they were ' nasty little

X THE RECOGNITION 147

insects.' For Elsley held fully the poet's right to believe that
all things are not \erj good ; none, indeed, save such as suited
his eclectic and fastidious taste ; and to hold (on high sesthetic
grounds, of course) toads and spiders in as much abhorrence as
does any boarding-school girl. However, finding some rock
ledges which formed a natural ladder, down he scrambled, gin-
gerly enough, for he was neither an active nor a courageous
man. But, once down, I will do him the justice to say, that for
five whole minutes he forgot all about Fra Dolcino, and, what
was better, about himself also.

The chasm may have been fifteen feet deep, and above, about
half that breadth ; but below, the waves had hollowed it into
dark overhanging caverns. Just in front of him a huge boulder
spanned the crack, and formed a natural doorway, through
which he saw, like a picture set in a frame, the far-off blue sea
softening into the blue sky among brown Eastern haze. Amid
the haze a single ship hung motionless, like a white cloud.
Nearer, a black cormorant floated sleepily along, and dived, and
rose again. Nearer again, long lines of flat tide-rock, glittering
and quivering in the heat, sloped gradually under the waves, till
they ended in half-sunken beds of olive oar-weed, which bent
their tangled stems into a hundred graceful curves, and swayed
to and fro slowly and sleepily. The low swell slid whispering
among their floating palms, and slipped on toward the cavern's
mouth, as if asking wistfully (so Elsley fancied) when it would
be time for it to return to that cool shade, and hide from all
the blinding blaze outside. But when his eye was enough
accustomed to the shade within, it withdrew gladly from the
glaring sea and glaring tide-rocks to the walls of the chasm
itself ; to curved and polished sheets of stone, rich brown, with
snow-white veins, on which danced for ever a dappled network
of pale yellow light ; to crusted beds of pink coralline ; to
caverns in the dark crannies of which, hung branching sponges
and tufts of purple sea-moss ; to strips of clear white sand,
bestrewn with shells ; to pools, each a gay flower-garden of all
hues, where branching sea-weed reflected blue light from every
point, like a thousand damasked sword-blades ; while among
them dahlias and chrysanthemums, and many another mimic
of our earth-born flowers, spread blooms of crimson, and purple,
and lilac, and creamy gray, half -buried among feathered weeds
as brightly coloured as they ; and strange and gaudy fishes shot
across from side to side, and chased each other in and out of
hidden cells.

Within and without all was at rest ; the silence was broken
only by the timid whisper of the swell, and by the chime of
dropping water within some unseen cave ; but what a difl'erent
rest ! Without, all lying breathless, stupefied, sun-stricken, in
blinding glare ; within, all coolness and refreshing sleep. With-
out, all simple, broad, and vast ; within, all various, with infinite

148 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

richness of foi'm and coloui'. An Hairoun Aliascliifl's liowfi-

lookiiiu out upon tlie

]5oth(_'i- tlie fellow ! Wliy will lie go on analysing and figuring
in this way ? Why not let the blessed place tell liini what it
means, instead of telling it what he thinks? And — why, he is
actually writing verses, though not about Fra Doleino !

' How rests yon rock, whose half-day's bath is done,
AVith broad bright side, beneath the broad bright sun,

Like sea-nymph tired, on cushioned mosses sleeping.
Yet, nearer drawn, beneath her purple tresses.

From down-bent brows we find her slowly weeping.
So many a heart for cmel man's caresses

Must only pine and pine, and yet must bear

A gallant front beneath life's gaudy glare.'

Silly fellow ! Do you think that Nature had time to think of
such a far-fetched conceit as that while it was making that rock
and peopling it with a million tiny living things, of wliich not
one falleth to the ground without your Father's knowledge, and
each more beautiful than any sea-nymph whom you ever fancied ?
For, after all, you cannot fancy a whole sea-nymph (perhaps in
that case you could make one), but only a •^ery little scrap of
her outside. Or if, as you boast, you are inspired by the Creative
Spirit, tell us what the Creative Spirit says about that rock, and
not such verse as that, the lesson of which you don't yourself
really feel. Pretty enough it is, perhaps ; but in your ha.ste to
say a pretty thing, just because it was jn-etty, you have not
cared to condemn yourself out of your own mouth. Wliy were
you sulky, sir, with Mrs. \'avasour this '. ery morning, attrr all
that passed, because she would look o\pi- the washing-books,
while you wanted her to hear about Fra Doleino? -\nd why,
though she was up to her knees among your dirty shirts when
you went out, did you not gi\"e her one parting kiss, which would
have transfigured her virtuous drudgery for her into a sacred
pleasure ? One is heartily glad to see you disturbed, cross
though you may look at it, by that sturdy step and jolly whistle
which burst in on you from the other end of the chasm, as Tom
Thurnall, with an old smock frock over his coat and a large
basket on his arm, comes stumbling and hopping towards you,
dropping every now and then on hands and knees, and turning
oyer on his back, to squeeze his head into some muddy crack,
and then withdraw it with the salt water dripping down his nose.

Elsley closed his eyes, and rested his head on his hand in u,
somewhat studied 'pose.' But as he wished not to be inter-
rupted, it may not have been altogether unpardonable to pretend
sleep. However, the sleeping posture had exactly the opposite
effect to that which he designed.

' Ah, !Mr. Vavasour ! '

'Humph ! ' quoth he slowly, if not sulkily.

X THE RECOGNITION 149

'I admire your taste, sir; a charming summer-house old
Triton lias vacated for your use ; but ]v.t me advise you not to
go to sleep in it.'

' Why then, sir ? '

'Because — it's no business of mine, of course ; but the tide
has turned already ; and if a breeze springs up, old Triton will
be back again in a hurry, and in a rage also ; and — I may
possibly lose a good patient.'

Elsley, who knew nothing about the tides, save that ' the
moon wooed the ocean,' or some such important fact, thanked
him coolly enough, and returned to a meditative attitude. Tom
saw that he was in the seventh heaven, and went on ; but he
had not gone three steps before he pulled up short, slapping his
hands together once, as a man does who has found what he
wants ; and then plunged up to his knees in a rock pool, and
then began working very gently at something undei- water.

Elsley watched him for full five minutes with so much curi-
osity that, despite of himself, he asked him what he was doing.

Tom had his whole face under water, and did not hear till
Elsley had repeated the question.

'Only a rare zoophyte,' said he at last, lifting his dripping
visage and gasping for breath ; and then he dived again.

' Inexplicable pedantry of science ! ' thought Elsley to him-
self, while Tom worked on steadfastly, and at last rose, and
taking out a phial from his basket, was about to deposit in it
something invisible.

' Stay a moment ; you really have roused my curiosity by
your earnestness. jNIay I see what it is for which you have taken
so much trouble ? '

Tom held out on his finger a piece of slimy crust the size of a
halfpenny. Elsley could only shrug his shoulders.

' Nothing to you, sir, I doubt not ; but worth a guinea to me,
even if it be only to mount bits of it as microscopic objects.'

' So you mingle business with science ? ' said Elsley, rather
in a contemptuous tone.

' ^Vhy not ? I must live, and my father too ; and it is as
honest a way of making money as any other ; I poach in no
man's manor for my game.'

' But what is your game ? What possible attraction in that
bit of dirt can make men spend their money on it 1 '

' You shall see,' said Tom, dropping it into the phial of salt
water, and offering it to Elsley, with his pocket magnifier.

' Judge for yourself.'

Elsley did so, and beheld a new wonder— a living plant of
crystal, studded with crystal bells, from each of which waved a
orown of delicate arms. It was the first time that Elsley had
ever seen one of those exquisite zoophytes which stud every rock
and every tuft of weed.

' This is most beautiful,' said he at length.

150 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

'Humph ! wliy should not Mr. Ya\'asour write a poem about
it?'

'Why not, indeed ?' thought Elsley.

' It's no business of mine, no man's less : but I often wonder
why you poets don't take to the microscope, and tell us a little
more about the wonderful things which are here already, and
not about those which are not, and which, perhaps, never
will be.'

' Well,' said Elsley, after another look : ' but, after all, these
things have no human interest in them.'

' I don't know that ; they have to me, for instance. These
are the things which I would write about if I had any turn for
verse, not about human nature, of which I know, I'm afraid, a
little too much already. I always like to read old Darwin's
Loves of the Plants ; bosh as it is in a scientific point of view, it
amuses one's fancy without making one lose one's temper, as
one must when one begins to analyse the microscopic ape called
self and friends.'

' You would like, then, the old cosmogonies, the Eddas and
the Vedas,' said Elsley, getting interested, as most ]ieople did
after five minutes' talk with the cynical doctor. ' I suppose
you would not say much for their science ; but, as jjoetry, they
are just what you ask for — the expression of thoughtful spirits,
who looked round upon nature with awe-struck, child-like eyes,
and asked of all heaven and earth the question, " What are you ?
How came you to be?" Yet — it may be my fault — while I
admire them, I cannot sympathise with them. To me, this
zoophyte is as a being of another sphere ; and till I can create
some link in my own mind between it and humanity it is as
nothing in my eyes.'

'There is link enough, sir, don't doubt, and chains of iron
and brass too.'

'You believe, then, in the development theory of the
"Vestiges"?'

'Doctors who have their bread to earn never commit them-
selves to theories. No ; all I meant was, that this little zoophyte
li\es by the same laws as you and I ; and that he and the sea-
weeds, and so forth, teach us doctors certain little rules concern-
ing life and death, which you will have a chance soon of seeing
at work on the most grand and poetical, and indeed altogether
tragic scale.'

' What do you mean ? '

' When the cholera conies here, as it will, at its present pace,
before the end of the summer, then I shall have the zoophytes
rising up in judgment against me, if I liave not profited by a
leaf out of their book.'

'The cholera?' said Elsley iu a startled voice, forgetting
Tom's pai'ables in the new tliought. For Elsley had a dread
more nervous than really coward of infectious diseases ; and he

X THE RECOGNITION lot

hail also (and prided liimself, too, on ha^'ing•) all Goethe's dislike
of anything terrible or horrible, of sickness, disease, wounds,
death, anything which jarred with that 'beautiful' which was
his idol.

'The cholera?' repeated he. 'I hope not; I wish you had
not mentioned it, !Mr. Thurnall.'

'I am veiy sorry that I did so, if it offends you. I had
thought that forewarned was forearmed. After all, it is no
business of mine ; if I have e.xtia labour, as I shall have, I shall
have extra experience ; and that will be a fair set-off, even if
the board of guardians don't vote me an extra remuneration, as
they ought to do.'

Elsley was struck dumb ; first by the certainty \\liich Tom's
words expressed, and ne.vt by the coolness of their temper. At
last he stammered out, 'Good heavens, Mr. Thurnall! you do
not talk of that frightful scourge — so disgusting, too, in its
character — as a matter of profit and loss ? It is sordid, cold-
hearted ! '

' My dear sir, if I let myself think, much more talk, about
the matter in any other tone, I should face the tiling poorly
enougli when it came. I shall have work enough to keep my
head about the end of August or beginning of September, and I
must not lose it beforehand, by indulging in any horror, disgust,
or other emotion perfectly justifiable in a layman.'

' But are not doctors men ?'

' That depends very much on what " a man " means.'

' !Men with human sympathy and compassion.'

' Oh, I mean by a man, a man with human strength. ^ly
dear sir, one may be too busy, and at doing good too (though
that is not my line, save professionally, because it is my only
way of earning money) ; but one may be too busy at doing good
to have time for compassion. If while I was cutting a man's
leg off I thought of the pain whicli he was suffering '

' Thank Heaven ! ' said Elsley, ' that it was not my lot to
become a medical man.'

Tom looked at him with the quaintest smile : a flush of
mingled anger and contempt had been rising in him as he heard
the ex -bottle boy talking sentiment : but he only went on
quietly,

'No, sir; with your more delicate sensibilities, you may
thank Heaven that you did not become a medical man ; your
life would have been one of torture, disgust, and agonising sense
of responsibility. But do you not see that you must thank
Heaven for the sufferer's sake also ? I will not shock you again
by talking of amputation ; but even in the smallest matter —
even if you were merely sending medicine to an old maid — sup-
pose that your imagination were preoccupied by the thought of
her old age, her sufferings, her disappointed hopes, her regretful
dream of bygone youth, and beauty, and love, and all the tender

isa TWO YEARS AGO chap.

fancies which might well spring out of such a mournful spec-
tacle, would you not be but too likely (pardon the pathos) to end
by sending her an elderly gentleman's medicine after all, and so
either frightfully increasing her sufferings, or ending them once
for all?'

Tom said this in the most quiet and natural tone, without
even a twinkle of his wicked eye : but Elsley heard him begin
with reddening face ; and as he went on, the red had turned to
purple, and then to deadly yellow ; till making a half -step
forward he cried fiercely —

' Sir ! ' and then stopped suddenly ; for his feet slipped upon
the polished stone, and on his face he fell into the pool at
Thurnall's feet.

' Well for both of us geese ! ' said Tom inwardly, as he went
to pick him up. ' I verily believe he was going to strike me,
and that would ha^'e done for neither of us. I was a fool to .say
it ; but the temptation was so exquisitt' ; and it must have come
some day.'

But Vavasour staggered up of his own accord, and dashing
away Tom's proffered hand, was rushing off without a word.

' Not so, Mr. John Briggs ! ' said Tom, making up his mind in
iu moment that he must have it out now, or never ; and that he
might have everything to fear from Vavasour if he let him go
home furious. ' We do not part thus, sir ! '

'We will meet again, if you will,' foamed Vavasour, 'but it
shall end in the death of one of us ! '

'By each other's potions? I can doctor myself, sir, thank
you. Listen to me, .Tohn Briggs ! \'oii shall listen ! ' and Tom
sprang past him, and planted himself at the foot of the rock
steps, to prevent his escaping upward.

' What, do you wish to quarrel with me, sir ? It is I wjio
ought to quarrel with you. I am the aggrieved party, and not
you, sir ! I have not seen the son of the man who, wiien I was
an apothecary's boy, petted him, lent me books, introduced me
as a genius, turned my head for me — which was just what I was
vain enough to enjoy — I have not seen that man's son cast
ashore penniless and friendless, and yet never held out to him a
helping hand, but tried to conceal my identity from him, from
a dirty shame of my honest father's honest name.'

A'avasour dropped his eyes, for was it not true ? but he raised
them again more fiercely than ever.

' Curse you ! I owe you nothing. It was you who made me
asliamed of it. You rhymed on it, and laughed aliout poetry
coming out of such a name.'

' And what if I did ? Are poets to be made of nothing but
tinder and gall ? Why could you not take an honest joke as it
was meant and go your way like other people, till you had
shown yourself worth something, and won honour even for the
name of Briggs ? '

X THE RECOGNITION 153

' And I ha\ e ! I have my own station now, my own fame,
sir, and it is nothing to you wliat I choose to call myself. I
have won my place, I say, and your mean envy cannot rob me

of it.;

'You have your station. Very good,' said Tom, not caring
to notice the imputation ; ' you owe the greater part of it to
your having made a most fortunate marriage, for which I
respect you, as a practical man. Let your poetry be what it
may (and people tell me that it is really very beautiful), your
match shows me that you are a cle\ er, and therefore a successful
person.'

' Do you take me for a sordid schemer, like yourself 1 I loved
what was worthy of me, and won it because I deserved it.'

'Then, having won it, treat it as it deserves,' said Tom, witji
a cool, searching look, before which Vavasour's eyes fell again.
'Understand me, Mr. John Briggs ; it is of no consequence to
me what you call yourself : but it is of consequence to me that
I should not have a patient in my parish whom I cannot cure ;
for I cannot cure broken hearts, though they will be simple
enough to come to me for medicine.'

' You shall have no chance ! You shall ne\er enter my
house ! You shall not ruin me, sir, by your bills ! '

Tom made no answer to this fresh insult. He had another
game to play.

' Take care ■\\hat you say, Briggs ; remember that, after all,
you are in my power, and I had better remind you plainly of
the fact.'

' And you mean to make me your tool 1 I will die first ! '

' I believe that,' said Tom, who was very near adding, ' that
he should be sorry to work with such tools.'

' ^ly tools are my lancet and my drugs,' said he quietly, ' and
all I have to say refers to them. It suits my purpose to become
the principal medical man in this neighbourhood '

' And I am to tout for introductions for you ? '

'You are to be so very kind as to allow me to finish my
sentence, just as you would allow any other gentleman ; and
because I wish for practice, and patients, and power, you will
be so kind as to treat me henceforth as one high-minded man
would treat another to whom he is obliged. For you know,
-Tohn Briggs, as well as I,' said Tom, drawing himself up to his
full height, 'look me in the face, if you can, ere you deny it,
that I was, while you knew me, as honourable a man and as
kind-hearted a man, as you ever were ; and that now — consider-
ing the circumstances under which we meet — you have more
reason to trust me, than I have, printd facie, to trust you.'

Vavasour answered not a word.

'Good-bye, then,' said Tom, drawing aside from the step;
' ^Irs. Vavasour will be anxious about you ! And mind ! With
regard to her first of all, sir, and then with regard to other

154 TWO YEARS A(";!0 chap.

matters— as long, and only as long, as you reniember that you
are Jolin Briggs of Whitbury, I shall be the first to forget it.
There is my hand, for old acquaintance' sake.'

A'^avasour took the protfered hand coldly, paused a moment,
and then wrung it in silence, and hurried away home.

'Have I played my ace ill after all ?' said Tom, sitting down
to consider. ' As for whether I should ha\e played it at all, tliat's
no business of mine now. ^Jadame Might-have-been may see to
that. But did I play ill ? for if I did, I may try a new lead yet.
Ought I to have twitted him about his wife ? If he's venomous,
it may only make matters worse ; and still worse if lie be sus-
picious. I don't think he was eitlier in old times : but vanity
will make a man so, and it may have made him. Well, I must
only ingratiate myself all the more with her ; and tind out, too,
whether she has his secret as well as I. What I am most afraid
of is my having told him plainly that lie was in my power ; it's
apt to make sprats of his size flounce desperately, in the mere
hope of proving themselves whales after all, if it's only to their
miserable selves. Xever mind ; he can't break my tackle ; and
besides, that grip of the hand seemed to indicate that the poor
wretch was beat, and thought himself let off easily — as indeed he
is. We'll hope .so. Xow, zoophytes, for another turn with you!'

To tell the truth, however, Tom is looking for more than
zoophytes, and has been doing so at every dead low tide since
he was wrecked. He has heard nothing yet of his belt. The
notes have not been presented at the London bank ; nobody in
the village has been spending more money than usual ; for
cunning Tom has contrived already to know how many pints of
ale every man of whom he has the least doubt has drunk. Per-
haps, after all, the belt may liave been torn off in the life
struggle ; it may have been for a moment in (iiaee's hands, and
then have been swept back into tlie sea. What more likely ?
And what more likely, in that case, th;it, sinking by its weight,
it is wedged away in some cranny of the rocks 1 So spring-tide
after spring-tide Tom searches, and all the more carefully
because others are searching too, for waifs and strays from the
wreck. Sad relics of mortality he finds at times, as others do :
once, even, a dressing-case, full of rings and pins and chains,
which belonged, he fancied, to a gay j^oung bride with whom he
had waltzed many a time on deck, as they slipped along before
the soft trade-wind : but no belt. He sent the dre.-..-iing-case to
the Lloyd's underwriters, and searched on : but in vain.
Neither could he find that any one else had forestalled him ; and
that very afternoon, sulky and disheartened, he detei-mined to
A\aste no more time about the matter, and strode home, vowing
signal vengeance against the thief, if he caught him.

' And I will catch him ! These West-country yokels, to faiuy
that they can do Tom Thurnall ! It's adding insult to injui \ ,
as Sam Weller's parrot has it.'

X THE RECOGNITION 155

Xow liis shortest way }ionie lay across tlie shore, and then
along the beach, and up the steps by tlie little waterfall, past
Mrs. Harvey's door ; and at that door sat Grace, sewing in the
sun. She looked up and bowed as he passed, smiling modestly,
and little dreaming of what was passing in his mind ; and when
a very lovely girl smiled and bowed to Tom, he must needs do
the same to her : whereon she added —

'I beg your pardon, sir: have you heard anything of the
money you lost ? I — we — have been so ashamed to think of
such a thing happening here.'

Tom's evil spirit was roused.

' HaA e you heard anything of it, ^liss Harvey ? For you
seem to me the only person in the place who knows anything
about the matter.'

' I, sir 1 ' cried Grace, fixing her great startled eyes full on
iiim.

'Why, ma'am,' said Tom, with a courtly smile, 'you m;iy
possibly recollect, if you will so far tax your memoi'y, that you
had it in your hands at least a moment, when you did me the
kindness to save my life ; and as you were kind enough to in-
form me that I should recover it when I was worthy of it, I
suppose I have not yet risen in your eyes to the required state
of conversion and regeneration.' And swinging impatiently
away, he walked on, really afraid lest he should say something
rude.

Grace half called after him, and then suddenly checking her-
self, rushed in to her mother with a wild and pale face.

'What is this ilr. Thurnall has been saying to me about his
belt and money which he lost ? '

'About what? Has he been rude to you, the bad man?'
cried Mrs. Harvey, dropping the pie -dish in some confusion,
and taking a long while to pick up the pieces.

' About the belt — the money which he lost ! Why don't you
speak, mother ? '

' Belt — money ? Ah, I recollect now. He has lost some
. money, he says.'

' Of course he has.'

' How should you know anything 1 I recollect there was
some talk of it, though. But what matter what he says 1 He
was quite passed away, I'll swear, when they carried him up.'

' But mother ! mother ! he says that I know about it ; that I
had it in my hands ! '

' You ? O the wicked wretch, the false, ungrateful, slander-
ous child of wrath, with adder's poison under his lips ! Xo, my
child ! Though we're poor, we're honest ! Let him slander us,
rob us of our good name, send us to prison if he will — he cannot
rob us of our souls. We'll be silent ; we'll tiii'n the other cheek,
and commit our cause to One above who pleads for the orphan
and the widow. We will not strive nor cry, my child. Oh,

156 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

no!' And Mrs. Harvey began fussing ovei- the smashed pie-
dish.

' I shall not strive nor cry, mother,' said (iracf, who had
recovered her usual calm ; ' but he must have some cause for
these strange words. Do you recollect seeing me witli the belt?'

' Belt, what's a belt ? I know notliing about belts. I tell
you he's a villain, and a slanderei-. Oh, that it sjiould have
come to this, to have my cjiild's fair fame l>lasted by a wretch
that comes nobody knows where from, and has been doing-
nobody knows what, for ought I know ! '

' Mother, mother ! we know no harm of him. If he is mis-
taken, God forgi\e him ! '

' If he is mistaken ? ' went on Mrs. Harvey, still over the pie-
dish : but Grace gave her no answer. She was deep in thought.
She recollected now, that as she had gone up the path from the
cove on that eventful morning, she had seen Willis and Thur-
nall whispering earnestly together ; and she recollected now,
for the first time, that there had been a certain sadness and per-
plexity, almost reserve, about Willis ever since. Good heavens !
could he suspect her too ? She would find out that at least ;
and no sooner had her mother fussed away, talking angrily to
herself, into the back kitchen, than Grace put on her bonnet
and shawl, and went forth to find the captain.

In an hour she i-eturned. Her lips were firm set, her cheeks
pale, her eyes red with weeping. She said nothing to her
mother, who for her part did not seem inclined to allude again
to the matter.

' Where have you been, child ? You look quite poorly, and
j'our eyes red.'

' The wind is very cold, mother,' said she, and went into her
room. Her mother looked sharply after her, and muttered to
herself.

Grace went in, and sat down on the bed.

' What a coldness this is at my heart ! ' she said aloud to
iierself, trying to smile ; but she could not ; and .she sat on the
bedside, without taking off her bonnet and shawl, her hands .
jianging listlessly by her side, her head drooping on her bosom,
till her mother galled her to tea : then she was forced to rouse
herself, and went out, composed, but utterly wretched.

Tom walked up homeward, very ill at ease. He had jilayed,
to use his nomenclature, two trump cards running, and was by
no means satisfied that he had played them well. He had no
light, certainly, to be satisfied with either move ; for both had
Ijeen made in a somewhat evil spirit, and certainly for no very
disinterested end.

Tliat was a \iew of tlie matter, however, which never enter<'d
his mind ; there was only that general dissatisfaction with him-
self which is, though men try hard to deny the fact, none other
than the supernatural sting of conscience. He tried 'to lay

X THK RECOGNITION 157

to liis soul tlie flattering unction ' that he might, after all, ))e of
use to Mrs. Vavasour, by using his power over her husband ;
l)ut lie knew in his secret heart that any move of Ids in that direc-
tion was likely only to make matters worse ; that to-day's ex-
plosion might only liave sent home the hapless Vavasour in a
more irritable temper than ever. And thinking over many
things, backward and forward, he saw his own way so little,
that he actually condescended to go and 'pump' Frank Headley.
So he termed it : but after all, it was only like asking advice of
a good man, because he did not feel himself quite good enough
to advise liimself.

The curate was preparing to sally forth, after his frugal
dinner. The morning he spent at the schools, or in parish secu-
larities ; the afternoon, till dusk, was devoted to visiting the
poor ; the night, not to sleep, but to reading and sermon writ-
ing. Thus, by sitting up till two in the morning, and rising
again at six for his private devotions, before walking a mile and
a half up to church for the morning service, Frank Headley
burnt the candle of life at both ends very effectually, and
showed that he did so by his pale cheeks and red eyes.

' Ah ! ' said Tom, as he entered. ' As usual : poor nature is
being robbed and murdered by rich grace.'

' What do you mean now ? ' asked Frank, smiling, for he had
become accustomed enough to Tom's quaint parables, though he
had to scold him often enough for their irreverence.

'Nature says, " after dinner sit awhile ;" and even the dumb
animals hear her voice, and lie ty for a siesta when their stomachs
are full. Grace says, " Jump up and rush out the moment you
have swallowed your food ; and if you get an indigestion, abuse
poor I^ature for it, and lay the blame on Adam's fall."

' You are irreverent, my good sir, as usual ; but you are un-
just also this time.'

'How then?'

' Unjust to grace, as you phrase it,' answered Frank, with a
quaint sad smile. ' I assure you on my honour that grace has
nothing whatsoever to do with my "rushing out" just now, but
simply the desire to do my good works that they may be seen
of men. I hate going out. I should like to sit and read the
whole afternoon: but I am afraid lest the dissenters should say,
" He has not been to see so-and-so for the last three days ; " so
ofl' I go, and no credit to me.'

Why had Frank dared, upon a month's acquaintance, to lay
bare his own heart thus to a man of no creed at all ? Because,
I suppose, amid all differences, he had found one point of like-
ness between himself and Thurnall ; he had found that Tom at
heart was a truly genuine man, sincere and faithful to his own
scheme of the universe.

How that man, through all his eventful life, had been
enabled to

1.18 TWO YEARS AGO oiiap.

' Bate not a jot of lieart or hope,
But stecT right onward,'

was a problem which Frank longed curiously, and yet fearfully
withal, to solve. There were many qualities in him which Frank
could not but admire, and long to imitate ; and, ' Whence
had they come ? ' was another problem at which he looked,
trembling as many a new thought crossed him. He longed,
too, to learn from Tom somewhat at least of that aavoir fairr,
tiiat power of ' becoming all things to all men,' which St. Paul
had ; and for want of which Frank had failed. He saw, too,
with surprise, that Tom had gained in one month more real
insight into the characters of his parishioners than he had done
in twehe ; and besides all, there was the craving of the lonely
heart for human confidence and friendship. So it befell that
Frank spoke out his inmost thought that day, and thought no
shame ; and it befell also, that Thurnall, when he heard it, said
in his heart —

'What a noble, honest fellow you are, when you '

But he answered enigmatically —

'Oh, I quite agree with you that Grace has nothing to do
with it. I only referred it to that source because I thought you
would do so.'

' You ought to be ashamed of your dishonesty, then.'

'I know it; but my view of the case is, that you lush out
after dinner for the very same reason that tiie Yankee store-
keeper does — from— You'll forgive me if I say it '■

' Of course. ^ ou cannot speak too plainly to me.'

' Conceit ; the Yankee fancies himself such an important
person that the commercial world will stand still unless he flies
Ijack to its help after ten minutes' gobbling, with his mouth full
of pork and pickled peaches. And you fancy yourself so im-
portant in your line that the spiritual world will stand still
unless you bolt back to help it in like wise. Substitute a
half-cooked mutton chop for the pork, and the cases are exact
parallels.'

' Your parallel does not hold good, doctor. The Yankee goes
back to his store to earn money for himself, and not to keep
commerce alive.'

' While you go for utterly disinterested motives. I see.'

' Do you 1 ' said Frank. ' If you think that I fancy myself a
better man than the Yankee, you mistake me ; but at least you
will confess that I am not working for money.'

' No ; you have your notions of reward, and he has his. He
wants to be paid by material dollars, payable next month ; you
by spiritual dollars, payable when you die. I don't see the great
difference.'

'Only the slight difference between what is material and
what is spiritual.'

X THE RECOONITIOX 159

'They spem to me, from all I can hear in pul]iits, to be only
two dirtereut sorts of pleasant things, and to !>■ sought after,
botli alike, simjily because they are pleasant. Self-interest, if
you will forgi\c me, seems to me the spring of both ; only, to do
you justice, you are a farther-sigjited and more prudent man
tliaii the Yankee store-keeper ; and having more exquisitely
developed notions of what your true self-interest is, are content
to wait a little longer tlian he.'

'You stab with a jest, Tliurnall. You little know how your
words hit home.'

'Well, then, to turn from a matter of which I know nothing
— I must keep you in, and give you parish business to do at
home. I am come to consult you as my spiritual pastor and
master.'

Frank looked a little astonished.

'Don't be alarmed. I am not going to confess my own sins
— only other people's.'

' Pray don't, then. I know far more of them already than I
can cure. I am worn out with the daily discovery of fresh evil
wherever I go.'

'Then why not comfort yourself by trying to find a little
fresh good wherever you go 1 '

Frank sighed.

' Perhaps, though, you don't care for any sort of good except
your own sort of good. You are fastidious. Well, you have
your excuses. But you can understand a poor fellow like me,
who has been dragged through the slums and sewers of this
^vicked world for fifteen years and more, being very well content
with any sort of good which I can light on, and not particular
as to either quantity or quality.'

' Perhaps yours is the healthier state of mind, if you can only
find the said good. The vulturine nose, which smells nothing
but corruption, is no credit to its possessor. And it would be
pleasant, at least, to find good in every man.'

' One can't do that in one's study, ilixing with them is the
only plan. No doubt they're inconsistent enough. The more
you see of them, the less you trust them ; and yet the more you
see of them, the more you like them. Can you solve that para-
dox from your books 1 '

' I will try,' said Frank. ' I generally have more than one to
think over when you go. But, surely, there are men so fallen
that they are utterly insensible to good.'

' Very likely. There's no saying in this world what may not
be. Only I never saw one. I'll tell you a story ; you may
apply it as you like. When I was on the Texan expedition, and
raw to soldiering and camping, we had to sleep in low ground,
and suffered terribly from a miasma. Deadly cold it was, when
it came ; and the man who once got chilled through with it, just
died. I was lying on the bare ground one night, and chilly enough

160 TWO YEARS AGO oiiap.

I was — for I was slioit of clothes, and liad lost my Ijufi'alo robe —
but fell asleep : and on waking the next morning, I found my-
self covered up in my coniiade s blankets, even to his coat, while
he was sitting shivering in liis shirt sleeves. The cold fog had
come down in tiie night, and the man had stripped himself, and
sat all night witli death staring him in the face, to save my life.
And all the reason he gave was, that if one of us must die, it
was better the older should go first, and not a youngster
like me. And,' said Tom, lowering his voice, 'that man was »
murderer ! '

' A murderer ! '

' Yes ; a drunken, gambling, cut-throat rowdy as ever grew
ripe for the gallows. Now, will you tell me that there was
nothing in that man but what the devil put there 1 '

Frank sat meditating awhile on this strange story, which is
moreover a true one ; and then looked up with something like
tears in his eyes.

' And he did not die ? '

'Not he! I saw him die afterwards — shot through the
heart, without time even to cry out. But I have not forgotten
what he did for me that night ; and I'll tell you what, sir ! I
do not believe that God has forgotten it either.'

Frank was silent for a few moments, and then Tom changed
the subject.

'I want to know what you can tell me about this Mr.
Vavasour.'

' Hardly anything, I am sorry to say. I was at his house at
tea, two or three times, when I first came ; and I had very
agreeable evenings, and talks on art and poetry : but I believe
I offended him by hinting that he ought to come to church,
which he never does, and since then our acquaintance has all
but ceased. I suppose you will say, as usual, that I played my
cards badly there also.'

' Not at all ! ' said Tom, who was disposed to take any one's
part against Elsley. ' If a clergyman has not a right to tell a
man that, I don't see what right he has of any kind. Only,'
added he, with one of his quaint smiles, ' the clergyman, if he
compels a man to deal at his store, is bound to furnish him with
the articles which he wants.'

'Which he needs, or which he likes? For "wanting" has
both those meanings.'

' With something that he finds by experience does him
good : and so learns to like it, because he knows that he needs
it, as my patients do my physic'

' I wish my patients would do so by mine : but, unfortun-
ately, half of them seem to me not to know what their disease
is, and the other half do not think they are diseased at all.'

' \\'ell,' said Tom drily, ' perhaps some of them are more right
than you fancy. E\ ery man knows his own business best.'

X THE RECOGNITION 161

' If it were so, they would go about it somewhat differently
from what most of the poor creatures do.'

' Do you think so ? I fancy myself that not one of them does
a wrong thing, but what he knows it to be wrong just as well
;is you do, and is much more ashamed and frightened about it
aheadv, than you can ever make him by preaching at him.'

' Do you 1 '

' I do. I judge of others by myself.'

' Then would you have a clergyman never warn his people of
their sins ? '

' If I were he, I'd much sooner take the sins for granted, and
say to them, " Now, my friends, I know you are all, ninety-nine
out of the hvmdred of you, not such bad fellows at bottom, and
would all like to be good, if you only knew how ; so I'll tell you
as far as I know, though I don't know much about the matter.
For the truth is, you must have a hundred troubles every day
which I never felt in my life : and it must be a very hard thing
to keep body and soul together, and to get a little pleasure on
this side the grave without making blackguards of yourselves.
Therefore I don't pretend to set myself up as a better or a wiser
man than you at all : but I do know a thing or two which I
fancy may be useful to you. You can but; try it. So come up,
if you like, any of you, and talk matters over with me as
between gentleman and gentleman. I shall keep your secret,
of course ; and if you find I can't cure your complaint, why,
you can but go away and try elsewhere."'

' And so the doctor's model sermon ends in proposing private
confession ! '

' Of course. The thing itself which will do them good, with-
out the red rag of an official name, wliich sends them cackling
off like frightened turkeys. Such private confession as is going
on between you and me now. Here am I confessing to you all
my unorthodoxy.'

'And I my ignorance,' said Frank ; 'for I really believe you
know more about the matter than I do.'

' Not at all. I may be all wrong. But the fault of your cloth
seems to me to be that they apply their medicines without
deigning, most of them, to take the least diagnosis of the case.
How could I cure a man without first examining wliat was the
matter with him ? '

' So say the old casuists, of whom I have read enough — some
would say too much ; but they do not satisfy me. They deal
with actions, and motives, and so forth ; but they do not go
down to the one root of wrong which is the same in every man.'

' You are getting beyond me : but why do you not apply a
little of the worldly wisdom which these same casuists taught
you?'

' To tell you the truth, I have tried in past years, and found
that the medicine would not act.'

M T. y. A.

162 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

' Humph ! Well, that would depend, again, on the previous
diagnosis of human nature being correct ; and those old monks,
I should say, would know about as much of human nature as so
many daws in a steeple. Still, you wouldn't say tliat what was
the matter with old Heale was the matter also with Vavasour?'

' I believe from my heart that it is.'

'Humph ! Then you know the symjotoms of his complaint?'

' I know that he never comes to church.'

' Nothing more ? I am really speaking in confidence. You
surely have heard of disagreements between him and ilrs.
Vavasour 1 '

'Never, I assure you ; you shock me.'

' I am e.xceedingly sorry, then, that I said a word about it :
but the whole parish talks of it,' answered Tom, who was sur-
prised at this fresh proof of the little confidence which Aberalva
put in their parson.

' Ah ! ' said Frank sadly, ' I am the last person in the parish
to hear any news ; but this is very distressing.'

' Very, to me. My honour, to tell you the truth, as a medical
man, is concerned in the matter ; for she is growing quite ill
from unhappiness, and I cannot cure her ; so I come to you, as
soul-doctor, to do what I, the body-doctor, cannot.'

Frank sat pondering for a minute, and then —

' You set me on a task for which I am as little fit as any man,
by your own showing. What do I know of disagreements
between man and wife ? And one has a delicacy about offering
her comfort. She must bestow her confidence on me before I
can use it ; while he '

' While he, as the cause of the disease, is what you ought to
treat ; and not her unhappiness, which is only a symptom of it.'

' Spoken like a wise doctor : but to tell you the truth,
Thurnall, I have no influence over Mr. Vavasour, and see no
means of getting any. If he recognised my authority, as his
IDarish priest, then I should see my way. Let him be as bad as
he might, I should have a fixed point from which to work j but
with his free-thinking notions, I know well — one can judge it
too easily from his poems — he would look on me as a pedant
assuming a spiritual tyranny to which I have no claim.'

Tom sat awhile nursing his knee, and then —

' If you saw a man fallen into the water, what do you think
would be the shortest way to prove to him that you had author-
ity from heaven to pull him out ? Do you give it up ? Pulling
him out, would it not be, without more ado .' '

' I should be happy enough to pull poor Vavasour out, if he
would let me. But till he believes that I can do it, how can 1
even begin ? '

' How can you expect him to believe, if he has no proof?'

'There are proofs enough in the Bible and elsewhere, if he
will but accept them. If he refuses to examine into the oreden-

X THE RECOGNITION 163

tials, the fault is his, not mine. I really do not wish to be hard :
but would not you do the same, if any one I'efused to employ
you, because he chose to deny that you were a legally qualified
practitioner ? '

' Not so badly put ; but what should I do in that case 1 Go
on quietly curing his neighbours, till he began to alter his mind
as to my qualifications, and came in to be cured himself. But
here's this difference between you and me. I am not bound to
attend any one who don't send for me ; while you think that
you are, and carry the notion a little too far, for I expect you to
kill yourself by it some day.'

'Well?' said Frank, with something of that lazy Oxford tone,
which is intended to save the speaker the trouble of giving his
arguments, when he has already made up his mind, or thinks
that he has so done.

' Well, if I thought myself bound to doctor the man, willy-
nilly, as you do, I would certainly go to him, and show him, at
least, that I understood his complaint. That would be the first
step towards letting me cure him. How else on earth do you
fancy that Paul cured those Corinthians about whom I have
been reading lately 1 '

' Are you, too, going to quote Scripture against me 1 I am
glad to find that your studies extend to St. Paul.'

' To tell you the truth, your sermon last Sunday puzzled me.
I could not comprehend (on your showing) how Paul got that
wonderful influence over those pagans which he evidently had ;
and as how to get influence is a very favourite study of mine,
I borrowed the book when I went home, and read for myself ;
and the matter at last seemed clear enough, on Paul's own
showing.'

' I don't doubt that ; but I suspect your interpretation of the
fact and mine would not agree.'

' iline is simple enough. He says that what proved him to
be an apostle was his power. He is continually appealing to his
power ; and what can he mean by that, but that he could do,
and had done, what he professed to do 1 He promised to make
those poor heathen rascals of Greeks better, and wiser, and
happier men ; and, I suppose, he made them so ; and then there
was no doubt of his commission, or his authority, or anything
else. He says himself he did not require any credentials, for
they were his credentials, read and known of every one ; he had
made good men of them out of bad ones, and that was proof
enough whose apostle he was.'

' Well,' said Frank, half sadly, ' I might say a great deal, of
course, on the other side of the question, but I prefer hearing
what you laymen think about it all.'

' Will you be angry if I tell you honestly ? '

' Did you ever find me angry at anything you said 1 '

' No. I will do you the justice to say that. Well, what we

164 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

laymen say is this. If the parsons have tlie authority of which
they boast, why don't they use it ? If they have commission to
make bad people good, they must have power too ; far He whose
commission they claim is not likely, I should suppose, to set
a man to do what he cannot do.'

' And we can do it if people would but submit to us. It all
comes round again to the same point.'

' So it does. How to get them to listen. I tried to find out
how Paul achieved that first step ; and when I looked he told
me plainly enough. By becoming all things to all men ; by
showing these people that he understood them, and knew wliat
was the matter with tliPin. Xow do you go and do likewise
by Va\,i,sour, and then exercise your authority like a practical
man. If you have power to bind and loose, as you told us
last Sunday, bind that fellow's ungo\einable temper, and loose
him from tlie real sla\ery which he is in to his miserable con-
ceit and self-indulgence ! and then, if lie does not believe in
your "sacerdotal power," lie is even a greater fool than I take
him for.'

' Honestly, I will try : God help me,' added Frank in a lower
voice ; 'but as for quarrels between man and wife, as I told you,
no one understands them less than I.'

' Then marry a wife yourself and quarrel a little with her for
experiment, and then you'll know all about it.'

Frank laughed in spite of himself.

' Thank you. No man is less likely to try that experiment
than I.'

' Hum ! '

' I have quite enough as a bachelor to distract me from my
work, without adding to them those of a wife and family, and
those little home lessons in the frailty of human nature, in which
you advise me to copy ^Ir. Vavasour.'

'And so,' said Tom, 'having to doctor human beings, nine-
teen-twentieths of whom are married ; and being aware that
three parts of the miseries of human life come either from
wanting to be married, or from married cares and troubles — you
think that you will improve your chance of doctoring your flock
rightly by avoiding carefully the least practical acquaintance
with the chief cause of tlieir disease. Philosophical and logical,
truly ! '

' You seem to have acquired a little knowledge of men and
women, my good friend, without encumbering yourself with a
wife and children.'

' Would you like to go to the same school to which I went 1 '
asked Thurnall, with a look of such grave meaning that Frank's
pure spirit shuddered within him. 'And I'll tell you this;
whenever I see a woman nursing her baby, or a father with his
child upon liis knees, I say to myself — they know more, at this
minute, of human nature, as of the great law of " C'est I'amour,

X THE RECOGNITION 165

Tamour, I'amour, which makes the world go round," than I am
likely to do for many a day. I'll tell you what, sir ! These
simple natural ties, which are common to us and the dumb
animals — as I live, sir ! they are the divinest things I see in the
world ! I have but one, and that is love to my poor old father ;
that's all the religion I have as yet : but I tell you it alone has
kept me from being a ruffian and a blackguard. And I'll tell
you more,' said Tom, warming, ' of all diabolical dodges for- pre-
venting the parsons from seeing who they are, or what human
beings are, or what their work in the world is, or anything else,
the neatest is that celibacy of the clergy. I should like to have
you witli me in Spanish America, or in France either, and see
what you thought of it then. How it e^er came into mortal
brains is to me the puzzle. I've often fancied, when I've watched
those priests — and very good fellows, too, some of them are —
that there must be a devil after all abroad in the world, as you
say ; for no human insanity could ever have hit upon so com-
plete and 'cute a device for making parsons do the more harm,
the more good they try to do. There, I've preached you a ser-
mon, and made you angry.'

' Not in the least : but I must go now and see some sick.'

' Well, go, and prosper ; only recollect that the said sick are
men and women.'

And away Tom went, thinking to himself : 'Well, that is a
noble, straightforward, honest fellow, and will do yet, if he'll
only get a wife. He is not one of those asses who have made up
their minds by book that the world is square, and won't believe
it to be round for any ocular demonstration. He'll find out what
shape the world is before long, and behave as such, and act
according!}'.'

Little did Tom think as he went home that day in full-blown
satisfaction with his sermon to Frank, of the misery he had
caused, and was going to cause for many a day, to poor Grace
Harvey. It was a rude shock to her to find herself thus sus-
pected ; though perhaps it was one which she needed. Slie had
never, since one first trouble ten years ago, known any real grief ;
and had therefore had all the more time to make a luxury of
unreal ones. She was treated by the simple folk around her as
all but inspired ; and being possessed of real powers as miracu-
lous in her own eyes as those which were imputed to her were in
theirs (for what are real spiritual experiences but daily miracles?),
she was just in that temper of mind in which she required, as
ballast, ail her real goodness, lest the moral balance should topple
headlong after the intellectual, and the downward course of
vanity, excitement, deception, blasphemous assumptions, be
entered on. Happy for her that she was in Protestant and
common-sense England, and in a country parish, where mesmer-
ism and spirit-rapping were unknown. Had she been an
American, she might have become one of the most lucrative

166 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

' mediums ;' had she been born in a Romish country, she would
have probably become an even more famous personage. There
is no reason why she should not have equalled, or surpassed, the
ecstasies of St. Theresa, or of St. Hildegardis, or any other
sweet dreamer of sweet dreams ; ]ia\ e founded a new order of
charity, have enriched the clergy of a whole province, and have
died in seven years, maddened by alternate paroxysms of self-
conceit and revulsions of self-abasement. Her own preachers
and class-leaders, indeed (so do extremes meet), would not ha\-e
been sorry to make use of her in somewhat the same manner,
however feebly and coarsely ; but her innate self-respect and
modesty had preserved her from the snares of such clumsy
poachers ; and more than one good-looking young preacher had
fled desperately from a station where, instead of making a tool
of Grace Harvey, he could only madden his own foolish heart
with love for her.

So Grace had reigned upon her pretty little throne of not
unbearable sorrows, till a real and bitter woe came ; one which
could not be hugged and cherished, like the rest ; one which she
tried to fling from her angrily, scornfully, and found to her
horror that, instead of her possessing it, it possessed her, and
coiled itself round her heart, and would not be flung awaj-.
She — she, of all beings, to be suspected as a thief, and by the
\ery man whose life she had sa\ ed ! She was willing enough to
confess herself — an-d confessed herself night and morning — a
miserable sinner, and her heart a cage of unclean birds, deceit-
ful, and desperately wicked — except in that. The conscious
innocence flashed up in pride and scorn, in thoughts, even wlien
she was alone, in words, of which she would not have believed
herself capable. With hot brow and dry eyes she paced her
little ehambei', sat down on the bed, staring into vacancy, sprang
up and paced again ; but she went into no trance — she dare not.
The grief was too great ; she felt that, if she once ga\e way
enough to lose her self-possession, she should go mad. And the
first, and perhaps not the least good effect of that fiery trial was,
that it compelled her to a stern self-restraint, to wliifh her will,
weakened by mental luxuriousness, had been long a stranger.

But a fiery trial it was. That first wild (and yet not unnatural)
fancy, that heaven had given Thurnall to her, had deepened day
by day by the mere indulgence of it. But she never dreamt of
him as her husband : only as a friendless stranger to be helped
and comforted. And that he was worthy of help, that some
great future was in store for him, that he was a chosen vessel
mai-ked out for glory, she had persuaded herself utterly ; and
the ijersuasion grew in her day by day, as she heard more and
more of his cleverness, honesty, and kindliness, mysterious and,
to her, miraculous learning. Therefore she did not make haste ;
she did not even try to see him, or to speak to him : a civil
bow in passing was all that she took or gave ; and she was

X THE RECOGNITION 167

content with that, and waited till the time came when she was
destined to do for him — what she knew not ; but it would be
done if she were strong enough. So she set herself to learn,
and read, and trained her mind and temper more earnestly than
ever, and waited in patience for God's good time. And now,
behold, a black, unfathomable gulf of doubt and shame had
opened between them, perhaps for ever. And a tumult arose in
her soul, which cannot be, perhaps ought not to be, analysed in
words ; but which made her know too well, by her own crimson
cheeks, that it was none other than human love strong as death,
and jealousy cruel as the grave.

At last long and agonising prayer brought gentler thoughts,
and mere physical exhaustion a calmer mood. How wicked she
liad been ; how rebellious ! Why not forgive him, as One
greater than she had forgiven ? It was ungrateful of him ; but
was he not human ? Why should she expect his heart to be
better than hers 1 Besides, he might have excuses for his sus-
picion. He might be the best judge, being a man, and such a
clever one too. Yes ; it was God's cross, and she would bear it ;
she would try and forget him. No ; that was impossible ; she
must hear of him, if not see him, day by day ; besides, was not
her fate linked up with his ? And yet shut out from him by
that dark wall of suspicion ! It was very bitter. But she could
pray for him ; she would pray for him now. Yes ; it was God's
cross, and she would bear it. He would right her if He thought
fit ; and if not, what matter ? Was she not born to sorrow ?
Should she complain if another drop, and that the bitterest of
all, was added to the cup ?

And bear her cross she did, about with her, coming in, and
going out, for many a weary day. There was no change in her
habits or demeanour ; she was never listless for a moment in
her school ; she was more gay and amusing than ever, when she
gathered her little ones around her for a story ; but still there
was the unseen burden, grinding her heart slowly, till she felt
as if e\ery footstep was stained with a drop of her heart's blood.
. . Why not ? It would be the sooner over.

Then, at times came that strange woman's pleasure in mar-
tyrdom, the secret pride of sufl[ering unjustly ; but even that,
after a while, she cast away from her as a snare, and tried to
believe that she deserved all her sorrow— deserved it, that is, in
the real honest sense of the word ; that she had worked it out,
and earned it, and brought it on herself — how, she knew not,
but longed and strove to know. No ; it was no martyrdom.
She would not allow herself so silly a cloak of pride ; and she
went daily to her favourite Book of Martyrs, to contemplate
there the stories of those who, really innocent, really suffered for
well-doing. And out of that book she began to draw a new and
a strange enjoyment, for she soon found that her intense imagi-
nation enabled her to re-enact those sad and glorious stories in

168 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

her own person ; to tremble, agonise, and conquer with those
lieroines who had been for years her higliest ideals — and what
higher ones could she liave 1 And many a night, after extin-
guishing the light and closing her eyes, she would lie motion-
less for hours on her little bed, not to sleep, but to feel with
Perpetua the wild bull's horns, to hang with St. Maura on the
cross, or lie with Julitta on the rack, or see with triumpliant
smile, by Aune Askew's side, the fire tlare up around her at the
Smithfield stake, or to promise, with dying Dorothea, celestial
roses to the mocking youth, whose face too often took the form
of Thurnall's ; till every nerve quivered responsive to her fancy
in agonies of actual pain, which died away at last into heavy
slumber, as body and mind alike gave way before the strain.
Sweet fool ! she knew not — how could she know ? — that she
might be rearing in herself the seeds of idiocy and death ; but
who that applauds a Rachel or a Eistori for being able to make
awhile their souls and their countenances the homes of the
darkest passions, can blame her for enacting in herself, and for
herself alone, incidents in which the highest and holiest virtue
takes shape in perfect tragedy ?

But soon another, and yet darker cause of sorrow arose in
her. It was clear, from what Willis had told her, that she had
held the lost belt in her hand. The question was, how had she
lost it ?

Did her mother know anything about it ? That question
could not but arise in her mind, though for very reverence she
dared not put it to her mother ; and with it arose the recollec-
tion of her mother's strange silence about the matter. Why had
she put away the subject carelessly, and yet peevishly, when-
ever it was mentioned ? Yes. Why ? Did her mother know

anything t Was she 1 Grace dared not pronounce the

adjective, even in thought ; dashed it away as a temptation of
the devil ; dashed away, too, the thought which had forced itself
on her too often alreadj-, that her mother was not altogether
one who possessed the single eye ; that in spite of her deep
religious feeling, her assurance of salvation, her fits of bitter
self-humiliation and despondency, there was an inclination to
scheming and intrigue, ambition, covetousness ; that the secrets
which she gained as class-leader too, were too often (( Jrace could
but fear) used to her own advantage ; that in her flealings her
morality was not above the average of little counti-y shop-
keepers ; that she was apt to have two prices ; to keep her
books with unnecessary carelessness when the person against
whom the account stood was no scholar. Grace had more than
once remonstrated in her gentle way ; and had been silenced,
rather than satisfied, by her mother's common-places as to the
right of ' making those wlio could pay, pay for those who could
not ; ' that ' it was very hard to get a living, and the Lord knew
her temptations,' and ' that God saw no sin in His elect,' and

xr THE FIRST INSTALMENT OF AN OLD DEBT 169

' Christ's merits were infinite,' and ' Christians always had been
a backsliding generation ; ' and all the other common-places by
which such people drug their consciences to a degree which is
utterly incredible, except to those who have seen it with their
own eyes, and hearxl it with their own ears, from childhood.

Once, too, in those very days, some little meanness on her
motlier's part brought the tears into Grace's eyes, and a gentle
rebuke to her lips ; but lier mother bore the interference less
patiently than usual, and answered, not by cant, but by counter-
reproach. 'Was she the person to accuse a poor widowed
motlier, struggling to leave her child something to keep her out
of the workhouse ? A mother that lived for her, would die for
her, sell her soul for her, perhaps '

And there ilrs. Harvey stopped short, turned pale, and burst
into such an agony of tears that Grace, terrified, threw her arms
round her neck and entreated forgiveness, all the more intensely
on account of those thoughts within which she dared not reveal.
So the storm passed over. But not Grace's sadness. For she
could not but see, with her clear pure spiritual eye, that her
mother was just in that state in which some fearful and shame-
ful fall is possible, perhaps wholesome. 'She would sell her
soul for me 1 What if she have sold it, and stopped short just
now, because she had not the heart to tell me that love for me
liad been the cause ? Oh ! if she ha\'e sinned for my sake !
AA'retch that I am ! Miserable myself, and bringing misery
with me ! Why was I ever born ? Why cannot I die — and the
world be rid of me 1 '

No, she would not believe it. It was a wicked, horrible
temptation of the devil. She would rather believe that she her-
self had been the thief, tempted during her unconsciousness ;
that she had hidden it somewhere ; that she should recollect,
confess, restore all some day. She would carry it to him herself,
grovel at his feet, and entreat forgiveness. 'He will surely
forgive, when he finds that I was not myself when — that it was
nrt altogether my fault — not as if I had been waking — yes, he
will forgive ! ' And then on that thought followed a dream of
what might follow, so wild that a moment after she had hid hei'
blushes in her hands, and fled to books to escape from thoughts.

CHAPTER XI

THE FIRST INSTALMf^XT OF AN" OLTl DEBT

We must now return to Elsley, who had walked home in a state
of mind truly pitiable. He had been flattering his soul with the
hope that Thurnall did not know him ; that liis beard, and the
change which years had made, formed a suflicient disguise ; but
he could not conceal from himself that the very same alterations

170 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

had not prevented his recognising Thurnall ; and he had been
living for two months past in continual fear that that would
come which now had come.

His rage and terror knew no bounds. Fancying Thurnall a
merely mean and self-interested worldling, untouched by those
higher aspirations which stood to him in place of a religion, he
imagined him making every possible use of his power ; and
longed to escape to the uttermost ends of the earth from his old
tormentor, whom the very sea would not put out of the way,
but must needs cast ashore at his very feet, to plague him
afresh.

What a net he had spread around his own fi'ft by one act of
foolish vanity ! He had taken his present name, merely as a
noin de gueriy^, when first he came to London as a penniless and
friendless scribbler. It would hide him from the ridicule (and,
as he fancied, spite) of Thurnall, whom he dreaded meeting
every time he walked London streets, and who was for years, to
his melancholic and too intense fancy, his hi'te noir, his Franken-
stein's familiar. Besides, he was ashamed of the name of Briggs.
It certainly is not an euphonious or aristocratic name ; and
''The Soul's Ai/imifx, by John Briggs,' would not have sounded as
well as ' The Sovl's Af/onies, by Elsley Vavasour.' Vavasour was
a very pretty name, and one of those whicli is supposed by
novelists and young ladies to be aristocratic ; why so is a
puzzle ; as its plain meaning is a tenant-farmer, and nothing
more nor less. So he had played with the name till he became
fond of it, and considered that lie had a right to it, througli
seven long years of weary struggles, penury, disappointment, as
he climbed the Parnassian Mount, writing for magazines and
newspapers, sub-editing this periodical and tliat ; till he began
to be known as a ready, graceful, and trustworthy workman,
and was befriended by one kind-hearted /ittf'ralevr after
another. For in London, at this moment, any young man of
real power will find friends enough, and too many, among his
fellow-bookwrights, and is more likely to have his head turned
by flattery, than his heart crushed by en\-y. Of course, whatso-
ever flattery he may receive, he is expected to return ; and
whatsoever clique he may be tossed into on his flelnit, he is
expected to stand by, and fight for, against the universe ; but
that is but fair. If a young gentleman, invited to enrol him-
self in the ilutual-puffery Society which meets every ^Monday
and Friday in Hatchgoose the publisher's drawing-room, is
willing to pledge himself thereto in the mystic cup of tea, is he
not as solemnly bound thenceforth to support those literary
Oatilines in their eflbrts for the subversion of common sense,
good taste, and established things in general, as if he had
pledged them, as he would have done in Rome of old, in his own
life-blood ? Bound he is, alike by honour and by green tea ; and
it will be better for him to fulfil his bond. For if association is

\-r THE FIRST INSTALMENT OF AN OLD DEBT 171

the cardinal principle of the age, will it not work as well in
book-making as in clothes-making ? And shall not the motto of
the poet (who will also do a little reviewing on the sly) be
lienceforth that which shines triumphant over all the world, on
many a valiant Scotchman's shield —

' Caw me, and I'll caw thee ' ?

But to do John Briggs justice, he kept his hands, and his
heart also, cleaner than most men do during this stage of his
career. After the first excitement of novelty, and of mixing
with people who could really talk and think, and who freely
spoke out whatever was in them, right or wrong, in language
which at least sounded grand and deep, he began to find in the
literary world about the same satisfaction for his inner life
which he would have found in the sporting world or the
commercial world, or the religious world, or the fashionable
world, or any other world, and to suspect strongly that where-
soever a world is, the flesh and the devil are not very far off.
Tired of talking when he wanted to think, of asserting when
he wanted to discover, and of hearing his neighbours do the
same ; tired of little meannesses, envyings, intrigues, jobberies
(for the literary world, too, has its jobs), he had been for
some time withdrawing himself from the Hatchgoose soirees
into his own thoughts, when his Soul's Ayonies appeared, and
he found himself, if not a lion, at least a lion's cub.

There is a house or two in town where you may meet, on
certain evenings, everybody ; where duchesses and unfledged
poets, bishops and red republican refugees, fox-hunting noble-
men and briefless barristers who have taken to politics, are
jumbled together for a couple of hours, to make what they can
out of each other, to the exceeding benefit of them all. For
each and every one of them finds his neighbour a pleasanter
person than he expected ; and none need leave those rooms
without knowing something more than he did when he came
in, and taking an interest in some human being who may need
that interest. To one of these houses, no matter which, Elsley
was invited on the strength of the Soti/'s Agonies ; found
himself, for the first time, face to face with high-bred English-
women ; and fancied — small blame to him — that he was come
to the mountains of the Peris, and to Fairy Land itself. He
had been flattered already : but never with such grace, such
sympathy, or such seeming understanding ; for there are few
high-bred women who cannot seem to understand, and delude
a hapless genius into a belief in their own surpassing brilliance
and penetration, while they are cunningly retailing again to
him the thoughts which they have caught up from the man to
whom they spoke last ; perhaps — for this is the very triumpli
of their art — from the very man to whom they are speaking.
Small blame to bashful, clumsy John Briggs, if he did not

172 TWO YEARS AC.O tiiap.

know liis own children ; and could not recognise his own stam-
rnered and fragmentary fancies, when they were re-echoed to
him the next minute, in the prettiest shape, and with the most
delicate articulation, from lips which (like those in the fairy
tale) never opened witliout dropping pearls and diamonds.

Oh, what a contrast, in the eyes of a man wliose sense of
beauty and grace, whetlier physical or intellectual, was true
and deep, to that ghastly ring of prophetesses in the Hatch-
goose drawing-room ; strongminded and emancipated women,
who prided themselves on having cast oft' con\-entionalities,
and on being rude, and awkward, and dogmatic, and irreverent,
and sometimes slightly improper ; women who had missions to
mend everything in heaven and earth, except themselves ; who
had quarrelled witli their husbands, and had therefore felt a
mission to assert women's rights, and reform marriage in
general ; or who had never been able to get married at all, and
therefore were especially competent to promvilgate a model
method of educating the children whom they never had had ;
women who wrote poetry about Lady Blanches whom they
never had met, and novels about male and female blackguards
whom (one hopes) they never had met, or about whom (if they
had) decent women would have held their peace ; and every one
of whom had, in obedience to Emerson, 'followed her im-
pulses,' and despised fashion, and was accordingly clothed and
bedizened as was right in the sight of her own eyes, and prob-
ably in those of no one else.

No wonder that Elsley, ere long, began drawing comparisons,
and using his wit upon ancient patronesses, of course behind
their backs, likening them to idols fresh from the car of Jugger-
naut, or from the stern of a. South-sea canoe ; or, most of all,
to that famous wooden image of Freya, which once leapt lum-
bering forth from her bullock-cart, creaking and rattling in
every oaken joint, to belabour the too daring Viking who
was flirting with her priestess. Even so, whispered Elsley,
did those brains and tongues creak and rattle, lumbering
before the blasts of Pythonic insijiration ; and so, he verily
believed, would the awkward arms and legs have done likewise,
if one of the Pythonesses had ever so far degraded herself as
to dance.

Xo wonder, then, that those gifted dames had soon to com-
plain of Elsley Va\asour as a traitor to the cause of progress
and civilisation ; a renegade who had fled to the camp of aris-
tocracy, flunkeyrlom, obscurantism, frivolity, and dissipation ;
though there was not one of them but would have given an eye
— perhaps no great loss to the aggregate loveliness of the
universe — for one of liis invitations to 099 Cavendish Sti-eet,
soutli-east, with the chance of being presented to the Duchess
of Lyonesse.

To do Elsley justice, one reason why he liked his new ac-

XI THE FIRST INSTALMENT OP AN OLD DEBT 173

quaintances so well was, that they liked him. He behaved well
himself, and therefore people behaved well to him. He was, as
I ha\e said, a very handsome fellow in his way ; therefore it
was easy to him, as it is to all physically beautiful persons, to
acquire a graceful manner. Moreover, he had steeped his
whole soul in old poetry, and especially in Spenser's Faery
Queen. Good for him, had he followed every lesson which he
might have learnt out of that most noble of English books :
but one lesson at least he learnt from it ; and that was, to be
chivalrous, tender, and courteous to all women, liowever old or
ugly, simply because they were women. The Hatchgoose
Pythonesses did not wish to be women, but very bad imitations
of men ; and therefoie lie considered himself absolved from all
knightly duties toward them : but toward these Peris of the
west, and to the dowagers who had been Peris in their time,
what adoration could be too great? So he bowed down and
worshipped ; and, on the whole, he was quite right in so doing.
Moreover, he had the good sense to discover that though the
young Peris were the prettiest to look at, the elder Peris were
the better company : and that it is, in general, from married
women that a poet or any one else will ever learn what woman's
heart is lilce. And so well did he carry out his creed, that
before his first summer was over he had quite captivated the
heart of old Lady Knockdown, aunt to Lucia St. Just, and wife
to Lucia's guardian ; a charming old Irishwoman, who affected
a pretty brogue, perhaps for the same reason that she wore a
wig, and who had been, in her day, a beauty and a blue, a friend
of the Miss Berrys, and Tommy Moore, and Grattan, and Lord
Edward Fitzgerald, and Dan O'Connell, and all other lions
and lionesses which had roared for the last sixty years about
the Emerald Isle. There was no one whom she did not know,
and nothing she could not talk about. ^larried up, when a
girl, to a man for whom she did not care, and having no
children, she had indemnified herself by many flirtations, and
the writing of two or three novels, in which she penned on
paper the superfluous feeling which had no vent in real life.
She had deserted, as she grew old, the novel for unfulfilled pro-
phecy ; and was a distinguished leader in a distinguished reli-
gious coterie : but she still prided herself upon having a green
head upon gray shoulders, and not without reason ; for under-
neath all the worldliness and intrigue, and petty affectation
of girlishness, which she contrived to jumble in witli her
religiosity, beat a young and kindly heart. So she was
charmed with ^Ir. Va\'asour's manners, and commended them
much to Lucia, who, a shrinking girl of seventeen, was peeping
at her first season from under Lady Knockdown's sheltering
wing.

' Me dear, let ilr. Vavasour be who he will, he has not only
the intellect of a true genius, but what is a great deal better

174 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

for practical purposes ; that is, the manners of one. Give me
the man who will let a woman of our rank say what we like to
him, without supposing that he may say what he likes in
return ; and considers one's familiarity as an honour, and not
as an excuse for taking liberties. A most agreeable contrast,
indeed, to the young men of the present day ; who come in
their shooting jackets, and talk slang to their partners — though
really the girls are just as bad — and stand with their backs to
the fire, and smell of smoke, and go to sleep after dinner, and
pay no respect to old age, nor to youth either, I think. Ton
me word, Lucia, the answers I've heard young gentlemen
make to young ladies, this very season — they'd have been
called out the next morning in my time, me dear. As for the
age of chivalry, nobody expects that to be restored : but
really one might have been spared the substitute for it which
we had when I was young, in the grand air of the old school.
It was a " sham," I dare say, as they call e\ erything nowadays :
but really, me dear, a pleasant sham is better to li\e witli
than an unpleasant reality, especially when it smells of
cigars.'

So it befell that Elsley Vavasour was asked to Lady Knock-
down's, and that there he fell in love with Lucia, and Lucia fell
in love with him.

The next winter old Lord Knockdown, who had been de-
crepit for some years past, died ; and his widow, whose income
was under five hundred a year — for the estates were entailed,
and mortgaged, and everything else which can hajjpen to an
Irish property — came to live with her nephew, Lord Scoutbush,
in Eaton Square, and take such care as she could of Lucia
and Valentia.

So, after a dreary autumn and winter of parting and silence,
Elsley found himself the next season invited to Eaton Square ;
there the mischief, if mischief it was, was done ; and Elsley and
Lucia started in life upon two hundred a year. He had inherited
some fifty of his own ; she had about a hundred and fifty, which,
indeed, was not yet her own by right ; but little Scoutbush
(who was her sole survi\T.ng guardian) behaved on the whole
very well for a young gentleman of twenty-two, in a state of
fury and astonishment. The old lord had, wisely enough, settled
in his will that Lucia was to enjoy the interest of her fortune
from the time that she came out, provided she did not marry
without her guardian's leave ; and Scoutbush, to avoid esclandre
and misery, thought it as well to waive the proviso, and paid
her her dividends as usuaL

But how had she contrived to marry at all without his leave ?
That is an ugly question. I will not say that she had told a
falsehood, or that Elsley had forsworn himself when he got the
licence ; but certainly both of them were guilty of something
very like a white lie, when they declared that Lucia had the

XI THS FIRST INSTALMENT OF AN OLD DEBT 175

consent of her sole surviving guardian, on the sti'ength of a
half-angry, half -jesting expression of Scoutbush's, that she might
marry whom she chose, provided she did not plague him. In
the first triumph of success and intoxication of wedded bliss,
Lucia had written him a saucy letter, reminding him of his
permission, and saying that she had taken him at his word : but
her conscience smote her ; and Elsley's smote him likewise ; and
smote liim all the more, because he had been married under a
false name, a fact which might have ugly consequences in law
which he did not like to contemplate. To do him justice, he
had been, half a dozen times during his courtship, on the point
of telling Lucia his real name and history. Happy for him had
he done so, whatever might ha\'e been the consequences ; but
he wanted moral courage ; the hideous sound of Briggs had
become horrible to him ; and once his foolish heart was fright-
ened away from honesty, just as honesty was on the point of
conquering, by old Lady Knockdown's saying that she could
never have married a man with an ugly name, or let Lucia
marry one.

' Conceive becoming Mrs. Natty Bumppo, me dear, even for
twenty thousand a year. If you could summon up courage to
do the deed, I couldn't summon up courage to continue my
correspondence with ye.'

Elsley knew that that was a lie ; that the old lady would have
let her marry the most triumphant snob in England, if he had
half that income ; but unfortunately Lucia capped her aunt's
nonsense with ' There is no fear of my ever marrying any one
who has not a graceful name,' and a look at Vavasour, which

said, ' And you have one, and therefore I ' For the matter

had then been settled between them. This was too much for
his vanity, and too much, also, for his fears of losing Lucia by
confessing the truth. So Elsley went on, ashamed of his real
name, ashamed of having concealed it, ashamed of being afraid
that it would be discovered — in a triple complication of shame,
which made him gradually, as it makes every man, moody,
suspicious, apt to take offence where none is meant. Besides,
they were very poor. He, though neither extravagant nor pro-
fligate, was, like most literary men who are accustomed to live
from hand to mouth, careless, self-indulgent, unmethodical.
She knew as much of housekeeping as the Queen of Oude does ;
and her charming little dreams of shopping for herself were
rudely enough broken, ere the first week was out, by the horri-
fied looks of Clara, when she returned from her first morning's
marketing for the weekly consumption, with nothing but a
woodcock, some trufiles, and a bunch of celery. Then the land-
lady of the lodgings robbed her, even under the nose of the
faithful Clara, who knew as little about housekeeping as her
mistress ; and Clara, faithful as she was, repaid herself by
grumbling and taking liberties for being degraded from the

176 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

luxurious post of lady's maid to that of servant of all work, with
a landlady and 'marchioness' to wrestle with all day long. Then,
what with imprudence and anxiety, Lucia of course lost her
first child ; and after that came months of illness, during which
Elsley tended her, it must be said for him, as lovingly as a
mother ; and perhaps they were both really happier during that
time of sorrow than they liad been in all the delirious bliss of
the honeymoon.

Valentia meanwhile defied old Lady Knockdown (whose
horror and wrath knew no bounds), and walked ofi' one morning
with her maid to see her prodigal sister ; a visit which not only
brouglit comfort to the weary heart, but important practical
benefits. For going home, she seized upon Scoutbush, and so
moved his heart with pathetic pictures of Lucia's unheard-of
penury and misery, that his heart was softened ; and though he
absolutely refused to call on Vavasour, he made him an offer,
through Lucia, of Penal va Court for the time being ; and thither
they went — perhaps the best thing they could ha\e done.

There, of course, they were somewhat more comfortable. A
very cheap country, a comfortable house rent free, and a lo^•ely
neighbourhood, were a pleasant change, after dear London
lodgings ; but it is a question whether the change made Elsley
a better man.

In the first place, he became a more idle man. The rich
enervating climate began to tell upon his mind, as it did upon
Lucia's health. He missed that perpetual spur of nervous ex-
citement, change of society, influx of e^■er-fresh objects, which
makes London, after all, the best place in the world for hard
working ; and which makes even a walk along the streets an
intellectual tonic. In the soft and luxurious West-country,
nature invited him to look at her, and dream ; and dream he
did, more and more, day by day. He was tired, too — as who
would not be ? — of the drudgery of writing for his daily bread ;
and reliexed from the importunities of publishers and piinters'
devils, he sent up fewer and fewer contributions to the maga-
zines. He would keep his energies for a great work ; poetry
was, after all, his forte ; he would not fritter himself away on
prose and periodicals, but would win for himself, etc. etc. If
he made a mistake, it was at least a pardonable one.

But Elsley became not only a more idle, but a more morose
man. He began to feel the evils of solitude. There was no one
near with whom he could hold rational converse, save an anti
quarian parson or two ; and parsons were not to his taste. So,
never measuring his wits against those of his peers, and despis-
ing the few men whom he met as inferior to himself, he grew
more and more wrapt up in his own thoughts and his own tastes.
His own poems, even to the slightest turn of expression, became
more and more important to him. He grew more jealous of
criticism, more confident in his own little theories, about this

XI THE FIRST INSTALMENT OF AN OLD DEBT 177

and that, more careless of the opinion of his fellow-men, and, as
a certain consequence, more unable to bear the little crosses and
contradictions of daily life ; and as Lucia, having brought one
and another child safely into the world^ settled down into
motherhood, he became less and less attentive to her, and more
and more attentive to that self which was fast becoming the
centre of his universe.

True, there were excuses for him ; for whom are there none t
He was poor and struggling ; and it is much more difficult (as
Becky Sharp, 1 think, pathetically observes) to be good when
one is poor than when one is rich. It is (and all rich people
should consider the fact) much more easy, if not to go to heaven,
at least to think one is going thither, on three thousand a year,
than on three hundred. Not only is respectability more easy,
as is proved by the broad fact that it is the poor people who fill
the gaols, and not the rich ones ; but virtue, and religion — of
the popular sort. It is undeniably more easy to be resigned to
the will of Heaven, when that will seems tending just as we
would have it ; much more easy to have faith in the goodness
of Providence, when that goodness seems safe in one's pocket in
the form of bank-notes ; and to believe that one's children are
under the protection of Omnipotence, when one can hire for
them in half an hour the best medical advice in London. One
need only look into one's own heart to understand the disciples'
astonishment at the news tliat 'How hardly shall they that
have riches enter into the kingdom of heaven.'

' Who then can be saved ? ' asked they, being poor men,
accustomed to see the wealthy Pharisees in possession of ' the
highest religious privileges, and means of grace.' Who, indeed,
if not the rich ? If the noblemen, and the bankers, and the
dowagers, and the young ladies who go to church, and read
good books, and have been supplied from youth with the very
best religious articles which money can procure, and have time
for all manner of good works, and give their hundreds to chari-
ties, and head reformatory movements, and build churches, and
work altar-cloths, and can taste all the preachers and father-
confessors round London, one after another, as you would taste
wines, till they find the spiritual panacea which exactly suits
their complaint — if they are not sure of salvation, who can be
saved ?

Without further comment, the fact is left for the considera-
tion of all readers ; only let tliem not be too hard upon Elsley
and Lucia, if, finding themselves sometimes literally at their
wts' end, they went beyond their poor wits into the region
where foolish things are said and done.

Moreover, Elsley's ill-temper (as well as Lucia's) had its
excuses in physical ill-health. Poor fellow ! Long years of
sedentary work had begun to tell upon him ; and while Tom
Thurnall's chest, under the influence of hard work and oxygen.

N T. Y. A.

178 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

measured round perhaps six inclies more than it had done six-
teen years ago, Elsley's, thanks to stooping and carbonic acid,
measured six inches less. Short breath, lassitude, loss of
appetite, heartburn, and all that fair company of miseries
which Mr. Cockle and his antibilious pills profess to cure, are
no cheering bosom friends ; but when a man's bie,ist-bone is
gradually growing into his stomach, they will make their ap-
pearance ; and small blame to him whose temper suffers from
their gentle hints that he has a mortal body as well as an
immortal soul.

But most fretting of all was the discovery that Lucia knew —
if not all about his original name — still enough to keep him in
dread lest she should learn more.

It was now twelve months and more that this new terror had
leapt up and stared in his face. He had left a letter about — a
thing which he was apt to do — in which the Whitbury lawyer
made some allusions to his little property ; and he was sure that
Lucia had seen it, the hated name of Briggs certainly she had
not seen ; for Elsley had torn it out the moment he opened
the letter ; but she had seen enough, as he soon found, to be
certain that he had, at some time or other, passed under a
different name.

If Lucia had been a more thoughtful or high-minded woman,
she would have gone sti'aight to her husband, and quietly and
lovingly asked him to tell her all ; but in her left-handed Irish
fashion, she kept the secret to herself, and thought it a very
good joke to have him in her power, and to be able to torment
him about that letter when he got out of temper. It never
occurred, however, to her that his present name was the feigned
one. She fancied that he had, in some youthful escapade,
assumed the name to whicli the lawyer alluded. So the next
time he was cross, she tried laughingly the effect of her newly-
discovered spell ; and was horror-struck at the storm which she
evoked. In a voice of thunder Elsley commanded her never to
mention the subject again ; and showed such signs of terror and
remorse, that she obeyed him from that day forth, except when
now and then she lost her temper as completely, too, as he.
Little she thouglit, in her heedlessness, what a dark cloud of
fear and suspicion, ever deepening and spreading, she had put
between his heart and hers.

But if Elsley had dreaded her knowledge of his story, he
dreaded ten times more Tom's knowledge of it. "What if Thur-
nall should tell Lucia ? What if Lucia should make a confidant
of Thurnall ? "Women told their doctors everything ; and Lucia,
he knew too well, had cause to complain of him. Perhaps,
thought he, maddened into wild suspicion by the sense of his
own wrong-doing, she might complain of him ; she might com-
bine with Thurnall against him — for what purpose he knew not ;
but the wildest imaginations flashed across him, as he hurried

XI THE FIRST INSTALMENT OF AN OLD DEBT 179

desperately home, intending as soon as he got there to forbid
Luci.i's ever calling in his dreaded enemy. No, Thurnall should
ne\'er cross his door again ! On that one point he was deter-
mined, but on nothing else.

However, his intention was never fulfilled. For long before
he reached home he began to feel himself thoroughly ill. His
was a temperament upon which mental anxiety acts rapidly and
severely ; and the burning sun and his rapid walk combined
with rage and terror to give him such a ' turn ' that, as he hur-
ried down the lane, he found himself reeling like a drunken man.
He had just time to hurry through the garden, and into his
study, when pulse and sense failed him, and he rolled over on
the sofa in a dead faint.

Lucia had seen him come in, and heard him fall, and rushed
in. The poor little thing was at her wits' end, and thought that
he had had nothing less than a covp-dc-so/eil. And when he
recovered from his faintness, he began to be so horribly ill that
Clara, who had been called in to help, had some grounds for the
degrading hypothesis (for which Lucia all but boxed her ears)
that ' iLaster had got away into the woods, and gone eating
toadstools, or some such poisonous stulf; ' for he lay a full half-
hour on the sofa, death cold, and ahnost pulseless ; moaning,
shuddering, hiding his face in his hands, and refusing cordials,
medicines, and, above all, a doctor's visit.

However, this could not be allowed to last. Without Elsley's
knowledge, a messenger was despatched for Thurnall, and luckily
met him in the lane ; for he was returning to the town in the
footsteps of his victim.

Elsley's horror was complete when the door opened, and Lucia
brought in none other than his tormentor.

'My dearest Elsley, I have sent for ]Mi-. Thurnall. I knew
you would not let me, if I told you ; but you see I have done it,
and now you must really speak to him.'

Elsley's first impulse was to motion them both away angrily;
but the thought that he was in Thurnall's power stopped him.
He must not show his disgust. What if Lucia were to ask its
cause, even to guess it ? for to his fears even that seemed pos-
sible. A fresh misery ! Just because he shrank so intensely
from the man, he must endure him !

' There is nothing the matter with me,' said he languidly.

' I should be the best .iudge of that, after what Mrs. Vavasour
lias just told me,' said 'Tom, in his most professional and civil
voice ; and sli[)ped, eat-like, into a seat beside the unresisting
poet.

He asked question on question ; but Elsley gave such unsatis-
factory answers, that Lucia had to detail everything afresh for
him, with — ' You know, 'Mr. Thurnall, he is always overtasking
his brain, and will never confess himself ill ' — and all a woman's
anxious comments.

180 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

Rogue Tom knew all the while well enough what was the
cause ; but he saw, too, that Elsley was very ill. He felt that
he must have the matter out at once ; and, by a side glance, sent
the obedient Lucia out of the room to get a table-spoonful of
brandy.

' Now, my dear sir, that we are alone,' began he blandly.

'Now, sir!' answered Vavasour, springing off tlie sofa, his
whole pent-up wrath exploding in hissing steam, tlie moment
the safety-valve was lifted. 'Now, sir! What — what is the
meaning of this insolence, this intrusion V

' I beg your pardon, Mr. Vavasour,' answered Tom, rising, in
a tone of bland and stolid surprise.

' What do you want here, with your mummery and medicine,
when you know the cause of my malady well enough already !
Go, sir ! and leave me to myself.'

'My dear sir,' said Tom firmly, 'you seem to have forgotten
what passed between us this morning.'

' Will you insult me beyond endurance ? ' cried Elsley.

' I told you that, as long as you chose, you were Elsley A'a\'a-
sour, and I the country doctor. We have met in that character.
Why not sustain it 1 You are really ill ; and if I know the cause,
I am all the more likely to know the cure.'

'Cure?'

' AVhy not ? Believe uie, it is in your i^ower to become a much
happier man, simply by becoming a healthier one.'

' Impertinence ! '

' Pish ! What can I gain by being impertinent, sir ? I know
very well that you have received a sevei'e shock ; but I know
equally well, that if you were as you ought to be, you would not
feel it in this way. When one sees a man in the state of pros-
tration in which you are, common sense tells one that the body
must have been neglected, for the mind to gain such power
over it.'

Elsley replied with a grunt ; but Tom went on, bland and
imperturbable.

' Believe me, it may be a very materialist view of things ; but
fact is fact — the cor/nix xnmim is father to the //tenx H'lna — tonics
and exercise make the ills of life look marvellously smaller.
You have the frame of a strong and active man ; and all you
want to make you light-hearted and cheerful is to develop what
nature has given you.'

' It is too late,' said Elsley, pleased, as most men are, by being
told that they might be strong and active.

'Not in the least. Three months would strengthen your
muscles, open your chest again, settle your digestion, and make
you as fresh as a lark, and able to sing like one. Belie\e me,
the poetry would be the better for it, as well as the stomach.
Now, positively, I shall begin questioning you.'

So Elsley was won to detail the symptoms of internal /na/aixe.

XI THK FIRST INSTALMENT OF AN OLD DEBT 181

which he was only too much in tlie habit of watching himself ;
but there were some among tliem which Tom could not quite
account for on the ground of mere effeminate habits. A thought
struck him.

' You sleep ill, I suppose ? ' said he carelessly.

' Did you ever try opiates ? '

' No — yes — that is, sometimes.'

' Ah ! ' said Tom, more carelessly still, for he wished to hide
by all means, the importance of the confession. 'Well, they
give relief for a time ; but they are dangerous things — disorder
the digestion, and have their revenge on the nerves next morn-
ing, as spitefully as brandy itself. Much better try a glass ot
strong ale or porter just before going to bed. I've known it
give sleep, even in consumption — try it, and excicise. You

shoot r

'No.'

' Pity ; there ought to be noble cocking in these woods.
However, the season's past. You fish ? '

'Xo.'

' Pity again. I hear Alva is full of trout. Wliy not try sail-
ing ? Noticing oxygenates the lungs like a sail, and your friends
the fishermen would be delighted to have you as supercargo.
They are always full of your stories to them, and your picking
their brains for old legends and adventures.'

' They are noble fellows, and I want no better company ; but,
unfortunately, I am always sea-sick.'

' Ah ! wholesome, but unpleasant : you are fond of gardening 1 '

' Very ; but stooping makes my head swim.'
' True, and I don t wi

; want you to stoop. I hope to see you soon
as erect as a Guardsman. Why not try walks ? '

' Abominable bores — lonely, aimless '

'Well, perhaps you're right. I never knew but three men
who took long constitutionals on principle, and two of them
were cracked. But why not try a companion ; and persuade
that curate, who needs just the same medicine as you, to accom-
pany you ; I don't know a more gentleman-like, agreeable, well-
informed man than he is.'

' Thank you. I can choose my acquaintances for myself.'

' You touchy ass ! ' said Thurnall to himself. ' If we were in
the blessed state of nature now, wouldn't I give you ten minutes'
double thonging, and then set you to work, as the runaway
nigger did his master, Bird o' freedom Sawin, till you'd learnt a
thing or two.' But blandly still he went on.

' 'Try the dumb-bells then. Nothing like them for opening
your chest. And do get a high desk made, and stand to your
writing instead of sitting.' And Tom actually made Vavasour
promise to do both, and bade him farewell with —

' Now, I'll send you up a little tonic, and trouble you with

182 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

no more visits till you send for me. I shall sec Ijy one glance at
your face whether you are following my prescriptions. And, I
say, I wouldn't meddle with those opiates any more ; try good
malt and hops instead.'

'Those who drink beer, think beer,' said Elsley, smiling ; for
he was getting more hopeful of himself, and his terrors were
vanishing beneath Tom's skilful management.

' And those who drink water, think water. The Elizabethans
— Sidney and Shakspeare, Burleigh and Queen Bess, workerl on
beef and ale — and you would not class them among thf muddle-
headed of the earth. Believe me, to write well, you must li\e
well. If you take it out of your brain, you must jjut it in
again. It's a question of fact. Try it for yourself.' And off
Tom went ; while Lucia rushed back to her husband, covered
him with caresses, assured him that he was seven times as ill as
he really was, and so nursed and petted him, that he felt him-
self, for that time at least, a beast and a fool for having suspected
her for a moment. Ah, woman, if you only knew how you carry
our hearts in your hands, and would but use your power for our
benefit, what angels you might make us all !

' So,' said Tom, as he went home, ' he has found his way to
the elevation-bottle, has he, as well as !Mrs. Heale ? It's no con-
cern of mine : but as a professional man, I must stop that. You
will certainly be no credit to me if you kill yourself under my
hands.'

Tom went straight home, showed the blacksmith how to make
a pair of dumb-bells, covered them himself with leather, and
sent them up the next morning with directions to be used for
half an hour morning and evening.

And something — whether it was the dumb-bells, or the tonic,
or wholesome fear of the terrible doctor — kept Elsley for the
next month in better spirits and temper than he had been in
for a long while.

^loreover, Tom set Lucia to coax him into walking with
Headley. She succeeded at last ; and, on the whole, each of
them soon found that he had something to learn from the other.
Elsley improved daily in health, and Lucia wrote to Yalentia
flaming accounts of the wonderful doctor who had been cast on
shore in their world's end ; and received from her after a while
this, amid much more — for fancy is not exuberant enough to
reproduce the whole of a young lady's letter.

' I am so ashamed. I ought to have told you of that

doctor a fortnight ago ; but, rattle-pate as I am, I forgot all
about it. Do you know, he is Sabina Mellot's dearest friend ;
and she begged me to recommend him to you : but I put it oQ]
and then it slipped my memory, like everything else good. She
has told me the most wonderful stories of his courage and good-
ness ; and conceive — she and her husband were taken prisoners
with him by the savages in the South Seas, and going to be

XII A PEER IN TROUBLE 183

eaten, she says : but he helped them to escape in a canoe — such
a story — and lived with them for three months on the most
beautiful desert island — it is all like a fairy tale. I'll tell it you
when I come, darling — which I shall do in a fortnight, and we
shall be all so happy. I have such a box ready for you and the
chicks, which I shall bring with me ; and some pretty things
from Scoutbush besides, who is very low, poor fellow, I cannot
conceive what about : but wonderfully tender about you. I
fancy he must be in love ; for he stood up the other day about
you to my aunt, quite solemnly, with, " Let her alone, my lady.
She's not the first whom love has made a fool of, and she won't
be the last : and I believe that some of the moves which look most
foolish, turn out best after all. Live and let live ; everybody
knows his own business best ; anything is better than marriage
without real affection." Conceive my astonishment at hearing
the dear little fellow turn sage in that way !

' By the way, I have had to quote his own advice against him ;
for I have refused Lord Chalkclere after all. I told him (C. not
S.), that he was much too good for me ; far too perfect and com-
plete a person ; that I preferred a husband whom I could break
in for myself, even though he gave me a little trouble. Scout-
bush was cross at first ; but he said afterwards that it was just
like Baby Blake (the wretch always calls nie Baby Blake now,
after that dreadful girl in Lever's novel) ; and I told him
frankly that it was, if he meant that I had sooner break in a
thorough-bred for myself, even though I had a fall or two in the
process, than jog along on the most finished little pony on earth,
who would never go out of an amble. Lord Chalkclere may be
very finished, and learned, and excellent, and so forth : but, ma
chere, I want, not a white rabbit (of which he always reminds
me), but a hero, even though he be a naughty one. I always
fancy people must be very little if they can be finished off so
rapidly ; if there was any real verve in them, they would take
somewhat longer to grow. Lord Chalkclere would do very well
to bind in Russian leather, and put on one's library shelves, to
be consulted when one forgot a date ; but really even your
Ulysses of a doctor — provided, of course, he turned out a prince
in disguise, and don't leave out his h's — would be more to the
taste of your naughtiest of sisters.'

CHAPTER XII

A PEER IN TROUBLE

Somewhere in those days, so it seems, did Mr. Bowie call
unto himself a cab at the barrack-gate, and, dressed in his best
array, repair to the wilds of Brompton, and request to see either
Claude or Mrs. Mellot.

1S4 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

Bowie is an ex-Scots Fusilier, who, damaged by the l-;ick of a
horse, has acted as valet, first to Sc'outbush's father, and next to
Sooutbush himself. He is of a patronising habit of mind, as
Isefits a tolerably ' leeterary ' Scotsman of forty -five years of age
and six feet three in height, who has full confidence in the
integrity of his own virtue, the infallibility of his own opinion,
and the strength of his own right arm ; for Bowie, though he
has a rib or two ' dinged in,' is mighty still as Theseus' self ; and
both astonished his red-bearded compatriots, and won money
for his master, by his prowess in the late feat of arms at Holland
House.

!Mr. Bowie is asked to walk into Sabina's boudoir (for Claude
is out in the garden), to sit down, and deliver his message;
which lie does after a due military salute, sitting bolt upright
in his chair, and in a solemn and sonorous voice.

'Well, madam, its just this, that his lordship would be very
glad to see ye and ilr. Mellot, for he's \a,rj ill indeed, and
that's truth ; and if he winna tell ye the cause, then I will —
and it's just a' for love of this play-acting body here, and niore's
the pity.'

' More's the pity, indeed ! '

'And it's my opeenion the puir laddie will just die, if nobody
sees to him ; and I've taken tlie liberty of writing to Major
Oawmill mysel', to beg him to come up and see to him, for it's a
pity to see his lordship cast away, for want of an understanding
body to advise him.'

' So I am not an understanding body, Bowie ? '

'Oh, madam, ye're young and bonny,' says Bowie, in a tone
in which admiration is not unmingled with pity.

' Young indeed ! Mr. B6wie, do you know that I am almost
as old as you ? '

'Hoot, hut, hut ' says Bowie, looking at tlie wax-like com-
plexion and bright hawk-eyes.

'Really I am. I'm past five - and - thirty this many a
day.' ^

' Weel, then, madam, if you'll excuse me, ye're old enough
to be wiser than to let his lordship be inveigled ^\ ith any such
play-acting.'

'Really he's not inveigled,' says Sabina, laughing. 'It is all
his own fault, and I have warned him how absurd and impos-
sible it is. She has refused even to see him ; and you know
yourself he has not been near our house for these three weeks.'

'Ah, madam, you'll excuse me : but that's the way with that
sort of people, just to draw back and draw back, to make a poor
young gentleman follow them all the keener, as a trout does a
minnow, the faster you spin it.'

' I assure you no. I can't let you into ladies' secrets : but
there is no more chance of her listening to him than of me.
And as for me, I have been trying all the spring to marry him

xit A fEER IN TROUBLE 185

to a young lady with eighty thousand pounds ; so you can't
complain of me.'

' Eh ? Xo. That's more like and fitting.'

' Well, now. Tell his lordship that we are coming ; and trust
us, !Mr. Bowie : we do not look very ^ illainous, do we ? '

'Faith, 'deed then, and I suppose not,' said Bowie, using the
verb which, in his cautious, Scottish tongue, expresses complete
certainty. The truth is, that Bowie adores both Sabina and her
husband, who are, he says, ' just fit to be put under a glass case
on the sideboard, like twa wee china angels.'

In half an hour they were in Scoutbush's rooms. They found
the little man lying on his sofa in his dressing-gown, looking
pale and pitiable enough. He had been trying to read ; for the
table by him was co\'ered with books : but either gunnery and
mathematics had injured his eyes, or he had been crying ;
Sabina inclined to the latter opinion.

'This is very kind of you both ; but I don't want, you, Claude.
I want ilrs. ilellot. You go to the window with Bowie.'

Bo'wie and Claude shrugged their shoulders at each other,
and departed.

' Xow, ilrs. Mellot, I can't help looking up to you as a
mother.'

' Complimentary to my youth,' says Sabina, who always calls
herself young when she is called old, and old when she is called
young.

' I didn't mean to be rude. But one does long to open one's
heart. I never had any mother to talk to, you know ; and I
can't tell my aunt ; and Valentia is so flighty ; and I thought
you would give me one chance more. Don't laugh at me, I saj'.
I am really past laughing at.'

' I see you are, you poor creature,' says Sabina, melting ; and
a long conversation follows, while Claude and Bowie exchange
confidences, and arrive at no result beyond the undeniable
assertion, ' it is a very bad job.'

Presently Sabina comes out, and Scoutbush calls cheerfully
from the sofa —

' Bowie, get my bath and things to dress ; and order me the
cab in half an hour. Good-bye, you dear people, I shall never
thank you enough.'

Away go Claude and Sabina in a hack-cab.

' What have you done ? '

'Given him what he entreated for — another chance witli
Marie.'

' It will only madden him all the more. Why let him try,
when you know it is hopeless t '

' Why, I had not the heart to refuse, that's the truth ; and
besides, I don't know that it is hopeless.'

'All the naughtier of you, to let him run the chance of
making a fool of himself.'

186 TWO VEAR.S AGO chap

' I don't know that he will make sucli a great fool of himself.
As he says, his grandfather married an actress, and why should
not he 1 '

' Simply because she won't marry him.'

■ And how do you know that, sir ? You fancy that you
understand all the women's hearts in England, just Ijecause you
have found out the secret of managing one little fool.'

' ^lanaging her, quotha ! Being managed by -her, till niy
quiet house is turned into a perfect volcano of match-making.
Why, I thought he was to marry Manchestrina.'

' He shall marry who he likes ; and if ilarie changes lier
mind, and revenges herself on this American by taking Lord
Scoutbush, all I can say is, it will be a just judgment on him.
I have no patience with the heartless fellow, going off thus, and
never even leaving his address.'

'And because you have no patience, you think Marie will
have none ? '

'What do you know about women's hearts? Leave us to
mind our own matters.'

' ^[r. Bowie will kill you outright, if your plot succeeds.'

' No, he won't. I know who Bowie wants to marry ; and if
he is not good, he shan't have her. Besides, it will be such fun
to spite old Lady Knockdown, who always turns up her nose at
me. How mad she will be ! Here we are at home. Xow, I
shall go and prepare Marie.'

An hour after, Scoutbush was pleading his cause with Marie ;
and had been met, of course, at starting, with the simple
rejoinder —

' But, my lord, you would not surely have me marry where I
do not love 1 '

' Oh, of course not ; but, you see, people very often get love
after they are married : and I am sure I would do all to make
you love me. I know I can't bribe you by promising you
carriages and jewels, and all that : but you should have what
you would like — pictures and statues, and books — and all that I
can buy. Oh, madam, I know I am not worthy of you — I never
have had any education as you have ! '

Marie smiled a sad smile.

'But I would learn — I know I could — for I am no fool,
though I say it : I like all that sort of thing, and — and if I had
you to teach me, I should care about nothing else. I have given
up all my nonsense since I knew you ; indeed I have — I am
trying all day long to read — ever since you said something about
being useful, and noble, and doing one's work : I have never
forgotten that, madam, and never shall ; and you would find
me a pleasant person to live with, I do believe. At all events,
I would — oh, madam — I would be your servant, your dog — I
would fetch and carry for you like a negro slave ! '

ilarie turned pale, and rose.

xn A PEER IN TROUBLE 187

' Listen to me, my lord ; this must end. You do not know
to whom you are speaking. You talk of negro slaves. Know
that you are talking to one ! '

Scoutbush looked at her in blank astonishment.

' iladame .' Excuse me : but my own eyes '

' You are not to trust them ; I tell you fact.'

Scoutbush was silent. She misunderstood his silence : but
went on steadily.

' I tell you, my lord, what I expect you to keep secret ; and I
know that I can trust your honour.'

Scoutbush bowed.

'And what I should never ha\e told you, were it not my
only chance of curing you of this foolish passion. I am an
American slave ! '

' Curse them ! Who dared make you a slave ? ' cried Scout-
bush, turning as red as a game-cock.

' I was born a slave. My father was a white gentleman of
good family : my mother was a quadroon ; and therefore I am
a slave ; — a negress, a runaway slave, my lord, who, if I returned
to America, should be seized, and chained, and scourged, and
sold. Do you understand me 1 '

'What an infernal shame!' cried Scoutbush, to whom the
whole thing appeared simply as a wrong done to Marie.

'Well, my lord?'

' Well, madam ? '

' Does not this fact put the question at rest for ever 2 '
Xo, madam ! What do I know about slaves 1 No one is
a slave in England. No, madam ; all that it does is to make
me long to cut half a dozen fellows' throats — ' and Scoutbush
stamped with rage. ' No, madam, you are you : and if you
become my viscountess, you take my rank, I trust, and my
name is yours, and my family yours ; and let me see who dare
interfere ! '

'But public opinion, my lord?' said Marie, half- pleased,
half-terrified to find the shaft which she had fancied fatal fall
harmless at her feet.

' Public opinion ! You don't know England, madam ! What's
the use of my being a peer, if I can't do what I like, and make
public opinion go my way, and not I its 1 Though I am no
great prince, madam, but only a poor Irish viscount, it's hard if
I can't marry whom I like — in reason, that is — and expect all
the world to call on her, and treat her as she deserves. Why,
madam, you will have all London at your feet after a season or
two, and all the more if they know your story : or if you don't
like that, or if fools did talk at first, why, we'd go and live
quietly at Kilanbaggan, or at Penalva, and you'd have all the
tenants looking up to you as a goddess, as I do, madam.
madam, I would go anywhere, live anywhere, only to be with
you!'

188 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

;\[arie was deeply alfected. Making all allowances for the
wilfulness of youth, she could not but see that her origin formed
no bar whatever to her marrying a nobleman ; and that he
honestly believed that it would form none in the opinion of las
compeers, if she pro.ved herself worthy of his choice ; and, full
of new emotions, she burst into tears.

' There, now, you are melting : I knew you would ! Madam !
Signora ! ' and Scoutbush advanced to take her hand.

' Never less,' cried she, drawing back. ' Do not ; you only
make me miserable ! I tell you it is impossible. I cannot teU
you all. You must notdo yourself and yours such an injustice !
Go, I tell you ! '

Scoutbush still tried to take her liand.

'Go, I entreat you,' cried she, at her wits' end, 'or I will
really ring the bell for Mrs. Mellot ! '

'You need not do that, madam,' .said he, drawing himself
up ; ' I am not in the habit of being troublesome to ladies, or

being turned out of drawing-rooms. I see how it is ' and

his tone softened ; 'you despise me, and think me a vain,
frivolous puppy. Well ; I'll do sometliing yet that you shall
not despise ! ' And he turned to go.

' I do not despise you ; I think you a generous, high-hearted
gentleman — nobleman in all senses.'

Scoutbush turned again.

'But, again, impossible ! I shall always respeet you ; l)ut we
must never meet again.'

She held out her hand. Little Freddy caught and kissed it
till he was breathless, and then rushed out, and blundered over
Sabina in the next room.

' No hope r

'None.' And though he tried to sijueeze his eyes to-
gether very tight, the great tears would come dropping
down.

Sabina took him to a sofa, and sat him down while he made
his little moan.

'I told you that she was in love with the American.'

'Then why don't he come back and marry lier ? Hang him,
I'll go after him and make him ! ' cried Scoutbush, glad of any
object on which to vent his wratli.

' You can't, for nobody knows where he is. Now do be good
and patient ; you will forget all this.'

' I shan't ! '

' You will ; not at first, but gradually ; and marry some one
really more fit for you.'

'Ah, but if I marry her I shan't love her; and then, you
know, Mrs. Mellot, I shall go to the bad again, just as much as
ever. Oh, I was trying to be steady for her sake ! '

' You can be that still.'

' Yes, but it's so hard, with nothing to hope for. I'm not fit

XII A PEER IN TROUBLE 189

to take care of myself, rm fit for nothing, I believe, but to go
out and be shot by those Eussians : and I'll do it ! '

' You must not ; you are not strong enough. The doctors
would not let you go as you are.'

'Then I'll get strong ; I'll '

' You'll go home, and be good,'

' .yn't I good now ? '

' Ves, you are a good, sensible fellow, and have behaved nobly,
and I honour you for it, and Claude shall come and see you
every day.'

That evening a note came from Scoutbush.

'Dear ]\lRy. ilELLOT — Whom should I find when I went
home but Campbell 1 I told him all ; and he says that you and
everybody have done quite right, so I suppose you have ; and
that I am quite right in trying to get out to the East, so I shall
do it. But the doctor says I must rest for six weeks at least.
So Campbell has persuaded me to take the yacht, which is at
Southampton, and go down to Aberalva, and then round to
Snowdbn, where I have a little slate-quarry, and get some
fishing. Campbell is coming with me, and I wish Claude would
come too. He knows that brother-in-law of mine. Vavasour,
I think, and I shall go and make friends with him. I've got
very merciful to foolish lovers lately, and Claude can help me
to face him ; for I am a little afraid of geniuses, you know.
So there we'll pick up my sister (she goes down by land this
week), and then go on to Suowdon ; and Claude can ^•isit his
old quarters at the Royal Oak at Bettws, where he and I had
that jolly week among the painters. Do let him come, and beg
La Signora not to be angry with me. That's all I'll ever ask
of her again.'

' Poor fellow ! But I can't part with you, Claude.'
' Let him,' said La Cordifiamma. ' He will comfort his lord-
ship : and do you come with me.'
' Come with you 1 Where V
' I will tell you when Claude is gone.'
' Claude, go and smoke in the garden. Now 1 '
' Come with me to Germany, Sabina.'
' To Germany 1 Why on earth to Germany ? '
' I — I only said Germany because it came first into my mind.
Anywhere for rest ; anywhere to be out of that poor man's way.'
' He will not trouble you any more ; and you will not surely
throw up your engagement ? '

' Of course not ! ' said she, half peevishly. ' It will be over in
a fortnight ; and then I must have rest. Don't you see how 1
want rest V

Sabina had seen it for some time past. That white cheek had
been fading more and more to a wax-like paleness ; those black

190 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

eyes glittered with fierce unhealthy light ; and dark rings round
them told, not merely of late hours and excitement, but of wild
passion and midnight tears. Sabina had seen all, and could not
but give way, as Marie went on.

' I must have rest, I tell you ! 1 am beginning — I can confess
all to you — to want stimulants. I am beginning to long for
brandy-and-water — pah ! — to nerve me ujj to the excitement of
acting, and then for morpliine to make me sleep after it. The
very eau de Cologne flask tempts me ! Tliey say that tlie iinc
ladies use it, liefore a ball, for other purposes tlian scent. ^ ou
would not like to see me commence that practice, would you ? '

'There is no fear, dear.'

'There is fear! You do not know the craving for exhil-
aration, the capability of self-indulgence, in our wild Tropic
blood. Oh, Sabina, I feel at times that I could sink so low —
that I could be so wicked, so utterly wicked, if I once began !
Take me away, dearest creature, take me away, and let me liavc
fresh air, and fair quiet scenes, and rest — rest — oh, save me,
Sabina ! ' and she put her hands over her face, and burst into
tears.

' We will go, then : to the Rhine, shall it be ? I have not
been there now for these three years, and it will be such fun
running about the world by myself once more, and knowing all
the while that ' and Sabina stopped ; she did not like to re-
mind Marie of the painful contrast between them.

' To the Ehine ? Yes. And I shall see the beautiful old
world, the old vineyards, and castles, and hills which he used to
tell me of — taught me to read of in those sweet, sweet books of
Longfellow's ! So gentle, and pure, and calm — so unlike
me ! '

' Yes, we will see them ; and perhaps '

ilarie looked up at her, guessing her thoughts, and blushed
scarlet.

' You too, think then, that — that ' she could not finish hei"

sentence.

Sabina stooped over her, and tlie two beautiful mouths met.

'There, darling, we need say nothing. We ai-e both women,
and can talk without words.'

' Then you think there is hope ? '

'Hope? Do you fancy that lie is gone so very far? or that
if he were, I could not hunt him out ? Ha\e 1 wandered half
round the world alone for nothing ?

'Ko, but hope — hope that '

' Not hope, but certainty ; if some one I know had but
courage.'

' Courage — to do what ? '

' To trust liim utterly.'

ilarie covered her face with lier hands, and shuddered in
every limb.

XIII L'HuMME INCOMPRIS 191

' You know my story. Did I gain or lose by telling my
Claude all ? '

' I will ! ' she cried, looking up pale but firm. ' I will ! ' and
she looked steadfastly into the mirror over the chimney-piece,
as if trying to court the reappearance of that ugly \ision which
haunted it, and so to nerve herself to the utmost, and face the
whole truth.

In little more than a fortnight, SabinS, and Marie, with maid
and courier (for ilarie was rich now), were away in the old
Antwerpen. And Claude was rolling down to Southampton by
rail, with Campbell, Scoutbush, and last, but not least, the
faithful Bowie ; who had under his charge what he described to
the puzzled railway guard as ' goads and cleiks, and pirns and
creels, and beuks and heuks, enough for a' the cods o' Neufund-
land.'

CHAPTER XIII

l'homme incompeis

Elsley went on, between improved health and the fear of Tom
Thurnall, a good deal better for the next month. He began to
look forward to Valentia's \ isit with equanimity, and, at last,
with interest ; and was rather pleased than otherwise when, in
the last week of July, a fly drove up to the gate of old Penal va
Court, and he handed out therefrom Valentia, and Valentia's
maid.

Lucia had discovered that the wind was east, and that she
was afraid to go to the gate for fear of catching cold ; her real
purpose being that Valentia should meet Elsley first.

' iShe is so impulsive,' thought the good little creature, always
plotting about her husband, ' that she will rush upon me, and
never see him for the first five minutes ; and Elsley is so sen-
sitive — how can he be otherwise, in his position, poor dear?'
So she refrained herself, like Joseph, and stood at the door till
Valentia was half-way down the garden- walk, having taken
Elsley's somewhat shyly-oSered arm ; and then she could refrain
herself no longer, and the two women ran upon each other, and
kissed, and sobbed, and talked, till Lucia was out of breath ;
but Valentia was not so easily silenced.

' My darling ! and you are looking so nmch better than I
expected ; but not quite yourself yet. That naughty baby is
killing you, I am sure ! And !Mr. Vavasour too, I shall begin to
call him Elsley to-morrow, if I like him as much as I do now —
but he is looking quite thin — wearing himself out with writing so
many beautiful books, — that " Wreck " was perfect ! And where
are the children ? I must rush upstairs and devour them ! — and
what a delicious old garden ! and dipt yews, too, so dark and
romantic, and such dear old-fashioned flowers.! !Mr. Vavasour

192 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

must show me all over it, and over that hanging wood, too.
Wliat a duck of a place ! And oh, my dear, I am quite out of
breath ! '

And so she swept in, with her arm round Lucia's waist ; while
Elsley stood looking after her, well enough satisfied with her
reception of him, and only hoping that the stream of words
would slacken after a while.

' What a magnificeitt creature ! ' said he to himself. ' Who
would have believed that the three ye:us would make such a
change ! '

And he was riglit. The tall lithe girl had bloomed into full
glory ; and \'alentia St. Just, though not delicately beautiful,
was as splendid an Irish damsel as men need look upon, witli a
grand masque, aquiline features, luxuriant black hair, and —
though it was the fag-end of the London season — the unrivalled
Irish complexion, as of the fair dame of Kilkenny, whose

' Lips were like roses, her cheeks were the same,
Like a dish of fresh strawberries smother'd in crame. '

Her figure was perhaps too tall, and somewhat too stout also ;
but its size was relieved by the delicacy of those liands and feet
of which _Miss Valentia was most pardonably proud, and by
that indescribable lissomeness and lazy grace which Irisliwomen
inherit, perhaps, with their tinge of southern blood ; and when,
in half an hour, she reappeared, with broad straw hat, and gown
tucked up a Ja bergere over the striped Welsh petticoat, perhaps
to show off the ankles, which only looked the finer for a pair of
heavy laced boots, Elsley honestly felt it a pleasure to look at
her, and a still greater pleasure to talk to lier, and to be talked
to by her ; while she, bent on making herself agreeable, partly
from real good taste, partly from natural good -nature, and
partly, too, because she saw in his eyes that he admired her,
chatted sentiment about all heaven and earth.

For to iliss Valentia — it is sad to have to say it — admiration
had been now, for three years, her daily bread. .She had lived
in the thickest whirl of the world, and, as most do for a while,
found it a very pleasant place.

She had flirted — with how many must not be told ; and
perhaps with more than one with whom she had no business to
flirt. Little Scoutbush had remonstrated with her on some such
artair, but she had silenced liim with an Irish jest, 'You're a
fisherman, Freddy ; and when you can't catch salmon, you catcli
trout ; and when you can't catch trout, you'll wliip on the
shallow for poor little gubbahawns, and say that it is all to keep
your hand in — and so do I.'

The old ladies said that this was the reason why she liad n(jt
married • the men, however, asserted that no one dare marry
her ; and one club-oracle had given it as his opinion tliat no man
in his rational senses was to be allowed to have anything to do

XIII L'HOMME INCOJ[PRIS 193

with her, till she had been well jilted two or three times, to take
the spirit out of her : but that catastrophe had not yet occurred,
and Miss Valentia still reigned ' triumphant and alone,' though
her aunt, old Lady Knockdown, moved all the earth, and some
dirty places, too, below the earth, to get the wild Irish girl ofl'
her hands : 'for,' quoth she, 'I feel with Valentia, indeed, just
like one of those men who carry about little dogs in the Quad-
rant. I always pity the poor men so, and think how happy they
must be when they have sold one. It is one chance less, you
know, of having it bite them horribly, and then run away after
all.'

There was, however, no more real harm in Valentia than
there is in every child of Adam. Town frivolity had not cor-
rupted her. She was giddy, given up to enjoyment of the pre-
sent : but there was not a touch of meanness about her ; and if
she was selfish, as every one must needs be whose thoughts are
of pleasure, admiration, and success, she was so unintentionally ;
and she would have been shocked and pained at being told that
she was anything but the mo^t kind-hearted and generous crea-
ture on earth. Major Campbell, who was her Mentor as well as
her brother's, had certainly told her so more than once; at
which she had pouted a good deal, and cried a little, and pro-
mised to amend ; then packed up a heap of cast-off things to
send to Lucia — half of it much too fine to be of any use to the
quiet little woman : and lastly, gone out and bought fresh
finery for herself, and forgot all her good resolutions. Whereby
it befell that she was tolerably deep in debt at the end of every
season, and had to torment and kiss Scoutbush into paying her
bills ; which he did like a good brother, and often before he
had paid his own.

But, howsoever full Valentia's head may have been of fine gar-
ments and London flirtations, she had too much tact and good
feeling to talk that evening of a world of which even Elsley
knew more than her sister. For poor Lucia had been but
eighteen at the time of her escapade, and had not been pre-
sented twelve months ; so that she was as ' inexperienced ' as
any one can be, who has only a husband, three children, and a
household to manage on less than three hundred a year. There-
fore Valentia talked only of things which would interest Elsley;
asked him to read his last new poem — which, I need not say, he
did ; told him how she devoured everything he wrote ; planned
walks with him in the country ; seemed to consult his pleasure
in every way.

' To-morrow morning I shall sit with you and the children,
Lucia ; of course I must not interrupt Mr. Vavasour : but really
in the afternoon I must ask him to spare a couple of hours from
the Muses.'

Vavasour was delighted to do anything — ' Where would she
walk?'

O T. T. A.

194 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

' Where ? of course to see the beautiful sclioolmistress who
sa\ ed the man from drowning ; and then to see the chasm
across which he was swept. I shall understand your poem so
much better, you know, if I can but realise the people and the
place. And you must take me to see Captain Willis, too, and
even the lieutenant — if he does not smell too much of brandy.
I will be so gracious and civil, quite the lady of the castle.'

' You will make quite a royal progress,' said Lucia, looking
at her with sisterly admiration.

' Yes, I intend to usurp as many of Sooutbush's honours as I
can till he comes. I must lay down the sceptre in a fortnight,
you know, so I shall make as much use of it as I can mean-
while.'

And so on, and so on ; meaning all the while to put Elsley
quite at his ease, and let him understand that bygones were
bygones, and that with her any reconciliation at all was meant
to be a complete one ; which was wise and right enough. But
Valentia had not counted on the excitable and vain nature with
which she was dealing ; and Lucia, wlio had her own fears from
the first evening, was the last person in the world to tell her of
it ; first from pride in herself, and then from pride in her
husband. For even if a woman has made a foolish match, it is
hard to expect her to confess as much ; and, after all, a husband
is a husband, and let his faults be what they might, he was still
her Elsley ; her idol once ; and perhaps (so she hoped) her idol
again hereafter, and if not, still he was her husband, and that
was enough.

'By which you mean, sir, that she considered lierself bound
to endure everything and anything from him, simply because
she had been married to him in church ? '

Yes, and a great deal more. Not merely being married in
church ; but what being married in church means, and what
every woman who is a woman understands ; and lives up to
without flinching, though she die a martyr for it, or a confessor ;
a far higher saint, if the truth was known, as it will be some
day, than all the holy virgins who ever fasted and prayed in a
convent since the days when Macarius first turned fakeer. For,
to a true woman, the mere fact of a man's being her husband,
put it on the lowest ground that you choose, is utterly sacred,
divine, all-powerful ; in the might of which she can conquer
self in u. way which is an every day miracle ; and the man who
does not feel about the mere fact of a woman's having given
herself utterly to him, just what she herself feels about it, ought
to be despised by all his fellows ; were it not that, in that case,
it would be necessary to despise more human beings than is safe
for the soul of any man.

That fortnight was the sunniest which Elsley had passed
since he made secret love to Lucia in Eaton Square. Piomantic
walks, the company of a beautiful woman as ready to listen

xiii L'HOMME INCOMPRIS 195

as she was to talk, free licence to pour out all his fancies, sure
of admiration, if not of flattery, and pardonably satisfied vanity
— all these are comfortable things for most men, who have
nothing better to comfort them. But, on the whole, this feast
did not make Elsley a better or wiser man at home. Why
should it ? Is a boy's digestion improved by turning him loose
into a confectioner's shop ? And thus the contrast between
what he chose to call Valentia's sympathy and Lucia's want
of sympathy made him, unfortunately, all the more cross to her
when they were alone ; and who could blame the poor little
woman for saying one night, angrily enough :

' Ah, yes ! Valentia — Valentia is imaginative — Valentia
understands you — Valentia sympathises — Valentia thinks . .
Valentia has no children to wash and dress, no accounts to
keep, no linen to mend — Valentia's back does not ache all day
long, so that she would be glad enough to lie on the sofa from
morning till night, if she was not forced to work whether she
can work or not. No, no ; don't kiss me, for kisses will not
make up for injustice, Elsley. I only trust that you will not
tempt me to hate my own sister. No : don't talk to me now,
let me sleep if I can sleep ; and go and walk and talk sentiment
with Valentia to-morrow, and leave the poor little brood hen to
sit on her nest and be despised.' And refusing all Elsley's
entreaties for pardon, she sulked herself to sleep.

Who can blame her ? If there is one thing more provoking
than another to a woman, it is to see her husband Strass-engel,
Haus-teufel, an angel of courtesy to every woman but herself ;
to see him in society all smiles and good stories, the most
amiable and self -restraining of men ; perhaps to be compli-
mented on his agreeableness : and to know all the while that
he is penning up all the accumulated ill-temper of the day, to
let it out on her when they get home ; perhaps in the very
carriage as soon as it leaves the door. Hypocrites that you are,
some of you gentlemen ! Why cannot the act against cruelty to
women, corporal punishment included, be brought to bear on
such as you ? And yet, after all, you are not most to blame in
the matter : Eve herself tempts you, as at the beginning ; for
who does not know that the man is a thousand times vainer
than the woman ? He does but follow the analogy of all nature.
Look at the Red Indian, in that blissful state of nature from
which (so philosophers inform those who choose to believe them)
we all sprang. Which is the boaster, the strutter, the bedizener
of his sinful carcase with feathers and beads, fox -tails and
bears' claws — the brave, or his poor little squaw ? An Aus-
tralian settler's wife bestows on some poor slaving gin a cast-ofl:
French bonnet ; before she has gone a hundred yards, her'
husband snatches it off, puts it on his own mop, quiets her for
its loss with a tap of the waddie, and struts on in glory. Why
not 1 Has he not the analogy of all nature on his side 1 Have

196 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

not the male birds and the male moths the fine feathers, while
the females go soberly about in drab and brown? Does the
lioness, or the lion, rejoice in the grandeur of a mane ; the hind,
or the stag, in antlered pride ? How know we but that, in some
more perfect and natural state of society, the women will dress
like so many quakeresses ; while the frippery shops will become
the haunts of men alone, and ' browches, pearls, and owches ' Vje
consecrate to the nobler sex ? There are signs already, in the
dress of our young gentlemen, of such a return to the law of
nature from the present absurd state of things, in which the
human peahens carry about the gaudy trains which are the pea-
cocks' right.

For there is a secret feeling in woman's heart that she is in
her wrong place ; that it is she who ought to worship the man,
and not the man her ; and when she becomes properly conscious
of her destiny, has not he a right to be conscious of his ? If
the gray hens will stand round in the mire clucking humble
admiration, who can blame the old black cock for dancing and
drumming on the top of a moss hag, with outspread wings and
flirting tail, glorious and self-glorifying ? He is a splendid fel-
low ; and he was made splendid for some purpose, surely ? Why
did Nature give him his steel-blue coat and his crimson crest,

but for the very same purpose that she gave Mr. A his

intellect — to be admired by the other sex ? And if young
damsels, overflowing with sentiment and Ruskinism, will crowd
round him, ask his opinion of this book and that picture,
treasure his bo7i-mots, beg for his autograph, looking all the
while the praise which they do not speak (though they speak a
good deal of it), and when they go home write letters to him on
matters about which in old times girls used to ask only their
mothers ; — who can blame him if he finds the little wife at
home a very uninteresting body, whose head is so full of petty
cares and gossip, that he and all his talents are quite unappre-
ciated ? Les femmes incomprises of France used to (perhaps do
now) form a class of married ladies, whose sorrows were espe-
cially dear to the novelists, male or female ; but what are their
woes compared to those of Vhomme inconipris ? What higher
vocation for a young maiden than to comfort the martyr during
his agonies ? And, most of all, where the sufferer is not merely
a genius, but a saint ; persecuted, perhaps, abroad by vulgar
tradesmen and Philistine bishops, and snubbed at home by a
stupid wife, who is quite unable to appreciate his magnificent
projects for regenerating all heaven and earth ; and only, hum-
drum, practical creature that she is, tries to do justly, and love
mercy, and walk humbly with her God ? Fly to his help, all
pious maidens, and pour into the wounded heart of the holy
man the healing balm of self-conceit ; cover his table with con-
fidential letters, choose him as your father-confessor, and lock
yourself up alone with him for an hour or two every week

XIII L'HOMME INCOMPRIS 197

while the wife is mending his sliirts upstairs. True, you may
break the stupid wife's heart by year-long misery, as she slaves
on, bearing the burden and heat of the day, of which you never
dream ; keeping the wretched man, by her unassuming good
example, from making a fool of himself three times a week ; and
sowing the seed of which you steal the fruit. What matter 1
If yourimmortal soul requires it, what matter what it costs her
carnal heart 1 She will suffer in silence ; at least, she will not
tell you. You think she does not understand you. Well ; and
she thinks in return that you do not understand her, and her
married joys and sorrows, and her five children, and her
butcher's bills, and her long agony of fear for the husband of
whom she is ten times more proud than you could be ; for whom
she has slaved for years ; whose defects she has tried to cure,
while she cured her own ; for whom she would die to-morrow,
did he fall into disgrace, when you had flounced off to find some
new idol : and so she will not tell you : and what the ear hear-
eth not, that the heart grieveth not. Go on and prosDer ! You
may, too, ruin the man's spiritual state by vanity ; you may
pamper his discontent with the place where God ha.i put him,
till he ends by flying off to ' some purer Communion,' and taking
you with him. Never mind. He is a most delightful person,
and his intercourse is so improving. Why were sweet things
made, but to be eaten ? Go on and prosper.

Ah, young ladies, if some people had (as it is perhaps well for
them that they have not) the ordering of this same British
nation, they would certainly follow your example, and try to
restore various ancient institutions. And first among them
would be that very ancient institution of the cucking-stool ; to
be employed, however, not as of old, against married scolds (for
whom those who have been behind the scenes have all respect
and sympathy), but against unmarried prophetesses, who, under
whatsoever high pretence of art or religion, flirt with their
neighbours' husbands, be they parson or poet.

Not, be it understood, that Valentia had the least suspicion
that Elsley considered himself ' incompris.' If he had hinted
the notion to her, she would have resented it as an insult to the
St. Justs in general, and to her sister in particular ; and would
have said something to him in her off-hand way, the like whereof
he had seldom heard, even from adverse reviewers.

Elsley himself soon divined enough of her character to see that
he must keep his sorrows to himself, if he wished for Valentia's
good opinion ; and soon — so easily does a vain man lend himself
to meanness — he found himself trying to please Valentia, by
praising to her the very woman with whom he was discontented.
He felt shocked and ashamed when first his own baseness flashed
across him : but the bait was too pleasant to be left easily : and,
after all, he was trying to say to his guest what he knew his
guest would like ; and what was that but following those very

198 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

rules of good society, for breaking which Lucia was always call-
ing him gauche and morose 1 So he actually quieted his own
conscience by the fancy that he was bound to be civil, and to
keep up appearances, 'even for Lucia's sake,' said the self -deceiver
to himself. And thus the mischief was done ; and the breach
between Lucia and her husband, which had been somewhat
bridged over during the last month or two, opened more wide
than ever, without a suspicion on Valentia's part that she was
doing all she could to break her sister's heart.

She, meanwhile, had plenty of reasons which justified her new
intimacy to herself. How could she better please Lucia 1 How
better show that bygones were to be bygones, and that Elsley
was henceforth to be considered as one of the family, than by
being as intimate as possible with him ? AVhat matter how
intimate? For, after all, he was only a brother, and she his
sister.

She had law on her side in that last argument, as well as love
of amusement. Whether she had either common sense or Scrip-
ture is a very different question.

Poor Lucia, too, tried to make the best of the matter ; and to
take the new intimacy as Yalentia would have had her take it,
in the light of a compliment to herself ; and so, in her pride, she
said to Valentia, and told her that she should love her for ever
for her kindness to Elsley, while her heart was ready to burst.

But ere the fortnight was over the Nemesis had come, and
Lucia, woman as she was, could not repress a thrill of malicious
joy, even though Elsley became more intolerable than ever at
the change.

What was the Nemesis, then ?

Simply that this naughty Miss St. Just began to smile upon
Frank Headley the curate, even as she had smiled upon Elsley
Vavasour.

It was very naughty ; but she had her excuses. She had
found Elsley out ; and it was well for both of them that she had
done so. Already, upon the strength of their supposed relation-
ship, she had allowed him to talk a great deal more nonsense to
her — harmless perhaps, but nonsense still — tlian she would
have Kstened to from any other man ; and it was well for both
of them that Elsley was a man without self-control, who began
to show the weak side of his character freely enough, as soon as
he became at ease with his companion, and excited by conversa-
tion. Valentia quickly saw that he was vain as a peacock, and
weak enough to be led by her in any and every direction, when
she chose to work on his vanity. And she despised him accord-
ingly, and suspected, too, that her sister could not be very happy
with such a man.

None are more quick than sisters-in-law to see faults in the
brother-in-law, when once they have begun to look for them ;
and Valentia soon remarked that Elsley showed Lucia no jjetit.'i

xiii L'HOMME INCOMPRIS 199

soms, while he was ready enough to show them to her ; that he
took no real trouble about his children, or about anything else ;
and twenty more faults, which she might have perceived in the
first two days of her visit, if she had not been in such a hurry
to amuse herself. But she was too delicate to ask Lucia the
truth, and contented herself with watching all parties closely,
and in amusing herself meanwhile — for amusement she must
have — in

' Breaking a country heart
For pastime, ere she went to town.'

She had met Frank several times about the parish and in the
schools, and had been struck at once with his grace and high
bi-eeding, and with that air of melancholy which is always
interesting in a. true woman's eyes. She had seen, too, that
Elsley tried to avoid him, naturally enough not wishing an in-
trusion on their pleasant tetes-a-tete. Whereon, half to spite
Elsley, and half to show her own right to chat with whom she
chose, she made Lucia ask Frank to tea ; and next contrived to
go to the school when he was teaching there, and to make Elsley
ask him to walk with them ; and all the more because she had
discovered that Elsley had discontinued his walks with Frank
as soon as she had appeared at Penalva.

Lucia was not sorry to countenance her in her naughtiness ;
it was a comfort to her to have a fourth person in the room at
times, and thus to compel Elsley and Valentia to think of some-
thing beside each other ; and when she saw her sister gradually
transferring her favours from the married to the unmarried
victim, she would have been more than woman if she had not
rejoiced thereat. Only, she began soon to be afraid for Frank,
and at last told Valentia so.

' Do take care that you do not break his heart ! '

' My dear ! You forget that I sit under Mr. O'Blareaway,
and am to him as a heathen and a publican. Fresh from St.
Nepomuc's as he is, he would as soon think of falling in love
with an " Oirish Prodestant," as with a malignant and a tur-
baned Turk. Besides, my dear, if the mischief is going to be
done, it's done already.'

' I dare say it is, you naughty beautiful thing. If anybody
is goose enough to fall in love with you, he'll be also goose
enough, I don't doubt, to do so at first sight. There, don't look
perpetually in that glass : but take care ! '

'What use ? If it is going to happen at all, I say, it has
happened already ; so I shall just please myself, as usual.'

And it had happened : and poor Frank had been, ever since
the first day he saw Valentia, over head and ears in love. His
time had come, and there was no escaping his fate.

But to escape he tried. Convinced, with many good men of
all ages and creeds, that a celibate life was the fittest one for a

200 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

clergyman, he had fled from St. Xepomuc's into the wilderness
to avoid temptation, and beheld at his cell-door a fairer fiend
than ever came to St. Dunstan. A fairer fiend, no doubt ; for
St. Dunstan's imagination created his temptress for him, but
Valentia was a reality; and fact and nature may be .safely backed
to produce something more charming than any monk's brain can
do. One questions whetlier St. Dunstan's apparition was not
something as coarse as liis own mind, clever though that mind
was. At least, he would never have had the heart to apply the
hot tongs to such a nose as Valentia's, but at most have bowed
her out pityingly, as Frank tried to bow out Valentia from the
sacred place of his heart, but failed.

Hard he tried, and humbly too. He had no proud contempt
for married parsons. He was ready enough to confess that he,
too, might be weak in that respect, as in a hundred others. He
conceived that he had no reason, from his own inner life, to
believe himself worthy of any higher vocation — proving his own
real nobleness of soul by that very humility. He had rather
not marry. He might do so some day ; but he would sacrifice
much to avoid the necessity. If he was weak, he would use
what strength he had to the uttermost ere he yielded. And all
the more, because he felt, and reasonably enough, that Valentia
was the last woman in the world to make a parson's wife. He
had his ideal of what such a wife should be, if she were to be
allowed to exist at all — the same ideal which Mr. Paget has
drawn in his charming little book (would that all parsons' wives
would read and perpend), the Owlet of Owlstone Edge. But
Valentia would surely not make a Beatrice. Beautiful she was,
glorious, lovable, but not the helpmeet whom he needed. And
he fought against the new dream like a brave man. He fasted,
he wept, he prayed ; but his prayers seemed not to be heard.
Valentia seemed to have enthroned herself, a true Venus victrix,
in the centre of his heart, and would not be dispossessed. He
tried to avoid seeing her ; but even for that he had not strength :
he went again and again when asked, only to come home more
miserable each time, as fierce against himself and his own weak-
ness as if he had given way to wine or to oaths. In vain, too,
he represented to himself the ridiculous hopelessness of his
passion ; the impossibility of the London beauty ever stooping
to marry the poor country curate. Fancies would come in, how
such things, strange as they might seem, had happened already ;
might happen again. It was a class of marriage for which he
had always felt a strong dislike, even suspicion and contempt ;
and though he was far more fitted, in family as well as personal
excellence, for such a match, than three out of four who make
them, yet he shrunk with disgust from the notion of being him-
self classed at last among the match-making parsons. Whether
there was 'carnal pride' or not in that last thought, his soul so
loathed it that he would gladly have thrown up his cure at

XIV THE DOCTOR AT BAY 201

Aberalva ; and would have done so actually, but for one word
which Tom Thurnall had spoken to him, and that was —
Cholera.

That the cholera might come ; that it probably would come,
in the course of the next two months, was news to him which
was enough to keep him at his post, let what would be the con-
sequence. And gradually he began to see a way out of his diffi-
culty — and a very simple one ; and that was, to die.

'That is the solution after all,' said he. 'I am not strong
enough for God's work ; but I will not shrink from it, if I can
help. If I cannot master it, let it kill me ; so at least I may
have peace. I have failed utterly here ; all my grand plans
have crumbled to ashes between my fingers. I find myself a
cumberer of the ground, where I fancied that I was going forth
like a very Michael — fool that I was ! — leader of the armies of
heaven. And now, in the one remaining point on which I
thought myself strong, I find myself weakest of all. Useless
and helpless ! I have one chance left, one chance to show these
poor souls that I really love them, really wish their good — sel-
fish that I am ! What matter whether I do show it or not ?
What need to justify myself to them ? Self, self, creeping in
everywhere ! I shall begin next, I suppose, longing for the
cholera to come, that I may show off myself in it, and make
spiritual capital out of their dying agonies ! Ah me ! that it
were all over ! That this cholera, if it is to come, would wipe
out of this head what I verily believe nothing but death will
do ! ' And therewith Frank laid his head on the table, and cried
till he could cry no more.

It was not over manly ; but he was weakened with overwork
and sorrow ; and, on the whole, it was perhaps the best thing
he could do ; for he fell asleep there, with his head on the table,
and did not wake till the dawn blazed through his open window.

CHAPTER XIV

THE DOCTOE AT BAY

Did you ever, in a feverish dream, climb a mountain which
grew higher and higher as you climbed ; and scramble through
passages which changed perpetually before you, and up and
down break-neck stairs which broke off perpetually behind you 1
Did you ever spend the whole night, foot in stirrup, mounting
that phantom hunter which never gets mounted, or, if he does,
turns into a pen between your knees ; or in going to fish that
phantom stream which never gets fished ? Did you ever, late
for that mysterious dinner-party in some enchanted castle,
wander disconsolately, in unaccountable rags and dirt, in search
of that phantom carpet-bag which never gets found 1 Did you

202 TWO YEARS AGO ohap.

ever ' realise ' to yourself the sieve of the Danaides, the stone of
Sisyphus, the wheel of Ixion ; the pleasure of shearing that
domestic animal who (according to the experience of a very
ancient observer of nature) produces more cry than wool ; the
perambulation of that Irishman's model bog, where you slip
two steps backward for one forward, and must, therefore, in
order to progress at all, turn your face homeward, and progress
as a pig does into a steamer, by going the opposite way 1 Were
you ever condemned to spin ropes of sand to all eternity, like
Tregeagle the wrecker ; or to extract the cube roots of a million
or two of hopeless surds, like the mad mathematician ; or last,
and worst of all, to work the Nuisances Kemoval Act 1 Then
you can enter as a man and a brother, into the sorrows of Tom
Thurnall, in the months of June and July 1854.

He had made up his mind, for certain good reasons of his
own, that the cholera ought to visit Aberalva in the course of
the summer ; and, of course, tried his best to persuade people
to get ready for their ugly visitor ; but in vain. The cholera
come there ? Why, it never had come yet, which signified, when
he inquired a little more closely, that there had been only one
or two doubtful cases in 1837, and five or six in 1849. In vain
he answered, ' Very well ; and is not that a proof that' the
causes of cholera are increasing here ? If you had one case the
first time, and five times as many the next, by the same rule
you will have five times as many more if it comes this
summer.'

'Nonsense ! Aberalva was the healthiest town on the coast.'

' Well but,' would Tom say, ' in the census before last, you
had a population of 1300 in 112 houses, and that was close
packing enough, in all conscience ; and in the last census I find
you had a population of over 1400, which must have increased
since ; and there are eight or nine old houses in the town pulled
down, or turned into stores ; so you are more closely packed
than ever. And mind, it may seem no very great difference,
but it is the last drop that fills the cup.'

What had that to do with cholera ? And more than one gave
him to understand that he must be either a very silly or a very
impertinent person, to go poking into how many houses there
were in the town, and how many people lived in each. Tardrew,
the steward, indeed, said openly that ilr. Thurnall was making
disturbance enough in people's property up at Pentremochyn,
without bothering himself with Aberalva too. He had no
opinion of people who had a finger in everybody's pie. Whom
Tom tried to soothe with honeyed words, knowing him to be of
the original British bulldog breed, which, once stroked against
the hair, shows his teeth at you for ever afterwards.

But staunch was Tardrew, unfortunately on the wrong side ;
and backed by the collective ignorance, pride, laziness, and
superstition of Aberalva, showed to his new assailant that

XIV THE DOCTOR AT BAY 203

terrible front of stupidity, against which, says Schiller, 'the
gods themselves fight in vain.'

' Does he think we was all fools afore he came here ? '

That was the rallying cry of the Conservative party, wor-
shippers of Baalzebub, god of flies, and of that (so say Syrian
scholars) from which flies are bred. And, indeed, there were
excuses for them, on the Yankee ground, that ' there's a deal of
human natur' in man.' It is hard to human nature to make all
the humiliating confessions which must precede sanitary re-
pentance: to say, 'I have been a very nasty, dirty fellow. I
have lived contented in evil smells, till I care for tliem no more
than my pig does. I have refused to understand nature's
broadest hints, that anything which is so disagreeable is not
meant to be left about. I have probably been more or less the
cause of half my own illnesses, and of three-fourths of the ill-
ness of my children ; for aught I know, it is very much my
fault that my own baby has died of scarlatina, and two or three
of my tenants of typhus. No, hang it ! that's too much to make
any man confess to ! I'll prove my innocence by not reforming ! '
So sanitary reform is thrust out of sight, simply because its
necessity is too humiliating to the pride of all, too frightful to
the consciences of many.

Tom went to Trebooze.

' Mr. Trebooze, you are a man of position in the county, and
own some houses in Aberalva. Don't you think you could use
your influence in this matter ? '

'Own some houses? Yes,' and Mr. Trebooze consigned the
said cottages to a variety of unmentionable places ; ' cost me
more in rates than they bring in in rent, even if I get the rent
paid. I should like to get a six-pounder, and blow the whole
lot into the sea. Cholera coming, eh ? D'ye think it will be
there before Michaelmas ? '

'I do.'

'Pity I can't clear 'em out before ^Michaelmas. Else I'd
have ejected the lot, and pulled the houses down.'

' I think something should be done meanwhile, though, to-
wards cleansing them.'

' . . Let 'em cleanse them themselves ! Soap's cheap enough
with your . . . free trade, ain't it ? No, sir ! That sort of talk
will do well enough for my Lord Minchampstead, sir, the old
money-lending Jew ! . . . but gentlemen, sir, gentlemen, that
are half-ruined with free trade, and your Whig policy, sir, you
must give 'em back their rights before they can aflford to throw
away their money on cottages. Cottages, indeed ! . . upstart
of a cotton-spinner, coming down here, buying the land over
our heads, and pretends to show us how to manage our estates ;
old families that have been in the county this four hundred
years, with the finest peasantry in the world ready to die for
them, sir, till these new revolutionary doctrines came in — pride

20i TWO YEARS AOO chap.

and purse-proud conceit, just to show off his money ! What do
they want with better cottages than their fathers had ? Only
put notions into their heads, raise 'em above their station ;
more they have, more they'll want. Sir, make chartists of

'em all before he's done ! I'll tell you what, sir,' — and Mr.
Trebooze attempted a dignified and dogmatic tone — 'I never
told it you before, because you were my very good friend, sir ;
but my opinion is, sir, that by what you're doing up at Pentre-
mochyn, you're just spreading chartism — charti.sm, sir! Of
course I know nothing. Of course I'm nobody, in these days ;
but that's my opinion, sir, and you've got it ! '

By which motion Tom took little. ^Mighty is envy always,
and mighty ignorance ; but you become aware of their truly
Titanic grandeur only when you attempt to touch their owner's
pocket.

Tom tried old Heale, but took as little in that quarter.
Heale had heard of sanitary reform, of course ; but he knew
nothing about it, and gave a general assent to Tom's doctrines,
for fear of exposing his own ignorance ; acting on them was a
very different matter. It is always hard for an old medical man
to confess that anything has been discovered since the days of
his youth ; and besides, there were other reasons behind, which
Heale tried to avoid giving ; and therefore fenced off, and
fenced off, till, pressed hard by Tom, wrath came forth, and
truth with it.

' And what be you thinking of, sir, to expect me to offend all
my best patients? and not one of 'em but rents some two
cottages, some a dozen. And what'll they say to me if I go a
routing and rookling in their drains, like an old sow by the way-
side, beside putting 'em to all manner of expense ? And all on
the chance of this cholera coming, which I have no faith in,
nor in this new-fangled sanitary reform neither, which is all
a dodge for a lot of young Government puppies to till their
pockets, and rule and ride over us : and my opinion always
was with the Bible, that 'tis jidgment, sir, a jidgment of God,
and we can't escape His holy will, and that's the plain trutli
of it.'

Tom made no answer to that latter argument. He had heard
that ' 'tis jidgment ' from every mouth during the last few days ;
and had mortally offended the Brianite preacher that very
morning, by answering his "tis jidgment' with —

' But, my good sir ! the Bible, I thought, says that Aaron
stayed the plague among the Israelites, and David the one at
Jerusalem.'

'Sir, those was miracles, sir ! and they was under the law,
sir, and we'm under the Gospel, you'll be pleased to re-
member.'

' Humph ! ' said Tom, ' then, by your showing, they were
better off under the law than we are now, if they could ha\e

XIV THE DOCTOR AT BAY 205

their plagues stopped by miracles ; and we cannot have ours
stopped at all.'

' Sir, be you an infidel ? '

To which there was no answer to be made.

In this case, Tom answered Heale with

' But, my dear sir, if you don't like (as is reasonable enough)
to take the responsibility on yourself, why not go to the Board
of Guardians, and get them to put the act in force ? '

' Boord, sir 1 and do you know so little of Boords as that ?
Why, there ain't one or them but owns cottages themselves,
and it's as much as my place is worth '

' Your place as medical officer is just worth nothing, as you
know ; you'll have been out of pocket by it se^en or eight
pounds this year, even if no cholera comes.'

Tom knew the whole state of the case ; but he liked torment-
ing Heale now and then.

' Well, sir ! but if I get turned out next year, in steps that
Drew over at Carcarrow Churchtown into my district, and into
the best of my practice, too. I wonder what sort of a Poor Law
district you were medical officer of, if you don't know yet that
that's why we take to the poor.'

' My dear sir, I know it, and a good deal more besides.'

' Then why go bothering me this way ? '

' Why,' said Tom, ' it's pleasant to have old notions confirmed
as often as possible —

' " Life is a jest, and all things show it ;
I thought so once, but now I know it."

What an ass the fellow must have been who had that put on
his tombstone, not to liave found it out many a year before he
died ! '

He went next to Headley the curate, and took little by that
move ; though more than by any other.

For Frank already believed his doctrines, as an educated
London parson of course would ; was shocked to hear that they
were likely to become fact so soon and so fearfully ; offered to
do all he could : but confessed that he could do nothing.

' I have been hinting to them, ever since I came, improve-
ments in cleanliness, in ventilation, and so forth : but I have
been utterly unheeded : and bully me as you will, doctor, about
my cramming doctrines down their throats, and roaring like a
Pope's bull, I assure you that, on sanitary reform, my roaring
was as of a sucking dove, and ought to have prevailed, if so.ft
persuasion can.'

' You were a dove where you ought to have been a bull, and
a bull where you ought to have been a dove. But roar now, if
ever you roared, in the pulpit and out. Why not preach to
them on it next Sunday i '

-06 TWO YEARS AGO chap,

'Well, I'd give a lecture gladly, if I could get any one to
come and hear it ; but that you could do better than nie.'

' I'll lecture them myself, and show them bogies, if my
quarter-inch will do its work. If they want seeing to believe,
see they shall ; I have half a dozen specimens of water
already which will astonish them. Let me lecture, you must
preach.'

' You must know, that there is a feeling — you would call it a
prejudice — against introducing such purely secular subjects
into the pulpit.'

Tom gave a long whistle.

' Pardon me, Mr. Headley ; you are a man of sense ; and I
can speak to you as one human being to another, which I have
seldom been able to do with your respected cloth.'

' Say on ; I shall not be frightened.'

' Well, don't you put up the Ten Commandments in your
church ? '

' Yes.'

' And don't one of them run : " Thou shalt not kill" ? '

'Well?'

' And is not murder a moral offence — what you call a sin ? '

'Sans doute.'

'If you saw your parishioners in the liabit of cutting each
other's throats, or their own, shouldn't you think that a matter
spiritual enough to be a fit subject for a little of the drum
ecclesiastic ? '

'Well?'

' Well ? Ill ! There are your parishioners about to commit
wholesale murder and suicide, and is that a secular question ?
If they don't know the fact, is not that all the more reason for
your telling them of it ? You pound away, as I warned you
once, at the sins of which they are just as well aware as you ;
why on earth do you hold your tongue about the sins of which
they are not aware? You tell us e\eiy Sunday that we do
Heaven only knows how many more wrong things than we
dream of. Tell it us again now. Don't strain at gnats like
want of faith and resignation, and swallow such a camel as
twenty or thirty deaths. It's no concern of mine ; I've seen
plenty of people murdered, and may again : I am accustomed
to it ; but if it's not your concern, what on earth you are here
for is more than I can tell.'

' You are right — you are right ; but how to put it on religious
grounds '

Tom whistled again.

' If your doctrines cannot be made to fit such plain matters
as twenty deaths, tant jn's jkjw eux. If they ha\e nothing to
say on such scientific facts, why, the facts must take care of
themselves, and the doctrines may, for aught I care, go and —
But I won't be really rude. Only think over the matter : if

XIV THE DOCTOR AT BAY 207

you are (lod's minister, you ought to liave something to say
about God's \ie\v of a fact which certainly in\'olves the li\es
of His creatures, not by twos and threes, but by tens of
thousands.'

So Frank went home, and thought it through ; and went once
and again to Thurnall, and condescended to ask his opinion of
what he had said, and whether he said ill or well. Wliat Thur-
nall answered was — ' Whether that's sound Church doctrine is
your business ; but if it be, I'll say, with the man there in the
Acts — what was his name 1 — " Almost thou persuadest me to be
a christian. " '

'Would God that you were one ! for you would make a right
good one.'

' Humph ! at least you see what you can do, if you'll only
face fact as it stands, and talk about the realities of life. I'll
puff your sermon beforehand, I assure you, and bring all I can
to hear it.'

So Frank preached a noble sermon, most rational, and most
spiritual withal ; but he, too, like his tutor, took little by his
motion.

All the present fruit upon which he had to congratulate him-
self was, that the Brianite preacher denounced him in chapel
next Sunday as a German Rationalist, who impiously pretended
to explain away the Lord's visitation into a, carnal matter of
drains, and pipes, and gases, and such like ; and that his rival
of another denomination, who was a fanatic on the teetotal
question, denounced him as bitterly for supporting the cause of
drunkenness, by attributing cholera to want of cleanliness,
while all rational people knew that its true source was intem-
perance. Poor Frank ! he had preached against drunkenness
many a time and oft : but because he would not add a Moham-
medan eleventh commandment to those ten which men already
find difficulty enough in keeping, he was set upon at once
by a fanatic whose game it was — as it is that of too many —
to snub sanitary reform, and hinder the spread of plain scien-
tific truth, for the sake of pushing their own nostrum for all
human ills. "

In despair, Tom went off to Elsley Vavasour. Would he
help? Would he join, as one of two householders, in making a
representation to the proper authorities ?

Elsley had never mixed in local matters : and if he had, he
knew nothing of how to manage men, or to read an Act of Par-
liament ; so, angry as Tom was inclined to be with him, he
found it useless to quarrel with a man so utterly unpractical,
who would, probably, had he been stirred into exertion, have
done more harm than good.

' Only come with me, and satisfy yourself as to the existence
of one of these nuisances, and then you will have grounds on
which to go,' said Tom, who had still hopes of making a cat's

208 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

paw of Elsley, and by his power over him, pulling the strings
from behind.

Sorely against his will, Elsley went, saw, and smelt ; came
home again ; was \'ery unwell ; and was visited nightly for a
week after by that most disgusting of all phantoms, sanitary
nightmare ; which some who have worked in the foul places of
the earth know but too well. Evidently his health could not
stand it. There was no work to be got out of him in that
direction.

' Would he write, then, and represent matters to Lord Scout-
bush?'

How could he 1 He did not know the man ; not a line had
ever been exchanged between them. Their relations were so
very peculiar. It would seem sheer impertinence on his part to
interfere with the management of Lord Scoutbush's property.
Really there was a great deal to be said, Tom felt, for poor
Elsley's dislike of meddling in that quarter.

' Would ilrs. Vavasour write, then ? '

' For Heaven's sake, do not mention it to her. She would be
so terrified about the children ; she is worn out with anxiety
already,' — and so forth.

Tom went back to Frank Headley.

'You see a good deal of Miss St. Just.'

' 1 1 — Xo — why ? — what 1 ' said poor Frank, blushing.

'Only that you must make her write to her brother about
this cholera.'

' My dear fellow, it is such a subject for a lady to meddle
with.'

' It has no scruple in meddling with ladies ; so ladies ought
to have none in meddling with it. You must do it as delicately
as you will : but done it must be : it is our only chance. Tell
her of Tardrew's obstinacy, or Scout bush will go by his opinion ;
and tell her to keep the secret from her sister.'

Frank did it, and well. Valentia was horror-struck, and
wrote.

Scoutbush was away at sea, nobody knew where ; and a full
fortnight elapsed before an answer came.

' ily dear, you are quite mistaken if you think I can do any-
thing. Nine-tenths of the houses in Aberalva are not in my
hands : but copyholds and long leases, over which I have no
power. If the people will complain to me of any given nuisance,
I'll right it if I can ; and if the doctor wants money, and sees
any ways of laying it out well, he shall have what he wants,
though I am very high in Queer Street just now, ma'am, having
paid your bills before I left town, like a good brother ; but I
tell you again, I have no more power than you have, except over
a few cottages, and Tardrew assured me, three weeks ago, that
they were as comfortable as they ever had been.'

XIV THE DOCTOR AT BAY 209

So Tardrew liad forestalled Thurnall in writing to the Vis-
count. Well, there was one more chance to be tried.

Tom gave his lecture in the schoolroom. He showed them
magnified abominations enough to frighten all the children into
fits, and dilated on horrors enough to spoil all appetites : he
proved to tliem that, though they had the finest water in the
world all over the town, they had contrived to poison almost
every drop of it ; he waxed eloquent, witty, sarcastic ; and the
net result was a general grumble.

' How did he get hold of all the specimens, as he calls them ?
What business has he poking his nose down people's wells and
waterbutts ? '

But an unexpected ally arose at this juncture, in the coast-
guard lieutenant, who, being valiant after his evening's brandy-
and-water, rose and declared 'that Dr. Thurnall was a very
clever man ; that by what he'd seen himself in the West Indies,
it was all as true as gospel ; that the parish might have the
cholera if it liked,' — and here a few expletives occurred — ' but
that he'd see that the coast-guard houses were put to rights at
once ; for he would not have the lives of her Majesty's servants
endangered by such dirty tricks, not fit for heathen savages,'
etc. etc.

Tom struck while the iron was hot. He saw that the great
man's speech had produced an impression.

' Would he ' (so he asked the lieutenant privately), ' get some
one to join him, and present a few of these nuisances ? '

He would do anything in his contempt for ' a lot of long-shore
merchant-skippers and herringers, who went about calling them-
selves captains, and fancy themselves, sir, as good as if they
wore the Queen's uniform.'

' Well, then, can't we find another householder — some cantan-
kerous dog who don't mind a row ? '

Yes, the cantankerous dog was found, in the person of Mr.
John Penruddock, coal-merchant, who had quarrelled with Tar-
drew, because Tardrew said he gave short weight — which he
very probably did — and had quarrelled also with Thomas Beer
senior, ship-builder, about right of passage through a back-yard.

ilr. Penruddock suddenly discovered that Mr. Beer kept up a
dirt-heap in the said back-yard, and with virtuous indignation
vowed 'he'd sarve the old beggar out at last.'

So far so good. The weapons of reason and righteousness
having failed, Tom felt at liberty to borrow the devil's tools.
Now to pack a vestry, and to nominate a local committee.

The vestry was packed ; the committee nominated : of course
half of them refused to act — they 'didn't want to go quarrelling
with their neighbours.'

Tom explained to them cunningly and delicately that they
would have nothing to do ; that one or two (he did not say that
he was the one, and the two also) would do all the work, and

p T. Y. A.

210 TWO YEARS AGO CHAr.

bear all the odium ; whereon the malcontents subsided, con-
sidering it likely that, after all, nothing would be done.

Some may fancy that matters were now getting somewhat
settled. Those who do so know little of the charming machinery
of local governments. One man has ' summat to say,' — utterly
irrelevant ; another must needs answer him with something
equally irrelevant ; a long chatter ensues, in spite of all cries to
order and question. Soon one and another gets personal, and
temper shows here and there. You would fancy that the go-
ahead party try to restore order, and help business on. Xot in
the least. They have begun to cool a little. They are a little
afraid that they have committed themselves. If people quarrel
with each other, perhaps they may quarrel with them too. And
they begin to be wonderfully patient and impartial, in the hope
of staving off the evil day, and finding some excuse for doing
nothing after all. ' Hear 'mun out !'...' Yair and zof t, let
ev'ry man ha' his zay !'...' There's vary gude rason in it ! '
' I didn't think of that avore,' — and so forth ; till in a quarter
of an hour the whole question has to be discussed over again,
through the fog of a dozen fresh fallacies, and the miserable
earnest man finds himself considerably worse off than when he
began. Happy for him if one chance word is not let drop
which will aiford the whole assembly an excuse for falling on
him open-mouthed, as the cause of all their woes !

That chance word came. Mr. Penruddock gave a spiteful
hit, being, as is said, of a cantankerous turn, to ilr. Treluddra,
principal 'jowder,' i.e. fish salesman, of Aberalva. Whereon
Treluddra, whose conscience told him that there was at present
in his back -yard a cart-load and more of fish in every stage of
putrefaction, which he had kept rotting there rather than lower
the market-price, rose in wrath.

' An' if any committee puts its noz into my back -yard, if it
doant get the biggest cod's innards as I can collar hold on about
its ears, my name is not Treluddra ! A man's house is his castle,
says I, and them as takes up with any o' this open-day burglary,
for it's nothing else, has to do wi' me, that's all, and them as
knows their interest, knows me ! '

Terrible were these words ; for old Treluddra, like most jriw-
ders, combined the profession of money-lender with that of
salesman ; and there were dozens in the place who were in debt
to him for money advanced to buy boats and nets, after wreck
and loss. Besides, to ofl'end one jowder was to offend all. They
combined to buy the fish at any price they chose : if angered,
they would combine now and then not to buy it at all.

' You old twenty per cent rascal,' roared the lieutenant,
'after making a fortune out of these poor fellows' mishaps, do
you want to poison 'em all with your stinking fish ? '

' I say, lieutenant,' says old Beer, whose son owed Treluddra
fifty pounds at that moment, ' fair's fair. You mind your coast-

XIV THE DOCTOR AT BAY 211

guard, and we"m mind our trade. We'm free fishermen, by
charter and right ; j-ou'm not our master, and you shall know
it.'

' Know it ? ' says the lieutenant, foaming.

' Iss ; you put your head inside my presences, and I'll split
'mun open, if I be lianged for it.'

' You split my head open ! '

'Iss, by .' And the old gray-bearded sea-king set his

arms akimbo.

' Gentlemen, gentlemen, for Heaven's sake ! ' cries poor Head-
ley, 'this is really going too far. Gentlemen, tlie vestry is
adjourned ! '

' Best thing too ! oughtn't never to have been called,' says
one and another.

And some one, as he went out, muttered sometliing about
'interloping strange doctors, colloquies with popish curates,'
which was answered by a — 'Put 'mun in the quay pule,' from
Treluddra.

Tom stepped up to Treluddra instantly. ' AN'hat were you so
kind as to say, sir ? '

Treluddra turned very pale. ' I didn't say nought.'

' Oh, but I assure you I heard ; and I shall be most happy to
jump into the quay pule this afternoon, if it will afford you the
slightest amusement. Say the word, and I'll borrow a flute,
and play you the Rogue's March all the while with my right
hand, swimming with my left. Now, gentlemen, one word
before we part ! '

' Who be you 1 ' cries some one.

' A man, at least, and ought to have a fair hearing. Now, I
ask you, what possible interest can I have in this matter ? I
knew when I began that I should give myself a frightful quan-
tity of trouble, and get only what I have got.'

' Why did you begin at all, then ? '

' Because I was a very foolish, meddlesome ass, who fancied
that I ought to do my duty once in a way by my neighbours.
Now, I have only to say, that if you will but forgive and forget,
and let bygones be bygones, I promise you solemnly, I'll never
do my duty by you again as long as I live, nor interfere witli
the sacred privilege of every free-born Englishman, to do that
which is right in the sight of his own eyes, and wrong
too ! '

' You'm making fun at us,' said old Beer dubiously.

' Well, Mr. Beer, and isn't tliat better than quarrelling with
you ? Come along, we'll all go home and forget it, like good
christians. Perhaps the cholera won't come ; and if it does,
what's the odds so long as you're happy, eh ? '

And to the intense astonishment both of the lieutenant and
Frank, Tom walked home with the malcontents, making him-
self so agreeable that he was forgiven freely on the spot.

212 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

' What does the fellow mean ? He's deserted us, sir, after
bringing us here to make fools of us ! '

Frank could give no answer ; but Thurnall gave one himself
that evening, both to Frank and the lieutenant.

'The cholera will come ; and these fellows are just mad ; but
I mustn't quarrel with them, mad or not.'

'Why, then?'

' For the same reason that you must not. If we keep our
influence, we may be able to do some good at the last, which
means, in plain English, saving a few human lives. As for you,
lieutenant, you have behaved like a hero, and have been served
as heroes generally are. What you must do is this. On the
first hint of disease, pack up your traps and your good lady, and
go and live in the watch-house across the ri\er. As for the
men's houses, I'll set them to rights in a day, if you'll get the
commander of the district to allow you a little chloride of Kme
and whitewash.'

And so the matter ended.

'You are a greater puzzle than ever to me, Thurnall,' said
Frank. 'You are always pretending to care for nothing but
your own interest, and yet here you have gone out of your way
to incur odium, knowing, you say, that your cause was all but
hopeless.'

' Well, I do it because I like it. It's a sort of sporting with
your true doctor. He blazes away at a disease where he sees
one, as he would at a bear or a lion ; the very sight of it excites
his organ of destructiveness. Don't you understand me ? You
hate sin, you know. Well, I hate disease. Moral evil is your
devil, and physical evil is mine. I hate it, little or big ; I hate
to see a fellow sick ; I hate to see a child rickety and pale ; I
hate to see a speck of dirt in the street ; I hate to see a woman's
gown torn ; I hate to see her stockings down at heel ; I hate to
see anything wasted, anything awry, anything going wrong ; I
hate to see water-power wasted, manure wasted, land wasted,
muscle wasted, pluck wasted, brains wasted ; I hate neglect,
incapacity, idleness, ignorance, and all the disease and misery
which spring out of that. There's my devil ; and I can't help,
for the life of me, going right at his throat, wheresoever I
meet him ! '

Lastly, rather to clear his reputation than in the hope of
doing good, Tom wrote up to London, and detailed the case to
that much-calumniated tsody, the General Board of Health,
informing them civilly that the Nuisances Removal Act was
simply waste paper ; that he could not get it to bear at all on
Aberalva ; and that if he had done so, it would have been equally
useless, for the simple reason that it constituted the offenders
themselves judge and jury in their own case.

To which the Board returned for answer, that they were per-
fectly aware of the fact, and deeply deplored the same : but that

XIV THE DOCTOR AT BAY 213

as soon as cholera broke out in Aberalva, they should be most
happy to send down an inspector.

To which Tom replied courteously, that he would not give
them the trouble, being able, he trusted, to perform without
assistance the not uncommon feat of shutting the stable-door
after the horse was stolen.

And so was Aberalva left 'a virgin city,' undefiled by
Goverment interference, to the blessings of that ' local govern-
ment ' which signifies, in plain English, the leaving the few to
destroy themselves and the many by the unchecked exercise of
the virtues of pride and ignorance, stupidity and stinginess.

But to Tom, in his sorest need, arose a new and most un-
expected coadjutor ; and this was the way in which it came to
pass.

For it befell in that pleasant summer time, ' when small birds
sing, and shaughs are green,' that Thurnall started, one bright
Sunday eve, to see a sick child at an upland farm, some few
miles from the town. And partly because he liked the walk,
and partly because he could no other, having neither horse nor
gig, he went on foot ; and whistled as he went like any throstle-
cock, along the pleasant vale, by flowery banks and ferny walls,
by oak and ash and thorn, while Alva flashed and swirled
between green boughs below, clear coffee - brown from last
night's rain. Some miles up the turnpike road lie went, and
then away to the right, through the ash-woods of Trebooze, up
by the rill which drips from pool to pool over the ledges of gray
slate, deep-bedded in dark sedge, and broad bright burdock
leaves, and tall angelica, and ell-broad rings and tufts of king,
and crown, and lady-fern, and all the semi-tropic luxuriance of
the fat western soil, and steaming western woods ; out into the
boggy moor at the glen head, all fragrant with the gold-tipped
gale, where the turf is enamelled with the hectic marsh violet,
and the pink pimpernel, and the pale yellow leaf-stars of the
butterwort, and the blue bells and green threads of the ivy-
leaved campanula ; out upon the steep smooth down above, and
away over the broad cattle -pastures ; and then to pause a
moment, and look far and wide over land and sea.

It was a ' day of God.' The earth lay like one great emerald,
ringed and roofed with sapphire ; blue sea, blue mountain, blue
sky overhead. There she lay, not sleeping, but basking in her
quiet Sabbath joy, as though her two great sisters of the sea
and air had washed her weary limbs with holy tears, and purged
away the stains of last week's sin and toil, and cooled her hot
worn forehead with their pure incense-breath, and folded her
within their azure robes, and brooded over her with smiles of
pitying love, till she smiled back in answer, and took heart and
hope for next week's weary work.

Heart and hope for next week's work. That was the sermon
which it preached to Tom Thurnall, as he stood there alone, a

214 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

stranger and a wanderer, like Ulysses of old ; but, like him,
self-helpful, cheerful, fate-defiant. In one respect, indeed, he
knew less than Ulysses, and was more of a heathen than he ;
for he knew not wliat Ulysses knew, that a heavenly guide was
with him in his wanderings ; still less what Ulysses knew not,
that what he called the malicious sport of fortune was, in truth,
the earnest education of a father : but who will blame him for
getting strength and comfort from such merely natural founts,
or say that the impulse came from below, and not from above,
which made him say —

' Brave old world she is, after all, and right well made ; and
looks right well to-day, in her go-to-meeting clothes ; and plenty
of room and chance in her for a brave man to earn his bread, if
he will but go right on about his business, as the birds and the
flowers do, instead of peaking and pining over what people
think of him, like that miserable Briggs. Hark to that jolly
old missel-thrush below ! he's had bis nest to build, and his
supper to earn, and his young ones to feed, and all the crows
and kites in the wood to drive away, the sturdy John Bull that
he is ; and yet he can find time to sing as merrily as an abbot,
morning and evening, since he sang the new year in last January.
And why should not I 'I '

Let him be a while ; there are sounds of deeper meaning in
the air, if his heart had ears to hear them ; far off church-bells
cliiming to even-song ; hymn-tunes floating up the glen from
the little chajjel in the vale. He may learn what they, too,
mean some day. Honour to him at least, that he has learnt
what the missel-thrush below can tell him. If he accept cheer-
fully and manfully the things which he does see, he wiU be all
the more able to enter hereafter into the deeper mystery of
things unseen. The road toward true faith and reverence for
God's kingdom of heaven does not lie through ^Manichsean con-
tempt and slander of God's kingdom of earth.

So let him stride over the down, enjoying the mere fact of
life, and health, and strength, and whistling shrilly to the bird
below, who trumpets out a few grand ringing notes, and repeats
them again and again, in saucy self-satisfaction ; and then stops
to listen for the answer to this challenae ; and then rattles on
again with a fresh passage, more saucily than ever, in a tone
which seems to ask, 'You could sing that, eh? but can you
sing this, my fine fellow on the down above V So he seems to
Tom to say ; and, tickled with the fancy, Tom laughs, and
whistles, and laughs, and has just time to compose his features
as he steps up to the farmyard gate.

Let him be, I say again. He miglit have better Sunday
thoughts ; perhaps he will have some day. At least he is a
man, and a brave one ; and as the greater contains the less,
surely before a man can be a good man, he must be a brave one
first, much more a man at all. Cowards, old Odin held, inevit-

XIV THE DOCTOR AT BAY 215

ably went to the very bottom of Hela-pool, and by no possibility,
unless of course they became brave at last, could ris^out of that
everlasting bog, but sank whining lower and lower like mired
cattle, to all eternity in the unfathomable peat-slime. And if
the twenty-first chapter of the Book of Kevelation, and the
eighth verse, is to be taken as it stands, their doom has not
altered since Odin's time, unless to become still worse.

Tom came up, over the home-close and through the barton-

fate, through the farmyard, and stopped at last at the porch,
'he front door was open, and the door beyond it ; and ere he
knocked, he stopped, looking in silence at a picture which held
him spellbound for a moment by its rich and yet quiet beauty.
Tom was no artist, and knew no more of painting, in spite of
his old friendship with Claude, than was to be expected of a
keen and observant naturalist who had seen half the globe.
Indeed, he had been in the habit of snubbing Claude's pro-
fession ; and of arriving, on pre-Eaphaelite grounds, at a by no
means pre-Eaphaelite conclusion. ' A picture, you say, is worth
nothing unless you copy nature. But you can't copy her. She
is ten times more gorgeous than any man can dare represent
her. Ergo, every picture is a failure ; and the nearest hedge-
bush is worth all your galleries together ' — a syllogism of sharp
edge, which he would back up by Byron's —

' I've seen much finer women, ripe and real,
Than all the nonsense of their stone ideal.'

But here was one of nature's own pictures, drawn and
coloured by more than mortal hand, and framed over and above,
ready to his eye, by the square of the dark doorway, beyond
which all was flooded with the full glory of the low north-
western sun.

A dark oak-ribbed ceiling ; walls of pale fawn-yellow ; an
open window, showing a corner of rich olive-stone wall, enam-
elled with golden lichens, orange and green combs of polypody,
pink and gray tufts of pellitory, all glowing in the sunlight.

Above the window-sill rose a bush of maiden-blush roses ; a
tall spire of blue monkshood ; and one head of scarlet lychnis,
like a spark of fire ; and, behind all, the dark blue sea, which
faded into the pale-blue sky.

At the window stood a sofa of old maroon leather, its dark
hue throwing out in strong relief two figures who sat upon it.
And when Tom had once looked at them, he looked at nothing
else.

There sat the sick girl, her head nestling upon the shoulder
of Grace Harvey ; a tall, delicate thing of seventeen, with thin
white cheeks, the hectic spot aflame on each, and long fair curls,
which mingled lovingly with Grace's dark tresses, as they sat
cheek against cheek, and hand in hand. Her eyes were closed ;
Tom thought at first that she was asleep ; but there was a quiet

216 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

smile about her pale lips ; and every now and then her left hand
left Grace's, to move toward a leaf full of strawberries which
lay on Grace's lap ; and Tom could see that she was listening
intently to Grace, who told and told, in that sweet measured
voice of hers, her head erect, her face in the full blaze of sun-
shine, her great eyes looking out far away beyond the sea,
beyond the sky, into some infinite which only she beheld.

Tom had approached unheard across the farmyard straw.
He stood and looked his fill. The attitude of the two girls was
so graceful, that he was loth to disturb it ; and loth, too, to dis-
turb a certain sunny calm which warmed at once and softened
his stout heart.

He wished, too — he scarce knew why — to hear what Grace
was saying ; and as he listened, her voice was so distinct and deli-
cate in its modulations, that every word came clearly to his ear.

It was the beautiful old legend of St. Dorothea —

'So they did all sorts of dreadful things to her, and then led
her away to die ; and they stood laughing there. But after a
little time there came a boy, the prettiest boy that ever was seen
on earth, and in his hand a basket full of fruits and flowers,
more beautiful than tongue can tell. And he said, " Dorothea
sends you these, out of the heavenly garden which she told you
of; will you believe her now?" And then, before they could
reply, he \anished away. And Theophilus looked at the flowers,
and tasted the fruit, and a new heart grew up within him ; and
he said, " Dorothea's God shall be my God, and I will die for
Him like her."

' So you see, darling, there are sweeter fruits than these, and
gayer flowers, in the place to which you go ; and all the lovely
things in this world here will seem quite poor and worthless
beside the glory of that better land which He will show you ;
and yet you will not care to look at them ; for the sight of Him
will be enough, and you will care to think of nothing else.'

' And you are sure He will accept me, after all ? ' asked the
sick girl, opening her eyes, and looking up at Grace. She
saw Thurnall standing in the doorway, and gave a little scream.

Tom came forward, bowing. 'lam very sorry to have dis-
turbed you. I suspect !Miss Har\ey was giving you better
medicine than I can give.'

Now why did Tom say that, to whom the legend of St.
Dorothea, and, indeed, that whole belief in a better land, was as
a dream tit only for girls ?

Not altogether because he must needs say something civil.
True, he felt, on the whole, about the future state as Goethe did
— 'To the able man this world is not dumb; why should he
ramble off" into eternity? Such incomprehensible subjects lie
too far off", and only disturb our thoughts, if made the subject
of daily meditation.' That there was a future state he had no
doubt. Our having been born once, he used to say, is the

XIV THE DOCTOR AT BAY 217

strongest possible presumption in favour of our being born
again ; and probably, as nature always works upward and
develops higher foi'ms, in some higher state. Indeed, for aught
he knew, the old ichthyosaurs and plesiosaurs might be alive
now as lions, or as men. He himself, indeed, he had said, ere
now had been probably a pterodactyle of the Lias, neither fish,
Hesh, nor good red herring, but crocodile and bat in one, able
alike to swim, or run, or fly, eat anything, and live in any
element. Still it was no concern of his. He was here, and here
was his business. He had not thought of this life before he
came into it ; and it would be time enough to think of the next
life when he got into it. Besides, he had all a doctor's dislike
of those terrors of the unseen world with which some men are
wont to ojjpress still more failing nature, and break the bruised
reed. His business was to cure his patients' bodies ; and if he
could not do that, at least to see that life was not shortened in
them by nervous depression and anxiety. Accustomed to see
men of every character die under every possible circumstance,
he had come to the conclusion that the ' safety of a man's soul '
could by no possibility be inferred from his death-bed temper.
The vast majority, good or bad, died in peace ; why not let them
die so 1 If nature kindly took off the edge of sorrow, by blunt-
ing the nervous system, what right had man to interfere with
so merciful an arrangement ? Every man, he held in his easy
optimism, would go where he ought to go ; and it could be no
possible good to him — indeed, it might be a very bad thing for
him, as in this life — to go where he ought not to go. So he used
to argue, with three-fourths of mankind, mingling truth and
falsehood ; and would, on these grounds, have done his best to
turn the dissenting preacher out of that house, had he found
him in it. But to-day he was in a more lenient, perhaps in a
more human, and therefore more spiritual mood. It was all
very well for him, full of life, and power, and hope, to look on
death in that cold, careless way ; but for that poor young thing,
cut off just as life opened from all that made life lovely — was
not death for her a painful, ugly anomaly? Could she be
blamed, if she shuddered at going forth into the unknown
blank, she knew not whither ? All very well for the old emperor
of Rome, who had lived his life and done his work, to play with
the dreary question —

' Animula, vagula, blandula,
Hospes comesque corporis,
Quad nunc abibis in loca,
Rigidula, nudula, pallida ?— "

But she, who had lived no life, and done no work — only had
pined through weary years of hideous suffering ; crippled and
ulcerated with scrofula, now dying of consumption ; was it not
a merciful dream, a beautiful dream, a just dream — so beautiful

•218 TWO YEARS AGO thak

and just that perhaps it might be true — that in some fairer
world, all this, and more, might be made up to her ? If not, was
it not a mistake and an injustice, that she should ever ha\ e come
into the world at all ? And was not Grace doing a rational as
well as a loving work, in telling her, under whatever symbols,
that such a home of rest and beauty awaited her ? It was not
the sort of place to which he expected, perhaps e\ en wished, to
go ; but it fitted well enough with a young girl's hopes, a young
girl's powers of enjoyment. Let it be ; perhaps there was such
a place — why not ? — fitted for St. Dorothea, and those cut ott' in
youth like her ; and other places fit for such as he. And he
spoke more tenderly than usual (though he was never untender),
as he said —

' And you feel better to-day ? I am sure you must, with sucli
a kind friend to tell you such sweet tales.'

' I do not feel better, thank you. And why should I wish to
do so ? You all take too much trouble about me ; why do you
want to keep me here ? '

' We are loth to lose you ; and besides, while you can be kept
here, it is a sign that you ought to be here.'

' So Grace tells me. Yes, I will be patient, and wait till He
has done His work. I am more patient now ; am I not, Grace ?'
And she fondled Grace's hand, and looked up in her face.

' Yes,' said Grace, who was standing near, with downcast face,
trying to avoid Tom's eye. ' Yes, you are very good ; but you
must not talk ; ' but the girl went on, with kindling eye —

'Ah! I was very fretful at first, because I could not go to
heaven at once ; but Grace showed me how it was good to be
here, as well as there, as long as He thought that I might be
made perfect by sufferings. And since then my pain has become
quite pleasant to me, and I am ready to wait and bear — wait
and bear.'

' You must not talk ; see, you are beginning to cough,' said
Tom, who wished somehow to stop a form of thought which so
utterly puzzled him. Not that he had not heard it before ;
common-place enough indeed it is, thank God ; but that day the
words came home to him with spirit and power, all the more
solemnly from their contrast with the scene around — without,
all sunshine, joy, and glory, all which could tempt a human
being to linger here ; and within, that young girl longing to
leave it all, and yet content to stay and suffer. What mysteries
there were in the human spirit — mysteries to which that know-
ledge of mankind on which he prided himself ga\'e him no key.

' What if I were laid on my back to-morrow for life, by a fall,
a blow, as I have seen many a better man than me, should I not
wish to have one to talk to me, as she was talking to that child ? '
And for a moment a yearning after Grace came over him, as it
had done before, and swept from his mind the dark cloud of
suspicion.

XIV THE DOCTOR AT BAY 219

'Now I must talk with your mother,' said he, 'for you have
better company than mine, and I hear her just coming in.'

He settled little matters for his patient's comfort with the
farmer's wife. When he returned to bid her good-bye Grace
was gone.

' I hope I have not driven her away.'

' Oh no ; she had been here an hour, and she must go back
now, to get her mother's supper.'

' That is a good girl,' said Tom, looking after her as she went
down the field.

' She's an angel from heaven, sir. Not a three days go over
without her walking up here all this way after her work to
comfort my poor maid, and all of us as well. It's like the dew
of heaven upon us. Pity, sir, you didn't see her home.'

' I should have liked it well enough ; but folks might talk, if
two young people were seen walking together Sunday evening.'

' Oh, sir, they know her too well by now, for miles round, and
you too, sir, I'll make bold to say.'

' Well, at least I'll go after her.'

So Tom went, and Kept Grace in sight till she had crossed the
little moor, and disappeared in the wood below.

He had gone about an hundred yards into the wood, when
he heard voices and laughter, then a loud shriek. He hurried
forward. In another minute, Grace rushed up to him, her eyes
wide with terror and indignation.

' What is it ? ' cried he, trying to stop her, but, not seeming to
see him, she dashed past him, and ran on. Another moment,
and a man appeared in full pursuit.

It was Trebooze, of Trebooze, an evil laugh upon his face.

Tom planted himself across the narrow path in an attitude
which there was no mistaking.

Not a word passed between them. Silently and instinctively,
like two fierce dogs, the two men flew upon each other ; Tom
full of righteous wrath, and Trebooze of half -drunken passion,
turned to fury by the interruption.

He was a far taller and heavier man than Thurnall, and, as
the bully of the neighbourhood, counted on an easy victory.
But he was mistaken. After the first rush was over, he found
it impossible to close with his foe, and saw in the doctor's face,
now grown cool and business-like as usual, the wily smile of
superior science and expected triumph.

' Brandy-and-water in the morning ought not to improve the
wind,' said Tom to himself, as his left hand countered provok-
ingly, while his right rattled again and again upon Trebooze's
watch-chain. ' Justice will overtake you in the offending part,
which I take to be the epigastric region.'

In a few minutes more the scufile ended shamefully enough
for the sottish squireen.

Tom stood over him for a minute, as he sat grovelling and

220 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

groaning among the long grass. ' I may as well see that I have
not killed him. No, he will do as well as ever — which is not
saying much. . . . Now, sir ! Go home quietly, and ask Mrs.
Trebooze for a little rhubarb and salvolatile. I'll call up in the
course of to-morrow to see how you are.'

' I'll kill you, if I catch you ! '

"As a man, I am open of course to be killed by any fair
means : but as a doctor, I am still bound to see aftci- my
patient's health.' And Tom bowed civilly, and walked back
up the path to find Grace, after washing face and hands in the
brook.

He found her up at Tolchard's farm, trembling and thankful.

' I cannot do less than see !Miss Harvey safe home.'

Grace hesitated.

' Mrs. Tolchard, I am sure, will walk with us ; it would Ije
safer, in ease you felt faint again.'

But ilrs. Tolchard would not come to save Grace's notions of
propriety ; so Tom passed Grace's arm through his own. She
offered to withdraw it.

' No ; you will require it. You do not know yet how mucli
you have gone through. My fear is, that you will feel it all the
more painfully when the excitement is past. I shall send you
up a cordial ; and you must promise me to take it. You owe
me a little debt you know, to-day ; you must pay it by taking
my medicines.'

Grace looked up at him sidelong ; for there was a playful
tenderness in his voice which was new to her, and which
thrilled her through and through.

'I will indeed, I promise you. But I am so much better now.
Really, I can walk Alone ! ' And she withdrew her arm from
his, but not hastily.

After that they walked on awhile in silence. Grace kept her
veil down, for her eyes were full of tears. She lo\ed that man
intensely, utterly. She did not seek to deny it to herself. God
had gi\en him to her, and hers he was. The very sea, the de-
vourer whom she hated, who hungered to swallow up all young
fair life, the very sea had yielded him up to her, alive from the
dead. And yet that man, she knew, suspected her of a base and
hateful crime. It was too dreadful ! She could not exculpate
herself, save by blank denial — and what would that avail ? The
large hot drops ran down her cheeks. She had need of all her
strength to prevent sobbing.

She looked round. In the bright summer evening, all things
were full of joy and love. The hedge-banks were gay as flower
gardens ; the swifts chased each other, screaming harsh delight ;
the ring-dove murmured in the wood beneath his world-old
song, which she had taught the children a hundred times —

' Curuckity coo, curuck coo ;
You love me, and I love you ! '

XIV THE DOCTOR AT BAY 221

The woods slept golden in the evening sunlight ; and overhead
brooded, like one great smile of God, the everlasting blue.

' He will right me ! ' she said. ' " Hold thee still in the Lord,
and abide patiently, and He will make thy righteousness clear
as tlie light, and thy just dealing as the noon-day!"' And
after that thought she wept no more.

Was it as a reward for her faith that Tom began to talk to
her ? He had paced on by her side, serious, but not sad. True,
he had susjjected her ; he suspected her still. But that scene
with the dying child had been no sham. There, at least, there
was nothing to suspect, nothing to sneer at. The calm purity,
self-sacrifice, hope, which was contained in it, had softened his
world-hardened spirit, and woke up in him feelings which were
always pleasant, feelings which the sight of his father, or the
writing to his father, could only awaken. Quaintly enough, the
thought of Grace and of his father seemed intertwined, inextric-
able. If the old man had but such a nurse as she ! And for a
moment he felt a glow of tenderness toward her, because he
thought she would be tender to his father. She had stolen his
money, certainly ; or, if not, she knew where it was, and would
not tell him. Well, what matter just then ? He did not want
the money at that minute. How much pleasanter and wiser to
take things as they came, and enjoy himself while he could;
and fancy that she was always what he had seen, her that day.
After all, it was much more pleasant to trust people than to
suspect them : ' Handsome is who handsome does ! And be-
sides, she did me the kindness of saving my life ; so it would
but be civil to talk to her a little.'

He began to talk to her about the lovely scene around ; and
found, to his surprise, that she saw as much of it as he, and saw
a great deal more in it than he. Her answers were short,
modest, faltering ; but each one of them suggestive ; and Tom
soon found that he had met with a mind which contained all
the elements of poetry, and needed only education to develop
them.

'What a blue stocking, pre-Kaphaelite, seventh-heavenarian
she would have been, if she had had the misfortune to be born in
that station of life ! ' But where a clever man is talking to a
beautiful woman, talk he will, and must, for the mere sake of
showing off, though she be but a village schoolmistress ; and
Tom soon found himself, with a secret sneer at his own vanity,
displaying before her all the much finer things that he had seen
in his travels ; and as he talked, she answered, with quiet ex-
pressions of wonder, sympathy, regret at her own narrow sphere
of experience, till, as if the truth was not enough, he found
himself running to the very edge of exaggeration, and a little
over it, in the enjoyment of calling out her passion for the mar-
vellous, especially when called out in honour of himself.

And she, simple creature, drank it all in as sparkling wine,

222 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

and only dreaded lest the stream should cease. Adventures
with noble savages in palm-fringed coral-islands, with greedy
robbers amid the fragrant hills of Greece, with fierce Indians
beneath the snow-peaks of the Far West, with coward Mexicans
among tunals of cactus and agave, beneath the burning tropic
sun — What a man he was ! Where had he not been ? and
what had he not seen ? And how he had been preserved — for
her ? And his image seemed to her utterly beautiful and
glorious, clothed as it was in the beauty and glory of all that he
had seen, and done, and suffered. O Love, Love, Love, the
same in peasant and in peer ! The more honour to you, then,
old Lo\e, to be the same thing in this world which is common
to peasant and to peer. They say that you are blind ; a
dreamer, an exaggerator — a liar, in short. They know just
nothing about you, then. You will not see people as they seem,
and as they have become, no doubt : but why ? because you see
them as they ought to be, and are, in some deep way, eternally,
in the sight of Him who conceived and created them.

At last she started, as if waking from a pleasant dream, and
spoke, half to herself —

' Oh, how foolish of me — to be idling away this opportunity ;
the only one, perhaps, which I may have ! O !Mr. Thurnall,
tell me about this cholera ! '

'What about it?'

'Everything. Ever since I heard of what you have been
saying to the people, ever since Mi\ Headley's sermon, it has
been like fire in my ears ! '

'I am truly glad to hear it. If all parsons had preached
about it for the last fifteen years as Mr. Headley did last Sun-
day, if they had told people plainly that, if the cholera was
God's judgment at all, it was His judgment of the sin of dirt,
and that the repentance which He required was to wash and be
clean in literal earnest, the cholera would be impossible in
England by now.'

' O -Mr. Thurnall : but is it not God's doing 1 and can we
stop His hand ? '

' I know nothing about that. Miss Harvey. I only know
that wheresoever cholera breaks out, it is some one's fault : and
if deaths occur, some one ought to be tried for manslaughter — I
had almost said murder — and transported for life.'

'Someone? Who?'

' That will be settled in the next generation, when men have
common sense enough to make laws for the preservation of their
own lives, against the dirt, and covetousness, and idleness, of a
set of human hogs.'

Grace ■wf^'S silent for a while.

' But can nothing be done to keep it off no w ? i lust it come ? '

' I belie\ e it must. Still, one may do enough to save many
lives in the meanwhile.'

XIV THE DOCTOR AT BAY 223

'Enough to save many lives — lives? — immortal souls, too'!
Oh, what could I do ? '

'A great deal, Jliss Harvey,' said Tom, across whom the
recollection of Grace's influence flashed for the first time.
What a help she might be to him !

And he talked on and on to her, and found that she entered
into his plans with all her wild enthusiasm, but also with sound
practical common sense ; and Tom began to respect her intellect
as well as her heart.

At last, however, she faltered —

' Oh, if I could but believe all this ! Is it not fighting against
God?'

' I do not know what sort of God yours is, ^liss Harvey. I
believe in some One who made all that ! ' and he pointed round
him to the glorious woods and glorious sky ; ' I should have
fancied from your speech to that poor girl, tliat you believed in
Him also. You may, however, only believe in the same being
in whom the ilethodist parson believes, one who intends to hurl
into endless agony e\ ery human being who has not had a chance
of hearing the said preacher's nostrum for delivering men out of
the hands of Him who made them ! '

' What do you mean ? ' asked Grace, startled alike by Tom's
words, and the intense scorn and bitterness of his tone.

' "That matters little. What do you mean in turn ? What did
you mean by saying that saving lives is saving immortal souls ? '

' Oh, is it not giving them time to repent ? What will become
of them, if they are cut ofi' in the midst of their sins ? '

' If you had a son whom it was not convenient to you to keep
at home, would his being a bad fellow— the greatest scoundrel
on the earth — be a reason for your turning him into the streets
to live by thieving, and end by going to the dogs for ever and a
day ? '

' Xo ; but what do you mean ? '

' 'That I do not think tliat God, when he sends a human being
out of this world, is more cruel than you or I would be. If we
transport a man because he is too bad to be in England, and he
shows any signs of mending, we give him a fresh chance in the
colonies, and let him start again, to try if he cannot do better
next time. And do you fancy that God, when He transports a
man out of this world, never gives him a fresh chance in another

especially when nine out of ten poor rascals have never had a

fair chance yet ? '

Grace looked up in his face astonished.

' Oh, if I could but believe that ! Oh ! it would give me some
sleam of hope for my two — - ! But no— it's not in Scripture.
\\'liere the tree falls there it lies.'

' And as the fool dies, so dies the wise man ; and tliere is one
account to the righteous and to the wicked. And a man has no
pre-eminence over a beast, for both turn alike to dust ; and

224 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

Solomon does not know, he says, or any one else, anything
about the whole matter, or even whether there be any life after
death at all ; and so, he says, the only wise thing is to leave
such deep questions alone, for Him who made us to settle in His
own way, and just to fear God and keep His commandments,
and do the work which lies nearest us with all our might.'

Grace was silent.

'You are surprised to hear me quote Scripture, and well
you may be : but that same Book of Ecclesiastes is a very old
favourite with me ; for I am no christian, but a worldling, if
ever there was one. But it does puzzle me why you, wlio are a
christian, should talk one half-hour as you have been talking
to that poor girl, and the next go for information about the
next life to poor old disappointed, broken-hearted Solomon,
with his three hundred and odd idolatrous wives, who confesses
fairly that this life is a failure, and that he does not know
whether there is any next life at all.'

Whether Tom were altogether right or not, is not the ques-
tion here ; the novelist's business is to represent the real
thoughts of mankind, when they are not absolutely unfit to be
told ; and certainly Tom spoke the doubts of thousands when
he spoke his own.

Grace was silent still.

' Well,' he said, ' beyond that I can't go, being no theologian.
But when a preacher tells people in one breath of a God who so
loves men that He gave His own Son to save them, and in the
next, that the same God so hates men that he will cast nine-
tenths of them into hopeless torture for ever (and if that is not
hating, I don't know what is), unless he, the preacher, gets a
chance of talking to them for a few minutes — Why, I should
like, iliss Harvey, to put that gentleman upon a real fire for ten
minutes, instead of his comfortable Sunday's dinner, which
stands ready frying for him, and which he was going home to
eat, as jolly as if all the world was not going to destruction ;
and there let him feel what fire was like, and reconsider his
statements.'

Grace looked up at him no more : but walked on in silence,
pondering many things.

' Howsoever that may be, sir, tell me what to do in this
cholera, and I will do it, if I kill myself with work or infec-
tion ! '

' You shan't do that. We cannot spare you from Aberalva,
Grace,' said Tom ; ' you must save a few more poor creatures
ere you die, out of the hands of that Good Being who made
little children, and love, and happiness, and the flowers, and the
sunshine, and the fruitful earth ; and who, you say, redeemed
them all again, when they were lost, by an act of love whicli
passes all human dreams.'

' Do not talk so ! ' cried Grace. ' It frightens me ; it puzzles

XIV THE DOCTOR AT BAY 225

me, and makes me miserable. Oh, if you -would but become a
christian ! '

' And listen to the gospel ? '

' Yes — oh yes ! '

'A gospel means good news, I thought. When you have
any to tell me, I vv'ill listen. Meanwhile, the news that three
out of four of those poor fellows down town are going to a
certain place, seems to me such terribly bad news, that I can't
help fancying that it is not the gospel at all ; and so get on the
best way I can, listening to the good news about God which
this grand old world, and my microscope, and my books, tell me.
Xo, Grace, I have more good news than that, and I'll confess it
to you.'

He paused, and his voice softened.

' Say what the preacher may, He must be a good God who
makes such creatures as you, and sends them into the world to
comfort poor wretches. Follow your own sweet heart, Grace,
and torment yourself no more v/itli these dark dreams ! '

' My heart t ' cried she, looking down ; ' it is deceitful and
desperately wicked.'

' I wish mine were too, then,' said Tom ; ' but it cannot be, as
long as it is so unlike yours. Now stop, Grace, I want to speak
to you.'

There was a gate in front of them, leading into the
road.

As they came to it, Tom lingered with his hand upon the top
bar, that Grace might stop. She did stop, half frightened.
Why did he call her Grace 1

' I wish to speak to you on one matter, on which I believe I
ought to have spoken long ago.'

She looked up at him, surprise in her large eyes ; and turned
pale as he went on.

' I ought long ago to have begged your pardon for something
rude which I said to you at your own door. This day has made
me quite ashamed of '

But she interrupted him, quite wildly, gasping for breath.

'The belt? The belt? Oh, my God! my God! Have you
heard anything more 1 — anything more ? '

' Not a word ; but '

To his astonishment, she heaved a deep sigh, as if relieved
from a sudden fear. His face clouded, and his eyebrows rose.
Was she guilty, then, after all 2 '

With the quick eyes of love, she saw the change ; and broke
out passionately —

' Yes ; suspect me ! suspect me, if you will ! only give me
time I send me to prison, innocent as I am — innocent as that
child there above — would God I were dying like her I Only
give me time I O misery ! I had hoped you had forgotten —
that it was lost in the sea — that — what am I saying ? Only give

226 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

ine time ! ' and she dropped on her knees before him, wringing
her hands.

' iliss Harvey ! This is not worthy of you. If you be inno-
cent, as I don't doubt, what more do you need — or I ?'

He took her hands, and lifted her up ; but she still kept look-
ing down, round, upwards, like a hunted deer, and pleading in
words which seemed sobbed out — as Ijj- some poor soul on the
rack — between choking spasms of agony.

' Oh, I don't know — God help me ! O Lord, help me ! I will
try and find it — I know I shall find it ! only have patience; have
])atience with me a little, and I know I shall bring it you ; and
then — and then you will forgive 1 — forgive ? '

And she laid her hands upon his arms, and looked up in his
face with a piteous smile of entreaty.

She had never looked so beautiful as at that moment. The
devil saw it ; and entered into the heart of Thomas Thurnall.
He caught her in his arms, kissed away her tears, stopped her
mouth with kisses. ' Yes ! I'll wait — wait for ever, if you will !
I'll lose another belt, for such another look as that ! '

She was bewildered for a moment, poor fond wretch, at find-
ing herself where she would gladly have stayed for ever ; but
quickly she recovered lier reason.

' Let me go ! ' she cried, struggling. ' This is not right ! Let
me go, sir ! ' and she tried to cover her burning cheeks with her
hands.

' I will not, Grace ! I love you ! I love you, I tell you ! '

'You do not, sir ! ' and she struggled still more fiercely. 'Do
not deceive yourself ! ile you cannot deceive ! Let me go,
I say ! You could not demean yourself to love a poor girl
like me ! '

Utterly losing his head, Tom ran on "with passionate
words.

' No, sir ! you know that I am not fit to be your wife ; and
do you fancy that I '

Maddened now, Tom went on, ere he was aware, from a
foolish deed to a base speech.

' I know nothing, but that I shall keep you in pawn for my
belt. Till that is at least restored, you are in my power, Grace '
Remember that ! '

She thrust him away with so sudden and desperate a spasm,
that he was forced to let her go. She stood gazing at him, a
trembling deer no longer, but rather a lioness at bay, her face
flashing beautiful indignation.

' In your power ! Yes, sir ! My character, my life, for aught
I know : but not my soul. Send me to Bodmin gaol if you
will ; but ofTer no more insults to a modest maiden ! Oh ! ' — and
her expression changed to one of lofty sorrow and pity — ' Oh !
to find all men alike at heart ! After having fancied you —
fancied you ' (what she bad fancied him her woman's modesty

XIV THE DOCTOR AT BAY 227

dare not repeat) — 'to find you even such another as Mr.
Trebooze ! '

Tom was checked. As for mere indignation, in such cases, he
had seen enough of that to trust it no more than ' ice that is one
night old ; ' but pity for him was a weapon of defence to which
he was unaccustomed. And there was no contempt in her pity,
and no affectation either. Her voice was solemn, but tender,
gently upbraiding, like her countenance. Never had he felt
Grace's mysterious attraction so strong upon him ; and for the
first and last time, perhaps, for many a year, he answered with
downcast eyes of shame.

' I beg your pardon, Miss Harvey. I have been rude — mad.
If you will look in your glass when you go home, and have a
woman's heart in you, you may at least see an excuse for me ;
but like ^Ir. Trebooze I am not. Foigive and forget, and let us
walk home rationally.' And he offered to take her hand.

'No : not now ! Not till I can trust you, sir ! ' said she. The
words were lofty enough ; but there was a profound melancholy
in their tone which humbled Tom still more. Was it possible —
she seemed to have hinted it — that she had thought him a very
grand personage till now, and that he had disgraced himself in
her eyes ?

If a man had suspected Tom of such a feeling, I fear he would
have cared little, save how to restore the balance by making a
fool of the man who fancied him a fool ; but no male self-
sufficiency or pride is proof against the contempt of woman ;
and Tom slunk along by the schoolmistress' side, as if he had
been one of her naughtiest school-children. He tried, of course,
to brazen it out to his own conscience. He had done no harm,
after all ; indeed, never seriously meant any. She was making
a ridiculous fuss about nothing. It was all part and parcel of
her methodistical cant. He dared say that she was not as
prudish with the methodist parson. And at that base thought
he paused ; for a flush of rage, and a strong desire on such
hypothesis to slay the said methodist parson, or any one else
who dared even to look sweet on Grace, showed him plainly
enough what he had long been afraid of, that he was really in
love with her; and that, as he put it, if she did not make a fool of
herself about him, he was but too likely to end in making a fool
of himself about her. However, he must speak, to support his
own character as a man of the world, — it would never do to
knock under to a country girl in this way, — she might go and
boast of it all over the town, — besides, foiled or not, he would not
give in without trying her mettle somewhat further.

' iliss Harvey, will you forgive me ? '

' I have forgiven you.'

'Wni you forget?'

' If I can ! ' she said, with a marked expression, which signi-
fied (though, of course, she did not mean Tom to understand it),

228 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

' some of what is past is too precious, and some too jiainf ul, to
forget.'

' I do not ask you to forget all whicli has passed ! '

' I am afraid that there is nothing which would he :iny credit
to you, sir, to have remembered.'

'Credit or none,' said Tom, unabashed, 'do not foiget one
word that I said.'

She looked hastily and sidelong round, — 'That I am in your
power ? '

' No ! curse it ! I wish I had bitten out my tongue
before I had said that. No ! that I am in your power, Miss
Harvey.'

' Sir ! I ne\ er heard you say that ; and if you li;id, the sooner
anything so untrue is forgotten the better.'

'I said that I loved you, Grace; and if that does not mean
that '

' Sir ! Mr. Thurnall ! I cannot, I will not hear ! You only
insult me, sir, by speaking thus, when you know that — that you
consider me — a thief ! ' and the poor girl burst into teais again.

' I do not ! I do not ; ' cried Tom, growing really earnest at
the sight of her sorrow. 'Did I not Ix'gin tliis vmhappy talk
by begging your pardon for e\er having let such a thought cross
my mind ? '

' But you do ! you do ! you told me as much at my own door ;
and I have seen it evei- .since, till I Ijave almost gone mad
under it ! '

' I will swear to you by all that is sacred that I do not ! < )
Grace, the tirst moment I saw you my heart told me that it was
impossible ; and now, this afternoon, as I listened to you with

that sick girl, I felt a wretch for ever having Grace, I tell

you, you made me feel, for the moment, a better man than I
ever felt in my life before. A poor return I have made for that,
truly ! '

Grace looked up in his face gasping.

' Oh, say that ! say that again. O good Lord, merciful Lord,
at last ! Oh, if you knew what it was to have e\en one weight
lifted off, among all my heavy burdens, and that weight tlie
hardest to bear. God forgive me that it should ha-\e been so !
Oh, I can breathe freely now again, that I know I am not
suspected by you.'

'By you?' Tom could not but see what, after all, no
human being can conceal, that Grace cared for him. And the
devil came and tempted him once more ; but this time it was in
vain. Tom's better angel had returned ; < trace's tender guile-
h^ssness, which would with too many men only have marked her
out as the easier prey, was to him as a sacred shield before her
innocence. So noble, so enthusiastic, so pure ! He could not
play the villain with that woman.

But there was plainly a mystery. What were the burdens,

XIV THE DOCTOR AT BAY 229

heavier even than unjust suspicion, of which she had spoken 1
There was no luniu in asking.

' But, Grace — !Miss Harvey — You will not be angry with me
if I ask ? Why speak so often, as if finding this money depended
on you alone ? \ ou wish me to recover it, I know ; and if you can
counsel me, why not do so ? Why not tell me whom you suspect 1 '

Her old wild terror returned in an instant. She stopped
short —

'Suspect? I suspect? Oh, I have suspected too many
already ! Suspected till I began to hate my tellow-creatures —
hate life itself, when I fancied that I saw " thief " written on
every forehead. Oh, do not ask me to suspect any more ! '

Tom was silent.

' Oh,' she cried, after a moment's pause. ' Oh, that we were
back in those old times I have read of, when they used to put
people to the torture to make them confess ! '

' Why, in Heaven's name ? '

'Because then I should have been tortured, and have con-
fessed it, true or false, in the agony, and have been hanged.
They used to hang them then, and put them out of their misery ;
and I should have been put out of mine, and no one have been
blamed but me for evermore.'

' You forget,' said Tom, lost in wonder, ' that tlien I should
have blamed you, as well as every one else.'

' True ; yes, it was a foolish faithless word. I did not take it,
and it would have been no good to my soul to say I did. Lies
cannot prosper, cannot prosper, Mr. Thurnall ! ' and she stopped
short again.

'What, my dear Grace?' said he, kindly enough; for he
began to fear that she was losing her wits.

' I saved your life ! '

' You did, Grace.'

' Then, I never thought to ask for payment ; but, oh, I must
now. Will you promise me one thing in return ? '

' What you will, as I am a man and a gentleman ; I can trust
you to a.sk nothing which is not worthy of you.'

Tom spoke truth. He felt, — perhaps love niailc him feel it
all the more easily, — that whatever was behind, he was safe in
that woman's hands.

'Then promise me that you will wait one month, only one
month ; ask no questions ; mention nothing to any living soul.
.Vnd if, before that time, I do not bring you that belt back, send
me to Bodmin gaol, and let me bear my punishment.'

'I promise,' said Tom. And the two walked on again in
silence, till they neared the head of the village.

Then Grace went forward, like Nausicaa when slie left
Ulysses, lest the townsfolk should talk ; and Tom sat down
upon a bank and watched her figure vanishing in the dusk.

Much he puzzled, hunting up and down in his cunning head

230 TWO YEAKS AGO chap.

for an explanation of the mystery. At last he found one whicli
seemed to fit the facts so well, that he rose with a whistle of
satisfaction, and walked homewards.

Evidently, her mother had stolen the belt ; and Grace was, if
not a repentant accomplice — for that he could not believe — at
least aware of the fact.

'Well, it is a hard knot for her to untie, poor cliild ; and on
the strength of having saved my life, she shall untie it her own
way. I can wait. I hope the money won t be spent meanwhile,
though, and the empty leather returned to me when wanted no
longer. However, that's done already, if done at all. I was a
fool for not acting at once ; a double fool for suspecting her !
Ass that I was, to take up with a false scent, and throw myself
off the tnie one ! My everlasting unbelief in people has
punished itself this time. I might have got a search-warrant
three months ago, and had that old witch safe in the bilboes.
But no — I might not have found it, after all, and there would
have been only an esclandre ; and if I know that girl's heart,
she would have been ten times more miserable for her mother
than for herself, so it's as well as it is. Besides, it's really good
fun to watch how such a pretty plot will work itself out ; as
good as a pack of harriers with a cold scent and a squatted hare.
So, live and let live. Only, Thomas Thurnall, if you go for to
come for to go for to make such an abominable ass of yourself
\vith that young lady any more, like a miserable school-boy, you
will be pleased to make tracks, and vanish out of these parts for
ever. For my purse can't afford to have you marrying a school-
mistress in your impoverished old age ; and my character, which
also is my purse, can't afford worse.'

One word of Grace's had fixed itself in Tom's memory. What
did she mean by ' her two ' ?

He contrived to ask Willis that veiy evening.

' Oh, don't you know, sir 1 She had a young brother drowned,
a long while ago, when she was sixteen or so. He went out
fishing on the Sabbath, with another like him, and both were
swamped. Wild young lads, both, as lads will be. But she,
sweet maid, took it so to heart, that she nder held up her head
since ; nor will, I think, at times, to her dying day.'

' Humph ! Was she fond of the other lad, then ? '

' Sir,' said Willis, ' I don't think it's fair like — not decent, if
you'll excuse an old sailor — to talk about young maids' affairs,
that they wouldn't talk of themselves, perhaps not even to
themselves. So I never asked any questions myself.'

' And think it rude in me to ask any. Well, I believe you're
right, good old gentleman that you are. Wliat a nobleman
you'd have made, if you had had the luck to have been born in
that station of life ! '

'I have found too much trouble, in doing my duty in my
humble place, to wish to be in any higher one.'

XIV THE DOCTOR AT BAY 231

' So ! ' thought Tom to himself, ' a girl's fancy : but it ex-
plains so much in the character, especially when the tempera-
ment is melancholic. However, to quote Solomon once more,
"A live dog is better than a dead lion ;" and I have not much
to fear from a rival who has been washed out of this world ten
years since. Heyday ! Rival ! quotha 1 Tom Thurnall, you are
going to make a fool of yourself. You must go, sir ! I warn
you ; you must flee, till you have recovered your senses.'

There appeared next morning in Tom's shop a new phenome-
non. A smart youth, dressed in what he considered to be the
newest London fashion ; but which was really that translation
of last year's fashion which happened to be current in the
windows of the Bodmin tailors. Tom knew him by sight and
name — one Jlr. Creed, a squireen like Trebooze, and an especial
friend of Trebooze's, under whose tutelage he had learned to
smoke cavendish assiduously from the age of fifteen, thereby
improving neither his stature nor his digestion, his nerves, nor
the intelligence of his countenance.

He entered with a lofty air, and paused awhile as he spoke.

' Is it possible,' said Tom to himself, ' that Trebooze has sent
me a challenge ? It would be too good fun. I'll wait and see.'
So he went on rolling pills.

'I say, sir,' quoth the youth, who had determined, as an
owner of land, to treat the doctor duly de haut en has, and had
a vague notion that a liberal use of the word ' sir ' would both
help thereto, and be consonant with professional style of duel
diplomacy, whereof he had read in novels.

Tom turned slowly, and then took a long look at him over
the counter through half-shut eyelids, with chin upraised, as if
he had been suddenly afflicted with short sight ; and worked
on meanwhile steadily at his pills.

' That is, I wish — to speak to you, sir — ahem ! ' — went on Mr.
Creed ; being gradually but surely discomfited by Tom's steady
gaze.

' Don't trouble yourself, sir : I see your case in your face.
A slight nervous aliection — will pass as the digestion improves.
I will make you up a set of pills for the night ; but I should
advise a little ammonia and valerian at once. May I mix it ? '

' Sir ! you mistake me, sir ! '

' Not in the least ; you have brought me a challenge from
Mr. Trebooze.'

' I have, sir ! ' said the youth with a grand air, at once
relieved by having the awful words said for him, and exalted
by the dignity of his first, and perhaps last, employment in
that line.

' Well, sir,' said Tom deliberately, ' Jlr. Trebooze does me a
kindness for which I cannot sufficiently thank him, and you
also, as his second. It is full six months since I fought, and I
was getting hardly to know myself again.'

232 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

' You will have to fight now, sir ! ' said the youth, trying to
brazen off by his discourtesy increiisLng suspicion that he had
' caught a Tartar.'

' Of course, of course. And of course, too, I light you after-
wards.'

' I — I, sir ? I am Mr. Trebooze's friend, hi* second, sir. You
do not seem to understand, sir ! '

'Pardon me, young gentleman,' said Tom, in a very quiet,
determined voice : ' it is I who have a right to tell you that you
do not understand in such matters as these. I liad fought my
man, and more than one of them, while you were eating black-
berries in a short jacket.'

'What do you mean, sir?' quoth the youth in fury; and
began swearing a little.

'Simple fact. Are you not about twenty-three years old ?'

' What is that to you, sir 1 '

' No business of mine, of course. Y^ou may be growing into
your second childhood for aught I care : but if, as I guess, you
are about twenty-three, I, as I know, am thirty-six: then I
fought my first duel when you were five years old, and my tenth,
I should say, when you were fifteen : at which time, I suppose,
you were not ashamed either of the jacket or the blackberries.'

' Y ou will find me a man now, sir, at all events,' said Creed,
justly wroth at what was, after all, a sophism ; for if a man is
not a man at twenty, he never will be one.

' Tant mieux. You know, I suppose, tha't as the challenged,
I have the choice of weapons ? '

' Of course, sir,' said Creed, in an off-hand generous tone,
because he did not very clearly know.

'Then, sir, I always fight across a handkerchief. Y'ou will
tell ilr. Trebooze so ; he is, I really believe, a brave man, and
will accept the terms. Y"ou will tell yourself the same, whether
you be a brave man or not.'

Tlie youth lost the last words in those wliich went before
them. He was no coward : would have stood up to be shot at,
at fifteen paces, like any one else ; but the deliberate butchery
of fighting across a handkerchief —

' Do I understand you, sir ? '

' That depends on whether you are clever enough, or not, to
comprehend your native tongue. Across a handkerchief, I say,
do you hear that 1 ' And Tom rolled on at his pills.

'I do.'

' And when I have fought him, I tight you ! ' And the pills
rolled steadily at the same pace.

' But— sir ? Why— sir ? '

'Because,' said Tom, looking him full in the face, 'because
you, calling yourself a gentleman, and being, more shame for
you, one by birth, dare to come here, for a foolish vulgar super-
stition called honour, to ask me, a quiet medical man, to go and

XIV THE DOCTOR AT BAY 233

be shot at by a man whom you know to be a drunken, profligate,
blackguard ; simply because, as you know as well as I, I inter-
fered to prevent his insulting a poor helpless girl ; and in so
doing, was forced to give him what you, if you are (as I believe)
a, gentleman, would have given him also, in my place.'

'I don't understand you, sir!' said the lad, blushing all the
while, as one honestly conscience-stricken ; for Tom had spoken
the exact truth, and he knew it.

'Don't lie, sir, and tell me that you don't understand ; you
understand every word which I have spoken, and you know
that it is true.'

'Lie?'

' Yes, lie. Look you, sir, I have no wish to iight - '

' You will fight, though, whether you wish it or not,' said the
youth with a hysterical laugh, meant to be defiant.

' But — I can snufF a candle ; I can split a bullet on a pen-
knife at fifteen paces.'

'Do you mean to frighten us by boasting? AVe shall see
what you can do when you come on the ground.'

' Across a handkerchief ; but on no other condition ; and,
unless you will accept that condition, I will assuredly, the next
time I see you, be we where we may, treat you as I treated youi'
friend ilr. Trebooze. I'll do it now ! Get out of my shop,
sir ! Wliat do you want here, interfering with my honest
business ? '

And, to the astonishment of ilr. Trebooze's second, Tom
vaulted clean over the counter, and rushed at him open-
mouthed.

Sacred be the honour of the gallant West country ; but,
' both being friends,' as Aristotle has it, ' it is a sacred duty to
speak the truth.' 'Sir. Creed vanished through the open door.

' I rid myself of the fellow jollily,' said Tom to Frank that
day, after telling him the whole story. ' And no credit to me.
I saw fi'om the minute he came in there was no fight in
him.'

' But suppose he had accepted — or suppose Ti-ebooze accepts
still?'

' There was my game— to frighten him. He'll take care Tre-
booze shan't fight, for he knows that he must fight next. He'll
go home and patch the matter up, trust him. Meanwhile, the
oaf had not even aavoir faire enough to ask for my second.
Lucky for me ; for I don't know where to have found one, sa\'e
the lieutenant ; and though he would have gone out safe
enough, it would have been a bore for the good old fellow.'

'And,' said Frank, utterly taken aback by Tom's business-
like levity, 'you would actually have stood to shoot, and be
shot at, across a handkerchief ? '

Tom stuck out his great chin, and looked at him with one of
his quaint sidelong moues.

234 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

' You are my very good friend, sir ; but not my father-
confessor.'

'I know that; but really — as a mere question of human
curiosity '

'Oh, if you ask me on the human ground, and not on the
sacerdotal, I'll tell you. T\e tried it twice, and I should be
sorry to try it again ; though it's a very easy dodge. Keep
your right elbow up — up to your ear — and the moment you hear
the word, fire. A high elbow and a cool heart — that's all ; and
that wins.'

' Wins 1 Good heavens ? As you are here alive you must
have killed your man ? '

' Xo. I only shot my men each through the body ; and each
of them deserved it ; but it is an ugly chance ; I should have
been sorry to try it on that yokel. The boy may make a man
yet. And what s more,' said Tom, bursting into a great laugh,
' he will make a man, and go down to his fathers in peace, qiimit
a inoi ; and so will that wretched Trebooze. For I'll bet you
my head to a China orange, I hear no more of this matter ; and
don't even lose Trebooze's custom.'

' Upon my word, I envy your sanguine temperament ! '

' Jlr. Headley, I shall quietly make my call at Trebooze to-
morrow, as if nothing had happened. What will you bet me
that I am not received as usual ? '

' I never bet,' said Frank.

' Then you do well. It is a foolish and a dirty trick ; playing
with edge tools, and cutting one's own fingers. Nevertheless, I
speak truth, as you will see.'

' You are a most extraordinary man. All this is so contrary
to your usual caution.'

'When you are driven against the ropes, "hit out" is the old
rule of Fistiana and common sense. It is an extreme bore ; all
the more reason for showing such an ugly front as to give
people no chance of its happening again. Nothing so dangerous
as half-measures, Headley. "Resist the devil and he will flee
from you," your creed says. ^Nline only translates it into practice.'

' I have no liking for half-measures myself.'

' Did you ever,' said Tom, ' hear the story of the two Sand-
hurst broomsquires ? '

' Broomsquires ? '

' So we call, in Berkshire, squatters on the moor who live by
tying heath into brooms. Two of them met in Reading market
once, and fell out : —

'"How ever do you manage to sell your brooms for three-
halfpence? I steals the heth, and I steals the binds, and I
steals the handles, and yet I cant afoord to sell them under
twopence."

' " Ah, but you see," says the other, " I steals mine ready
made. "

XV THE CRUISE OF THE ' WATERWITCH ' 235

' Moral — If you're going to do a thing, do it outright.'

That very evening, Tom came in again.

' Well ; I've been to Trebooze.'

'And fared how?'

' Just as I warned you. Inquired into his symj)toms ; pre-
scribed for his digestion — if he goes on as he is doing, he will
soon have none left to prescribe for ; and finally, plastered,
with a sublime generosity, the nose which my own knuckles had
contused.'

' Impossible ! you are the most miraculously impudent of
men ! '

' Pish ! simple common sense. I knew that ^Irs. Trebooze
would suspect that the world had heard of his mishap, and took
care to let her know that I knew, by coming up to inquire for
him.'

'Cuibono?'

'Power. To have them, or any one, a little more in my
power. Next, I knew that he dared not fly out at me, for fear
I should tell !Mrs. Trebooze what he had been after — you see ?
Ah, it was delicious to have the great oaf sitting sulking under
my fingers, longing to knock my head ofi', and I plastering away,
with words of deepest astonishment and condolence. I verily
believe that, before we parted, I had persuaded him that his
black eye proceeded entirely from his having run up against a
tree in the dark.

'Well,' said Fi-ank, half sadly, though enjoying the joke in
spite of himself, ' I cannot help thinking it would have been a
fit moment for giving the poor wretch a more solemn lesson.'

' Jly dear sir — a good licking — and he had one, and some-
thing over — is the best lesson for that manner of biped. That's
the way to school him ; but as we are on lessons, I'll give you a
hint.'

' Go on, model of self-sufficiency ! ' said Frank.

'Scoff at me if you will, I am proof. But hearken — you
mustn't turn out that schoolmistress. She's an angel, and I
know it ; and if I say so of any human being, you may be sure
I have pretty good reasons.'

' I am beginning to be of your mind myself,' said Frank.

CHAPTEE XV

THE CRUISE OF THE ' WATEEWITCH '

The middle of August is come at last ; and with it the solemn
day on which Frederick Viscount Scoutbush may be expected to
revisit the home of his ancestors. Elsley has gradually made up
his mind to the inevitable, with a stately sulkiness : and com-
forts himself, as the time draws near, with the thought that,

•iS*; TWO YKAKS AGO CHAK

.ifter all, his brother-in-law is not a \ery formidable person-
age.

But to the population of Aberalva in general, the coming
event is one of awful jubilation. The shipping is all decked
with flags ; all the Sunday clothes have been looked out, and
many a yard of new ribbon and pound of bad powdei- bought ;
there have been arrangements for a procession, which could not
be got up ; for a speech which nobody would undertake to pro-
nounce ; and, lastly, for a dinner, about which last there was no
hanging back. Yea, also, they have hired from Carcarrow
Churchtown, sackbut, psaltery, dulcimer, and all kinds of
music ; for Frank has put down the old choir band at Aberalva
— another of his mistakes — and there is but one fiddle and a
clarionet now left in tlie town. So the said town waits all the
day on tiptoe, ready to worship, till out of the soft brown haze
' the stately Waterwifch comes sliding in, like a white ghost, to
fold her wings in Aberalva bay.

And at that siglit the town is all astir. Fishermen shake
themseh-es up out of their mid-day snooze, to admire the beauty,
as she slips on and on througli water smooth as glass, her hull
hidden by the vast curve of the balloon-jib, and her broad wings
boomed out alow and aloft, till it seems marvellous how that
vast screen does not topple headlong, instead of floating (as it
seems) self-supporting above its image in the mirror. Women
hurry to put on their best bonnets ; the sexton toddles up with
the church key in his hand, and the ringers at his heels ; the
coast-guard lieutenant bustles down tn the !Manby's mortal',
which he has hauled out in readiness on the pebbles. Old Willis
hoists a flag before his house, and half a dozen merchant skip-
pers do the same. Bang goes the harmless mortar, burning the
British nation's powder without leave or licence ; and all the
rocks and woods catch up the echo, and kick it from cliff to clift',
playing at football with it till its breath is beaten out ; a rolling
fire of old muskets and bird-pieces crackles along the shore, and
in five minutes a poor lad has blown a ramrod through hisliand.
Never mind, lords do not visit PenaU'a e^ ery day. Out burst
the bells above with merry peal ; Lurd Scoutbusji and the Jr'(/f/--
iritr-]i are duly ' rung in to the home of his lordship's ancestors ;
and he is received, as he scrambles u]i the pier stejos from his
boat, by the curate, the churchwardens, the lieutenant, and old
Tardrew, backed Ijy half a dozen ancient sons of Anak, lineal
descendants of the free fishermen to ^^•llom, six hundred years
before, St. Just of Penal va did grant pri-iileges hard to spell,
and harder to understand, on the condition of receiving, when-
soever he should land at the quay head, three brass farthings
from the ' free fishennen of Aberalva.'

Scoutbush shakes hands with curate, lieutenant, Tardrew,
churchwardens ; and then come forward the three farthings, in
an ancient leather purse.

XV THE CRUISE OF THE ' -WATERWITCH ' 237

' Hope your lordship will do us the honour to shake hands
with us too ; we are your lordship's free fishermen, as we have
been your forefathers',' says a magnificent old man, gracefully
acknowledging the feudal tie, while he claims the exemption.

Little Scoutbush, who is the kindest-hearted of men, clasps
the great brown fist in his little white one, and shakes hands
heartily with every one of them, saying, 'If your forefathers
were as much taller than mine, as you are than me, gentlemen,
I shouldn't wonder if they took their own freedom, without
asking liis leave for it ! '

A lord who begins his progress with a jest ! That is the
sort of aristocrat to rule in Aberalva ! And all agree that even-
ing, at the Mariners' liest, that his lordship is as nice a young
gentleman as ever trod deal board, and deserves suth a yacht as
lie's got, and long may he sail her !

How easy it is to buy the love of men ! Gold will not do it :
but there is a little angel, may be, in the corner of every man's
fve, who is worth more tlian gold, and can do it free of all
charges : unless a m.ui drives him out, and 'hates his brother ;
and so walks in darkness ; not knowing whither he goeth,' but
running full butt against men's prejudices, and treading on their
corns, till they knock him clown in despair — and all just because
lie will not open his eyes, and use the light which comes by
common human good-nature !

Presently Tom hurries up, having been originally one of the
deputation, but kept by the necessity of binding up the three
fingers which the ramrod had spared to poor Jem Burman's
hand. He bows, and the lieutenant — wlio (Frank being a little
shy) acts as her ^lajesty's representative — introduces him as
'deputy medical man to our district of the union, sir — Mr.
Thurnall.'

' Dr. Heale was to have been here, by the by. Where is Dr.
Heale 1 ' says some one.

' Very sorry, my lord ; I can answer for him — professional
calls, I don't doubt — nobody more devoted to your lordship.'

One need not inquire where Dr. Heale was : but if elderly
men will drink much brandy-and-water in hot summer days,
after a heavy early dinner, then will those men be too late for
deputations and for more important employments.

' Never mind the doctor, daresay he's asleep after dinner :
do him good ! ' says the Viscount, hitting the mark 'with a ran-
dom shot; and thereby raising his repute for sagacity immensely
with his audience, who laughed outright.

' Ah ! Is it so, then ? But— ilr. Thurnall, I think, you said ?
— I am glad to make your acquaintance, sir. I have heard
your name often : you are my friend Mellot's old friend, are
you not 1 '

'I am a very old friend of Claude ilellot's.'

'Well, and there he is on board, and will be delighted to do

238 TWO YEARS AGO ohap.

the honours of my yacht to you wlienever you like to visit her.
You and I must know each other better, sir.'

Tom bows low — his lordship does him too much honour : the
cunning fellow knows that his fortune is made in Aberalva, if
he chooses to work it out : but he humbly slips into the rear, for
Frank has to be supported, not being over popular ; and the
lieutenant may ' turn crusty,' unless he has his lordship to
himself before the gaze of assembled Aberalva.

Scoutbush progresses up the street, bowing right and left,
and stopped half a dozen times by red-cloaked old women, who
curtsey under his nose, and will needs inform him how they
knew his grandfather, or nursed liis uncle, or how his 'dear
mother, God rest her soul, gave me this \-ery cloak as I have
on,' and so forth ; till Scoutbusli comes to the conclusion that
they are a very lo\'ing and lovable set of people — as indeed
they are — and his heart smites him somewhat tor not having
seen more of them in past years.

No sooner is Thurnall released than he is off to the yacht as
fast as oars can take liim, and in Claude's arms.

' Now ! ' (after all salutations and inquiries have been gone
; through) 'let me introduce you to !Major Clampbell.' And Tom
was presented to a tall and thin personage, wlio sat at the cabin
table, bending over a microscope.

' Excuse my rising,' said he, holding out a left hand, for the
right was busy. ' A single jar will give me ten minutes' work
to do again. I am delighted to meet you : Mellot has often
spoken to me of you as a man wlio lias seen more, and faced
death more carelessly, than most men.'

' !Mellot flatters, sir. AVhatsoever I have done, I have given
up being cai'eless about death ; for I ha-\e some one beside
myself to live for.'

' Married at last ? has Diogenes found his Aspasia ? ' cried
Claude.

Tom did not laugh.

' Since my brothers died, Claude, the old gentleman has only
me to look to. You seem to be a naturalist, sir.'

'A dabbler,' said the major, with eye and hand still busy.

'I ought not to begin our acquaintance by doubting your
word : but these things are no dabbler's work ; ' and Tom
pointed to some exquisite photographs of minute corallines,
e\idently taken under the microscope.

'They are Mellot's.'

' Jlellot turned man of science ? Impossible ! '
. ' No ; only photographer. I am tired of painting nature
I clumsily, and then seeing a sun-picture outdo all my efforts — so
1 I am turned photographer, and have made a vow against paint-
ing for three years and a day.'

' Why, the photographs only give you light and shade.'

' They will give you colour, too, before seven years are over —

XV THE CRUISE OF THE ' WATERWITCH 239

and that is more than I can do, or any one else. No : I yield to
the new dynasty. The artist's occupation is gone henceforth,
and the painter s studio, like " all charms, must fly, at the mere
touch of cold philosophy." So Major Campbell prepares the
charming little cockyoly birds, and I call in the sun to immor-
talise them.'

'And perfectly you are succeeding ! They are quite new to
me, recollect. When I left Melbourne, the art had hardly risen
there above guinea portraits of bearded desperadoes, a nugget
in one hand and a £50 note in the other : but this is a new, and
what a forward step for science ! '

' You are a naturalist, then 1 ' said Campbell, looking up with
interest.

' All my profession are, more or less,' said Tom carelessly ;
' and I have been lucky enough here to fall on untrodden
ground, and have hunted up a few sea-monsters this summer.'

' Really ? You can tell me where to search then, and where
to dredge, I hope. I have set my heart on a fortnight's work
here, and have been dreaming at night, like a child before a
twelfth-night party, of all sorts of impossible hydras, gorgons
and chimseras dire, flshed up from your western deeps.'

' I have none of them ; but I can give you Turbinolia Mille-
tiana and Zoanthus Couchii. I have a party of the last gentle-
men alive on shore.'

The major's face worked with almost childish delight.

' But I shall be robbing you.'

' They cost me nothing, my dear sir. I did very well, more-
over, without them, for tive-and-thirty yeai-s ; and I may do
equally well for five-and-thirty more.'

' I ought to be able to say the same, surely,' answered the
major, composing his face again, and rising carefully. ' I have
to thank you, exceedingly, my dear sir, for your prompt gener-
osity : but it is better discipline for a man, in many ways, to
find things for himself than to have them put into his hands.
So, with a thousand thanks, you shall let me see if I can dredge
a 'furbinolia for myself.'

This was spoken with so sweet and polished a modulation,
and yet so sadly and severely withal, that Tom looked at the
speaker with interest.

He was a very tall and powerful man, and would have been
a very handsome man, both in face and figure, but for the higli
cheekbone, long neck, and narrow shoulders, so often seen north
of Tweed. His brow was very high and full ; his eyes — grave,
but very gentle, with large drooping eyelids — were buried under
shaggy gray eyebrows. His mouth was gentle as his eyes ; but
compressed, perhaps by the habit of command, perhaps by
secret sorrow ; for of that, too, as well as of intellect and mag-
nanimity, Thurnall thought he could discern the traces. His
face was bronzed by long exposure to the sun ; his close-cut

240 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

curls, which had once been auburn, were fast turning white,
though his features looked those of a man under five-and-forty;
his cheeks were as smooth shaven as his chin. A liglit, self-
possessed, valiant soldier he looked ; one who could be very
loving to little innocents, and very terrible to full-grown
knaves.

' You are practising at self-denial, as usual,' said Claude.

' Because I may, at any moment, have to exercise it in ear-
nest, ^[r. Thurnall, can you tell me the name of this little glass
arrow, which I just found shooting about in the sweeping net V

Tom did know the wonderful little link between the tish
and the insect ; and the two cliatted over its .strange form till
tlie boat returned to take them ashore.

' Do you make any stay here ? '

' I propose to spend a fortnight here in my favourite pursuit.
r must draw on your kindness and knowledge of the place to
j5oint me out lodgings.'

Lodgings, as it befell, were to be found, and good ones, close
to the beach, and away from the noise of the harbour, on .Mrs.
Harvey's lir.st iloor ; for tlie local preacher, who generally
occupied them, was away.

' But Major Campbell might dislike the noise of the school ? '

' The school ? What better music for a lonely old bachelor
than children's voices ? '

So, by sunset the major was fairly established over Mrs.
Harvey's shop. It was not the place which Tom would have
chosen ; he was afraid of ' running over ' poor Grace, if he
came in and out as often as he could have wished. Nevertheless,
he accepted the major's invitation to visit him that very
evening.

' I cannot ask you to dinner yet, sir ; for my menage will be
hardly settled : but a cup of cotlee, and an exceedingly good
cigar, I think my establishment may furnish you by seven
o'clock to-night ; — if you think them worth walking down for.'

Tom, of course, said something civil, and made his appearance
in due time. He found the coffee ready, and the cigars also ;
but the major was busy, in his shirt sleeves, unpacking and
arranging jars, nets, microscopes, and what not of scientific
lumber ; and Tom proffered his help.

' I am ashamed to make use of you the first moment that you
become my guest.'

'I shall enjoy the mere handling of your tackle,' said Tom ;
and began breaking the tenth commandment o\-er almost e\ery
article he touched ; for everything was firstrate of its
kind.

' You seem to ha\"e devoted money, as well as thought, plen-
tifully to the pursuit.'

' I have little else to which to devote either ; and more of
both than is, perhaps, safe for me.'

XV THE CRUISE OF THE ' AVATERWITCH ' 241

'I should hardly complain of a superfluity of thought, if
superfluity of money was the condition of it.'

' Pray understand me. I am no Dives ; but I have learned
to want so little, that I hardly know how to spend the little
which I have.'

' I should hardly have called that an unsafe state.'

' The penniless Faquir who lives on chance handfuls of rice
has his dangers, as well as the rich Parsee who has his ventures
out from ^Madagascar to Canton. Yes, I have often envied the
schemer, the man of business, almost the man of pleasure ; their
many wants at least absorb them in outward objects, instead of
leaving them too easily satisfied, to sink in upon themselves,
and waste away in useless dreams.'

' You found out the best cure for that malady when you took
up the microscope and the collecting-box.'

' So I fancied once. I took up natural history in India years
ago to dri\e away thought, as other men might take to opium,
or to brandy-pawnee, but, like them, it has become a passion
now and a tyranny : and I go on hunting, discovering, wondering,
craving for more knowledge ; and — cui bono 1 I sometimes
ask '

' Why, this at least, sir ; that, without such men as you, who
work for mere love, science would be now fifty years behind
her present standing-point : and we doctors should not know a
thousand important facts which you have been kind enough to
tell us, while we have not time to find them out for ourselves.'

' <?jc voi non vohis '

'Yes, you have the work, and we have the pay, which is a
very fair division of labour, considering the world we live in.'

' And have you been skilful enough to make science pay you
here, in such an out-of-the-way little world as that of Aberalva
must be ? '

' She is a good stalking-horse anywhere ; ' and Tom detailed,
with plenty of humour, the efiect of his microscope and his lec-
ture on the drops of water. But his wit seemed so much lost
on Campbell, that he at last stopped almost short, not quite
sure that he had not taken a liberty.

' No ; go on, I beg you ; and do not fancy that I am not
interested and amused too, because my laughing muscles are a
little stiff from want of use. Perhaps, too, I am apt to take
things too much au grand serietu: : but I could not help think-
ing, while you were speaking, how sad it was that people were
utterly ignorant of matters so vitally necessary to health.'

'And I, perhaps, ought not _ to jest over the subject: but,
indeed, with cholera staring us in the face here, I must indulge
in some emotion ; and as it is unprofessional to weep, I must
laugh as long as I dare.'

'The major dropped his coffee-cup upon the floor, and looked
at Thurnall with so horrified a gaze, that Tom could hardly
E T. y. A.

242 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

believe him to be the same man. Then recollecting himself, he
darted down upon the remains of his cup ; and looking up again
— ' A thousand pardons ; but — did I hear you aright ? cholera
staring us in the face ?'

' How can it be otherwise ? It is drawing steadily on from
the eastward week by week ; and, in the present state of the
town, nothing but some miraculous caprice of Dame Fortune's
can deliver us.'

' Don't talk of fortune, sir ! at such a moment. Talk of
God ! ' said the major, rising from his chair, and pacing the
room. ' It is too horrible ! Intolerable ! When do you expect
it here ? '

'Within the month, perhaps, hardly before. I should have
warned you of the danger, I assure you, had I not understood
from you that you were only going to stay a fortnight.'

The major made an impatient gesture.

' Do you fancy that I am afraid for myself ? Xo ; but the
thought of its coming to — to the poor people in tlie to\An, you
know. It is too dreadful. I have seen it in India — among niv
own men — among the natives. Good heavens, I never shall for-
get — and to meet the fiend again here, of all places in the
world ! I fancied it so clean and healthy, swept by fresh sea-
breezes.'

' And by nothing else. A half -hour's walk round would con-
vince you, sir ; I only wish that you could persuade his lordship
to accompany you.'

' Scoutbush ! Of course he will, — he shall, — he must. Good
heavens ! whose concern is it more than his ? You think, then,
that there is a chance of staving it off — by cleansing, I mean ? '

'If we have heavy rains during the next week or two, yes.
If this drought last, better leave ill alone ; we shall only pro-
voke the devil by stirring him up.'

'You speak confidently,' said the major, gradually regaining
his own self-possession, as he saw Tom so self-possessed. ' Have
you — allow me to ask so important a question — have you seen
much of cholera ? '

' I have worked through three. At Paris, at St. Petersburg,
and in the West Indies ; and I ha^■e been thinking up my old
experience for the last six weeks, foreseeing what would come.'

' I am satisfied, sir ; perhaps I ought to ask your pardon for
the question.'

'Not at all. How can you trust a man, unless you know
him I

'And you expect it within the month? You shall go with
me to Lord Scoutbush to-morrow, and — and now we will talk of
something more pleasant.' And he began again upon the
zoophytes.

Tom, as they chatted on, could not help wondering at the
major's unexpected passion ; and could not help remarking.

XV THE CRUISE OF THE ' WATERWITCH ' 243

also, that in spite of his desire to be agreeable, and to interest
his guest in his scientific discoveries, he was yet distraught, and
full of other thoughts. What could be the meaning of it 1 Was
it mei'e excess of human sympathy 1 The countenance hardly
betokened that ; but still, who can trust altogether the expres-
sion of a weather-hardened visage of forty-five ? So the doctor
set it down to tenderness of heart, till a fresh vista opened
on him.

ilajor Campbell, he soon found, was as fond of insects as of
sea-monsters ; and he began inquiring about the woods, the
heaths, the climate, which seemed to the doctoi-, for a long time,
to mean nothing more than the question which he put plainly,
'Where have I a chance of rare insects?' But ke seemed, after
a while, to be trying to learn the geography of the parish in
detail, and especially of the ground round Vavasour's house.
' Howe\ er, it's no business of mine,' thought Thurnall, and told
him all he wanted, till —

' Then the house lies quite in the bottom of the glen ? Is
there a good fall to the stream, for a stream I suppose there isf

Thurnall shook his head. 'Cold boggy stewponds in the
garden, such as our ancestors loved, damming up the stream.
They must needs have fish in Lent, we know ; and paid the
penalty of it by ague and fever.'

' Stewponds damming up the stream 1 Scoutbush ought to
drain them instantly ! ' said the major, half to himself. 'But
still the house lies high, with regard to the town, I mean. No
chance of malaria coming up ? '

' Upon my word, sir, as a professional man, that is a thing
that I dare not say. The chances are not great ; the house is
two hundred yards from the nearest cottage ; but if there be an
east wind '

' I cannot bear this any longer. It is perfect madness ! '

' I trust, sir, that you do not think that I have neglected the
matter. I have pointed it all out, I assure you, to ilr.
Vavasour.'

' And it is not altered ? '

'I believe it is to be altered — that is — the truth is, sir, that
]Mr. Vavasour shiinks so much from the very notion of cholera,
that '

' That he does not like to do anything which may look like
believing in its possibility ? '

' He says,' quoth Tom, parrying the question, but in a some-
what dry tone, ' that he is afraid of alarming ilrs. Va\ asour and
the servants.'

The major said something under his breath, which Tom did
not catch, and then, in an appeased tone of voice —

' Well, that is at least a fault on the right side. Mrs. Vava-
sour's brothei', as owner of the place, is of course the proper
person to make the house fit for habitation.' And he relapsed

244 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

into silence, while Thurnall, who suspected nioie than met the
ear, rose to depart.

' Are you going 1 It is not late— not ten o'clock yet.'

' A medical man, who may be called up at any moment, must
make sure of his " beauty sleep." '

' I will walk with you, and smoke my last cigar.'

So they went out, and up to Heale's. Tom went in, but he
observed that his companion, after standing awhile in the street
irresolutely, went on up the hill, and, as far as he could see,
turned up the lane to vavasour's.

' A mystery here,' thought he, as he put matters to rights in
the surgery ere going upstairs. ' A mystery which I may as
well fathom, it may be of use to poor Tom, as most other
mysteries are. That is, though, if I cm do it honourably ; for
the man is a gallant gentleman. I like him, and I am inclined
to trust him. Whatsoever his secret is, I don t think that it is
one which he need be ashamed of. Still, " there's a deal of
human natur' in man," and there may be in him ; and what
matter if there is ? '

Half an hour afterwards the major returned, took the candle
from Grace, who was sitting up for him, and went upstairs with
a gentle ' good-niglit,' but without looking at her.

He sat down at the open window, and looked out leaning on
the sill.

' Well, I was too late ; I daresay there was some purpose in
it. When shall I learn to believe that God takes better care of
His own than I can do ? I was faithless and impatient to-night.
I am afraid I betrayed myself before that man. He looks like
one, certainly, who could be trusted with a secret ; yet I had
rather that he had not mine. It is my own fault, like e\ery-
thing else ! Foolish old fellow that you are, fretting and fussing
to the end ! Is not that scene a niessagv from above, saying,
" Be still, and know that I aui God " '! '

And the major looked out upon the summer sea, lit by a
million globes of living tire, and then upon the waves which
broke in flame upon the beach, and then up to the spangled
stars above.

' Wliat do I know of these, with all my knowing ? Not e\ en
a twentieth part of those meduspe, or one in each thousand of
those sparks among the foam. Perhaps I need not know. And
yet why was the thirst awakened in me, save to be satisfied at
last ? Perhaps to become more intense with every f resii delicious
draught of knowledge. Death, beautiful, wise, kind deatii ;

when will you come and tell me what I want to know? 1
courted you once and many a time, brave old Death, only to
give rest to the weary. That was a coward's wish, and so you
would not come. I ran you close in Afghanistan, old Death,
and at Sobraon, too, I was not far behind you ; and I thought I
had you safe among that jungle grass at Aliwal ; but you

XV THE CRUISE OF THE ' WATERWITCH ' 245

slipped through my hand ; I was not woi-thy of you. And now
I will not hunt you any more, old Death ; do you bide .your
time, and I mine ; though who knows if T may not meet you
here ? Only when you come, give me not rest, laut work. Give
work to the idle, freedom to the chained, sight to the blind !
Tell me a little about finer things than zoophytes — perhaps
about the zoophytes as well — and you shall still be
brave old Death, my good camp-comrade now for many a
year.'

^^'as ^lajor Campbell mad ? That depends upon the way in
which the reader may choose to define the adjective.

!Meanwliile Scoutbush had walked into Penaha Court —
where an affecting scene of reconciliation took place?

Not in the least. Scoutbush kissed Lucia, shook hands with
Elsley, hugged the children, and then settled himself in an arm-
chair, and talked about the weather, exactly as if he had been
running in and out of the house e\ ery week for the last three
years, and so the matter was done ; and for the first time a
partic carree was assembled in the dining-room.

The evening passed off' at first as uncomfortably as it could,
wliere three out of the four were well-bred people. Elsley was,
of course, shy before Lord Scoutbush, and Scoutbush was
equally shy before Elsley, though as civil as possible to him ;
for the little fellow stood in extreme awe of Elsley's talents, and
was afraid of opening his lips before a poet. Lucia was nervous
for both their sakes, as well she might be ; and Valentia had to
make all the talking, and succeeded capitally in drawing out
both her brother and her brother-in-law, till both of them found
the other, on the whole, more like other people than he had
expected. The next morning's breakfast, therefore, was easy
and gracious enough , and when it was over, and Lucia fled to
household matters —

' You smoke, Vavasour ? ' asked Scoutbush.

Vavasour did not smoke.

' Keally 1 I thought poets always smoked. You will not for-
bid my having a cigar in your garden, nexertheless, I suppose ?
Do walk round with me, too, and show me the place, unless you
are going to be busy.'

Oh no ; Elsley was at Lord Scoutbush's service, of course, and
had really nothing to do. So out they went.

' Charming old pigeon-hole it is,' said its owner. ' T have not
seen it since I went into the Guards. Campbell says it's a
shame of me, and so it is one, I suppose ; but how beautiful you
have made the garden look ! '

' Lucia is very fond of gardening,' said Elsley, who was very
fond of it also, and had great taste therein ; but he was afraid
to confess any such tastes before a man who, he thought, would
not understand him.

246 TWO YEARS AGO thap.

' And that fine old wood — full of cocks it used to be — I hope
you worked it well last year.'

Elsley did not shoot ; but he had heard there was plenty of
game there.

' Plenty of cocks,' said his guest, correcting him ; ' but for
game, the less we say about that the better. I really
wonder you do not shoot ; it fills up time so in the
winter.'

'There is really no winter to till up here, thanks to this
delicious climate ; and I h,a\e my books.'

' Ah ! I wish I had. I wish heartily,' said he, in a confidential
tone, 'you, or Campbell, or some of your clever men, would sell
me a little of their book-learning ; as Valentia says to me,
" brains are so common in the world, I wonder how none fell to
your share.' '

' I do not think that they are an article which is for sale, if
Solomon is to be believed.'

'And if they were, I couldn't afford to buy, with this Irish
Encumbered Estates' Bill. But now, this is one thing I wanted
to say. Is everything here just as you would wish ? Of course
no one could wish a better tenant ; but any repairs, you know,
or improvements which I ought to do, of course ? Only tell me
what you think should be done ; for, of course, you know more
about these things than I do — can't know less.'

' Xothing, I assure you, Lord Scoutbush. I have always left
those matters to Mr. 'Tardrew.'

'Ah, my dear fellow, you shouldn't do that. He is such a
screw, as all honest stewards are. Screws me, I know, and I
dare say has screwed you too.'

'Never, I assure you. I never gave him the opportunity,
and he has been most civil.'

'Well, in future, just order him to do what you like, and
just as if you were landlord, in fact ; and if the old man
haggles, write to me, and 111 blow him up. Delighted to
have a man of taste like you here, who can improve the place
for me.'

'I assure you. Lord Scoutbush, I need nothing, nor does the
place. I am a man of very few wants.'

'I wish I were,' sighed Scoutbush, pulling out another of
Hudson's highest-priced cigars.

' And I am bound to say ' — and here Elsley choked » little ;
but the Viscount's frankness and humility had softened him,
and he determined to be very magnanimous — ' I am bound in
honour, after owing to your kindness such an exquisite retreat
— all that either I or Lucia could have fancied for ourselves, and
more — not to trouble you by asking for little matters which we
really do not need.'

And so Elsley, instead of simply asking to have the house-
drains set right, which Lord Scoutbush would have had done

XV THE CRUISE OF THE ' WATERWITCH ' 247

upon the spot, chose to be lofty -minded, at the risk of killing
his wife and children.

' My dear fellow, you really must not " lord " me any more ; I
hate it. I must be plain Scoutbush here among my own people,
just as I am in the Guards' mess-room. And as for owing me
any, — really, it is we that are in your debt, — to see my sister so
happy, and such beautiful children, and so well too — and alto-
gether — and Valentia so delighted Avith your poems — and, and

altogether ' and there Lord Scoutbush stopped, having

hoisted, as he considered, the flag of peace once and for all, and
very glad that the thing was over.

Elsley was going to say something in return ; but his guest
turned the conversation as fast as he could. 'And now, I know
you want to be busy, though you are too civil to confess it ; and
I must be with that old fool Tardrew at ten, to settle accounts :
he'll scold me if I do not — the precise old pedant — just as if 1
was his own child. Good-bye.'

' Where are you going, Frederick ? ' called Lucia, from the
window ; she had been watching the interview anxiously
enough, and could see that it had ended well.

'To old Stot-and-kye at the farm ; do you want anything?'

' No ; only I thought you might be going to the yacht ; and
Valentia would have walked down with you. She wants to
find Major Campbell.'

'I want to scold Major Campbell,' said Valentia, tripping out
on the lawn in her walking dress. ' Why has he not been here
an hour ago ? I will undertake to say that he was up at four
this morning.'

' He waits to be invited, I suppose,' said Scoutbush.

' I suppose I must do it,' said Elsley to himself, sighing.

' Just like his primness,' said Valentia. ' I shall go down and
bring him up myself this minute, and j\Ir. Vavasour shall come
with me. Of course you will ! You do not know what a
delightful person he is, when once you can break the ice.'

Elsley, like most vain men, was of a jealous temper ; and
Valentia's eagerness to see Major Campbell jarred on him. He
wanted to keep the exquisite creature to himself, and Headley
was quite enough of an intruder already. Besides, the accounts
of the newcomer, his learning, his military prowess, the rever-
ence with which all, even Scoutbush, evidently regarded him,
made him prepared to dislike the Major ; and all the more, now
he heard there was an ice-crust to crack. Impulsive men like
Elsley, especially when their self-respect and certainty of their
own position is not very strong, have instinctively a defiant fear
of the strong, calm, self-contained man, especially if he has seen
the world ; and Elsley set down Major Campbell as a proud,
sarcastic fellow, before whom he must be at the pains of being
continually on his guard. He wished him a hundred miles
away. However, there was no refusing Valentia anything ; so

248 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

he got his hat, but with so bad a grace, that Yalentia saw liis
chagrin, and from mere naughtiness of heait amused herself
with it by talking all the way of nothing but ]Major Campbell.

'And Lucia,' she said at last, 'will be so glad to see him
again. ^Ve knew him so well, you know, in Eaton Square years
ago.'

' Really,' said Elsley, wincing, ' I never met him there.' He
recollected that Lucia had expressed more pleasure at Major
Campbell's coming than even at that of her brother : and a dark,
undeiined phantom entered his heart, which, though he would
have been too proud to confess it to himself, was none other
than jealousy.

'Oh — did you not? Xo ; it was the year bet'oi-e we first
knew you. And we used to laugh at him together, behind his
back, and christened him the wild Indian, because he was so
gauche and shy. He was a major in the Indian army then . but
a few months afterwards he sold out and went into the line — no
one could tell why, for he threw away very brilliant prospects,
they say, and might liave been a general by now, instead of a
mere major still. But he is so improved since then ; he is like
an elder brother to Scoutbush ; guides him in everything. I
call him tlie blind man, and the major his dog ! '

'So much the worse,' thought Elsley, who di.sliked the notion
of Campbell's having power over a man to whom he was indebted
for his house-room ; but by this time they weie at !Mrs. Harvey's
door.

ilrs. Harvey opened it, curtseying to the very ground ; and
Valentia ran upstairs, and knocked at the sitting-room door
herself.

'Come in,' shouted a pre-occupied voice inside.

'Is that a proper way in which to address a lady, sir?'
answered she, putting in her beautiful head.

JIajor Campbell was sitting, Elsley could .see, in his shirt
sleeves, cigar in mouth, bent over his microscope ; but in.stead
of the unexpected prim voice, he lieard a very gay and arch one
answer, ' Is that a proper way in which to come peeping into
an old bachelor's sanctuary, ma'am ? Go away this moment,
till I make myself fit to be seen.'

Valentia shut the door again, laughing.

'You seem very intimate with Major Campbell,' said Elsley.

' Intimate ? I look on him as my father almost. Now, may
we come in ? ' said she, knocking again in pretty petulance. ' I
want to introduce ]Mr. Vavasour.'

' I shall be only too happy,' said the major, opening his door
(this time with his coat on) ; ' there ai-e few persons in the world
whom I have more wished to know than !Mr. Vavasour.' And he
held out his hand, and quite led Elsley in. He spoke in a tone
of grave interest, looking intently at Elsley as he spoke.
Valentia remarked the interest — Elsley only the compliment.

XV THE CRUISE OF THE ' WATERWITCH ' 2i9

' It is a great kindness of you to call on me so soon,' said he.
'I met Mrs. Vavasour several times in years past ; and though
I saw very little of her, I saw enougli to long much for the
acquaintance of the man who has been worthy to become her
husband.'

Elsley blushed, for his conscience smote him a little at that
word 'worthy,' and muttered some common -place civility in
return. Valentia saw it, and attributing it to his usual awk-
wardness, drew off the conversation to herself.

'Really, Majoi- Campbell ! You bring in Mr. Vavasour, and
let me walk behind as I can ; and then let me sit three whole
minutes in your house without deigning to speak to me ! '

'Ah ! my dear Queen Whims !' answered he, returning sud-
denly to his gay tone ; ' and how have you been misbehaving
yourself since we met last ? '

'I have not been misbeha\ing myself at all, mon cher Saint
Pere, as !Mr. Vavasour will an.swer for me, during the most
delightful fortnight I ever spent ! '

' Delightful indeed ! ' said Elsley, as he was bound to say ; but
he said it with an earnestness which made the major fix his eyes
on him. ' Why should he not find any and every fortnight as
delightful as his last?' said he to himself; but now Valentia
began bantering him about his books and his animals ; wanting
to look through his microscope, pulling off her hat for the purpose,
laughing when her curls blinded her, letting them blind her in
order to toss them back in the prettiest way, jesting at him about
' his old fogies ' at the Linnsean Society ; clapping her hands in
ecstasy when he answered that they were not old fogies at all,
but the most charming set of men in England, and that (with no
offence to the name of Scoutbush) he was prouder of being an
F.L.S., than if he were a peer of the realm — and so forth ; all
which harmless pleasantry made Elsley cross, and more cross —
first, because he did not mix in it ; next, because he could not
mix in it if he tried. He liked to be always in the seventh
heaven ; and if other people were anywhere else, he thought
them bores.

At last — 'Now, if you will be good for five minutes,' said the
major, 'I will show you something really beautiful.'

'I can see that,' answered she, with the most charming impu-
dence, 'in another glass besides your magnifying one.'

' Be it so : but look here, and see what an exquisite world
there is, of which you never dream ; and which be]la^•es a great
deal better in its station than the world of which you do dream ! '

When Campbell spoke in that way, Valentia was good at
once ; and as she went immediately to the microscope, she
whispered, ' Don't be angry with me, mon Saint Pere.'

'Don't iDe naughty, then, ma chere enfant^ whispered he ; for
he saw something about Elsley's face which gave him a painful
suspicion.

250 TWO YEARS AGO ciiAp.

She looked long, and then lifted up her hoafl suddenly — ' Do
come and look, Mr. Vavasour, at this exquisite little glass fairy,
like — I cannot tell what like, but a pure spirit liovering in some
nun's dream ! Come ! '

Elsley came, and looked ; and when he looked he started, for
it was the very same zoophyte which Thuniall Ijad shown hijii
on a certain memorable day.

' Where did you find the fairy, mon Saint Pere ? '

'I had no such good fortune. Mr. Thurnall, the doctor, gave
it me.'

'Thurnall?' said she, while Elsley kept .still looking, to hide
cheeks which were growing very red. ' He is such a cle\er man,
they say. Where did you meet him ? I have often thought of
asking ilr. Vavasour to invite him up for an evening with his
microscope. He seems so superior to the people round him. It
would be a charity, really, ilr. Vavasour.'

Vavasour kept his eyes fixed on the zoophyte, and said —

' I shall be only too delighted, if you wish it.'

' You will wish it yourself a second time,' chimed in Camp-
bell, ' if you try it once. Perhaps you know nothing of him
but professionally. Unfortunately for professional men, that
too often happens.'

' Know anything of him — I ? I assure you not, save that he
attends ilrs. Vavasour and the children,' said Vavasour looking
up at last : but with an expression of anger which astonished
both Valentia and Campbell.

Campbell thought that he was too proud to allow rank as a
gentleman to a country doctor ; and despised him from that
moment, though, as it happened, unjustly. But he answered
quietly —

'I assure you, that whatever some country practitioners may
be, the average of them, as far as I have seen, are cleverer men,
and even of higher tone than their neighbours ; and Thurnall is
beyond the average : he is a man of the world — even too much
of one — and a man of science ; and I fairly confess that, what
with his wit, his savoir vivre, and his genial good temper, I ha-\-e
quite fallen in love with him in a single evening ; we began last
night on the microscope, and ended on all heaven and earth.'

' How I should like to make a third ! '

' Jly dear Queen ^\Tiims would hear a good deal of sober
sense, then ; at least on one side : but I shall not ask her : for
Mr. Thurnall and I have our deep secrets together.'

So spoke the major, in the simple wish to exalt Tom in a
quarter where he hoped to get him practice ; and his ' secret '
was a mere jest, unnecessary, perhaps, as he thought afterwards,
to pass oflF Tom's want of orthodoxy.

' I was a babbler then,' said he to himself the next moment ;
' how much better to have simply held my tongue ! '

' Ah, yes ; I know men have their secrets, as well as women,'

XV THE CRUISE OF THE ' WATERWITCH ' 251

said Yalentia, for the mere love of saying something : but as she
looked at Vavasour, she saw an expression in his face which she
had ne\er seen before. What was it? All that one can picture
for oneself branded into the countenance of a man unable to
repress the least emotion, who had worked liimself into the
belief that Thurnall had betrayed his secret.

' My dear Mr. Vavasour,' cried Campbell, of course unable to
guess the truth, and supposing vaguely that he was ' ill ; ' 'I am
sure that — that the sun has overpowered you ' (the only possible
thing he could think of). ' Lie down on the sofa a minute '
(Vavasour was actually reeling with rage and terror), ' and I
will run up to Thurnall's for salvolatile.'

Elsley, who thought him the most consummate of hypocrites,
cast on him a look which he intended to have been wither-
ing, and rushed out of the room, leaving the two staring at each
other.

Yalentia was half inclined to laugh, knowing Elsley's petu-
lance and vanity : but the impossibility of guessing a cause kept
her quiet.

ilajor Campbell stood for full five minutes ; not as one
astounded, but as one in deep and anxious thought.

'What can be the matter, mon Saint P^re?' asked she at
last, to break the silence.

' That there are more whims in the world than yours, dear
Queen Wliims ; and I fear darker ones. Let us walk up to-
gether after this man. I have offended him.'

' Nonsense ! I dare say he wanted to get home to write
poetry, as you did not praise what he had written. I know his
vanity and flightiness.'

' You do ? ' asked he quickly, in a painful tone. ' However,
I have offended him, I can see ; and deeply. I must go up, and
make things right, for the sake of — for everybody's sake.'

' Then do not ask me anything. Lucia loves him intensely,
and let that be enough for us.'

The major saw the truth of the last sentence no more than
Yalentia herself did ; for Yalentia would have been glad enough
to pour out to him, with every exaggeration, her sister's woes
and wrongs, real and fancied, had not the sense of her own
folly with Vavasour kept her silent and conscience-stricken.

Valentia remarked the major's pained look as they walked
up the street.

' You dear conscientious Saint Pere, why will you fret yourself
about such a foolish matter ? He will have forgotten it all in
an hour; I know him well enough.'

!Major Campbell was not the sort of person to admire Elsley
the more for throwing away capriciously such deep passion as
he had seen him show, any more than for showing the same.

' He must be of a very volatile temperament.'

' Oh, all geniuses are.'

252 Two YEARS AGO chap.

'I have no respect for genius, iliss St. Just ; I do not even
acknowledge its existence wlien there is no strength and steadi-
ness of character. If any one pretends to be more than a man,
he must begin by proving liimself a man at all. (Jenius? Give
me common sense and common decency ! Does he give Mrs.
Vavasour, pray, the benefit of any of these jiretty flights of
genius ? '

Valentia was frightened. Slie had never lieard her Saint
Pere speak so se\erely and sarcastically ; an 1 she feared that if
he knew the truth, he would be terribly angry. She had ne\ er
seen him angry ; but she knew well enough that that passion,
when it rose in him in a. righteous cause, would be very awful
to see ; and she was one of those ^\omen who always grow angry
when they are frightened. So she was angry at his calling lier
Miss St. .Tust ; she was angry because she chose to think he was
talking at her ; though she I'easonably might have guessfd it,
seeing that he liad scolded her a hundred times for want of
steadiness of character. She was more angry than all, because
she knew that her own vanity had caused — at least disagree-
ment — between Lucia and Elsley. All which (combined with
her natural wish not to confess an unpleasant truth aljout her
sister) justified her, of course, in answering —

' Miss St. Just does not intrude into the secrets of her sister "s
married life ; and if she did, she would not repeat them.'

Major Campbell sighed, and walked on a few moments in
silence, then —

'Pardon, Miss St. Just; I asked a rude question, and T am
sorry for it.'

' Pardon you, my dear Saint Pere ? ' cried she, almost catching
at his hand. 'Never! I must either believe you infallible, or
hate you eternally. It is I that was naughty ; I always am ;
but you will forgive Queen Whims 1 '

'Who could help it?' said the major, in a sad, sweet tone.
' But here is the postman. May I open my letters ? '

' You may do as you like, now you have forgiven me. Why,
what is it, mon Saint Pere 1 '

A sudden shock of horror had passed over the major's face, as
he read his letter : but it had soon subsided into stately calm.

' A gallant officer, whom vre and all the world knew well, is
dead of cholera at his post, where a man should die. . And,
my dear I\Iiss St. Just, we are going to the Crimea.'

'We?— your

' Yes. 'rhe expedition will really sail, I find.'

' But not you ? '

'I shall offer my services. My leave of absence will, in any
case, end on the first of September : and even if it did not, my
health is quite enough restored to enable me to walk up to a
cannon's mouth.'

' Ah, mon Saint Pere, what words are these ? '

XV THE CRUISE OF THE ' AVATERWITCH ' 253

' The words of an old soldier, Queen Whims, who has been so
long at his trade that he has got to take a strange pleasure in

it;

'In killing?'

' No ; only in the chance of . But I will not cast an

unnecessary shadow over your bright soul. There will be
shadows enough over it soon, without my help.'

' What do you mean ? '

' That you, and thousands more as delicate, if not as fair as
you, will see, ere long, what the realities of human life are ; and
in a way of which you have never dreamed.'

And he murmured, half to himself, the words of the prophet,
— ' " Thou saidst, I shall sit as a lady for ever : but tliese two
things shall come upon thee in one day, widowhood and the loss
of children. They shall even come upon thee." No ! not in
their fulness ! There are noble elements underneath the crust,
which will come out all the purer from the lire ; and we shall
have heroes and heroines rising up among us as of old, sincere
and earnest, ready to face their work, and to do it, and to call
all tilings by their right names once more ; and Queen Whims
herself will become what Queen Whims miglit be ! '

Valentia was awed, as well she might have been ; for there
was a very deep sadness about Campbell's \ oice.

'You think there will be def disasters?' said she at last.

' How can I tell ? That we are what we always were, I doubt
not. Scoutbush will light as merrily as I. But we owe the
penalty of many sins, and we shall pay it.'

It would be as unfair, perhaps, as easy, to make ^lajor Camp-
bell a prophet after the fact, by attributing to him any distinct
expectation of those mistakes which have been but too notorious
since. Much of the sadness in his tone may have been due to
his habitual melancholy ; his strong belief that the world was
deeply diseased, and that some terrible purgation would surely
come, when it was needed. But it is difficult, again, to conceive
that those errors were altogether unforeseen by many an officer
of Campbell's experience and thoughtfulness.

'We will talk no more of it just now.' And they walked up
to Penalva Court, seriously enough.

'Well, Scoutbush, any letters from town ?' said the major.

' Yes.'

' You have heard what has happened at D Barracks ? '

' Yes.'

' You had better take care, then, that the like of it does not
Jiappen here.'

' Here ? '

' Yes. I'll tell you all presently. Have you lieard from head-
quarters ? '

'Yes ; all right,' said Scoutbush, wJio did not like to let out
the truth before Valentia.

254 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

Campbell saw it, and signed to him to speak out.

' All right ? ' asked Valentia. ' Then you are not going 1 '

'Ay, but I am ! Orders to join my regiment by the first of
October, and to be shot as soon afterwards as is fitting for the
honour of my country. So, Miss Val, you must be quick in
making good friends with the heir-at-law ; or else you won't get
your bills paid any more.'

' Oh, dear, dear ! ' And Yalentia began to cry bitterly. It
was her first real sorrow.

Strangely enough, jNIajor Campbell, instead of trying to com-
fort her, took Scoutbush out with him, and left her alone with
her tears. He could not rest till he had opened the whole
cholera question.

Scoutbush was honestly shocked. Who would have dreamed
it ? No one had ever told him that the cholera had really been
there before. What could he do ? Send for Thurnall ?

Tom was sent for ; and Scoutbush found, to his horror, that
what little he could have ever done ought to have been done
three months ago, with Lord ilinchanipstead's improvements
at Pentremochyn.

The little man walked up and down, and rung his hands.
He cursed Tardrew for not telling him the truth ; he cursed
himself for letting the cottages go out of his power ; he cursed
A, B, and C, for taking the said cottages oft' his hands ; he
cursed up, he cursed down, he cursed all around, things which
ought to have been cursed, and things which reallj^ ought not —
for half of the worst sanatory sinners, in this blessed age of
ignorance, yclept of progress and science (how our grand-
children will laugh at the epithets !), are utterly unconscious and
guiltless ones.

But cursing leaves him, as it leaves other men, very much
where he had started.

To do him justice, he was in one thing a true nobleman, for
he was above all pride ; as are most men of rank, who know
what their own rank means. It is only the upstart, unaccus-
tomed to his new eminence, wlio stands on his dignity, and
' asserts his power.'

So Scoutbush begged humbly of Thurnall only to tell him
what he could do.

'You might use your moral influence, my lord.'

' Moral influence ? ' in a tone which implied naively enough,
' I'd better get a little morals myself before I talk of using the
same.'

' Your position in the parish '

' ^ly good sir ! ' quoth Scoutbush in his shrewd way ; ' do
you not know yourself what these fine fellows who were ready
yesterday to kiss the dust off my feet would say, if I asked leave
to touch a single hair of their rights? "Tell you what, my
lord ; we pays you your rent, and you takes it. You mind your

XV THE CRUISE OF THE ' WATERWITCH ' 255

business, and we'll mind our'n.'' You forget that times are
changed since my seventeenth progenitor was lord of life and
limb over man and maid in Aberaha.'

' ^\.nd since your seventeenth progenitor took the trouble to
live at Penalva Court,' said Campbell, 'instead of throwing
away what little moral iniluence he had by going into the
Guards, and spending his time between fiotten Eow and
Cowes.'

'Hardly fair, Major Campbell!' quoth Tom; you forget
that in the old times, if the Lord of Aberalva was responsible
for his people, he had also by law the power of making them
obey him.'

' The long and the short of it is, then,' said 8coutbush, a little
tartly, 'that I can do nothing.'

' \ ou can put to rights the cottages which are still in your
hands, my lord. For the rest, my only remaining hope lies in
the last person whom one would usually depute on such an
errand.'

'Who is that?'

' The schoolmistress.'

' The who ? ' asked Scoutbush.

' The schoolmistress ; at whose house ilajor Campbell lodges.'

And Tom told them, succinctly, enough to justify his strange
assertion.

' If you doubt.me, my lord, I advise you to ask ^Ir. Headley.
He is no friend of hers ; being a high churchman, while she is
a little inclined to be schismatic ; but an enemy's opinion will
be all the more honest.'

' She must be a wonderful woman,' said Scoutbush ; ' I
should like to see her.'

' And I too,' said Campbell. ' I passed a lovely girl on the
stairs last night, and thought no more of it. Lovely girls are
common enough in West-country ports.'

' We'll go and see her,' quoth his lordship.

^Meanwhile Aberalva pier was astonished by a strange pheno-
menon. A boat from the yacht landed at the pier-head not
only Claude Mellot, whose beard was an object of wonder to
the fishermen, but a tall three-legged box and a little black
tent ; which, being set upon the pier, became the scene of
Aarious mysterious operations, carried on by Claude and a sailor
lad.

' I say ! ' quoth one of the fishing elders, after long suspicious
silence ; ' I say, lads, this won't do. We can't have no out-
landish foreigners taking observations here 1 '

And then dropped out one wild suspicion after another.

' ilaybe he's surveying for a railroad ! '

' Maybe he's from the Trinity House, going to make a new
harbour ; or maybe a lighthouse. And then we'd better pot
meddle wi' him.'

256 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

' I'll tell you what he be. He's that here government chap
aa the doctor said he'd bring down to set our drains right.'

' If he goes meddling with our drains, and knocking of our
back-yards about, he'll find himself over quay before he's done.'

'Steady ! steady ! He come with my loord, mind.'

' He might a' taken in his loordship, and be a Eoossian spy
to the bottom of him after all. They mak' munselves up into
all manner of disguisements, specially beards. I've seed the
Roossians with theii' beards many a time.'

' Maybe 'tis witchcraft. Look to mun, putting mun's head
under that black bag now ! He'm after no good, I'll warrant.
If they be'nt works of darkness, what be?'

' Leastwise he'm no right to go spying here on our quay, and
never ax with your lea\ x*, or by your leave. I'll just goo mak'
mun out.'

And Claude, who had just retreated into his tent, had the
pleasure of finding the curtain suddenly withdrawn, and as a
flood of light rushed in, spoiling his daguerreotype plate, hearing
a voice as of a sleepy bear —

'Ax your pardon, sir ; but what be you arter here V

'Murder! shut the screen'' But it was too late; and
Claude caine out, while the eldest-born of Anak stood sternly
inquiring —

' I say, what be you arter here, mak' so boold V

■ Taking sun-pictures, my good sir ; and you have spoilt one
for me.'

' Sun-picturs, saith a ?' in a very incredulous tone.

' Daguerreotypes of the place for Lord Scoutbusli.'

' Oh ! if it's his lordship's wish, of course ! Only things is
very well as they are, and needs no mending, thank God. Only,
ax pardon, sir. You see, we don't generally allo\%' no interfering
on our pier without la\-e, sir ; the pier being ourn, we pays for
the repairing. So if his lordship intends making of alterations,
he'd better to have spoken to us first.'

'Alterations?' said Claude, laughing; 'the place is far too
pretty to need any improvement.'

' Glad you think so, sir ! But whate\er be you arter here ? '

'Taking views 1 I'm a paintn-, an artist 1 I'll take your
portrait, if you like ! ' said Claude, laugliing more and more.

' Bless my heart, what vules we be I Tis a painter gt-ntle-
niun, lads ! ' roared he.

' What on earth did you take me for ? A Russian spy ?'

The elder shook his head, grinned solemnly, and peace was
concluded. ' We'm old-fashioned folks here, you see, sir ; and
don't like no new-fangled meddlecomes. Y'ou'U excu.se us ;
you'm very welcome to do what you like, and glad to see you
here.' And the old fellow made a .stately bow, and moved away.

' No, no ! you must stay and have your portrait taken ; you I'
make a fine picture.'

XV THE CRUISE OF THE ' WATERWITCH ' 257

' Hum ; might ha', they used to say, thirty years agone ; I'm
o\er old now. Still, my old woman might like it. ]\lake so
bold, sir, but what's your charge V

' I ciiarge nothing. Five minutes' talk with an honest man
.will pay me.'

' Hum : if you'd a let me pay you, sir, well and good ; but I
maunt take up your time for nought ; that's not fair.'

However, Claude prevailed, and in ten minutes he had all
the sailors on the ijuay round him ; and one after another cain(^
forward blushing and grinning to be 'taken oft'.' Soon the
children gathered round, and wlien ^^aleutia and Alajor Camp-
bell came on the pier, they found Claude in the midst of
a, ring of little dark-haired angels ; while a dozen honest fellows
grinned when their own visages appeared, and chaffed each
other about the sweethearts wlio were to keep them while they
were out at sea. And in the midst little Claude laughed and
joked, and told good stories, and gave himself up, the simple,
sunny-hearted fellow, to the pleasure of pleasing, till he earned
from one and all the character of 'the pleasant - spokenest
gentleman that was ever into the town.'

' Here's her ladyship ! make room for her ladyship ! ' But
Claude held up a warning hand. He had just arranged a
masterpiece — half a dozen of the prettiest children, sitting be-
neath a broken boat, on spars, sails, blocks, lobster-pots, and
what not, arranged in picturesque confusion ; while the black-
bearded sea-kings round were promising them rock and bulls-
eyes, if they would only sit still like ' gude maids.'

But at Valentia's coming the children all looked round, and
jumped up and curtsied, and then were afraid to sit down
again.

'You have spoilt my group, Miss St. Just, and you must
mend it ! '

Valentia caught the humour, regrouped them all forthwitli ;
and then placed herself in front of them by Claude's side.

' Now, be good children ! Look straight at me, and listen ! '
And lifting up her finger, she began to sing the first song of
which she could think, ' The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers.'

She had no need to bid the children look at her and listen ;
for not only they, but every face upon the pier was fixed upon
her ; breathless, spell-bound, at once by her magnificent beauty
and her magnificent voice, as up rose, leaping into the clear
summer air, and rolling away over the still blue sea, that
glorious melody which has now become the national anthem
to the nobler half of the New "World. Honour to woman, and
honour to old England, that from Felicia Hemans came the
song which will last, perhaps, when modern Europe shall have
shared the fate of ancient Kome and Greece !

Valentia's singing was the reflex of her own character ; and
therefore, perhaps, all the more fitted to the song, the place.

S T. Y. A,

258 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

and the audience. It was no modest cooing voice, tender, sug-
gestive, trembling with suppressed emotion, such as, even
though narrow in compass, and dull in quality, will touch the
deepest fibres of the heart, and, as delicate scents will some-
times do, wake up long -forgotten dreams, which seem memories
of some antenatal life.

It was clear, rich, massive, of extraordinary compass, and yet
full of all the graceful ease, the audacious frolic, of perfect
physical health, and strength, and beauty ; had there been a
trace of effort in it, it might have been accused of ' bravura ' :
but there was no need of effort where nature had bestowed
already an all but perfect organ, and all that was left for science
was to teach not power, but control. Abo\e all, it was a \oice
which you trusted ; after the first three notes you felt that that
perfect ear, that perfect throat, could never, even by the thou-
sandth part of a note, fall short of melody ; and you gave your
soul up to it, and cast yourself upon it, to bear you up and
away, like a fairy steed, whither it would, down into the abysses
of sadness, and up to the highest heaven of joy ; as did those
wild and rough, and yet tender-hearted and imaginative men
that day, while every face spoke new delight, and hung upon
those glorious notes —

' As one who drinks from a charmed cup

Of sparkling, and foaming, and murmuring wine ' —

and not one of them, had he had the gift of words, but might
have said with the poet —

' I have no life, Constautia, now but thee,

While, like the world-surrounding air, tliy song

Flows on, and fills all things with melody.
Now is thy voice tempest swift and strong,

On which, like one in a trance upborne.
Secure o'er rocks and waves I sweep,

Rejoicing like a cloud of morn.

Now 'tis the breath of summer night,

Which, when the starry waters sleep

Round western isles, with incense-blossoms briglit,
Lingering, suspends my soul in its voluptuous fligjit.'

At last it ceased : and all men drew their breaths once more ;
while a low murmur of admiration ran through the crowd, too
well-bred to applaud openly, as they longed to do.

' Did you ever hear the like of that, Gentleman Jan ? '

' Or see ? I used to say no one could hold a candle to our
Grace but she — she looked like a born queen all the time ! '

' Well, she belongs to us, too, so we've a right to be proud of
her. Why, here's our Grace all the while ! '

True enough : Grace has been standing among the crowd all
the while, rapt, like them, her eyes fixed on Valentia, and full,

XV THE CRUISE OF THE ' WATERWITCH ' 259

too, of tears. They had been called up first by the melody
itself, and then, by a chain of thought peculiar to Grace, by the
faces round her.

' Ah ! if Grace had been here ! ' cried one, ' we'd have had
lier dra'ed oft' in the midst of the children.'

' Ah ! that would ha' been as nat'ral as life ! '

' Silence, you ! ' says Gentleman Jan, who generally feels a
mission to teach the rest of the quay good manners. ' 'Tis the
gentleman's pleasure to settle who he'll dra' oft", and not wer'n.'

To which abnormal possessive pronoun Claude rejoined —

' Not a bit ! whatever you like. I could not have a better
figure for the centre. 1 11 begin again.'

' Oh, do come and sit among the children, Grace ! ' says
Valentia.

'No, thank your ladyship.'

Valentia began urging her ; and many a voice round, old as
well as young, backed the entreaty.

' Excuse me, my lady,' and she slipped into the crowd ; but
as she went she spoke low, but clear enough to be heard by all :
' No : it will be time enough to flatter me, and ask for my
picture, when you do what I tell you — what God tells you ! '

' What's that, then, Grace dear ? '

' You know ! I'^e asked you to sa\e your own Mxes from
cholera, and you have not the common sense to do it. Let me
go home and pray for you ! '

There was an awkward .silence among the men, till some
fellow said —

' She'm gone mad after that doctor, I think, with his muck-
hunting notions.'

And Grace went home, to await the hour of afternoon school.

' What a face ! ' said Mellot.

' Is it not ? Come and see her in her school, when the
children go in at two o'clock. Ah ! there are Scoutbush and
Saint Pere.'

' We are going to the school, my lord. Don't you think that,
as patron of things in general here, it would look well if you
walked in, and signified your full approbation of what you
know nothing about ? '

' So much so, that I was just on my way there with Campbell.
But I must just speak to that lime-burning fellow. He wants
a new lease of the kiln, and I suppose he must have it. At
least, here he comes, running at me open-mouthed, and as dry
as his own waistband. It makes one thirsty to look at him.
I'll catch you up in five minutes ! '

So the three went oft" to the school.

Grace was telling, in her own sweet way, that charming
story of the Three Trouts, which, by the by, has been lately
pirated (as many things are) by a religious author, whose book

260 TWO \'EARS AGO chap.

differs sufficiently from the liberal and wholesome morality of
the true author of the tale.

'What a beautiful story, G>aci,'!' said Valentia. ' You will
suipass Hans Andersen some day.'

Grace blushed, and was silent a moment.

' It is not my own, my lady.'

' Xot your own ? 1 should have thouglit tjiat no one but you
and Ander.sen could have made such an ending tri it.'

Grace gave her one of those Vjeseoching, half-reproachful
looks, with which .she always answered praise; and then — ■
■ Would you like to hear the children repeat a hymn, my lady?'

'No. I want to know where that story caine from.'

Grace blushed, and st.immered.

'I know where,' said Campbell. 'You need not be ashamed
of having read the book, iliss Harvey. I doubt not that you
took all the good from it, and none of the harm, if harm there
be.'

Grace looked at him ; at once surprised and relieved.

' It was a foolish romance-book, sir, as you seem to know. It
was the only one which I ever read, except Hans Andersen's —
which are not romances, after all. But the beginning was so
full of God's truth, sir — romance tlioutch it was — and gave me
such precious new light about educating children, that I was
led on unawares. I hope I was not wrong.'

' This schoolroom proves that you were not,' said Campbell.
' " To the pure, all things are pure." '

' What is this mysterious book ? I must know ! ' said
Valentia.

'A very noble romance, which I made Mellot read once, con-
taining the ideal education of an English nobleman in the
middle of the last century.'

' The Fool of Qua/it;/ ? ' said INIellot. ' Of course ! I thought
I had heard the story before. What a well-written book it is,
too, in spite of all extravagance and prolixity. And how
wonderfully ahead of his generation the man who wrote it, in
politics as well as in religion ? '

' I must read it,' said Valentia. ' You must lend it me.
Saint Pere.'

' Not yet, I think.'

' Why ? ' whispered she, pouting. ' I suppose I am not as
pure as Grace Harvey 1 '

' She has the children to educate, who are in daily contact
with coarse sins, of which you know nothing — of which she
cannot help knowing. It was written in an age when the
morals of our class (more shame to us) were on the same level
with iiie morals of litr class now. Let it alone. I often have
fancied I should edit a corrected edition of it. When I do, you
shall read that.'

' Now, Miss Harvey,' said Mellot, who had never taken his

XV THE CRUISE OF THE ' WATERWITCH ' 261

oyes off her face, 'I want to turn schoolmaster, and give your
children a drawing lesson. Get your slates, all of you ! '

And taking possession of the black board and a piece of chalk,
Claude began sketching them imps and angels, dogs and horses,
till the school rang with shrieks of delight.

'Now,' said he, wiping the board, 'I'll diaw something, and
you shall copy it.'

And without taking off his hand, he drew a single line : and
a profile head sprang up, as if by magic, under his firm, unerring
touch.

' Somebody ! ' 'A lady ! ' ' No, 'taint ; 'tis schoolmistress ! '

' You can't copy that ; I'll draw you another face.' And he
sketched a full face on the board.

' That s my lady.' 'No, it's schoolmistress again!' 'No, it's
not ! '

' Not quite sui-e, my dears ? ' said Claude, half to himself.
' Then here ! ' and wiping the board once more, he drew a three-
quarters face, which elicited a shout of approbation.

' That's schoolmistress, her very self ! '

' Then you cannot do anything better than try and draw it.
I'll show you how.' And going over the lines again, one by one,
the crafty Claude pretended to be giving a drawing lesson,
while he was really studying e\ ery feature of his model.

' If you please, my lady,' whispered Grace to Valentia ; ' I
wish the gentleman would not.'

'Why not?'

'O madam, I do not judge any one else; l)ut why should
this poor perishing flesh be put into a picture ? We ^s ear it but
for a little while, and are blessed when ^\•e are rid of its burden.
Why wish to keep a copy of what we long to be delivered
from 1 '

'It will please the children, Grace,' said Valentia, puzzled.
' See how they are all trying to copy it, from love of you.'

' Who am I ? I want them to do things from love of God.
No, madam, I was pained (and no offence to you) when I was
asked to have my likeness taken on the quay. There's no sin in
it, of course ; but let those who are going away to sea, and have
friends at home, have their pictures taken ; not one wlio wishes
to leave behind her no likeness of her own, only Christ's likeness
in these children ; and to paint Him to other people, not to be
painted herself. Do ask him to rub it out, my lady ! '

'Why, Grace, we were all just wishing to have a likeness of
you. Every one has their picture taken for a remembrance.'

' The saints and martyrs never had theirs, as far as I ever
heard, and yet the^y are not forgotten yet. I know it is the way
of great people like you. I saw your picture once, in a book
Miss Heale had ; and did not wonder, when I saw it, that people
wished to remember such a face as yours ; and since I have seen
you, I wonder still less.'

262 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

' Jly picture ? where ? '

'In a book ; Tlu^ Book <>) Bcfuity, I believe they called it.'

'My dear Grace,' said Valeiitia, laughing and blushing, 'if
you ever looked in your glass, you must know that you are quite
as worthy of a place in I'lif ]i<iol- of Bnuufy as I am.'

Grace shook her head with a serious smile. ' Ever.y one in
their place, madam. I cannot help knowing that God has
given me a gift, but why, I cannot tell. Certainly not for the
same purpose as He gave it to you for — a simple country girl
like me. If He have any use for it, He will use it, as He does
all His creatures, without my help. At all events it will not
last long ; a few years more, perhaps a few months, and it will
be food for worms ; and then people will care as little about
my looks as I care now. I wish, my lady, you would stop the
gentleman ! '

' ilr. Mellot, draw the children sometliing simpler, please ; a
dog or a cat.' And she gave Claude a look which he obeyed.

valentia felt in a more solemn mood than usual as she walked
home that day.

'Well,' said Claude, 'I have here every line and shade, and
slie cannot escape me. I'll go on board and paint her right off
from memory, while it is fresh. Why, here come Scoutbush and
the major.'

' Miss Harvey,' said Scoutbush, trying, as lie said to Camp-
bell, ' to look as grand as a slieep-dog among a pack of fox-
hounds, and very thankful all the wliile lie had no tail to be
bitten off' — ' iliss Harvey, I — we — have heard a great deal in
praise of your school, and so I thought I should like to come
and see it.'

'Would your lordship like to examine the children?' says
Grace, curtseying to the ground.

'Xo — thanks— that is — I have no doubt you teach them all
that's right, and we are exceedingly gratified with the way in
which you conduct the school. I say, Yal,' cried Scoutbush,
who could support the part of patron no longer, ' v.hat pretty
little ducks they are, I wi.-,h I had a dozen of them ' Come you
here I ' and down he sat on a bench, and gathered a grouj) round
him.

' Now, are you all good children ? I'm sure you look so ! '
said he, looking round into the bright pure faces, fresh from
heaven, and feeling himself the nearer heaven as he did so.
' Ah ! I see ilr. !Mellot's been drawing you pictures. He's a
clever man, a wonderful man, isn't he ? I can't draw you
pictures, nor tell you stories, like your schoolmistress. What
shall I do?'

' Sing to them, Fred ! ' said A'alentia.

And he began warbling a funny song, with a child on each
knee, and his unii.s round three or four more, while the little
faces looked up into his, half awe-struck at the presence of a

XV THE CRUISE OF THE ' WATERWITCH ' 263

live lord, half longing to laugh, but not sure whether it would
be right.

Valentia and Campbell stood close together, exchanging
looks.

' Dear fellow ! ' whispered she, ' so simple and good when he
is himself ! And he must go to that dreadful war ! '

'Never mind. Perhaps by this very act he is earning per-
mission to come back again, a wiser and a more useful man.'

'How then?'

'Is he not making friends with angels who always behold
our Father's face ? At least he is showing capabilities of good,
which God gave ; and which therefore God will never waste.'

' Now, shall I sing you another song ? '

' Oh yes, please ! ' rose from a dozen little mouths.

'You must not be troublesome to his lordship,' says Grace.

' Oh no, I like it. I'll sing them one more song, and then —
I want to speak to you, Miss Harvey.'

Grace curtsied, blushed, and shook all over. What could
Lord Scoutbush want to say to her ?

That indeed was not very easy to discover at first ; for Scout-
bush felt so strongly the oddity of taking a pretty young woman
into his counsel on a question of sanitary reform, that he felt
mightily inclined to laugh, and began beating about the bush
in a sufficiently confused fashion.

'Well, Miss Harvey, I am exceedingly pleased with — with
what I have seen of the school — that is, what my sister tells,
and the clergyman '

' The clergyman ? ' thought Grace, surprised, as she well
might be, at what was entirely an impromptu invention of his
lordship's.

'And — and — there is ten pounds towards the school, and —
and, I will give an annual subscription the same amount.'

'Mr. Headley receives the subscriptions, my lord,' said Grace,
drawing back from the proiFered note.

' Of course,' quoth Scoutbush, trusting again to an im-
promptu ; ' but this is for yourself — a small mark of our sense of
your — your usefulness.'

If any one has expected that Grace is about to conduct herself,
during this interview, in any wise like a prophetess, tragedy
queen, or other exalted personage ; to stand upon her native in-
dependence, and scorning the bounty of an aristocrat, to read
the said aristocrat a lecture on his duties and responsibilities, as
landlord of Aberalva town ; then will that person be altogether
disappointed. It would have looked very well, doubtless ; but it
would have been equally untrue to Grace's womanhood, and to
her notions of Christianity. Whether all men were or were not
equal in the sight of Heaven, was a notion which had never crossed
her mind. She knew that they would all be equal in heaven,
and that was enough for her. Meanwhile, she found lords and

264 TWO YEARS AGO chap

ladies on earth, and seeing no open sin in the fact of their being
richer and more po-.verful than slie was, slie supposed that God
liad put them -where they were ; and slie accepted them simply
as facts of His kingdoui. Of course they had their duties, as
f!\ery one has ; but what they were she did not know, or care to
know. To their own ni.ister they stood or fell : her business
was with her own duties, and with her own class, whose good
and evil she understood by practical experience. So when n.
live lord made his appearance in her school, she looked at him
with vague wonder and admiration, as a being out of some other
planet, for wlioin she liad no gauge or measure ; she only believed
that he had vast powers of doing good unknown to her ; and was
delighted by seeing him condescend to pkiy with her children.
The truth may be degrading, but it must l)e told. People, of
course, who know the hollowness of the world, and the vanity
of human wealth and honour, and are accustomed to live with
lords and ladies, see through all that, just as clearly as any
American republican does ; and care no more about walking
down Pall Mall with the Marquis of Carab.is, who can get them
a place or a living, than with ]Mr. Two-slioes, who can only
borrow ten pounds of them ; but Grace was a poor simple West-
country girl, and as such we must excuse her, if, curtseying to
the very ground, witli teai-s of gratitude in her eyes, she took
the ten-pound note, saying to herself, 'Thank the Good Lord !
This will just pay mother's account at the mill.'

Likewise we must excuse her if she trembled a little, being a
young woman — though being also a lady, she lost no jot of self-
possession — when his lordship went on in as important a tone
as he could —

'And — and I hear, Miss Harvey, tliat you have a great
influence over these children's parents.'

' I am afraid some one has misinformed your lordship,' said
Grace, in a low voice.

'Ah ! ' quoth Scoutbusli, in a tone meant to be rea.ssuring ;
' it is quite proper in you to say so. What eyes she has ! and
what hair ! and what hands, too ! ' (This was, of course, spoken
mentally.) 'But we know better ; and we want you to speak
to them, whenever you can, about keeping their houses clean,
and all that, in case the cholera should come.' And Scoutbush
stopped. It was a quaint errand enough ; and besides, as
he told Mellot frankly, ' I could think of nothing but
those wonderful eyes of hers, and how like they were to La
Signora's.'

Grace had been looking at the ground all the while. Xow
she threw upon him one of her sudden, startled looks, and
answered slowly, as her eyes dropped again —

' I have, my lord ; but they will not listen to me.'

' Won't listen to you ? Then to whom will they listen ? '

' To God, when He speaks Himself,' said she, still looking on

XV THE CRUISE OF THE ' WATERWITCH ' 265

tlie grouiul. Scoutbush winced uneasily. He was not accus-
tomed to solemn vv'oids, spoken so solemnly.

' Do you hear this, Campbell ? Miss Har\ey has been talking
to these people already, and they won't hear her.'

' Miss Harvey, I dare say, is not astonished at that. It is the
usual fate of those who try to put a little common sense into
their fellow-men.'

' Well, and I shall, at all events, go off and give them my mind
on the matter ; though I suppose' (with a glance at Grace) 'I
can't expect to be heard whe)'e Miss Harvey has not been.'

' O my lord,' cried Grace, ' if you would but speak ' And

there she stopped ; for was it her place to tell him his duty 1
No doubt he had wiser people than her to counsel him.

But the moment the party left the school, Grace dropped
into her chair ; her head fell on the table, and she burst into an
agony of weeping, which brought the whole school round her.

' O my darlings ! my darlings ! ' cried she at last, looking
up, and clasping them to her by twos and threes ; 'is there no
way of saving you 1 No way 1 Then we must make the more
haste to be good, and be all ready when Jesus comes to take us.'
And shaking off her passion with one strong effort, she began
teaching those children as she had never taught them before,
with a voice, a look, as of Stephen himself when he saw the
iieavens opened.

For that burst of weeping was the one single overflow of long
pent passion, disappointment, and shame.

She had tried, indeed. Ever since Tom's conversation and
Frank's sermon had poured in a flood of new light on the mean-
ing of epidemics, and bodily misery, and death itself, she had
been working as only she could work ; exhorting, explaining,
coaxing, warning, entreating with tears, offering to perform
with her own hands the most sickening offices ; to become, if no
one else would, the common scavenger of the town. There was
no depth to which, in her noble enthusiasm, she would not have
gone down. And behold, it had been utterly in vain ! Ah ! the
bitter disappointment of finding her influence fail her utterly,
the first time that it was required for a great practical work !
They would let her talk to them about their souls, then ! They
would even amend a few sins here and there, of which they had
been all alon^ as well aware as she. But to be convinced of a
new sin ; to nave their laziness, pride, covetousness, touched ;
that, she found, was what they would not bear ; and where she
had expected, if not thanks, at least a fair hearing, she had been
met with peevishness, ridicule, even anger and insult.

Her mother had turned against her. 'Why would she go
getting a bad name from every one, and driving away customers V
'The preachers, who were (as is too common in West-country vil-
lages) narrow, ignorant, and somewhat unscrupulous men,
turned against her. They had considered the cholera, if it was

266 TWO YEAR.S AGO i hap.

to come, as so much spiritual capital for themselves ; an occasion
which they could ' improve ' into a sensation, perhaps a ' revival' :
and to explain it upon mere physical causes was to rob them or
their harvest. Coarse viragos went even further still, and dared
to ask her ' whether it was the curate or the doctor she was
setting her cap at ; for she never had anything in her mouth
now but what they had said ? ' And those words went through
her heart like a sword. Was she disinterested 1 Was not love
for Thurnall, tlie wish to please him, mingling with all her
earnestness 1 And again, was not self-love mingling with it ?
and mingling, too, with the disappointment, even indignation,
which she felt at ha\'ing failed ? jVh — what hitherto hidden
spots of self-conceit, vanity, pharisaic pride, that bitter trial laid
bare, or seemed to lay, till she learned to thank her unseen Guide
even for it !

Perhaps she had more reason to be thankful for her humilia-
tion than she could suspect, with her narrow knowledge of the
\\ orld. Perhaps that sudden downfall of her fancied queenship
was needed, to shut her out, once and for all, from that downward
path of spiritual intoxication, followed by spiritual knavery,
which, as has been hinted, was but too easy for her.

But meanwhile the whole thing was but a fresh misery. To
bear the burden of Cassandra day and night, seeing in fancy —
which yet was truth — the black .shadow of death hanging over
that doomed place ; to dream of whom it might sweep off —
perhaps, worst of all, her mother, unconfessed and impenitent !

Too dreadful ! And dreadful, too, the private troubles which
were thickening fast ; and which seemed, instead of drawing her
mother to her side, to estrange her more and more, for some
iijysterious reason. Her mother was heavily in debt. This ten
pounds of Lord Scoutbush's would certainly clear off the miller's
bill. Her scanty quarter's salary, which was just due, would
clear off a little more. But there was a long-standing account of
the wholesale grocer's for five-and-twenty pounds, for which Mrs.
Harvey had gi^en a two months' bill. That bill would become
due early in September ; and how to meet it, neither mother nor
daughter knew ; it lay like a black plague-spot on the future,
only surpassed in horror by the cholera itself.

It might have been three or four days after, that Claude,
lounging after breakfast on deck, was hailed from a dingy,
which contained Captain Willis and Gentleman Jan.

' ilight we take the liberty of coming aboard to speak with
your honour 1 '

' By all means ! ' and up the side they came ; their faces
evidently big with some great purpose, and each desirous that
the other should begin.

' You speak, captain,' says Jan, ' you'm oldest ; ' and then he
began himself. ' If you please, sir, we'm come on a sort of
deputation — Why don't you tell the gentleman, captain 1 '

XV THE CRUISE OF THE ' WATERWITCH ' 267

Willis seemed either doubtful of the success of his deputation
or not over desirous thereof ; for, after trying to put John Beer
forward as spokesman, lie began : —

'I'm sorry to trouble you, sir, but these young men will have
it so — and no shame to them — on a matter ^\ liich I think will
come to nothing. But the truth is, they ha\ e heard that you
are a great painter, and they have taken it into their heads to
ask you to paint a picture for them.'

' N ot to ask you a favour, sir, mind ! ' interrupted Jan ; ' we'd
scorn to be so forward ; we'll subscribe and pay for it, in
course, any price in reason. There's forty and more promised
already.'

'You must tell me, first, what the picture is to be about,' said
Claude, puzzled and amused.

' Why didn't you tell the gentleman, captain ? '

' Because I think it is no use ; and I told them all so from
the first. The truth is, sir, they want a picture of my — of
our schoolmistress, to hang up in the school or somewhere '

' That's it, dra'ed out all natural, in paints, and her bonnet,
and her shawl, and all, just like life ; we was a going to ax you
to do one of they garrytypes ; but she would have'n noo price ;
besides tan't clieerful looking they sort, with your leave ; too
much blackamoor wise, you see, and over thick about the nozzes,
most times, to my liking ; so we'll pay you and welcome, all
you ask.'

' Too much blackamoor wise, indeed ! ' said Claude, amused.
' And how much do you think I should ask ? '

No answer.

'We'll settle that presently. , Come down into the cabin
with me.'

' Why, sir, we couldn't make so bold. His lordship '

' Oil, his lordship's on shore, and I am skipper for the time ;
and if not, he'd be delighted to see two good seamen here. 80
come along.'

And down they went.

' Bowie, bring these gentlemen some sherry ! ' cried Claude,
turning over his portfolio. ' Now then, my worthy friends, is
that the sort of thing you want ? '

And he spread on the table a water-colour sketch of Grace.

The two worthies gazed in silent delight, and then looked at
each other, and then at Claude, and then at the picture.

' Why, sir,' said Willis ; ' I couldn't have believed it ! You've
got the very smile of her, and the sadness of her too, as if you'd
known her a hundred year ! '

' 'Tis beautiful ! ' sighed Jan, half to himself. Poor fellow,
he had cherished, perhaps, hopes of winnino; Grace after all.

' Well, will that suit you ?'

' Why, sir, make so bold : — but what we thought on was to
have her drawn from head to foot, and a child standing by her

268 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

like, holding to her liand, for a token as she was schoolmistress •
and the pier behind, may be, to signify as she was our maid, and
belonged to Aberalva.'

.'A capital thought! Upon my word, you're men of taste
here in the West ; but what do you think I should cliarge for
such a picture as that 1 '

'Name your price, sir,' said Jan, who was in higli good
humour at Claude's approbation.

' Two hundred guineas ? '

Jan gave a long whistle.

'I told you so, Captain Beer,' said Willis, 'or ever we got
into the boat.'

'Now,' said Claud, laughing, 'I've two prices, one"s two
hundred, and the other is just nothing ; and if you won't agree
to the one, you must take the other.'

' But we wants to jiay, we'd take it an honour to pay, if we
could afford it.'

'Then wait till next Christmas.'

' Christmas ? '

' ^ly good friend, pictures are not painted in a day. Ne.xt
Christmas, if I live, I'll send you what you shall not be ashamed
of, or slie either, and do you club your money and put it into a
handsome gold frame.'

'But, sir,' said Vrillis, 'this will give you a sight of trouble,
and all for our fancy.'

'I like it, and I like you ! You're fine fellows, who know a
noble creature when God sends her to you ; and I should be
ashamed to ask a farthing of your money. There, no more
v.'ords ! '

'Well, you are a gentleman, sir !' said Gentleman Jan.

'And so are you,' said Claude. 'Now I'll show you some
more sketches.'

'I should like to know, sir,' asked Willis, 'how you got at
that likeness. She would not hear of the thing, and that's why
I had no liking to come troubling you about notliing.'

Claude told them, and Jan laughed heartily, while Willis
said —

' Do you know, sir, that's a relief to my mind. There is no
sin in being drawn, of course ; but I didn't like to think my
maid had changed her mind, when once she'd made it up.'

So the deputation retired in high glee, after Willis had
entreated Claude and Beer to keep the thing a secret from
Grace.

It befell that Claude, knowing no reason why he should not
tell Frank Headley, told him the wliole story, as a proof of the
chivalry of his parishioners, in which he would take delight.

Frank smiled, but said little ; his opinion of Grace was alter-
ing fast. A circumstance which occurred a few days after
altered it still more.

XV THE CRUISE OF THE ' WATER WITGJI ' 269

Scoutbush Ijad gone forth, as he tlireatened, and exploded in
every direction, with such ettect as was to be supposed. Every-
body promised his lordship to do o\ erythiug. But when his
lordship's back was turned, everybody did just nothing. They
knew very well that he could not make them do anything ; and
what was more, in some of the very woi'st cases, the evil was
past remedy now, and better left alone. For the drought went
on pitiless. A copper sun, a sea of glass, a brown easterly
blight, day after day, while Thurnall looked gi-imly aloft and
mystified the sailors with —

' Fine weatliL'r for the Flijiivj Dntchmaii this ! '

'Coffins sail fastest in a calm.'

'You'd best all out to the quay -head, and whistle for a
wind : it would be an ill one that would blow nobody good just
now ! '

But the wind came not, nor the rain ; and the cholera crept
nearer and nearer : while the hearts of all in Aberalva were
hardened, and out of very spite against the agitators, they did
less than they would have done otherwise. Even the inhabitants
of the half a dozen cottages which Scoutbush, finding that they
were in his own hands, whitewashed by main force, filled the
town with lamentations over his lordship's tyranny. True —
their pigstyes were either under their front windows, or within
two feet of the wall : but to pull down a poor man's pigstye ! —
they might ever so well be Rooshian slaves ! — and all the town
was on their side ; for pigs were the normal inhabitants of
Aberaha back-yards.

Tardrew's wrath, of course, knew no bounds ; and meeting
Thurnall standing at Willis's door, with Frank and Mellot, he
fell upon him open-mouthed.

'Well, sir ! I've a crow to pick with you.'

' Pick away ! ' quoth Tom.

' What business have you meddling between his lordship and
riier

'That is my concern,' quoth Tom, who evidently was not
disinclined to quarrel. ' I'm not here to give an account to you
of .what I choose to do.'

' I'll tell you what, sir ; ever since you've been in this parish
you've been meddling, you and Mr. Headley too, — I'll say it to
your faces, — I'll speak the ti-uth to any man, gentle or simple ;
and that ain't enough for you, but you must come o\ er that
poor half -crazed girl, to set her plaguing honest people, witli
telling 'em they'll all be dead in a month, till nobody can eat
their suppers in peace : and that again ain't enough for you, but
you must go to my lord with your '

' Hold hard ! ' quoth Tom. ' Don't start two hares at once.
Let's hear that about ]\Iiss Harvey again ! '

' Miss Harvey ? Why, you should know better than I,'

' Let's hear what you know.'

2(0 TWO YEARS AfiO chap.

'Why, ever since that night Trebooze caught you and her
together '

' Stop ! ' said Tom, ' that's a lie ! '

'Everybody says so.'

' Then everybody lies, that's all ; and you may say I said so,
and take care you don't say it again yourself. But what ever
since that night 1 '

' Why, I suppose you come over the poor thing somehow, as
you seem minded to do over every one as you can. But she's
been running up and down the town ever since, preaching to
'em about windilation, and drains, and smells, and cholera, and
it's being a judgment of the Lord against dirt, till she's fri.aht-
ened all the women so, that many's the man as has had to foi'bid
her his house. But you know that as well as I.'

' I never heard a word of it before ; but now I have, I'll give
you my opinion on it. That she is a noble, sensible girl, and
that you are all a set of fools who are not worthy of her ; and
that the greatest fool of the whole is you, Mr. Tardrew. And
when the cholera comes, it will serve you exactly right if you
are the first man carried off by it. Now, sir, you have given me
your mind, and I have given you mine, and I do not wish to
hear anything more of you. Good morning ! '

' You hold your head mighty high, to be sure, since you've
had the run of his lordship's yacht.'

' If you are impertinent, sir, you will repent it. I shall take
care to inform his lordship of this conversation.'

'!My dear Thurnall,' said Headley, as Tardrew withdrew,
muttering curses, ' the old fellow is certainly right on one point.'

'What then?'

' That you have wonderfully changed your tone. Who was
to eat any amount of dirt, if he could but save his influence
thereby ? '

' I have altered my plans. I shan't stay here long ; I shall
just see this cholera over, and then vanish.'

'No?'

' Yes. I cannot sit here quietly, listening to the war-news.
It makes me mad to be up and doing. I must eastward-ho, ^nd
see if trumps will not turn up for me at last. Why, I know the
whole country, half a dozen of the languages — oh, if I could get
some secret-service work ! Go I must ! At worst I can turn
my hand to doctoring Bashi-bazouks.'

'My dear Tom, when will you settle down like other men V
cries Claude.

' I would now, if there was an opening at Whitbury, and low
as life would be, I'd face it for my father's sake. But here I
cannot stay.

Both Claude and Headley saw that Tom had reasons which
he did not choose to reveal. However, Claude was taken into
his confidence that very afternoon.

XV THE CRUISE OF THE ' AVATERWITCH ' 271

' I shall make a fool of myself with that schoolmistress. I
have been near enough to it a dozen times already ; and this
magnificent conduct of liers about the cholera has given the
finishing stroke to my brains. If I stay on here, I shall marry
her : I know I shall ! and I won't ! I'd go to-morrow, if it
were not that I'm bound, for my own credit, to see the cholera
safe into the town and out again.'

Tom did not hint a word of the lost money, or of the month's
delay which Grace had asked of him. The month was drawing
fast to a close now, however : but no sign of the belt. Still,
Tom had honour enough in him to be silent on the point, even
to Claude.

' By the by, have you heai-d from the wanderers this week ?'

' I heard from Sabina this morning. }ilarie is -^'ery poorly, I
fear. They have been at Kissingen, bathing ; and are going to
Bertrich : somebody has recommended the baths there.'

' Bertrich ! 'Wliere's Bertrich ? '

'The most delicious little nest of a place, half way up tlic
iloselle, among the volcano craters.'

' Don't know it. Have they found that "i'ankee ? '

'No.'

'Why, I thought Sabina had a whole detecti\e force of pets
a.nd proteges, from Boulogne to Kome.'

' Well, she has at least heard of him at Baden ; and then
again at Stuttgard : but he has escaped them as yet.'

'And poor Marie is breaking her heart all the while? I'll
tell you what, Claude, it will be well for him if he escapes me
as well as them.'

' Wbat do you mean ? '

' I certainly shan't go to the East without shaking hands once
more with Marie and Sabina ; and if in so doing I pass that
fellow, it's a pity if I don't have a snap shot at him.'

' Tom ! Tom ! I had hoped your duelling days were over.'

' They will be over, when one can get the law to punish such
puppies ; but not till then. Hang the fellow ! What business
had he with her at all, if he didn't intend to marry her ?'
, ' I tell you, as I told you before, it is she who will not marry
him.'

' And yet she's breaking lier heart for him. I can see it all
plain enough, Claude. She has found him out only too late. I
know him — luxurious, selfish, blase; would give a thousand
dollars to-morrow, I believe, like the old Roman, for a new
pleasure : and then amuses himself with her till he breaks her
heart ! Of course she won't marry him : because she knows
that if he found out her Quadroon blood — ah, that's it ! I'll
lay my life he has found it out already, and that is why he has
bolted!'

Claude had no answer to give. That talk at the Exhibition
made it only too probable.

272 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

' You tliink so yourself, I see ! Very well. You know that
wliatever I liave been to others, that girl has nothing a.^-aiiist
me.'

' Nothing against you ? Why, she owes you honour, lite,
everytlxing.'

' Never mind that. Only wlien I take a fancy to Ijeain, I'll
carry it through. I took to that girl, for poor ^Vyse's sakf : anfl
I'll behave by her to the last as he would wish ; and lir who
insults her, insults me. I won't go out of my way to find
Staii'ji'aM; ; but if I do, I'll have it out ! '

'Tlu'u you will certainly tight. .\Iy dearest Tuni, do hmk
into your own heart, and see whether you have not .i grain or
two of spite against hiin left. I assure you you judge him too
harshly.'

'Hum — that must take its chance. At least, if we fi.nlit, we
fight fairly and equally. He is a brave man — I will do him that
justice — and a cool one ; and used to be a sweet siiot. So liu has
just as good a chance of shooting me, if I am in the wrong, as I
have of shooting him, if he is.'

' But your father ? '

'I know. That is very disagreeable; and all the more so
because I am going to insure m.y life — a pretty premium they
will make me pay ! — and if I'm killed in a duel, it will be for-
feited. However, the only answer to that is, that either I
shan't tight, or if I do, I shan't be killed. You know, I don't
believe in being killed, Claude.'

' Tom ! Tom ! The same as ever ! ' said Claude sadly.

' Well, old man, and what else would you liave me ? Nobody
could ever alter me, you know ; and why should I alter myself ?
Here I am, after all, alive and jolly ; and there is old daddy, as
comfortable as lie ever can be on earth ; and so it will be to the
end of the chapter. There ! let's talk of something else.'

CHAPTEE XVI

COME AT LAST

Now, as if in all things Tom Thurnall and John Briggs were
fated to take opposite sides, Campbell lost ground with Elsley
as fast as he gained it with Thurnall. Elsley had never forgiven
himself for his passion that tirst morning. He had shown
Campbell his weak side, and feared and disliked him accordingly.
Beside, what might not Thurnall have told Campbell about him ?
And what use might not the major make of his secret ? Be-
sides, Elsley's dread and suspicion increased rapidl.y when he
discovered that Campbell was one of those men who live on
terms of peculiar intimacy with many women ; whether for his
own good or not, stiU for the good of the women concerned

XVI COME AT LAST 273

For only by honest purity, and moral courage superior to that
of the many, is that dangerous post earned ; and women will
listen to the man who will tell them the truth, however sternly ;
and will bow, as before a gviardian angel, to the strong insight
of him whom they have once learned to trust. But it is a
dangerous office, after all, for layman as well as for priest, that
of father-confessor. The experience of centuries lias shown that
they must needs exist, \\ herever fathers neglect their daughters,
husbands their wi\es ; wherf\ er the average of the women can-
not respect the average of tlie men. But the experience of
centuries should likewise have taught men, that the said father-
confessors are no objects nf envy ; that their temptations to
become spiritual coxcombs (the worst species of all coxcombs),
if not intriguers, bullies, and worse, are so extreme, that the
soul which is ]>roof against them must be either very great or
very small indeed. Whether Campbell was altogether proof
will be seen hereafter. But one day Elsley found out that such
was Campbell's influence, and did not love him the more for the
discovery.

They were walking round the garden after dinner ; Scout-
bush was licking his foolish lips over some common-place tale of
scandal.

' I tell you, my dear fellow, she's booked ; and Mellot knows
it as well as I. He saw her that night at Lady A 's.'

'We saw the third act of the comi- tragedy. The fourth
is playing out now. We shall see the fifth before the
winter.'

^ Koii sine saiu/iiine !' said the major.

'Serve the wretched stick right, at least,' said Scoutbush.
' What right had he to marry such a pretty woman ? '

' What right had they to marry her up to him ? ' said Claude.
' I don't blame poor .January. I suppose none of us, gentleman,
would have refused such a pretty toy, if we could have afforded
it as he could.'

' Whom do you blame then ? ' as]-:ed Elsley.

' Fathers and mothers who prate hypocriticnlly about keeping
their daughters' minds pure ; and then abuse a girl's ignorance,
in order to sell her to ruin. Let them keep her mind pure, in
heaven's name ; but let them consider themselves all the more
bound in honour to use on her behalf the experience in which
she must not share.'

' Well,' drawled Scoutbush, ' I don't complain of her bolting ;
she's a very sweet creature, and always was ; but, as Longreach
says, — and a very witty fellow he is, though you laugh at him,
— " If she'd kept to us, I shouldn't have minded ; but as Guards-
men, we must throw her over. It's an insult to the whole
Guards, my dear fellow, after refusing two of us, to marry an
attorney, and after all to bolt with a plunger." '

What bolting with a plunger might signify, Elsley knew

T T. Y. A.

274 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

not ; but ere he could ask, the major rejoined, in an abstracted
voice —

' God help us all ! And this is the girl I recollect, two years
ago, singing there in Cavendish Square, as innocent as a nestling
thrush ! '

' Poor child ! ' said Mellot, ' sold at first — perhaps sold again
now. The plunger has bills out, and she has ready money. I
know her settlements.'

'She shan't do it,' said the major quietly ; 'I'll write to her
to-night.'

Elsley looked at him keenly. ' You think then, sir, that you
can, by simply writing, stop this intrigue ? '

The majov did not answer. He was deep in thought.

'I shouldn't wonder if he did,' said Scoutbush ; 'two to one
on liis baulking the plunger ! '

'She is at Lord 's now, at those silly private theatricals.

Is he there?'

' Xo,' said Mellot ; ' he tried hard for an invitation — stooped
to work me and Sabina. I believe she told liim that she would
sooner see him in the Morgue than help him ; and he is gone to
the moors now, I believe.'

' There is time then : I will write to her ti)-night ;' and Camp-
bell took up his hat and went home to do it.

' Ah,' said Scoutbush, taking his cigar meditatively from his
mouth, ' I wonder how he does it ! It's a gift, I always say, a
wonderful gift ! Before he has been a week in a house, he'll have
the confidence of every woman in it — and 'gad, he does it by
saying the rudest things ! — and the confidence of all the youngsters
the week after.'

' A somewhat dangerous gift,' said Elsley drily.

' Ah, yes ; lie might play tricks if he chose : but there's the
wonder, that he don't. I'd answer for him with my own sister.
I do every day of my life — for I believe he knows how many
pins she puts into her dress — and yet there he is. As I said
once in the mess-room — there was a youngster there wlio took
on himself to be witty, and talked about the still sow supping
the milk — the snob ! You recollect him, Mellot ? the attorney's
son from Brompton, who sold out — we shaved his mustachios,
put a bear in his bed, and sent him home to his ma. And he
said that Major Campbell might be very pious, and all that:
but he'd warrant — they were the fellow's own words — that he
took his lark on the sly, like other men — tlie snob ! so I told
him, I was no better than the rest, and no more I am ; but if
any man dared to say that the major was not as honest as his
own sister, I was his man at fifteen paces. And so I am, Claude ! '
All which did not increase Elsley's lo\e to the major, con-
scious as he was that Lucia's confidence was a thing which he
had not wholly ; and which it would be very dangerous to him
for any other man to have at all.

XVI COME AT LAST 275

Into the drawing-room they went. Frank Headley had been
asked up to tea ; and he stood at the piano, listening to Valentia's
singing.

As they came in, the maid came in also. ' Mr. Tliurnall
wished to speak to Major Campbell.'

Campbell went out, and returned in two minutes somewhat
hurriedly.

' ~Sh: Thurnall wishes Lord Scoutbush to be informed at once,
and I think it is better that you should all know it — that — it is
a painful surprise : but there is a man ill in the street, whose
symptoms he does not like, he says.'

'Cholera?' saidElsley.

' Call him in,' said Scoutbush.

' He had rather not come in, he says.'

' What ! is it infectious ? '

' Certainly not, if it be cholera, but '

' He don't wish to frighten people, quite riglit ' (with a half
glance at Elsley) ; ' but is it cholera, lionestly 1 '

' I fear so.'

' O my children ! ' said poor ^Irs. Vavasour.

' Will five pounds help the poor fellow ? ' said Scoutbush.

' How far ofF is it ? ' asked Elsley.

' Unpleasantly near. I was going to advise you to move at
once.'

' You hear what they are saying ? ' asked Valentia of Fi'ank.

' Yes, I hear it,' said Frank, in a quiet meaning tone.

Valentia thought that he was half pleased with the news.
Then she thought him afraid ; for he did not stir.

' You will go instantly, of course ? '

'Of course I shall. Good-bye ! Do not be afraid. It is not
infectious.'

' Afraid ? And a soldier's sister ? ' said Valentia, with a toss
of her beautiful head, by way of giving force to her somewhat
weak logic.

Frank left tlie room instantly, and met Thurnall in the
passage.

'Well, Headley, it's here before we sent for it, as bad luck
usually is.'

'I know. Let me go ! Where is it? Whose house?' asked
Frank in an excited tone.

'Humph !' said Thurnall, looking intently at him, 'that is
just what I shall not tell you.'

'Not tell me.'

'No, you are too pale, Headley. Go back and get two or
three glasses of wine, and then we will talk of it.'

' What do you mean ? I must go instantly ! It is my duty
— my parishioner ! '

' Look here, Headley ! Are you and I to work together in
this business, or are we not ? '

276 TWO YEARS AGO chap

' Why not, in heaven's name 1 '

' Then I want you, not for cure, but for prevention. You can
do them no good when they have once got it. You may pre-
vent dozens from having it in the next four-and-twenty hours,
if you will be guided by me.'

' But my business is with their souls, Thurnall.'

'Exactly; to gi\e them the consolations of religion, as
they call it. You will give them to the people who have not
taken it. You may bring them safe through it by simply
keeping up their spirits ; while if you waste your time on poor
dying wretches '

' Thurnall, you must not talk so ! I will do all you ask :
but my place is at the death-bed, as well as elsewhere. These
perishing souls are in my care.'

'And how do you know, pray, that they ai-e perishing?'
answ(H'f"d Tom, with something very like a sneer. 'And if
they were, do you honestly believe that .-my talk of yours can
change in five minutes a character which has been forming for
years, or prevent a man's going where he ought to go, — which,
I suppose, is the place to which he deser\'es to go ? '

' I do,' said Frank tirmly.

'Well. It is a charitable and hopeful creed. "Slj great
dread was, lest you should kill the pooi' wretches before their
time, by adding to the fear of cholera the fear of hell. I
caught the methodist parson at that work an hour ago, took
him by the shoulders and shot him out into the street. But
my dear Headley ' (and Tom lowered his voice to a whisper),
'wherever poor Tom Beer deserved to go to, he is gone to it
already. He has been dead this twenty minutes.'

' Tom Beer dead ? One of the finest fellows in the town !
And I never sent for ? '

' Don't speak so loud, or they will hear you. I had no time
to send for you ; and if I had, I should not have sent, for he was
past attending to you from the first. He brought it with him, I

suppose, from C . Had had warnings for a week, and

neglected them. Now listen to me : that man was but two
hours ill ; as sharp a case as I e\ er saw, even in the Wr^^:
Indies. You must summon up all your good sense, and play the
man for a fortnight ; for it's coming on the poor souls like
hell ! ' said Tom between his teeth, and stamped his foot upon
the ground. Frank had never seen him show so much feeling ;
he fancied he could see tears glistening in his eyes.

' I will, so help me God ! ' said Frank.

Tom held out his hand, and grasped Frank's.

' I know you will. You're all right at heart. Only mind
three things: don't frighten them ; don't tire yourself ; don't go
about on an empty stomach ; and then we can face the worst
like men. And now go in, and say nothing to these people. If
they take a panic, we shall have some of them down to-night as

XVI COME AT LAST 277

sure as fate. Go in, keep quiet, persuade them to bolt anywhere
on earth by daylight to-morrow. Then go home, eat a good
supper, and come across to me ; and if I'm out, I'll leave word
where.'

Frank went back again ; he found Campbell, who had had
his cue from Tom, urging immediate removal as strongly as he
could, without declaring the extent of the danger. Valentia was
for sending instantly for a fly to the nearest town, and going to
stay at a watering-place some forty miles off. Elsley was willing
enough at heart, but hesitated ; lie knew not, at the moment,
poor fellow, where to And the money. His wife knew that she
could borrow of Yalentia ; but she, too, was against the place.
The cholera would be in the air for miles round. The journey
in the hot sun would make the children sick and ill ; and
watering-place lodgings were such horrid holes, never ventilated,
and full of smells — people caught fevers at them so often.
Yalentia was inclined to treat this as 'mother's nonsense ;' but
!Major Campbell said gravely that INlrs. Vavasour was perfectly
right as to fact, and her arguments full of sound reason ; whereon
Valentia said that 'of course if Lucia thought it, iMajor Camp-
bell would prove it ; and there was no arguing with such Solons
as he '

Which Elslpy heard, and ground his teeth. Wliereon little
Scoutbush cried joyfully —

' I have it ; why not go by sea ? Take the yacht, and go !
Yliere ? Of course, I have it again. 'Pon my word I'm
growing clever, Valentia, in spite of all your prophec-ies. Go up
the Welsh coast. Nothing wo healthy and airy as a sea voyag& :
sea as .smooth as a mill-pond, too, and likely to be. And then
land, if you like, at Port !Mad(ic, as I meant to do ; and there
are my rooms at Beddgelert lying empty. Engaged them a week
ago, tjiinking I should be there by now ; so you may as well
keep them aired for me. Come, Valentia, pack up your milli-
nery ! Lucia, get the cradles ready, and we'll have them all on
board by twehe. Capital plan. Vavasour, isn't it ? and, by
Jove, what stunning poetry you will write there under Snow-
don ! '

' But will you not want your rooms yourself, Lord Scout-
bush 1 ' said Elsley.

'^.ly dear fellow, never mind me. I shall go across the
country, I think, see an old friend, and get some otter-hunting.
Don't think of me till youre there, and then send the yacht
back for me. She must be doing something, you know ; and
the men are only getting drunk every day here. Come — no
arguing about it, or I shall turn you all out of doors into the
lane, eh ? '

And the little fellow laughed so good-naturedly, that Elsley
could not help liking him : and feeling that he would be both a
fool, and cruel to his family, if he refused so good an offer, he

278 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

gave in to the sclieme, and went out to arrange matters : while
Wcoutbush went out into the hall with Campbell, and scrambled
into his pea-jacket, to go off to the yacht that moment.

'You'll see to them, there's a good fellow,' as they lighted
their cigars at the door. ' That ^'avasour is greener tjian grass,
you know, tant pis for my poor .sistei.'

'I am not going.'

' Not going ? '

' Certainly not ; so my rooms will be at their service ; and
you had much better escort them yourself. It will be much less
disagreeable for A avasour, who knows nothing of commanding
sailors,' or himself, thought the major, ' than finding himself
master of your yacht in your absence, and you will get your
fishing as you intended.'

' But why are you going to stay ? '

' Oh, I have not half done with the sea-l leasts here. I found
two new ones yesterday.'

'Quaint old beetle-hunter you aiv, for a man who has fought
in half a dozen battles ! ' and Scoutbush walked on silently for
five minutes.

Suddenly he broke out —

' I cannot ! Bv (George, I cannot ; and v.liaf 's more, I v.'on't ! '

'What?'

' Run away. It will look so — so cowardly, and there's the
truth of it, before those fine fellows down there : and just as I
am come among them, too ! The cominandf i--in-eliief to turn
tail at the first shot ! Thougli I can't be of any use, I know,
and I should have liked a fortnight's fishing so,' said he in a
dolorous voice, ' before going to be eaten up with flies at Varna —
for this Crimean expedition is all moonshine.'

' Don't be too sure of that,' said Campbell. ' AVe shall go ;
and some of us who go will never come back, Freddy. I know
those Russians better than many, and I liave been talking them
over lately with Thurnall, who has been in their service.'

' Has lie been at Sevastopol ? '

'No. Almo.st the only place on earth where he has not
been : but from all he says, and from all I know, we are under-
valuing our foes, as usual, and shall smart for it ! '

' AVe'll lick them, never feav ! '

' Yes ; but not at the first round. Scoutbush, your life has
been child's play as yet. You are going now to see life in
earnest, — the sort of life which average people have been living,
in every age and country, since Adam's fall ; a life of sorrow
and danger, tears and blood, mistake, confusion, and perplexity ;
and you will find it a very new sensation ; and, at first, a very
ugly one. All the more reason for doing what good deeds you
can before you go ; for you may have no time left to do any on
the other side of the sea.'

Scoutbush was silent awhile.

XVI CO^rE AT LAST 279

' Well ; I'm afraid of nothing, I hope : only I wish one could
meet this cholera face to face, as one will those Russians, with
a good sword in one's hand, and a ^ood horse between one's
knees ; and have a chance of giving him what he brings, instead
of being kicked off by tlie cowardly Eockite, no one knows how ;
and not even from behind u, turf dyke, but out of the very
clouds.'

' So we all say, in every battle, Scoutbush. Who ever sees
the man who sent the bullet through him 1 And yet we fight
on. Do you not think the greatest terror, the only real terror,
in any battle, is the chance shots which come from no one knows
where, and hit no man can guess whom f If you go to the
Crimea, as you will, you will feel what I felt at the Cape, and
Cabul, and the Punjab, twenty times, — the fear of dying like a
dog, one knew not how.'

^And yet I'll fight, Campbell 1 '

' Of course you will, and take your chance. Do so now ! '

' By Jove, Campbell — I always say it — you're the most sen-
sible man I ever met ; and, by Jove, the doctor comes the next.
My sister shall have the yacht, and I'll go up to Penalva.'

'You will do two good deeds at once, then,' said the major.
' You will do what is right, and you will give heart to many a
poor wretch here. Believe me, Scoutbush, you will never repent
of this.'

' By Jove, it always does one good to hear you talk in that
way, Campbell ! One feels — I don't know — so much of a man
when one is with you ; not that I shan't take uncommonly good
care of myself, old fellow ; that is but fair : but as for running
away, as 1 said, why — why — why, I can't, and so I won't ! '

' By the by,' said the major, ' there is one thing which I have
forgotten, and which they will never recollect. Is the yacht
victualled — with fresh meat and green stuff, I mean ? '

' Whew — w '

' I will go back, borrow a lantern, and forage in the garden,
like an old campaigner. I have cut a salad with my sword
before now.'

' And made it in your helmet, with macassar sauce ? ' And
the two went their ways.

Meanwhile, before they had left the room, a notable conversa-
tion had been going on between Valentia and Headley.

Headley had re-entered the room so much paler than he went
out, that everybody noticed his altered looks. Valentia chose
to attribute them to fear.

' So ! Are you returned from the sick man already, Mr.
' Headley ? ' asked she, in a marked tone.

'I have been forbidden by the doctor to go near him at
present. Miss St. Just,' said he quietly, but in a sort of under-
voice, which hinted that he wished her to ask no more questions.
A shade passed over her forehead, and she began chatting rather

280 TWO YEARS ACO chap.

noisily to the rest of the party, till Elsley, her brother, and
Campbell went out.

Valentia looked up at him, expecting liim to go too. Mrs.
Vavasour began bustling about the room, collecting little ^'alu-
ables, and looking over her shoulders at the now unwelcome
guest. But Frank leant back in a cosy arm-i.Iiair, and did not
stir. His hands \vere clasped on his knees ; he seemed lost in
thought; very pale; but tlun-e was a firm set look about his
lips which attracted Valentia's attention. Once he looked up in
Valentia's face, and saw that she was looking at him. A flush
came over his cheekb for a moment, and tlien he seemed as im-
j)assive as ever. What could he want tJiere 1 How very gauche
and rude of him ; so unlike liim, too ! And she said, ci\'illy
enough, to him, ' I fear, ^Nlr. Headley, we must begin packing
up now.'

'I fear you must, indeed,' answered lie, as if starting from a
dream. He spoke in a tone, and with a look, which made both
the women start ; for what they meant it was impossible to
doubt.

'I fear you must. I have foreseen it a long time ; and so, I
fear' (and he rose from liis seat), 'must I, unless I mean to be very
rude. You will at least take away with you the knowledge
that you have given to one person's existence, at least for a few
weeks, pleasure more intense than he thouglit earth could hold.'

' I trust that pretty compliment was meant for me,' said
Lucia, half playful, half reproving.

'I am sure that it ought not to have been meant for me,'
said Valentia, more downright than her sister. Both could see
for whom it was meant, by tlie look of passionate worship which
Frank fixed on a face which, after all, seemed made to be
worshipped.

' I trust that neither of you,' answered he quietly, ' think me
impertinent enough to pretend to make love, as it is called, to
!Miss St. Just. I know who she is, and who I am. Gentleman
as I am, and the descendant of gentlemen' (and Frank looked a
little proud, as he spoke, and very handsome), 'I see clearly
euougli the great gulf fixed between us ; and I like it ; for it
enables me to say truth which I otherwise dare not have
spoken ; as a brother might say it to a sister, or a subject to a
queen. Either analogy will do equally well, and equally ill.'

Frank, without the least intending it, liad taken up the very
strongest military position. Let a man once make a woman
understand, or fancy, that he knows that he is nothing to her ;
and confess boldly that there is a great gulf fixed between them,
which he has no mind to bridge over : and then there is little
that he may not say or do, for good or for evil.

And therefore it was that Lucia answered gently, ' I am sure
you are not well, ilr. Headley. The excitement of the night
has been too much for you.'

XVI COME AT LAST 281

' Do I look excited, my dear madam 1 ' he answered quietly ;
' I assure you that I am as calm as a man must be who believes
that he has but a few days to live, and trusts, too, that when he
dies, he will be infinitely liappier than he has ever been on
earth, and lay down an office which he has never discharged
otherwise tlian ill ; wliich has been to him a constant source of
shame and sorrow .

'Do not speak so !' said Vnleutia, with lier Irish impetuous
generosity ; ' you are unjust to yourself. We have watched
you, felt for you, lionoured you, even when we differed from
you.' — What more she would have said, I know not, but at tliat
moment Elsley's peevish voice was heard calling over the stairs,
' Lucia ! Lucia ! '

' Oh dear ! He will wake the children ! ' cried Lucia, looking
at her sister, as much as to say, ' how can I leave you ?'

' Eun, run, my dear creature ! ' said Yalentia, with a self-
confident smile : and the two were left alone.

The moment that Mrs. Vavasour quitted tlie room there
vanished from Frank's face that intense look of admiration
which had made even Yalentia uneasy. He dropped liis eyes,
and his voice faltered as he spoke again. He acknowledged tlie
change in their position, and Yalentia saw that he did so, and
liked him the better for it.

'I shall not repeat, ^liss St. Just, now that we are alone,
what I said just now of the pleasure which I have liad during
the last month. I am not poetical, or given to string metaphors
together ; and I could only go over the same dull words once
more. But I could ask, if I were not asking too much, leave to
prolong at least a shadow of that pleasure to the last moment.
That I shall die shortly, and of tliis cholera, is with me a fixed
idea, which nothing can remove. No, madam — it is useless to
combat it ! But had I anything, by which to the last moment I
could bring back to my fancy what has been its sunlight for so
long ; even if it were a scrap of the hem of your garment, aye,
a grain of dust oflf your feet — Ood forgive me ! He and His
mercy ought to be enougli to keep me up : but one's weakness
may be excused for clinging to such slight floating straws of
comfort.'

Yalentia paused, startled, and yet affected. How she had
played with this deep pure heart ! And yet, was it pure ? Did
he wish, by exciting her pity, to trick her into gi\ing him wliat
he might choose to consider a token of affection ?

And she answered coldly enough —

' I should be sorry, after what you have ju.st said, to chance
liurting you by refusing. I put it to your own good feeling —
have you not asked eomewhat too much 1 '

'Certainly too much, madam, in any common case,' said he,

?uite unmoved. ' Certainly too much, if I asked you for it, as
do not, as the token of an affection which I- know well you do

282 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

not, cannot feel. But — take my words as they stand — were you
to— it would be returned if I die, in a few weeks ; and returned
still sooner if I live. And, madam,' said he, lowering his voice,
' I vow to you, before Him who sees us both, that, as far as I am
concerned, no human being shall ever know of the fact.'

Frank had at last touched the wrong chord.

' AMiat, ]Mr. Headley ? Can you think that I am to have
secrets in common with you, or with any other man? No, sir !
If I granted your request, I .sliould avow it as openly as I shall
refuse it.'

And she turned sharply toward tlie door.

Frank Headley was ji.rturally a sliy man : but extreme need
sometimes bestows on shyness a miraculous readiness — (else why,
in the long run, do the shy men win tlie best wi\ es ? which is a
fact, and may be prox'ed by statistics, at least as well as any-
thing else can) so he quietly stepped to Valentia's side, and said
in a low voice —

' You cannot avow the refusal half as proudly as I shall avow
the request, if you will but Avait till your sister's i-eturn. Both
are unnecessary, I think : but it will only be an honour to me
to confess that, poor curate as I am '

' Hush ! ' and Valentia walked quietly up to the table, and
began turning over the leaves of a book, to gain time for her
softened heart and puzzled brain.

In five minutes Frank was beside her again. The book was
Tennyson's Prinirss:. She liad wandered — who can tell why ? —
to tliat last exquisite scene, which all know; and as Valentia
read, Frank quietly laid a finger on the book, and arrested her
eyes at last —

' If you be, what I think you, some sweet dream,
Stoop down, and seem to kiss me ere I die ! '

Valentia shut the book up hurriedly and angrily. A moment
after she had made up her mind what to do, and with the
slightest gesture in the world, motioned Frank proudly and
coldly to follow her back into the window. Had she been a
country girl, she would have avoided the ugly matter ; but she
was a woman of the world enough to see that she must, for her
own sake and his, talk it out reasonably.

' ^Yhat do you mean, ^Ir. Headley ? I must ask ! You told me
just now that you had no intention of making love to me.'

' I told you the truth,' said he, in his quiet impassive voice.
' I fixed on these lines as a j/»/.s aller ; and they have done all,
and more than I wished, by bringing you back here for at least
a moment.'

'And do you suppose — you speak like a rational man,
therefore I must treat you as one — that I can grant your
request 1 '

XVT COME AT LAST 283

'Why not? It is an uncommon one. If I have guessed your
character aright, you are able to do uncommon things. Had I
thought you enslaved by etiquette, and by the fear of a world
which you can make bow at your feet if you will, I should not
have asked you. But' — and here his voice took a tone of
deepest earnestness — 'grant it — only grant it, and you shall
never repent it. Never, never, never will I ca.st one shadow
over a light wliich has been so glorious, so life-giving : which I
watched with delight, and yet lose without regret. Go your
way, and God be with you ! I go mine ; grant me but a fort-
night's happiness, and then let what will come ! '

He had conquered. The quiet earnestness of the voice, tlie
child-like simplicity of the manner, of which every word con-
veyed the most delicate flattery — yet, she could see, without
intending to flatter, without an afterthought — all these had
won the impulsive Irish nature. For all the dukes and mar-
quises in Belgravia she would not have done it ; for they would
have meant more than they said, even when they spoke more
clumsily : but for the plain country curate she hesitated, and
asked herself, ' What shall I give him 1 '

The rose from her bosom ? No. That was too significant at
iince, and too common-place; besides, it might wither, and he
And an excuse for not restoring it. It must lae something valu-
able, stately, formal, which he must needs return. And she
drew off a diamond hoop, and put it quietly into his hand.

' You promise to return it ? '

' I promised long ago.'

He took it, and lifted it — she thought that he was going to
press it to his lips. Instead, he put it to his forehead, bowing
forward, and moved it slightly. She saw that he made with it
the sign of the Cross.

' I thank you,' he said, with a look of quiet gratitude. ' I
expected as much, when you came to understand my request.
Again, thank you ! ' and he drew back humbly, and left her
there alone ; while her heart smote her bitterly for all the
foolish encouragement which she had given to one so tender,
and humble, and delicate and true.

And so did Frank Headley get what he wanted ; by that
plain earnest simplicity, which has more power (let worldlings
pride themselves as they will on their knowledge of women)
than all the cunning wiles of the most experienced rake ; and
only by aping which, after all, can the rake conquer. It was a
strange thing for Yalentia to do, no doubt ; but the strange
things which are done in the world (which arc some millions
daily) are just what keep the world aUve.

284 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

CHAPTER XVII

uaalzebub's banquet

The next day there were; three cholera cases ; tlie day after
there were thirteen.

He liad come at last, Baalzebub, god of Hies, and of what
flies are bt ed from ; to visit his self-lslinded worshippers, and
bestow on them his own Cross of the Legion of Dishonour. He
had come suddenly, capriciously, sportively, as he sometimes
comes ; as he had come to Newcastle the summer before, while
yet the rest of England was untouched. He had wandered all
but harmless about the West-country that summer ; as if his
maw had been full glutted five years before, when he sat for
many a week upon the Dartmoor hills, amid, the dull brown
haze, and sunburnt bents, and dried-up water-courses of white
dusty granite, looking far and wide o\er the plague-sti-uck
land, and listening to the dead-bell booming all day long in
Tavistock churchyard. But he was come at last, with appetite
more fierce than ever, and had darted aside to seize on Aber-
alva, and not to let it go till he had sucked his fill.

And all men moved about the streets slowly, fearfully ; con-
scious of some awful unseen presence, which might spring on
them fi-om round e^ery corner ; some dreadful ine\'itable spell,
which lay upon them like a nightmare \\eiglit ; and walked to
and fro warily, looking anxiously into each other's faces, not to

ask, ' How are you ?' but ' How am I ?' ' Do I look as if ?'

and glanced up ever and anon restles.sly, as if they expected to
see, like the Greeks, in their tainted camp by Troy, the pitiless
Sun-god shooting his keen arrows down on beast and man.

All night long the curdled cloud lay low upon the hills,
wrapping in its hot blanket the sweltering breathless town ;
and rolled ofi" sullenly when the sun rose high, to let him pour
down his glare, and quicken into evil life all e\'il things. For
Baalzebub is a sunny fiend ; and loves not storm and tempest,
thunder, and lashing rains ; but the broad bright sun, and
broad blue sky, under which he can take his pastime merrily,
and laugh at all the shame and agony below ; and, as he did at
his great banquet in Xew Orleans once, madden all hearts the
more by the contrast between the pure heaven above and the
foul hell below.

And up and down the town the foul fiend sported, now here,
•now there ; snapping daintily at unexpected victims, as if to
make confusion worse confounded ; to belie Thurnall's theories
and prognostics, and harden the hearts of fools by fresh excuses
for believing that he had nothing to do with drains and water ;
that he was ' only '—such an only ! — ' the Visitation of God.'

XVII BAALZEBUB'S banquet 285

He has taken old Beer's second son ; and now he clutches at
the old man himself ; then across the street to Gentleman Jan,
his eldest ; but he is driven out from both houses by chloride of
lime and peat dust, and the colony of the Beers has peace
awhile.

Alas ! there are a ictims enough and to spare beside them, too
ready for the sacritic-e, and up the main street he goes un-
abashed, springing in at one door and at another, on either sirle.
of the street, but fondest of the western side, where the hill
slopes steeply down to the house-backs.

He fleshes his teeth on every kind of prey. The drunken
cobbler dies, of course ; but spotless cleanliness and sobriety
does not save the mother of seven children, who has been
soaking her brick floor daily with water from a poisoned well,
defiling where she meant Ui clean. Youth does not save the
buxom lass, who has been filling herself, as girls will do, with
unripe fiuit ; nor innocence the two fair children who were
sailing their feather-boats yesterday in the quay-pools, as they
have sailed them for three years past, and found no hurt ; piety
does not save the bedridden old dame, bedridden in the lean-to
garret, who moans, ' It is the Lord ! ' and dies. It is ' the Lord '
to her, tliough Baalzebub himself be the angel of release.

And yet all the while sots and fools escape where wise men
fall ; weakly women, living amid all wretcliedness, nurse, un-
harmed, strong' men who have breathed fresh air all day. Of
one word of WtL-ipture at least Baalzebub is mindful; for 'one
is taken and another left.'

Still, there is a method in his seeming madness. His eye falls
on a blind alley, running back from the main street, backed at
the upper end by a high wall of rock. There is a Godsend for
Iiim — a devil's-send, rather, to speak plain truth ; and in he
dashes ; and never leaves that court, let brave Tom wrestle with
him as he may, till he has taken one from every house.

That court belonged to Treluddra, the old fish-jowder. He
must do something. Thurnall attacks him ; Major Campbell,
Headley ; the neighbours join in the cry ; for there is no mis-
taking cause and effect there, and no one bears a great love to
him ; besides, terrified and conscience-stricken men are glad of
a scapegoat ; and some of those who were his stoutest backers
in the vestry are now, in their terror, the loudest against him,
ready to impute the whole cliolera to him. Indeed, old Beer is
ready to declare that it was Treluddra's fish-heaps which poisoned
him and his ; so, all but mobbed, the old sinner goes up — to set
the houses to rights ? No ; to curse the whole lot for a set of
pigs, and order them to clean the place out themselves, or he
will turn them into the street. He is one of those base natures,
whom fact only lashes into greater fury — a Pharaoh whose heart
the Lord himself can only harden ; such men there are, and
women, too, grown gray in lies, to reap at last the fruit of lies.

286 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

But he carries back witli him to his fish-heaps a little invisible
somewhat which he did not bring ; and ere nightfall he is dead
liideously, he, his wife, his son ; and now the Beers are down
again, and the whole neighbourhood of Treluddra's house is wild
with disgusting agony.

Now the fiend is hovering round the fish-curing houses ; but
turns back, disgusted with the pure scent of the tanyard, whenj
not hides, but nets are barked ; skips on board of a brig in tlie
quay-pool ; and a poor collier's 'prentice dies, and goes to his
own place. What harm has he done ? Is it his sin tliat, ill-fed
and well-beaten daily, he has been left to sleep on board, just
opposite the sewer's mouth, in a berth some four feet long by
two feet high and broad ?

Or is it that poor girl's sin who was just now in Heale's shop,
talking to .Miss Heale .safe and .sound, that she is rariied back
into it, in half an liour's time, fainting, -shrieking ? One must
draw a veil over the too hideous details.

No, not her fault ; but there, at least, the curse has not come
without a cause. For she is Tardrew's daughter.

But whither have we got ? How long has the cholera been in
Aberalva l Five days, five minutes, or five years? How many
suns li.ive risen and set since Frank Headley put into his bosom
Valentia's pledge ?

It would be hard for him to tell, and hard for many more ;
for all the days have passed as in a fever dream. To cowards
the time has seemed endless ; and every moment, ei-e their term
shall come, an age of terror, of self-reproach, of superstitious
prayers and cries, which are not repentance. And to some
cowards, too, the days have seemed but as a moment ; for they
have been drunk day and night.

Strange and hideous, yet true.

It has now become a mere common-place, the strange power
which great crises, pestilences, famines, revolutions, invasions,
have to call out in their highest power, for evil and for good
alike, the passions and virtues of man ; how, during their stay,
the most desperate recklessness, the most ferocious crime, side
by side with the most heroic and unexpected virtue, are followed
generally by a collapse and a moral death, alike of virtue and
of vice. AYe should explain this nowadays, and not ill, by saying
that these crises put the human mind into a state of exaltation ;
but the truest explanation, after all, lies in the old Bible belief,
that in these times there goes abroad the unquenchable fire of
God, literally kindling up all men's hearts to the highest activity,
and showing, by the light of their own strange deeds, the inmost
recesses of their spirits, till those spirits burn down again, self-
consumed, while the chaff and stubble are left as ashes, not
valueless after all, as manure for some future crop; and the
pure gold, if gold there be, alone remains behind.

Even so it was in Aberalva during that fearful week. The

svii. BAALZEBUB'S BANQUET 287

drunkards drank more ; the swearers swore more than ever ;
the unjust shopkeeper clutched more greedily than ever at the
last few scraps of mean gain which remained for him this side
the grave ; the selfish wrapped themselves up more brutally
than ever in selfishness ; the shameless women mingled des-
perate debauchery with fits of frantic superstition ; and all
base souls cried out together, ' Let us eat and drink, for to-
morrow we die ! '

But many a brave man and many a weary woman possessed
their souls in patience, and worked on, and found that as their
day their strength should be. And to them the days seemed
short indeed ; for there was too much to be done in them for any
note of time.

Headley and Campbell, Grace and old Willis, and last, but
not least, Tom Thurnall, these and three or four brave women,
organised themselves into a right gallant and well-disciplined
band, and commenced at once a \'isitation from house to house,
saving thereby, doubtless, many a life ; but ere eight-and-forty
hours were passed, the house visitation languished. It was as
much as they could do to attend to the acute cases.

And little Scoutbush ? He could not nurse, nor doctor ; but
what he could, he did. He bought, and fetched all that money
could procure. He galloped over to the justices, and obtained
such summary powers as he could ; and then, like a true Irish-
man, exceeded them recklessly, breaking into premises right and
left, in an utterly burglarious fashion ; he organised his fatigue-
party, as he called them, of scavengers, and paid the cowardly
clods five shillings a day each to work at removing all removable
nuisances ; he walked up and down the streets for hours, giving
the sailors cigars from his own case, just to show them that he
was not afraid, and therefore they need not be : and if it was
somewhat his fault that the horse was stolen, he at least did his
best after the event to shut the stable-door. The fixe real
workers toiled on, meanwhile, in perfect harmony and implicit
obedience to the all-knowing Tom, but with the most different
inward feelings. Four of them seemed to forget death and
danger ; but each remembered them in his own fashion.

Major Campbell longed to die, and courted death. Frank
believed that he should die, and was ready for death. Grace
longed to die, but knew that she should not die till she had
found Tom's belt, and was content to wait. Willis was of
opinion that an ' old man must die some day, and somehow, — as
good one way as another ; ' and all his concern was to run about
after his maid, seeing that she did not tire herself, and obeying
all her orders with sailor-like precision and cleverness.

And Tom ? He just thought nothing about deatli and danger
at all. Always smiling, always cheerful, always busy, yet never
in a hurry, he went up and down, seemingly ubiquitous. Sleep
he got wifien he could, and food as often as he could ; into the

288 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

sea he leapt, morning and night, and came out fresher every
time ; the only person in the town who seemed to grow healthier,
and actually happier, as the work went on.

' You really must be careful of yourself,' said Campbell at
last. ' You carry no charmed life.'

' ily dear sir, I am the most cautious and selfish man in the
town. I am living by rule ; 1 have got — and what greater
pleasure? — a good stand-up liglit with an old enemy; and bo
sure I shall keep myself in condition for it. I liave written off
for help to the ISoard of Healtli, and I shall not be shoved .igHinst
the ropes till the government man comes down.'

' And then? ■

' I shall go to bed and sleep for a month. Never mind me ;
but mind yourself : and mind tliat curate ; he's ;i noble buck —
if all parsons in England were like him, I'd — V\'hat's here now ? '

Miss Heale came shrieking down the street.

' O Mr. Thurnall ! Miss Tardrew ! Miss Tardrew ! '

'Screaming will only make you ill, too, miss. Wheie is Miss
Tardrew ? '

' In the surgery, — and my mother ! '

' I e.x;pected this,' said Tom. ' The old man will go next.'

He went into the surgery. The poor girl was in (-oUapse
already. Mrs. Heale was lying on the sofa, stricken. The old
man hanging over her, brandy bottle in hand.

'Put away that trash !' cried Tom; 'you've liad too much
already.'

' O ilr. Thurnall, she's dying, and I shall die too ! '

' You ! you were all light this morning.'

' But I shall die ; I know I shall, and go to hell ! '

' You'll go where you ought : and if you give way to this
miserable cowardice, you'll go soon enough. AValk out, sir !
]Make yourself of some use, and forget your fear ! Leave ilrs.
Heale to me.'

The wretched old man obeyed him, utterly cowed, and went
out ; but not to be of use : he had been helplessly boozy finin
the first — half to fortify his bod\' against infection, half to fortify
his heart against conscience. Tom had never reproached him
for his share in the public folly. Indeed, Tom had never re-
proached a single soul. Poor wretches who had insulted him
had sent for him with abject shrieks. ' O doctor, doctor, save
me ! Oh, forgive me ! oh, if I'd minded what you said ! Oh,
don't thin'ii of what I said ! ' And Tom had answered cheerfully,
'Tut-tut ; never mind what might ha\e been ; let's feel your
pulse.'

But though Tom did not reproach Heale, Heale reproached
himself. He had just conscience enough left to feel the whole
weight of his abus(-d resi^onsibility, exaggerated and defiled by
superstitious horror ; and maudlin tipsy, he wandered about the
street, moaning that lie had murdered his wife, and all the town.

XVII r.AALZEBUBS BANQUET 289

and asking pardon of tncr>- one he met ; till seeing one of the
meeting-houses open, he staggered in, in tlie vague hope of com-
I'oit which he knew he did not deserve.

In half an hour Tom was down the street again to Headley's.
' Where is iliss Harwy .'

'At the Beers';

'She must go up to Heale's instantly. The mother will die.
Those cases of panic seldom recovei-. i\nd Miss Heale may very
likely follow her. She has shrieked and sobbed lierself into it,
poor fool ! and Grace must go to her at once ; she may liring her
to common sense and courage, and that is the only chance.'

Grace went, and literally talked and prayed Miss Heale into
life again.

'You are an angel,' said Tom to her that very e\ening, when
he found the girl ]jast danger.

' Mr. Thurnall 1 ' said Grace, in a tone of sad and most mean-
ing reproof.

' But you iire ! And these owls are not worthy of you.'

' This is no time for- such language, sir ! ^Vfter all, what am
I doing more than you 1 ' And Grace went upstairs again, with
a cold hard countenance which belied utterly the heai't within.

That was the critical night of all. The disease seemed io have
done its worst in the likeliest spots : but cases of panic increased
all the afternoon ; and the gross number was greater than ever.

Tom did not delay inquii'ing into the cause ; and he discovered
it. Headley, coming out the next morning, after two hours'
fitful sleep, met him at the gate ; his usual business-like trot was
exchanged for a fieice and hurried stamp. When he saw Frank,
he stopped short, and burst out into a story which was hardly
intelligible, so interlarded was it with oaths.

' For Heaven's sake ! Thurnall, calm yourself, and do not
swear so frightfully ; it is so unlike you ! What can have upset
you thus?'

' Wliy should I not cuise and swear in the street,' gasped he,
' while every fellow who calls liimself a preacher is allowed to
do it in the pulpit with impunity ! Fine him five shillings for
every curse, as you might, if people had courage and common
sense, and then complain of me ! I am a fool, I know, though.
But I cannot stand it ! To have all my work undone by a brutal
ignorant fanatic ! It is too much ? Here, if you will believe it,
are those preaching fellows getting up a revival, or some such
invention, just to make money out of the cholera ! They have
got down a great gun from the county town. Twice a-day they
are preaching at them, telling them that it is all God's wrath
against their sins ; that it is impious to interfere, and that I am
fighting against God, and the end of the world is coming, and
they and the devil only know what. If I meet one of them, I'll
wring his neck, and be hanged for it ! O you ])arsons ! you
parsons ! ' and Tom ground his teeth with rage.

U T. Y. A.\

290 TWO YEARS AGO r-HAP.

' Is it possible ? How did you find this out ? '

' Mrs. Heale had been in, listening to their howling, just
before she was taken. Heale went in when I turned him out
of doors : came home raving mad, and is all but blue now. Three
cases of women have I had this morning, all frightened into
cholera, by their own confession, by last night's tomfoolery.
Came home howling, fainted, and were taken before morning.
One is dead, the other two will die. You must stop it, or I
shall have half a dozen more to-night ! Go into tlie meeting,
and curse the cur to his face ! '

' I cannot,' cried Frank, with a gesture of despair, ' I cannot ! '

'Ah, your cloth forbids you, I suppose, to enter the non-
conformist opposition shop.'

' You are unjust, Thurnall ! What are such rules at a moment
like this 1 I'd break them, and the bishop would hold me guilt-
less. But I cannot speak to tliese people. I have no eloquence
— no readiness — they do not trust me — would not believe me —
God help me ! ' and Frank covered his face with his hands, and
burst into tears.

' Not that, for Heaven's sake ! ' said Tom, ' or we shall have
you blue next, my good fellow. I'd go myself, but they'd not
hear me, for certain ; I am no christian, I suppose ; at least, I
can't talk their slang — but I know who can! We'll send
Campbell ! '

Frank hailed the suggestion with rapture, and away they
went ; but they had an hour's good search from sufferer to
sufferer before they found the major.

He heard them quietly. A severe gloom settled over his face.
' I will go,' said he.

At six o'clock that e\ening the meeting-house was filling with
terrified women, and half-curious, half -sneering men ; and among
them the tall figure of Major Campbell, in his undress uniform
(which he had put on, wisely, to give a certain dignity to his
mission), stalked in, and took his seat in the back benche.s.

The sermon was what he expected. There is no need to
transcribe it. Such discourses may be heard often enough in
churches as well as chapels. The preacher's object seemed to be
— for some purpose or other which we have no right to judge —
to excite in his hearers the utmost intensity of selfish fear, by
language which certainly, as Tom had said, came under the law
against profane cuisiiig and swearing. He described the next
world in language which seemed a strange jumble of Virgil's
^'Eneirt, the Koran, the rlreams of those rabbis who crucified our
Lord, and of those mediaeval inquisitors who tried to convert
sinners (and on their own ground, neither illogically nor over-
harshly) by making this world for a few hours as like as pos-
sible to what, so they held, God was going to make the world to
come for ever.

At last he stopped suddenly, when he saw that the animal

I

XVII BAALZEBUB'S BANQUET 291

excitement was at the very highest, and called on all who felt
'convinced' to come forward and confess their sins.

In another minute thei-e would have been (as there liave been
ere now) four or live young girls raving and tossing upon the
tioor, in mad terror and excitement ; or, possibly, luilf the con-
gregation might have rushed out (as a congregation has rushed
out ere now) headed by the preacher himself, and ran headlong
down to the quay pool, with shrieks and shouts, declaring that
they had cast the devil out of Betsy Pennington, and were
hunting him into the sea ; but Campbell saw that the madness
must be stopped at once, and rising, he thundered, in a voice
which brought all to their senses in a moment —

' Stop ! I, too, have a sermon to preach to you ; I trust I am
a christian man, and that not of last year's making, or the year
before. Follow me outside, if you be i-ational beings, and let me
tell you the truth — God's truth ! ^len ! ' he said, with an em-
phasis on the word, ' you, at least, will gi\e me a fair hearing,
and you too, modest married women ! Leave that fellow with
the shameless hussies who like to go into fits at his feet.'

The appeal was not in vain. 'The soberer majority followed
him out ; the insane minority soon followed, in the mere hope
of fresh excitement ; while the preacher was fain to come also,
to guard his flock from the wolf. Campbell spi-ang upon a
large block of stone, and taking off his cap, opened his mouth,
and spake unto them.

Readers will doubtless desire to hear what Major Campbell
said : but they will be disappointed ; and perhaps it is better
for them that they should be. Let each of them, if they think
it worth while, write for themselves a discourse fitting for a
christian man, who loved and honoured his Bible too much to
find in a few scattered texts, all misinterpreted, and some mis-
translated, excuses for denying fact, reason, common justice,
the voice of God in his own moral sense, and the whole remainder
of the Bible from beginning to end.

Whatsoever words he spoke they came home to those wild
hearts with power. And when he paused, and looked intently
into the faces of his auditory, to see what effect he was produc-
ing, a murmur of assent and admiration rose from the crowd,
which had now swelled to half the population of the town.
And no wonder ; no wonder that, as the men were enchained
by the matter, so were the women by the manner. The grand
head, like a gray granite peak against the clear blue sky ; the
tall figure, with all its martial stateliness and ease ; the gesture
of his long arm, so graceful, and yet so self -restrained ; the tones
of his voice, which poured from beneath that proud moustache,
now tender as a girl's, now ringing like a trumpet over roof and
sea. There were old men there, old beyond the years of man,
who said they had never' seen nor heard the like : but it must

'292 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

be like wliat tlieir fathers had told them of, when John Wesley,
on the clitl's nf St. Ives, out-thundered thi' thunder of the .y.ile.
To Grace he seemed one of the old Scotch Covenanters (if whom
she had read, liseii from the dead to preach there from his rock
beneath the great temple of tJod's air, a wider and a juster creed
than tlieirs. Frank drew Thurnall's aim through his, and
whispered, 'I sliall thank .von for this to my dyiii.c;- d;iy :' but
Thurnall held down his head. He seemed deeply moxcd. At
last, Jialf to him.-.elf —

'Humph! I belie\e tliat between tiiis mini and thai girl
you will make a christian e\en of me .some day '.'

But the lull was only for a moment. I'm' ^lajor Campbell,
looking round, discerned among the crowd the preaclier,
whispering and scowling amid a knot of women ; and a sudden
fit of righteous wrath came o\er him.

'Stand out there, .sir, you jireaeher, and look me in the face,
if you can ! ' thundered he. "We are here on common ground
as free men, beneath (rod's heaxenand God's ^.ye. St^uifl out,
sir ! and answer me if yf>u can ; or be for e\er silent ! '

Half in uni-onscious obedience to the soldier-like word of
command, half in jealous raye, the preacher stepped forward,
gasping for breath —

'Don't listen to him! He is a messenger of Satan .sent to
damn you — a lying prophet ! Let tlie Lord judge between me
and him I Stop your ears — a messenger of Satan — a Jesuit in
disguise ! '

'You lie, and you know tiiat you lie!' answered Campbell,
twirling slowly his long moustache, as he always did when
choking down indignation. ' But you have called on the Lord
to judge ; so do I. Listen to me, sir ! Dare you, in tb.e
presence of God, answer for the words which you have spoken
this day ? '

A strange smile came over the preacher's face.

'I read my title clear, sir, to mansions in the skies. ^Vell for
you if .vou could do the same'.'

Was it only the setting sun, or was it some inner light from
the depths of that great spirit, whieli shone out in all his coun-
tenance, and filled his e.ves with awful inspiration, as he spoke,
in a voice cabn and sweet, sad and regretful, and yet terrible
from the slow distinctness of every vowel and consonant ?

' Mansions in the .skies ? You need not wait till then, sir, for
the presence of God. Now, here, you and I are before God's
judgment-seat. Now, here, I call on you to answer to Him for
the innocent lives which you have endangered and destroyed,
for the innocent souls to whom you have slandered their
heavenly Father by your devil's doctrines this day ! You ha^e
said it. Let the Lord judge between you and me. He knows
best how to make His judgment manifest.'

He bowed his head awhile, as if overcome by the awful words

xvii BAALZKBUB'S BANQUET 293

which he had uttered, almost in spite of himself, and then
stepped slowly down from the stone, and passed through the
crowd, which reverently made way for him ; while many voices
cried, 'Thank you, sir ! Thank you!' and old t'aptain Willis,
stepping forward, held out his hand to him, n quiet pride in his
gray eye.

' You will not refuse an old fighting man's thanks, sir i This
lias been like Elijah's day with Baal's priests on C'armel.'

Campbell shook his hand in silence ; but turned suddenly, for
another and a coarser voice caught his ear. It was Jones, the
lieutenant's.

'And now, my lads, take the inethodist parson, neck and
heels, and heave him into the quay pool, to think over his
summons ! '

Campbell went back instantly. ' Xo, my dear sir, let me en-
treat you for my sake. Wliat has passed has been too terrible
to me already ; if it has done any good, do not let us spoil it by
breaking the law.'

'I believe you're right, sir: but my blood is up, and no
wonder. Why, where is the preacher?'

He had stood quite still for several minutes after Campbell's
ad.iuration. He had, often, perhaps, himself hurled forth such
words in the excitement of preaching ; but never before had he
heard them pronounced in spirit and in truth. And as he stood,
Tliurnall, who had his doctor's eye on him, saw him turn paler
and more pale. Suddenly he clenched his teeth, and stooped
slightly forwards for a moment, drawing his breath. Thurnall
walked quickly and steadily up to him.

Gentleman Jan and two other riotous fellows had ali-eady
laid hold of him, more with the intention of frightening, than of
really ducking liim.

' Don't ! don't 1 ' cried he, looking round with eyes wild — but
not with terror.

' Hands off, my good lads,' said Tom quietly. ' This is my
business nov.^, not yours, I can tell you.'

And passing the preacher's arm through his own, with a
serious face, Tom led him off into the house at the back of the
chapel.

In two liours more he was blue ; in four he was a corpse.
The judgment, as usual, had needed no miracle to enforce it.

Tom went to Campbell that night, and apprised him of the
fact. ' Those words of yours went through him, sir, like a
Minie bullet. I was afraid of what would happen when I heard
them.'

' So was I, the moment after they were spoken. But, sir, I
felt a power upon me — you may think it a, fancy — that there
was no resisting.'

'I dare impute no fancies, when I hear such truth and reason
as you spoke upon that stone, sir.'

294 TWO YEARS ACQ chap.

' Then you do not blame me ? ' asked Campbell, with a sub-
dued, almost deprecatory voice, such as Thurnall had never
heard in liim before.

'The man deserved to die, and he died, sir. It is well that
there are some means left on earth of punishing oiienders -whom
the law cannot touch.'

'It is an awful responsibility.'

' Not more awful than killing a man in battle, which \\e both
have done, sir, and yet ha\ e felt n(j .sting of con.science.'

'An awful responsibility still, ^'et what else is life made up
of, from morn to night, but of deeds which may earn heaven or
hell ? . . . Well, as he did to others, so was it done to him.
God forgi\ e him ! At least, our cause will be soon tried and
judged : tliere is little fear of my not meeting him again — soon
enough.' And C,uii])bell, with a sad smile, lay back in his chair
and was silent.

'^ly dear sir,' said Tom, 'allow me to remind you, after this
excitement comes a collaj^se ; and tliat is not to be trilled with
just now. Medicine I dare not give you. Food I must.'

Campbell shook his liead.

' You must go now, my dear fellow. It is now half-past ten,
and I will be at Pennington's at one o'clock, to see how he goes
on ; so you need not go there. And, meanwhile, I must take a
little medicine.'

' ]\Iajor, you are not going to doctor your.self?' (.-lied
Tom.

'There is a certain medicine called jjrayer, ]\lr. Thurnall— an
old specific for the heartache, as you \\ill find one day— which
I have been neglecting much of Lite, and which 1 must return
to in earnest before midnight, (lood-bye, God bless and keep
you ! ' And the major retired to his bedroom, and did not stir
off his knees for two full hours. After wliich he went to Pen-
nington's, and thence somewhere else ; and Tom met him at four
o'clock that morning mu.sing amid unspeakalile lioi^ror.s, quiet,
genial, almost cheerful.

'You are a man,' said Tom to liiniself ; 'and I fancy at times
something more than a man ; more tljan me at least.'

Tom was right in his fear that after excitement would come
collapse ; but wrong as to the person to whom it would come.
When lie arrived at the surgery door, Headley stood waiting for
him.

'Anytliing fresh? Ha\e you seen the Heales V

' I have been praying with them. Don't be frightened. I
am not likely to forget the lesson of this afternoon.'

' Then go to bed. It is full twelve o'clock.'

' Not yet, I fear. I want you to see old Willis. All is not
right.'

'Ah ! I thought the poor dear old man would kill himself.
He has been working too hard, and presuming on his sailor's

xvn BAALZEBUB'S BANQUET 295

power of tumbling in and taking a dog's nap whenever he
chose.'

' I have warned liim again and again : but lie was working
so magnificently, that one had hardly heart to stop him. And
beside, nothing would part him from his maid.'

'I don't wonder at that,' quoth Tom to himself. 'Is she
wit!) him ?'

' Xo : he found himself ill ; slipped home on some pretence ;
and will not hear of our telling her.'

'Noble old fellow ! Caring for every one but himself to the
last.' And they went in.

It was one of those rare cases, fatal, yet merciful withal, in
which the poison seems to seize the very centre of the life, and
to preclude the chance of lingering torture, by one deadening
blow.

The old man lay paralysed, cold, pulseless, but quite collected
and cheerful. Tom looked, inquired, shook his head, and called
for a hot bath of salt and water.

'Warmth we must have, somehow. Anything to keep the
fire alight.'

' Why so, sir ? ' asked the old man. ' The fire's been flicker-
ing down this many a year. Why not let it go out quietly, at
threescore years and ten ? You're sure my maid don't know ? '

They put him into his bath, and he revived a little.

' No ; I am not going to get well ; so don't you waste your
time on me, sirs ! I'm taken while doing my duty, as I hoped
to be. And I've lived to see my maid do hers, as I knew she
would, when the Lord called on her. I have — but don't tell
her, she's well employed, and has sorrows enough already, some
that you'll know of some day '

' You must not talk,' quoth Tom, who guessed his meaning,
and wished to avoid the subject.

' Yes, but I must, sir. I've no time to lose. If you'd but go
and see after those poor Heales, and come again. I'd like to
have one word with Mr. Headley ; and my time runs short.'

' A hundred, if you will,' said J^rank.

'And now, sir,' when they were alone, 'only one thing, if
you'll excuse an old sailor,' and Willis tried vainly to make his
usual salutation ; but the cramped hand refused to obey — ' and
a dying one too.'

'What is it?'

' Only don't be hard on the people, sir ; the people here.
They're good-hearted souls, with all their sins, if you'll only
take them as you find them, and consider that they've had no
chance.'

' Willis, Willis, don't talk of that ! I shall be a wiser man
henceforth, I trust. At least I shall not trouble Aberalva
long.'

' O sir, don't talk so ; and you just getting a hold of them ! '

296 TWO YEARS A(;0 chap.

'I?'

' Yes, you, sir. Tliey've found you out at last, tliank God.
I always knew what you were, and said it. T]icy\e found you
out in the last week : and there's not a man in the town but
what would die for you, I believe.'

This announcement staggvi'ed Frank. Some men it would
lia^e only hardened in their pedantiy, and ha\ e emboldened
them to say : 'Ah ' then these men see th.-it a High Churchman
can work like any one else, when there is a jjractical s.Tcritice
to be made. Xow I have a .standing ground which no one can
dispute, from which to go on and enfoi-ce my idea of what he
ought to be.'

But, rightly or wrongly, no such thought crossed Fiank's
mind. He was just as good a churchman as evir — why not?
Just as fond of his own ideal of what a parish and a church
service ought to be — why not ? ISut the only thought which
did rise in liis mind was one of utter self-abasement.

' Oh, how blind I have been ! How I liave wasted my time
in laying down the law to these people ; fancying my.self infal-
lible, as if God were not as near to them as He is to me —
certainly nearer than to any book on my sheh'es — offending
their little prejudices, little superstitions, in my own cruel self-
conceit and self-will ! And now, the tirst time that I forget
my own rules ; the tirst time that T foruet almost that I am a
priest, even a christian at all I that moment tlicy acknowledge
me as a priest, as a christian. The moment I meet them upon
the commonest human ground, heljnng them as one heathen
would help anothei-, simply because he was liis own fle.sh and
blood, that moment they soften to me, and show me how much
I might liaxe done with them t\\elve months ago, had I had but
common sense ! '

He knelt down and piayed )jy the old man, for him and for
himself.

' Would it be troubling you, sir?' said the old man at last.
' But I'd like to take the sacrament before I go.'

' Of course. Whom shall I ask in '? '

The old man paused awhile.

' I fear it's selfish : but it seems to me — I would not a.sk it,
but that I know I'm going. I should like to take it with njy
maid, once more before I die.'

'I'll go for her,' said Frank, 'the moment Thurnall comes
back to watch you.'

' What need to go yourself, sir ? Old Sarah will go, and
willing.'

Thurnall came in at that moment.

'I am going to fetch ^Miss Harvey. Where is she, captain?'

'At Janey Headon's, along with her two poor children.'

'Stay,' said Tom, 'that s a bad quarter, just at the fish-house
back. Ha\e some brandy before you start ?'

xvii BAALZEBUB'S BANQUET 297

' No ! no Dutch courage ! ' and Frank was gone. He liad a
word to say to Grace Harvey, and it must be said at once.

He turned down the silent Ktreet, and turned up o\ei- stone
stairs, through quaint stone galleries and l.)alconies such as are
often huddled together on the elitl' sides in tisjiing towns ; into
a stitling cottage, the door of which liad been set wide open, in
the vain hope of fresh air. A woman met liini, and clasped
both his hands, with tears of joy.

'They're mending, sir ! They'ie mending, else I'd have sent
to tell you. I never looked for you so late.'

Tliere was a gentle ^-oice in tlie next room. It was Grace's.

'Ah, she's praying by thcni now. Slie'm giving them all
their medicines all along ' \\ hatex er I should have done with-
out her ! — and in and out all day long, too ; till one fancies at
whiles tlie Lord mu.st have changed her into five or six at once,
to be everywhere to the same minute.'

Frank went in, and listened to hei- leaver. Her face was as
pale and calm as the pale, calm faces of the two worn-out babes,
whose heads lay on tlie pillow close to hers : but her eyes were
lit up with an intense glory, which seemed to fill the room with
lo^e and light.

Frank listened : but would net break the spell.

At last she rose, looked round and blushed.

'I beg your pardon, sir, for taking the liberty. If T had
known that you were about, I would have sent: but hearing
that you were gone home, I thought you would not be ofi'ended,
if I gave thanks for them myself. They are my own, sir, as it
were '

'() Miss Har\ey, do not talk so! While you can pi'ay as
you were praying then, he who would silence you might be
silencing unawares the Lord him.self !'

She made no answer, though the change in Frank's tone
moved her ; and when he told Jier his errand, that thought also
passed from her mind.

At last, 'Happy, happy man ! ' she said calmly ; and putting
on her bonnet, followed Frank out of the house.

'Miss Harvey,' said Frank, as they hurried up the street, 'I
must say one Mord to you, before we take that sacrament
together.'

'Sir?'

' It is well to confess all sins before the Eucharist, and I
will confess mine. I have been unjust to you. I know that you
hate to be praised ; so I will not tell you what has altered my
opinion. But heaven forbid tliat I should ever do so base a
thing as to take the school away from one who is far more fit
to rule in it than ever I shall be ! '

Grace burst into tears.

'Thank God! And I thank you, sir! Oii, there's never a
storm but what some gleam breaks through it ! And now, sir,

2SS TWO YEAKS AGO chap.

I would not have told you it Ijefuie, lest you should fancy tliat
I changed for the sake of gain — though, perhaps, that is pride,
as too much else has been. But you will never hear of me inside
either of those chapels again.'

' What has altered your opinion of tliem, then t '

' It would take long to tell, ,sir : liut what hap))pned this
morning filled the cup. I begin to think, sir, that their God
and mine are not the same. Though why should I judge them,
who worshipped that otlier ( lod myself till no such long time
since ; and never knew, poor fool, that the Lord's name was
Love ? '

'I have found out tiiat, too, in these last days. Mdii- .shame
to me than to you that I did not know it before.'

'Well for us both that we do know it now, sir. For if we
believed Him now, sir, to be au.^lit but perfect love, how could
we look round here to-night, and not go mad V

' Amen ! ' said Frank.

And how had the pestilence, of all things on eartli, re\ealed
to those two noble souls that God is Love ?

Let the reader, if he have supplied Campbell s sermon, answer
tlie question for himself.

They went in, and upstairs to AVillis.

Grace bent o\'er the old man tenderly, but witli no sign of
sorrow. Dry-eyed, she kissed the old man's foreliead : arranged
his bed-clothes, woman-like, before she knelt down ; and then
the three received the sacrament together.

'Don't turn me out,' whispered Tom. 'It's im ccncein of
mine, of course : but you are all good creatures, and sonjehow,
I should like to be with you.

So Tom stayed ; and what thouulits passed through Jiis lieart
are no concern of ours.

Frank put the cup to the old man's lips ; the lips closed,
sipped, — then opened . the jaw Jiad fallen.

'Gone,' said Grace quietly.

Frank paused, awe-struek.

'Go on, sir,' said she, in a low voice. 'He hears it all more
clearly than he ever did before.' And by the dead man's side,
Frank finished tlie Communion Service.

Grace rose when it was over, kissed the calm forehead, and
went out without a word.

' Tom,' said IVank, in a whisper, ' come into the next room
with me.'

Tom hardly heard the tone in which the words were spoken,
or he would perhaps have answered otherwise than he did.

' My father takes the Communion,' said he, half to himself.
' At least, it is a beautiful old '

Howsoever the sentence would have been finished, Tom
stopped short —

' Hey ? — AVhat does that mean ? '

xvm THK BLAfiK HOUND 299

' At last ? ' gasped Frank, gently enough. ' Excuse me ! ' He
was bowed almost double, crushing Thurnall's arm in tlie tierce
grip of pain.

'Pish! — Hang it! — Impossible — There, you are all right
now ! '

' For the time. I can undeistand many things now. Curious
sensation it is, though. Can you concei\ e a swurd put in on one
side of the waist, just above tlie hip-bone, and drawn through,
handle and all, till it passes out at the opposite point ? '

' I have felt it twice ; and therefore you will be pleased to
hold your tongue and go to bed. HaA'e you had any warn-
ings ? '

'Yes — no — that is — this morning ; but I forgot. Never
mind ! What matter a hundred years hence ? There it is
again ! God help me I '

' Humph ! ' growled Thurnall to himself. ' I'd sooner have
lost a dozen of these herring-hogs, whom nobody misses, and
who are well out of their life-scrape ; but the parson, just as he
was making a man ! '

There is no use in complaints. In Jialf an hour Frank is
screaming like a woman, thougli lie has bitten his tongue half
through to stop his screams.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE BLACK HOUND

Pah ! Let us escape anywhei'e for a breath of fresh air, for
e\en the scent of a clean tui'f. ^\'e have been watching saints
and martyrs — perhaps not long enough for the good of our souls,
but surely too long for the comfort of our bodies. Let us away
up the valley, where we shall find, if not indeed a fresh health-
ful breeze (for the di-ought lasts on), at least a cool refreshing
down-draught from Carcarrow Moor before the sun gets up. It
is just half-]3ast four o'clock, on a glorious August morning. We
shall have three houis at least before the heavens become one
great Dutch-oven again.

We shall have good company, too, in our walk ; for here
comes Campbell fresh from his morning's swim, swinging up the
silent street toward Frank Headley's lodging.

He stops, and tosses a pebble against the window-pane. In
a minute or two Thurnall opens the street door and slips out to
him.

'Ah, major ! Overslept myself at last ; that sofa is wonder-
fully comfortable. No time to go down and bathe. I'll get my
header somewhere up the stream.'

' How is he r

' He ? sleeping like a babe, and getting well as fast as his

300 TWO YEARS AfiO chap

soul will allow liis body. He lias something on liia mind.
Nothing to be ashamed of, though, I will warrant ; for a purer,
nobler fellow I nevei' met.'

' When can we move him t

' Oh, to-morrow, if lie will agree. You may all d('i)ait .-md
leave me and the go\prnnipnt man to make out the ri'tiirns of
killed and wounded. We shall have no more cIjcjIim-.-i. Eight
days without a new case. We shall do now. I'm glad you are
coming up with us.'

'I will just see the hounds throw off, and then go back and
get Headley's breakfast.'

' Xo, no ! you mustn't, sir ; you want a days play.

'Not half as much as you. And I am in no hunting mood
ju.st now. Do you take your fill of the woods and the stre:i,ms,
and let me .see our patient. I suppose you will be back V)y
noon 1 '

' Certainly.' And the two swing up the street, and out of
the town, along the vale toward Trebooze.

For Trebooze, of Trebooze, has invited tlieni, and Lord Scout-
bush, and certain others, to come out otter-hunting ; and otter-
hunting they will go.

Trebooze lias Ijecu sorely exercised, during the last fortnight,
between tViii' of the cholera and desire of calling upon Loid
Scoutbush— ' as I ought to do, of course, as one of the gentry
round ; he's a Whig, of course, and no more to me tlian anybody
else ; but one don't like to let politics interfere ; ' by which
Trebooze glosses over to himself and friends the deep tiunkey-
dom with wliich he lusteth after a live lord's acquaintance, and
one especially in whom lie hoijes to find e\ en such a one as liim-
self. . . '(!ooil fellow, I hear he is, too — good sportsman,
smokes like a chimney,' and so forth.

80 at last, when the cholera has all but disappeared, he comes
down t(] Penalva, and inti'oduces himself, half swaggering, half
servile; begins by a string of apologies for not having called
before — ' ]\Irs. Trebooze so afraid of infection, you see, my lord,'
— which is a lie : then blunders out a few fulsome compliments
to Scoutbush's courage in staying ; then takes heart at a little
joke of Scoutbush's, and tries the free and easy style ; lingers
his lordship's high-priced Hudsons, and gives a broad hint that
he would like to smoke one on the spot ; which hint is not taken,
any more than the bet of a 'pony' which he oticrs li-\e minutes
afterwards, that he will jump his Irish mare in and out of
Aberalva pound; is vitterly 'thrown on his haunches' (as he
informs his friend Mr. C'l'eed afterwards) by Scoutbush's praise
of Tom Thurnall, as an 'invaluable man, a treasure in such an
out-of-the-way place, and really better company than ninety-
nine men out of a hundred : ' lecovers himself again when Scout-
bush asks after Ids otter-hounds, of which he has lieard much
praise from Tardrew ; and launches out once more into sporting

xviir THE BLACK HOUND 301

conversation of tliat graceful and lofty stamp whicli may be
perused and perpended in tiie pages of llamJIiij t'/os.s, and j\lr.
Sponge's Si'iirtinii Tour, liooks painfully true to that uglier and
baser side of sporting life wjiich their clever author has chosen
so wilfully to portray.

So, at least, said Scoutbush to himself, when his visitor had
departed.

'He's just like a page out of Sponge's Taiir, though he's not
half as good a fallow as Sponge himself; for Sjiouge knew he
was a snob, and lived up to his calling honestly : but this fellow
wants all the while to play at being a gentleman ; and — LTgh !
how tlie fellow smelt of brandy, and worse ! His hand, too,
shook as if he had the palsy, and he chattered and fidgeted
like a man with St. Vitus' dance.'

' Did he, my lord ? ' quoth Tom Thurnall, when he heard the
same, in a very meaning tone.

And Trebooze, 'for his part, couldn't make out that lord —
uncommonly agrrealile, and easy, and all that : but shoves a
fellow otf, and sets him down somehow, and in such a ci\'il

way, that you don't know wliere to have him.'

However, Trebooze departed in high spirits ; for Lord Scout-
bush has deigned to say that he will be delighted to see the
otter-hounds work any morning that Trebooze likes, and any-
how — no time too early for him. ' He will bring his friend
Major Campbell?'

' By all means.'

'Expect two or tliree sporting gentlemen from the neigh-
bourhood, too. Regular good ones, my lord — though they are
county bucks — very much honoured to make your lordship's
acquaintance.'

Scoutbush expresses himself equally honoured by making
their acquaintance, in a tone of bland simplicity, which utterly
puzzles Trebooze, who goes a step further.

'Your lordsliip '11 honour us by taking pot luck afterwards.
Can't show you French cookery, you know, and your souiSeys
and glacys, and all that. Honest saddle o' mutton, and the
grounds of old port, ily father laid it down, and I take it up,
eh.V And Trebooze gave a wink and a nudge of his elbow,
meaning to be witty.

His lordship was exceedingly sorry ; it was the most unfor-
tunate accident : but he had the most particular engagement
that very afternoon, and must return early from the otter-hunt,
and probaljly sail the next day for Wales. ' But,' says the little
man, who knows all about Trebooze's household, ' I shall not
fail to do myself tlie honour of calling on Mrs. Trebooze, and
expressing my regret,' etc.

So to the otter-hunt is Scoutbush gone, and Campbell and
Thurnall after him ; for Trebooze has said to himself, ' Must ask
that blackguard of a doctor — hang him ! I wish he were an

302 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

litter himself ; but if lie's so thick with his lordship, it won't do
to quarrel.' For, indeed, Thurnall might tell tales. So Trebooze
swallows his spite and shame, — as do many folk who call them-
selves his betters, when they have to deal with a great man's
hanger-on, — and sends down a note to Tom :

' Mr. Trebooze requests the pleasure of Mr. Thurnall's com-
pany with his hounds at . . '

And Tom accepts — why not? and chats with Campbell, as
they go, on many things ; and among other things on this —

'By the by,' said he, 'I got an hour's shore- work yesterday
afternoon, and refreshiiij;' enough it -was. And I got a prize,
too. The sucking barnacle which you asked for : I was certain
I should get one or two, if I could have a look at the pools this
week. Jolly little dog ! he was paddling and spinning about
last night, and enjoying himself, "ere age with creeping" —
what is it? — "hath clawed him in his clutch." That fellow's
destiny is not a hopeful analogy for you, sir, who believe that
we shall rise after we die into srime higher and freer state.'

'Why not?'

' Why, which is better off, the free swimming lar\a, or the
perfect cirrhipod, rooted for evar motionless to the rock ? '

'Which is better off, the ro\ing young fellow who is sowing
his wild oats, or the man who has settled down, and become a
respectable landowner with a good house over his head] '

'And begun to propagate his species? Well, you have me
there, sir, as far as this life is concerned ; but you will confess
that the barnacle's history pro\es that all crawling grubs don't
turn into butterflies.'

' I dare say the barnacle turns into what is best for him ; at
all events, what he deser\es. That rule of yours will apply to
him, to whomsoever it will not.'

'And so does penance for- the sins of his youth, as some of us
are to do in the next world ? '

'Perhaps yes ; perhaps no ; perhaps neitlier.'

' Do you speak of us or the barnacle ? '

'Of both.'

' I am glad of that ; for on the popular notion of our being
punished a million years hence for what we did when we were
lads, I never could see anytjiing but a misery and injustice in
our ha^dng come into the world at all.'

'I can,' said the major quietly.

' Of course I meant nothing rude ; but I had to buy my
experience, and paid for it dearly enough in folly.'

' So had I to buy mine.'

' Then why be punished over and abo\e ? Why have to pay
for the folly, which was itself only the necessary price of
experience ? '

' For being, perhaps, so foolish as not to use the experience
after it has cost you so dear.'

xviii THE BLACK HOUND 303

' And will punishment cure nie of the foolislmess ? '

' That depends on yourself. If it does, it must needs be so
much the better for you. But perhaps you will not be punished,
but forgiven.'

'Let oft"? That would be a very bad thing for me, unless I
become a very different man from what I have been as yet. I
am always right glad now to get a fall whenever I make a
stumble. I should have gone to sleep in my tracks long ago
else, as one used to do in the backwoods on a long elk hunt.'

'Perhaps you may become a very different man.'

'I should be sorry for that, e\en if it were possible.'

' Why ? Do you consider yourself perfect 1 '

' No. . . But somehow, Thomas Thurnall is an old friend of
mine, the first I ever had ; and I should be sorry to lose his
company.'

' I don't think you need fear doing so. You have seen an
insect go through sti-ange metamorphoses, and yet remain tlie
same individual ; why should not you and I do so likewise?'

'Well?'

'Well — there are some points about you, I suppose, which
you would not be sorry to have altered t '

' A few,' quoth Tom, laughing. ' I do not consider myself
quite perfect yet.'

'What if those points were not really any part of your
character, but mere excrescences of disease ; or if that be too
degrading a notion, mere scars of old wounds, and of the wear
and tear of life ; and what if, in some future life, all those dis-
aijpeared, and the true ^Ir. Thomas Thurnall, pure and simple,
were alone left ? '

' It is a very hopeful notion. Only, my dear sir, one is quite
self-conceited enough in this imperfect state. What intolerable
coxcombs we should all be if we were perfect, and could sit
admiring ourselves for ever and ever ! '

' But what if that self-conceit and .self-dependence were the
very root of all the disease, the cause of all the scars, the very
thing which will have to be got rid of, before our true character
and true manhood can be developed ? '

' Yes, I understand. Faith and humility. . . . You will for-
give me, Major Campbell. I shall learn to respect those virtues
when good people have defined them a little more exactly, and
can show me somewhat more clearly in what faith differs from
superstition, and humility from hypocrisy.'

' I do not think any man will ever define them for you. But
you may go through a course of experiences, more severe, prob-
ably, than pleasant, which may enable you at last to define
them for yourself.'

' Have you defined them ? ' asked Tom bluntly, glancing round
at his companion.

' Faith ?— Yes, I trust. Humility ?— No, I fear.'

304 TWO YEARS AOO rnw

' I should like to hear your definition of the formor', at least,'

'Did I not say that you must discover it for yourself r

' Ves. Well. When the lesson comes, if it does come, I sup-
pose it will come in some learnable sliape ; and till then, I must
shift for myself — and if self-dependence be a. ])unishable sin, I
shall, at all events, have plenty of company wjiitiiersoever I go.
There is Lord Si-ontbush and Tiebooze ! '

Why did not Campbell speak his mind moii' clearly to
Tliurnall '

Because lie knew that witii such men words are of little a\ ail.
Tliedisea.se was entienched too strongly in tlie \ eiy centre of
the man's being. It seemed at muments as if all his sti-ange
adventures and hair-breadth escajies had been sent to do him
harm and not good ; to pamper and harden his self-confidence,
not to crush it. Therefore Campbell seldom ai ,c;ued with him ;
but he prayed for him often ; for he had begun, as all did who
saw much of Tom Tliurnall, to admire and respect him, in spite
of all his faults.

And now, turning througli a woodland path, they descend
toward the river, till they can hear voices below tiiein ; Scout-
bush laughing quietly, Trebooze laying down the law at the top
of his voice.

' How noisy the fellow is, and how he is hopping about ! ' says
Cainpl lell.

'X(j wonder ; he has been soaking, I hear, for the last fort-
night, ^\■ith some worthy comiieers, by way of keeping off
cholera. I must have my eye on him to-day.'

Scrambling down througii the brushwood, they found them-
selves in such a scene as Creswick alone knows how to paint ;
though one element of licauty, whicli Creswick uses full well,
was wanting ; and the whole place was seen, not by slant sun-
rays gleaming through the boughs, and dappling all the pebbles
with a lacework of leaf sliadows, but in the uniform and .sf.ljer
gray of dawn.

A broad bed of shingle, looking ju^t now more like an ill-
made turnpike road than the bed of Alva stream ; above it,
a long shallow pool, which showed every stone through the
transparent water ; on the right, a craggy bank, bedded with
deep wood sedge and orange-tip)ied king ferns, clustering
beneath sallow and maple bushes alread\' tinged with gold ; on
the left, a long bar i>f gravel, covered with giant 'Vjutterbur'
leaves ; in and out of whicli the hounds are brushing — beautiful
black-and-taii dogs, of which poor Trebooze may be pardonably
proud ; while round the burleaf-bed dances a rough white Irish
terrier, seeming, by his frantic self-importance, to consider him-
self the master of the hrmnds.

Scoutbush is standing with Trebooze beyond the bar, upon
a little lawn set thick witli alders. Trebjoze is fussing and
fidgetting about, wiping his forehead perpetually ; telling evevy-

Kviii THE BLACK HOUND 305

body to get out of the way, and not to interfere ; then catching
hold of Scoutbush's button to chatter in his face ; then starting
aside to put some part of his dress to rights. His usual lazy
drawl is exchanged for foolish excitement. Two or three more
gentlemen, tired of Trebooze's absurdities, are scrambling over
tlie rocks above in search of spraints. Old Tardrew waddles
stooping along the line whei'e grass and shingle meet, his bull-
dog visage bent to his very knees.

' Tardrew out hunting 1 ' says Campbell. ' Why, it is but a
week since his daughter was buried ! '

' And why not ? I like him better for it. Would he bring
her back again by throwing away a good day's sport ? Better
turn out, as he has done, and forget his feelings, if he has
any.'

' He has feelings enough, don't doubt. But you are right.
There is something very characteristic in the way in wliieh the
English countryman never shows grief, never lets it interfere
with business, even with pleasure.'

' Hillo ! Mr. Trebooze ! ' says the old fellow, looking up.
'Here it is!'

'Spraint? Spraint? Spraint? Where? Eh— what?' cries
Trebooze.

' No ; but what's as good : here on this alder stump, not an
hour old. I thought they beauties' starns weren't flemishing for
nowt.'

' Here ! here ! here ! here ! Musical, Musical ! Sweetlips 1
Get out of the way ! ' and Trebooze runs down.

Musical examines, throws her nose into the air, and answers
by the rich bell-like note of the true otter-hound ; and all the
woodlands ring as tlie pack dashes down the shingle to her
call.

'Over ! ' shouts Tom. ' Here's the fresh spraint our side ! '

Through the water splash squire, viscount, steward, and
hounds, to the horror of a slioal of par, the only visible tenants
of a pool which, after a shower of rain, would be alive with
trout. Where those trout are in the meanwhile is a mystery
yet unsolved.

Over dances the little terrier, yapping furiously, and expend-
ing his superfluous energy by snapping right and left at the
par.

' Hark to Musical ! hark to Sweetlips ! Down the stream ?
No ! the old girl has it ; right up the bank ! '

' How do, doctor ? How do. Major Campbell ? Forward !
Forward ! Forward ! ' shouts Trebooze, glad to escape a longer
parley, as with his spear in his left hand, he clutches at the
overhanging boughs with his right, and swings himself up,
with Peter, the huntsman, after him. Tom follows him ; and
why?

Because he does not like his looks. That bull-eye is red,

X T. Y. A.

306 TWO YEARS AGO ohap.

and almost bursting ; liis cheeks are flushed, liis lips blue, his
hand shakes ; and Tom's quick eye has already remarked, rrom
a distance, over and above his new fussiness, a sudden shudder,
a quick, half-frightened glance behind him ; and perceived, too,
that the moment Musical gave tongue, he put the spirit-flask to
his mouth.

Away go the hounds at score through tangled cover, tlieir
merry peal ringing from lirake and briar, clashing against the
rocks, moaning musically auiiy through distant glens aloft.

Scoutbush and Tardrew "take down ' the rivei-bed, followed
by Campbell. It is in liis way home ; and though the major
has stuck many a pig, shot many a gaur, rliinoceros, and
elephant, he disdains not, like a true sportsman, the less dan-
gerous but more scientific excitement of an otter-hunt.

' Hark to the merry merry C'liri-stchurch bells ! She s up by
this time ; that don't sound like a drag now ! ' cries Tom, Vjurst-
ing desperately, with elbow-guarded visage, through the tangled
scrub. ' What's the matter, Trebooze ? Xo, thanks ! " ilodest
quenchers " won't improve the wind just now.'

For Trebooze has halted, panting and bathed in perspiration ;
has been at the brandy flask again ; and now ofters Tom a
' quencher,' as he calls it.

'As you like,' says Trebooze sulkily, having meant it as a
token of reconciliation, and pushes on.

They are now upon a little open meadow, girdled by green
walls of wood ; and along the river-bank the' hounds ai-e fairly
racing. Tom and Peter hold on ; Trebooze slackens.
Your master don't look right this morning, Peter.'
Peter lifts his hand to his mouth, to signify the habit of
drinking ; and then shakes it in a melancholy fashion, to signify
that the said habit has reached a lamentable and desperate
point.

Tom looks back. Trebooze has pullerl up, and is walking,
wiping still at his face. The hounds have overrun the scent,
and are back again, flemishing about the plashed fence on tlie
river brink.

' Over ! over ! over ! ' shouts Peter, tumbling over the fence
into the stream, and staggering across.

Trebooze comes up to it, tries to scramble over, mutters
something, and sits down astride of a bough.
' You are not well, squire ? '

' Well as ever I was in my life. Only a little sick — have been
several times lately ; couldn't sleep either — haven't slept an
hour this week. Don't know what it is.'

'What ducks of hounds the.^e are !' says Tom. trying, for
ulterior purposes, to ingratiate himself. ' How they are work-
ing there all by themselves, like so many human beings.

Perfect '. '

' Yes — don't want us — may as well sit here a minute. A wfnll v

xvin THE BLACK HOUND 307

hot, eh ? Wliat a splendid creature that Aliss St. Just is ! I say,
Peter ! '

' Yes, sir,' shouts Peter, from the other side.

' Those hounds ain't right ! ' with an oath.

'Not right, sir?'

' Didn't I tell you ? — five couple and a half — no, five couple —
no, six. Hang it ! I c;in t see, I think ! How many hounds did
I tell you to bring out ? '

' Five couple, sir.'

' Then . . . why did you bring out that other 1 '

' Which other ? ' shouts Peter, while Thurnall eyes Trebooze
keenly.

' Wliy, that ! He's none, o' mine ! Nasty black cur, how did
he get here ? '

' Where? There's never no cur here ! '

' You lie, you oaf — no— why — doctor — How many hounds are
there liere ? '

'I can't see,' says Tom, 'among those bushes.'

' Can't see, eh 1 Why don't those brutes hit it off? ' says
Trebooze, drawling, as if he had forgotten the matter, and
lounging over the fence, drops into the stream, followed by Tom,
and wades across.

Tlie hounds are all round liim, and he is couraging them on,
fussing again more than ever ; but without success.

' Gone to hole somewliere here,' says Peter.

' . . ! ' cries Trebooze, looking round, with a sudden shudder,
and face of terror. ' There's that black brute again ! there,
behind me ! Hang it, he'll bite me next ! ' and he caught up
his leg, and struck behind him with liis .^pear.

There was no dog tiiei(!.

Peter was about to speak, but Tom silenced him by a look,
and sliouted —

' Here we are ! Gone to holt in this alder root ! '

'Now then, little C'.trlingford ! Out of tlie way, puppies!'
cries Trebooze, righted again for the moment by the excitement,
and thrusting the hounds right and left, lie stoops down to put
in the little terrier.

Suddenly he springs up, with something like a scream, and
tlien bursts out on Peter with a \olley of oaths.

' Didn't I tell you to drive that cur away 1 '

'Which cur, sir?' cries Peter, trembling, and utterly con-
founded.

'That cur ! . . Can't I belie\ <• my own eyes 1 Will you tell
me that the beggar didn't bolt between my legs this moment,
and went into the hole Ijefore the terrier?'

Neither answered. Peter from uttei- astonishment ; Tom
because he saw what was the matter.

' Don't stoop, squire. You'll make the blood fly to your head.
Let me — — '

308 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

But Trebooze thrust liim back with curses.

' I'll have the brute out, and .send the spear through him ! '
and flinging himself on his knees again, Trebooze began tearing
madly at the roots and stones, shouting to the lialf-buriecl
terrier to tear the intruder.

Peter looked at Tom, and then wrung his liands in despair.

' Dirty work — Ijeastly work ! ' muttered Trebooze. ' Nothing
but slugs and evats ! Toads, too, — hang the toads ! What a
plague brings all tliis ^ ermin ? Curse it ! ' shrieked he, spring-
ing back, 'there's :in adder ! and he's gone up my sleeve ! Help
me ! doctor ! Tluirnall ! or I'm a dead man ! '

Tom caught the arm, thrust his hand up the sleeve, and
seemed to snatch out the snake, and hurl it back into the
river.

' All right now ! — a near chance, though ! '

Peter stood open mouthed.

' I ne\"er saw no snake ! ' cried he.

Tom caught him a bufl'et which sent him reeling. ' Look
after your hounds, you blind ass ! How are you now, Trebooze 1 '
And he caught the squire round tlie waist, for he was
reeling.

' The world ! The world upside down ! rocking and swing-
ing ! Who's put me feet upwards, like a fly on a ceiling ? I'm
falling, falling ott" into the clouds — into hell-tire — hold me !
Toads and adders ! and wasps — to go to holt in a wa.sji's nest !
Drive 'em away, — get me a green bougli ! I shall be stung to
death ! '

And tearing off a green bough, the wretched man rushed into
the river, beating wildl.y right and left at his fancied tormentors.

'What is it?' cry Campbell and Scoutbush, who have run
up breathless.

' Delirium tremens. Campbell, get home as fast as you can,
and send me up a bottle of morphine. Peter, take the hounds
home. I must go after him.'

'I'll go home with Campbell, and send the bottle up by a
man and horse,' cries Scoutbush ; and away the two trot at a
gallant pace, for a cross-country run home.

'Mr. Tardrew, come with me, there's a good man ! I shall
want help.'

Tardrew made no reply, but dashed through the river at his
heels.

Trebooze had already climbed the plashed fence, and was
running wildly across the meadow. Tom dragged Tardrew up
it after him.

' Thank 'ee, sir,' but nothing more. The two had not met
since the cholera.

Trebooze fell, and lay rolling, trying in vain to shield his face
from the phantom wasps.

They lifted him up, and spoke gently to him.

XVIII THE BLACK HOUND 309

'Better get home to Mrs, Tri'booze, sir,' said Tardrew, with
as much tenderness as liis gruff voice could convey,

'Yes, home! home to ^lolly ! ^[y Molly's always kind. 8lie
won't let me be eaten up ali\-e, Molly, Molly ! '

And shrieking for his wife, the wretched man started to run
again,

' !Molly, I'm in hell ! Only help me ! you're always right !
only forgive me ! and I'll ne\'er, never again '

And then came out hideous confessions ; then fresh hideous
delusions.

Three weary up-hill miles lay between tliem and the house :
but home they got at last.

Trebooze dashed at the house-door, tore it open ; slammed
and bolted it behind him, to shut tmt the pursuing fiends.

'Quick, round by the back-door!' said Tom, who had not
opposed him for fear of making him furious, but dreaded some
tragedy if he were left alone.

But his fear was needless. Trebooze looked into the break-
fast-room. It was empty ; she was not out of bed yet. He
rushed upstairs into her bedroom, shrieking hei' name ; she
leaped up to meet him ; and the poor wretch buried his head in
that faithful bosom, screaming to her to save him from lie knew
not what.

She put her arms round him, soothed him, wept over him
sacred tears. ' My William ! my own "William ! Yes I will
take care of you ! Nothing shall hurt you, — my own, own ! '

\'ain, drunken, brutal, unfaithful. Yes : but her husband
still.

There was a knock at the door.

'Who is that?' she cried, with her usual fierceness, terrified
for his character, not terrified for herself.

' ;\lr, Thurnall, madam. Have you any laudanum in the
house ? '

' Yes, here ! Oh, come in I Thank God you are come I What
is to be done ? '

Tom looked for the laudanum bottle, and poured out a heavy
dose.

'■ilake him take that, madam, and jiut him to bed. I will
wait downstairs awhile ! '

'Thurnall, Thurnall!' calls Trebooze: 'don't leave me, old
fellow ! you are a good fellow. I say, forgive and forget. Don't
leave me ! Only don't leave me, for the room is as full of devils
as '

'An hour after, Tom and Tardrew were walking home to-
gether.

' He is quite quiet now, and fast asleep.'
' Will he mend, sir ? ' asks Tardrew.

310 TWO VEARS AOO cBak

' Of course he will : and perhaps in more ways than one.
Best thing that could have happened — will Ijiiiig him to his
senses, and he'll start fresli.'

'We'll hope so, — he's lii'cn mad, I think, e\fr since he heard
of that cholera.'

'So have otlicrs : but not with brandy,' thought Tom: but
he said nothing.

'I say, sir,' quoth Taidiew after :i while, 'how's Parsnii
Headley?'

'Getting well, I'm haj^py to say.'

'Glad to hear it, sir. He's n good m;in, after all ; though we
did have our differences. But he's a good man, and worked like
one.'

'He did.'

Silence again.

' Xever heard such beautiful prayt-r.s in all njy lifi', as he
made over mj- poor maid.'

'I don't doubt it,' said Tom. 'He understands his business
at heart, though he may have his fancies.'

'j\.nd so do some others,' said Tardrew in a gruff tone, as if
half to himself, 'who ha\'e no fancie.s. . . Tell you what it is,
sir : you was riglit this time ; and that's plaiji truth. I'm sorry
to hear talk of your going.'

'My good sir,' quotli Tom, 'I shall })e yt-ry sorry to tfo. I
have found place and people here as pleasant as ujan could v.ish:
but go I must.'

' Glad you're satisfied, sir ; wish you was going to stay,' says
Tardrew. 'Seen Miss Harvey this last day or two, sir ?'

' Ves. You know she's to keep her school ?'

' I know it. Nursed my girl like an angel.'

' Like what she is,' said Tom.

' You said one true \xord once : that she was too good for us.'

' For this world,' said Tom ; and fell into a great musing.

By those curt and surly utterances did Tardrew, in true
British bulldoe fashion, express a repentance too deep for
words; too deep for all confessionals, penances, and emotions
or acts of contrition ; the repentance not of the excitable and
theatric southern, unstable as water, c\ eu in his most violent
remorse : but of the still, deep-hearted northern, whose pride
breaks slowly and silently, but breaks once for all ; who tells to
God what he will never tell to man ; and having told it, is a
new creature from that day forth for e\er.

XIX BEDDGELERT 311

CHAPTEE XIX

BEDDGELERT

The pleasant summer voyage is over. The Waterwitch is
lounging off Port Madoc, waiting for her crew. The said crew
are busy on shore drinking the ladies' liealths, with a couple of
sovereigns which Valentia has given them, in her sister's name
and her own. The ladies, under the care of Elsley, and the far
more practical care of ilr. Bowie, are rattling along among
children, maids, and boxes, over the sandy flats of the Traeth
Mawr, beside the long reaches of the lazy stream, with the blue
surges of the hills in front, and the silver sea behind. Soon
they begin to pass wooded knolls, islets of rock in the alluvial
plain. The higher peaks of Snowdon sink down behind the
lower spurs in front ; the plain nariows ; closes in, walled round
with woodlands clinging to the steep hillsides ; and, at last,
they enter the narrow gorge of Pont- Aberglaslyn — pretty
enough, no doubt, but much over - praised ; for there are in
Devon alone a dozen passes far grander, both for form and size.

Soon they emerge again on flat meadows, mountain-cradled ;
and the grave of the mythic greyhound, and the fair old church,
shrouded in tall trees ; and last, but not least, at the famous
Leek Hotel, where ruleth Mrs. Lewis, great and wise, over the
four months' Babylon of guides, cars, chambermaids, tourists,
artists, and reading -parties, camp-stools, telescopes, poetry-
books, blue uglies, red petticoats, and parasols of every hue.

There they settle down in the best rooms in the house, and
all goes as merrily as it can, wliile the horrors which they have
left behind them hang, like a black background, to all their
thoughts. However, both Scoutljush and Campbell send as
cheerful reports as they honestly can ; and gradually the ex-
ceeding beauty of the scenery, and the amusing bustle of the
village, make them forget, perhaps, a good deal which they
ought to have remembered.

As for poor Lucia, no one will comjilain of her for being
happy ; for feeling that she has got a holiday, the first for now
four years, and trying to enjcjy it to the utiuost. Slie lias no
household cares. -Mr. Bow ie manages everything, and does so,
in order to keep up the honour of the family, on a somewhat
magnificent scale. The children, in that bracing air, are better
than she has ever seen them. She has Valentia all to herself ;
and Elsley, in spite of the dark fancies over which he has been
brooding, is better behaved, on the whole, than usual.

He has escaped — so he considers — escaped from Campbell,
above all from Thurnall. From himself, indeed, he has not
escaped ; but the company of self is, on the whole, more pleasant

312 TWO YEARS Ar;0 chap.

to liim than otherwise just now. For though l)e may turn up
his nose at tourists and reading-parties, and long for contem-
plative solitude, yet there is a certain pleasure to some people,
and often strongest in those who pretend most shyness, in tlie
'digito monstrari, et dicier, hie est : ' in taking for granted that
everybody has read his poems : that everybody is saying in their
hearts, 'There goes Mr. A'avasour, the distinguished poet. I
wonder what he is writing now ! I wonder \\here he has been
to-day, and what he has been thinking of.'

So Elsley went up Hebog, and looked over the glorious vista
of the vale, over the twin lakes, and the rich sheets of wood-
land, with Aran and iloel Meirch guarding them right and left,
and the graystone glaciers of the Glyder walling up the valley
miles above. iVnd they went up Snowdon, too, and saw little
beside tifty fog-blinded tourists, live -and -twenty dripping
ponies, and iive hundred empty porter bottles ; wherefrom they
returned, as do many, disgusted, and with great colds in their
heads. But most they loved to scramble up tlic crags of Dinas
Emrys, and muse over the ruins of the old tower, ' where Jlerlin
taught ^'ortigern the courses of the stars ; ' till the stars set and
rose as they had done for ^Merlin and his pupil, behind the four
great peaks of Aran, Siabod, C'nicht, and Hebog, which point
to the four quarters of the hea\ ens : or to lie by the side of the
boggy spring, which once was the magic well of the magic
castle, till they saw in fancy the white dragon and the red rise
from its depths once more, and fight high in the air the battle
which foretold the fall of the Cymry before the Sassenach
invader.

One thing, indeed, troufjled Elsley, — that Claude was his
only companion ; for Yalentia avoided carefully any more
tde-a-tete walks with him. She had found out her mistake,
and devoted herself now to Lucia. She had a fair excuse
enough, for Lucia was not just then in a state for rambles and
scrambles ; and of that Elsley certainly had no right to com-
plain ; so that he was forced to leave them both at home, with
as good grace as he could muster, and to wander by himself,
scribbling his fancies, while they lounged and worked in the
pleasant garden of the hotel, with Bowie fetching and carrying
for them all day long, and intimating pretty roundly to ^liss
Clara his 'opeeenion,' that he 'was very proud and thankful
of the oiEce : but he did think that he had to do a great many
things for !Mrs. Yavasour every day which would come with
a much better grace from Mr. Vavasour himself ; and that,
when he married, he should not leave his wife to be nursed
by other men.'

Which last words were spoken with an ulterior object, well
understood by the hearer ; for between Clara and Bowie there
was one of those patient and honourable attachments so common
between worthy servants. They had both ' kept company,

xix BEDDGELERT 313

though only by letter, for the most part, for now five years ;
they had both saved a fair sum of money ; and Clara might
have married Bowie when she chose, had she not thought it her
duty to take care of her mistress ; while Bowie considered him-
self equally indispensable to the welfare of that 'puir feckless
laddie,' his master.

So they waited patiently, amusing the time by little squabbles
of jealousy, real or pretended ; and Bowie was faithful, though
Ulara was past thirty now, and losing her good looks.

' So yell see your lassie, Mr. Bowie ! ' said Sergeant Mac
Artliur, his intimate, when he started for Aberalva that summer.
' I'm thinking ye'd better put her out of her pain soon. FIa e
years is ower lang courting, and she's na pullet by now, saving
your pardon.'

' Hoooo ,' says Bowie ; ' leave the green gooseberries to

the lads, and gi' me the lipe fruit, sergeant.'

However, he found love-making in his own fashion so
pleasant that, not content with carrying Mrs. Vavasour's
babies about all day long, he had several times to be gently
turned out of the nursery, where he wanted to assist in wash-
ing and dressing them, on the ground that an old soldier could
turn his hand to anything.

So slipped away a fortnight and more, during wliicli Valentia
was the cynosure of all eyes, and knew it also : for Claude Mellot,
half to amuse her, and half to tease Elsley, made her laugh many
a time by retailing little sayings and doings in her praise and
dispraise, picked up from rich Manchester gentlemen, who
would fain have married her without a penny, and from strong-
minded Manchester ladies, who envied her beauty a little, and
set her down, of course, as an empty-minded worldling, and a
proud aristocrat. The majority of tlie reading-parties, mean-
while, thought a great deal more about Valentia than about
their books. The Oxford men, it seemed, though of the same
mind as the Cambridge men in considering her the model of all
perfection, were divided as to their method of testifying the
same. Two or three of them, who were given to that simpering
and flirting tone with young ladies to which Oxford would-be-
fine gentlemen are so pitiably prone, hung about the inn-door
to ogle her ; contrived always to be walking in the garden
when she was there, dressed out as if for High Street at four
o'clock on a May afternoon ; tormented Claude by fruitless
attempts to get from him an introduction, which he had neither
the right nor the mind to give ; and at last (so Bowie told
Claude one night, and Claude told the whole party next
morning) tried to bribe and flatter Valentia's maid into giving
them a bit of ribbon, or a cast-oflf glove, which had belonged to
the idol. Whereon that maiden, in virtuous indignation, told
Mr. Bowie, and complained moreover (as maids are bound to do
to valets for whom they have a penchant) of their having

314 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

dared to compliment her on her own good looks : by which act
succeeded, of course, in making Jlr. Bowie understand that
other people still thought her pretty, if he did not ; and also in
arousing in him that jealousy wjiich is often the best helpmate
of sweet love. So Mr. Bowie went fortli in his might that very
evening, and finding two of the Oxford men, informed them in
plain Scotch, that, 'Gin he cauglit them, or any ither such
skellums, pliilandering after his leddies, o^ his leddies' maids,
he'd jist knock their empty ]jows togither.' To which there was
no reply but silence ; for Mr. Bowie stood six feet four without
his shoes, and had but the week before performed, for the
edification of the Cambridge men, who held him in high honour,
a few old Guards' feats : such as cutting in two at one sword-
blow a suspended shoukler of mutton, lifting a long table by his
teeth, squeezing a quart pewter pot flat between Ms fingers,
and othe:- little recreations of those who are 'born unto
Kapha.'

But the Cantabs, and a couple of gallant Oxford boating men
who had fraternised with them, testified their admiration in
their simple honest way, Ijy putting down their pipes whenevei-
they saw ^VJentia coming, and just lifting their hats when the.y
met her close. It was taking a liberty, no doubt. ' But I tell
you, Mellot,' said Wynd, as brave and pure-minded a fellow as
ever pulled in the Uni-\ersit j' eight, ' the Arabs, when they see
such a cieature, say, " Praise Allah for beautiful women,"
and quite right ; the.y may remind some fellows of worse things,
but they always remind me of heaven and the angels ; and my
hat goes off to her by instinct, just as it does when I go into a
church.'

That was all ; simple chivalrous admiration, and delight in
lier loveliness, as in that of a lake, or a mountain sunset ; but
nothing more. Tlie good fellows had no time, indeed, to fancy
themselves in love with her, or her witli them, for every day
was too short for them ; what with reading all the morning,
and starting out in the afternoon in strange garments (which
became shabbier and more ragged very rapidly as the weeks
slipped on) upon all manner of desperate errands ; walking
unheard-of distances, and losing their way upon the mountains;
scrambling cliffs, and now and then falling down them ; camp-
ing all night by unpronounceable lakes, in the hope of catching
mythical trout ; trying in all ways how hungry, thirsty, dirty,
and tired a man could make himself, and how far he could go
without breaking his neck, any ajiproach to wliich catastrophe
was hailed (as were all other mishaps) as ' all in the day's work,'
and ' the finest fun in the world,' by that unconquerable English
' lebensgltickseligkeit,' which is a peipetual wonder to our sober
German cousins. Ah, glorious twenty-one, with your inex-
haustible powers of doing and enjoying, eating and hungering,
sleeping and sitting up, reading and playing ! Happy are those

XIX BEDDGELERT 315

who still possess you, and can take their fill of your golden cup,
steadied, but not saddened, by the remembrance, that for all
things a good and loving Clod will bring them into judgment.
Happier still those who (like a few) retain in body and soul the
health and buoyancy of twenty-one on to the \ery verge of
forty, and seeming to grow younger -hearted as they grow
older-headed, can cast off cai-e and work at a moment's warning,
laugh and frolic now as they did twenty years ago, and say witli
Wordsworth —

' So was it wlif 11 my life begun . . .

So be it when I shall grow old,

Or let me die ! '

Unfortunately, as will appear hereafter, Elsley's especial hetes
noirs were this very Wynd and his inseparable companion, Kay-
lor, who happened to be not only the best men of the set, but
Mellot's especial friends. Both were Rugby men, now reading
for their degree. AYynd was a Shropshire squire's son, a lissom
fair-haired man, the handiest of boxers, rowers, riders, shots,
fishermen, with a noisy superabundance of animal spirits, which
maddened Elsley. Yet Wynd had sentiment in his way, though
he took good care never to show it Elsley ; could repeat Tenny-
son from end to end ; spouted the 2fiirt d'Arthnr up hill and
down dale, and chanted rapturou.sly, ' Come into the garden,
Maud ! ' wliile lie expressed his ojiinion of Claud's lover in terms
more forcible than delicate. Kaylor, fidus Achates, was a
Gloucestershire parson's son, a huge heavy-looking man, with
a thick curling lip and a sleepy eye ; but he had brains enough
to become a firstrate classic ; and in that same sleepy eye and
heavy lip lay an infinity of quiet humour ; racy old country
stories, quaint scraps of out-of-the-way learning, jovial old
ballads, which he sang with the mellowest of voices, and a
slang vocabulary, which made him the dread of all bargees from
Newnham pool to Upware. Him also Elsley hated, because
Naylor looked always as if he was laughing at him, which
indeed he was.

And the worst was, that Elsley had always to face them both
at once. If Wynd vaulted over a gate into his very face, with a
' How d'ye do, ilr. Vavasour ? Had any verses this morning 1 '
in the same tone as if he had asked, ' Had any sport ? ' Naylor's
I'ound face was sure to look over the stone- wall, pipe in mouth,
with a ' Don't disturb the gentleman, Tom ; don't you see he's
a composing of his rhymes V in a strong provincial dialect put
on for the nonce. In fact, the two young rogues, ha\ing no
respect whatsoever for genius, perhaps because they had each
of them a little genius of their own, made a butt of the poet, as
soon as they found out that he was afraid of them.

But worse hetes nnirs than either Wynd or Naylor were on
their way to fill up the cup of Elsley's discomfort. And at
last, without a, note of warning, appeared in Beddgelert a

316 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

phenomenon which rejoiced some hearts, but perturbed also tlie
spirits not only of the Oxford ' philanderei-s,' but tliose of Elsley
Vavasour, and, wliat is more, of Valentia herself.

Slie was sitting one evening at the window witli Lucia,
looking out into the village and the pleasure-gioiiiids Ix-forp the
hotel. They were both laughing and chatting over tlie groups
of tourists in their pretty Irish way, just as tliey had dom- when
they were girls ; for Lucia's heait was expanding under the
quiet beauty of the place, the freedom from liousehuld care, and
what was more, from money anxieties ; for A'alentia had slipped
into her hand a cheque for fifty pfninds from Scoutbush, and
assured lier that lie would be quite angry if she spoke of paying
tlie rent of the rooms ; Elsley was mooning down the rivei- by
himself ; Claude was entertaining his Cambridge accjuaintances,
as he did e\ery niglit, with liis endless fun and sentiment.
(.Iradually the tourists slipped in one by one, as the last rays of
the sun faded off the peaks of Aian, and the mist settled down
upon the dark valley beneath, and darkness fell upon that rock-
girdled paradise ; when up to the door below there drove a ear,
at .sight whereof out rushed, not waiters only and landlady, but
]\Ir. Bowie himself, who helped out a \ery short figure in a pea-
jacket and a shining boating hat, and then a very tall one in a
wild shooting-coat and a military cap,

'My brother and mon Saint Pere ! Lucia! toD delightful!
This is why they did not write.' jVnd Valentia .spiang up, and
was going to run downstairs to them, when she paused at
Lucia's call.

' Who have they with thf-m 1 Val, — come and look ! who can
it be?'

Campbell and Bowie were helping out carefully a tall man,
covered up in many wrappers. It was too dark to see the face ;
but a fancy crossed Valentia's mind which made her look gra\e,
in spite of her pleasure.

He was evidently weak, as from recent illness : foi' his two
supporters led him up the steps, and Scoutbush seemed full of
directions and inquiries, and fussed about with the landlady,
till she was tired of curtseying to 'my lord.'

A minute afterwards Bowie threw open the door grandly.
' My lord, my ladies ! ' and in trotted Scoutbush, and began
kissing them fiercely, and then dancing about.

' O my dears ! Here at last — out of tliat horrid city of the

plague ! Such sights as I have seen ' and then he paused.

' I)o you know, Val and Lucia, I'm glad I've seen it ; I don't
know, but I feel as if I should be a better man all my life ; and
those poor people, how well they did beha\-e ! And the major,
he's an angel ! And so's that brick of a doctor, and the mad
schoolmistress, and the curate. Everybody, I think, but me.
Hang it, Val ! but your words shan't come true ! I will
be of some use yet before I die ! But I've ' and Valentia

XIX BEDDGELERT 317

went up to him and kissed him, while he ran on, and Lucia
said —

' Vou have been of use ah'eady, dear Fred. You have sent me
and the dear children to this sweet place, where we ha\ e been

safer and happier than ' (she checked herself) ; ' and your

generous present too. I feel quite a girl again, thanks to you.
Val and I have done nothing but laugh all day long ; ' and she
began kissing him too.

' How happy _could I be with either,
Were t'other dear charmer away ! '

broke out Scoutbush. 'What a pity it is now, that I should
ha^■e two such sweet creatures making love to me, and can't
marry either of them ? Wliy did ye go and be my father's
daughters, mavourneen ? I'd have made a peeress of the one of
ye, if ye'd had the sense to be anybody else's sisters.'

At which they all laughed, and laughed, and chattered broad
Irish together as they used to do for fun in old Kilanbaggan
Castle, before Lucia was a weary wife, and Valentia a worldly
tine lady, and Scoutbush a rackety guardsman, breaking half
of the ten commandments every week, rather from ignorance
than vice.

' Well, I'm glad ye're pleased with me, asthore,' said he at last
to Lucia ; ' but I've done another little good deed, I flatter my-
self ; for I've brought away the poor spalpeen of a priest, and
have got liim safe in the house.'

\'alentia stopped short in her fun.

'Why, what have ye to say against that, iliss Val 1 '

'Why, won't lie be a little in the way?' said Valentia, not
knowing what to say.

' Faith, he needn't trouble you ; and I shall take very good
care — I wonder when the supper is coming — that neither he nor
any one else troubles me. But really,' said he, in his natural
voice, and with some feeling, 'I was ashamed to go away and
leave him there. He would have died if we had. He worked
day and night. Talk of saints and martyrs ! Campbell liimself
said he was an idler by the side of him.'

'Oh ! I hope !Major Campbell has not over-exerted himself ! '

' He ? nothing hurts him. He's as hard as his own sword.
But the poor curate worked on till he got the cholera himself.
He always expected it, longed for it ; Campbell said — wanted
to die. Some love affair, I suppose, poor fellow ! and a terrible
bout he had for eight-and-forty hours. Thurnall thought him
gone again and again ; but he pulled the poor fellow through,
after all ; and we got some one (that is, Campbell did) to take
his duty ; and brought him away, after a good deal of persua-
sion ; for he would not move as long as there was a fresh case
in the town ; that is why we never wrote. We did not know
till the last hour when we should start ; and we expected to be

318 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

with you in two days, and gi\ e you a pleasant surprise. He
was half dead when we got liiiji on board ; but the week's sea-
air helped liim through ; so I must not grumble at these
northerly breezes. " It's an ill wind that blows nobody good,"
thw say ! '

Valentia heard all this as in a dream, and watched her chat-
tering brother witli a stupefied air. SJie comprehended all now;
and bitterly she blamed herself. He had really loved her, then :
set himself manfully to die at his post, that he might forget her
in a better world. How shameful^,' .shu had triUed with that
noble heart ! How should slie e\ er meet — huw ha\ e courage to
look him in tlic faif^ '! Ajid not love, or anything like love, but
sacred pity and self-abasement filled her heart, a.s his fair, deli-
cate face rose up before her, all wan and shrunken, with sad
uphiraiding eyes ; and round it such a halo, pure and pale, as
crowns, in some old (^ievinaii pictuie, a iiiartyr's head.

'He has had the cholera ! he has Ih'ph actually dying?'asked
she at last, with that strange wish to hear ij\ei' again bad news,
which one knows too well already.

'Of course he has. Why, you are not going away, Valentia?
You need not be afraid of infection. Campbell, and Thurnall,
too, says that's all nonsense; and they must know, having seen
it so often. Here comes Bowie at last with supper I '

' Has Mr. Headley had anything to eat ? ' asked A'ah-ntia, who
longed to run away to her own room, but dai'ed not.

'He is eating now like any ged, maam ; and Majoi- Camp-
bell's making him eat too.'

'He must be very ill,' thought she, 'for mon Saint Pere never
to have come near us yet:' and then she thought with terror
that her Saint Tere might have gue.-,.^ed the truth, and be angry
■with her. And yet she tiu.^ted in Frank's M;ci-ec}-. He would
not betray her.

Take care, ^'alentia. When a woman has to trust a man not
to bf'ti'ay her, and does trust him, she may soon find it nf>t only
easy, but necessary, to do more than trust him.

However, in five minutes Campbell came in. Valentia saw at
once that there was no change in his feelings to her : but he
could talk of nothing but Headley, his self-devotion, courage,
angelic gentleness, and humility ; and every word of his praise
was a fresh arrow in Valentia's conscience ; at last —

'One knows well enough what is the matter,' said he almost
bitterly ; 'what is the matter, I sometimes think, with half the
noblest men in the world, and nine-tenths of the noblest women ;
and with many ■' fnip, too. Cod help them ! who is none of the
noble.-t, and tjicrpfore does not know how to t;ikf the bitter cup,
as he know., '

'What dfie^ the philosopher mean now?' :i-,l:cd Scoutln!--h,
looking up from the cold lamb. Valentia k)iew but too well
what he meant

XIX BEDDOELERT 319

' He has a history, my dear lord.'
■ A history 1 What ! is he writing a book 1 '
Campbell laughed a quiet under-laugh, half sad, half humorous.
' I am very tired,' said Valentia ; ' I really think I shall go
to bed.'

She went to her room, but to bed she did not go ; she sat
down and cried till she could cry no more, and lay awake the
greater part of the night, tossing miserably. She would have
done better if she had prayed ; but prayer, about such a matter,
was what Valentia knew nothing of. She was regular enough
at cliuroh, of course, and said her prayers and confessed her sins
in a general way, and prayed about her ' soul,' as she had been
taught to do, — unless she was too tired : but to pray really,
about ii real sorrow, a real sin like this, was a thought which
never entered her mind ; and if it had, she would have driven
it away again : just because the anxiety was so real, practical,
human, it was a matter which liad nothing to do with religion ;
which it seemed impertinent — almost wrong to lay before the
throne of God.

So she came downstairs next morning, pale, restless, unre-
freshed in body or mind ; and her peace of mind was not
improved by seeing, seated at the breakfast -table, Frank
Headley, whom Lucia and Scoutbush were stuffing with all
manner of good things. ,

She blushed scarlet — do what she would she could not lielp it
— when he rose and bowed to her. Half-choked, slie came tor-
ward and offered her hand. She was ' so shocked to hear that
he had been so dangerously ill, — no one had even told them of
it, — it had come upon them so suddenly ;' and so forth.

She spoke kindly, but avoided the least tone of tenderness ; for
she felt that if she gave way, she might be only too tender; and
to re-awaken hope in his heart would be only cruelty. And,
therefore, and for other reasons also, she did not look him in the
face as she spoke.

He answered so cheerfully that she 'was half disappointed, in
spite of her remorse, at his not being as miserable as she had
expected. Still, if he had overcome the passion, it was so much
better for him. But yet Valentia hardly wished that he should
have overcome it, so self-contradictory is woman's heart ; and
her pity had sunk to half-ebb, and her self-complacency was
rising with a flowing tide, as he chatted on quietly, but genially,
about the voyage, and the scenery, and Snowdon, which he had
never seen, and which he W(5uld ascend that very day.

'You will do nothing of the kind, lS\r, Headley ! ' ci'ied Lucia.
' Is he not mad, Major Campbell, quite mad V

' I know I am mad, my dear I\Irs. Vavasour ; I have been so
a long time : but Snowdon ponies are in their sober senses —
and I shall take one of them.'

'Fulfil the old pun? Begin beside yourself, and end beside

320 TWO YEARS AHO chap.

your horse ! lam sure he is not strong enough to sit over those
rocks. No, you shall stay at home comfortably here : Valentia
and I will take care of you.'

' And mon Saint Pere too. I have a thousand things to say
to him.'

'And so has he to Queen Wliinis.'

So Scoutbush .sent Bowie for ' John Jones Clerk,' the fisher-
man (may his days be as many as his salmon and as good as
his flies!), and tlie four stayed at home, and talked over the
Aberalva tragedies, till, as it befell, both Lucia and Campbell
left the room awhile.

Immediately Frank rose, and walking across to Valentia, laid
the fatal ring on the arm of her chair, and returned to his seat
without a word.

' ^'ou are very . I hope that it ,' stammered Valentia.

' You hope that it was a comfort to me ? It was ; and I shall
be always grateful to you for it.'

Valentia heard an emphasis on thi3 ' was.' It checked the
impulse (foolish enough) which rose in her, to bid him keep the
ring.

So, prim and dignified, she slipped it into its place on lier
finger, and went on with her work ; merely saying —

' I need not say that I am happy that anything which I could
do should have been of use to you in such a fearful time.'

' It was a fearful time ! but for myself, I cannot be too glad
of it. God grant that it may have been as useful to others as
to me ! It cured me of a great folly. Now I look back, I am
astonished at my own absurdity, rudeness, presumption. You
must let me say it ! I do not know how to thank you enough.
I cannot trust myself with the fit words, tliey would be so
strong ! but I owe this confession to you, and to your exceeding
goodness and kindness, when you would have been justified in
treating me as a madman. I was mad, I believe : but I am in
my right mind now, I assure you,' said he gaily. ' Had I not
been, I need hardly say you would not liave seen me here.
What a prospect this is ! ' And he rose and looked out of the
window.

Valentia had heard all this with downcast eyes and unmoved
face. Was she pleased at it ? Not in the least, the naughty
child that she was ; and more, she grew quite angry with her-
self, ashamed of herself, for ha\ing thought and felt so much
about him the night before. ' How silly of me ! He is very
well, and does not care for me. And who is he, pray, that I
should even look at him ? '

And, as if in order to put her words into practice, she looked
at him there and then. He was gazing out of the window,
leaning gracefully and yet feebly against the shutter with the
full glory of the forenoon sun upon his sharp-cut profile and
rich chestnut locks ; and after all, having looked at him once,

XIX BEDDGELERT 321

she could not help looking at him again. He was certainly a
most gentleman-like man, elegant from head to foot ; there was
not an ungraceful line about him, to his very boots, and the
white nails of his slender fingers ; even the defects of his figure
— the too great length of the neck and slope of the shoulders —
increased his likeness to those saintly pictures with which he
had been mixed up in her mind the night before. He was at
one extreme pole of the difierent types of manhood, and that
burly doctor who had saved his life at the other : but her Saint
Pere alone perfectly combined the two. There w as nobody like
him, after all. Perhaps her wisest plan, as Headley had for-
gotten his fancy, was to confess all to the Saint Fhre (as she
usually did her little sins), and get some sort of absolution from
him.

However, she must say something in answer —

' Yes, it is a very lovely view : but really I must say one
more word about this matter. I have to thank you, you know,
for the good faith which you have kept with me.'

He looked round, seemingly amused. ' Cela va sans dire ! '
and he bowed ; ' pray do not say any more about the matter ; '
and he looked at her with such humble and thankful eyes, that
Valentia was sorry not to hear more from him than —

'Pray tell me — for of course you know — the name of this
exquisite valley up which I am looking.'

Gwynnant. You must go up it when you are well enough,
and see the lakes ; they are the only ones in Snowdon from the
banks of which the primaeval forest has not disappeared.'

' Indeed ? I must make shift to go there this very after-
noon, for — do not laugh at me — but I never saw a lake in my
life.'

' Never saw a lake ? '

' No. I am a true Lowlander : born and bred among bleak
Norfolk sands and fens — so much the worse for this chest of
mine ; and this is my first sight of mountains. It is all like
a dream to me, and a dream which I never expected to be
realised.'

'Ah, you should see our Irish lakes and mountains — you
should see Killarney ! '

' I am content with these ; I suppose it is as wrong to break
the tenth commandment about scenery, as about anything else.'

' Ah, but it seems so hard that you, who I am sure would
appreciate fine scenery, should have been debarred from it,
while hundreds of stupid people run over the Alps and Italy
every summer, and come home, as far as I can see, rather more
stupid than they went ; having made confusion worse con-
founded by filling their poor brains with hard names out of
Murray.'

' Not quite so hard as that thousands, every day, who would
enjoy a meat dinner, should have nothing but dry bread, and

Y T. Y. A.

322 TWO YEARS AGO ' hap.

not enough of that. I fancy sometimes, that in some myste-
rious way, that want will be made up to them in the next life ;
and so with all the beautiful things which travelled people talk
of — I comfort myself with the fancy that I see as much as is
good for me Iiere, and that if I make good use of that, I shall
see the Alps and the Andes in the world to come, or something
much more worth seeing. Tell Jiie now, how far may that range
of crags be from us ? I am sure that I could walk there after
luncheon, this mountain air is strengthening me so.'

'Walk thither? I assure you they are at least four miles
off.'

'Four? And I thought them one! So clear and sharp as
they stand out against the sky, one fancies that one could almost
stretch out a hand and touch those knolls and slabs of rock, as
distinct as in a. photograph ; and yet so soft and rich withal,
dappled with pearly-gray stone and purple heath. Ah ! So it
must be, I suppose. The first time that one sees a glorious
thing, one's heart is lifted up towards it in love and awe, till it
seems near to one — ground on which one may freely tread,
because one appreciates and admires ; and so one forgets the
distance between its grandeur and one's own littleness.'

The allusion was palpable : but did he intend it 1 Surely
not, after what he had just said. And yet there was a sadness
in the tone which made Valentia fancy that some feeling for
her might still linger ; but he evidently had been speaking to
himsell, forgetful, for the moment, of her presence ; for he
turned to her with a start and a blush — ' But now — I have been
troubling you too long with this stupid tete-a-tete sentimentality
of mine. I will make my bow, and find the major. I am
afraid, if it be possible for him to forget any one, he has for-
gotten me in some new moss or other.'

He went out, and to Yalentia's chagrin she saw him no more
that day. He spent the forenoon in the garden, and the after-
noon in lying down, and at night complained of fatigue, and
stayed in his own room the whole evening, while Campbell read
him to sleep. Next morning, however, he made his appearance
at breakfast, well and cheerful.

' I must play at sick man no more, or I shall rob you, I see,
of Major Campbell's company ; and I owe you all far too much
already.'

' Unless you are better than you were last night, you must
play at sick man,' said the major. 'I cannot conceive what
exhausted you so ; unless you ladies are better nurses, I must
let no one come near him but myself. If you had been scolding
him the whole morning, instead of praising him as he deserves,
he could not have been more tired last night.'

' Pray do not ! ' cried Frank, evidently much pained : ' I had
such a delightful morning, and every one is so kind — you only
make me wretched, when I feel all the trouble I am giving.'

XIX BEDDGELERT 323

' ily dear fellow,' said Scoutbush, en, grand serieux, ' after all
that you have done for our people at Aberalva, I should be very
much shocked if any of my family thought any service shown
to you a trouble.'

' Pray do not speak so,' said Frank, ' I am fallen among
angels, when I least expected.'

' Scoutbush as an angel ! ' shouted Lucia, clapping her hands.
'Elsley, don't you see the wings sprouting already, under his
shooting-jacket ? '

' They are my braces, I suppose, of course,' said Scoutbush,
who never understood a joke about himself, though he liked one
about other people ; while Elsley, who hated all jokes, made no
answer — at least none worth recording. In fact, as the reader
may have discovered, Elsley, save tete-a-tete with some one who
took his fancy, was somewhat of a silent and morose animal,
and, as little Scoutbush confided to Mellot, there was no getting
a rise out of him. All which Lucia saw as keenly as any one,
and tried to pass off by chatting nervously and fussily for him,
as well as for herself ; whereby she only made him the more
cross, for he could not the least understand her argument —
' Why, my dear, if you don't talk to people, I must ! '

' But why should people be talked to?'

' Because they like it, and expect it ! '

' The more foolish they. Much better to hold their tongues
and think.'

' Or read your poetry, I suppose,' and then would begin a
squabble.

Meanwhile there was one, at least, of the party, who was
watching Lucia with most deep and painful interest. Lord
Scoutbush was too busy with his own comforts, especially with
his fishing, to think much of this moroseness of Elsley's. ' If he
suited Lucia, ^-ery well. His taste and hers differed : but it was
her concern, not his ' — was a very easy way of freeing himself
from all anxiety on the matter : but not so with Major Camp-
bell. He saw all this ; and knew enough of human nature to
suspect that the self-seeking which showed as moroseness in
company, might show as downright bad temper in private.
Longing to know more of Elsley, if possible, to guide and help
him, he tried to be intimate with him, as he had tried at Aber-
alva ; paid him court, asked his opinion, talked to him on all
subjects which he thought would interest him. His conclusion
was more favourable to Elsley's head than to his heart. He saw
that Elsley was vain, and liked his attentions ; and that lowered
him in his eyes : but he saw too that Elsley shrank from him ;
at first he thought it pride, but he soon found that it was fear ;
and that lowered him still more in his eyes.

Perhaps Campbell was too hard on the poet : but his own
purity itself told against Elsley. 'Who am I, that any one
should be afraid of me, unless they ha\e done something

324 TWO YEARS AGO cuw.

wrong ? ' So, with his dark suspicions roused, he watched in-
tently every word and every tone of Elsleys to his wife ; and
here lie came to a more unpleasant conclusion still. He saw
that they were, sometimes at least, not happy together ; and
from this he took for granted, too hastily, that they were never
happy together; that Lucia was an utterly ill-used person;
that Elsley was a bad fellow, who ill-treated her : and a black
and awful indignation against the man grew up within him ; all
the more fierce because it seemed utterly righteous, and because,
too, it had, under heavy penalties, to iDe utterly concealed be-
neath a courteous and genial manner : till many a time he felt
inclined to knock Elsley down for little roughnesses to her,
which were really tlie fruit of mere (jaucherie ; and then accused
himself for a hypocrite, because he was keeping up the cour-
tesies of life with such a man. For Campbell, like most men of
his temperament, was over-stern, and sometimes a little cruel
and unjust, in demanding of others the same lofty code which
he had laid down for himself, and in demanding it, too, of some
more than of others, by a very questionable exercise of private
judgment. On the whole, he was right, no doubt, in being as
indulgent as he dared to the publicans and sinners like Scout-
bush ; and in being as severe as he dared on all Pharisees, and
pretentious persons whatsoe\er : but he was too much inclined
to draw between the two classes one of those strong lines of de-
marcation which exist only in the fancies of the human brain ;
for sins, like all diseased matters, are complicated and confused
matters ; many a seeming Pharisee is at heart a self -condemned
publican, and ought to be comforted, and not cursed ; wliile
many a publican is, in the midst of all his foul sins, a thorough
exclusive and self-complacent Pharisee, and needs not the right
hand of mercy, but the strong arm of punishment.

Campbell, like other men, had his faults : and liis were those
of a man wrapped up in a pure and stately, but an austere and
lonely creed, disgusted with the world in all its forms, and look-
ing down upon men in general nearly as much as Thurnall did.
So he set down Elsley for a bad man, to whom he was forced by
hard circumstances to behave as if he were a good one.

The only way, therefore, in which he could vent his feeling,
was by showing to Lucia that studied attention which sympathy
and chivalry demand of a man toward an injured woman. Xot
that he dared, or wished, to conduct himself with her as he did
with Valentia, even had she not been a married woman ; he did
not know her as intimately as he did her sister : but still he had
a right to behave as the most intimate friend of her family, and
he asserted that right ; and all the more determinedly because
Elsley seemed now and then not to like it. ' I will teach him
how to behave to a charming woman,' said he to himself ; and
perhaps he had been wiser if he had not said it : but every man
has his weak point, and chivalry was Major Campbell's.

XIX BEDDGELKRT 325

' What do you think of that poet, Mellot 1 ' said he once, on
returning from a picnic, during which Elsley liad ne\ er noticed
his wife ; and at last, iinding Valentia engaged with Headley,
had actually gone off, pour j>is aller, to watch Lord JScoutbush
fishing.

' Oh, clever enough, and to spare ; and as well read a man as
I know. One of the Sturm-und-drang party, of course ; the ex-
press locomotive school, scream-and-go-ahead : and thinks me,
with my classicism, a benighted pagan. Still, every man has a
right to his opinion. Live and let live.'

'I don't care about his taste,' said the major impatiently.
' What sort of man is he ? — man, Claude ? '

' Ahem, humph ! " Irritabile genus poetarum." But one is so
accustomed to that among literary men, one never expects them
to be like anybody else, and so takes their whims and oddities
for granted.'

' And their sins, too, eh ? '

' Sins 1 I know of none on his part.'

' Don't you call temper a sin ? '

' No ; I call it a determination of blood to the head, or of
animal spirits to the wrong place, or — my dear major, I am no
moralist. I take people, you know, as I find them. But he is
a bore ^ and I should not wonder if that sweet little woman had
found it out ere now.'

Campbell ground something between his teeth. He fancied
himself full of righteous wrath : he was really in a very un-
christian temper. Be it so : perhaps there were excuses for him
(as there are for many men), of which we know nothing.

Elsley, meanwhile, watched Campbell with fast lowering
brow. Losing a woman's affections ? He who does so deserves
his fate. Had he been in the habit of paying proper attention
to Lucia, he would have liked Campbell all the more for his
conduct. There are few greater pleasures to a man who is what
he should be to his wife, than to see other men admiring what
he admires, and trying to rival him where he knows that he can
have no rival. Let them worship as much as they will. Let
her make herself as charming to them as she can. Wnat matter ?
He smiles at them in his heart ; for has he not, over and above
all the pretty things which he can say and do ten times as well
as they, a talisman — a dozen talismans which are beyond their
reach f — in the strength of which he will go home and laugh
over with her, amid sacred caresses, all which makes mean men
mad ? But Elsley, alas for him, had neglected Lucia himself,
and therefore dreaded comparison with any other man ; and the
suspicions which had taken root in him at Aberalva grew into
ugly shape and strength. However, he was silent, and contented
himself with coldness and all but rudeness.

There were excuses for him. In the first place, it would have
been an ugly thing to take notice of any man's attentions to a

326 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

wife ; it could not be done but upon the strongest grounds, and
done in a way which would make a complete rupture necessary,
so breaking up the party in a sufficiently unpleasant way. Be-
sides, to move in the matter at all would be to implicate Lucia ;
for of whatsoever kind Campbell's attentions were, she evidently
liked them ; and a quarrel with her on that score was more than
Elsley dared face. He was not a man of strong moral courage ;
he hated a scene of any kind ; and he was afraid of being
worsted in any really serious quarrel, not merely by Campbell,
but by Lucia. It may seem strange that he should be afraid of
her, though not so that he should be afraid of Campbell. But
the truth is, that the man who bullies his wife very often does
so — as Elsley had done more than once — simply to prove to him-
self his own strength, and hide his fear of her. He knew well
that woman's tongue, when once the 'fair beast' is brought to
bay, is a weapon far too trenchant to be faced by any shield but
that of a very clear conscience toward her ; which was more
than Elsley had.

Besides — and it is an honour to Elsley Vavasour, amid all his
weakness, that he had justice and chivalry enough left to know
what nine men out of ten ignore — behind all, let the worst come
to the worst, lay one just and terrible rejoinder, which he, though
he had been no worse than the average of men, could only answer
by silent shame —

' At least, sir, I was pure when I came to you ' You best
know whether you were so likewise.'

And yet even that, so all-forgiving is woman, might have
been faced by some means ; but the miserable complication
about the false name still remained. Elsley believed that he
was in his wife's power ; that she could, if she chose, turn upon
him, and proclaim him to the world as a scoundrel and an im-
postor. And, as it is of the nature of man to hate those whom
he fears, Elsley began to have dark and ugly feelings toward
Lucia. Instead of throwing them away, as a strong man would
have done, he pampered them almost without meaning to do so.
For he let them run riot through his too vivid imagination, in
the form of possible speeches, possible scenes, till he had looked
and looked through a hundred thoughts which no man has a
right to entertain for a moment. True ; he had entertained
them with horror ; but he ought not to have entertained them
at all ; he ought to have kicked them contemptuously out and
back to the devil, from whence they came. It may be, again,
that this is impossible to man ; that prayer is the only refuge
against that Walpurgis-dance of the witches and the fiends, which
will, at hapless moments, whirl unbidden through a mortal
brain ; but Elsley did not pray.

So, leaving these fancies in his head too long, he soon became
accustomed to them ; and accustomed, too, to the Nemesis which
they bring with them, of chronic moodiness and concealed rage.

XIX BEDDGELERT 327

Day by day he was lashing himself up into fresh fury, and yet
day by day he was becoming more careful to conceal that fury.
He had many reasons : moral cowardice, which made him shrink
from the tremendous consequences of an explosion — equally
tremendous, were he right or wrong. Then the secret hope,
perhaps the secret consciousness, that he was wrong, and was
only saying to God, like the self-deceiving prophet, ' I do well
to be angry ; ' then the honest fear of going too far ; of being-
surprised at last into some hideous and irreparable speech or
deed, which he might find out too late was utterly unjust ; then
at moments (for even that would cross him) the devilish notion
that, by concealment, he might lure Lucia on to give him a safe
ground for attack. AH these, and more, tormented him for a
wretched fortnight, during which he became, at such an expense
of self-control as he had not exercised for years, courteous to
Campbell, more than courteous to Lucia ; hiding under a smiling
face wrath which increased with the pressure brought to bear
upon it.

Campbell and Lucia, Mellot, Valentia, and Frank, utterly de-
ceived, went on more merrily than ever, little dreaming that
they walked and talked daily with a man who was fast becom-
ing glad to flee to the pit of hell, but for the fear that ' God
would be there also.'

They, meanwhile, chatted on, enjoying, as human souls are
allowed to do at rare and precious moments, the mere sensation
of being ; of which they would talk at times in a way which led
them down into deep matters : for instance —

' How pleasant to sit here for ever ! ' said Claude, one after-
noon, in the inn garden at Beddgelert, ' and say, not with Des-
cartes, " I think, therefore I exist ; " but simply, " I enjoy, there-
fore I exist." I almost think those Emersonians are right at
times when they crave the " life of plants, and stones, and rain."
Stangrave said to me once, that his ideal of perfect bliss was
that of an oyster in the Indian seas, drinking the warm salt
water motionless, and troubling himself about nothing, while
nothing troubled itself about him.'

' Till a diver came and tore him up for the sake of his pearls ! '
said Valentia.

' He did not intend to contain any pearls. A pearl, you know,
is a disease of the oyster, the product of some irritation. He
wished to be the oyster pure and simple, a part of nature.'

' And to be of no use ? ' asked Frank.

' Of none whatsoever. Nature had made him what he was,
and all besides was her business, and not his. I don't deny that
I laughed at him, and made him wroth by telling him that his
doctrine was " the apotheosis of loafing." But my heart went
with him, and with trie jolly oyster too. It is very beautiful after
all, that careless nymph and shepherd life of the old Greeks,
and that ilarquesas romance of Herman Melville's — to enjoy

328 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

tlie simple fact of living, like a Xeapolitan lazzaroni, or a fly
upon a wall.'

' But the old Greek heroes fought and laboured to till the
land, and rid it of giants and monsters,' said Frank. 'And as
for the Marquesas, !Mr. Melville found out, did he not— as you
did once — that they were only petting and fattening him for
the purpose of eating him ? "There is a dark side to that pretty
picture, Mr. ^Mellot.'

' Tant pis pour nut. I But that is an unnecessary appendage
to the idea, surely. It must be possible to realise such a simple,
rich, healthy life, without wickedness, if not without human
sorrow. It is no dream, and no one shall rob me of it. I have
seen fragments of it scattered up and down the world ; and I
believe they will all meet in Paradise — where and when I care
not ; but they 'svill meet. I was ^ erj' happy in the South Sea
Islands, after that, when nobody meant to eat me ; and I am
very happy here, and do not intend to be eaten, unless it will be
any pleasure to !Miss St. Just. No ; let man enjoy himself wlien
he can, and take his fill of those flaming red geraniums, and
glossy rhododendrons, and feathered crown ferns, and the gold
green lace of those acacias tossing and whispering overhead, and
the purple mountains sleeping there aloft, and the murmur of
the brook over the stones : and drink in scents with every
breath — what was his nose made for, save to smell ? I used to
torment myself once by asking them all what they meant.
Now, I am content to have done with symbolisms, and say,
" What you all mean, I care not, all I know is, that I can draw
pleasure from the mere sight of you, as, perhaps, you do from
the mere sight of me ; so let us sit together, nature and I, and
stare into each other's eyes like two young lovers, careless
of the morrow and its griefs." I will not even take the trouble
to paint her. Why make ugly copies of perfect pictures ? Let
those who wish to see her take a railway ticket, and save us
academicians colours and canvas. Quant a moi, the public
must go to the mountains, as Mahomet had to do ; for the
mountains shall not come to the public'

' One of your wilful paradoxes, Mr. !Mellot ; why, you are
photographing them all day long.'

' Not quite all day long, madam. And after all, il faut vivre:
I want a few luxuries ; I have no capacity for keeping a shoiJ ;
photographing pays better than painting, considering the time
it takes ; and it is only nature rejjroducing herself, not carica-
turing her. But if any one will ensure me a poor two thousand
a year, I will promise to photograph no more, but vanish to
Sicily or Calabria, and sit witli Sabina in an orchard all my
days, twining rose garlands for her pretty head, like Theocritus
and his friends, while the " pears drop on our shoulders, and the
apples by our side." '

'What do you think of all this ! ' asked Yajentia of Frank.

XIX BEDDGELERT R'2S

' That I am too like tlie Emersonian oyster iiere, \evy liappy,
and very useless ; and, therefore, vei-y anxious to be gone.'

' Surely you have earned the right to be idle awhile 1 '

' No one lias a right to be idle. '

' Oh ! ' groaned Claude ; ' where did you find that eleventh
commandment ? '

' I have done with all eleventh commandments ; for I find it
quite hard work enough to keep the ancient ten. But I find it,
!Mellot, in the deepest abyss of all ; in the \ery depth from which
the commandments sprang. But we will not talk about it
here.'

'Why not?' asked Yalentia, looking up. 'Are we so very
naughty as to be unworthy to listen ? '

'And are these mountains,' asked Claude, 'so ugly and ill-
made that they are an unfit pulpit for a sermon ? No ; tell me
what you mean. After all, I am half in jest.'

' Do not courtesy, pity, chivalry, generosity, self-sacrifice — in
short, being of use — do not our hearts tell us that they are the
most beautiful, noble, lovely things in the world 1 '

' I suppose it is so,' said Valentia.

' Why does one admire a soldier ? Not for his epaulettes and
red coat, but because one knows that, coxcomb though he be at
home here, there is the power in him of that same self-sacrifice :
that, when he is called, he will go and die, that he may be or
use to his country. And yet — it may seem invidious to say so
just now — but there are other sorts of self-sacrifice, less showy,
but even more beautiful.'

'O ilr. Headley, what can a man do more than die for his
countrymen ? '

' Live for them. It is a longer work, and therefore a more
difficult and a nobler one.'

Frank spoke in a somewhat sad and abstracted tone.

' But tell me,' she said, ' what all this has to do with — with
the deep matter of which you spoke ? '

' Simply that it is the law of all earth, and heaven, and Him
who made them. That God is perfectly powerful, because He is
perfectly and infinitely of use ; and perfectly good, because He
delights utterly and always in being of use ; and that, therefore,
we can become like God — as the very heathens felt that we can,
and ought to become — only in proportion as we become of use.
I did not see it once. I tried to be good, not knowing what good
meant. I tried to be good, because I thought it would pay me
in the world to come. But, at last, I saw that all life, all devo-
tion, all piety, were only worth anything, only Divine, and God-
like, and God-beloved, as they were means to that one end — to
be of use.'

' It is a noble thought, Headley,' said Claude ; but Valentia
was silent.

' It is a noble thought, Mellot, and all thoughts become clear

330 TWO YEARS AOO chap.

in the light of it ; even that most difficult thought of all, which
so often torments good people, when they feel, " I ought to love
God, and yet I do not love Him." Easy to lo\e Him, if one can
once think of Him as the concentration, the ideal perfection of
all which is most noble, admirable, lovely in human character !
And easy to work, too, when one once feels that one is working
for such a Being, and with such a Being as that ! The whole
world round us, and the future of the world, too, seem full of
light, even down to its murkiest and foulest depths, when we
can but remember that great idea — An infinitely useful God
over all, who is trying to make each of us useful in his place.
If that be not the beatific vision of which old mystics spoke so
rapturously, one glimpse of which was perfect bliss, I at least
know none nobler, desire none more blessed. Pray forgive me,
Miss St. .Just ! I ought not to intrude thus ! '

' Go on ! ' said Valentia.

' I — I really have no more to say. I have said too much. I
do not know how I have been betrayed so far,' stammered
Frank, who had the just dislike of his school of anything like
display on such solemn matters.

' Can you tell us too much truth '! ilr. Headley is right,
Mr. Mellot, and you are wrong.'

' It will not be the first time. Miss St. Just. But what I
spoke in jest, he has answered in earnest.'

' He was quite right. We are none of us half earnest enough.
There is Lucia with the children.' And she rose and walked
across the garden.

'You have moved the fair trifler somewhat,' said Claude.

' God grant it ! but I cannot think what made me.'

' Why think ? You spoke out nobly, and I shall not forget
your sermon.'

' I was not preaching at you, most affectionate and kindly of
men.'

' And laziest of men, likewise. What can I do now, at this
moment, to be of use to any one ? Set me my task.'

But Frank was following with his eyes Valentia, as she went
hurriedly across to Lucia. He saw her take two of the children
at once off" her sister's hands, and carry them away down a walk.
A few minutes afterwards he could hear her romping with them ;
but he could not have guessed, from the silver din of those merry
voices,, that Valentia's heart was heavy within her.

For her conscience was really smitten. Of what use was she
in the world ? ilajor Campbell had talked to her often about
her duties to this person and to that, of this same necessity of
being useful ; but she had escaped from the thought, as we have
seen her, in laughing at poor little Scoutbush on the very same
score. But why had not Major Campbell's sermons touched her
heart as this one had ? Who can tell ? Who is there among us
to whom an oft-heard truth has not become a tiresome and suoer-

xrx BEDDGELERT 331

fluous common-place, till one day it has flashed before us utterly
new, indubitable, not to be disobeyed, written in letters of fire
across the whole vault of heaven ! All one can say is, that her
time was not come. Besides, she looked on Major Campbell as
a being utterly superior to herself ; and that very superiority,
while it allowed her to be as familiar with him as she choae,
excused her in her own eyes from opening to him her real heart.
She could safely jest with him, let him pet her, play at being his
daughter, while she felt that between him and her lay a gulf as
wide as between earth and heaven : and that very notion com-
forted her in her naughtiness ; for in that case, of course, his
code of morals was not meant for her ; and while she took his
warnings (as many of them at least as she chose), she thought
herself by no means bound to follow his examples. She all but
worshipped him as her guardian angel : but she was not meant
for an angel herself ; so she could indulge freely in those little
escapades and frivolities for which she was born, and then,
whenever frightened, run for shelter under his wings. But to
hear the same, and even loftier words, from the lips of the
curate, whom she had made her toy, almost her butt, was to
have them brought down unexpectedly and painfully to her own
level. If this was his ideal, why ought it not to be hers ? Was
she not his equal, perhaps his superior ? And so her very pride
humbled her, as she said to herself, ' Then I ought to be useful.
I can be : I will be ! '

' Lucia,' asked she, that very afternoon, ' will you let me take
the children off your hands while Clara is busy in the morning V

' O you dear good creature ! but it would be such a gene !
They are really stupid, I am afraid, sometimes, or else I am.
They make me so miserably cross at times.'

' I will take them. It would be a relief to you, would it not ? '

' My dear ! ' said poor Lucia, with a doleful smile, which
seemed to Valentia's self -accusing heart to say, ' Have you only
now discovered that fact 2 '

From that day Valentia courted Headley's company more and
more. To fall in love with him was of course absurd ; and he
had cured himself of his passing fancy for her. There could be
no harm, then, in her making the most of conversation so differ-
ent from what she heard in the world, and which in her
heart of hearts she liked so much better. For it was with
Valentia as with all women ; in this common fault of frivolity,
as in most others, the men rather than they are to blame.
Valentia had cultivated in herself those qualities which she
saw admired by the men whom she met, and some one of whom,
of course, she meant to marry ; and as their female ideal was a
butterfly ideal, a butterfly she became. But beneath all lay,
deep and strong, the woman's love of nobleness and wisdom, the
woman's longing to learn and to be led, which has shown itself
in every age in so many a fantastic and even ugly shape, and

332 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

which is their real excuse for tlie flirting with ' geniuses,' casting
themselves at the feet of directors ; which had tempted her to
coquette with Elsley, and was now bringing her into 'undesir-
able' intimacy with the poor curate.

She had lieard that day, with some sorrow, liis announce-
ment that he wished to be gone ; but as he did not refer to it
again, slie left the thought alone, and all but forgot it. The
subject, however, was renewed about a week afterwards. ' When
you return to Aberalva,' she had said, in reference to some com-
mission.

'I shall never return to Aberalva.'

'Not return?'

' No ; I have already resigned the curacy. I believe your
uncle has appointed to it the man whom Campbell found for
me : and an excellent man, I hear, he is. At lea.st he will do
lietter there than I.'

'But what could have induced you? How sorry all the
people will be.'

' I am not sure of that,' said he with a smile. ' I did what
I could at last to win back at least their respect, and to leave at
least not hatred behind me : but I am unfit for them. I did not
understand them. I meant — no matter what I meant ; but I
failed. God forgive me ! I shall now go somewhere where I
shall have simpler work to do ; where I shall at least have a
chance of practising the lesson which I learnt there. I learnt
it all, strange to say, from the two people in tlie parish from
whom I expected to learn least.'

' Whom do you mean ? '

' The doctor and the schoolmistress.'

'AVhy from them less than from any in the parish? She so
good, and he so clever ? '

'That I shall never tell to any one now. Suffice it that 1
was mistaken.'

Yalentia could obtain no further answer ; and so the days
ran on, every one becoming more and more intimate, till a
certain afternoon, on which they were all to go and picnic,
under Claude's pilotage, above the lake of Gwynnant. Scout-
bush was to have been with them ; but a heavy day's rain in
the meanwhile swelled the streams into fishing order ; so the
little man ordered a car, and started at three in the morning
for Bettws with Mr. Bowie, who, however lotli to give up the
arrangement of plates and the extraction of champagne corks,
considered his presence by the river-side a natural necessity.

' My dear Miss Clara, ye see, tliere'll be nobody to see that
his lordship pits on dry stockings ; and he's always getting over
the tops of his water-boots, being young and daft, as we've all
been, and no offence to you ; and to tell you truth, I can stand
all temptations — in moderation, that is, — save an' except the
chance o' cleiking a fish.'

XX BOTH SIDES OF THE MOON AT ONCE 333

CHAPTER XX

BOTH SIDES OF THE MOON AT ONCE

The spot which Claude liad chosen for the picnic was on one
of the lower spurs of that great mountain of The ilaiden's
Peak, which bounds the vale of Gwynnant to the south.
Above, a wilderness of gnarled volcanic dykes and purple
heather ledges ; below, broken into glens, in which still linger
pale green ash-woods, relics of that great primseval forest in
which, in Bess's days, great Leicester used to rouse the hart
with hound and horn.

Among these Claude had found a little lawn, guarded by
great rocks, out of every cranny of which the ashes grew as
freely as on flat ground. Their feet were bedded deep in sweet
fern and wild raspberries, and golden-rod, and purple scabious,
and tall blue campanulas. Above them, and before them, and
below them, the ashes shook their green filagree in the bright
sunshine ; and through them glimpses were seen of the purple
cliffs above, and, right in front, of the great cataract of Nant
Gwynnant, a long snow-white line zigzagging down coal-black
cliffs for many a hundred feet, and above it, depth beyond
depth of purple shadow away into the very lieart of Snowdon,
up the long valley of Cwm-dyli, to the great amphitheatre of
Clogwyn-y-Garnedd ; while over all the cone of Snowdon rose,
in perfect symmetry, between his attendant peaks of Lliwedd
and Crib Coch.

There they sat, and laughed, and talked, the pleasant summer
afternoon, in their pleasant summer bower ; and never regretted
the silence of the birds, so sweetly did Valentia's song go up
in many a rich sad Irish melody ; while the lowing of the milch
kine, and the wild cooing of the herd-boys, came softly up from
the vale below, ' and all the air was filled with pleasant noise of
waters.'

Then Claude must needs photograph them all, as they sat,
and group them first according to his fancy ; and among his
fancies was one, that Valentia should sit as queen, with Headley
and the major at her feet. And Headley lounged there, and
looked into the grass, and thought it well for him could he lie
there for ever.

Then Claude must photograph the mountain itself ; and all
began to talk of it.

' See the breadth of light and shadow,' said Claude ; ' how
the purple depth of the great lap of the mountain is thrown
back by the sheet of green light on Lliwedd, and the red glory
on the clifTs of Crib Coch, till you seem to look away into the
bosom of the hill, mile after mile.'

334 TWO YEARS AGO (uap.

' And so you do,' said Headley. ' I have learnt to distinguish
mountain distances since I have been here. That peak is four
miles from us now ; and yet the shadowed cliffs at its foot seem
double that distance.'

'And look, look,' said Valentia, 'at the long line of glory with
which the western sun is gilding the edge of the left hand slope,
bringing it nearer and nearer to us every moment, against the
deep blue sky ! '

' But what a form ! Perfect lightness, peifcct symmetry ! '
said Claude. ' Curve sweeping o\ er curve, peak towering over
peak, to the highest point, and then sinking down again as
gracefully as they rose. One can hardly help fancying that the
mountain moves ; that those dancing lines are not instinct with
life.'

' At least,' said Headley, ' that the mountain is a leaping wave,
frozen just ere it fell.'

'Perfect,' said Valentia. 'That is the very expression ! 80
concise, and yet so complete.'

And Headley, poor fool, felt as happy as if he had found a
gold mine.

'To me,' said Elsley, 'the fancy rises of some great Eastern
monarch sitting in royal state ; with ample shoulders sloping
right and left, he lays his purple-mantled arms upon the heads
of two of those Titan guards who stand on either side his foot-
stool.'

' While from beneath his throne,' said Headley, ' as Eastern
poets would say, flow everlasting streams, life-giving, to fertilise
broad lands below.'

' I did not know that you, too, were a poet,' said Valentia.

' Xor I, madam. But if such scenes as these, and in sucli
company, cannot inspire the fancy of even a poor country curate
to something of exaltation, he must be dull indeed.'

' Why not put some of these thoughts into poetry ? '

' What use ? ' answered he in so low, sad, and meaning a tone,
meant only for her ear, that Valentia looked down at him : but
he was gazing intently upon the glorious scene. Was he hint-
ing at the vanity and vexation of spirit of poor Elslej-'s versi-
fying ? Or did he mean that he had now no purpose in life —
no prize for which it was worth while to win honour 1

She did not answer him : but he answered himself — perhaps
to explain away his own speech—

' No, madam ! God has written the poetry already ; and
there it is before me. ilv business is not to re- write it clumsily,
but to read it humbly, and give Him thanks for it.'

More and more had A'alentia been attracted by Headley
during the last few weeks. Accustomed to men who tried to
make the greatest possible show of what small wits they pos-
sessed, she was surprised to find one who seemed to think it
a duty to keep his knowledge and taste in the background.

XX BOTH SIDES OF THE MOON AT ONCE 335

She gave him credit for more talent than appeared ; for more,
perhaps, than he really had. She was piqued, too, at his very
modesty and self-restraint. Wliy did not he, like the rest who
dangled about her, spread out his peacock's train for her eyes,
and try to show his worship of her by setting himself off in his
brightest colours ? and yet this modesty awed her into respect
of him ; for she could not forget that, whether he had sentiment
much or little, sentiment was not the staple of his manhood :
she could not forget his cholera work ; and she knew that,
under that delicate and bashful outside, lay virtue and heroism,
enough and to spare.

' But, if you put these thoughts into words, you would teach
others to read that poetry.'

' My business is to teach people to do right ; and if I cannot,
to pray God to find some one who can.'

'Eight, Headley ! ' said Major Campbell, laying his hand on
the curate's shoulder. ' God dwells no more in books written
with pens than in temples made with hands ; and the sacrifice
which pleases Him is not verse, but righteousness. Do you
recollect, Queen Whims, what I wrote once in your album ?

' " Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever.
Do noble things, not dream them, all day long.
So making life, death, and that vast forever,
One grand, sweet song." '

' But, you naughty, hypocritical Saint Pfere, you write poetry
yourself, and beautifully.'

' Yes, as I smoke my cigar, to comfort my poor rheumatic old
soul. But if I lived only to write poetry, I should think myself
as wise as if I lived only to smoke tobacco.'

Valentia's eyes could not help glancing at Elsley, who had
wandered away to the neighbourmg brook, and was gazing with
all his eyes upon a ferny rock, having left Lucia to help Claude
with his photographing.

Frank saw her look, and read its meaning ; and answered her
thoughts, perhaps too hastily.

'And what a really well-read and agreeable man he is, all
the while ! What a mine of quaint learning, and beautiful old
legend ! If he would but bring it into the common stock for
every one's amusement, instead of hoarding it up for himself ! '

' Why, what else does he do but bring it into the common
stock, when he publishes a book which every one can read ? '
said Valentia, half out of the spirit of contradiction.

' And few understand,' said Headley quietly.

'You are very unjust ; he is a very discerning and agreeable
person, and I shall go and talk to him.' And away went
Valentia to Elsley, somewhat cross. Woman-like, she allowed,
for the sake of her sister's honour, no one but herself to

336 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

depreciate Vavasour, and chose to think it iiiipertinent on
Headley's part.

Headley began quietly talking to JIajor Campbell about
botany, while Valentia, a little ashamed of herself all the while,
took her revenge on Elsley by scolding him for his unsocial
ways, in the very terms which Headley had been using.

At last Claude, having finished his photographing, departed
downward to get some new view from the road below, and
Lucia returned to the rest of the party. Valentia joined them
at once, bringing up Elsley, who was not in the best of humours
after her diatribes ; and the whole party wandered about the
woodland, and scrambled down beside the torrent beds.

At last they came to a point where they could descend no
farther ; for the stream, falling over a clifF, had worn itself a
narrow chasm in the rock, and thundered down it into a deep
narrow pool.

Lucia, who was basking in the sunshine and the flowers as
simply as a child, would needs peep over the brink, and made
Elsley hold her while she looked down. A quiet happiness, as
of old recollections, came into her eyes, as she watched the
sparkling and foaming water —

'And beauty, borii of murmuring sound,
Did pass into her face.'

Campbell started. The Lucia of seven years ago seemed to
bloom out again in that pale face and wrinkled forehead ; and
a smile came over his face, too, as he looked.

' Just like the dear old waterfall at Kilanbaggan. You recol-
lect it, Major Campbell ? '

Elsley always disliked recollections of Kilanbaggan ; recol-
lections of her life before he knew her ; recollections of pleasures
in which he had not shared ; especially recollections of her old
acquaintance with the major.

' I do not, I am ashamed to say,' replied the major.

' Why, you were there a whole summer. Ah ! I suppose you
thought about nothing but your salmon fishing. If Elsley had
been there he would not have forgotten a rock or a pool.
Would you, Elsley ? '

' Keally, in spite of all salmon, I have not forgotten a rock or
a pool about the place which I ever saw : but at the waterfall I
never was.'

' So he has not forgotten 1 What cause had he to remember
so carefully ? ' thought Elsley.

' O Elsley, look ! What is that exquisite flower, like a ball
of gold, hanging just over the water ? '

If Elsley had not had the evil spirit haunting about him, he
would have joined in Lucia's admiration of the beautiful crea-
ture, as it dropped into the foam from its narrow ledge, with its

XX BOTH SIDES OF THE MOON AT ONCE 337

fan of palmate leaves bright green against the black mosses of
the rock, and its golden petals glowing like a tiny sun in the
darkness of the chasm : as it was, he answered —

' Only a buttercup.'

' I am sure it's not a buttercup ! It is three times as large,
and a so much paler yellow ! Is it a buttercup, now. Major
Campbell?'

Campbell looked down.

' Very nearly one, after all : but its real name is the globe
flower. It is common enough here in spring ; you may see the
leaves in every pasture. But I suppose this plant, hidden from
the light, has kept its flowers till the autumn.'

' And till I came to see it, darling that it is ! I should like to
reward it by wearing it home.'

'I dare say it would be very proud of the honour ; especially
if Mr. Vavasour would embalm it in verse, after it had done
service to you.'

'It is doing good enough service where it is,' said Elsley.
' Why pluck out the very eye of that perfect picture 1 '

' Strange,' said Lucia, ' that such a beautiful thing should be
born there all alone upon these rocks, with no one to look at it.'

'It enjoys itself sufficiently without us, no doubt,' said
Elsley.

' Yes ; but I want to enjoy it. Oh, if you could but get it for
me!'

Elsley looked down. There was fifteen feet of somewhat
slippery rock ; then a ragged ledge a foot broad, in a crack of
which the flower grew ; then the dark boiling pool. Elsley
shrugged his shoulders, and said, smiling, as if it were a fine
thing to say, ' Really, my dear, all men are not knight errants
enough to endanger their necks for a bit of weed ; and I cannot
say that such rough tours de force are at all to my fancy.'

Lucia turned away : but she was vexed. Campbell could see
that a strange fancy for the plant had seized her. As she
walked from the spot, he could hear her talking about its beauty
to Valentia.

Campbell's blood boiled. To be asked by that woman — by
any woman — to get her that flower : and to be afraid ! It was
bad enough to be ill-tempered ; but to be a coward, and to be
proud thereof ! He yielded to a temptation, which he had much
better have left alone, seeing that Lucia had not asked him ;
swung himself easily enough down the ledge ; got the flower,
and put it, quietly bowing, into Mrs. Vavasour's hand.

He was frightened when he had done it ; for he saw, to his
surprise, that she was frightened. She took the flower, smiling
thanks, and expressing a little common-place horror and aston-
ishment at his having gone down such a dangerous cliff: but
she took it to Elsley, drew his arm through hers, and seemed
determined to make as much of him as possible for the rest of

Z T. Y. A.

338 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

the afternoon. ' Tiie fellow was jealous, tlien, in addition to his
other sins ! ' And Campbell, who felt that he had put himself
unnecessarily forward between husband and wife, grew more
and more angry : and somehow, unlike his usual wont, refused
to confess himself in the wrong, because he was in the wrong.
Certainly it was not pleasant for poor Elsley ; and so Lucia felt,
and bore with him when he refused to be comforted, and
rendered blessing for railing when he said to her more than one
angry word ; but she had become accustomed to angry words by
this time.

All might have passed off, but for that careless Yalentia, who
had not seen the details of what had passed ; and so advised
herself to ask where Lucia got that beautiful plant?

' Major Campbell picked it up for her from the cliff,' said
Elsley drily.

' Ah ! at the risk of his neck, I don't doubt. He is the most
matchless ravalin-e servente.'

' I shall leave Mrs. Vavasour to his care, then — that is, for tlif
present/ said Elsley, drawing his arm from Lucia's.

' I assure you,' answered she, roused in her turn by his deter-
mined bad temper, ' I am not the least afraid of being left in
the charge of so old a friend.'

Elsley made no answer, but sprang down through the
thickets, calling loudly to Claude Mellot.

It was very naughty of Lucia, no doubt : but even a worm
will turn ; and there are times when people who have not
courage to hold their peace must say something or other ; and
do not always, in the hurry, get out what they ought, but only
what they have time to think of. And she forgot what she had
said the next minute, in Major Campbell's question —

' Am I, then, so old a friend, Mrs. Vavasour ? '

' Of course ; who older ? '

Campbell was silent a moment. If he was inclined to choke,
at least Lucia did not see it.

' I trust I have not offended your — Mr. Vavasour ? '

' Oh ! ' she said, with a forced gaiety, ' only one of his poetic
fancies. He wanted so much to see ]Mr. Mellot photograph the
waterfall. I hope he will be in time to find him.'

'I am a plain soldier, Mrs. Vavasour, and I only ask because
I do not understand. What are poetic fancies ? '

Lucia looked up in his face puzzled, and saw there an expres-
sion so grave, pitying, tender, that her heart leaped up toward
him, and then sank back again.

' Why do you ask ? Why need you know ? You are no
poet.'

' And for that very cause I ask you.'

' Oh, but,' said she, guessing at what was in his mind, and
trying, woman-like, to play purposely at cross purposes, and to
defend her husband at all risks; 'he has an extraordinary

XX BOTH SIDES OF THE MOON AT ONCE 339

poetic faculty, all the world agrees to that, ilajor Camp-
bell.'

'What matter?' said he. Lucia would have been very
angry, and perhaps ought to have been so ; for what business
of Campbell's was it whether her husband were kind to her or
not ? But there was a deep sadness, almost despair, in the tone,
which disarmed her.

'O Major Campbell, is it not a glorious thing to be a poet?
And is it not a glorious thing to be a poet's wife ? Oh, for the
sake of that — if I could but see him honoured, appreciated,
famous, as he will be some day ! Though I think ' (and she
spoke with all a woman's pride) ' he is somewhat famous now,
is he not ? '

' Famous ? Yes,' answered Campbell, with an abstracted
voice, and then rejoined quickly, ' If you could but see that,
what then?'

' Why then,' said she, with a half smile (for she had nearly
entrapped herself into an admission of what she was deter-
mined to conceal), 'why then, I should be still more what I
am now, his devoted little wife, who cares for nobody and
nothing but putting his study to rights, and bringing up his
children.'

' Happy children ! ' said he, after a pause, and half to himself,
' who have such a mother to bring them up.'

' Do you really think so ? But flattery used not to be one of
your sins. Ah, I wish you could give me some advice about
how I am to teach them.'

' So it is she who has the work of education, not he ! '
thought Campbell to himself, and then answered gaily —

' My dear madam, what can a confirmed old bachelor like me
know about children ? '

' Oh, don't you know ' (and she gave one of her pretty Irish
laughs) ' that it is the old maids who always write the children's
books, for the benefit of us poor ignorant married women ? But '
(andshe spoke earnestly again) ' we all know how wise and good
you are. I did not know it in old times. I am afraid I used
to torment you when I was young and foolish.'

' Where on earth can Mellot and Mr. Vavasour be ? ' asked
Campbell.

' Oh, never mind ; ^Ir. Mellot has gone wandering down the
glen with his apparatus, and my Elsley has gone wandering
after him, and will find him in due time, with his head in a black
bag, and a great bull just going to charge him from behind, like
that hapless man in Punch. I always tell Mr. Mellot that will
be his end.'

Campbell was deeply shocked to hear the light tone in which
she talked of the passionate temper of a man whom she so surely
loved. How many outbursts of it there must have been ; how
many paroxysms of astonishment, shame, grief — perhaps, alas !

340 TWO YEARS AGO ' "AP.

counterbursts of anger — ere that heart could liave become thus
proof against the ever-lowering thunderstorm !

' Well,' he said, ' all we can do is to walk down to the car,
and let them follow ; and, meanwhile, I will give you my wise
opinion about this education question, whereof I know nothing.'

' It will be all oracular to me, for I know nothing either ; '
and she put her arm through his, and walked on.

' Did you hurt yourself then ? I am sure you are in pain.'

'I? Never less free from it, with many thanks to you.
What made you think so 1 '

'I heard you breathe so hard, and quite .stamp your feet, I
thought. I suppose it was fancy.'

It was not fancy, nevertheless, ilajor Campbell ^vas stamp-
ing down something, and succeeded, too, in crushing it.

They walked on toward the car, Valentia and Headley follow-
ing them ; ere they arrived at the place where they were to meet
it, it was quite dark ; but what was more important, the car was
not there.

' The stupid man must have mistaken his orders, and gone
home.'

'Or let the horse go home of itself, while he was asleep
inside. He was more than half tipsy when we started.'

So spoke the major, divining the exact truth. There was
nothing to be done but to walk the four miles home, and let the
two truants follow as they could.

' We shall have plenty of time for our educational lecture,'
said Lucia.

'Plenty of time to waste, then, my dear lady.'

'Oh, I never talk with you fi\e minutes — I do not know why
— without feeling wiser and happier. I envy \'alentia for having
seen so much of you of late.'

Little thought poor Lucia, as she spoke tliose innocent words,
that within four yards of her, crouched behind the wall, his face
and every limb writhing with mingled curiosity and rage, was
none other but her husband.

He had given place to the devil : and the de\ il (for tlie
'superstitious' and 'old world' notion which attributes such
frenzies to the devil has not yet been supeVseded by a better one)
had entered into him, and concentrated all the evil habits and
passions which he had indulged for years into one Haming hell
within him.

Miserable man ! His torments were sevenfold : and if he had
sinned, he was at least punished. Not merely by all which a
husband has a right to feel in such a ease, or fancies that he has
a right ; not merely by tortured vanity and self-conceit, by the
agony of seeing any man preferred to him, which to a man of
Elsley's character was of itself unbearable — not merely by the
loss of trust in one whom he had once trusted utterly — but, over
and above all, and worst of all, by the feeling of shame, self-

XX BOTH SIDES OF THE MOON AT ONCE 341

reproach, self-hatred, wliicli haunts a jealous man, and which
ought to haunt him ; for few men lose the love of women who
have once loved them, save by their own folly or baseness — by
the recollection that he had traded on her trust ; that he had
drugged his own conscience with the fancy that she must love
him always, let him do what he would ; and had neglected and
insulted her affection, because he fancied, in his conceit, that it
was inalienable. And with the loss of self-respect, came reck-
lessness of it, and drove him on, as it has jealous men in all a^es,
to meannesses unspeakable, which have made them for centuries,
poor wretches, the butts of worthless play-wrights, and the scorn
of their fellow-men.

Elsley had wandered, he hardly knew how or whither, for his
calling to ilellot was the merest blind, — stumbling over rocks,
bruising himself against tree-trunks, to this wall. He knew
they must pass it. He waited for them, and had his reward.
Blind with rage, he hardly waited for the sound of their foot-
steps to die away before he had sprung into the road, and hur-
ried up it in the opposite direction, — anywhere, everywhere, — to
escape from them, and from self. Whipt by the furies, he fled
along the road and up the vale, he carea not whither.

And what were Headley and Valentia, who of necessity had
paired off together, doing all the while ?

They walked on silently side by side for ten minutes ; then
Frank said —

'I have been impertinent, Miss St. Just, and I beg your
pardon.'

' No, you have not,' said she, quite hastily. ' You were right,
too right, — has it not been proved within the last five minutes 1
ily poor sister ! What can be done to mend Mr. Vavasour's
temper ? I wish you could talk to him, Mr. Headley.'

' He is beyond my art. His age, and his talents, and his — his
consciousness of them,' said Frank, using the mildest term he
could find, 'would prevent so insignificant a person as me
having any influence. But what I cannot do, God's grace may.'

' Can it change a man's character, Mr. Headley ? It may
make good men better — but can it cure temper ? '

' Major Campbell must have told you that it can do anything.'

' Ah, yes : with men as wise, and strong, and noble as he is ;
but with such a weak, vain man '

' Miss St. Just, I know one who is neither wise, nor strong,
nor noble, but as weak and vain as any man ; in whom God has
conquered — as He may conquer yet in Jlr. Vavasour — all which
makes man cling to life.'

' What, all ? ' asked she, suspecting, and not wrongly, that he
spoke of himself.

' All, I suppose, which it is good for them to have crushed.
There are feelings which last on, in spite of all struggles to
quench them — I suppose, because they ought to last ; because,

342 TWO ^'EARS AGO chap.

while they torture, they still ennoble. Death will quench
them : or if not, satisfy them : or if not, set them at rest
somehow.'

' Death ? ' answered she, in a startled tone.

'Yes. Our friend, Major Campbell's friend, death. We
have been seeing a good deal of him together lately, and ha\ i'
come to the conclusion that he is the most useful, pleasant, and
instructive of all friends.'

' O Mr. Headley, do not speak so ! Are you in earnest ? '

'So much in earnest, that I have resolved to go out as an
army chaplain, to see in the war somewhat more of my new
friend.'

'Impossible! Mr. Headley; it will kill you! All that hor-
rible fever and cholera ! '

'And what possible harm can it do me, if it does kill nip,
Miss St. Just ! '

' Mr. Headley, this is madness ! I — we cannot allow you to
throw away your life thus — so young, and — and such prospect.s
before you ! And there is nothing that my brother would not
do for you, were it only for your heroism at Aberalva. There is
not one of the family who does not love and lespect you, and
long to see all the world appreciating you as we do ; and your
poor mother '

' I have told my mother all, Miss St. Just. And she has said,
Go ; it is your only hope. She has other sons to comfort her.
Let us say no more of it. Had I thought that you would have
disapproved of it, I would never have mentioned the thing.'

' Disapprove of — your going to die ? You shall not ! And for
me, too : for I guess all — all is my fault ! '

' All is mine,' said he quietly • ' who was fool enough to fancy
that I could forget you — conquer my love for you ; ' and at
these words his whole voice and manner changed in an instant
into wildest passion. ' I must speak — now and never more — I
love you still, fool that I am ! Would God I had never seen
you ! No, not that. Thank God for that to the last : but
would God I had died of that cholera ! that I had never come
here, conceited fool that I was, fancying that it was possible,

after having once No ! Let me go, go anywhere, where

I may burden you no more with my absurd dreams ! You, who
have had the same thing said to you, and in finer words, a
hundred times, by men who would not deign to speak to me ! '
and covering his face in his hands, he strode on, as if to
escape.

' I never had the same thing said to me ! '

' Never 1 How often have fine gentlemen, noblemen, sworn
that they were dying for you ? '

' They never have said to me what you have done.'

' No — I am clumsy, I suppose '

' Mr. Headley, indeed you are unjust to yourself — unjust to me !'

XX BOTH SIDES OF THE MOON AT ONCE 343

' I — to you ? Never ! I know you better than you know
yourself — see in you what no one else sees. Oh, what fools they
are who say that love is blind ! Blind ? He sees souls with
God's own light ; not as they have become : but as they ought
to become — can become — are already in tlie sight of Him who
made them ! '

' And what might I become 1 ' asked she, half- frightened by
the new earnestness of his utterance.

' How can I tell ? Something infinitely too high for me, at
least, who even now am not worthy to kiss the dust off your
feet.'

' Oh, do not speak so : little do you know ! No, Mr.

Headley, it is you who are too good for me ; too noble, single-
eyed, self-sacrificing, to endure my vanity and meanness for a

day.'

' Madam, do not speak thus ! Give me no word which my
folly can distort into a ray of hope, unless you wish to drive me
mad. No ! it is impossible ; and, were it possible, what but
ruin to my soul ? I should live for you, and not for my work.
I should become a schemer, ambitious, intriguing, in the vain
hope of proving myself to the world worthy of you. No ; let
it be. "Let the dead bury their dead, and follow thou me." '

She made no answer — what answer was there to make ? And
he strode on by her side in silence for full ten minutes. At last
she was forced to speak.

' Mr. Headley, recollect that this conversation has gone too
far for us to avoid coming to some definite understanding '

' Then it shall, Miss St. Just. Then it shall, once and for all :
formally and deliberately, it shall end now. Suppose — I only
say suppose — that I could, without failing in my own honour,
my duty to my calling, make myself such a name among good
men, that, poor parson though I be, your family need be ashamed
of nothing about me, save my poverty. Tell me, now and for
ever, could it be possible '

He stopped. She walked on, silent, in her turn.

' Say no, as a matter of course, and end it ! ' said he bitterly.

She drew a long breath, as if heaving off a weight.

' I cannot — dare not say it.'

' It 1 Which of the two ? yes, or no ?'

She was silent.

He stopped, and spoke calmly and slowly. 'Say that
again, and tell me that I am not dreaming. You ? the ad-
mired ! the worshipped ! the luxurious ! — and no blame to you
that you are what you were born — could you endure a little
parsonage, the teaching village school-children, tending dirty
old women, and petty cares the whole year round ? '

' Mr. Headley,' answered she, slowly and calmly, in her turn,
' I could endure a cottage — a prison, I fancy, at moments — to
escape from this world of which I am tired, which will soon

344 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

be tired of me ; from women who envy me, imjjute to me am-
bitions as base as their own ; from men who admire — not me,
for they do not know me, and never will — but what in me— I
hate them ! — will give them pleasure. I hate it all, despise it
all ; despise myself for it all every morning when I wake !
What does it do for me, but lOuse in me the very parts of my
own character which are most despicable, most tormenting ?
If it goes on, I feel I could become as frivolous, as mean, ay,
as wicked as the worst. You do not know — you do not

know . I have envied the nuns their con\ents. I have

envied Selkirk his desert island. I envy now the milkmaids
there below : anything to escape and be in earnest, anything
for some one to teach me to be of use ! ^ es, this cholera
— and this war — though only, only its coming shadow has
passed over me — and your words too ' — cried she, and stopped
and hesitated, as if afraid to tell too much — ' they have
wakened me — to a new life — at least to the dream of a new
life ! ■

'Have you not Major Campbell?' said Headley, with a
terrible effort of will.

' Yes — but has he taught me 1 He is dear, and good, and
wise ; but he is too wise, too great for me. He plays with me
as a lion might with a mouse ; he is like a grand angel far
above in another planet, who can pity and advise, but who
cannot — What am I saying 1 ' and she covered her face with her
hand.

She dropped her glove as she did so. Headley picked it up
and gave it to her : as he did so their hands met ; and their
hands did not part again.

' You know that I love you, Yalentia St. Just.'

'Too well! too weU!'

' But you know, too, that you do not love me.'

' Who told you so ? What do you know 1 What do I know ?
Only that I long for some one to make me — to make me as good
as you are ! ' And she burst into tears.

' Yalentia. will you trust me ? '

' Yes ! ' cried she, looking up at him suddenly : ' if you will
not go to the war.'

' No — no — no ! Would you have me turn traitor and coward
to God ; and now, of all moments in my life ? '

' Noble creature ! ' said she ; ' you will make me lo^-e you
whether I wish or not.'

What was it, after all, by which Frank Headley won Yalentia's
lo\e ? I cannot tell. Can you tell, sir, how you won the love of
your wife ? As little as you can tell of that still greater miracle
— how you have kept her love since she found out what manner
of man you were.

So they paced homeward, hand in hand, beside the shining
ripples, along the Dinas shore. The birches breathed fragrance

XX BOTH SIDES OF THE MOON AT ONCE 345

on tliem ; the night-hawk churred softly round their path ; the
stately mountains smiled above them in the moonlight, and
seemed to keep watch and ward over their love, and to shut out
the noisy world, and the harsh babble and vain fashions of the
town. The summer lightning flickered to the westward ; but
round them the rich soft night seemed full of love, — as full of
love as their own hearts were, and like them, brooding silently
upon its joy. At last the walk was over ; the kind moon sank
low behind the hills ; and the darkness hid their blushes as they
paced into the sleeping village, and their hands parted unwil-
lingly at last.

When they came into the hall through the group of lounging
gownsmen and tourists, they found Bowie arguing with Mrs.
Lewis, in his dogmatic Scotch way —

' So ye see, madam, there's no use defending the drunken loon
any more at all ; and here will my leddies have just walked their
bonny legs off', all through that carnal sin of drunkenness, which
is the curse of your Welsh populaaation.'

' And not quite unknown north of Tweed either, Bowie,' said
Valentia, laughing. 'There now, say no more about it. We
have had a delightful walk, and nobody is the least tired.
Don't say any more, Mrs. Lewis : but tell them to get us some
supper. Bowie, so my lord has come in ? '

' This half -hour good ! '

' Has he had any sport 1 '

' Sport ! ay, troth ! Five fish in the day. That's a river
indeed at Bettws ! Not a pawky wee burn, like this Aberglas-
lyn thing.'

' Only five fish ? ' said Valentia in a frightened tone.

'Fish, my leddy, not trouts, I said. I thought ye knew
better than that by this time.'

'Oh, salmon?' cried Valentia, relieved. 'Delightful. I'll go
to him this moment.'

And upstairs to Scoutbush's rooms she went.

He was sitting in dressing-gown and slippers, sipping his
claret, and fondling his fly-book (the only one he ever studied
con amore) with a most complacent face. She came in and
stood demurely before him, holding her broad hat in both hands
before her knees, like a schoolgirl, her face half -hidden in the
black curls. Scoutbush looked up and smiled affectionately, as
he caught the light of her eyes and the arch play of her lips.

' Ah ! there you are, at a pretty time of night ! How beauti-
ful you look, Val ! I wish my wife may be half as pretty ! '

Valentia made him a prim courtsey.

'I am delighted to hear of my lord's good sport. He will
choose to be in a good humour, I suppose.'

' Good humour ? ca va sans dire ! Three stone of fish in three
hours ! '

' Then his little sister is going to do a very foolish thing, and

346 TAVO YEARS AGO chap.

wants his leave to do it ; which if he will grant, she will let him
do as many foolish things as he likes without scolding liim, as
long as they both shall live.'

' Do it then, I beg. What is it ? Do you want to go up
Snowdon with Headley to-morrow, to see tlie sun rise ? You'll
kill yourself ! '

' No,' said Valentia very quietly ; ' I only want to marry
him.'

' Marry him ! ' cried Scoutbush, starting up.

' Don't try to look majestic, my dear little brother, for you
are really not tall enough ; as it is, you have only hooked all
your flies into your dressing-gown.'

Scoutbush dashed himself down into his chair again.

' I'll be shot if you shall ! '

' You may be shot just as surely, whether I do or not,' said
she softly ; and she knelt down before him, and put her arms
round him, and laid her head upon his lap. ' There, you cant
run away now ; so you must hear me quietly. And you know
it may not be often that we shall be together again thus ; and
O Scoutbush ! brother ! if anything was to happen to you — I
only say if — in this horrid war, you would not like to think
that you had refused the last thing your little Val asked for,
and that she was miserable and lonely at home.'

'I'll be shot if you shall ! ' was all the poor viscount could get
out.

' Yes, miserable and lonely ; you gone away, and mon Saint
Pfere too ; and Lucia, she has her children — and I am so wild
and weak — I must have some one to guide me and protect me —
indeed I must ! '

' Why, that was what I always said ! That was why I
wanted you so to marry this season ! Why did not you take
Chalkclere, or half a dozen good matches who were dying for
you, and not this confounded black parson, of all birds in the
airr

' I did not take Lord Chalkclere for the very reason that I do
take ilr. Headley. I want a husband who will guide me, not
one whom I must guide.'

'Guide?' said Scoutbush bitterly, with one of those little
sparks of practical shrewdness which sometimes fell from him.
' Ay, I see how it is ! These intriguing rascals of parsons —
they begin as father confessors, like so many popish priests ;
and one fine morning they blossom out into lovers, and so they
get all the pretty women, and all the good fortunes — the sneak-
ing, ambitious, low-bred '

' He is neither ! You are unjust, Scoutbush ! ' cried Yalentia,
looking up. ' He is the very soul of honour. He might be rich
now, and have had a line living, if he had not been too con-
scientious to let his uncle buy him one ; and that offended his
uncle, and he would allow him nothing. ;Vnd as for being low-

XX BOTH SIDES OF THE MOON AT ONCE 347

bred, he is a gentlemnii, as you know ; and if his uncle be in
business, his mother is a Uidy, and he will be well enough off
one day.'

'You seem to know a great deal about his affairs.'

' He told me all, months ago — before there wa.s any dream of
this. And, my dear,' she went on, relapsing into her usual arch
tone, 'there is no fear but his uncle will be glad enough to
patronise him again, when he finds that he has married a vis-
count's sister.'

Scoutbush laughed. ' You scheming little Irish rogue ! But
I won't. I've said it, and I won't. It's enough to have one
sister married to a poor poet, without having another married
to a poor parson. Oh ! what have I done that I should be
bothered in this way ? Isn't it bad enough to be a landlord, and
to have an estate, and be responsible for a lot of people that
will die of the cholera, and have to vote in the house about a
lot of things I don't understand, nor anybody else, I believe, but
that, over and above, I must be the head of the family, and
answerable to all the world for whom my mad sisters marry ? I
won't, I say ! '

'Then I shall just go and marry without your leave ! I'm of
age, you know, and my fortune's my own ; and then we shall
come in as the runaway couples do in a play, while you sit
there in your dressing-gown as the stern father — won't you
borrow a white wig for the occasion, my lord ? — and we shall
fall down on our knees so,' — and she put herself in the prettiest
attitude in the world, — 'and beg your blessing — please forgive
us this time, and we'll never do so any more ! And then you
will turn your face away, like the baron in the ballad —

' " .\ad brushed away the springing tear
He proudly strove to hide,"

etcetera, etcetera. Finish the scene for yourself, with a " Bless
ye, my children ; bless ye ! " '

' Go along, and marry the cat if' you like ! You are mad ;
and I am mad ; and all the world's mad, I think.'

' There,' she said, ' I knew that he would be a good boy at
last ! ' And she sprang up, threw her arms round his neck,
and, to his great astonishment, burst into the most violent fit of
crying.

' Good gracious, Valentia ! do be reasonable ! You'll go into
a fit, or somebody will hear you ! You know how I hate a scene.
Do be good, there's a darling ! Why didn't you tell me at first
how much you wished for it, and I would have said yes in a
moment.'

' Because I didn't know myself,' cried she passionately.
' There, I will be good, and love you better than all the world,
except one. And if you let those horrid Russians hurt you, I

348 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

will hate you as long as I live, and be miserable all my life
afterwards.'

'Why, Valentia, do you know, that sounds very like a bull?'

'Am I not a wild Irish girl?' said she, and hurried out,
leaving Scoutbush to return to his flies.

She bounded into Lucia's room, there to pour out a bursting
heart — and stopped short.

Lucia was sitting on the bed, her shawl and bonnet tossed
upon the floor, lier head sunk on her bosom, lier arms sunk by
her side.

' Lucia, what is it ? Speak to me, Lucia ! '

She pointed faintly to a letter on the floor. Valentia caught
it up : Lucia made a gesture as if to stop her.

' No, you must not read it. Too dreadful ! '

But Valentia read it ; while Lucia covered her face in her
hands, and uttered a long, low, shuddering moan of bitter
agony.

Valentia read, with flashing eyes and bursting brow. It was
a hideous letter. The words of a man trying to supply the place
of strength by \irulence. A hideous letter, unfit to be written
here.

'Valentia! Valentia! It is false— a mistake ; he is dreaming.
You know it is false ! You will not leave me too ? '

Valentia dashed it on the ground, clasped her sister in her
arms, and covered her head with kisses.

' JNIy Lucia ! My own sweet good sister ! Base, cowardly,'
sobbed she in her rage ; while Lucia's agony began to find a
vent in words, and she moaned on —

' What have I done ? All that flower, that horrid flower ;
but who would liave dreamed — and ilajor Campbell, too, of all
men upon earth ? Valentia, it is some horrid delusion of the
devil. Why, he was there all the while, and you too. Could
he think that I should before his very face ? What must he
fanOT me ? Oli, it is a delusion of the devil, and nothing else ! '

' He is a wretch ! I will take the letter to my brother ; he
shall right you ! '

' Ah no ! no I never ! Let me tear it to atoms — hide it ! It
is all a mistake ! He did not mean it ! He will recollect him-
self to-morrow and come back.'

' Let him come back if he dare ! ' cried Valentia, in a tone
which said, ' I could kill him with my own hands ! '

' Oh, he will come back ! He cannot have the heart to leave
his poor little Lucia. O cruel, cowardly, not to have said one
word — not one word to e.x^plain all ; but it was all my fault, my
wicked, odious temper ; and after I had seen how vexed he was,
too ! O Elsley, Elsley, come back, only come back, and I will
beg your pardon on my knees ! anything I Scold me, beat me,
if you will ! I deserve it all I Only come back, and let me see
your face, and hear your voice, instead of leaving me here all

XX BOTH SIDES OF THE MOON AT ONCE 349

alone, and the poor children too ! Oh, what shall I say to them
to-morrow, when they wake and find no father ? '

Valentia's indignation had no words. She could only sit on
the bed, with Lucia in her arms, looking defiance at all the
world above that fair head \\hich one moment dropped on her
bosom, and the next gazed up into her face in pitiful childlike
pleading.

' Oh, if I but knew where he was gone ! If I could but find
him ! One word — one word would set all right ! It always
did, Valentia, always ! He was so kind, so dear in a moment,
when I put away my naughty, naughty temper, and smiled in
his face like a good wife. Wicked creature that I was ! and
this is my punishment. O Elsley, one word, one word ! I
must find him if I went barefoot over the mountains. I must
go, I must '

And she tried to rise ; but Valentia held her down, while she
entreated piteously —

' I will go, and see about finding him ! ' she said at last, as her
only resource. 'Promise me to be quiet here, and I will.'

' Quiet ? Yes, quiet here ! ' and she threw herself upon her
face on the floor.

She looked up eagerly. ' You will not tell Scoutbush t '

'Wh;ynot?'

'He is so — so hasty. He will kill him! Valentia, he will
kill him ! Promise me not to tell Jiim, or I shall go mad ! ' And
she sat up again, pressing her hands upon her liead, and rocking
from side to side.

' O Valentia, if I dared only scream ! but keeping it in kills
me. It is like a sword through my brain now ! '

' Let me call Clara.'

' No, no ! not Clara. Do not tell her. I will be quiet ;
indeed I will ; only come back soon, soon, for I am all alone,
alone ! ' And she threw herself down again upon her face

Valentia went out. Certain as she was of her sister's inno-
cence, there was one terrible question in her heart which must
be answered, or her belief in all truth, goodness, religion, would
reel and rock to its very foundations. And till she had an
answer to that, she could not sit still by Lucia.

She walked hurriedly, with compressed lips, but quivering
limbs, downstairs, and into the sitting-room. Scoutbush was
gone to bed. Campbell and Mellot sat chatting still.

' Where is my brother ? '

' Gone to bed, as some one else ought to be ; for it is past
twelve. Is Vavasour come in yet 1 '

'No.'

'Very odd,' said Claude; 'I never saw him after I left
you.'

' He said certainly that he was going to find you,' said
Campbell.

350 TWO YEARS AGO ( hap.

' Tliere is no need for speculating,' said Valentia quietly ; ' my
sister has a note from Mr. Vavasour at Pen-y-gwrycl.'

' Pen-y-gwryd ? ' cried both men at once.

' Yes. Major Campbell, I wish to show it to you.'

Yalentia's tone and manner was significant enough to make
Claude Mellot bid them both good-night.

When he had shut the door behind him, Valentia put the
letter into the major's hand.

He was too much absorbed in it to look up at her ; but if he
had done so, he would have been startled by the fearful capacity
of passion which changed, for tjie moment, that gay Queen
Whims into a terrible Roxana, as she stood, leaning against the
mantelpiece, but drawn up to her full height, her lips tight
shut, eyes which gazed through and through him in awful
scrutiny, holding her very breath, while a nervous clutching of
the little hand said, ' If you have tampered with my sister's
heart, better for you that you were dead ! '

He read it through, once, twice, with li\id face ; then dashed
it on the floor.

'Fool ! — cur ! — liar ! — she is as pure as God's sunlight.'

' You need not tell me that,' said Valentia, through her closed
teeth.

'Fool! — fool!' And then, in a moment, his voice changed
from indignation to tlie bitterest self-reproach. 'And fool I ;
thrice fool ! Who am I, to rail on him ? O God I what have I
done 1 ' And he covered Ids face with his hands.

' What have you done ? ' literally shrieked Valentia.

' Nothing that you or man can blame. Miss St. Just ! Can
you dream that, sinful as I am, I could ever harbour a thought
toward her of which I should be ashamed before the angels of

God r

He looked up as he spoke, with an utter humility and an
intense honesty which unnerved her at once.

' O my Saint Pere ! ' and she held out both her hands.
' Forgive me, if — only for a moment '

'I am not your Saint Pere, nor any one's! I am a poor,
weak, conceited, miserable man, who by his accursed impertin-
ence has broken the heart of the being whom he loves best on
earth.'

Valentia started : but ere she could ask for an explanation,
lie rejoined wildly —

'How is she? Tell me only that, this once ! Has it killed
her ? Does she hate him ? '

'Adores him more than over. Major Campbell I it is
too piteous, too piteous.'

He covered his face witli his hands, shuddering. 'Thank
God ! yes, thank God ! So it should be. Let her love him to
the last, and win her martyr's crown ! Now, Valentia St. Just,
sit down, if but for five minutes ; and listen, once for all, to the

XX BOTH SIDES OF THE MOON AT ONCE 351

last words, perhaps, you will ever hear me speak ; unless she
wants you 1 '

'No, no ! Tell me all, Saint Pere ! ' said Valentia, 'for I am
walking in a dream — a double dream ! ' as the new thought of
Headley, and that walk, came over her. ' Tell me all at once,
while I have wits left to comprehend.'

'Miss St. Just,' said he, in a clear calm voice. 'It is fit, for
her honour and for mine, that you should know all. The first
day that I ever saw your sister, I loved lier ; as a man loves who
can never cease to love, or love a second time. I was a raw,
awkward Scotchman then, and she used to laugh at me. Why
not ? I kept my secret, and determined to become a man at
whom no one would wish to laugh. I was in the Company's
service then. You recollect her jesting once about the Indian
army, and my commanding black people, and saying that the
Line only was fit for — some girl's jest ? '

' No ; I recollect nothing of it.'

' I never forgot it. I threw up all my prospects, and went
into the Line. Whether I won honour there or not, I need not
tell you. I came back to England years after, not unworthy,
as I fancied, to look your sister in the face as an equal. I found
her married.'

He paused a little, and then went on, in a quiet business-like
tone.

' Good. Her choice was sure to be a worthy one, and that
was enough for me. You need not doubt that I kept my secret
then more sacredly than ever. I returned to India, and tried to
die. I dared not kill myself, for I was a soldier and a christian,
and belonged to God and my Queen. The Sikhs would not kill
me, do what I would to help them. Then I threw myself into
science, that I might stifle passion ; and I stifled it. I fancied
myself cured, and I was cured ; and I returned to England
again. I loved your brother for her sake ; I loved you at first
for her sake, then for your own. But I presumed upon my cure ;
I accepted your brother's invitation ; I caught at the oppor-
tunity of seeing her again — happy — as I fancied ; and of prov-
ing to myself my own soundness. I considered myself a sort of
Melchisedek, neither young nor old, without passions, without
purpose on earth — a fakeer who had licence to do and to dare
what others might not. But I kept my secret proudly inviolate.
I do not believe at this moment she dreams that — do you ? '

' She does not.'

' Thank God ! I was a most conceited fool, puffed up with
spiritual pride, tempting God needlessly. I went, I saw her.
Heaven is my witness that, as far as passion goes, my heart is as
pure as yours : but I found that I still cared more for her than
for any being on earth : and I found too the sort of man upon
whom — God forgive me ! I must not talk of that — I despised
him, hated him, pretended to teach him his duty, by behaving

352 TWO YEARS AGO niAP.

better to her than he did — the spiritual coxcomb that I was !
What business had I witii it? Why not have left all to God
and her good sense ? The devil tempted me to-day, in the shape
of an angel of courtesy and chivalry ; and here the end is come.
I must find that man, iliss St. Just, if I travel the world in
search of him. I must ask his pardon frankly, humbly, for my
impertinence. Perhaps so I may bring him back to her, and not
die with a curse on my head for having parted those whom God
has joined. And then to the old fighting-trade once more — the
only one, I believe, I really understand ; and see whether a
Russian bullet will not fly straighter than a clumsy Sikh's.'

Valentia listened, awe-stricken ; and all the more so because
this was spoken in a calm, half-abstracted voice, without a note
of feeling, save where lie alluded to his own mistakes, ^^^len it
was over, she rose without a word, and took both his Iiands in
her own, sobbing bitterly.

' You forgive me, then, all the misery which I have caused ? '

' Do not talk so ! Only forgive me having fancied for one
moment that you were anything but what you are, an angel out
of heaven.'

Campbell hung down his head.

'Angel, truly ! Azrael, the angel of death, then. Go to her
now —go, and leave a humble penitent man alone with God.'

' O my Saint P^re ! ' cried she, bursting into tears. ' This
is too wretched — all a horrid dream — and when, too — when I
had been counting on telling you something so different 1 — I
cannot now, I have not the heart.'

' What, more misery ? '

' Oh no ! no ! no ! You will know all to-morrow. Ask
Scoutbush.'

' I shall be gone in search of that man long before Scoutbush
is awake.'

' Impossible ! you do not know whither he is gone.'

' If I employ every detective in Bow Street, I will find him.'

' Wait, only wait, till the post comes in to-morrow. He will
surely write, if not to her, — wretch that he is ! — at least to some
of us.'

' If he be alive. Xo. I must go up to Pen-y-gwryd, where
he was last seen, and find out what I can.'

' They will all be in bed at this hour of the night ; and if — if
anything has happened, it will be over by now,' added she
with a shudder.

' God forgive me ! It will indeed : but he may write — per-
haps to me. He is no coward, I believe : and he may send me
a challenge. Yes, I will wait for the post.'

' Shall you accept it if he does ? '

Major Campbell smiled sadly.

' No, iliss St. Just ; you may set your mind at rest upon
that point. I have done quite enough harm already to your

xxi NATURE'S MELODRAMA 353

family. Now, good-bye ! I will wait for the post to-morrow :
do you go to your sister.'

Valentia went, utterly bewildered. She had forgotten Frank,
Ijut Frank had not forgotten her. He had hurried to his room ;
lay till morning, sleepless with delight, and pouring out his
pure spirit in thanks for this great and unexpected blessing. A
new life had begun for him, even in the jaws of death. He
would still go to the East. It seemed easy to him to go there
in search of a grave ; how much more now, when he felt so full
of magic life, that fever, cholera, the chances of war, could not
harm him ! After this proof of God's love, how could he doubt,
how fear ?

Little he thought that, three doors off from him, Valentia
was sitting up the whole night through, vainly trying to quiet
Lucia, who refused to undress, and paced up and down her
room, hour after hour, in wild misery, which I have no skill to
detail.

CHAPTER XXI

nature's melodrama

What, then, had become of Elsley ? And whence had he
written the fatal letter ? He had hurried up the high road for
half an hour and more, till the valley on the left sloped upward
more rapidly, in dark dreary bogs, the moonlight shining on
their runnels ; while the mountain on his right sloped down-
wards more rapidly in dark dreary down, strewn with rocks
which stood out black against the sky. He was nearing the
head of the watershed ; soon he saw slate roofs glittering in the
moonlight, and found himself at the little inn of Pen-y-gwryd,
at the meeting of the three great valleys, the central heart of
the mountains.

And a genial, jovial little heart it is, and an honest, kindly
little heart too, with warm life-blood within. So it looked that
night, with every window red with comfortable light, and a long
stream of glare pouring across the road from the open door,
gilding the fir-tree tops in front : but its geniality only made
him shudder. He had been there more than once, and knew
the place and the people ; and knew, too, that of all people in
the world, they were the least like him. He hurried past the
doorway, and caught one glimpse of the bright kitchen. A
sudden thought struck him. He would go in and write his
letter there. But not yet — he could not go in yet ; for through
the open door came some sWeet Welsh air, so sweet, that even he
paused to listen. Men were singing in three parts, in that rich
metallic temper of voice, and that perfect time and tune, which
is the one gift still left to that strange Cymry race, worn out
with the long burden of so many thousand years. He knew the

2 A T. Y. A.

354 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

air ; it was 'The rising of the Lark.' Heavens ! what a bitter
contrast to his own thoughts ! But he stood rooted, as if spell-
bound, to hear it to the end. The lark's upward flight was
over ; and Elsley heard him come quivering down from heaven's
gate, fluttering, sinking, trilUng self-complacently, springing
aloft in one bar, only to sink lower in the next, and call more
softly to his brooding mate below ; till, worn out with his
ecstasy, lie murmured one last sigh of joy, and sank into the
nest. The picture flashed through Elsley 's brain as swiftly as
the notes did through his ears. He breathed more freely when
it vanished with the sounds. He strode hastily in, and down
the little passage to the kitchen.

It was a low room, ceiled with dark beams, from which liung
bacon and fishing-rods, harness and drying stockings, and all
the miscellanea of a fishing inn kept by a farmer, and beneath
it the usual happy, hearty, honest group. There was Harry
Owen, bland and stalwart, his baby in his arms, smiling upon
the world in general ■ old Mrs. Pritchard, bending over the fire,
putting the last touch to one of those miraculous soufilets, com-
pact of clouds and nectar, which transport alike palate and
fancy, at the first mouthful, from Snowdon to Belgrave Square.
A sturdy fair-haired Saxon Gourbannelig sat with his back to
the door, and two of the beautiful children on his knee, their
long locks flowing over the elbows of his shooting-jacket, as,
witli both arms round them, he made Punch for them with his
handkerchief and his fingers, and chattered to them in English,
while they chattered in Welsh. By him sat another Englishman,
to whom the three tuneful Snowdon guides, their music-score
upon their knees, sat listening approvingly, as he rolled out,
with voice as of a jolly blackbird, or jolUer monk of old, the
good old Wessex song —

' My dog he has his master's nose,
To smell a knave through silken hose ;
If friends or honest men go by,
Welcome, q^uoth my dog and I !

' Of foreign tongues let scholars brag,
With fifteen names for a pudding-bag :
Two tongues I know ne'er told a lie ;
And their wearers be, my dog and I ! '

' That ought to be Harry's song, and the colly's too, eh ? ' said
he, pointing to the dear old dog, who sat with his head on
Owen's knee — ' eh, my men ? Here's a health to the honest
man and his dog ! '

And all laughed and drank ; while Elsley's dark face looked
in at the doorway, and half turned to escape. Handsome lady-
like Mrs. Owen, bustling out of the kitchen with a supper-tray,
ran full against him, and uttered a, Welsh scream.

XXI nature's melodrama 355

' Show me a room, and bring me a pen and paper,' said he ;
and tlien started in his turn, as all had started at him ; for the
two Englishmen looked round, and, behold, to his disgust, the
singer was none other than Naylor ; the actor of Punch was
Wynd.

To have found his betes noirs even here, and at such a
moment ! And what was worse, to hear Mrs. Owen say, ' We
liave no room, sir, unless these gentlemen '

'Of course,' said Wynd, jumping up, a child under each arm.
■ Mr. Vavasour ! we shall he most happy to have your company,
— for a week if you will ! '

' Ten minutes' solitude is all I ask, sir, if I am not intruding
too far.'

' Two hours, if you like. We'll stay here. Mrs. Owen, — the
thicker the merrier.' But Elsley had vanished into a chamber
bestrewn with plaids, pipes, hobnail boots, fishing - tackle,
mathematical books, scraps of ore, and the wild confusion of a
gownsman's den.

' The party is taken ill with a poem,' said Wynd.

Naylor stuck out his heavy under-lip, and glanced sidelong
at his friend.

' With something worse, Ned. That man's eye and voice had
something uncanny in them. Mellot said he would go crazed
some day ; and be hanged if I don't think he is so now.'

Another five minutes, and Elsley rang the bell violently for
hot brandy-and-water.

!Mrs. Owen came back looking a little startled, a letter in her
hand.

' The gentleman had drunk the liquor off at one draught, and
ran out of the house like a wild man. Harry Owen must go
down to Beddgelert instantly with the letter : and there was
five shillings to pay for all.'

Harry Owen rises, like a strong and patient beast of burden,
ready for any amount of walking, at any hour in the twenty-
four. He has been up Snowdon once to-day already. He is
going up again at twelve to-night, with a German who wants
to see the sun rise ; he deputes that office to John Roberts, and
strides out.

' Whicli way did the gentleman go, Mrs. Owen ? ' asks Naylor.

' Capel Curig road.'

Naylor whispers to Wynd, who sets the two little girls on the
table, and hurries out with him. They look up the road, and
see no one ; run a couple of hundred yards, where they catch a
sight of the next turn, clear in the moonlight. There is no one
on the road.

' Run to the bridge, Wynd,' whispers Naylor. ' He may have
thrown himself over.'

' Tally ho ! ' whispers Wynd in return, laying his hand on
Naylor's arm, and pointing to the left of the road.

356 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

A hundred yards from them, over the boggy upland, among
scattered boulders, a dark figure is moving. Now he stops short,
gesticulating ; turns right and left irresolutely. At last he
hurries on and upward ; he is running, springing from stone to
stone.

'There is but one thing, Wynd. After him, or he'll drown
himself in Llyn Cwm Fynnon.'

'No, he's striking to the right. Can he be going up the
Glyder?'

' We'll see that in five minutes. All in the day's work, mj'
boy ! I could go up ilont Blanc witli such a dinner in me.'

The two gallant; men run in, struggle into their wet boots
again, and provisioned with meat and bread, whisky, tobacco,
and plaids, are away upon Elsley's tracks, having left Mrs. Owen
disconsolate by their announcement, that a sudden fancy to
sleep on the Glyder has seized them. Nothing more will they
tell her, or any one, being gentlemen, however much slang they
may talk in private.

Elsley left the door of Pen-y-gwryd, careless whither he went,
if he went only far enough.

In front of him rose the Glyder ^'awr, its head shrouded in
soft mist, through which the moonlight gleamed upon the
chequered quarries of that enormous desolation, the dead bones
of the eldest-born of time. A wild longing seized him ; he
would escape up thither ; up into those clouds, up anywhere to
be alone — alone with his miserable self. That was dreadful
enough : but less dreadful than having a companion — ay, even
a stone by him — which could remind him of the scene which he
had left ; even remind him that there was another human being
on earth beside himself. Yes — to put that clilF between him
and all the world ! Away he plunged from the high road,
splashing over boggy uplands, scrambling among scattered
boulders, across a stormy torrent bed, and then across another
and another : — when would he reach that dark marbled wall,
which rose into the infinite blank, looking within a stone-
throw of him, and yet no nearer after he had walked a mile ?

He reached it at last, and rushed up the talus of boulders,
springing from stone to stone ; till his breath failed him, and he
was forced to settle into a less frantic pace. But upward he
would go, and upward he went, with a strength which he never
had felt before. Strong ? How should he not be strong, while
every vein felt filled with molten lead ; while some unseen
power seemed not so much to attract him upwards, as to drive
him by magical repulsion from all that he had left below ?

So upward and upward ever, driven on by the terrible gad-
fly, like lo of old he went ; stumbling upwards along torrent
beds of slippery slate, writliing himself upward through crannies
where the waterfall plashed cold upon his chest and face, yet
could not cool the inward fire ; climbing, hand and knee, up

XXI NATURE S MELODRAMA 357

cliffs of sharp-edged rock ; striding ovel- downs where huge
rocks lay crouched in the grass, like fossil monsters of some
ancient world, and seemed to stare at him with still and angry
brows. Upward still, to black terraces of lava, standing out
hard and black against the gray cloud, gleaming, like iron in
the moonlight, stair above stair, like those over which Vathek
and the princess climbed up to the halls of Eblis. Over their
crumbling steps, up through their cracks and crannies, out upon
a dreary slope of broken stones, and then — before he dives up-
ward into the cloud ten yards above his head — one breathless
look back upon the world.

The horizontal curtain of mist ; gauzy below, fringed with
white tufts and streamers, deepening above into the blackness of
utter night. Below it a long gulf of soft yellow haze, in which,
as in a bath of gold, lie delicate bars of far-off western cloud ;
and the faint glimmer of the western sea, above long knotted
spurs of hill, in deepest shades, like a bunch of purple grapes
flecked here and there from behind with gleams of golden
light ; and beneath them again, the dark woods sleeping over
Gwynnant, and their dark double sleeping in the bright lake
below.

On the right hand Snowdon rises. Vast sheets of utter
blackness — vast sheets of shining light. He can see every crag
which juts from the green walls of Galt-y-Wennalt ; and far past
it into the Great Valley of Cwm Dyli ; and then the red peak,
now as black as night, shuts out the world with its huge mist-
topped cone. But on the left hand all is deepest shade. From
the highest saw-edges where iloel Meirch cuts the golden sky,
down to the very depths of the abyss, all is lustrous darkness,
sooty, and yet golden still. Let the darkness lie upon it for
ever ! Hidden be those woods where she stood an hour ago !
Hidden that road down which, even now, they may be pacing
home together ! — Curse the thought ! He covers his face in his
hands and shudders in every limb.

He lifts his hands from his eyes at last : — what has befallen ?

Before the golden haze a white veil is falling fast. Sea,
mountain, lake, are vanishing, fading as in a dream. Soon he
can see nothing but the twinkle of a light in Pen-y-gwryd, a
thousand feet below ; happy children are nestling there in
innocent sleep. Jovial voices are chatting round the fire.
What has he to do with youth, and health, and joy ? Lower,
lower, ye clouds ! Shut out that insolent and intruding spark,
till nothing be seen but the silver sheet of Cwm Fynnon, and
the silver zig-zag lines which wander into it among black
morass, while down the mountain side go, softly sliding, troops
of white mist-angels. Softly they slide, swift and yet motion-
less, as if by some inner will, which needs no force of limbs ;
gliding gently round the crags, diving gently off into the abyss,
their long white robes trailing about their feet in upward-

358 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

floating folds. 'Let us go lienee,' they seem to whisper to the
God -forsaken, as legends say they whispered when they left
their doomed shrine in old Jerusalem. Let the white fringe
fall between him and the last of that fair troop ; let the gray
curtain follow, the black pall above descend ; till he is alone in
darkness that may be felt, and in the shadow of death.

Now he is safe at last ; hidden from all living things — hidden,
it may be, from God; for at least Gful is hidden from him.
He has desired to be alone : and he is alone ; the centre of the
universe, if universe there be. All created things, suns and
planets, seem to revolve round him, and he a point of darkness,
not of light. He seems to float self-poised in the centre of the
boundless nothing, upon an ell-broad slab of stone — and yet not
even on that : for the very ground on which he stands he does
not feel. He does not feel the mist which wets his cheek, the
blood which throbs within his veins. He only is ; and there is
none besides.

Horrible thought ! Permitted but to few, and to them —
thank God! — but rarely. For two minutes of that absolute
self-isolation would bring madness ; if, indeed, it be not the
very essence of madness itself.

There he stood ; he knew not how long ; wdthout motion,
without thought, without even rage or hate, now — in one blank
paralysis of his whole nature ; conscious only of self, and of a
dull, inward fire, as if his soul were a dark vault, lighted with
lurid smoke.

What was that ? He started : shuddered — as well he might.
Had he seen heaven opened ? or another place ? So momentary
was the vision, that he scarce knew what he saw —

There it was again ! Lasting but for a moment : but long
enough to let him see the whole western heaven transfigured
into one sheet of pale blue gauze, and before it Snowdon tower-
ing black as ink, with every saw and crest cut out, hard and
terrible, against the lightning -glare : and then the blank of
darkness.

Again ! The awful black giant, towering high in air, before
the gates of that blue abyss of flame : but a black crown of
cloud has settled upon his head ; and out of it the lightning
sparks leap to and fro, ringing his brows with a coronet of fire.

Another moment, and the roar of that great battle between
earth and heaven crashed full on Elsley's ears.

He heard it leap from Snowdon, sharp and rattling, across
the gulf toward him, till it crashed full upon the Glyder over-
head, and rolled and flapped from crag to crag, and died away
along the dreary downs. Xo ! There it boomed out again,
thundering full against Siabod on the left ; and Siabod tossed it
on to !Moel ileirch, who answered from all her clefts and peaks
with a long confused battle-growl, and then tossed it across

XXI nature's melodrama 359

to Aran ; and Aran, with one dull, blutt' report from her flat
elifi', to nearer liliwedd ; till, worn out with the long buifetings
of that giant ring, it sank and died on Gwynnant far below
— but ere it died, another and another thunder-crash burst,
sharper and nearer every time, to hurry round the hills after
the one which roared before it.

Another minute, and the blue glare filled the sky once more ;
but no black Titan towered before it now. The storm had leapt
Llanberris pass, and all around Elsley was one howling chaos of
cloud, and rain, and blinding flame. He turned and fled again.

By the sensation of his feet, he knew that he was going up-
hill ; and if he but went upward, he cared not whither he went.
The rain gushed through, where the lightning pierced the cloud,
in drops like musket balls. He was drenched to the skin in a
moment ; dazzled and giddy from the flashes ; stunned by the
everlasting roar, peal over-rushing peal, echo out-shooting echo,
till rocks and air quivered alike beneath the continuous battle-
cannonade. ' What matter ? What fitter guide for such a
path as mine than the blue lightning flashes ? '

Poor wretch ! He had gone out of his way for many a year,
to give himself up, a willing captive, to the melodramatic view
of nature, and had let sights and sounds, not principles and
duties, mould his feelings for him : and now, in his utter need
and utter weakness, he had met her in a mood which was too
awful for such as he was to resist. The Nemesis had come ;
and swept away helplessly, without faith and hope, by those
outward impressions of things on which he had feasted his soul
so long, he was the puppet of his own eyes and ears ; the slave
of glare and noise.

Breathless, but still untired, he toiled up a steep incline,
where he could feel beneath him neither moss nor herb. Now
and then his feet brushed through a soft tuft of parsley fern :
but soon even that sign of vegetation ceased ; his feet only
rasped over rough bare rock, and he was alone in a desert of
stone.

What was that sudden apparition above him, seen for a
moment dim and gigantic through the mist, hid the next in
darkness ? The next flash showed him a line of obelisks, like
giants crouching side by side, staring down on him from the
clouds. Another five minutes, and he was at their feet, and past
them ; to see above them again another line of awful watchers
through the storms and rains of many a thousand years, wait-
ing, grim and silent, like those doomed senators in the Capitol
of Home, till their own turn should come, and the last lightning
stroke hurl them too down, to lie for ever by their fallen
brothers, whose mighty bones bestrewed the screes below.

He groped his way between them ; saw some fifty yards
beyond a higher peak ; gained it by fierce struggles and many
falls ; saw another beyond that ; and, rushing down and up two

360 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

slopes of moss, reached a region where the upriglit lava-ledges
had been split asunder into chasms, crushed together again into
caves, toppled over each other, hurled up into spires, in such
chaotic confusion that progress seemed impossible.

A flash of lightning i-evealed a lofty cairn above his head.
There was yet, then, a higher point ! He would reach it, if he
broke every limb in the attempt ! and madly he hurried on,
feeling his way from ledge to ledge, squeezing himself through
crannies, crawling on hands and knees along the sharp chines
of the rocks, till he reached the foot of the cairn ; climbed it,
and threw himself at full length on the summit of the Glyder
Vawr.

An awful place it always is ; and Elsley saw it at an awful
time, as the glare unveiled below him a sea of rock-waves, all
sharp on edge, pointing toward him on every side : or rather
one wave-crest of a sea ; for twenty yards beyond, all sloped
away into the abysmal dark.

Terrible were those rocks below ; and ten times more terrible
as seen through the lurid glow of his distempered brain. All
the weird peaks and slabs seemed pointing up at him : sharp-
toothed jaws gaped upward — tongues hissed upward — arms
pointed upward — hounds leaped upward — monstrous snake-
heads peered upward out of cracks and caves. Did he not see
them move, writhe? or was it the ever -shifting light of the
flashes ? Did he not hear them howl, yell at him 1 or was it but
the wind, tortured in their labyrinthine caverns ?

The next moment, and all was dark again : but the images
which had been called up remained, and fastened on his brain,
and grew there • and when, in the light of the next flash, tlie
scene returned, he could see the red lips of the phantom hounds,
the bright eyes of the phantom snakes ; the tongues wagged in
mockery ; the hands brandished great stones to hurl at him ;
the mountain-top was instinct with fiendish life — a very Blocks-
berg of all hideous shapes and sins.

And yet he did not shrink. Horrible it was ; he was going
mad before it. And yet he took a strange and fierce delight in
making it more horrible ; in maddening himself yet more and
more ; in clothing those fantastic stones with every fancy which
could inspire another man with dread. But he had no dread.
Perfect rage, like perfect love, casts out fear. He rejoiced in
his own misery, in his own danger. His life hung on a thread ;
any instant might hurl him from that cairn, a blackened corpse.

What better end ? Let it come ! He was Prometheus on the
peak of Caucasus, hurling defiance at the unjust Jove ! His
hopes, his love, his ^ ery honour — curse it ! — ruined ! Let the
lightning stroke come ! He weie a coward to shrink from it.
Let him face the worst, unprotected, bare-headed, naked, and do
battle, himself, and nothing but himself, against the universe !
And, as men at such moments will do, in the mad desire to free

XXI nature's JIELODRAMA 361

the self-tortured spirit from some unseen and choking bond, he
began wildly tearing off his clothes.

But merciful nature brought relief, and stopped him in his
mad efforts, or lie had been a frozen corpse long ere the dawn.
His hands, stiff with cold, refused to obey him : as he delayed
he was saved. After the paroxysm came the collapse ; he sank
upon the top of the cairn half senseless. He felt himself falling
over its edge ; and the animal instinct of self-preservation, un-
consciously to him, made him slide down gently, till he sank
into a crack between two rocks, sheltered somewhat, as it befell
happily, from the lashing of the rain.

Another minute, and he slept a dreamless sleep.

But there are two men upon that mountain, whom neither
rock nor rain, storm nor thunder, have conquered, because they
are simply brave honest men ; and who are, perhaps, far more
'poetic' characters at this moment than Elsley Vavasour, or
any dozen of mere verse- writers, because they are hazarding their
lives on an errand of mercy ; and all the while have so little
notion that they are hazarding their lives, or doing anything
dangerous or heroic, that, instead of being touched for a moment
by nature's melodrama, they are jesting at each other's troubles,
greeting each interval of darkness with mock shouts of misery
and despair, likening the crags to various fogies of their
acquaintance, male and female, and only pulling the cutty
pipes out of their mouths to chant snatches of jovial songs.
They are Wynd and Naylor, the two Cambridge boating-men,
in bedrabbled flannel trousers, and shooting-jackets pocketful
of water ; who are both fully agreed that hunting a mad poet
over the mountains in a thunderstorm is, on the whole, 'the
j oiliest lark they ever had in their lives.'

'He must have gone up here somewhere. I saw the poor

beggar against the sky as plain as I see you — which I don't '

for darkness cut the speech short.

' Where be you, William ? says the keeper.'

' Here I be, sir, says the beater, with my 'eels above my 'ed.'

' Wery well, William ; when you get your 'ed above your
'eels, gae on.'

' But I'm stuck fast between two stones ! Hang the stones ! '
And Naylor bursts into an old seventeenth century ditty, of the
days of 'three-man glees.'

' ' ' They stoans, they stoans, they stoans, they stoans —
They stoans that built George Ricldler's oven,
they was fetched from Blackeney quarr' ;
And George he was a jolly old man,
And his head did grow above his bar'.

"One thing in George Riddler I must commend,
And I hold it for a valiant thing ;
With any three brothers in Gloucestershire
He swore that his three sons should sing.

362 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

■ " Tliere was Dick the tribble, and Tom the mane,
Let every man sing in his own place ;
And William he was the eldest brother,
And therefore he should sing the base. "

I'm down again ! This is my thirteenth fall.'

' So am I ! I shall just lie and light a pipe.'

' Come on, now, and look round the lee side of this crag. Me
shall find him bundled up under the lee of one of them.'

' He don't know lee from windward, I dare say.'

' He'll soon find out the difference by his skin ; if it's half as
wet, at least, as mine is.'

' I'll tell you what, Naylor, if the poor fellow has crossed the
ridge, and tried to go down on the Twll du, lie's a dead man by
this time.'

' He'll have funked it, when he comes to the edge, and sees
nothing but mist below. But if he has wandered on to the
cliSs above Trifaen, he's a dead man, then, at all events. Get
out of the way of that flash ! A close shave that ! I believe
my whiskers are singed.'

' 'Pon my honour, Wynd, we ought to be saying our prayers
rather than joking in this way.'

'We may do both, and be none the worse. As for coming to
grief, old boy, we're on a good errand, I suppose, and the devil
himself can't harm us. Still, shame to him who's ashamed of
saying his prayers, as Arnold used to say.'

And all the while, these two brave lads have been thrusting
their lanthorn into every crack and cranny, and beating round
every crag carefully and cunningly, till long past two in the
morning.

' Here's the ordnance cairn at last ; and — here am I astride
of a carving-knife, I think ! Come and help me off', or I shall
be split to the chin ! '

' I'm coming ! What's this soft under my feet ? Who-o-o-oop !
Run him to earth at last ! '

And diving down into a crack, ^^'ynd drags out by the collar
the unconscious Elsley.

' What a swab ! Like a piece of wet blotting-paper. Lucky
he's not made of salt.'

' He's dead ! ' says Naylor.

' Not a bit. I can feel his heart. There's life in the old dog
yet.'

And they begin, under the lee of a rock, chafing him, wrap-
ping him in their plaids, and pouring whisky down his throat.

It was some time before Vavasour recovered his conscious-
ness. The first use which he made of it was to bid his pre-
servers leave him ; querulously at first ; and then fiercely, when
he found out who they were.

'Leave me, I say ! Cannot I be alone if I choose? Wiiat
right have you to dog me in this way ? '

XXI NATURE'S MELODRAMA 363

' My dear sir, we have as much right here as any one else ;
and if we find a man dying here of cold and fatigue '

' What business of yours, if I choose to die ? '

' There is no harm in your dying, sir,' says N.iylor. ' The
harm is in our letting you die ; I assure you it is entirely to
satisfy our own consciences we are troubling you thus ; ' and he
begins pressing him to take food.

' Xo, sir ; nothing from you ! You have shown me impertin-
ence enough in the last few weeks, without pressing on me
benefits for which I do not wish. Let me go ! If you will not
leave me, I shall leave you ! '

And he tried to rise ; but, stiffened with cold, sank back again
upon the rock.

In vain they tried to reason with him ; begged his pardon
for all past jests : he made effort after effort to get up ; and at
last, his limbs, regaining strength by the fierceness of his passion,
supported him ; and he struggled onward toward the northern
slope of the mountain.

' You must not go down tiU it is light ; it is as much as your
life is worth.'

' I am going to Bangor, sir ; and go I will ! '

' I tell you there are fifteen hundred feet of slippery screes
below you.'

'As steep as a house-roof, and with every tile on it loose.
You will roll from top to bottom before you have gone a hundred
yards.'

' What care I ? Let me go, I say ! Curse you, sir ! Do you
mean to use force ? '

' I do,' said Wynd quietly, as he took him round arms and
body, and set him down on the rock like a child.

' You have assaulted me, sir ! The law shall avenge this
insult, if there be law in England ! '

'I know nothing about law ; but I suppose it will justify me
in saving any man's life who is rushing to certain death.'

' Look here, sir ! ' said Naylor. ' Go down, if you will, when
it grows light : but from this place you do not stir yet. What-
ever you may think of our conduct to-night, you will thank us
for it to-morrow morning, when you see where you are.'

The unhappy man stamped with rage. The red glare of the
lanthorn showed him his two powerful warders, standing right
and left. He felt that there was no escape from them, but in
darkness ; and suddenly he dashed at the lanthorn, and tried to
tear it out of Wynd's hands.

' Steady, sir ! said Wynd, springing back, and parrying his
outstretched hand. 'If you wish us to consider you in your
senses, you will be quiet.'

' And if you don't choose to appear sane,' said Naylor, ' you
must not be surprised if we treat you as men are treated who —
you understand me.'

364 TAVO YEARS AOO chap.

Elsley was silent awhile ; his rage finding itself impotent,
subsided into dark cunning. 'Eeally, gentlemen,' he said at
length, ' I believe you are right ; I have been very foolish, and
you very kind ; but you would excuse my absurdities if you
knew their provocation.'

' Jly dear sir,' said Naylor, ' we are bound to believe that you
have good cause enough for what you are doing. We have no
wish to interfere impertinently. Only wait till daylight, and
wrap yourself in one of our plaids, as the only possible method
of carrying out your own intentions ; for dead men can't go to
Bangor, whithersoever else they may go.'

' You really are too kind : but I believe I must accept your
offer, under penalty of being called mad ; ' and Elsley laughed a
hollow laugh ; for he was by no means sure that he was not
mad. He took the proffered ^Nrapper, lay down, and seemed to
sleep.

Wynd and Naylor, congratulating themselves on his better
mind, lay down also beneath the other plaid, intending to watch
him. But worn out with fatigue, they were both fast asleep ere
ten minutes had passed.

Elsley had determined to keep himself awake at all risks ;
and he paid a bitter penalty for so doing ; for now that the fury
had passed away, his brain began to work freely again, and
inflicted torture so exquisite, that he looked back with regret at
the unreasoning madness of last night, as a less fearful hell than
that of thought ; of deliberate, acute recollections, suspicions,
trains of argument, which he tried to thrust from him, and yet
could not. Who has not known in the still, sleepless hours of
night, how dark thoughts will possess the mind with terrors,
which seem logical, irrefragable, inevitable ?

So it was then with the wretched Elsley ; within his mind a
whole train of devil's advocates seemed arguing, with triumphant
subtlety, the certainty of Lucia's treason ; and justifying to him
his rage, his hatred, his flight, his desertion of his own children
— if indeed (so far had the devil led him astray) they were his
own. At last he could bear it no longer. He would escape to
Bangor, and then to London, cross to France, to Italy, and there
bury himself amid the forests of the Apennines, or the sunny
glens of Calabria. And for a moment the vision of a poet's life
in that glorious land brightened his dark imagination. Yes !
He would escape thither, and be at peace ; and if the world
heard of him again, it should be in such a thunder- voice as those
with which Shelley and Byron, from their southern seclusion,
had shaken the ungrateful motherland which cast them out.
He would escape ; and now was the time to do it ! For the rain
had long since ceased ; the dawn was approaching fast ; the
cloud was thinning from black to pearly gray. Now was his
time — were it not for those two men ! To be kept, guarded,
stopped by them, or by any man ! Shameful ! intolerable ! He

XXI NATURE'S MELODRAMA 365

had fled hither to be free, and even here he found himself a
prisoner. True, they had promised to let him go if he waited
till daylight ; but perhaps they were deceiving him, as he was
deceiving them — why not ? They thought him mad. It was a
ruse, a stratagem to keep him quiet awhile, and then bring him
back — ' restore him to his afflicted friends.' His friends, truly !
He would be too cunning for them yet. And even if they meant
to let him go, would he accept liberty from them, or any man 1
No ; he was free. He had a right to go ; and go lie would, that
moment !

He raised himself cautiously. The lanthorn had burned to
the socket ; and he could not see the men, though they were not
four yards ofT ; but by their regular and heavy breathing he
could tell that they both slept soundly. He slipped from under
the plaid, drew ofi' his shoes for fear of noise among the rocks,
and rose. What if he did make a noise ? What if they woke,
chased him, brought him back by force ? Curse the thought !
And gliding close to them, he listened again to their heavy
breathing.

How could he prevent their following him 1

A horrible, nameless temptation came over him. Every vein
in his body throbbed fire ; his brain seemed to swell to burst-
ing ; and ere he was aware, he found himself feeling about in I
the darkness for a loose stone.

He could not find one. Thank God that he could not find
one ! But after that dreadful thought had once crossed his
mind, he must flee from that place ere the brand of Cain be on
his brow.

With a cunning and activity utterly new to him, he glided
away like a snake ; downward over crags and boulders, he knew
not how long or how far ; all he knew was, that he was going
down, down, down, into a dim abyss. There was just light
enough to discern the upper surface of a rock within arm's
length ; beyond that all was blank. He seemed to be hours
descending ; to be going down miles after miles ; and still he
reached no level spot. 'The mountain-side was too steep for him
to stand upright, except at moments. It seemed one uniform
quarry of smooth broken slate, slipping down for ever beneath
his feet. Whither ? He grew giddy, and more giddy ; and a
liorrible fantastic notion seized him, that he had lost his way ;
that somehow the precipice had no bottom, no end at all ; that
he was going down some infinite abyss, into the very depths of
the earth, and the molten roots of the mountains, never to re-
ascend. He stopped, trembling, only to slide down again ;
terrified, he tried to struggle upward, but the shale gave way
beneath his feet, and go he must.

What was that noise above his head ? A falling stone ? Were
his enemies in pursuit ? Down to the depth of hell rather than
that they should take him ! He drove his heels into the slippery

366 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

shale, and ruslied forward blindly, springing, slipping, falling,
rolling, till he stopped breathless on a jutting slab.

And lo ! below him, througli the thin pearly veil of cloud, a
dim world of dark cliffs, blue lakes, gray mountains with their
dark heads wrapped in cloud, and the straight vale of Naiit
Francon, magnified in mist, till it seemed to stretch for hundreds
of leagues towards the rosy north-east dawning and the shining
sea.

With a wild shout he hurried onward. In fi^'e minutes he
was clear of the cloud. He reached the foot of that enormous
slope, and hurried over rocky ways, till he stopped at the top
of a precipice, full six hundred feet abo\ e the lonely tarn of
Idwal.

Never mind. He knew where he was now ; he knew that
there was a passage somewhere, for he had once seen one from
below. He found it, and almost ran along the boggy shore of
Idwal, looking back every now and then at the black wall of the
Twll du, in dread lest he should see two moving specks in hot
pursuit.

And now he had gained the shore of Ogwen, and tlie broad
coach-road ; and down it he strode, running at tinios, past the
roaring cataract, past the enoiTnous cliffs of the Carnedds, past
Tin-y-maes, where nothing was stirring but a barking dog ; on
through the sleeping streets of Bethesda, past the black staii-s
of the Penrhyn quarry. The huge clicking ant-heap was silent
now, save for the roar of Ogwen, as he swirled and bubbled
down, rich coffee-brown from last night's rain.

On, past rich woods, past trim cottages, gardens gay with
flowers ; past rhododendron shrubberies, broad fields of golden
stubble, sweet clover, and gray swedes, with Ogwen making
music far below. The sun is up at last, and Colonel Pennant's
grim slate castle, towering above black woods, glitters metallic
in its rays, like Chaucer's house of fame. He stops, to look back
once. Far up the vale, eight miles away, beneath a roof of
cloud, the pass of Nant Francon gapes high in air between the
great jaws of the Carnedd and the Glyder, its cliffs marked \\ itii
the upright white line of the waterfall. He is clear of the
mountains ; clear of that cursed place, and all its cursed
thoughts ! On, past Llandegai and all its rose-clad cottages ;
past yellow quarrymen walking out to their work, who stare as
they pass at his haggard face, drenched clothes, and streaming
hair. He does not see them. One fixed thought is in his mind,
and that is, the railway station at Bangor.

He is striding through Bangor streets now, beside the summer
sea, from which fresh scents of shore- weed greet him. He had
rather smell the smoke and gas of the Strand.

The station is shut. He looks at the bill outside. There is
no train for full two hours ; and he throws himself, worn-out
with fatigue, upon the doorstep.

XXI nature's melodrama 367

Now a new terror seizes him. Has he money enough to
reach London ? Has lie his purse at all 1 Too dreadful to find
himself stopped short, on the very brink of deliverance ! A
cold perspiration breaks from his forehead, as he feels in e\ ery
pocket. Yes, liis purse is there ; but he turns sick as he opens
it, and dare hardly look. Hurrah ! Five pounds, six — eight !
That will take him as far as Paris. He can walk, beg the rest
of the way, if need be.

What will he do now? Wander over the town, and gaze
vacantly on one little object and another about the house fronts.
One thing he will not look at ; and that is the bright summer
sea, all golden in the sun rays, flecked with gay white sails.
From all which is bright and calm, and cheerful, his soul shrinks
as from an impertinence; he longs for the lurid gas-light of
London, and the roar of the Strand, and the everlasting stream
of faces, among whom he may wander free, sure that no one will
recognise him, the disgraced, the desperate.

The weary hours roll on. Too tired to stand longer, he sits
down on the shafts of a cart, and tries not to think. It is not
difficult. Body and mind are alike worn out, and his brain
seems filled with uniform dull mist.

A shop-door opens in front of him ; a boy comes out. He
sees bottles inside, and shelves, the look of which he knows too
well.

The bottle-boy, whistling, begins to take the shutters down.
How often, in Whitbury of old, had Elsley done the same !
Half amused, he watched the lad, and wondered how he spent
his evenings, and what works he read, and whether he ever
thought of writing poetry.

And as he watched, all his past life rose up before him, ever
since he served out medicines fifteen years ago — his wild aspir-
ations, heavy labours, struggles, plans, brief triumphs, long-
disappointments ; and here was what it had all come to — a
failure — a miserable, shameful failure ! Not that he thought of
it with repentance, with a single wish that he had done other-
wise ; but only with disappointed rage. ' Yes ! ' he said bitterly
to himself —

' " We poets in our youth begin in gladness,
But after come despondency and madness."

This is the waj^ of the world with all who have nobler feelings
in them than will fi^t into its cold rules. Curse the world ! what
on earth had I to do with mixing myself up in it, and marrying
a fine lady ? Fool that I was ! I might have known from the
first that she could not understand me ; that she would go back
to her own ! Let her go ! I will forget her, and the world, and
everything — and I know how ! '

And, springing up, he walked across to the druggist's shop.

Years before, Elsley had tried opium, and found, unhappily

368 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

for him, that it fed liis fancy without inflicting those tortures of
indigestion which keep many, happily for them, from its magic
snare. He had tried it more than once of late ; but Lucia had
had a hint of the fact from Thurnall : and in just terror had
exacted from him a solemn promise never to touch opium again.
Elsley was a man of honour, and the promise had been kept.
But now — ' I promised her, and therefore I will break my pro-
mise ! She has broken hers, and I am free ! '

And he went in and bought his opium. He took a little on
the spot, to allay the cravings of hunger. He reserved a full
dose for the railway-carriage. It would bridge over the weary
gulf of time which lay between him and town.

He took his second-class place at last ; not without stares and
whispers from those round at the wild figure which was starting
for London without bag or baggage. But as the clerks agreed,
' If he was running away from his creditors, it was a shame to
stop him. If he was running from the police, they would have
the more sport the longer the run. At least, it was no business
of theirs.'

There was one thing more to do, and he did it. He wrote to
Campbell a short note.

' If, as I suppose, you expect from me " the satisfaction of a
gentleman," you will find me at . . . Adelphi. I am not escap-
ing from you, but from the whole world. If, by shooting me, you
can quicken my escape, you will do me the first and last favour
which I am likely to ask for from you.'

He posted his letter, settled himself in a corner of the carriage,
and took his second dose of opium. From that moment he
recollected little more. A confused whirl of hedges and woods,
rattling stations, screaming and flashing trains, great red towns,
white chalk cuttings ; while the everlasting roar and rattle of
the carriages shaped themselves in his brain into a hundred
snatches of old tunes, all full of a strange merriment, as if mock-
ing at his misery, striving to keep him awake and conscious of
who and what he was. He closed his eyes and shut out the
hateful, garish world ; but that sound he could not shut out.
Too tired to sleep, too tired even to think, he could do nothing
but submit to the ridiculous torment ; watching in spite of him-
self every note, as one jig-tune after another was fiddled by all
the imps close to his ear, mile after mile, and county after
county, for all that weary day, which seemed full seven years
long.

At Euston Square the porter called him several times ere he
could rouse him. He could hear nothing for awhile but that
same imps' melody, even though it had stopped. At last he got
out, staring round him, shook himself awake by one strong
eiTort, and hurried away, not knowing whither he went.

Wrapt up in self, he wandered on till dark, slept on a door-
step, and awoke, not knowing at first where he was. Gradually

XXII FOND, YET NOT FOOLISH 369

all the horror came back to him, and with the horror the craving
for opium wherewith to forget it.

He looked round to see his whereabouts. Surely this must
be Golden Square ? A sudden thought struck him. He went
to a chemist's shop, bought a fresh supply of his poison, and,
taking only enough to allay the cravings of his stomach, hurried
tottering in the direction of Drury Lane.

CHAPTER XXII

FOND, YET NOT FOOLISH

Next morning, only Claude and Campbell made their appear-
ance at breakfast.

Frank came in ; found that Valentia was not down : and, too
excited to eat, went out to walk till she should appear. Neither
did Lord Scoutbush come. Where was he ?

Ignorant of the whole matter, he had started at four o'clock
to fish in the Traeth Mawr ; half for fishing's sake, half (as he
confessed) to gain time for his puzzled brains before those
explanations with Frank Headley, of which he stood in mortal
fear.

Mellot and Campbell sat down together to breakfast ; but
in silence. Claude saw that something had gone very wrong ;
Campbell ate nothing, and looked nervously out of the window
every now and then.

At last Bowie entered with the letters and a message. There
were two gentlemen from Pen-y-gwryd must speak with ^Ir.
Mellot immediately.

He went out and found Wynd and Naylor. What they told
him we know already. He returned instantly, and met Camp-
bell leaving the room.

' I have news of Vavasour,' whispered he. ' I have a letter
from him. Bowie, order me a car instantly for Bangor. I am
off to London, Claude. You and Bowie will take care of my
things, and send them after me.'

'Major Cawmill has only to command,' said Bowie, and
vanished down the stairs.

'Now, Claude, quick ; read that, and counsel me. I ought
to ask Scoutbush's opinion ; but the poor dear fellow is out,
you see.'

Claude read the note written at Bangor.

' Fight him I will not ! I detest the notion : a soldier should
never fight a duel. His life is the Queen's, and not his own.
And yet, if the honour of the family has been compromised
by my folly, I must pay the penalty, if Scoutbush thinks it
proper.'

So said Campbell, who, in the over-sensitiveness of his con-

2 B T. Y. A.

370 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

science, had actually worked himself round during the past
night into this new fancy, as a chivalrous act of utt(^r self-
abasement. The proud self-possession of the man was gone,
and nothing but self-disti-ust and shame remained.

' In the name of all wit and wisdom, what is the meanins of
all this?'

' You do not know, then, what passed last night ? '

' I ? I can only guess that Vavasour has had one of his
rages.'

'Then you must know,' said Campbell with an effort: 'for
you must explain all to Scoutbush when lie returns ; and I
know no one more fit for the office.' And he Ijiiefly told him
the story.

Mellot was much affected. 'The wretched ape ! Campbell,
your first thought was the true one : you must not fight th:it
cur. After all, it's a farce : you won't fire at him, and he can't
hit you— so leave ill alone. Beside, for Scoutbushs sake, hrr
sake, every one's sake, the thing must be hushed up. If tlie
fellow chooses to duck under into the London mire, let him lie
there, and forget him ! '

' No, Claude ; his pardon I must beg, ere I go out to the
war : or I shall die with a sin upon my soul.'

' My dear, noble creature ! if you must go, I go with you. I
must see fair play between you and that madman ; and give
him a piece of my mind, too, while I am about it. He is in my
power, or if not quite that, I know one in whose powei' he is I
and to reason he shall be brought.'

' Xo ; you must stay here. I cannot trust Scoutbush's head,
and these poor dear souls will have no one ti> look tu but you.
I can trust you mth them, I know. Me you will perhaps never
see a^ain.'

' \ ou can trust me ! ' said the affectionate little painter, t lie
tears starting to his eyes, as he wrung Campbell's hand.

' Mind one thing ! If that Vavasour shows his teeth, there
is a spell will turn him to stone. Use it ! '

' Heaven forbid ! Let him show his teeth. It is I who am
in the wrong. W!iy should I make him more mv enemy than
he is?'

'Be it so. Only, if the worst comes to the worst, call him
not Elsley ^'a\■asour, but plain John Briggs — and see what
follows.'

Valentia entered.

'The po.'it has come in! O dear Major Campbell, is there
a letter ? '

He put the note into her hand in .silence. She I'ead it. and
darted back to Lucia's room.

' Thank God that she did not see that I was going ! One
more pang on earth spared ! ' said Campbell to himself.

Valentia hurried to Lucia's door. She was holding it ajar

XXII FOND, YET NOT FOOLISH 371

and looking out with pale face, and wild hungry eyes. 'A
letter ? Don't be silent, or I shall go mad ! Tell me the worst !
Is he alive ? '

'Yes.'

She gasped, and staggered against the door-post.

' Where ? Wliy does he not come back to me ? ' asked she, in
a confused, abstracted way.

It was best to tell the truth, and have it over.

'He has gone to London, Lucia. He will think over it all
there, and be sorry for it, and then all will be well again.'

But Lucia did not liear the end of that sentence. Murmuring
to herself, ' To London ! To London ! ' she hurried back into
the room.

' Clara ! Clara ! have the children had their breakfast 1 '

' Yes, ma'am ! ' says Clara, appearing from the inner room.

' Then help me to pack up, quick ! Your master is gone to
London on business ; and we are to follow him immediately.'

And she began bustling about the room.

' My dearest Lucia, you are not lit to travel now ! '

' I shall die if I stay here ; die if I do nothing ! I must find
him ! ' whispered she. ' Don't speak loud, or Clara will hear. I
can find him, and nobody can but me ! Why don't you help me
to pack, Valentia 1 '

' ^ly dearest ! but what will Scoutbush say when lie comes
home, and finds you gone ? '

' What right has he to interfere ? I am Elsley's wife, am I
not ? and may follow my husband if I like ; ' and she went on
desperately collecting, not her own things, but Elsley's.

Valentia watched her with tear-brimming eyes ; collecting
all his papers, counting over his clothes, murmuring to herself
that he would want this and that in London. Her sanity
seemed failing her, under the fixed idea that she had only to
see him, and set all right with a word.

' I will go and get you some breakfast,' said she at last.

' I want none. I am too busy to eat. Why don't you help
me?'

Valentia had not the heart to help, believing, as she did, tliat
Lucia's journey would be as bootless as it would be dangerous
to her health.

' I will bring you some breakfast, and you must try ; then 1
will help to pack : ' and utterly bewildered she went out • and
the thought uppermost in her mind was, ' Oh, that I could find
Frank Headley ! '

Happy was it for Frank's love, paradoxical as it may seem,
that it had conquered just at that moment of terrible distress.
Valentia's acceptance of him had been hasty, founded rather on
sentiment and admiration than on deep afl'ection ; and her feel-
ing might have faltered, waned, died away in self-distrust of its
own reality, if giddy amusement, if mere easy happiness, had

372 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

followed it. But now the fire of affliction was branding in the
thought of him upon lier softened heart.

Living at the utmost strain of her character, Campbell gone,
her brother useless, and Lucia and tlie children depending utterly
on her, there was but one to whom she could look for comfort
while she needed it most utterly ; and happy for her and for
her lover that she could go to him.

'Poor Lucia ! thank God that I have some one who will never
treat me so ! who will lift me up and shield me, instead of
crushing me ! — dear creature ! Oh that I may find him ! ' And
her heart went out after Frank with a gusli of tenderness which
she had never felt before.

' Is this, then, love ? ' she asked herself ; and she found time
to slip into her own room for a moment and arrange her
dishevelled hair, ere she entered the breakfast-room.

Frank was there, luckily alone, pacing nervously up and
down. He hurried up to her, caught both her hands in liis, and
gazed into her wan and haggard face with the intensest tender-
ness and anxiety.

Valentia's eyes looked into the depths of his, passive and
confiding, till they failed before the keenness of his gaze, and
swam in glittering mist.

' Ah ! ' thought she ; ' sorrow is a light price to pay for the
feeling of being so loved by such a man ! '

' You are tired — ill ? What a night you must have had !
Mellot has told me all.'

' O my poor sister ! ' and wildly she poured out to Frank
her wrath against Elsley, her inability to comfort Lucia, and all
the misery and confusion of the past night.

' This is a sad dawning for the day of my triumph ! ' thought
Frank, who longed to pour out his heart to her on a thousand
very different matters : but he was content ; it was enough for
him that she could tell him all, and confide in him ; a truer sign
of affection than any selfish love-making ; and he asked, and
answered, with such tenderness and thoughtfulness for poor
Lucia, with such a deep comprehension of Elsley's character,
pitying while he blamed, that he won his reward at last.

' Oh ! it would be intolerable, if T had not through it all

the thought ' and blushing crimson, her head drooped on her

bosom. She seemed ready to drop with exhaustion.

' Sit down, sit down, or you will fall ! ' .said Frank, leading
her to a chair ; and as he led her, he whispered ^vith fluttering
heart, new to its own liappiness, and longing to make assurance
sure — ' What thought ? '

She was silent still ; but he felt her hand tremble in his.

'The thought of me?'

She looked up in his face ; how beautiful ! And in another
moment, neither knew how, she was clasped to his bosom.

He covered her face, her hair with kisses : she did not

XXII FOND, YET NOT FOOLISH 373

move ; from that moment slie felt that he was her hus-
band.

' Oil, guide me ! counsel me ! pray for me ! ' sobbed she. ' I
am all alone, and my poor sister, she is going mad, I think, and
I have no one to trust but you ; and you — you will leave me to
go to those dreadful wars ; and then, what will become of me 1
Oh, stay ! only a few days ! ' and holding him convulsively, she
answered his kisses with her own.

Frank stood as in a dream, while the room reeled round and
vanished ; and he was alone for a moment upon earth with her
and his great love.

' Tell me,' said he at last, trying to awaken himself to
action. ' Tell me ! Is she really going to seek him ? ' v

' Yes, selfish and forgetful that I am ! You must lielp me !
she will go to London, nothing can stop her ; and it will kill
her!'

' It may drive her mad to keep her here.'

' It will ! and that drives me mad also. What can I choose ? '

' Follow where God leads. It is she, after all, who must
reclaim him. Leave her in God's hands, and go with her to
London.'

' But my brother 1 '

' Mellot or I will see him. Let it be me. Mellot shall go
with you to London.'

' Oh that you were going ! '

' Oh that I were ! I will follow, though. Do you think that
I can be long away from you? . But I must tell your
brother. I had a very different matter on which to speak to
him this morning,' said he with a sad smile : ' but better as it
is. He shall find me, I hope, reasonable and trustworthy in this
matter ; perhaps enough so to have my Valentia committed to
me. Precious jewel ! I must learn to be a man now, at least ;
now that I have you to care for.'

' And yet you go and leave me ? '

' Valentia ! Because God has given us to each other, shall
our thank-ofiering be to shrink cowardly from His work ? '

He spoke more sternly than he intended, to awe into obedience
rather himself than her ; for he felt, poor fellow, his courage
failing fast, while he held that treasure in his arms.

She shuddered in silence.

' Forgive me ! ' he cried ; ' I was too harsh, Valentia ! '

' No ! ' she cried, looking up at him with a glorious smile.
'Scold me ! Be harsh to me ! It is so delicious now to be
reproved by you.' And as she spoke she felt as if she would
rather endure torture from that man's liand than bliss from any
other. How many strange words of Lucia's that new feeling
explained to her ; words at which she had once grown angry, as
doting weaknesses, unjust and degrading to self-respect. Poor
Lucia ! She might be able to comfort her now, for she had

374 TWO YEARS AGO chak

learnt to sympathise with her by experience the very opposite
to hers. \et there must have been a tinie when Lucia clung to
Elsley as she to Frank. How horrible to have her eyes opened
thus ! To be torn and flung away from the bosom where she
longed to rest ! It could never happen to her. Of course her
Frank was true, though all the world was false : but poor
Lucia ! She must go to her. This was mere selfishness at such
a moment.

' You will find Scoutbush, then ? '

'This moment. I will order the car now, if you will only
eat. You must ! '

And he rang the bell, and then made her sit down and eat,
almost feeding her with his own hand. That, too, was a new
experience ; and one so strangely pleasant, that when Bowie
entered, and stared solemnly at the pair, she only looked up
smiling, though blushing a little.

' Get a car instantly,' said she.

' For Mrs. Vavasour, my lady 1 She has ordered hers already.'

' No ; for Mr. Headley. He is going to find my lord. Frank,
pour me out a cup of tea for Lucia.'

Bowie vanished, mystified. ' It's no concern of mine ; but
better tak' up wi' a godly meenister than a godless pawet,'
said tlie worthy warrior to himself as he marched down-
stairs.

' You see that I am asserting our rights already before all the
world,' said she, looking up.

' I see you are not ashamed of me,'

' Ashamed of you ? '

' And now I must go to Lucia.'

' And to London.'

Valentia began to cry like any baby ; but rose and carried
away the tea in her hand. ' !Must I go ? and before you come
back, too ? '

' Is she determined to start instantly ? '

' I cannot stop her. You see she has ordered the car.'

' Then go, my darling ! My own ! my Valentia ! Oh, a
thousand things to ask you, and no time to ask them in ! I
can write?' said Frank, with an inquiring smile.

'Write? Yes; every day — twice a day. I shall live upon
those letters. Good-bye ! ' And out she went, while Frank sat
himself down at the table, and laid his head upon his hands,
stupefied with delight, till Bowie entered.

' The car, sir. '

' Which ? Who ? ' asked Frank, looking up as from a dream.

' The car, sir.'

Frank rose, and walked downstairs aVjsti actedly. Bowie
kept close to his side.

' Ye'll pardon me, sir,' said he in a low voice ; ' but I see
how it is — the more blessing for you. Ye'll be pleased, I trust,

XXII FOND, YET NOT FOOLISH 375

to take more care of this jewel than others have of that one :
or '

' Or you'll shoot me yourself, Bowie ? ' said Frank, half
amused, half awed, too, by the stern tone of the guardsman.
' I'll give you leave to do it if I deserve it.'

' It's no my duty, either as a soldier or as a \ alet. And, in-
deed, I've that opeenion of you, sir, that I don't think it'll need
to be any one else's duty either.'

And so did ^Ir. Bowie signify his approbation of the new
family romance, and went off to assist Mrs. Claia in getting the
trunks downstaii's.

Clara was in high dudgeon. She had not yet completed her
flirtation with !Mr. Bowie, and felt it hard to have her one
amusement in life snatched out of her hard-worked hands.

' I'm sure I don't know why we're moving. I don't believe
it's business. Some of his tantrums, I dare say. I heard her
walking up and down the room all last night, I'll swear.
Neither she nor Miss Valentia has been to bed. He'll kill her
at last, the brute ! '

' It's no concern of either of us, that. Have you got another
trunk to bring down 1 '

' Xo concern 1 Just like your hard-heartedness, !Mr. Bowie.
And as soon as I'm gone, of course you will be flirting with
these impudent Welshwomen, in their horrid hats.'

' Jlay be, yes ; may be, no. But flirting's no marrying, Mrs.
Clara.'

' True for you, sir ! Men were deceivers ever,' quoth Clara,
and flounced upstairs ; while Bowie looked after her with a
grim smile, and caught her, when she came down again, long
enough to give her a great kiss ; the only language which he
used in wooing, and that but rarely.

'Dinna fash, lassie. !Mind your lady and the poor bairns,
like a godly handmaiden, and I'll buy the ring when the saw-
mon fishing's over, and we'll just be married ere I start for the
Crimee.'

' The sawmon ! ' cried Clara. ' I'll see you turned into a mer-
maid first, and married to a sawmon ! '

' And ye won't do anything o' the kind,' said Bowie to him-
self, and shouldered a valise.

In ten minutes the ladies were packed into the carriage, and
away, under Mellot's care. Frank watched Valentia looking
back, and smiling through her tears, as they rolled through the
village ; and then got into his car, and rattled down the
southern road to Pont Aberglaslyn, his hand still tingling with
the last pressure of Valentia's.

376 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

CHAPTEK XXIII

THE BROAD STONE OF HONOUR

But where has Stangrave been all this while?

Where any given bachelor has been, for any given month, is
difficult to say, and no man's business but his own. But where
he happened to be on a certain afternoon in the first week of
October, on which he had just heard the news of Alma, was —
upon the hills between Ems and Coblentz. Walking over a
high tableland of stubbles, which would be grass in England ;
and yet with all its tillage is perhaps not worth more than
English grass would be, thanks to that small-far'm system much
be-praised by some who know not wheat from turnips. Then
along a road, which might be a Devon one, cut in the hillside,
through authentic ' Devonian ' slate, where the deep chocolate
soil is lodged on the top of the upright strata, and a thick coat
of moss and wood sedge clusters about the oak-scrub roots,
round which the dehcate and rare oak -fern mingles its fronds
with great blue campanulas; while the 'white admirals' and
silver- washed ' f ritillaries ' flit round every bramble bed, and the
great ' purple emperors ' come down to drink in the road
puddles, and sit fearless, flashing oS" their velvet wings a blue
as of that empyrean which is 'dark by excess of light.'

Down again through cultivated lands, corn and clover, flax
and beet, and all the various crops with which the industrious
German yeoman ekes out his little patch of soil. Past the
thrifty husbandman himself, as he guides the two milch-kine in
his tiny plough, and stops at the furrow's end, to greet you with
the hearty German smile and bow ; while the little fair-haired
maiden, walking beneath the shade of standard cherries, wal-
nuts, and pears, all gray with fruit, fills the cows' mouths with
chicory, and wild carnations, and pink saintfoin, and many a
fragrant weed which richer England wastes.

Down once more into a glen ; but such a glen as neither
England nor America has e\er seen ; or, please God, e\ er will
see, glorious as it is. Stangrave, who knew all Europe well, had
walked the path before ; but he stopped then, as he had done
the first time, in awe. On the right, slope up the bare slate
downs, up to the foot of clifis : but only half of those cliff's God
has made. Above the gray slate ledges rise clifis of man's handi-
work, pierced with a hundred square black embrasures ; and
above them the long barrack-ranges of a soldiers' town ; which
a foeman stormed once, when it was young : but what foeman
will ever storm it again ? What conqueror's foot will ever tread
again upon the ' broad stone of honour,' and call Ehrenbreitstein
his?

XXIII THE BROAD STONE OF HONOUR 377

On the left tlie clover and the corn range on, beneath the
orchard boughs, up to yon knoll of chestnut and acacia, tall
poplar, feathered larch : but what is that stonework which
gleams gray between their stems ? A summer-house for some
great duke, looking out over the glorious Rhine vale, and up the
long vineyards of the bright Moselle, from whence he may bid
his people eat, drink, and take their ease, for they have much
goods laid up for many years ?

Bank over bank of earth and stone, cleft by deep embrasures,
from which the great guns grin across the rich gardens, studded
with standard fruit-trees, which clothe the glacis to its topmost
edge. And there, below him, lie the vineyards : every rock-
ledge and narrow path of soil tossing its golden tendrils to the
sun, gray with ripening clusters, rich with noble wine ; but
what is that wall which winds among them, up and down,
creeping and sneaking over every ledge and knoll of vantage
ground, pierced with eyelet-holes, backed by strange stairs and
galleries of stone ; till it rises close before him, to meet the
low round tower full in his path, from wliose deep casemates,
as from dark scowling eye-holes, the ugly cannon-eyes stare up
the glen ?

Stangrave knows them all — as far as any man can know.
The wards of the key which locks apart the nations ; the yet
maiden Troy of Europe ; the greatest fortress of the world.

He walks down, turns into the vineyards, and lies down
beneath the mellow shade of vines. He has no sketch-book —
article forbidden ; his passport is in his pocket ; and he speaks
all tongues of German men. So, fearless of gendarmes and
soldiers, he lies down, in the blazing German afternoon, upon
the shaly soil ; and watches the bright-eyed lizards hunt flies
along the roasting walls, and the great locusts buzz and pitch
and leap ; green locusts with red wings, and gray locusts with
blue wings ; he notes the species, for he is tired and lazy, and
has so many thoughts within his head that he is glad to toss
them all away, and give up his soul, if possible, to locusts and
lizards, vines and shade.

And far below him fleets the mighty Rhine, rich with the
memories of two thousand stormy years ; and on its further
bank the gray-walled Coblentz town, and the long arches of the
Moselle bridge, and the rich flats of Kaiser Franz, and the long
poplar-crested uplands, which look so gay, and are so stern ; for
everywhere between the poplar-stems the saw-toothed outline
of the western forts cuts the blue sky.

And far beyond it all sleeps, high in air, the Eifel with its
hundred crater peaks ; blue mound behind blue mound, melting
into white haze. Stangrave has walked upon those hills, and
stood upon the crater-lip of the great Moselkopf, and dreamed
beside the Laacher See, beneath the ancient abbey walls ; and
his thoughts flit across the Moselle flats towards his ancient

378 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

liaunts, as he asks himself — How long has that old Eifel lain in
such soft sleep ? How long ere it aw ake again ?

It may awake, geologists confess — why not? and blacken all
the skies with smoke of Tophet, pouring its streams oi boiling
mud once more to dam the Ehine, whelming the works of men
in flood, and ash, and iire. Why not ? The old earth seems so
solid at first sight : but look a little nearer, and this is the stuft'
of which she is made ! The wreck of past earthquakes, the
leavings of old floods, the washings of cold cinder heaps — which
are smouldering still below.

Stangrave knew that well enough. He had climbed \'esuvius,
Etna, Popocatepetl. He had felt many an earthqua)<e shock ;
and knew how far to trust the e\erlasting hills. And was old
David right, he thought that day, when he held the earthquake
and the volcano as the truest symbols of the history of human
kind, and of the dealings of their }ilaker with them 1 All the
magnificent Plutonic imagery of the Hebrew poets, had it no
meaning for men now 1 Did the Lord still uncn\er the founda-
tions of the world, spiritual as well as physical, with the breath
of his displeasure 1 Was the solfa-tara of Tophet still ordained
for tyrants ? And did the Lord still arise out of his place to
shake terribly the earth ? Or had the moral world grown as
sleepy as the physical one had seemed to have done ? Would
anything awful, unexpected, tragical, ever burst forth again
from the heart of earth, or from the heart of man ?

Surprising question ! What can ever happen henceforth, save
infinite railroads and crystal palaces, peace and plenty, cockaigne
and dilettanteism, to the end of time ? Is it not full sixty whole
years since the first French revolution, and six whole years since
ithe revolution of all Europe? Bah ! — change is a thing of the
past, and tragedy a myth of our forefathers ; war a bad habit of
old barbarians, eradicated by the spread of an enlightened pliil-
anthropy. ilen know now how to govern the world far too
well to need any divine visitations, much less divine punish-
ments ; and Stangrave was a Utopian dreamer, only to be
excused by the fact that he had in his pocket the news that
three great nations were gone forth to tear each other as of
yore.

Nevertheless, looking round upon those grim earth-mounds
and embrasures, he could not but give the men v.ho put them
there credit for supposing that they might be wanted. Ah ! but
that might be only one of the direful necessities of the decaying
civilisation of the old world. What a contrast to the unarmed
and peaceful prosperity of his own country ! Thank heaven.
New England needed no fortresses, military roads, or standing
armies ! True, but why that flush of contemptuous pity for the
poor old world, which could only hold its own by such expensive
and ugly methods 1

He asked him.self that very question, a moment after, angrily;

XXIII THK BROAD STOXE OF HONOUK 379

for he was out of humour with himself, with his counti'y, and
indeed with the universe in general. And across his mind
flashed a memorable conversation at Constantinople long since,
during wliich he had made some such unwise remark to Thurnall,
and received from him a sharp answer, which parted them for years.

It was natural enough that that conversation should come
back to him just then ; for, in his jealousy, he was thinking of
Tom Thurnall often enough e\erj' day ; and in spite of his
enmity, he could not help suspecting more and more that
Thurnall had had some right on his side of the quarrel.

He had been twitting Thurnall with the miserable condition
of the labourers in the south of England, and extolling his own
country at the expense of ours. Tom, unable to deny the fact,
had waxed all the more wroth at having it pressed on him ; and
at last had burst forth —

'Well, and what right have you to crow over us on that
score? I suppose, if you could hire a man in America for
eighteen-pence a day, instead of a dollar and a half, you would
do it 1 You Americans are not accustomed to give more for a
thing than it's worth in the market, are you 1 '

'But,' Stangrave had answered, 'the glory of America is,
that you cannot get the man for less than the dollar and a half ;
that he is too well fed, too prosperous, too well educated, to be
made a slave of.'

' And therefore makes slaves of the niggers instead ? I'll tell
you what, I'm sick of that shallow fallacy — the glory of America !
Do you mean, by America, the country or the people ? You
boast, all of you, of your country, as if you had made it your-
selves ; and quite forget that God made America, and America
has made you.'

' Made us, sir ? ' quoth Stangrave fiercely enough.

' !Made you ! ' replied Thurnall, exaggerating his half truth
from anger. ' To what is your comfort, your high feeding, your
very education, owing, but to your having a thin population, a
virgin soil, and unlimited means of emigration ? What credit
to you if you need no poor laws, when you pack off your children,
as fast as they grow up, to clear more ground westward 1 What
credit to your yeomen that they have read more books than our
clods have, while they can earn more in four hours than our poor
fellows in twelve ? It all depends on the mere physical fact of
your being in a new country, and we in an old one : and as for
moral superiority, I shan't believe in that while I see the whole
of the northern states so utterly given up to the "almighty
dollar," that they lea%p the honour of their country to be made
ducks and drakes of by a few southern slave-holders, iloral
superiority ? We hold in England that an honest man is a
match for three rogues. If the same law holds good in the
United States, I leave you to settle whether Northerners or
Southerners are the honester men.'

380 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

Whereupon (and no shame to Stangrave) there was a heavy
quarrel, and the two men had not met since.

But now, those words of Thurnall's, backed by far bitterer
ones of ilarie's, were fretting Stangrave's heart. What if they
were true ? They were not the whole truth. There was beside,
and above them all, a nobleness in the American heart, whicli
could, if it chose, and when it chose, give the lie to that bitter
taunt : but had it done so already ?

At least, he himself had not. . . If Thurnall and !Marie
were unjust to his nation, they had not been unjust to him.
He, at least, had been making, all his life, mere outward
blessings causes of self-congratulation, and not of humility. He
had been priding himself on wealth, ease, luxury, cultivation,
without a thought that these were God's gifts, and that God
would require an account of them. If Thurnall were right,
was he himself too truly the typical American ? And bitterly
enough he accused at once himself and his people.

' Noble ? Marie is right ! We boast of our nobleness :
better to take the only opportunity of showing it which we
have had since we have become a nation ! Heaped with every
blessing which God could give ; beyond the reach of sorrow, a
check, even an interference ; shut out from all the world in
God's new Eden, that we might freely eat of all the trees of the
garden, and grow and spread, and enjoy ourselves like the birds
of heaven — God only laid on us one duty, one command, to
right one simple, confessed, conscious wrong. .

' And what have we done ? — what have even I done 1 AVe
have steadily, deliberately, cringed at the feet of the wrong-doer,
even while we boasted our superiority to him at every point, and
at last, for the sake of our own selfish ease, helped him to forge
new chains for his victims, and received as our only reward fresh
insults. White slaves ! We, perhaps, and not the English
peasant, are the white slaves ? At least, if the Irishman emi-
grates to England, or the Englishman to Canada, he is not hunted
out with blood-hounds, and delivered back to his landlord to be
scourged and chained. He is not practically out of the pale of
law, unrepresented, forbidden even the use of books ; and even
if he were, there is an excuse for the old country ; for she was
founded on no political principles, but discovered what she
knows step by step — a sort of political Topsy, as Claude Mellot
calls her, who has "kinder growed," doing from hand to moutli
what seemed best. But that we, who profess to start as an ideal
nation, on fixed ideas of justice, freedom, and equality — that
we should have been stultifying ever since every great principle
of which we so loudly boast !

' The old Jew used to say of his nation, " It is God that hath
made us, and not we ourselves." We say, "It is we that ha\e
made ourselves, while God " Ah, yes ; I recollect. God's

xxiii THE BROAD STONE OF HONOUR 381

work is to save a soul here and a soul there, and to leave America
to be saved by the Americans who made it. We must have a
broader and deeper creed than that if we are to work out our
destiny. The battle against Middle Age slavery was fought by
the old Catholic Church, which held the Jewish notion, and
looked upon the Deity as the actual King of Christendom, and
every man in it as God's own child. I see now ! No wonder
that the battle in America has as yet been fought by the
Quakers, who believe that there is a divine light and voice in
every man ; while the Calvinist preachers, with theii' isolating
and individualising creed, have looked on with folded hands,
content to save a negro's soul here and there, whatsoever might
become of the bodies and the national future of the whole negro
race. No wonder, while such men have the teaching of the
people, that it is necessary still in the nineteenth century, in a
Protestant country, amid sane liuman beings, for such a man as
Mr. Sumner to rebut, in sober earnest, the argument that the
negro was the descendant of Canaan, doomed to eternal slavery
by Noah's curse ! '

He would rouse himself. He would act, speak, write, as
many a noble fellow-countryman was doing. He had avoided
them of old as bores and fanatics who would needs wake him
from his luxurious dreams. He had even hated them, simply
because they- were more righteous than he. He would be a new
man henceforth.

He strode down the hill througli the cannon-guarded vine-
yards, among the busy groups of peasants.

' Yes, Marie was right. Life is meant for work, and not for
ease ; to labour in danger and in dread, to do a little good ere
the night comes, when no man can work ; instead of trying to
realise for oneself a Paradise ; not even Bunyan's shepherd-
paradise, much less Fourier's casino-paradise : and perhaps least
of all, because most selfish and isolated of all, my own heart-
paradise — the apotheosis of loafing, as Claude calls it. Ah,
Tennyson's Palace of Art is a true word — too true, too true !

' Art ? What if the most necessary human art, next to the
art of agriculture, be, after all, the art of war ? It has been so
in all ages. What if I have been befooled — what if all the
Anglo-Saxon world has been befooled by forty years of peace 1
We have forgotten that the history of the world has been as yet
written in blood • that the history of the human race is the story
of its heroes and its martyrs — the slayers and the slain. Is it
not becoming such once more in Europe now? And what divine
exemption can we claim from the law ? What right have we to
suppose that it will be aught else, as long as there are wrongs
unredressed on earth ; as long as anger and ambition, cupidity
and wounded pride, canker the hearts of men ? What if the
wise man's attitude, and the wise nation's attitude, is that of the

382 TWO YEARS AGO CHAr.

Jews rebuilding their ruined walls — the tool in one hand, and
the sword in the other ; for the wild Arabs are close outside, and
the time is short, and the storm has only lulled awhile in mercy,
that wise men may prepare for the next thunder-burst ? It is an
ugly fact : but I have thrust it away too long, and I must accept
it now and henceforth. This, and not luxurious Broadway :
this, and not the comfortable New England village, is the normal
type of human life : and this is the model city ! Armed in-
dustry, which tills the corn and vine among the cannons' mouths ;
which never forgets their need, though it may mask and beautify
their terror ; but knows that as long as cruelty and wrong exist
on earth, man's destiny is to dare and suffer, and, if it must be
so, to die. . .

'Yes, I will face my work ; my danger, if need be. I will
find ilarie. I will tell her that I accept her quest ; not for her
sake, but for its own. Only I will demand the right to work at
it as I think best, patiently, moderately, wisely if I can ; ioy a
fanatic I cannot be, even for her sake. She may hate these
slaveholders — she may have her i-easons — but I cannot. I can-
not deal with them as /eras ndtuni^. I cannot deny that they
are no worse men than I ; that I should have done what they
are doing, have said what they are saying, had I been bred up,
as they have been, with irresjsonsible power o\er the souls and
bodies of human beings. God ! I shudder at the fancy ! The
brute that I might have been — that I should have been !

' Yes ; one thing at least I have learnt, in all my experiments
on poor humanity — never to see a man do a wrong thing, with-
out feeling that I could do the same in his place. I used to
pride myself on that once, fool that I was, and call it compre-
hensiveness. I used to make it an excuse for sitting by, and
seeing the devil ha\e it all his own way, and call that toleration.
I will see now whether I cannot turn the said knowledge to a
better account, as common sense, patience, and charity ; and yet
do work of which neither I nor my country need be ashamed.'

He walked down, and on to the bridge of boats. They opened
in the centre ; as he reached it a steamer was passing. He
lounged on the rail as the boat passed through, looking carelessly
at the groups of tourists.

Two ladies were standing on the steamer, close to him, look-
ing up at Ehrenbreitstein. Was it ? Yes, it was Sabina, and
Marie by her !

But ah, how changed ! The cheeks were pale and hollow ;
dark rings — he could see them but too plainly as the face was
lifted up toward the light — were round those great eyes, bright
no longer. Her face was listless, careworn; looking all the
more sad and impassive by the side of Sabina's, as she pointed,
smiling and sparkling, up to the fortress ; and seemed trying to
interest ^farie in it, but in vain.

He called out. He waved his hand wildly, to the amusement

XXIII THE BROAD STONE OF HONOUR 383

of the officers and peasants who waited by liis side ; and who,
looking first at his excited face, and tlien at the two beautiful
women, were not long in making up their minds about him ;
and had their private jests accordingly.

They did not see him, but turned away to look at Coblentz ;
and the steamer swept by.

Stangrave stamped with rage — upon a Prussian officer's thin
boot.

' Ten thousand pardons ! '

' You are excused, dear sir, you are excused,' says the good-
natured German, with a wicked smile, which raises a blush on
Stangrave's cheek. 'Your eyes were dazzled: why not? it is
not often that one sees two such suns together in the same sky.
But calm yourself, the boat stops at Coblentz.'

Stangrave could not well call the man of war to account for
his impertinence ; he had had his toes half crushed, and had a
right to indemnify himself as he thought fit. And with a hun-
dred more apologies, Stangrave prepared to dart across the
bridge as soon as it was closed.

Alas ! after the steamer, as the fates would have it, canie
lumbering down one of those monster timber rafts ; and it was
a full half hour before Stangrave could get across, having suSered
all the while the torments of Tantalus, as he watched the boat
sweep round to the pier and discharge its freight, to be scattered
whither he knew not. At last he got across, and went in chase
to the nearest hotel : but they were not there ; thence to the
next, and the next, till be had hunted half the hotels in the
town ; but hunted all in vain.

He is rushing wildly back again, to try if he can obtain any
clue at the steamboat pier, through the narrow, dirty street at
the back of the Pthine Cavalier, when he is stopped short by a
mighty German embrace, and a German kiss on either cheek, as
the kiss of a housemaid's broom ; while a jolly voice shouts in
English—

' Ah, my dear, dear friend ! and you would pass me ! Whither
the hangman so fast are you running in the mud ! '

' My dear Salomon ! But let me go, I beseech you ; I am in
search '

'In search?' cries the jolly Jew banker, 'for the philoso-
pher's stone ? You had all that man could want a week since,
(-."vcept that. Search no more, but come home with me ; and we
will have a night as of the gods on Olympus ! '

' IMy dearest fellow, I am looking for two ladies ! '

' Two 1 ah, rogue ! shall not one suffice ? '

'Don't, my dearest fellow! I am looking for two English
ladies.'

' Potz ! You shall find two hundred in the hotels, ugly and
fair ; but the two fairest are gone this two hours.'

' When ? which ? ' cries Stangrave, suspecting at once.

384 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

' Sabina Mellot, and a Sultana. I thought her of The Xation,
and would have offered my hand on the spot ; but Madame
Mellot says she is a Gentile.'

' Gone ? And you have seen them 1 Wliere ? '

' To Bertrich. They had luncheon with my mother, and then
started by private post.'

' I must follow.'

' Ach lieher 1 But it will be dark in an hour.'

' What matter ? '

' But you shall find them to-morrow, just as well as to-day.
They stay at Bertrich for a fortnight more. Tliey ha^■p been
there now a month, and only left it last week for a pleasure
tour, across to the Ahrthal, and so back by Andernach.'

' Why did they leave C'oblentz, then, in such hot haste ? '

'Ah, the ladies never give reasons. There were letters
waiting for them at our house ; and no sooner read, but they
leaped up, and would fortli. Come home now, and go by the
steamer to-morrow morning.'

' Impossible ! most hospitable of Israelites.'

' To go to-night — for see the clouds ! Not a postilion will
dare to leave Coblentz, under that quick-coming aUgemein und
imgeheuer henJcer-hund-und-teufel's-gewiUer.'

Stangrave looked up, growling ; and gave in. A Khine-storm
was rolling up rapidly.

'They will be caught in it.'

' No. They are far beyond its path by now ; while you shall
endure the whole visitation ; and if you try to proceed, pass the
night in it flea-pestered post-house, or in a ditch of water.'

So Stangrave went home with Herr Salomon, and heard from
him, amid clouds of Latakia, of wars and rumours of wars, dis-
tress of nations, and perplexity, seen by the light, not of the
gospel, but of the stock-exchange ; while the storm fell without
in lightning, hail, rain, of right Khenish potency.

CHAPTER XXIV

THE THIRTIETH OF SEPTEMBER

We must go back a week or so, to England, and to the last day
of September. The world is shooting partridges, and asking
nervously, when it comes home, what news from the Crimea ?
The flesh who serves it is bathing at ilargate. The devil is
keeping up his usual correspondence with both. Eaton Square
is a desolate wilderness, where dusty sparrows alone disturb the
dreams of frowzy charwomen, who, like Anchorites amid the
tombs of the Thebaid, fulfil the contemplative life each in her
subterranean cell. Beneath St. Peters spire the cabman sleeps
within his cab, the horse without ; the waterman, seated on his

XXIV THE THIRTIETH OF SEPTEMBER 385

empty bucket, contemplates the untrodden pavement between
his feet, and is at rest. The blue butcher's boy trots by, with
empty cart, iive miles an hour, instead of full fifteen, and stops
to chat with the red ]jostman, who, his occupation gone, smokes
with the green gatekeeper, and reviles the Czar. Along the
whole north pavement of the squaie only one figure moves, and
that is Major Campbell.

His face is haggard and anxious ; he walks with a quick,
excited step ; earnest enough, whoever else is not. For in front
of Lord Scoutbush's liouse the road .is laid with straw. There is
sickness there, anxiety, bitter tears. Lucia has not found her
husband, but she has lost her child.

Trembling, Campbell raises the muffled knocker, and Bowie
appears. ' What news to-day ? ' he whispers.

' As well as can be expected, sir, and as quiet as a lamb now,
they say. But it has been a bad time, and a bad man is he that
caused it.'

'A bad time, and a bad man. How is !Miss St. Just ?'

'Just gone to lie down, sir. ^Irs. Clara is on the stairs, if
you'd like to see her.'

' No ; tell Miss St. Just that I have no news yet.' And the
major turns wearily away.

Clara, who has seen him from above, hurries down after him
into the street, and coaxes him to come in. 'I am sure you
have had no breakfast, sir ; and you look so ill and worn. And
Miss St. Just will be so vexed not to see you. She will get up
the moment she hears you are here.'

'No, my good Miss Clara,' says Campbell, looking down with
a weary smile. 'I should only make gloom more gloomy.
Bowie, tell his lordship that I shall be at the afternoon train
to-morrow, let what will happen.'

'Ay, ay, sir. We're a' ready to march. The major looks very
ill. Miss Clara. I wish he'd have taken your counsel. And I
wish ye'd take mine, and marry me ere I march, just to try
what it's like.'

' I must mind my mistress, ilr. Bowie,' says Clara.

' And how should I interfere with that, as I've said twenty
times, when I'm safe in the Crimea 1 I'll get the licence this
day, say what ye will ; and then ye would not have the
heart to let me spend two pounds twelve and sixpence for
nothing.'

Whether the last most Caledonian argument conquered or
not, Mr. Bowie got the licence, was married before breakfast
the next morning, and started for the Crimea at four o'clock in
the afternoon ; most astonished, as he confided in the train to
Sergeant MacArthur, ' to see a lassie that never gave him a kind
word in her life, and had not been married but barely six hours,
greet and greet at his going, till she vanished away into
hystericals. They're a very unfathomable species, sergeant, are

2 C T. Y. A.

386 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

they women ; and if they were taken out o' man, they took
the best part o' Adam wi' tliem, and left us to shift with the
worse.'

But to return to Campbell. The last week has altered him
frightfully. He is no longer the stern, self-possessed warrior
which he was ; he no longer even walks upright ; his cheek is
pale, his eye dull ; his whole countenance sunken together.
And now that the excitement of anxiety is past, he draws his
feet along the pavement slowly, his hands clasped behind him,
his eyes fixed on the ground, as if the life was gone from out of
him, and existence was a heavy weight.

' She is safe, at least, then ! One burden off my mind. And
yet had it not been better if that pure spirit had returned to
Him who gave it, instead of waking again to fresh misery 1 I
must find that man ! Why, I have been saying so to myself for
seven days past, and yet no ray of light. Can the coward have
given me a wrong address ? Yet why give me an address at all
if he meant to hide from me ? Why, 1 have been saying that,
too, to myself every day for the last week ! Over and over
again the same round of possibilities and suspicions. However,
I must be quiet now, if I am a man. I can hear nothing before
the detective comes at two. How to pass the weary, weary
time ? For I am past thinking — almost past praying — though
not quite, thank God ! '

He paces up still noisy Piccadilly, and then up silent Bond
Street ; pauses to look at some strange fish on Groves's counter
— anything to while away the time ; then he plods on toward
the top of the street, and turns into ilr. Pillischer's shop, and
upstairs to the microscopic club-room. There, at least, he can
forget himself for an hour.

He looks round the neat pleasant little place, with its cases of
curiosities, and its exquisite photographs, and bright brass in-
struments ; its glass vases stocked with delicate water-plants
and animalcules, with the sunlight gleaming through the green
and purple seaweed fronds, while the air is fresh and fragrant
with the seaweed scent ; a quiet, cool little hermitage of science
amid that great, noisy, luxurious west-end world. At least, it
brings back to him the thought of the summer sea, and Aber-
alva, and his shore-studies : but he cannot think of that any
more. It is past ; and may God forgive him !

At one of the microscopes on the slab opposite him stands a
sturdy bearded man, his back toward the major ; while the wise
little German, hopeless of customers, is leaning over him in his
shirt sleeves.

'But I never liave seen its like ; it had just like a painter's
easel in its stomach yesterday ! '

' Why, it's an Echinus Larva ; a sucking sea-urchin ! Hang
it, if I had known you hadn't seen one, I'd have brought up
half a dozen of them ! '

xxrv THE THIRTIETH OF SEPTEMBER 387

'May I look, sir?' asked the major; 'I, too, never have seen
an Echinus Larva.'

The bearded man looks up.

' JIajor Campbell ! '

' Mr. Thurnall ! I thought I could not be mistaken in the
voice.'

' This is too pleasant, sir, to renew our watery loves together
here,' said Tom : but a second look at the major's face showed
him that he was in no jesting mood. ' How is the party at
Beddgelert ? I faucipd you with them still.'

' They are all in London, at Lord Scoutbush's house, in Eaton
Square.'

' In London, at this dull time ? I trust nothing unpleasant
has brought them here.'

' !Mrs. Vavasour is very ill. We had thoughts of sending for
you, as the family physican was out of town : but she was out
of danger, thank God, in a few hours. Now let me ask in turn
after you. I hope no unpleasant business brings you up three
hundred miles from your practice ? '

' Nothing, I assure you. Only I have given up my Aberalva
practice. I am going to the East.'

' Like the rest of the world.'

' Not exactly. You go as a dignified soldier of her Majesty's ;
I as an undignified Abel Drugger, to dose Bashi-Bazouks.'

' Impossible ! and with such an opening as you had there !
You must excuse me ; but my opinion of your prudence must
not be so rudely shaken.'

' Why do you not ask the question which Balzac's old Touran-
geois judge asks, whenever a culprit is brought before him, —
"Who is she?"'

' Taking for granted that there was a woman at the bottom of
every mishap ? I understand you,' said the major, with a sad
smile. ' Now let you and I walk a little together, and look at
the Echinoid another day — or when I return from Sevasto-
pol '

Tom went out with him. A new ray of hope had crossed the
major's mind. His meeting with Thurnall might be provi-
dential ; for he recollected now, for the first time, Mellot's
parting hint.

' You knew Elsley Vavasour well 1 '

' No man better.'

' Did you think that there was any tendency to madness in
him?'

' No more than in any other selfish, vain, irritable man, with
a strong imagination left to run riot.'

' Humph ! you seem to have divined his character. May I
ask if you knew him before you met him at Aberalva ? '

Tom looked up sharply in the major's face.

' You would ask, what cause I have for inquiring ? I will

388 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

tell you presently, ileanwhile I may say, that Mellot told me
frankly that you had some power over him ; and mentioned,
mysteriously, a name — .John Briggs, I think — which it appears
that he once assumed.'

' If Mellot thought fit to tell you anytliing, I may frankly tell
you all. .John Briggs is his real name. I have known him from
childhood.' And then Tom poured into the ears of tlie surprised
and somewhat disgusted major all he had to tell.

'You have kept your secret mercifully, and used it wisely,
sir ; and I and others shall be always your debtors for it. Xow
I dare tell you in turn, in strictest confidence of course '

'I am far too poor to afford the luxury of babbling.'

And the major told him what we all know.

' I expected as much,' said he drily. ' Now, I suppose that
you wish me to exert myself in finding the man ? '

'I do.'

' Were ilrs. Vavasour only concerned, I should say — Not I !
Better that she should never set eyes on him again.'

' Better, indeed ! ' said he bitterly : ' but it is I who must see
him, if but for five minutes. I must ! '

' .Major Campbell's wish is a command. Where liave you
searched for him 1 '

' At his address, at his publisher's, at the houses of various
literary friends of his, and yet no trace.'

' Has he gone to the Continent ? '

' Heaven knows ! I liave inquired at every passport office
for news of any one answering his description ; indeed, I liave
two detectives, I may tell you, at tliis moment, watching every
possible place. There is but one hope, if he be alive. Can he
have gone home to his native town ? '

' Never ! Any wliere but there.'

' Is there any old friend of the lower class witli whom he may
have taken lodgings ? '

Tom pondered.

' There was a fellow, a noisy blackguard, whom Briggs was
asking after this very summer — a fellow who went oft' from
Whitbury with some players. I know Briggs used to go to the
theatre with him as a boy — what was his name ? He tried
acting, but did not succeed ; and then became a scene-shifter,
or something of the kind, at the Adelphi. He has some com-
plaint, I forget what, which made him an out-patient at St.
Mumpsimus's, some months e\ery year. I know that he was
there this summer, for I wrote to ask, at Briggs's request, and
Briggs sent him a sovereign through me.

' But what makes you fancy that he can have taken shelter
with such a man, and one who knows his secret ? '

' It is but a chance : but he may have done it from the mere
feeling of loneliness— just to hold by some one whom he knows
in this great wilderness ; especially a man in whose eyes he will

XXIV THE THIRTIETH OF SEPTEMBER 389

be a great man, and to whom he has done a kindness ; still, it is
the merest chance.'

'We will take it, nevertheless, forlorn hope though it
be.'

They took a cab to the hospital, and, with some trouble, got
the man's name and address, and drove in search of him. They
had some difficulty in finding his abode, for it was up an alley
at the back of Drury Lane, in the top of one of those foul old
houses which hold a family in every room ; but, by dint of
knocking at one door and the other, and bearing meekly much
reviling consequent thereon, they arrived, 'per niodum tollendi,'
at a door which must be the right one, as all the rest were
wrong.

' Does John Barker live here ? ' asks Thurnall, putting his
head in cautiously for fear of drunken Irishmen, who might be
seized with the national impulse to ' slate ' him.

' What's that to you ? ' answers a shrill voice from among
soapsuds and steaming rags.

'Here is a gentleman wants to speak to him.'

' So do a many as won't have that pleasure, and would be
little the better for it if they had. Get along with you, I knows
your lay.'

'We really want to speak to him, and to pay him, if he
will '

'Go along! I'm up to the something -to -your -advantage
dodge, and to the mustachio dodge too. Do you fancy I don't
know a bailiff, because he's dress'd like a swell V

' But, my good woman ! ' said Tom, laughing.

'You put your crocodile foot in here, and I'll hit the hot
water over the both of you ! ' and she caught up the pan of
soapsuds.

' My dear soul ! I am a doctor belonging to the hospital
which your husband goes to ; and have known him since he was
a boy, down in Berkshire,'

' You ? ' and she looked keenly at him.

' My name is Thurnall. I was a medical man once in Whit-
bury, where your husband was born.'

' You ? ' said she again, in a softened tone. ' I knows that
name well enough.'

' You do ? What was your name, then ? ' said Tom, who
recognised the woman's Berkshire accent beneath its coat of
cockneyism.

' Never you mind : I'm no credit to it, so I'll let it be. But
come in, for the old county's sake. Can't ofi'er you a chair, he's
pawned 'em all. Pleasant old place it was down there, when I
was a young girl ; they say it's growed a grand place now, wi' a
railroad. I think many times I'd like to go down and die
there.' She spoke in a rough, sullen, careless tone, as if life-
weary.

390 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

' !My good woman,' said ilajor Campbell, a little impatiently,
' can you find your husband for us ? '

' Why, then ? ' asked she sharply, her suspicion seeming to
return.

'If he will answer a few questions, I will give him five
shillings. If lie can find out for me what I want, I will give
him five pounds.'

' Shouldn't I do as well ? If you gi' it he, it's little out of it
I shall see, but he coming home tipsy when it's spent. Ah,
dear ! it was a sad day for me when I first fell in with they
play-goers ! '

' Why should she not do it as well ? ' said Thurnall. ' Mis.
Barker, do you know anything of a person named Briggs — John
Briggs, the apothecary's son, at Whitbury ? '

She laughed a harsh bitter laugh.

'Know he? yes, and too much reason. That was where it
all begun, along of that play-going of he's and my master's.'

' Have you seen him lately 1 ' asked Campbell eagerly.

' I seen 'un ? I'd hit this water over the fellow, and all his
play-acting merryandrews, if ever he sot a foot here ! '

' But have you heard of him ? '

'Ees ' said she carelessly ; ' he's round here now, I heard

my master say, about the 'Delphy, with my master : a drinking,
I suppose. Xo good, I'll warrant.'

' My good woman,' said Campbell, panting for breath, ' bring
me face to face with that man, and I'll put a five-pound note in
your hand there and then.'

' Five pounds is a sight to me ; but it's a sight more than the
sight of he's worth,' said she suspiciously again.

'That's the gentleman's concern,' said Tom. 'The money's
yours. I suppose you know the worth of it by now ? '

' Ees, none better. But I don't want he to get hold of it ;
he's made away with enough already ; ' and she began to think.

' Curiously impassive people, we Wessex worthies, when we
are a little ground down with trouble. You must give her time,
and she will do our work. She wants the money, but she is long
past being excited at the prospect of it.'

' What's that you'ie whispering ? ' asked she sharply.

Campbell stamped ^\ itli impatience.

' You don't trust us yet, eh ? — then, there ! ' and he took five
sovereigns from his pocket, and tossed them on the table.
' There's your money ! I trust you to do the work, as you've
been paid beforehand.'

She caught up the gold, rang every piece on the table to see
if it was sound ; and then —

'Sally, you go down with these gentlemen to the Jonson's
Head, and if he bent there, go to the Fighting Cocks ; and if he
ben't there, go to the Duke of Wellington ; and tell he there's
two gentlemen has heard of his poetry, and wants to hear 'un

XXIV THE THIRTIETH OF SEPTEMBER 391

excite. And then you give he a glass of liquor, and praise up
his nonsense, and he'll tell you all he knows, and a sight more.
Gi' 'un plenty to drink. It'll be a saving and a charity, for if he
don't get it out of you, he will out of me.'

And she returned doggedly to her washing.

'Can't I do anything for you?' asked Tom, whose heart
always yearned over a Berkshire soul. ' I have plenty of friends
down at Whitbury still.'

' More than I have. No, sir,' said she sadly, and with the
iirst touch of sweetness they had yet Iieard in her \oice. ' I've
cured my own bacon, and I must eat it. There's none down
there minds me, but them that would be ashamed of me. And
I couldn't go without he, and they wouldn't take he in ; so I
must just bide.' And she went on washing.

'God help her!' said Campbell, as he went down-
stairs.

' Misery breeds that temper, and only misery, in our people.
I can show you as thorough gentlemen and ladies, people round
Whitbury, living on ten shillings a week, as you will show me
in Belgravia living on five thousand a year.'

'I don't doubt it,' said Campbell. ... 'So "she couldn't go
without he," drunken dog as he is ! Thus it is with them all the
world over.'

' So much the worse for them,' said Tom cynically, ' and for
the men too. They make fools of us first with our over-fondness
of them ; and then they let us make fools of ourselves with their
over-fondness of us.'

'I fancy sometimes that they were all meant to be the
mates of angels, and stooped to men as a. 2ns alter; reversing
the old story of the sons of heaven and the daughters of
men.'

' And accounting for the present degeneracy. When the sons
of heaven married the daughters of men, their offspring were
giants and men of renown. Now the sons of men marry the
daughters of heaven, and the offspring is Wiggle, Waggle, Wind-
bag, and Eedtape.'

They visited one public-house after another, till tlie girl found
for them the man they wanted, a shabby, sodden- visaged fellow,
with a would-be jaunty air of conscious shrewdness and vanity,
who stood before the bar, his thumbs in his armholes, and laying
down the law to a group of coster-boys, for want of a better
Audience.

The girl, after sundry plucks at his coat-tail, stopped him in
the midst of his oration, and explained her errand somewhat
fearfully.

Jlr. Barker bent down his head on one side, to signify that
he was absorbed in attention to her news ; and then drawing
himself up once more, lifted his greasy hat high in air, bowed to
the very floor, and broke forth —

392 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

' Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors :
A man of war, and eke a man of peace —
That is, if you come peaceful ; and if not,
Have we not Hiren here ? '

And the fellow put himself into a fresh attitude.

' We come in peace, my good sir,' said Tom ; ' first to listen
to your talented effusions, and next for a little private conver-
sation on a subject on ■which ' but Mr. Barker interrupted —

' To listen, and to drink ? The muse is diy,
And Pegasus doth thirst for Hippocrene,
And fain would paint — imbihe the vulgar call —
Or hot or cold, or long or short — Attendant ! '

The bar girl, who knew his humour, came forward.

' Glasses all round — these noble knights will pay —
Of hottest hot, and stiffest stiff. Thou mark'st me ?
Now to your quest ! '

And he faced round with a third attitude.

' Do you know Jlr. Briggs ? ' asked the straightforward
major.

He rolled his eyes to every quarter of the seventh sphere,
clapped liis hand upon his heart, and assumed an expression of
angelic gratitude —

' My benefactor ! Were the world a waste,
A thistle-waste, ass-nibbled, goldfinch-pecked.
And all the men and women merely asses,
I still could lay this hand upon this heart
And cry, ' ' Not yet alone ! I know a man —
A man Jove-fronted, and Hyperion-curled —
A gushing, flushing, blushing human heart ! " '

' As sure as you live, sir,' said Tom, ' if you won't talk honest
prose, I won't pay for the brandy-and-water.'

' Base is the slave who pays, and baser prose —
Hang uninspired patter ! 'Tis in verse
That angels praise, and fiends in Limbo curse.'

And asses bray, I think,' said Tom, in despair. ' Do you
know where Mr. Briggs is now ? '

' And why the devil do you want to know ?
For that's a vcrav, sir, although somewhat slow.'

The two men laughed in spite of themselves.
'Better tell the fellow the plain truth,' said Campbell to
Thurnall.

'Come out with us, and I will tell you.' And Campbell

XXIV THE THIRTIETH OF SEPTEMBER 393

tlirew down the money, and led him off, after he had gulped
down his own brandy, and half Tom's beside.

' What ? leave the nepenthe untasted ? '

They took him out, and he tucked his arms through theirs,
and strutted down Drury Lane.

'The fact is, sir — I speak to you, of course, in confidence, as
one gentleman to another '

Mr. Barker replied by a lofty and gracious bow.

' That his family are exceedingly distressed at his absence,
and his wife, who, as you may know, is a lady of high family,
dangerously ill ; and he cannot be aware of the fact. This
gentleman is the medical man of lier family, and I — I am an
intimate friend. We should esteem it, therefore, the very
greatest service if you would give us any information which '

' Weep no more, gentle shepherds, weep no more ;
For Lycidas your .sorrow is not dead,
Sunk though he be upon a garret floor,
With fumes of Morpheus' crowu about his head.'

' Fumes of Jlorpheus' crown ? ' asked Thurnall.

' That crimson flower which crowns the sleepy god,
And sweeps the soul aloft, though flesh may nod.'

' He has taken to opium ! ' said Thurnall to the bewildered
major. ' What I should have expected.'

' God help him ! we must save him out of that last lowest
deep ! ' cried Campbell. ' Where is he, sir 1 '

' A vow ! a vow ! I have a vow in heaven !
Why guide the hounds toward the trembling hare ?
Our Adonais hath drunk poison ; Oh !
What deaf and viperous murderer could crown
Life's early cup with such a draught of woe ? '

' As I live, sir,' cried Campbell, losing his self-possession in
disgust at the fool ; ' you may rhyme your own nonsense as long
as you will, but you shan't quote the Adonais about that fellow
in my presence.'

Mr. Barker shook himself fiercely free of Campbell's arm, and
faced round at him in a fighting attitude. Campbell stood eye-
ing him sternly, but at his wit's end.

' Mr. Barker,' said Tom blandly, ' will you have another glass
of brandy-and- water, or shall I call a policeman ?'

' Sir,' sputtered he, speaking prose at last, ' this gentleman
lias insulted me ! He has called my poetry nonsense, and my
friend a fellow. And blood shall not wipe out — what liquor
may ! '

"The hint was sufficient : but ere he had drained another glass,
Mr. Barker was decidedly incapable of managing his affairs,

394 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

much less theirs ; and became withal exceedingly quarrelsome,
returning angrily to the grievance of Briggs having been called
a fellow ; in spite of all their entreaties, he talked himself into
a passion, and at last, to Campbell's extreme disgust, rushed out
of the bar into the street.

' This is too vexatious ! To have kept half an hour's company
with such an animal, and then to have him escape me after all I
A just punishment on me for pandering to hi.s drunkenness.'

Tom made no answer, but went quietly to the door, and
peeped out.

' Pay for his liquor, major, and follow. Keep a few yards
behind me ; there will be less chance of his recognising us than
if he saw us both together.'

' Why, where do you think he's going ? '

' Xot home, I can see. Ten to one that he will go raging off
straight to Briggs, to put him on his guard against us. Just
like a drunkard's cunning it would be. There, he has turned up
that side street. Xow follow me quick. Oh that he may only
keep his legs ! '

'They gained the bottom of that street before he had turned
out of it ; and so through another, and another, till they ran
him to earth in one of the courts out of St. Martin's Lane.

Into a doorway he went, and up a stair. Tom stood listening
at the bottom, till he heard the fellow knock at a door far above,
and call out in a drunken tone. Then he beckoned to Camp-
bell, and both, careless of what might follow, ran upstairs,
and pushing him aside, entered the room without ceremony.

Their chances of being on the right scent were small enough,
considering that, though every one was out of town, there were
a million and a half of people in London at that moment ; and,
unfortunately, at lea,st fifty thousand who would have considered
Mr. John Barker a desirable visitor ; but somehow, in the ex-
citement of the chase, both had forgotten the chances against
them, and the probability that they would have to retire down-
stairs again, apologising humbly to some wrathful Joseph
Buggins, whose convivialities they might have interrupted.
But no ; Tom's cunning had, as usual, played him true ; and as
they entered the door, they beheld none other than the lost
ELsley Vavasour, nliaa John Briggs.

ilajor Campbell advanced bowing, hat in hand, with a cour-
teous apology on his lips.

It was a low lean-to garret ; there was a deal table and an
old chair in it, but no bed. The windows were broken ; the
paper hanging down in strips. Elsley was standing before the
empty fireplace, his hand in his bosom, as if he had been startled
by the scuffle outside. He had not shaved for some days.

So much Tom could note ; but no more. He saw the glance
of recognition pass over Elsley's face, and that an ugly one. He
saw him draw something from his bosom, and spring like a cat

XXIV THE THIRTIETH OF SEPTEMBER 395

almost upon the table. A flash — a crack. He had fired a pistol
full in Campbell's face.

Tom was startled, not at the thing, but that such a man
should have done it. He had seen souls, and too many, flit out
of the world by that same tiny crack, in Californian taverns,
Arabian deserts, Australian gullies. He knew all about that :
but he liked Campbell ; and he breathed more freely the next
moment, when he saw him standing still erect, a quiet smile on
his face, and felt the plaster dropping from the wall upon his
own head. The bullet had gone over tlie major. All was right.

'He is not man enough for a second shot,' thought. Tom
quietly, 'while the major's eye is on him.'

'I beg your pardon, Mr. Vavasour,' he heard the major say,
in a gentle unmoved voice, 'for this intrusion. I assure you
that there is no cause for any anger on your part ; and I am
come to entreat you to forget and forgive any conduct of mine
which may have caused j-ou to mistake either me or a lady
whom I am unworthy to mention.'

' I am glad the beggar fired at him,' thought Tom. ' One
spice of danger, and he's himself again, and will overawe the
poor cur by mere civility. I was afraid of some abject methodist
parson humility, which would give the other party a handle.'

Elsley heard him with a stupefied look, like that of a trapped
wild beast, in which rage, shame, suspicion, and fear, were
mingled with the \ acant glare of the opium-eater's eye. Then
his eye drooped beneath Campbell's steady gentle gaze, and he
looked uneasily round the room, still like a trapped wild beast,
as if for a hole to escape by ; then up again, but sidelong, at
Major Campbell.

' I assure you, sir, on the word of a C'liristian and a soldier,
that you are labouring under an entire misapprehension. For
God's sake and Mrs. Vavasour's sake, come back, sir, to those
who will receive you with nothing but affection ! Your wife has
been all but dead ; she thinks of no one but you, asks for no one
but you ! In God's name, sir, what are you doing here, while a
wife who adores you is dying from your — I do not wish to be
rude, sir, but let me say at least — neglect 1 '

Elsley looked at him still askance, puzzled, inquiring. Sud-
denly his great beautiful eyes opened to preternatural wideness,
as if trying to grasp a new thought. He started, shifted his
feet to and fro, his arms straight down by his sides, his fingers
clutching after something. Then he looked up hurriedly again
at Campbell ; and Thurnall looked at him also ; and his face
was as the face of an angel.

'Miserable ass !' thought Tom ; 'if he don't see innocence in
that man's countenance, he wouldn't see it in his own
child's.'

Elsley suddenly turned his back to them, and thrust his hand
into his bosom. Now was Tom's turn.

396 TWO YEARS AGO cMap.

In a moment he liad vaulted over the table, and seized
Elsley's wrist ere he could draw the second pistol.

' No, my dear Jack,' whispered he quietly, ' once is enough in
a day ! '

'Not for him, Tom, for myself ! ' moaned Elsley.

' For neither, dear lad ! Let bygones be bygones, and do you
be a new man, and go home to ilis. Vavasour.'

' Never, never, never, never, never, never ! ' shrieked Elsley
like a baby, eveiy word increasing in intensity, till the wjiole
house rang ; and then threw himself into the crazy chair, and
dashed his head between his hands upon the table.

'This is a case for me, ^lajor Campbell. I think you had
better go now.'

' You will not leave him 1 '

' No, sir. It is a very curious psychological study, and he is
a Whitbury man.'

Campbell knew quite enough of the would-be cynical doctor,
to understand what all that meant. He came up to Elsley.

' Mr. Vavasour, I am going to the war, from which I expect
never to return. If you believe me, give me your hand before
I go.'

Elsley, without lifting his head, beat on the table with his
hand.

' I wish to die at peace with you and all the world. I am
innocent in word, in thought. I shall not insult another
person by saying that she is so. If you believe me, give me
your hand.'

Elsley stretched his hand, his head still buried. Campbell
took it, and went silently downstairs.

' Is he gone ? ' moaned he, after a while.

'Yes.'

' Does she — does she care for him ? '

' Good heavens ! How did you ever dream such an ab-
surdity 1 '

Elsley only beat upon the table.

'She has been ill?'

' Is ill. She has lost her child.'

'Which?' shrieked Elsley.

' A boy whom she should have had.'

Elsley only beat on the table ; then —

' Give me the bottle, Tom ! '

'What bottle?'

' The laudanum ; — there, in the cupboard.'

' I shall do no such thing. You are poisoning yourself.'

' Let me, then ! I must, I tell you 1 I can live on nothing
else. I shall go mad if I do not have it. I should have been
mad by now. Nothing else keeps ofi' these fits ; — I feel one
coming now. Curse you ! give me the bottle ! '

'What fits?'

XXIV THE THIRTIETH OF SEPTEMBER 397

' How do I know ? Agony and torture — ever since I got wet
on that mountain.'

Tom knew enough to guess his meaning, and felt Elsley's
pulse and forehead.

' I tell you it turns every bone to red-hot iron ! ' almost
screamed he.

' Neuralgia ; rheumatic, I suppose,' said Tom to himself.
' AVell, this is not the thing to cure you ; but you shall have it
to keep you quiet.' And he measured him out a small dose.

' Islore, I tell you, more ! ' said Elsley, lifting up his head, and
looking at it.

' Not more while you are with me.'

' With you ! Who the devil sent you here ? '

'John Briggs, John Briggs, if I did not mean you good,
should I be here now ? Now do, like a reasonable man, tell me
what you intend to do.'

' What is that to you, or any man 1 ' said Elsley, writhing with
neuralgia.

' No concern of mine, of course : but your poor wife — you
must see her.'

' I can't, I won't ! — that is, not yet 1 I tell you I cannot face
the thought of her, much less the sight of her, and her family —
that Valentia ! I'd rather the earth should open and swallow
me ! Don't talk to me, I say ! '

And hiding his face in his hands, he writhed with pain, while
Thurnall stood still patiently watching him, as a pointer dog
does a partridge. He had found his game, and did not intend
to lose it.

' I am better now ; quite well ! ' said he, as the laudanum
began to work. ' Yes ! I'll go — that will be it — go to ... at
once. He'll give me an order for a magazine article ; I'll earn
ten pounds, and then oiF to Italy.'

' If you want ten pounds, my good fellow, you can liave them
without racking your brains over an article.'

Elsley looked up pioudly.

' I do not borrow, sir ! '

' Well — I'll give you five for those pistols. They are of no
use to you, and I shall want a spare brace for the East.'

' Ah ! I forgot them. I spent my last money on them,'
said he with a shudder ; ' but I won't sell them to you at a
fancy price — no dealings between gentleman and gentleman.
I'll go to a shop, and get for them what they ai'e worth.'

' Very good. I'll go with you, if you like. I fancy I may
get you a better price for them than you would yourself : being
rather a knowing one about the pretty little barkers.' And
Tom took his arm, and walked him quietly down into the
street.

' If you ever go up those kennel-stairs again, friend,' said he
to himself, ' my name's not Tom Thurnall.'

398 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

They walked to a gunsmith's shop in the Strand, where Tom
had often dealt, and sold the pistols for some three pounds.

' Now then, let's go into 333, and get a mutton chop.'

'No.'

Elsley was too shy ; he was ' not fit to be seen.'

' Come to my rooms, then, in the Adelphi, and have a. wash
and a shave. It will make you as fresh as a lark again,
and then we'll send out for the eatables, and have a quiet
chat.'

Elsley did not say no. Thurnall took the thing as a matter
of course, and he was too weak and tired to argue witli him.
Beside, there was a sort of relief in the company of a man who,
tliough he knew all, chatted on to him cheerily and quietly,
as if nothing had happened ; who at least treated him as a sane
man. From any one else he would have shrunk, lest they
should find him out : but a companion, who knew the worst,
at least saved him suspicion and dread. His weakness, now
that the collapse after passion had come on, clung to any human
friend. The very sound of Tom's clear .sturdy voice seemed
pleasant to him, after long solitude and silence. At least it
kept off the fiends of memory.

Tom, anxious to keep Elsley's mind employed on some subject
which should not be painful, began chatting about the war and
its prospects. Elsley soon caught the cue, and talked A\'ith wild
energy and pathos, opium-fed, of the coming struggle between
despotism and liberty, the arising of Poland and Hungary, and
all the grand dreams which then haunted minds like his.

' By Jove ! ' said Tom, ' you are yourself again now. Why
don't you put all that into a book ? '

' I may, perhaps,' said Elsley proudly.

'And if it comes to that, why not come to the war, and see
it for yourself ? A new country — one of the finest in the world.
New scenery, new actors, — why, Constantinople itself is a poem !
Yes, there is another " Revolt of Islam " to be written yet. Why
don't you become our war poet ? Come and see the fighting ;
for there'll be plenty of it, let them say what they will. The
old bear is not going to drop his dead donkey without a snap
and a hug. Come along, and tell people what it's all really
like. There will be a dozen Cockneys writing battle songs, I'll
warrant, who never saw a man shot in their lives, not even
a hare. Come and give us the real genuine grit of it, — for if
you can't, who can ? '

' It is a grand thought ! The true war poet.s, after all, have
been warriors themselves. Korner and Alcseus fought as well
as sang, and sang because they fought. Old Homer, too, — who
can believe that he had not hewn his way through the very
battles which he describes, and seen every wound, every shape
of agony ? A noble thought, to go out with that army against
the northern Anarch, singing in the van of battle, as Taillefer

XXIV THE THIRTIETH OF SEPTEMBER 399

sang the song of Roland before William's knights, and to die
like him, the proto-martyr of the crusade, with the melody yet
upon one's lips ! '

And his face blazed up with excitement.

' What a handsome fellow he is, after all, if there were but
more of him ! ' said Tom to himself. ' I wonder if he'd fight,
though, when the singing-fever was off him.'

He took Elsley upstairs into his bedroom, got him washed
and shaved, and sent out the woman of the house for mutton
chops and stout, and began himself setting out the lunolieon
table, while Elsley in the room within chanted to himself
snatches of poetry.

' The notion has taken ; he's composing a war song already,
I believe.'

It actually was so : but Elsley's brain was weak and wander-
ing ; and he was soon silent ; and motionless so long, that Tom
opened the door and looked in anxiously.

He was sitting on a chair, his hands fallen on his lap, the
tears running down his face.

' Well ? ' asked Tom smilingly, not noticing the tears ; ' how
goes on the opera? I heard through the door the orchestra
tuning for the prelude.'

Elsley looked up in his face with a puzzled piteous expression.

' Do you know, Thurnall, I fancy at moments that my mind
is not what it was. Fancies flit from me as quickly as they
come. I had twenty verses five minutes ago, and now I cannot
recollect one.'

'No wonder,' thought Tom to himself. 'My dear fellow,
recollect all that you have suffered with this neuralgia. Believe
me, all you want is animal strength. Chops and porter will
bring all the verses back, or better ones instead of them.'

He tried to make Elsley eat ; and Elsley tried himself : but
failed. The moment the meat touched his lips he loathed it,
and only courtesy prevented his leaving the room to escape the
smell. The laudanum had done its work upon his digestion.
He tried the porter, and drank a little : then, suddenly stopping,
he pulled out a phial, dropped a heavy dose of his poison into
the porter, and tossed it off.

' Sold, am I ? ' said Tom to himself. ' He must have hidden
the bottle as he came out of the room with me. Oh, the cunning
of those opium-eaters ! However, it will keep him quiet just
now, and to Eaton Square I must go.'

'You had better be quiet now, my dear fellow, after your
dose ; talking will only excite you. Settle yourself on my bed,
and I'll be back in an hour.'

So he put Elsley on his bed, carefully removing razors and
pistols (for he had still his fears of an outburst of passion), then
locked him in, ran down into the Strand, threw himself into a
cab for Eaton Square, and asked for Valentia.

400 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

Campbell had been there already ; so Tom took care to tell
nothing which he had not told, expecting, and rightly, that he
would not mention Elsley's having fired at him. Lucia was still
all but senseless, too weak even to ask for Elsley ; to attempt
any meeting between her and her husband would be madness.

' What will you do with the unhappy man, ilr. Thurnall ? '

'Keep him under my eye, day and night, till he is either
rational again, or '

' Do you think that he may ? Oh, my poor sister ! '

'I think that he may yet end very sadly, madam. There is
no use concealing the truth from you. All I can promise is,
that I will treat him as my own brother.'

Valentia held out her fair hand to the young doctor. He
stooped, and lifted the tips of her fingers to his lips.

' I am not worthy of such an honour, madam. I shall study
to deserve it.' And he bowed himself out, the same sturdy, self-
confident Tom, doing right, he hardly knew why, save that it
was all in the way of business.

And now arose the puzzle, what to do with Elsley 1 He had
set his heart on going down to Whitbury the next day. He had
been in England nearly six months, and had not yet seen his
father ; his heart yearned, too, after tlie old place, and Mark
Armsworth, and many an old friend, whom he might never see
again. ' However, that fellow I must see to, come what will :
business first and pleasure afterwards. If I make him all right
— if I even get him out of the world decently, I get the Scout-
bush interest on my side — though I believe I liave it already.
Still, it's as well to lay people under as heavy an obligation as
possible. I \Wsh Miss Valentia had a^ked me whether Elsley
wanted any money : it's expensive keeping him myself. How-
ever, poor thing, she has other matters to think of ; and, I dare
say, never knew the pleasures of an empty purse. Here we are !
Three-and-si.x^pence — eh, cabman? I suppose you think I was
born Saturday night ? There's three shillings. Xow, don't chaff
me, my excellent friend, or you will find you have met your
match, and a leetle more ! '

And Tom hurried into his rooms, and found Elsley still
sleeping.

He set to work, packing and arranging, for with him every
moment found its business ; and presently heard his patient call
faintly from the next room.

' Thurnall ! ' said he ; 'I have been a long journey. I have
been to Whitbury once more, and followed my father about his
garden, and sat upon my mother's knee. Ajid she taught me
one text, and no more. Over and over again she said it, as she
looked down at me with still sad eyes, the same text which she
spoke the day I left her for London. I never saw her again.
" By this, my son, be admonished ; of making of books there is
no end ; and much study is a weariness of the flesh. Let us

XXIV THE THIRTIETH OF SEPTEMBER 401

hear the conclusion of the \\ hole matter. Fear God, and keep
His commandments ; for this is the whole duty of man." . . .
Yes, I will go down to Whitbury, and be a little child once more.
I will take poor lodgings, and crawl out day by day, down the
old lanes, along the old ri\er-banks, where I fed my soul with
fair and mad dreams, and reconsider it all from the beginning ; —
and then die. No one need know me ; and if they do, they
need not be ashamed of me, I trust — ashamed that a poet has
risen up among them, to speak words which have been heard
across the globe. At least, they need never know my shame —
never know that I have broken tlie heart of an angel, who gave
herself to me, body and soul — attempted the life of a man whose
shoes I am not worthy to unloose — never know that I have
killed my own child ! — that a blacker brand than Cain's is on
my brow ! — Xever know — Oh, my God, what care 1 1 Let them
know all, as long as I can have done with shams and aftecta-
tions, dreams, and vain ambitions, and be just my own. self once
more for one day, and then die ! '

And he burst into convulsive weeping.

' No, Tom, do not comfort me ! I ought to die, and I shall
die. I cannot face her again ; let lier forget me, and find a
husband who will — and be a father to the children whom I
neglected ! Oh, my darlings, my darlings ! If I could but see
you once again : but no ! you too would ask me where I had
been so long. You too would ask me— your innocent faces at
least would — why I had killed your little brother ! — Let me
weep it out, Thurnall ; let me face it all ! This very misery is
a comfort, for it will kill me all the sooner.'

' If you really mean to go to Whitbury, my poor dear fellow,'
said Tom at last, ' I will start with you to-morrow morning.
For I too must go ; I must see my father.'

' You will really ? ' asked Elsley, who began to cling to him
like a child.

' I will indeed. Believe me, you are right ; you will find
friends there, and admirers too. I know one.'

' You do ? ' asked he, looking up.

' Mary Armsworth, the banker's daughter.'

' What ! That purse-proud, vulgar man ? '

' Don't be afraid of him. A truer and more delicate heart
don't beat. No one has more cause to say so than I. He will
receive you with open arms, and need be told no more than is
necessary ; while, as his friend, you may defy gossip, and do just
what you like.'

Tom slipped out that afternoon, paid Elsley's pittance of rent
at his old lodgings ; bought him a few necessary articles, and
lent him, without saying anything, a few more. Elsley sat all
day as one in a dream, moaning to himself at intervals, and
following Tom vacantly with his eyes, as he moved about the
room. Excitement, misery, and opium, were fast wearing out

2D T. Y. A.

402 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

body and mind, and Tom put him to bed that evening, as he
would have put a cliild.

Tom walked out into the Strand to smoke in the fresh air,
and think, in spite of himself, of that fair saint from wliom he
was so perversely flying, (iay girls slithered past him, looked
round at him, but in vain ; those two great sad eyes hung in his
fancy, and he could see nothing else. Ah — if she had but given
him back his money — why, what a fool he would iiave made of
himself ! Better as it was. He was meant to be a vagabond
and an adventurer to the last ; and perhaps to find at last the
luck which had flitted away before him.

He passed one of the theatre doors ; tliere was a group out-
side, more noisy and more earnest than such groups are wont
to be ; and ere he could pass through them, a shout from
within rattled the doors with its mighty pulse, and seemed
to shake the very walls. Another ; and another ! — What was
it? Fire?

No. It was the news of Alma.

And the group surged to and fro outside, and talked, and
questioned, and rejoiced ; and smart gents forgot their \'ulgar
pleasures, and looked for a moment as if they too could have
fought — had fought — at Alma ; and sinful girls forgot their
shame, and looked more beautiful than they had done for many
a day, as, beneath the flaring gas-light, their faces glowed for
a while with noble enthusiasm and woman's sacred pity, while
they questioned Tom, taking him for an officer, as to whether
he thought there were many killed.

' I am no officer : but I have been in many a battle, and I
know the Russians well, and have seen how they light ; and
there is many a brave man killed, and many a one more will be.'

' Oh, does it hurt them much ? ' asked one poor tiling.

' Not often,' quoth Tom.

' Thank God, thank God ! ' and she turned suddenly away,
and with the impulsive nature of her class, burst into violent
sobbing and weeping.

Poor thing ! perhaps among the men who fought and fell
that day was he to whom she owed the curse of her young life ;
and after him her lonely heart went forth once more, faithful
even in the lowest pit.

' You are strange creatures, women, women ! ' thought Tom :
'but I knew that many a year ago. Now then — the game is
growing fast and furious, it seems. Oh, that I may find myself
soon in the thickest of it ! '

So said Tom Thurnall ; and so said Major Campbell, too, that
night, as he prepared everything to start next morning to South-
ampton. 'The better the day, the better the deed,' quoth he.
' When a man is travelling to a better world, he Deed not lae
afraid of starting on a Sunday.'

XXV THE BANKER AND HIS DAUGHTER 403

CHAPTER XXV

THE BANKER AND HIS DAUGHTER

Tom and Elsley are safe at Whitbury at last ; and Tom, ere he
has seen his father, has packed Elsley safe away in lodgings
with an old dame whom he can trust. Then he asks his way to
his father's new abode ; a small old-fashioned house, with low
bay windows jutting out upon the narrow pavement.

Tom stops, and looks in the window. His father is sitting
close to it, in his arm-chair, his hands upon his knees, his face
lifted to the sunlight, with chin slightly outstretched, and his
pale eyes feeling for the light. The expression would have
been painful, but for its perfect sweetness and resignation.
His countenance is not, perhaps, a strong one ; but its delicacy
and calm, and the high forehead, and the long white locks, are
most venerable. With a blind man's exquisite sense, he feels
Tom's shadow fall on him, and starts, and calls him by name ;
for he has been expecting him, and thinking of nothing else all
the morning, and takes for granted that it must be he.

In another moment Tom is at his father's side. What need
to describe the sacred joy of those first few minutes, even if it
were possible ? But unrestrained tenderness between man and
man, rare as it is, and, as it were, unaccustomed to itself, has
no passionate fluency, no metaphor or poetry, such as man pours
out to woman, and woman again to man. All its language lies
in the tones, the looks, the little half-concealed gestures, hints
which pass themselves off modestly in jest ; and such was Tom's
first interview with his father ; till the old Isaac, having felt
Tom's head and hands again and again, to be sure whether it
were his very son or no, made him sit down by him, holding
him still fast, and began —

' Now tell me, tell me, while Jane gets you something to eat.
No, Jane, you musn't talk to Master Tom yet, to bother about
how much he's grown ; — nonsense, I must have him all to myself,
Jane. Go and get him some dinner. Now, Tom,' as if he was
afraid of losing a moment, 'you have been a dear boy to write
to me every week ; but there are so many questions which only
word of mouth will answer, and I have stored up dozens of
them ! I want to know what a coral reef really looks like, and
if you saw any trepangs upon them ? And what sort of strata
is the gold really in ? And you saw one of those giant rays ; I
want a whole hour's talk about the fellow. And — wliat an old
babbler I am ! talking to you when you should be talking to
me. Now begin. Let us have the trepangs first. Are they
real Holothurians or not ? '

And Tom began, and told for a full half -hour, interrupted then

404 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

by some little comment of the old man's, -which proved how
prodigious was the memory within, imprisoned and forced to
feed upon itself.

'You seem to know more about Australia than I dn, father,'
said Tom at last.

' Xo, child ; but ilary AiTusworth, Cxod bless her ! comes
down liere almost e\ery evening to read your letters to me ;
and she has been reading to me a book of Mrs. Lee's Adven-
tures in Austrdlid, which reads like a novel ; delicious book —
to me at least. Wliy, there is her step outside, I do believe, and
her father's with her ! '

The lighter woman's step was inaudible to Tom ; but the
heavy, deliberate waddle of the banker was not. He opened
the house-door, and then the parlour-door, without knocking ;
but when he saw the visitoi-, he stopped on the threshold with
outstretched arms.

' Hillo, ho ! who have we here ? Our prodigal son returned,
with his pockets full of nuggets from the diggings. Oh, nium's
the word, is it 1 ' as Tom laid his finger on his lips. ' Come
here, then, and let's have a look at you ! ' .\nd he catches both
Tom's hands in his, and almost shakes them oft'. ' I knew you
were coming, old boy ! Mary told me — she's in all the old man's
secrets. Come along, Mary, and see your old playfellow. She
has got a little fruit for the old gentleman. Mary, w here are
you ? always colloguincc with Jane.'

Mary comes in : a little dumpty body, with a yellow face,
and a red nose, the smile of an angel, and a heart full of many
little secrets of other people's — and of one great one of her own,
which is no business of any man's — and with fifty thousand
pounds as her portion, for she is an only child. But no man
will touch that fifty thousand ; for ' no one would mari-y me
for myself,' says Mary ; ' and no one shall mairy me for my
money.'

So she greets Tom shyly and humbly, without looking in his
face, yet very cordially ; and then slips away to deposit on the
table a noble pine-apple.

'A little bit of fruit from her greenhouse,' says the old man
in a disparaging tone : ' and, oh .Jane, bring me a saucer.
Here's a sprat I just capered out of Hemmelford mill-pit ; per- ■
haps the doctor would Hke it fried for supper, if it's big enough
not to fall through the gridiron.'

Jane, who knows Mark Armsworth's humour, brings in the
largest dish in the house, and ilark pulls out of his basket a
great three-pound trout.

'Aha ! my young rover ; old Marks right hand hasn't forgot
its cunning, eh ? And this is the month for them ; fish all quiet
now. When fools go a-shooting, wise men go a-fishing ! Eh 1
Come here, and look me over. How do I wear, eh ? As like a
Muscovy duck as ever, you young rogue ? Do you recollect

XXV THE BANKER AND HIS DAUGHTER 405

asking me, at the Club dinner, why I was like a Muscovy duck ?
Because I ^\■as a fat thing in green velveteen, with a bald red
head, that was always waddling about the river bank. Ah,
those were days ! We'll have some more of them. Come up
to-night and try the old '21 bin.'

' I must ha\'e him myself to-night ; indeed I must, ^lark,'
says the doctor.

' All to yourself, you selfish old rogue ? '

'Why— no '

' We'll come down, then, !Mary and I, and bring the '21 with
us, and hear all his cock-and-bull stories. Full of tra^•ellers'
lies as ever, eh ? Well, I'll come and smoke my pipe witli you.
Always the same old !Mark, my lad,' nudging Tom with his
elbow ; ' one fellow comes and borrows my money, and goes out
and calls me a stingy old hunks because I won't let him cheat
me ; another comes, and eats my pines, and drinks my port,
goes home, and calls me a purse-proud upstart, because he can't
match 'em. Never mind ; old Mark's old Mark ; sound in the
heart, and sound in the liver, just the same as thirty years ago,
and will be till he takes his last quietus est —

' " And drops into his grassy nest. "

Bye, bye, doctor ! Come, Mary ! '

And out he toddled, with silent little Mary at his heels.

' Old Mark wears well, body and soul,' said Tom.

' He is a noble, generous fellow, and as delicate-hearted as a
woman withal, in spite of his conceit and roughness. Fifty and
odd years now, Tom, have we been brothers, and I never found
him change. And brothers we shall be, I trust, a few years
more, till I see you back again from the East, comfortably
settled. And then '

' Don't talk of that, sir, please ! ' said Tom, quite quickly and
sharply. ' How ill poor Mary looks ! '

' So they say, poor child ; and one hears it in her voice. Ah,
Tom, that girl is an angel ; she has been to me daughter, doctor,
clergyman, eyes, and library ; and would have been nurse, too, if
it haid not been for making old Jane jealous. But she is ill.
Some love aifair, I suppose ' ,

' How quaint it is, that the father has kept all the animal
vigour to himself, and transmitted none to the daughter.'

' He has not kept the soul to himself, Tom, or the eyes either.
She will bring me in wild flowers, and talk to me about them,
till I fancy I can see them as well as ever. Ah, well ! It is
a sweet world still, Tom, and there are sweet souls in it. A
sweet world : I was too fond of looking at it once, I suppose, so
God took away my sight, that I might learn to look at Him.'
And the old man lay back in his chair, and covered his face
with his handkerchief, and was quite still awhile. And Tom

406 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

watched him, and thought that he would give all Iji.s cunning
and power to be like that old man.

Then Jane came in, and laid the cloth — a coarse one enough
— and Tom picked a cold mutton bone witli a steel fork, and
drank his pint of beer from the public-house, and lighted his
father's pipe and then his own, and vowed that he had never
dined so well in his life, and began his traveller's stories
again.

And in the evening Mark came in, with a, bottle of the '21 in
his coat-tail pocket ; and the three sat and chatted, while Mary
brought out her work, and stitched, listening silently, till it was
time to lead the old man upstairs.

Tom put his father to bed, and then made a hesitating
request —

'There is n poor sick man whom I brought down witli me,
sir, if you could spare me half an hour. It really is a profes-
sional case ; he is under my charge, I may say.'

' What is it, boy ? '

' Well, laudanum and a broken heart.'

' Exercise and ammonia for the first. For the second, God's
grace and the grave ; and those latter medicines you can't ex-
hibit, my dear boy. Well, as it is professional duty, I suppose
you must : but don't exceed the hour ; I shall lie awake till you
return, and then you must talk me to sleep.'

So Tom went out and homeward with Mark and Mary, for
their roads lay together ; and as he went, he thought good to
tell them somewhat of the history of John Briggs, alias Elsley
Vavasour.

' Poor fool ! ' said Mark, who listened in silence to the end.
' Why didn't he mind his bottles, and just do what Heaven sent
him to do 1 Is he in want of the rhino, Tom ? '

' He had not five shillings left after he had paid his fare ; and
he refuses to ask his wife for a farthing.'

' Quite right — very proper spirit.' And Mark walked on in
.silence a few minutes.

' I say, Tom, a fool and his money are soon parted. There's
a five-pound note for him, you begging, insinuating dog, and be
hanged to you both ! I shall die in the workhouse at this rate.'

' Oh, father, you will never miss '

'Who told you I thought I should, pray? Don't you go
giving another five pounds out of your pocket-money behind
my back, ma'am. I know your tricks of old. Tom, I'll come
and see the poor beggar to-morrow with you, and call him !Mr.
Vavasour — Lord Vavasour, if he likes — if you'll warrant me
against laughing in his face.' And the old man did laugh, till
he stopped and held his sides again.

'Oh, father, father, don't be so cruel. Remember how
wretched the poor man is.'

' I can't think of anything but old Bolus's boy turned poet.

XXV THE BANKER AND HIS DAUGHTER 407

Why did you tell me, Tom, you bad fellow ? It's too much for
a man at my time of life, and after his dinner too.'

And with that he opened the little gate by the side of the
grand one, and turned to ask Tom —

' Won't come in, boy, and have one more cigar ? '

' I promised my father to be back as quickly as possible.'

' Good lad — that's the plan to go on —

■ ■ ' You'll be churchwarden before all's over,
And so arrive at wealth and fame."

Instead of writing po-o-o-etry ! Do you recollect that morning,
and the black draught ? Oh dear, my side ! '

And Tom heard him keckling to himself up the garden walk
to his house ; went off to see that Elsley was safe ; and then
home, and slept like a top ; no wonder, for he would have done
so the night before his execution.

And what was little !Mary doing all the while ?

She had gone up to the room, after telling her father, with a
kiss, not to forget to say his prayers. And then she fed her
canary bird, and made up the Persian cat's bed ; and then sat
long at the open window, gazing out over the shadow-dappled
lawn, away to the poplars sleeping in the moonlight, and the
shining silent stream, and the shining silent stars, till she
seemed to become as one of them, and a quiet heaven within
her eyes took counsel with the quiet heaven above. And then
she drew in suddenly, as if stung by some random thought, and
shut the window. A picture hung over her mantelpiece — a
portrait of her mother, who had been a country beauty in her
time. She glanced at it, and then at the looking-glass. Would
she have given her fifty thousand pounds to have exchanged
her face for such a face as that ?

She caught up her little Thomas a Kempis, marked through
and through with lines and references, and sat and read stead-
fastly for an hour and more. That was her school, as it has
been the school of many a noble soul. And, for some cause or
other, that stinging thought returned no more ; and she knelt
and prayed like a little child ; and like a little child slept
sweetly all the night, and was away before breakfast the next
morning, after feeding the canary and the cat, to old women
who worshipped her as their ministering angel, and said,
looking after her, ' That dear Miss Mary, pity she is so plain !
Such a match as she might have made ! But she'll be handsome
enough when she is a blessed angel in heaven.'

Ah, true sisters of mercy, whom the world sneers at as ' old
maids,' if you pour out on cats and dogs and parrots a little of
the love which is yearning to spend itself on children of your
own flesh and blood ! As long as such as you walk this lower
world, one needs no Butler's Analogy to prove to us that there

408 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

is another world, where such as you will have a fuller and a
fairer (I dare not say a juster) portion.

Xext morning !^^ark started witli Tom to call on Elsley,
chatting and puffing all the way.

' I'll butter him, trust me. Nothing comforts a poor beggar
like a bit of praise when he's down ; and all fellows that take
to writing are as greedy after it as trout after the drake, even if
they only scribble in county newspapers. I've watched them
when I've been electioneering, my boy ! '

' Only,' said Tom, ' don't be angry with him if he is proud
and peevish. The poor fellow is all but mad with misery.'

' Poh ! quarrel with him 1 wliom did I ever quarrel with ?
If he barks, I'll stop his mouth with a good dinner. I suppose
he's gentleman enough to invite ?'

' As much a gentleman as you and I ; not of the very first
water, of course. Still, he eats like other people, and don't
break many glasses during a sitting. Think ! he couldn't have
been a very great cad to marry a nobleman's daughter ! '

' Why, no. Speaks well for him, that, considering his
breeding. He must be a very clever fellow to have caught the
trick of the thing so soon.'

' And so he is, a very clever fellow ; too clever by half ; and
a very fine-hearted fellow, too, in spite of his conceit and his
temper. But that don't prevent his being an awful fool ! '

' You speak like a book, Tom ! ' said old Mark, clapising him
on the back. ' Look at me ! no one can say I was ever troubled
with genius : but I can show my money, pay my way, eat my
dinner, kill my trout, hunt my hounds, help a lame dog over a
stile ' (which was Mark's phrase for doing a generous thing),
' and thank God for all ; and who wants more, I should like to
know ? But here we are — you go up first ! '

They found Elsley crouched up over the empty grate, his
head in his hands, and a few scraps of paper by him, on which
he had been trying to scribble. He did not look up as they
came in, but gave a sort of impatient half-turn, as if angry at
being disturbed. Tom was about to announce the banker ; but
he announced himself.

'Come to do myself the honour of calling on you, ^Ii-. Vava-
sour. I am sorry to see you so poorly ; I hope our Whitbury
air will set all right.'

' You mistake me, sir ; my name is Briggs ! " said Elsley,
without turning his head ; but a moment after he looked up
angrily.

' Mr. Armsworth ? I beg your pardon, sir ; but what brings
you here 1 Are you come, sir, to use the rich successful man's
right, and lecture me in my misery 'i '

"Pon my word, sir, you must liave forgotten old Mark
Armsworth, indeed, if you fancy him capable of any such dirt.

XXV THE BANKER AND HIS DAUGHTER 409

No, sii-, I came to pay my lesjjects to you, sir, hoping that
you'd come up and take a family dinner. I could do no less,'
ran on the banker, seeing that Elsley was preparing a peevish
ansvi^er, ' considering the honour that, I hear, you have been to
your native town. A very distinguished person, our friend Tom
tells me : and we ought to be proud of you, and behave to you
as you deserve, for I am sure we don't send too many clever
fellows out of Whitbury.'

' Would that you had never sent me ! ' said Elsley in his
bitter way.

' Ah, sir, that's matter of opinion ! You would never have
been heard of down here, never have had justice done you, I
mean ; for heard of you have been. There's my daughter has
read your poems again and again — always quoting them ; and
very pretty they sound too. Poetry is not in my line, of course ;
still, it's a credit to a man to do anything well, if he has the gift ;
and she tells me that you have it, and plenty of it. And though
she's no fine lady, thank Heaven, I'll back her for good sense
against any woman. Come up, sir, and judge for yourself if I
don't speak the truth ; she will be delighted to meet you, and
bade me say so.'

By this time good JMark had talked himself out of breath ;
and Elsley flushing up, as of old, at a little praise, began to
stammer an excuse. ' His nerves were so weak, and his spirits
so broken with late troubles.'

' My dear sir, that's the very reason I want you to come. A
bottle of port will cure the nerves, and a pleasant chat the
spirits. Nothing like forgetting all for a little time ; and then
to it again with a fresh lease of strength, and beat it at last like
a man.'

' Too late, my dear sir ; I must pay the penalty of my own
folly,' said Elsley, really won by the man's cordiality.

' Never too late, sir, while there's life left in us. And,' he
went on in a gentler tone, ' if we all were to pay for our own
follies, or lie down and die when we saw them coming full cry
at our heels, where would any one of us be by now ? I have
been a fool in my time, young gentleman, more than once or
twice ; and that too when I was old enough to be your father ;
and down I went, and deserved what I got : but my rule always
was — Fight fair ; fall soft ; know when you've got enough ; and
don't cry out when you've got it : but just go home; train again ;
and say — better luck next fight.' And so old Mark's sermon
ended (as most of them did) in somewhat Sooratic allegory,
savouring rather of the market than of the study ; but Elsley
understood him, and looked up with a smile.

'You too are somewhat of a poet in your way, I see,
sir ! '

' I never thought to live to hear that, sir. I can't doubt now
that you are cleverer than your neighbours, for you have found

410 TWO YEARS AGO phap.

out something which they never did. But you will come ? — f(jr
that's my business.'

Elsley looked inquiringly at Tom ; he had learnt now to con-
sult his eye, and lean on him like a child. Tom looked a stout
yes, and Elsley said languidly —

'You have given me so much new and good advice in a few
minutes, sir, that I must really do myself the pleasure of coming
and hearing more.'

' Well done, our side ! ' cried old Mark. ' Dinner at half-past
live. No London late hours here, sir. ^liss Armsworth will be
out of her mind when she hears you're coming.'

And off he went.

'Do you think he'll come up to the scratch, Tom?'

' I am very mucli afraid his courage will fail him. I will
see him again, and bring him up witli me : but now, my dear
ilr. Armsworth, do remember one thing ; that if you go on
with him at your usual rate of hospitality, the man will as
surely be drunk, as his nerves and brain are all but ruined ;
and if he is so, he will most probably destroy himself to-morrow
morning.'

' Destroy himself ? '

' He will. The shame of making a fool of himself just now
before you will be more than he could bear. So be stingy for
once. He will not wish for it unless you press him ; but if he
talks (and he will talk after the first half-hour), he will forget
himself, and half a bottle will make him mad ; and then I won't
answer for the consequences.'

' Good gracious ! why, these poets want as tender handling
as a bag of gunpowder over the fire.'

'You speak like a book there in your turn.' And Tom went
home to his father.

He returned in due time. A new difficulty had arisen. Elsley,
under the excitement of expectation, had gone out and deigned
to buy laudanum — so will an unhealthy cra^dng degrade a man !
— of old Bolus himself, who luckily did not recognise him. He
had taken his fullest dose, and was now unable to go anywhere
or do anything. Tom did not disturb him : but went away,
sorely perplexed, and very much minded to tell a white lie to
Armsworth, in whose eyes this would be an offence — not un-
pardonable, for nothing with him was unpardonable, save lying
or cruelty — but very grievous. If a man had drunk too much
wine in his house, he would have simply kept his eye on him
afterwards, as a fool who did not know when he had his
' quotum ' , but laudanum drinking — involving, too, the break-
ing of an engagement, which, well managed, might have been of
immense use to Elsley — was a very different matter. So Tom
knew not what to say or do ; and not knowing, determined to
wait on Providence, smartened himself as best he could, went
up to the great house, and found !Miss Mary.

XXV THE BANKER AND HIS DAUGHTER 411

'I'll tell her. She will manage it somehow, if she is a
woman ; much more if she is an angel, as my father says.'

Maiy looked \evj much shocked and grieved ; answered
hardly a word ; but said at last, ' Come in while I go and see
my father.' He came into the smart drawing-room, which he
could see was seldom used ; for Mary lived in her own room,
her father in his counting -house, or in his 'den.' In ten
minutes she came down. Tom thought she had been crying.

' I have settled it. Poor unhappy man ! We will talk of
something more pleasant. Tell me about your shipwreck, and
that place — Aberalva, is it not ? What a pretty name ! '

Tom told her, wondering then, and wondering long after-
wards, how she had ' settled it ' with her father. She chatted
on artlessly enough, till the old man came in, and to dinner, in
capital humour, without saying one word of Elsley.

' How has the old lion been tamed 1 ' thought Tom. ' The
two greatest affronts you could offer him in old times were, to
break an engagement, and to despise his good cheer.' He did
not know what the quiet oil on the waters of such a spirit as
Mary's can effect.

The evening passed pleasantly enough till nine, in chatting
over old times, and listening to the history of every extra-
ordinary trout and fox which had been killed within twenty
miles, when the footboy entered with a somewhat scared face.

' Please, sir. is Mr. Vavasour here ? '

' Here ? Who wants him ? '

'Mrs. Brown, sir, in Hemmelford Street. Says he lodges
with her, and has been to seek for him at Dr. Thurnall's.'

' I think you had better go, !Mr. Thurnall,' said Mary quietly.

' Indeed you had, boy. Bother poets, and the day they first
began to breed in Whitbury ! Such an evening spoilt ! Have
a cup of coffee 1 No ? then a glass of sherry 1 '

Out went Tom. Mrs. Brown had been up, and seen him
seemingly sleeping : then had heard him run downstairs hur-
riedly. He passed her in the passage, looking very wild.
'Seemed, sir, just like my nevy's wife's brother. Will Ford,
before he made away with hes'self.'

Tom goes off post haste, revolving many things in a crafty
heart. Then he steers for Bolus's shop. Bolus is at ' The Angler's
Arms ' : but his assistant is in.

' Did a gentleman call here just now, in a long cloak, with a
felt wide-awake ? '

'Yes.' And the assistant looks confused enough for Tom
to rejoin —

' And you sold him laudanum ? '

'Why— ah '

' And you had sold him laudanum already this afternoon, you
young rascal ! How dare you, twice in six hours 1 I'll hold
you responsible for the man's life ! '

412 TWO YEARS AGO chap,

' You dare call me a rascal ? ' blusters the youth, terror-stricken
at finding how much Tom knows.

'I am a member of the College of Surgeons,' says Tom,
recovering his coolness, 'and have just been dining ^vith Jlr.
Armsworth. I suppose you know him ? '

The assistant shook in his shoes at tlie name of that terrible
justice of the peace and of the war also ; and meekly and con-
tritely he replied —

' Oh, sir, what shall I do ?'

' You're in a very neat scrape ; you could not have feathered
your nest better,' says Tom, quietly filling his pipe, and think-
ing. ' As you behave now, I will get you out of it, or leave you
to — you know what, as well as I. Get your hat.'

He went out, and the youth followed trembling, while Tom
formed his plans in his mind.

'The wild beast goes home to his lair to die, and so may he ;
for I fear it's life and death now. I'll try the house where he
was born. Somewhere in Water Lane it is, I know.'

And toward Water Lane he hurried. It was a low -lying
offshoot of the town, leading along tlie water-meadows, with a
straggling row of houses on each side, the perennial haunts of
fever and ague. Before them, on each side of the road, and
fringed with pollard willows and tall poplars, ran a tiny branch
of the Whit, to feed some mill below ; and spread out, mean-
while, into ponds and mires full of oflal and duckweed and rank
floating grass. A thick mist hung knee-deep over them, and
over the gardens right and left ; and as Tom came down on the
lane from the main street above, he could see the mist spreading
across the water-meadows and reflecting the moon-beams like
a lake ; and as he walked into it, he felt as if he were walking
down a well. And he hurried down the lane, looking out
anxiously ahead for the long cloak.

At last he came to a better sort of house. That might be it.
He would take the chance. There was a man of the middle class,
and two or three women, standing at the gate. He went up —

' Pray, sir, did a medical man named Briggs ever Kve here ? '

' What do you want to know for ? '

' Why ' — Tom thought matters were too serious for delicacy
— ' I am looking for a gentleman, and thought he might have
come here.'

'And so he did, if you mean one in a queer hat and a
cloak.'

' How long since ? '

' Why, he came up our garden an hour or more ago ; walked
right into the parlour without with your leave, or by your leave,
and stared at us all round like one out of his mind ; and so
away, as soon as ever I asked him what he was at '

'Which way?'

' To the ri\er, I e.xpect : I ran out, and saw him go down tlie

XXV THE BANKER AKD HIS DAUGHTER 413

lane, but I was not going far by niglit alone with any such
strange customers.'

' Lend me a lanthorn, then, for Heaven's sake ! '

The lanthorn is lent, and Tom starts again down tlie lane.

Now to search. At the end of the lane is a cross road parallel
to the ri\er. A broad still ditch lies beyond it, with a little
bridge across, where one gets minnows for bait ; then a broad
water-meadow ; then silver Whit.

Tlie bridge-gate is open. Tom liurries across the road to it.
The lanthorn shows him fresh footmarks going into the meadow.
Forward !

Up and down in that meadow for an hour or more did Tom
and the trembling youth beat like a brace of pointer dogs,
stumbling into gripes, and o\-er sleeping cows ; and more than
once stopping short ;just in time, as they were walking into
some broad and deep feeder.

Almost in despair, and after having searched down tlie river
bank for full two hundred yards, Tom was on the point of
returning, when his eye rested on a part of the stream where
the mist lay liigher than usual, and let the reflection of the
moonlight ofl" the water reach his eye ; and in the moonlight
ripples, close to the fai'ther bank of the river — what was that
black lump ?

Tom knew the spot well ; the river there is very broad, and
very shallow, flowing round low islands of gravel and turf. It
was very low just now too, as it generally is in October ; there
could not be four inches of water where the black lump lay, but
on the side nearest him the water was full knee deep.

The thing, whatever it was, was forty yards from him ; and it
was a cold night for wading. It might be a hassock of rushes ;
a tuft of the great water-dock ; a dead dog ; one of the ' hangs '
with which the club-water was studded, torn up and stranded :
but yet, to Tom, it had not a canny look.

'As usual! Here am I getting wet, dirty, and miserable,
about matters which are not the slightest concern of mine ! I
believe I shall end by getting hanged or shot in somebody else's
place, with this confounded spirit of meddling. Yah ! how cold
the water is ! '

For in he went, the grumbling honest dog ; stepped across to
the black lump ; and lifted it up hastily enough — for it was
Elsley Vavasour.

Drowned ?

No. But wet through, and senseless from mingled cold and
laudanum.

Whether he had meant to drown himself, and lighting on the
shallow, had stumbled on till he fell exhausted, or whether he
had merely blundered into the stream, careless whither he went,
Tom knew not, and never knew ; for Elsley himself could not
recollect.

414 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

Tom took him in his arms, carried liim ashore and up througli
the water-meadow ; borrowed a blanket and a wheelbarrow at
the nearest cottage ; wrapped him up ; and made the offending
surgeon's assistant wheel him to his lodgings.

He sat with him there an hour ; and then entered Mark's
house again with his usual composed face, to find Mark and
Mary sitting up in great anxiety.

'Mr. Armsworth, does the telegraph work at this time of
night ? '

' I'll make it, if it is wanted. But what's the matter 1 '

' You will indeed 1 '

' 'Gad, I'll go myself and kick up tlie station-master. Wliat's
the matter ? '

' That if poor Mrs. Vavasour wishes to see her husband ali\e,
she must be here in four-and-twenty liours. I'll tell you all
presently '

' Mary, my coat and comforter ! ' cries Mark, jumping up.

'And, Mary, a pen and ink to write the message,' says
Tom.

' Oh ! cannot I be of any use ? ' says Mary.

' Xo, you angel.'

'You must not call me an angel, ilr. Thurnall. After all,
what can I do which you ha\'e not done already ? '

Tom started. Grace had once used to him the very same
words. By the by, what was it in the two women which made
them so like 1 Certainly, neither face nor fortune. Something
in the tones of their voices.

' Ah ! if Grace had Mary's fortune, or Mary Grace's face ! '
thought Tom, as he hurried back to Elsley, and Mark rushed
down to the station.

Elsley was conscious when he returned, and only too conscious.
All night he screamed in agonies of rheumatic fever ; by the
next afternoon he was failing fast ; his heart was affected ; and
Tom knew that he might die any hour.

The evening train brings two ladies, Yalentia and Lucia. At
the risk of her life, the poor faithful wife has come.

A gentleman's carriage is waiting for them, though tliey have
ordered none ; and as they go through the station-room, a plain
little well-dressed body comes humbly up to them —

' Is either of these ladies ilrs. Vavasour ? '

' Yes ! I ! — I ! — is he alive ? ' gasps Lucia.

' Alive, and better ! and expecting you '

'Better? — expecting me?' almost shrieks she, as Valentia
and ilary (for it is she) help her to the carriage. Mary puts
them in, and turns away.

' Are you not coming too ? ' asks Valentia, who is puzzled.

' No, thank you, madam ; I am going to take a walk. John,
you know where to dri\e these ladies.'

Little Mary does not think it necessary to say that she, with

XXV THE BANKER AND HIS DAUGHTER 41!i

her fatlier's carriage, has been down to two other afternoon
trains, upon the chance of finding them.

But why is not Frank Headley with them, when he is needed
most? iVnd why are Yalentia's eyes more red with weeping
than even lier sister's sorrow need have made them 1

Because Frank Headley is rolling away in a French railway
on his road to ^Marseilles, and to what Heaven shall find for him
to do.

Yes, he is gone Eastward Ho among the many ; will he come
Westward Ho again among the few ?

They are at the door of Elsley's lodgings now. Tom Thurnall
meets them there, and bows them upstairs silently. Lucia is so
weak that she has to cling to tlie banister a moment ; and then,
with a strong shudder, the spirit conquers the flesh, and she
hurries up before them both.

It is a small low room — Valentia had expected that : but she
had expected, too, confusion and wretchedness : for a note from
Major Campbell, ere he started, had told her of tlie condition
in which Elsley had been found. Instead, she finds neatness —
even gaiety ; fresh damask linen, comfortable furniture, a vase
of hothouse flowers, while the air is full of cool perfumes. No
one is likely to tell her that Mary has furnished all at Tom's
hint — 'We must smarten up the place, for the poor wife's sake.
It will take something ofi' the shock ; and I want to avoid
shocks for her.'

So Tom had worked with his own hands that morning ;
arranging the room as carefully as any woman, with that true
doctor's forethought and consideration, which often issues in the
loftiest, because the most unconscious, benevolence.

He paused at the door.

' Will you go in ? ' whispered he to Valentia, in a tone which
meant — 'you had better not.'

' Not yet — I daresay he is too weak.'

Lucia darted in, and Tom shut the door behind her, and
waited at the stair-head. ' Better,' thought he, 'to let the two
poor creatures settle their own concerns. It must end soon, in
any case.'

Lucia rushed to the bedside, drew back the curtains —

' Tom ! ' moaned Elsley.

'Not Tom!— Lucia!'

' Lucia ? — Lucia St. Just ! ' answered he, in a low abstracted
voice, as if trjdng to recollect.

' Lucia Vavasour ! — your Lucia ! '

Elsley slowly I'aised himself upon his elbow, and looked into
her face with a sad inquiring gaze.

'Elsley — darling Elsley !— don't you know me?'

'Yes, very well indeed; better than you know me. I am
not Vavasour at all. ]My name is Briggs— John Briggs, the
apothecary's son, come home to Wliitbury to die.'

416 TWO YEARS AGO chap

She did not hear, or did not care for those last words.

'Elsley ! I am your wife ! — your own wife ! — wlio never loved
any one but you — never, never, ne\er ! '

'Yes, my wife at least! — Curse them, that they cannot
deny ! ' said he, in the same abstracted voice.

'Oh God ! is he mad V thouglit she. ' Elsley, speak to me 1
— I am your Lucia — your love '

And she tore off her bonnet, and threw herself beside him on
the bed and clasped him in her arms, murmuring — ' Your wife !
who never loved any one but you ! '

Slowly his frozen heart and frozen brain melted beneath the
warmth of her great lo\e : but he did not speak : only he passed
his weak arm round her neck ; and she felt that his cheek was
wet with tears, while she murmured on, like a cooing dove, the
same sweet words again —

' Call me your love once more, and I shall know that all is
past.'

' Then call me no more Elsley, love ! ' whispered he. ' Call
me John Briggs, and let us ha\e done \\ith shams for
ever.'

' No ; you are my Elsley — my Vavasoui' I and I am your wife
once more ! ' and the poor thing fondled his head as it lay upon
the pillow. ' ily own Elsley, to whom I gave myself, body and
soul ; for whom I would die now — oh, such a death ! — any
death ! '

' How could I doubt you ? — fool that I was ! '

' No, it was all my fault. It was aU my odious temper ! But
we will be happy now, will we not ? '

Elsley smiled sadly, and began babbling — Yes, they would
take a farm, and he would plough, and sow, and be of some use
before he died. ' But promise me one thing ! ' cried he, witli
sudden strength.

'What?'

'That you will go home and burn all the poetry — all the
manuscripts, and never let the children write a verse — a verse
— when I am dead ? ' And his head sank back, and his jaw
dropped.

' He is dead ! ' cried the poor impulsi\e creature, with a shriek
which brought in Tom and Valentia.

' He is not dead, madam ; but you must be very gentle with
him, if we are to '

Tom saw that there was little hope.

' I will do anything — only save him ' — save him ! Mr Thur-
nall, till I have atoned for all.'

'You have little enough to atone for, madam,' said Tom, as he
busied himself about the suiferer. He saw that all would soon
be over, and would have had Mrs. \^avasour withdraw ; but she
was so really good a nurse as long as she could control herself,
that he could hardly spare her.

XXV THE BANKER AND HIS DAUGHTER 417

So tliey sat together by the sick bedside, as the short hours
passed into the long, and the long hours into the short again,
and the October dawn began to shine through the shutterless
window.

A weary eventless night it was, a night as of many years, as
worse and worse grew the weak frame ; and Tom looked alter-
nately at the heaving chest, and shortening breath, and rattling-
throat, and then at the pale still face of the lady.

' Better she should sit by,' thought he, ' and watch him till
she is tired out. It will come on her the more gently, after all.
He will die at sunrise, as so many die.'

At last he began gently feeling for Elsley's pulse. Her eye
caught his movement, and she half sprang up ; but at a gesture
from him she sank quietly on her knees, holding her husband's
hand in her own.

Elsley turned toward her once, ere the film of death had
fallen, and looked her full in the face, with his beautiful eyes
full of love. Then the eyes paled and faded ; but still they
sought for her painfully long after she had buried her head in
the coverlet, unable to bear the sight.

And so vanished away Elsley Vavasour, poet and genius, into
his own place.

' Let us pray,' said a deep voice from behind the curtain : it
was ilark Armsworth's. He had come over with the first dawn,
to bring the ladies food ; had slipped upstairs to ask what news,
found the door open, and entered in time to see the last gasp.

Lucia kept her head still buried ; and Tom, for the first time
for many a year, knelt, as the old banker commended to God the
soul of our dear brother just departing this life. Then Mark
glided quietly downstairs, and Valentia, rising, tried to lead
Mrs. Vavasour away.

But then broke out in all its wild passion the Irish tempera-
ment. Let us pass it over ; why try to earn a little credit by
depicting the agony and the weakness of a sister ?

At last Thurnall got her downstairs. Mark was there still,
having sent off for his carriage. He quietly put her arm through
his, led her off, worn out and unresisting, drove her home, de-
livered her and Valentia into Mary's keeping, and then asked
Tom to stay and sit with him.

' I hope I've no very bad conscience, boy ; but Mary's busy
with the poor young thing, mere child she is, too, to go through
such a night ; and, somehow, I don't like to be left alone after
such a sight as that ! '

' Tom ! ' said Mark, as they sat smoking in silence, after
breakfast, in the study. ' Tom ! '
'Yes, sir!'

' That was an awful death-bed, Tom ! '
Tom was silent.

2 E T. Y. A.

418 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

' I don't mean that he died hard, as we say ; but so young,
Tom. And I suppose poets' souls are worth something, like
other people's — perhaps more. I can't understand 'em : but my
Mary seems to, and people, like her, who think a poet the finest
thing in the world. I laugh at it all when I am jolly, and call
it sentiment and cant : but I believe that they are nearer heaven
than I am : though I think tliey don't quite know where heaven
is, nor where ' (with a wicked wink, in spite of the sadness of
his tone) — ' where they themselves are either.'

' I'll tell you, sir. I have seen men enough die — we doctors
are hardened to it : but I have seen unprofessional deaths — men
we didn't kill ourselves ; I have seen men drowned, shot, hanged,
run over, and worse deaths than that, sir, too ; — and, somehow,
I never felt any death like that man's. Granted, he began by
trying to set the world right, when he hadn't yet set himself
right ; but wasn't it some credit to see that tlie world was
wrong 1 '

' I don't know that. The world's a very good world.'

' To you and me ; but there are men who have higher notions
than I of what this world ought to be ; and, for aught I know,
they are right. That Aberalva curate, Headley, had ; and so
had Briggs, in his own way. I thought him once only a poor
discontented devil, who quarrelled with his bread and butter
because he hadn't teeth to eat it with ; but there was more in
the fellow, coxcomb as he was. 'Tisn't often that I let that
croaking old bogy, Madam -might-have-been, trouble me ; but I
cannot help thinking that if, fifteen years ago, I had listened to
his vapourings more, and bullied him about them less, he might
have been here still.'

' You wouldn't have been, then. Well for you that you didn't
catch his fever.'

' And write verses too ? Don't make me laugh, sir, on such a
day as this ; I always comfort myself with — " It'.s no business of
mine : " but, somehow, I can't do so just now.' And Tom sat
silent, more softened than he had been for years.

' Let's talk of something else,' said Mark at last. ' You had
the cholera very bad down there, I hear ? '

'Oh, sharp, but short,' said Tom, who disliked any subject
which brought Grace to his mind.

' Any on my lord's estate with the queer name ? '

' Not a case. We stopped the devil out there, thanks to his
lordship.'

'So did we here. We were A'ery near in for it, though, I
fancy. At least, I chose to fancy so — thought it a good oppor-
tunity to clean Whitbury once for all.'

'It's just like you. Well?'

' Well, I offered the Town Council to drain the whole town at
my own expense, if they'd let me have the sewage. And that
only made things worse ; for as soon as the beggars found out

XXV THE BAXKER AND HIS nAUOTITER 419

the sewage was worth anything, they wore down on me, as if I
wanted to do them — I, Jlark Armsworth ! — and would sooner
let half the town rot with an epidemic, than ha\o reason to
fancy I'd made any money out of them. So a pretty fight I had,
for half a dozen meetings, till I called in my lord ; and, sir, he
Clime down by the next express, like a trump, all the way from
town, and gave them such a piece of his mind — was going to
have the Board of Health down, and turn on the Government
tap, commissioners and all, and cost 'em hundreds : till the
fellows shook in their shoes ; — and so I conquered, and here we
are, as clean as a nut — and a fig for the cholera ! — except down
in Water Lane, which I don't know what to do with ; for if
tradesmen will run up houses on spec in a water-meadow, who
can stop them ? There ought to be a law for it, say I ; but I say
a good many things in the twelve months that nobody minds.
But, my dear boy, if one man in a town has pluck and money,
he may do it. It'll cost him a few : I've had to pay the main
part myself, after all : but I suppose God will make it up to a
man somehow. That's old Mark's faith, at least. Now I want
to talk to you about yourself. My lord comes into town to-day,
and you must see him.'

' Why, then ? He can't help me with the Bashi-Bazouks, can
he?'

' Bashi-fiddles ! I say, Tom, the more I think over it, the
more it won't do. It's throwing yourself away. They say that
Turkish contingent is getting on terribly ill.'

' More need of me to make them well.'

'Hang it — I mean — hasn't justice done it, and so on. The
Tjapers are full of it.'

'Well,' quoth Tom, 'and why should it?'

' Why, man alive, if England spends all this money on the
men, she ought to do her duty by them.'

'I don't see that. As Pecksniff says, ''If England expects
every man to do his duty, she's very sanguine, and will be much
disappointed." They don't intend to do their duty by her, any
more than I do : so why should she do her duty by them ? '

' Don't intend to do your duty ? '

' I'm going out because England's money is necessary to me ;
and England hires me because my skill is necessary to her. I
didn't think of duty when I settled to go, and why should she ?
I'll get all out of her I can in the way of pay and practice, and
she may get all she can out of me in the way of work. As for
being ill-used, I never expect to be anything else in this life.
I'm sure I don't care ; and I'm sure she don't ; so live and let
live ; talk plain truth, and leave bunkum for right honourables
who keep their places thereby. Give me another weed.'

' Queer old philosopher you are ; but go you shan't ! '

' Go I will, sir ; don't stop me. I've my reasons, and they're
good ones enough.'

420 T"\VO YEARS AGO chap.

Tlie conversation was interrupted by the servant ; — Lord
Jfiiichampstead was waiting at ^Ir. Armsworth's oiBce.

' Early bird, his lordship, and gets the worm accordingly,' says
JIark, as he hurries off to attend on his ideal hero. ' You come
over to the shop in half an hour, mind,'

'But why?'

' Confound you, sir ! you talk of having your reasons : I have
mine ! '

Mark looked quite cross ; so Tom gave way, and went in due
time to the bank.

Standing with his back to the fire in Mark's inner room, he
saw the old cotton prince.

'And a prince he looks like,' quoth Tom to himself, as iif
waited in the bank outside, and looked through the glass screen.
' How well the old man wears ! I wonder how many fresh
thousands he has made since I saw him last, seven years ago.'

And a very noble person Lord !Minchampstead did look ; one
to whom hats went off almost without their owners' will ; tall
and portly, with a soldier-like air of dignity and command,
which was relieved by the good-nature of the countenance. Yet
it was a good-nature which would stand no trifling. The jaw
was deep and broad, though finely shaped ; the mouth firm set ;
the nose slightly aquiline ; the brow of great depth and height,
though narrow ; — altogether a Julius Caesar's type of head ; that
of a man born to rule self, and therefore to rule all he met.

Tom looked over his dress, not forgetting, like a true English-
man, to mark what sort of boots he wore. They were boots not
quite fashionable, but carefully cleaned on trees ; trousers
strapped tightly over them, which had adopted the military
stripe, but retained the slit at the ankle which was in vogue
forty years ago ; frock coat with a velvet collar, buttoned up,
but not too far ; high and tight blue cravat below an immense
shirt collar ; a certain care and richness of dress throughout,
but soberly behind the fashion : while the hat was a very shabby
and broken one, and the whip still more shabby and broken ;
all which indicated to Tom that his lordship let his tailor and
his valet dress him ; and though not unaware that it Ijehoved
him to set out his person as it deserved, was far too fine a
gentleman to trouble himself about looking fine.

ilark looks round, sees Tom, and calls him in.

' Mr. Thurnall, I am glad to meet you, sir. Y"ou did me good
service at Pentremochyn, and did it cheaply. I was agreeably
surprised, I confess, at receiving a bill for four pounds seven
shillings and sixpence, where I expected one of twenty or
thirty.'

' I charged according to what my time was really worth
there, my lord. I heartily wish it had been worth more.'

'No doubt,' says my lord, in the blandest, but the driest
tone.

XXV THE BANKER AND HIS DAUGHTER 421

Some men would liave, under a sense of Tom's merits, sent
him a cheque off-hand for five-and-twenty pounds ; but that is
not Lord Minchampstead's way of doing business. He had paid
simply the sum asked : but he had set Tom down in his memory
as a man whom he could trust to do good work, and to do it
cheaply ; and now

' You are going to join the Turkish contingent ? '

' I am.'

' You know that pai-t of the world well, I believe ? '

' Intimately.'

' And the languages spoken there ? '

' By no means all. Russian and Tartar well ; Turkisli toler-
ably ; with a smattering of two or three Circassian dialects.'

' Humph ! A fair list. Any Persian ? '

' Only a few words.'

' Humph ! If you can learn one language, I presume you can
learn another. Now, Mr. Thurnall, I have no doubt that you
will do your duty in the Turkish contingent.'

Tom bowed.

' But I must ask you if your resolution to join it is fixed 1 '

'I only join it because I can get no other employment at the
seat of war.'

' Humph ! You wish to go, then, in any case, to the seat of war ? '

' C'ertainly.'

' Xo doubt you have sufficient reasons. . . Armswortli, tliis
puts the question in a new light.'

Tom looked round at !Mark, and, behold, his face bore a ludi-
crous mixture of anger and disappointment and perplexity. He
seemed to be trying to make signals to Tom, and to be afraid of
doing so openly before the great man.

' He is as wilful and as foolish as a girl, my lord ; and T\e
told him so.'

' Everybody knows his own business best, Armsworth ; !Mr.
Thurnall, have you any fancy for the post of Queen's mes-
senger ? '

'I should esteem myself only too happy as one.'

' They are not to be obtained now as easily as they were fifty
years ago ; and are given, as you may know, to a far higher
class of men than they were formerly. But I shall do my best
to obtain you one, when an opportunity offers.'

Tom was beginning his profusest thanks : for was not his
fortune made ? but Lord Minchampstead stopped him with an
uplifted finger.

'And, meanwhile, there are foreign employments of which
neither those who bestow them, nor those who accept them, are
expected to talk much ; but for which you, if I am rightly in-
formed, would be especially fitted.'

Tom bowed ; and his face spoke a hundred assents.

'Very well; if you will come over to ^Minchampstead to-

422 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

moiTow, I will give you lettej.s to friends of mine in town. J
trust that they may give you a better opportunity than tlie
Bashi-Bazouks will, of displaying that courage, addiess, and self-
command which, I understand, you possess in so uncommon
a degree. Good morning ! ' And forth the great man went.

iiost opposite were the actions of the two whom he had left
behind him.

Tom dances about the room, hurrahing in a whisper —

'My fortune's made ! The secret service ! Oh, what Ijliss !
The thing I've always longed for ! '

Mark dashes himself desperately back in his chair, and shoots
his angry legs straight out, almost tripping up Tom.

' You abominable ass ! You have done it with a vengeance !
Why, he has been pumping me about you this month! One
word from you to say you'd have stayed, and he was going to
make you agent for all his Cornish property.'

' Don't he wish he may get it ? Catch a fish climbing trees !
Catch me staying at home when I can serve my Queen and my
country, and find a. sphere for the full development of my
talents ! Oh, won't I be as wise as a serpent ? Won't I be
complimented by . himself as his best lurcher, worth any
ten needy Poles, greedy Armenians, traitors, renegades, rag-tag
and bob-tail ! I'll shave my head to-morrow, and buy me an
assortment of wigs of e\ery hue ! '

Take care, Tom Thurnall. After pride comes a fall ; and he
who digs a pit may fall into it himself. Has this morning's
death-bed given you no lesson that it is as well not to cast
ourselves down from where God has put us, for whatsoever
seemingly fine ends of ours, lest, doing so, we tempt God once
too often ?

Your father quoted that text to John Briggs, here, many
years ago. Miglit he not quote it now to youT 'True, not one
word of murmuring, not even of regret, or fear, has passed his
good old lips about your self-willed plan. He has such utter
confidence in you, such utter carelessness about himself, such
utter faith in God, that he can let you go without a sigh. But
will you make his courage an excuse for your own rasliness ?
Again, beware ; after pride may come a fall.

On the fourth day Elsley was buried. !Mark and Tom were:
the only mourners ; Lucia and Yalentia stayed at Clark's house,
to return next day under Tom's care to Eaton Square.

The two mourners walked back sadly from the churchyard.
' I shall put a stone over him, Tom. He ought to rest quietly
now ; for he had little rest enough in this life. . .

'Xow I want to talk to you about something; when I've
taken ofi" my hatband, that is ; for it would be hardly lucky to
mention such matters with a hatband on.'

Tom looked up, wondering.

XXV THE BANKER AND HIS DAUGHTER 423

' Tell me about his wife, meanwhile. What made him marry
her ? Was she a pretty woman ? '

' Pretty enough, I believe, before she married : but I hardly
think he married her for her face.'

' Of course not ! ' said the old man with emphasis : ' of
course not ! Whatever faults he had, he'd be too sensible for
that. Don't you marry for a face, Tom ! I didn't.'

Tom opened his eyes at this last assertion ; but humbly
expressed his intention of not falling into that snare.

Ah ? you don't believe me : well, she was a beautiful
woman. — I'd Uke to see her fellow now in the county ! — and
I won't deny I was proud of her. But she had ten thousand
pounds, Tom. And as for her looks, wlw, if you'll believe me,
after we'd been married three months, I didn't know whether
she had any looks or not. What are you smiling at, you young
rogue ? '

'Report did say that one look of Mrs. Armsworth's, to the
last, would do more to manage jMr. Armsworth than the
opinions of the whole bench of bishops.'

' Report's a liar, and you're a puppy ! You don't know yet
whether it was a pleasant look, or a cross one, lad. But still —
well, she was an angel, and kept old ilark straighter than he's
ever been since : not that he's so very bad, now. Though I
sometimes think ^Mary's better even than her mother. That
girl's a good girl, Tom.'

' Report agrees with you in that, at least.'

' Fool if it didn't. And as for looks — I can speak to you as
to my own son — Why, handsome is that handsome does.'

' And that handsome has ; for you must honestly put that
into the account.'

'You think so? So do I ! Well, then, Tom,' — and here
Mark was seized with a tendency to St. Vitus's dance, and
began overhauling every button on his coat, twitching up his
black gloves, till (as undertakers' gloves are generally meant to
do) they burst in half a dozen places ; taking off his hat, wiping
his head fiercely, and putting the hat on again behind before ;
till at last he snatched his arm from Tom's, and gripping him
by the shoulder, i-eccmmenced —

' You think so, eh ? Well, I must say it, so I'd better have
it out now, hatband or none ! What do you think of the man
who married my daughter, face and all t '

' I should think,' quoth Tom, wondering who the happy man
could be, ' that he would be so lucky in possessing such a heart,
that he would be a fool to care about the face.'

'Then be as good as your word, and take her yourself. I've
watched you this last week, and you'll make her a good husband.
There, I have spoken ; let me hear no more about it.'

And Mark half pushed Tom from him, and puffed on by his
side, highly excited.

424 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

If Mark had knocked the young doctor down, he would have
been far less astonished and far less puzzled too. 'Well,'
thought he, 'I fancied nothing could throw my steady old
engine off the rails ; but I am off them now, with a vengeance.'
What to say he knew not ; at last —

'It is just like your generosity, sir ; you have been a brother
to my father ; and now '

' And now I'll be a father to you ! Old Mark does nothing
by halves.'

' But, sir, however lucky I should be in possessing ^liss
Armswortli's heart, what reason have I to suppose that I do so ?
I never spoke a word to her. I needn't say that she never did
to me — which '

' Of course she didn't, and of course you didn't. Should like
to have seen you making love to my daughter, indeed ! No,
sir ; it's my will and pleasure. I've settled it, and done it shall
be ! I shall go home and tell ]Mary, and she'll obey me — I
should like to see her do anything else ! Hoity, toity, fathers
must be masters, sir ! even in these Hy-away new times, when
young ones choose their own husbands, and their own politics,
and their own hounds, and their own religion too, and be
hanged to them ! '

What did this unaccustomed bit of bluster mean ? for un-
accustomed it was ; and Tom knew well that Mary Armsworth
had her own way, and managed her father as completely as
he managed Whitbury.

' Humph ! It is impossible ; and yet it must be. This
explains his being so anxious that Lord !Minchampstead should
approve of me. I have found favour in the poor dear thing's
eyes, I suppose : and the good old fellow knows it, and won't
betray her, and so shams tyrant. Just like him ! ' But — that
Mary Armsworth should care for him ! Yain fellow that he
was to fancy it ! And yet, when he began to put things to-
gether, little silences, little looks, little nothings, which all
together might make something. He would not slander her
to himself by supposing that her attentions to his father
were paid for his sake : but he could not forget that it was
she, always, who read his letters aloud to the old man : or that
she had taken home and copied out the story of his ship-
wreck. Beside, it was the only method of explaining Mark's
conduct, sa^ e on the supposition that he had suddenly been
' changed by the fairies ' in his old age, instead of in the cradle,
as usual.

It was a terrible temptation ; and to no man more than to
Thomas Thurnall. He was no boy, to hanker after mere animal
beauty : he had no delicate visions or lofty aspirations ; and
he knew (no man better) the plain English of fifty thousand
jjounds, and Mark Armsworth's daughter — a good house, a. good
consulting practice (for he would take his M.D. of course), a

XXV THE BANKER AND HIS DAUGHTER 425

good station in the county, a good clarence with a good pair
of liorses, good plate, a good dinner with good company tliereat ;
and, over and above all, his father to live with him ; and with
ilary, whom he loved as a daughter, in luxury and peace to
his life's end. — Why, it was all that he had ever dreamed of,
three times more than he ever hoped to gain ! — Not to men-
tion (for how oddly little dreams or sellish pleasure slip in at
such moments !) that he would buy such a Koss's microscope !
and keep such a horse for a sly by-day with the Whitford
Priors ! Oh, to see once again a fox break from Coldharbour
gorse !

And then rose up before his imagination those drooping
steadfast eyes ; and Grace Harvey, the svispected, the despised,
seemed to look through and through his inmost soul, as
through a home which belonged of riglit to her, and where no
other woman must dwell, or could dwell ; for she was there ;
and he knew it ; and knew that, even if he never married till his
dying day, he should sell his soul by marrying any one but her.
' And why should I not sell my soul ? ' asked he, almost fiercely.
' I sell my talents, my time, my strength ; I'd sell my life to-
morrow, and go to be shot for a shilling a day, if it would make
the old man comfortable for life j and why not my soul too 1
Don't that belong to me as much as any other part of me ?
Why am I to be condemned to sacrifice my prospects in life to a
girl of whose honesty I am not even sure 1 What is this intoler-
able fascination ? Witch ! I almost believe in mesmerism
now ! — Again, I say, why should I not sell my soul, as I'd sell
my coat, if the bargain's but a good one ? '

And if he did, who would ever know ? — Not even Grace her-
self. The secret was his, and no one else's. Or if they did
know, what matter ? Dozens of men sell their souls every year,
and thrive tliereon : tradesmen, lawyers, squires, popular
preachers, great noblemen, kings and princes. He would be in
good company, at all events : and while so many live in glass
houses, who dare throw stones ?

But then, curiously enough, there came over him a \ague
dread of possible evil, such as he had never felt before. He had
been trying for years to raise himself above the power of fortune ;
and he had succeeded ill enough : but he had never lost heart.
Robbed, shipwrecked, lost in deserts, cheated at cards, shot in
revolutions, begging his bread, he had always been the same
unconquerable light-hearted Tom, whose motto was, ' Fall light,
and don't whimper : better luck next round.' But now, what
if he played las last court-card, and Fortune, out of her close-
liidden hand, laid down a truuip thereon with quiet sneering
smile 1 And she would ! He knew, somehow, that he should
not thri\'e. His children would die of the measles, his horses
Ijreak their knees, his plate be stolen, liis house catch fire, and
Maik Armsworth die insoh eut. What a fool he was, to fancy

426 . TWO YEAKS AGO chap.

such nonsense ! Here he liad been slaving all his life to keep
his father : and now he could keep him ; why, he would be
justified, right, a good son, in doing the thing. How hard, how
unjust of those upper Powers in which he belie\ ed so vaguely,
to forbid his doing it !

And how did he know that they forbid him ? That is too
deep a question to be analysed here : but this thing is note-
worthy, that there came next over Tom's mind a stranger feeling
still — a fancy that if he did this thing, and sold his soul, he
could not answer for himself thenceforth on the score of merest
respectability ; could not answer for himself not to drink, gamble,
squander his money, neglect his father, prove unfaithful to his
wife ; that the innate capacity for blackguardism, which was as
strong in him as in any man, might, and probably would, run
utterly riot thenceforth. He felt as if he should cast away his
last anchor, and drift helplessly down into utter shame and ruin.
It may have been very fanciful : but so he felt ; and felt it so
strongly too, that in less time than I have taken to write this
he had turned to Mark Armsworth —

' Sir, you are what I have always found you. Do you \\ ish
me to be what you have always found me ? '

' I'd be sorry to see you anything else, boy.'

' Then, sir, I can't do this. In honour, I can't.'

' Are you married already ? ' thundered Mark.

' Not quite as bad as that ; ' and in spite of his agitation Tom
laughed, but hysterically, at the notion. ' But fool I am ; for
I am in love with another woman. I am, sir,' went he on
hurriedly. ' Boy that I am ! and she don't even know it : but
if you be the man I take you for, you may be angry with me,
but you'll understand me. Anything but be a rogue to you
and to Mary, and to my own self too. Fool I'll be, but rogue I
won't ! '

^lark strode on in silence, frightfully red in the face for full
five minutes. Then he turned sharply on Tom, and catching
him by the shoulder, thrust him from him.

' There — go ! and don't let me see or hear of you ; — tliat is, till
I tell you ! Go along, I say ! Hum-hum ! ' (in a tone half of
wrath, and half of triumph) ' his father's child ! If you ■vnW
ruin yourself, I can't help it.'

' Nor I, sir,' said Tom, in a really piteous tone, bemoaning
the day he ever saw Aberalva, as he watched ilark stride into
his own gate. ' If I had but had common luck ! If I had but
brought my £1500 safe home here, and never seen Grace, and
married this girl out of hand ! Common luck is all I ask, and I
never get it ! '

And Tom went home sulkier than a bear : but he did not let
his father find out his trouble. It was his last evening with the
old man. To-morrow he must go to London, and then- -to
scramble and twist about the world again till he died ? ' Well,

XXV THE BANKER AND HIS DAUGHTER 427

■why not ? A man must die somehow : but it's hard on the poor
old father,' said Tom.

As Tom was packing his scanty carpet-bag next morning,
there was a knock at the door. He looked out, and saw Arms-
worth's clerk. What could that mean ? Had the old man
determined to avenge the slight, and to do so on his father, by
claiming some old debt? There might be many between him
and the doctor. And Tom's heart beat fast as Jane put a letter
into his hand.

' No answer, sir, the clerk says.'

Tom opened it, and turned over the contents more than once
ere he could believe his own eyes.

It was neither more nor less than a cheque on Mark's London
banker for iust five hundred pounds.

A half sheet was wrapped round it, on which were written
these words : —

' To Thomas Thurnall, Esq., for beliaving like a gentleman.
The cheqae will be duly honoured at Messrs. Smith, Brown, and
Jones, Lombard Street. No acknowledgment is to be sent.
Don't tell your father. Mark Aemswoeth.'

' Queer old world it is ! ' said Tom, when the first burst of
childish delight was over. "And jolly old flirt. Dame Fortune,
after all ! If I had written this in a book now, who'd have
believed it 2'

'Father,' said he, as he kissed the old man farewell, 'I've a
little money come in. I'll send you fifty from London in a day
or two, and lodge a hundred and fifty more with Smith and Co.
So you'll be quite in clover while I am poisoning the Turkeys,
or at some better work.'

The old man thanked God for his good son, and only hoped
that he was not straitening himself to buy luxuries for a useless
old fellow.

Another sacred kiss on that white head, and Tom was away
for London, with a fuller purse, and a more self -contented heart
too, then he had known for many a year.

And Elsley was left behind, under the gray church spire,
sleeping with his fathers, and vexing his soul with poetry no
more. Mark has covered him now with a fair Portland slab.
He took Claude Mellot to it this winter before church time, and
stood over it long with a puzzled look, as if dimly discovering
that there were more things in heaven and earth than were
dreamed of in his philosophy.

' Wonderful fellow he was, after all ! Mary shall read us out
some of his verses to-night. But, I say, why should people be
born clever, only to make them all the more miseiable 1 '

' Perhaps they learn the more, papa, by their sorrows,' said
quiet little Mary ; ' and so they are the gainers after all,'

*28 TWO YEARS AGO phap.

And none of them having any better answer to give, tliey all
three went into the church, to see if one could be found there.

And so Tom Thurnall, too, went Eastward Ho, to take, like
all the rest, what God might send.

CHAPTER XXVI

T0(.> LATE

And how was poor Grace Harvey prospering the while 1 AVhile
comfortable folks were praising her, at t' eir leisure, as a
heroine, Grace Harvey was learning, so she opined, by fearful
lessons, how much of the unheroic element was still left in her.
The first lesson had come just a week after the yacht sailed for
Port ^ladoc, when the cholera had all but subsided ; and it
came in this wise. Before breakfast one morning she had to go
up to Heale's shop for some cordial. Her mother had passed, so
she said, a sleepless night, and come downstairs nervous and
without appetite, oppressed with melancholy, both in the
spiritual and the physical sense of the word. It was often
so with her now. She had escaped the cholera. The remote-
ness of her house ; her care never to enter the town ; the purity
of the water, whicli trickled always f re.sh from the cliff close by;
and last, but not least, the scrupulous cleanliness which (to do
her justice) she had always observed, and in which she had
trained up Grace — all these had kept her safe.

But Grace could see that her dread of the cholera was in-
tense. She even tried at first to prevent Grace from entering
an infected house ; but that proposal was answered by a look of
horror which shamed her into silence, and she contented herself
with all but tabooing Grace ; making her change her- clothes
whenever she came in ; refusing to sit with her, almost to eat
with her. But, over and above all this, she had grown moody,
peevish, subject to violent bursts of crying, fits of superstitious
depression • .spent, sometimes, whole days in reading experi-
mental books, ai-guing with the preachers, gadding to and fro to
every sermon, Arminian or Calvinist ; and at last e\'en to
church — walking in dry places, poor soul ; seeking rest, and
finding none.

All this betokened some malady of the mind, rather than of
the body ; but wliat that malady was, Grace dare not even try
to guess. Perhaps it was one of the fits of religious melancholy
so common in the West country — like her own, iu fact : perhaps
it was all 'nerves.' Her mother was growing old, and had a
great deal of business to worry lier ; and so Grace thiust away
the liorrible suspicion by little self-deceptions.

She went into the shop. Tom was busy upon his knee.s Ije-
hind the counter. She made her request.

XXVI TOO LATE 429

' All, !Miss Harvey ! ' and he sprang up. ' It will be a plea-
sure to serve you once more in one's life. I am just going.'

' Going where 1 '

'To Turkey. I find this place too pleasant and too poor.
Xot work enough, and certainly not pay enough. So I have got
an appointment as surgeon in the Turkish contingent, and shall
be ofif in an hour.'

' To Turkey ! to the war ?

' Yes. It's a long time since I have seen any fighting. I am
quite out of practice in gunshot wounds. There is the medicine.
Good-bye ! You will shake hands once, for the sake of our late
cholera work together.'

Grace held out her hand mechanically across the counter, and
he took it. But she did not look into his face. Only she said,
half to herself —

' Well, better so. I have no doubt you will be very useful
among them.'

' Confound the icicle ! ' thought Tom. ' I really believe that
she wants to get rid of me.' And he would have withdrawn his
hand in a pet : but she held it still.

Quaint it was ; those two strong natures, each loving the
other better than anything else on earth, and yet parted by the
thinnest pane of ice, which a single look would have melted.
She longing to follow that man over the wide world, slave for
him, die for him ; he longing for the least excuse for making a
fool of himself, and crying, ' Take me, as I take you, without a
penny, for better, for worse ! ' If their eyes had but met ! But
they did not meet ; and the pane of ice kept them asunder as
surely as a wall of iron.

Was it that Tom was piqued at her seeming coldness ; or did
he expect, before he made any advances, that she should show
that she wished at least for his respect, by saying something to
clear up the ugly question which lay between them ? Or was
he, as I suspect, so ready to melt, and make a fool of himself,
that he must needs harden his own heart by help of the devil
.himself ? And yet there are excuses for him. It would have
been a sore trial to any man's temper to quit Aberalva in the
belief that he left fifteen hundred pounds behind him. Be that
as it may, he said carelessly, after a moment's pause —

' Well, farewell ! And, by the by, about that little money
matter. The month of which you spoke once was up yesterday.
I suppose I am not worthy yet ; so I shall be humble, and
wait patiently. Don't hurry yourself, I beg of you, on my
account.'

She snatched her hand from his without a word, and rushed
out of the shop.

He returned to his packing, whistling away as shrill as any
blackbird.

Little did he think that Grace's heart was bursting, as she

430 TWO YEARS AC.O piiap.

liurried down the street, covering her face in her veil, as if every
one would espy her dark secret in her countenance.

But she did not go home to liysterics and vain tears. An
awful purpose had arisen in her mind, under the pressure of
that great agony. Heavens, how she loved that man ! To be
suspected by him was torture. But she could bear that. It was
lier cross ; she could cany it, lie down on it, and endure : but
wrong him she could not — would not ! It was sinful enough
while he was there ; but doubly, unbearably sinful, when he was
going to a foreign country, when he would need every farthing
he had. So not for her own sake, but for his, she spoke to her
mother when she went home, and found her sitting over her
Bible in the little parlour, \'ainly trying to find a text whicli
suited her distemper.

' ^lother, you liave the Bible before you there.'

'Yes, child! Why? What?' asked she, looking up un-
easily.

Grace fixed her eyes on the ground. She could not look her
mother in the face.

'Do you ever read the thirty-second Psalm, mother?'

'Which? Why not, child?'

' Let us read it together then, now.'

And Grace, taking up her own Bible, sat quietly down and
read, as none in that parish save she could read :

' Blessed is he whose transgression is forgiven, and whose sin
is covered.

'Blessed is the man unto whom the Lord imputeth not
iniquity, and in whose spirit there is no guile.

' When I kept silence, my bones waxed old, througli my
groaning all the day long.

' For day and night Thy hand was heavy upon me : my mois-
ture is turned to the drought of summer.

' I acknowledge my sin unto Thee, and mine iniquity have T
not hid.

' I said, I will confess my transgressions unto the Lorfl ; and
Thou forgavest the iniquity of my sin.'

Grace stopped, choked witli tears which the pathos of her
own voice had called up. iSlie looked at her mother. There
were no tears in her eyes : only a dull thwart look of terror and
suspicion. The shaft, however bravely and cunningly sped, had
missed its mark.

Poor Grace ! Her usual eloquence utterly failed her, as most
things do in which one is wont to trust, before the pressure of
a real and horrible evil. She had no heart to make fine sen-
tences, to preach a brilliant sermon of commonplaces, ^^'hat
could she say that her mother had not known long before she
was born 1 And throwing herself on her knees at her mother's
feet, she grasped both her hands and looked into her face im-
ploringly — ' Mother ! mother ! mother ! ' was all that she coulfi

XX vr TOO LATE 431

say : but tlieir tone meant more than all words. Reproof,
counsel, comfort, utter tenderness, and under-current of clear
deep trust, bubbling up from beneath all passing suspicions,
however dark and foul, were in it : but they were vain.

Baser terror, the parent of baser suspicion, had hardened that
woman's heart for the while ; and all she answered was —

' Get up ! What is this foolery ? '

' I will not ! I will not rise till you have told me.'

'What?'

' Whether ' — and slie forced the words slowly out in a low
whisper — 'whether you know — anything of — of— Mr. Thurnall's
money — his belt ? '

' Is the girl mad ? Belt ? Money ? Do you take me for a
thief, wench ? '

' No ! no ! no ! Only say you — you know nothing of it ! '

' Psha ! girl ! Go to your school : ' and the old woman tried
to rise.

' Only say that ! only let me know that it is a dream — a
hideous dream which the devil put into my wicked, wicked heart
— and let me know that I am the basest, meanest of daughters
for harbouring such a thought a moment ! It will be comfort,
bliss, to what I endure ! Only say that, and I will crawl to
your feet, and beg for your forgiveness, — ask you to beat me,
like a child, as I shall deserve ! Drive me out, if you will, and
let me die, as I shall deserve ! Only say the word, and take
this fire from before my eyes, which burns day and night, — till
my brain is dried up with misery and shame ! Mother, mother,
speak ! '

But then burst out the horrible suspicion, which faLsehood,
suspecting all others of being false as itself, had engendered in
that mother's heart.

' Yes, viper ! I see your plan ! Do you think I do not know
that you are in love with that fellow ? '

Grace started as if she had been shot, and covered her face
with her hands.

'Yes! and want me to betray myself — to tell a lie about
myself, that you may curry favour with him — a penniless, un-
believing '

' Mother ! ' almost shrieked Grace, ' I can bear no more !
Say that it is a lie, and then kill me if you will ! '

' It is a lie, from beginning to end ! What else should it be ? '
And the woman, in the hurry of her passion, confirmed the
equivocation with an oath ; and then ran on, as if to turn her
own thoughts, as well as Grace's, into commonplaces about ' a
poor old mother, who cares for nothing but you ; who has worked
her fingers to the bone for years to leave you a little money when
she is gone ! I wish I were gone ! I wish I were out of this
wretched ungrateful world, I do ! To have my own child turn
against me in my old age ! '

432 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

Grace lifted her hands from her face, and looked steadfastly
at her mother. And behold, she knew not how or why, she felt
that her mother had forsworn herself. A strong shudder passed
through her ; she rose and was leaving the room in silence.

' Where are you going, hussy ? Stop ! ' screamed her mother
between her teeth, her rage and cruelty ri.sing, as it will witli
weak natures, in the very act of triumph, — ' to your young
man ? '

' To pray,' said Grace quietly ; and locking herself into the
empty schoolroom, ga\e \ent to all hcv feelings, but not in
tears.

How she upbraided herself '. She had not used her strength ;
she had not told her mother all her heart. And yet how could
she tell her heart 1 How face her motlier witli such vague sus-
picions, hardly supported by a single fact 1 How argue it out
against her like a lawyer, and convict her to her face ? What
daughter could do that, who had huinau love and reverence left
in her ? No ! to touch her inward witness, as the Quakers well
and truly term it, was tlie only method : and it had failed.
' God help me ! ' was her only cry : but the help did not come
yet ; there came over her instead a feeling of utter loneliness.
Willis dead ; Thurnall gone ; her mother estranged ; and, like
a child lost upon a great moor, she looked round all heaven and
earth, and there was none to counsel, none to guide — perhaps
not even God. For would He help her as long as she lived in
sin ? And was she not living in sin, deadly sin, as long as she
knew what she was sure she knew, and left the wrong un-
righted ?

It is sometimes true, the popular saying, that sunshine
comes after storm. Sometimes true, or who could live 1 but not
always : not even often. Equally true is the popular antithet,
that misfortunes never come single : that in most human lives
there are periods of trouble, blow following blow, wave following
wave, from opposite and unexpected quarters, with no natural
or logical sequence, till all God's billows have gone over the
soul.

How paltry and helpless, in such dark times, are all theories
of mere self-education ; all proud attempts, like that of Goethe's
Wilhelm Meister, to hang self-poised in the centre of the abyss,
and there organise for oneself a character by means of circum-
stances ! Easy enough and graceful enough does that dream
look, while all the circumstances themselves — all which stands
around — are easy and graceful, obliging and commonplace, like
the sphere of petty experiences with which Goethe surrounds his
insipid hero. Easy enough it seems for a man to educate him-
self without God, as long as he lies comfortably on a sofa, with
a cup of coffee and a review : but what if that ' daemonic
element of the universe,' which Goethe confessed, and yet in his
luxuriousness tried to ignore, because he could not explain —

XXVI TOO LATE 433

what if that broke forth over the graceful and prosperous
student, as it may any moment? What if some thing, or
some person, or many things, or many persons, one after the
other (questions vi'hich iie must get answered then, or die), took
him up and daslied him down, again, and again, and again, till
he was ready to cry, ' I reckoned till morning that like a lion he
will break all my bones ; from morning till evening he will
make an end of me 1 ' What if he thus found himself hurled
perforce amid the real universal experiences of humanity ; and
made free, in spite of himself, by doubt and fear and horror of
great darkness, of the brotherhood of woe, common alike to the
simplest peasant-woman, and to every great soul, perhaps, who
has left his impress and sign-manual upon the hearts of after
generations ? Jew, Heathen, or Christian ; men of the most
opposite creeds and aims ; whether it be iloses or Socrates,
Isaiah or Epictetus, Augustine or Mohammed, Dante or Bernard,
Shakspeare or Bacon, or Goethe's self, no doubt, though in his
tremendous pride he would not confess it even to himself, —
each and all of them have this one fact in common — that once
in their lives, at least, they have gone down into the bottomless
pit and ' stato all' inferno — as the children used truly to say of
Dante ; and there, out of the utter darkness, have asked the
question of all questions — ' Is there a God 1 And if there be, what
is He doing with me ? '

What refuge, then, in self-education; when a man feels liimself
powerless in the gripe of some unseen and inevitable power, and
knows not whether it be chance, or necessity, or a devouring
fiend ? To wrap himself sternly in himself, and cry, ' I will
endure, though all the universe be against me ; ' — how fine it
sounds ! But who has done it ? Could a man do it perfectly
but for one moment, — could he absolutely and utterly for one
moment isolate himself, and accept his own isolation as a fact,
he were then and there a madman or a suicide. As it is, his
nature, happily too weak for that desperate self-assertion, falls
back recklessly on some form, more or less graceful according to
the temperament, of the ancient panacea, 'Let us eat and drink,
for to-morrow we die.' Why should a man educate self, when
he knows not whither he goes, what will befall him to-night ?
Xo. There is but one escape, one chink through which we may
see light, one rock on which our feet may find standing-place,
even in the abyss : and that is the belief, intuitive, inspired, due
neither to reasoning nor to study, that the billows are God's
billows ; and that though we go down to hell. He is there also ;
— the belief that not we, but He, is educating us ; that these
seemingly fantastic and incoherent miseries, storm following
earthquake, and earthquake fire, as if the caprice of all the
demons were let loose against us, have in His mind a spiritual
coherence, an organic unity and purpose (though we see it not) ;
tliat sorrows do not come singly, only because He is making

2 F T. Y. A.

4-'.i TWO YEARS AGO chap.

short work with our spirits ; and Ijeciiuse tlie iiioip effect He sees
produced by one blow, the more swiftly He follows it up 1).\
another; till, in one great and varied crisis, sfcniingly long to
us, but short enough compared with immortality, our sjjints
may be —

' Heated liot with burning fears,
And bathed in baths of hissing teai.s,
And battered with the strokes of doom,
To shape and use. '

And thus, perhaps, it was with poor Grace Harvey. At least,
happily for her, she began after a while to think that it was so.
Only after a while, though. There was at first a phiise of
repining, of doubt, almost of indignation against high heaven.
Who shall judge her? What blame if the crucified one writhe
when the first nail is driven ? What blame if the stoutest turn
.sick and giddy at the first home-thrust of that sword which
pierces the joints and marrow, and lays bare to self tlie seci'ets
of the heart 1 God gives poor souls time to recover their breaths,
ere He strikes again ; and if He be not angry, why should v,f
condemn ?

Poor Grace ! Her sorrows had been thickening fast during
the last few months. She was schoolmistress again, true ; but
where were her children ? Those of them whom she loved best,
were swept away by the cholera ; and could she face the remnant,
each in mourning for a parent or a brother? That alone was
grief enough for her ; and yet that was the lightest of all her
griefs. She loved Tom Thurnall — how much, .she dared not tell
herself ; she longed to ' save ' him. She had thought, and not
untruly, during the past cholera weeks, that he was softened,
opened to new impressions: but he had avoided her more than
ever — perhaps suspected her again more than ever — and now he
was gone, gone for ever. That, too, was grief enough alone.
But darkest and deepest of all, darker and deeper than the past
shame of being suspected by him she loved, was the shame of
suspecting her own mother — of believing herself, as she did,
privy to that shameful theft, and yet unable to make restitution.
There was the horror of all horrors, the close prison which
seemed to stifle her whole soul. The only chink through which
a breath of air seemed to come, and keep her heart alive, was
the hope that somehow, somewhere, she might find that belt,
and restore it without her mother's knowledge.

But more — the first of September was come and gone ; the
bill for fi ve-and-twenty pounds was due, and was not met. Grace,
choking down her honest pride, went off to the grocer, and, with
tears wliich he could not re.sist, persuaded him to renew the bill
for one month more ; and now that month was all but past, and
yet there was no money. Eight or ten people who owed iirs,
Harvey money had died of the cholera. Some, of coui-se, had
left no effects ; and all hope of their working out their debts

XXVI TOO LATE 435

was gone. Some had left money beliind them : hut it was
still in the lawyer's hands, some of it at sea, somi' on mort-
gage, some in houses which must be sold ; till tlif^ir affairs
were wound up — (a sadly slow afiair when a country attorney
has a poor man's unprofitable business to transact) — nothing
could come in to jMrs. Harvey. To and fro she went with
knitted brow and heavy heart ; and brouglit home again only
promises, as she had done a hundred times before. One day she
went up to Mrs. Heale. Old Heale owed her thirteen pounds
and more : but that was not the least reason for paying. His
cholera patients had not paid him ; and wliether Heale had the
money by him or not, he was not going to pay his debts till
other people paid theirs. ;\Irs. Harvey stormed ; ]\Irs. Heale
gave her as good as she brought ; and ^Irs. Harvey threatened to
County Court her husband^ whereon Mrs. Heale, en revanc/ti',
dragged out the books, and displayed to the poor widow's horror-
struck eyes an account for medicine and attendance, on her and
Grace, which nearly swallowed up the debt. Poor Grace was
overwhelmed when her mother came home and upbraided her, in
her despair, with being a burden. Was she not a burden ?
Must she not be one henceforth ? No, she would take in needle-
work, labour in the fields, heave ballast among the coarse
pauper-girls in the quay-pool, anything rather : but how to
meet the present difficulty ?

' We must sell our furniture, mother ! '

' For a quarter of what it's worth ? Never, girl ! No ! The
Lord will provide,' said she, between her clenched teeth, with a
sort of hysteric chuckle. ' The Lord will provide ! '

' I believe it ; I believe it,' said poor Grace ; ' but faith is
weak, and the day is very dark, mother.'

' Dark, ay ? And may be darkei- yet ; but the Lord will pro-
vide. He prepares a table in the wilderness for his saints that
the world don t think of.'

' Oh, mother ! and do you think there is any door of hope ? '

' Go to bed, girl ; go to bed, and leave me to see to that.
Find my si^ectacles. Wherever have you laid them to, now?
I'll look over the books awhile.'

' Do let me go over them for you.'

' No, you shan't ! I suppose you'll be wanting to make out
your poor old mother's been cheating somebody. Why not, if
I'm a thief, miss, eh ? '

' Oh, mother ! mother ! don't say that again.'

And Grace glided out meekly to her own chamber, which
was on the ground-floor adjoining the parlour, and there spent
more than one hour in prayer, from which no present comfort
seemed to come ; yet who shall say that it was all unanswered ?

At last her mother came upstairs, and put her head in
angrily : ' Whjr ben't you in bed, girl 1 sitting up this way 1 '

' I was praying, mother,' says Grace, looking up as she knelt.

436 TWO YEARS AGO thap.

' Praying ! What's the use of praying ? and wlio'U hear you
if you pray 1 What you wants a husband, to kccj) you out of
the workhouse ; and you won't get that by kneeling hero. Oet
to bed, I say, or I'll pull you up ! '

Grace obeyed uncomplaining, but utterly shocked • though
she was not unacquainted with those frightful fits of morose
unbelief, even of fierce blasphemy, to which the excitable West-
countr}^ mind is liable, after having been over -strained by
superstitious self-inspection, and by the desperate attempt to
prove itself right and safe from frames and feelings, while fact
and conscience proclaim it wrong.

The West-country people are apt to attribute these paroxysms
to the possession of a devil ; and so did Grace that night.

Trembling with terror and loving pity, she lay down, and
began to pray afresh for that poor wild mother.

At last the fear crossed lier that her mother might make
away with herself. But a few years before, another class-leader
in Aberalva had attempted to do so, and had all but succeeded.
The thought was intolerable. She must go to her ; face re-
proaches, blows, anything. She rose from her bed, and went t«
the door. It was fastened on the outside.

A cold perspiration stood on her forehead. She ojjened her
lips to shriek to her mother ; but checked herself when she
heard her stirring gently in the outer room. Her pulses
throbbed too loudly at first for her to hear distinctly : but she
felt that it was no moment for giving way to emotion ; by a
strong effort of will, she conquered herself ; and then, with that
preternatural acuteness of sense which some women possess, she
could hear everything her mother was doing. She heard lier
put on her shawl, her bonnet ; she heard hei" ojien the front
door gently. It was now long past midnight. \\'liitlier could
she be going at that hour ?

She heard her go gently to the left, past the window; and
et her footfall was all but inaudible. No rain had fallen, and
er shoes ought to have sounded on the hard earth. She must
have taken them oft'. There, she was stopping, just by the
school-door. Xow she moved again. She must have stopped to
put on her shoes ; for now Grace could hear her steps distinctly,
down the earth bank, and over the rattling shingle of the beacli.
Where was she going ? Grace must follow !

The door was fast ; but in a moment she had removed tlie
table, opened the shuliter and the window.

'Thank God that I stayed here on the ground-floor, instead
of going back to my own room when ilajor Campbell left. It
is a providence ! The Lord has not forsaken me yet ! ' said the
sweet saint, as, catching up her shawl, she wrapped it round
her, and slipping through the window, crouched under the
shadow of tlie house, and looked for her mothei-.

She was hurrying over the rocks, a, hundrprl yards off.

I'
hi

XXVI TOO LATE 437

Whither ? To drown herself in the sea ? No ; she held on
along the mid-beach, right across the cove, toward Arthur's
Nose. But why 1 Grace must know.

She felt, she knew not why, that this strange journey, that
wild 'The Lord will provide,' had to do with the subject of her
suspicion. Perhaps this was the crisis ; perhaps all will be
cleared up to-night, for joy or for utter shame.

The tide was low ; the beach was bright in the western moon-
light : only along the cliff foot lay a strip of shadow a quarter
of a mile long, till the Nose, like a great black wall, buried the
corner of the cove in darkness.

Along that strip of shadow she ran, crouching ; now stumbling
over a boulder, now crushing her bare feet between the sharp
pebbles, as, heedless where she stepped, she kept her eye fixed
on her mother. As if fascinated, she could see nothing else in
heaven or earth but that dark figure, hurrying along with a
dogged determination, and then stopping a moment to look
round, as if in fear of a pursuer. And then Grace lay down on
the cold stones, and pressed herself into the very earth ; and
the moment her mother turned to go forward, .sprang up and
followed.

And then a true woman's thought flashed across her, and
shaped itself into a prayer. For herself she never thought : but
if the coast-guardsman above should see her mother, stop her,
question her Y God grant that he might be on the other side of
the point ! And she nurried on again.

Near the Nose the rocks ran high and jagged ; her mother
held on to them, passed through a narrow chasm, and dis-
appeared.

Grace now, not fifty yards from her, darted out of the shadow
into the moonlight, and ran breathlessly toward the spot where
she had seen her mother last. Like Andersen's little sea-
maiden she went, every step on sharp knives, across the rough
beds of barnacles ; but she felt no pain, in the greatness of her
terror and her love.

She crouched between the rocks a moment ; heard her mother
slipping and splashing among the pools ; and glided after her
like a ghost— a guardian angel rather — till she saw her emerge
again for a moment into the moonlight, upon a strip of beach
beneath the Nose.

It was a weird and lonely spot ; and a dangerous spot withal.
For only at low spring-tide could it be reached from the land,
and then the flood rose far up the cliff, covering all the shingle,
and filling the mouth of a dark cavern. Had her mother gone
to that cavern 1 It was impossible to see, so utterly was the cliff
shrouded in shadow.

Shivering with cold and excitement, Grace crouched down,
and gazed into the gloom, till her eyes swam, and a hundred
fantastic figures, and sparks of fire, seemed to dance between

438 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

her and the rock. Sparks of tire ! — yes ; but that last one was
no fancy. An actual flash ; the crackle and sputter of a match !
What could it mean ? Another match was lighted ; and a
moment after, the glare of a lanthom showed her her motlicr
entering beneath the polished arch of rock which glared lurid
overhead, like the gateway of the pit of tire.

The light vanished into the windings of the cave. And then
Grace, hardly knowing what she did, rushed up the beach, and
crouched down once more at the cave's mouth. There she sat,
she knew not how long, listening, listening, like a hunted hare ;
her whole faculties concentrated in the one sense of hearing ; hei-
eyes wandering vacantly over the black saws of rook, and glis-
tening oar-weed beds, and bright phosphoric sea. Thank Hea\en,
there was not a ripple to break the silence. Ah, what was that
sound within ? She pressed her ear against the rock, to hear
more surely. A rumbling as of stones rolled down. And then
— was it a fancy, or were her powers of hearing, intensified by
e.xcitement, actually equal to discern the chink of coin ? Who
knows? but in another moment she had glided in, silently,
swiftly, holding her very breath ; and saw her mother kneeling
on the ground, the lanthom by her side, and in her hand the
long-lost belt.

She did not speak, she did not move. She always knew, in
her heart of hearts, that so it was : but when the sin took bodily
shape, and was there before her very e.yes, it was too dreadful
to speak of, to act upon yet. And amid the most torturing
horror and disgust of that great sin, rose up in her the divinest
love for the sinner • she felt — strange paradox — that she had
never loved her mother as she did at that moment. ' Oh, that
it had been I who had done it, and not she ! ' And her mother's
sin was to her her own sin, her mother's shame her shame, till
all sense of her mother's guilt vanished in the light of her divine
love. ' Oh, that I could take her up tenderly, tell her that all is
forgiven and forgotten by man and God ! — serve her as I have
never served her yet ! — nurse her to sleep on my bosom, and
then go forth and bear her punishment, even if need be on the
gallows-tree ! ' And there she stood, in a silent agony of tender
pity, drinking her portion of the cup of Him who bore the sins
of all the world.

Silently she stood ; and silently she turned to go, to go
home and pray for guidance in that dark labyrinth of con-
fused duties. Her mother heard the rustle ; looked up ; and
sprang to her feet with a scream, dropping gold pieces on the
ground.

Her first impulse was wild terror. She was discovered ; by
whom, she knew not. She clasped her e\il treasure to her
bosom, and thrusting Grace against the rock, fled wildly
out.

' I\lother ! mother ! ' shrieked Grace, rushing after her. The

XXVI TOO LATE 439

sliawl fell from her shoulders. Her motlier looked back, and
saw the white figure.

' God's angel ! God's angel, come to destroy ine ! as he came
to Balaam ! ' and in the madness of her guilty fancy she saw in
Grace's hand the fiery sword which was to smite her.

Another step, looking backwai'd still, and she had tripped
over a stone. She fell, and striking the back of her head against
the rock, lay senseless.

Tenderly Grace lifted her up : went for water to a pool near
by ; bathed her face, calling on her by e^ery term of endearment.
Slowly the old woman recovered her consciousness, but showed
it only in moans. Her head was cut and bleeding. Grace bound
it up, and then taking that fatal belt, bound it next to her own
heart, never to be moved from thence till she should put it into
the hands of him to whom it belonged.

And then she lifted up her mother.

'Come home, darling mother;' and she tried to make lier
stand and walk.

The old woman only moaned, and waved her away impa-
tiently. Grace put her on her feet ; but she fell again. The
lower limbs seemed all but paralysed.

Slowly that sweet saint lifted her, and laid lier on her own
back ; and slowly she bore her homeward, with aching knees
and bleeding feet ; while before her eyes hung the picture of
Hira who bore His cross up Calvary, till a solemn joy and pride
in that sacred burden seemed to intertwine itself with her deep
misery. And fainting every moment with pain and weakness,
she still went on, as if by supernatural strength ; and mur-
mured —

' Thou didst bear more for me, and shall not I bear even this
for Thee?'

Surely, if blest spirits can weep and smile over the woes and
heroisms of us mortal men, faces brighter than the stars looked
down on that fair girl that night, and in loving sympathy called
her, too, blest.

At last it was over. Undiscovered she reached home, laid
her mother on the bed, and tended her till morning : but long
ere morning dawned stupor had changed into delirium, and
Grace's ears were all on fire with words — which those who have
ever heard will have no heart to write.

And now, by one of those strange vagaries, in which epidemics
so often indulge, appeared other symptoms ; and by day-dawn
cholera itself.

Heale, though recovering, was still too weak to be of use :
but, happily, the medical man sent down by the Board of Health
was still in the town.

Grace sent for him ; but he shook his head after the first
look. The wretched woman's ravings at once explained the
case, and made it, in his eyes, all but hopeless.

440 TWO YEARS AGO . iiat'.

The sudden shock to body and luiud, the sudden prostration
of strength, had brought out the disease which she had dreaded
so intensely, and against whicli she had taken so many pre-
cautions, and which yet lay, all the while, lurking unfelt in her
system.

A hideous eight-and-forty hours followed. The preachers
and class-leaders came to pray o\ ei' the dying woman : ))ut she
screamed to Grace to send them away. She had just sense
enough left to dread that she might betray lier own shame.
Would she have the new clergyman then 1 No ; she would have
no one ; — no one could help her ! Let her only die in peace I

And Grace closed the door upon all but the doctor, wlio
treated tlie wild sufferer's wild words as the mere fancies of
delirium ; and tlien Grace watched and prayed, till she found
herself alone witli the dead.

She wrote a letter to Thurnall —

' Sir — I have found your belt, and all tlie money, I believe
and trust, which it contained. If you will be so kind as to tell
me where and how I shall send it to you, you will take a lieavy
burden off the mind of

' Your obedient humble servant,
who trusts that you will forgive her having been unable to fulfil
her promise.'

She addressed the letter to Wliitbury ; for thither Tom had
ordered his letters to be sent ; but she received no answer.

The day after Mrs. Harvey was buried, the sale of all her
effects was announced in Aberalva.

Grace received the proceeds, went round to all the creditors,
and paid them all which was due. She had a few pounds left.
What to do with that she knew full well.

She showed no sign of sorrow : but she spoke larely to any
one. A dead dull weight seemed to hang over her. To preachers,
class-leaders, gossips, who upbraided her for not letting them
see her mother, she replied by silence. People thought her
becoming idiotic.

The day after the last creditor was paid she jiacked up her
little box : hired a cart to take her to the nearest coach ; and
vanished from Aberalva, without bidding farewell to a human
being, even to lier school-children.

Vavasour had been buried more than a week, ilark and

^lary were sitting in the dining-room, Mark at his port and

Mary at her work, when the footboy entered.

'Sir, there's a young woman wants to speak with you.'

' Show lier in, if she looks respectable,' said Mark, who liad

slippers on, and his feet on tlie fender, and was, therefore, loth

to move.

XXVI TOO LATE U\

' Oh, quite respectable, sir, as ever I see ; ' and the lad ushered
in a figure, dressed and xeiled in deep black.

' Well, ma'am, sit down, pray ; and what can I do for you ? '

'Can you tell me, sir,' answered a voice of extraordinary
sweetness and gentleness, very firm and composed withal, 'if
Mr. Thomas Thurnall is in Wliitbury 1 '

' Thurnall ? He has sailed for the East a week ago. ISlay I
ask your business with him ? Can I help you in it ? '

The black damsel paused so long, that both JMary and her
father felt uneasy, and a cloud passed over Mark's brow.

' Can the boy have been playing tricks ? ' said he to himself.

'Then, sir, as I hear that you have influence, can you get
me a situation as one of the nurses who are going out thither,
so I hear ? '

' Get you a situation 1 Yes, of course, if you are competent.'

' Thank you, sir. Perhaps, if jrou could be so very kind as
to tell me to whom I am to apply in town ; for I shall go thither
to-night.'

' My goodness ! ' cried ilark. ' Old Mark don't do things
in this off-hand, cold-blooded way. Let us know who you are,
my dear, and about Mr. Thurnall. Have you anything against
him?'

She was silent.

' Mary, just step into the next room.'

' If you please, sir,' said the same gentle voice, ' I had sooner
that the lady should stay. I have nothing against j\Ir. Thurnall,
God knows. He has rather something against me.'

Another pause.

^lary rose, and went up to her and took her hand.

' Do tell us who you are, and if we can do anything for you.'

And she looked winningly up into her face.

The stranger drew a long breath and lifted her veil. Mary
and Mark both started at the beauty of the countenance which
she revealed — but in a different way. Mark gave a grunt of
approbation : Mary turned pale as death.

' I suppose that it is but right and reasonable that I should
tell you, at least give proof of my being an honest person. For
my capabilities as a nurse — I believe you know Mrs. Vavasour 1
I heard that she has been staying liere.'

' Of course. Do you know her ? '

A sad smile passed over her face.

' Yes, well enough, at least for her to speak for me. I should
have asked her or Miss St. Just to help me to a nurse's place :
but I did not like to trouble them in their distress. How is the
poor lady now, sir ? '

' I know who she is ! ' cried Mary, by a sudden inspiration.
' Is not your name Harvey 1 Are you not tlie schoolmistress
who saved Mr. Thurnall's life? who behaved so nobly in the
cholera ? Yes ! I knew you were ! Come and sit down, and

442 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

tell me all ! 1 have so longed to know you ! Dear creature, I
have felt as if you were my own sister. He — ilr. Thurnall —
wrote often about all your heroism.'

Grace seemed to choke down somewhat : and then answered
steadfastly —

' I did not come here, my dear lady, to hear such kind words,
but to do an errand to ilr. Thurnall. You have heard, perhajjs,
that when he was wrecked last spring, he lost some money.
\es1 Then, it was stolen. Stolen ! ' she repeated with a great
gasp : ' never mind by whom. Not by me.'

'You need not tell us that, my dear,' interrupted Mark.

'God kept it. And I have it; here! 'and .she pressed lier
hands tight over her bosom. ' And here I must keep it till I
give it into his hands, if I follow him round the world ! ' And
as she spoke her eyes shone in the lamplight, with an unearthly
brilliance which made Mary shudder.

Mark Armsworth pourei a libation to the goddess of Puzzle-
dom, in the shape of a glass of port, which first choked him, and
then descended over his clean shirt-front. But after he had
coughed himself black in the face, he began —

'My good girl, if you are Grace Harvey, you're welcome to
my roof, and an honour to it, say I : but as for taking all that
money with you across the seas, and such a pretty helpless
young thing as you ai'e, God help you, it mustn't be, and shan't
be, and that's flat.'

' But I must go to him ! ' said she, in so naive half-wild a
fashion, that Mary, comprehending all, looked imploringly at
her father, and putting her arm round Grace, forced her into a
seat.

' I must go, sir, and tell him — tell him myself. Xo one knows
what I know about it.'

Mark shook his head.

'Could I not write to him? He knows me as well as he
knows his own father.'

Grace shook her head, and pressed her hand upon her heart,
where Tom's belt lay.

' Do you think, madam, that after having had the dream of
this belt, the shape of this belt, and of the money which is in it,
branded into my brain for months — years it seems like — by God's
fire of shame and suspicion ; — and seen him poor, miserable,
fretful, unbelieving, for the want of it — O God ! I can't tell even
your sweet face all. — Do you think that now I have it in my
hands, I can part with it, or rest till it is in his ? No, not
though I walked barefoot after him to the ends of the earth.'

' Let his father have the money, then, and do you take him
the belt as a token, if you must '

'That's it, Mary!' shouted Mark Armswoi-th, 'you always
come in with the right hint, girl ! ' and tlie two, combining their
forces, at last talked poor Grace over. But upon going out her-

XXVI TOO LATE 443

self she was bent. To ask liis forgiveness in her mother's name,
was her one fixed idea. He might die, and not know all, not
have forgiven all, and go she must.

' But it is a thousand to one against your seeing him. Wc,
even, don't know exactly where he is gone.'

Grace shuddered a moment ; and then recovered her calm-
ness.

' I did not expect this : but be it so. I shall meet him if
God wills ; and if not, lean still work — work.'

' I think, ilary, you'd better take the young woman upstairs,
and make her sleep here to-night,' said ]\lark, glad of an excuse
to get rid of them ; which, when he had done, he pulled his
chair round in front of the fire, put a foot on each hob, and
began rubbing his eyes vigorously.

Dear me ! Dear me ! What a lot of good people there are
in this old world, to be sure ! Ten times better than me, at
least — make one ashamed of oneself : — and if one isn't even
good enough for this world, how's one to be good enough for
heaven ? '

And Mary carried Grace upstairs, and into her own bedroom.
'A bed should be made up there for her. It would do her
good just to have anything so pretty sleeping in the same room.'
And then she got Grace supper, and tried to make her talk : but
she was distrait, reserved ; for a new and sudden dread had
seized her at the sight of that fine house, fine plate, fine friends.
These were his acquaintances, then : no wonder that he would
not look on such as her. And as she cast her eye round the
really luxurious chamber, and (after falteringly asking Mary
whether she had any brothers and sisters) guessed that she must
be the heiress of all that wealth, she settled in her heart that
Tom was to marry Mary ; and the intimate tone in which Mary
spoke of him to her, and her innumerable inquiries about him,
made her more certain that it was a settled thing. Handsome
she was not, certainly ; but so sweet and good ; and that her
own beauty (if she was aware that she possessed any) could have
any weight with Tom, she would have considered as an insult to
his sense ; so she made up her mind slowly, but steadily, that
thus it was to be ; and every fresh proof of Mary's sweetness
and goodness was a fresh pang to her, for it showed the more
how probable it was that Tom loved her.

Therefore she answered all Mary's questions carefully and
honestly, as to a person who had a right to ask ; and at last went
to her bed, and, worn out in body and mind, was asleep in a
moment. She had not remarked the sigh which escaped Mary,
as .she glanced at that beautiful head, and the long black tresses
which streamed down for a moment over the wliite shoulders
ere they were knotted back for the night, and then at her own
poor countenance in the glass opposite.

■*44 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

It was long past midnight when Grace woke, slie knew not
how, and looking up, saw a light in the i-oom, and ]Mary sitting
still over a book, her head resting on her hands. She lay quiet
and thought she heard a sob. She was sure she heard tears
drop on the paper. She stirred, and Mary was at her side in a
moment.

' Did you want anything ? '

'Only to — to remind you, ma am, it is not wise to .sit up so
late.'

' Only that 1 ' said !Mary, laughing. ' I do that eveiy night,
alone with God ; and I do not think He will be tlie farther ofi'
for your being here ! '

' One thing I had to ask,' said Grace. ' It would lessen my
labour so, if you could give me any hint of where he might be.'

' We know, as we told you, as little as you. His letters are
to be sent to Constantinople. Some fi-om Aberaha are gone
thither already.'

'And mine among them ! ' thought (4race. ' It is (iods will !

. . ]Madam, if it would not seem forward on my part — if you

could tell him the truth, and what I have for him, and where I

am, in case he might wish — wish to see me — when you were

writing.'

'Of course I will, or my father will,' said Mary, who did not
like to confess either to herself or to Grace that it was very
improbable that she would ever write again to Tom Thumall.

And so the two sweet maidens, so near that moment to an
explanation, which might have cleared up all, went on each in
her ignorance ; for so it was to be.

The next morning Grace came down to breakfast, modest,
cheerful, charming. Mark made her breakfast with them : gave
her endless letters of recommendation ; wanted to take her to
see old Doctor Thurnall, which .she declined, and then sent her
to the station in his own carriage, paid her fare first-class to
town, and somehow or other contrived, with Mary's help, that
she should find in her bag two ten-pound notes, which she had
never seen before. After which he went out to his counting-
house, only remarking to JIary —

' Very extraordinary young woman, and very handsome, too.
Will make some man a jewel of a wife, if she don't go mad, or
die of the hospital fever.'

To which Mary fully assented. Little she guessed, and little
did her father, that it was for Grace's sake that Tom had refused
her hand.

A few days more, and Grace Harvey also had gone Eastward
Ho.

xxvii A RFX'KXT EXPLOSION IN AN ANCIENT CRATER 445
CHAPTEK XXVII

A RECENT EXPLOSION IN AN ANCIENT CRATER

It is, perhaps, a pity for the human race in general that some
enterprising company cannot buy up the ^loselle (not the wine,
but the river), cut it into five-mile lengths, and distribute them
over Europe, wherever there is a demand for lovely scenery.
For lovely is its proper epithet ; it is not grand, not exciting —
so much the better ; it is scenery to live and die in ; scenery to
settle in, and study a single landscape, till you know every rock,
and walnut-tree, and vine -leaf by heart: not merely to run
through in one hasty steam-trip, as you now do, in a long burn-
ing day, which makes you not 'drunk' — but weary — 'with
excess of beauty.' Besides, there are two or three points so
superior to the rest, that having- seen them, one cares to see
nothing more. That paradise of emerald, purple, and azure,
which opens behind Treis ; and that strange heap of old-world
houses at Berncastel, which have scrambled up to the top of a
rock to stare at the steamer, and have never been able to get
down again — between them, and after them, one feels like a
child who, after a great mouthful of pine-apple jam, is con-
demned to have poured down its throat an everlasting stream
of treacle.

So thought Stangrave on board the steamer, as he smoked
his way up the shallows, and wondered which turn of the ri\er
would bring him to his destination. When would it all be over 'I
And he never leaped on shore more joyfully than he did at Alf
that afternoon, to jump into a carriage, and trundle up the gorge
of the Issbach some six lonely weary miles, till he turned at last
into the wooded caldron of the Eomer-kessel, and saw the little
chapel crowning the central knoll, with tlie white high-roofed
houses of Bertrich nestling at its foot.

He drives up to the handsome old Kurhaus, nestling close
beneath heather -clad rocks, upon its lawn shaded with huge
horse-chestnuts, and set round with dahlias, and geraniums, and
delicate tinted German stocks, which fill the air with fragrance ;
a place made only for young lovers — certainly not for those
black-petticoated worthies, each with that sham of a sham, the
modem tonsure, pared down to a poor florin's breadth among
their bushy, well-oiled curls, who sit at little tables, passing
the lazy day ' a muguettfr les hfnirgeoixea ' of Sarrebruck and
Treves, and sipping the fragrant Josephshofer — perhaps at tlie
good bourgeois' expense.

Past them Stangrave slips angrily ; for that ' development of
humanity ' can find no favour in his eyes ; being not human at
all, but professedly superhuman, and therefore, practically, some-

446 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

tinips inlmman. He hurries into the public room ; seizes on the
Wsitor's book.

The naiiie.s are there, in their own handwritina : but wheir
aretljcy?

AVaiters are seized and questioned. Tlie Knglish ladies came
back last night, and are gone this afternoon.

' Wliere are they gone ? '

Nobody recollects : not even the man from whom tliey hired
the carriage. But they are not gone far. Their servants and
their luggage are still here. Perhaps the Herr Ober-Badmeister,

Lieutenant D , will know. ' Oh, it will not trouble him. An

English gentleman? Der Herr Lieutenant will be only too
happy ; ' and in ten minutes der Herr Lieutenant appears, really
only too happy ; and Stangrave finds himself at once in tiie
company of a soldier and a gentleman. Had their acquaintance
been a longer one, he would have recognised likewise the man
of taste and of piety.

' I can well appreciate, sir,' says he, in return to Stangra\e's
anxious inquiries, 'your impatience to rejoin your lovely country-
women, who have heen for the last three weeks the wonder and
admiration of our little paradise ; and whose four days' absence
was regretted, believe me, as a public calamity.'

' I can well believe it ; but they are not countrywomen of
mine. The one lady is an Englisliwoman ; the other — I believe
— an Italian.'

' And der Herr ? '

'An American.'

'Ah! A still greater pleasure, sir. I trust that you will
carry back across the Atlantic a good report of a spot all but
unknown, I fear, to your compatriots. You will meet one, I
think, on the return of the ladies.'

' A compatriot ? '

' Yes. A gentleman who arrived here this morning, and who
seemed, from his conversation with them, to belong to your
noble fatherland. He went out driving with them this after-
noon, whither I unfortunately know not. Ah ! good Saint
Nicholas ! — For though I am a Lutheran, I must invoke him
now — Look out yonder ! '

Stangrave looked, and joined in the general laugh of lieu-
tenant, waiters, priests, and bourgeoises.

For under the chestnuts strutted, like him in Struiivlpeler,
as though he were a very king of Ashantee, Sabinas black boy,
who had taken to himself a scarlet umbrella and a great cigar ;
while after him came, also like them in Struuvhieter, Caspar,
bretzel in hand, and Ludwig with his hoop, and all the naughty
boys of Bertricli town, hooting and singing in chorus, after the
fashion of Gterman children.

The resemblance to the well-known scene in the Gemian
child's book was perfect, and as the children shouted —

XXVII A RECENT EXPLOSION IN AN ANCIENT CRATER ^47

' Ein kohljiechrabeuscliwarzer Jlolir,
nil' Sonne schien ihm ins geliirn,
T);i iialmi rv seinpn Snnnnnscliirm ' —

more tliau one grown person joined therein.

Stangrave longed to catch Jiold of the boy, and extract from
him all news ; I)ut the blackamoor was not quite in respectable
company enough at that moment ; and Stangrave had to wait
till he strutted proudly up to the door, and entered the hall with
a bland smile, evidently having taken the hooting as a homage
to his personal appearance.

' Ah ? Jlas' Stangrave ? glad see you, sir ! Quite a party of
us now, 'niong dese 'barian heathen foreigners. Mas' Thurnall
he come dis mornin' ; gone up pickin' bush wid de ladies. He !
lie ! Not seen him dis tree year afore.'

'Thurnall!' Stangrave's heart sunk within him. His first
impulse was to order a carriage, and return whence he came ;
but it would look so odd, and, moreover, be so foolish, that he
made up his mind to stay and face the worst. So he swallowed
a hasty dinner, and then wandered up the narrow valley, with
all his suspicions of Thurnall and Marie seething more fiercely
than ever in his heart.

Some half mile up, a path led out of the main road to a
wooden bridge across the stream. He followed it, careless
whither he went ; and in five minutes found himself in the
quaintest little woodland cavern he ever had seen.

It was simply a great block of black lava, crowned with
brushwood, and supported on walls and pillars of Dutch cheeses,
or what should have been Dutch cheeses by all laws of shape
and colour, had not his fingers proved to them that they were
stone. How they got there, and what they were, puzzled him ;
for he was no geologist ; and finding a bench inside, he sat
down and speculated thereon.

There was more than one doorway to the ' Cheese Cellar.'
It stood beneath a jutting knoll, and the path ran right
through : so that, as he sat, he could see up a narrow gorge to
his left, roofed in with trees ; and down into the main valley on
his right, where the Issbach glittered clear and smooth beneath
red-berried mountain ash and yellow leaves.

There he sat, and tried to forget Marie in the tinkling of the
streams, and the sighing of the autumn leaves, and the cooing
of the sleepy doves , while the ice-bird, as the Germans call the
water-ousel, sat on a rock in the river below, and warbled his
low sweet song, and then flitted up the grassy reach to perch
and sing again on the next rock above.

And, whether it was that he did forget Marie awhile ; or
whether he were tired, as he well might have been ; or whether
lie had too rapidly consumed his bottle of red Walporzheimer,
forgetful that it alone of German wines combines the delicacy
of the Rhine sun with the potency of its Burgundian vinestock,

448 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

ti .iiisplanted to the Ahi- by Gbailemagne ; — whether it were any
ot these causes, or whether it were not, Stangrave fell fast asleep
in the Kaiser-keller, and slept till it was dark, at the risk of
catching a great cold.

How long he slept, he knew not : but what wakened him he
knew full well. Voices of people approaching ; and voices
which he recognised in a moment.

Sabina ? Yes ; and IMarie too, laughing merrily ; and among
their shriller tones the voice of Thurnall. He had not heard it
for years ; but, considering the circumstances under which he
had last heard it, there was no fear of his forgetting it again.

They came down the side glen ; and before he could rise, they
had turned tlie sharp corner of the rock, and were in the Kai.ser-
keller, close to him, almost touching him. He felt the awkward-
ness of his position. To keep still was, perhaps, to overhear,
and that too much. To discover himself was to produce a
scene ; and he could not trust his temper that the scene would
not be an ugly one, and such as women must not witness.

He was relieved to find that they did not stop. They were
laughing about the gloom ; about being out so late.

' How jealous some one whom I know would be,' said Sabina,
' if he found you and Tom together in this darksome den ! '

' I don't care,' said Tom ; ' I have made up my mind to shoot
him out of hand, and marry ilarie myself. Shan't I now,

ray ' and they passed on ; and down to their carriage, whicli

liad been waiting for them in the road below.

What Marie's answer was, or by what name Thurnall was
about to address her, Stangrave did not hear : but he had heard
quite enough.

He rose quietly after a while, and followed them.

He was a dupe, an ass ! The dupe of those bad women, and
of his ancient enemy ! It was maddening ! Yet, how could
Sabina be in fault '? She had not known Marie till he himself
had introduced her ; and he could not believe her capable of
such baseness. The crime must lie between the other two.
Yet-
However that might be mattered little to him now. He
would return, order his carriage once more, and depart, shaking
off the dust of his feet against them ! ' Pah I There were other
women in the world ; and women, too, wlio would not demand
of him to become a hero.'

He reached the Kurhaus, and went in ; but not into the
public room, for fear of meeting people whom he had no heart
to face.

He was in tlie passage, in the act of settling liis account witli
tlie waiter, when Thurnall came hastily out, and ran against
liim.

Stangrave stood by the jiassage lamp, so that he saw Tom's
face at once.

XXVII A RECENT EXPLOSION IN AN ANCIENT CRATER 449

Tom drew back ; begged a thousand pardons ; and saw Stan-
grave's face in turn.

The two men looked at each other for a few seconds. Stan-
grave longed to say, ' You intend to shoot me ? Then try at
once ; ' but he was ashamed, of course, to make use of words
which he had so accidentally overheard.

Tom looked carefully at Stangrave, to divine his temper from
his countenance. It was quite angry enough to give Tom excuse
for saying to himself —

' The fellow is mad at being caught at last. Very well.'

' I think, sir,' said he, quietly enough, ' that you and I had
better walk outside for a few minutes. Allow me to retract the
apology I just made, till we have had some very explicit con-
versation on other matters.'

' Curse his impudence ! ' thought Stangrave. ' Does he
actually mean to bully me into marrying her ? ' and he replied
haughtily enough —

' I am aware of no matters on which I am inclined to be
explicit with ilr. Thurnall, or on which !Mi-. Thurnall has a
right to be explicit with me.'

'I am, then,' quoth Tom, his suspicion increasing in turn.
' Do you wish, sir, to have a scene before this waiter and the i
whole house, or will you be so kind as to walk outside with
me?'

' I must decline, sir ; not being in the habit of holding inter-
course with an actress's bully.'

Tom did not knock him down : but replied smilingly
enough —

'I am far too much in earnest in this matter, sir, to be
stopped by any coarse expressions. Waiter, you may go. Now
will you fight me to-morrow morning, or will you not ? '

' I may fight a gentleman : but not you.'

' Well, I shall not call you a coward, because I know that
you are none ; and I shall not make a row here, for a gentle-
man's reasons, which you, calling yourself a gentleman, seem
to have forgotten. But this I will do ; I will follow you till
you do fight me, if I have to throw up my own prospects in
life for it. I will proclaim you, wherever we meet, for what
you are — a mean and base intriguer ; I will insult you in
Kursaals, and cane you on public places ; I will be Franken-
stein's man to you day and night, till I have avenged the
wrongs of this poor girl, the dust of whose feet you are not
worthy to kiss ofi'.'

Stangrave was surprised at his tone. It was certainly not
that of a conscious villain : but he only replied sneeringly —

' And pray what may give Mr. Thurnall the right to consider
himself the destined avenger of this frail beauty's wrongs ? '

' I will tell you that after we have fought ; and somewhat
more. Meanwhile, that expression, "frail beauty," is a fresh

2 G T. Y. A.

450 TWO YEARS AGO thap.

offence, for which I should certainly cane you, if she were not
in the house.'

'Well,' drawled Stangrave, feigning an ostentatious yawn,
1 1 believe the wise method of ridding oneself of impertinents
is to grant their requests. Have you pistols ? I have none.'

'I have both duellers and revolvers at your service.

'Ah ? I think we'll try the revolvers then,' said Stangrave,
savage from despair, and disbelief in all human goodness.
'After what has passed, five or six shots apiece will be hardly
outre!

' Hardly, I think,' said Tom. ' Will you name your second ? '

' I know no one. I have not been here two hours ; but I
suppose they do not matter much.'

' Humph ! it is as well to have witnesses in case of accident.
There are a couple of roystering Burschen in the public room,
who, I think, would enjoy the office. Both ha\e scais on their
faces, so they will be nu fait at the thing. Shall I have the
honour of sending one of them to you ? '

' As you will, sir ; my number is 34.' And the two fools
turned on their respective heels, and walked off.

At sunrise next morning Tom and his second are standing on
the Falkenhohe, at the edge of the vast circular pit, blasted out
by some explosion which has torn the slate into mere dust and
shivers, now covered with a thin coat of turf.

' Schone aussicht ! ' says the Bursch, waving his hand round,
in a tone which is benevolently meant to withdraw Tom's mind
from painful considerations.

' Very pretty prospect indeed. You're sure you understand
that revolver thoroughly ? '

The Bursch mutters to himself something about English
nonchalance, and assures Thumall that he is competently
acquainted with the weapon ; as indeed he ought to be ; for
having never seen one before, he has been talking and thinking
of nothing else since they left Bertrich.

And why does not Tom care to look at the prospect ? Cer-
tainly not because he is afraid. He slept as soundly as ever last
night ; and knows not what fear means. But somehow, the
glorious view reminds him of another glorious view, which he
saw last summer walking by Grace Harvey's side from Tolchard's
farm. And that subject he will sternly put away. He is not
sure but what it might unman even him.

The likeness certainly exists ; for the rock, being the same in
both places, has taken the same general form ; and the wanderer
in Khine-Prussia and Nassau might often fancy hiin.self in
Devon or Cornwall. True, here there is no sea : and there no
^Moselkopf raises its huge crater-cone far above the uplands, all
golden in the level sun. But that brown Taunus far away, or
that brown Hundsruck opposite, with its deep-wooded gorges

XXVII A RECENT EXPLOSION IN AN ANCIENT CRATER 451

barred with level gleams of light across black gulfs of shade,
might well be Dartmoor, or Carcarrow moor itself, high over
Aberalva town, which he will see no more. True, in Cornwall
there would be no slag-cliffs of the Falkenley beneath his feet,
as black and blasted at this day as when yon orchard meadow
was the mouth of hell, and the south-west wind dashed the great
flame against the cinder-cliff behind, and forged it into walls of
time-defying glass. But that might well be Alva stream, that
Issbach in its green gulf far below, winding along toward the
green gulf of the Moselle — he will look at it no more, lest he see
Grace herself come to him across the down, to chide him, with
sacred horror, for the dark deed which he has come to do.

And yet he does not wish to kill Stangrave. He would like
to ' wing him.' He must punish him for his conduct to Marie ;
punish him for last night's insult. It is a necessity, but a dis-
agreeable one ; he would be sorry to go to the war with that
man's blood upon his hand. He is sorry that he is out of
practice.

' A year ago I could have counted on hitting him where I
liked. I trust I shall not blunder against his vitals now. How-
ever, if I do, he has himself to blame ! '

The thought that Stangrave may kill him never crosses his
mind. Of course, out of six shots, fired at all distances from
forty paces to fifteen, one may hit him : but as for being
killed ! . .

Tom's heart is hardened ; melted again and again this summer
fcfr a moment, only to freeze again. He all but believes that he
bears a charmed life. All the miraculous escapes of his past
years, instead of making him beUeve in a living, guiding, pro-
tecting Father, have become to that proud hard heart the excuse
for a deliberate, though unconscious, atheism. His fall is surely
near.

At last Stangrave and his second appear. Stangrave is
haggard, not from fear, but from misery, and rage, and self-
condemnation. This is the end of all his fine resolves ! Pah !
what use in them ? What use in being a martyr in this world ?
All men are liars, and all women too !

Tom and Stangrave stand a little apart from each other, while
one of the seconds paced the distance. He steps out away from
them, across the crater floor, carrying Tom's revolver in his
hand, till he reaches the required point, and turns.

He turns : but not to come back. Without a gesture or an
exclamation which could explain his proceedings, he faces about
once more, and rushes up the slope as hard as legs and wind
permitted.

Tom is confounded with astonishment : either the Bursch is
seized with terror at the whole business, or he covets the much-
admired revolver ; in either case he is making off with it before
the owner's eyes.

452 TAVO YEARS AGO chap.

' Stop ! Hillo ! Stop thief ! He's got my pistol ! ' and away
goes Thurnall in chase after the Bursch, who, never looking
behind, never sees that he is followed : while Stangrave and the
second Bursch look on with wide eyes.

Now the Bursch is a ' gymnast,' and a capital runner ; and
so is Tom likewise ; and brilliant is the race upon the Falken-
hohe. But the victory, after a while, becomes altogether a
question of wind ; for it was all up hill. The crater, being one
of 'explosion, and not of elevation, as the geologists would
say, does not slope downward again, save on one side, fr(jiii its
outer lip ; and Tom and the Bursch were Ijreasting a fair hill,
after they had emerged from the ' kessel ' below.

Now the Bursch had had too mucli Thronerhofberger tlie
night before ; and possibly, as Burschen will in their \acations,
the night before that also ; whereby his diaphragm surrendered
at discretion, while his heels were yet unconquered ; and he
suddenly felt a strong gripe, and a, stronger kick, whicli rolled
him over on the turf.

The hapless youth, who fancied himself alone upon the moun-
tain tops, roared mere incoherences ; and Tom, too angry to
listen, and too hurried to punish, tore the revolver out of his
grasp ; whereon one barrel exploded —

' I have done it now ! '

No : the ball had luckily buried itself in the ground.

Tom turned, to rush down hill again, and meet the impatient
Stangrave.

Crack — whing — g — g !

'A bullet!'

Yes ! And, prodigy on prodigy, up the hill towards him
charged, as he would upon a whole army, a Prussian gendarme,
with bayonet fixed.

Tom sat down upon the mountain-side, and burst into inex-
tinguishable laughter, while the gendariae came charging up,
right toward his very no.se.

But up to his nose he charged not ; for his wind was
short, and the noise of liis roaring went before him. More-
over, he knew that Tom had a re%olver, and was a 'mad
Englishman.'

Now he was not afraid of Tom, or of a whole army : but he
was a man of drills and of orders, of rules and of precedents, as
a Prussian gendarme ought to be ; and for the modes of attack-
ing infantry, cavalry, and artillery, man, woman, and child, thief
and poacher, stray pig, or even stray wolf, he had drill and
orders sufficient : but for attacking a Colt's revolver, none.

Moreover, for arresting all manner of riotous Burschen,
drunken boors, French red republicans, ilazzini-hatted Italian
refugees, suspect Polish incendiaries, or other Jeras no.turoe, he
had precedent and regulation : but for arresting a mad English-
man, none. He held fully the opinion of his superiors, that

XXVII A RECENT EXPLOSION IN AN ANCIENT CRATER 453

there was no saying what an Englislimaii might not, could not,
and would not do. He was a sphinx, a chimera, a lunatic broke
loose, who took unintelligible delight in getting wet, and dirty,
and tired, and starved, and all but killed ; and called the same
' taking exercise : ' — who would see e\erything that nobody ever
cared to see, <ind who knew mysteriously everything about
everywhere ; whose deeds ^vere like his opinions, utterly sub-
versive of all constituted order in hea\en and earth ; lieing,
probably, the inhabitant of another planet ; possibly the man
in the moon himself, who liad been turned out, having made- his
native satellite too hot to liold him. All that was to be done
with him was to inquire whetlier his passport was correct, and
then (with a due regard to self-preservation) to endure his
vagaries in pitying wonder.

bo the gendarme paused panting ; and not daring to approach,
walked slowly and solemnly round Tom, keeping the point of
his bayonet carefully towards him, and roaring at intervals —

' You have murdered the young man ! '

'But I have not !' said Tom. 'Look and see.'

' But I saw him fall ! '

' But he has got up again, and run away.'

' So ! Then where is your passport 1 '

That one other fact, cognisable by the mind of a Prussian
gendarme, remained as an anchor for his brains under the new
and trying circumstances, and he used it. ' Here ! ' quoth Tom,
pulling it out.

The gendarme stepped cautiously forward.

' Don't be frightened. I'll stick it on your bayonet-
point ; ' and suiting the action to the word, Tom caught the
bayonet-point, put the passport on it, and pulled out his cigar-
case.

' Mad Englishman ! ' murmured the gendarme. ' So ! The
passport is correct. But der Herr must consider himself under
arrest. Der Herr will give up his death-instrument.'

' By all means,' says Tom : and gives up the revolver.

The gendarme takes it very cautiously ; meditates awhile how
to carry it ; sticks the point of his bayonet into its muzzle, and
lifts it aloft.

'Schon! Das kriegt ! Has der Herr any more death-
instruments ? '

' Dozens ! ' says Tom, and begins fumbling in his pockets ;
from whence he pulls a case of surgical instruments, another of
mathematical ones, another of lancets, and a knife with in-
numerable blades, saws, and pickers, every one of which he
opens carefully, and then spreads the whole fearful array upon
the grass before him.

The gendarme scratches his head over those too plain proofs
of some tremendous conspiracy.

' So ! Man must have a dozen hands ! He is surely Pal-

454 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

nierston himself ; or at least Hecker, or ^lazzini ! ' murmurs he,
as lie meditates how to stow them all.

He thinks now that the revolver may be safe elsewhere ; and
that the knife will do best on the bayonet-ijoint. So he unships
the revolver.

Bang goes barrel numbei' two, and the Imll jioes into the turf
between his feet.

'You will shoot your.self soon, at that rate,' says Tonj.

'So! Der Herr speaks Gennan like a native,' says the
gendarme, growing complimentary in his perplexity. ' Perhaps
der Herr would be so good as to carry liis death-in.struments
himself and attend on the Herr Polizeirath, who is waiting to
see him.'

' By all means ! ' And Tom picks up his tackle, while the
prudent gendarme reloads ; and Tom marches dow n the hill,
the gendarme following, with his bayonet disagreeably near the
small of Tom's back.

' Don't stumble ! Look out for tht- stones, or you'll h.ive that
skewer through me ' '

' So ! Der Herr speaks German like a native,' say.s the gen-
darme, civilly. ' It is certainly der Palmerston,' thinks he, ' his
manners are so polite.'

Once at the crater edge, and able to see into the pit, the
mystery is, in part at least, explained : for there stand not only
Stangra\"e and Bursch number two, but a second gendarme, t\\ o
elderly gentlemen, two ladies, and a black boy.

One is Lieutenant D , by his white moustache. He is

lecturing the Bursch, who looks sufficiently foolish. The other
is a portly and awful-looking personage in uniform, evidently
the Polizeirath of those parts, armed with the just terrors of
the law ■ but Justice lias, if not her eyes bandaged, at least her
hands tied ; for on his arm hangs Sabina, smiling, chatting,
entreating. The Polizeirath smiles, bows, ogles, evidently a
willing captive. Venus has disarmed Ehadamanthus, as she
has Mars so often ; and the sword of justice must rust in its
scabbard.

Some distance behind them is Stangrave, talking in a low
voice, earnestly, passionately — to whom but to !Maiie 1

And lastly, opposite each other, and like two dogs who are
uncertain whether to make friends or fight, are a gendarme and
Sabina's black boy : the gendarme, with shouldered musket, is
trying to look as stiff and cross as possible, being scandalised by
his superior officer's defection from the path of duty ; and still
more by the irreverence of the black boy, who is dancing, grin-
ning, snapping his fingers, in delight at having discovered and
prevented the coming tragedy.

Tom descends, bowing courteously, apologises for having been
absent when the highly distinguished gentleman arrived ; and
turning to the Bursch, begs him to transmit to his friend wIkj

XXVII A REi'EXT EXPLOSION IN AX ANCIENT CRATER J 55

has run away his apologies for the absurd mistake whicli led
him to, etc. etc

The Polizeirath looks at him with much the same blank
astonishment as the gendarme had done ; and at last ends by
lifting up his hands, and bursting into an enormous German
laugh • and no one on earth can laugh as a German can, so
genially and lovingly, and with such intense self -enjoyment.

' Oh, you English ! you English ! You are all mad, I think !
Nothing can shame you, and nothing can frighten you ! Potz !
I believe when your Guards at Alma walked into that battery,
the other day, every one of them was whistling your Jim Crow,
even after he was shot dead ! ' And the jolly Polizeirath
laughed at his own joke, till the mountain rang. 'But you
must leave the country, sir ; indeed you must. We cannot
permit such conduct here — I am very sorry.'

' I entreat you not to apologise, sir. In any case, I was going
to Alf by eight o'clock, to meet the steamer for Treves. I am
on my way to the war in the East, via Marseilles. If you would,
therefore, be so kind as to allow the gendarme to return me
that second revolver, which also belongs to me '

' Give him his pistol ! ' shouted the magistrate. ' Potz ! Let
us be rid of him at any cost, and live in peace, like honest i
Germans. Ah, poor Queen Victoria ! What a lot ! To have
the government of live-and-twenty million such ! ' |

'Not five-and-twenty millions,' says Sabina. 'That would
include the ladies ; and we are not mad too, surely, your Excel-
lency?'

The Polizeirath likes to be called your Excellency, of course,
or any other mighty title which does or does not belong to him ;
and that Sabina knows full well.

'Ah, my dear madam, how do I know that? The English
ladies do every day here what no other dames would dare or
dream — what then must you be at home ? Ach ! your poor
husbands ! '

' Mr. Thurnall ! ' calls Marie, from behind. 'Mr. Thurnall ! '

Tom comes with a quaint, dogged smile on his face.

' You see him, Mr. Stangrave ! You see the man who risked
for me liberty, life — who rescued me from slavery, shame,
suicide — who was to me a brother, a father, for years ! — with-
out whose disinterested heroism you would never have set eyes
on the face which you pretend to love. And you repay him by
suspicion — insult. Apologise to him, sir ! Ask his pardon
now, here, utterly, humbly : or never speak to Marie Lavington
again ! '

Tom looked first at her, and then at Stangrave. Marie was
convulsed with excitement ; her thin cheeks were crimson, her
eyes flashed very flame. Stangrave was pale — calm outwardly,
but evidently not within. He was looking on the ground, in
thought so intense that he hardly seemed to hear Marie. Poor

456 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

fellow ! he had heard enough in the last ten minutes to bewilder
any brain.

At last he seemed to have strung himself for an effort, and
spoke, without looking up.

' ilr. Thurnall ! '

'Sir?'

' I have done you a great wrong ! '

'We will say no more about it, sir. It was a mistake, and
I do not wish to complicate the question. My true ground of
quarrel with you is your conduct to iliss Lavington. She
seems to have told you her true name, so I shall call her by it.'

' What I have done, I have undone ! ' said Stangrave, looking
up. ' If I have wronged her, I have offered to right her ; if T
liave left her, I have sought her again ; and if I left her when I
knew nothing, now that 1 know all, I ask her here, before you,
to become my wife ! '

Tom looked inquiringly at Marie.

' Yes ; I have told him all — all ! ' and she hid her face in her
hands.

' Well,' said Tom, ' ilr. Stangrave is a very enviable person ;
and the match, in a worldly point of view, is a most fortunate
one for Miss Lavington ; and that stupid rascal of a gendarme
has broken my revolver.'

' But I have not accepted him,' cried ilarie ; ' and I will not,
unless you give me leave.'

Tom saw Stangrave's brow lower, and pardonably enough,
at this.

' ily dear Miss Lavington, as I have never been able to settle
my own love affairs satisfactorily to myself, I do not feel at all
competent to settle other people's. Good-bye. I shall be late
for the steamer.' And, bowing to Stangrave and Marie, he
turned to go.

' Sabina ! stop him ! ' cried she ; ' he is going, ^vithout even a
kind word ! '

' Sabina,' whispered Tom as he passed her, — ' a bad business —
selfish coxcomb ; when her beauty goes, won't stand her temper
and her flightiness : but I know you and Claude -will take care
of the poor thing, if anything happens to me.'

'You're wrong — prejudiced — indeed ! '

' Tut, tut, tut ! Good-bye, you sweet little sunbeam. Good
morning, gentlemen ! '

And Tom hurried up the slope and out of sight, while Marie
burst into an agony of weeping.

' Gone, without a kind word ! '

Stangrave bit his lip, not in anger, but in manly self-
reproach.

' It is my fault, Marie ! my fault ! He knew me too well of
old, and had too much reason to despise me ! But he shall have
reason no longer. He will come back, and find me worthy of

xxvii A RECENT EXPLOSION IN AN ANCIENT CRATER 457

you ; and all will be forgotten. Again I say it, I accept your
quest, for life and death. So help me God above, as I will not
fail or falter, till I ha^•e won justice for you and for your race,
Marie ! '

He conquered : how could he but conquer ; for he was man,
and she was woman ; and he looked more noble in her eyes,
while he was confessing his past weakness, than he had ever
done in his proud assertion of strength.

But she spoke no ^^'ord in answer. She let him take her
hand, pass her arm through his, and lead her away, as one who
had a right.

They walked down the hill behind the rest of the party, blest,
but silent and pensive ; he with the weight of the future, she
with that of the past.

' It is very wonderful,' she said at last. ' Wonderful . . .
that you can care for me. . . . Oh, if I had known how noble
you were, I should have told you all at once.'

' Perhaps I should have been as ignoble as ever,' said Stan-
grave, 'if that young English viscount had not put me on my
mettle by his own nobleness.'

' No ! no ! Do not belie yourself. You know what he does
not — what I would have died sooner than tell him.'

Stangrave drew the arm closer through his, and clasped the
hand. Marie did not withdraw it.

' Wonderful, wonderful love ! ' she said, quite humbly. Her
theatric passionateness had passed —

' Nothing was left of her,
Now, but pure womanly. '

' That you can love me — me, the slave ; me, the scourged ; the
scarred — Oh, Stangrave ! it is not much — not much really ; — only
a little mark or two ..."

' I will prize them,' he answered, smiling through tears, ' more
than all your loveliness. I will see in them God's command-
ment to me, written not on tables of stone, but on fair, jjure,
noble flesh. My Marie ! You shall have cause even to rejoice
in them ! '

' I glory in them now ; for, without them, I never should X
have known all your worth.'

The next day Stangrave, Marie, and Sabina were hurrying
home to England ! while Tom Thurnall was hurrying to Mar-
seilles, to vanish Eastward Ho.

He has escaped once more ; but his heart is hardened still.
What will his fall be like 1

458 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

CHAPTER XXVIII

LAST CHEISTMAK EVE

And now two years and more ai'e jiast and gone ; and all whose
lot it was have come Westward Ho once more, sadder and wiser
men to their lives' end ; save one or two, that is, from whom not
even Solomon's pestle and mortar discipline would pound out
the innate folly.

Frank has come home stouter and browner, as well as heartier
and wiser, than he went forth. He is Valentia's husband now,
and rector, not curate, of Aberalva town ; and Valentia makes
him a noble rector's wife.

She, too, has had her sad experiences — of more than absent
love ; for when the news of Inkerman arrived, she was sitting
by Lucia's death-bed ; and when the ghastly list came home,
and with it the news of Scoutbush 'severely wounded by a
musket-ball,' she had just taken her last look of the fair face,
and seen in fancy the fair spirit greeting in the eternal world
the soul of him whom she loved unto the death. She had hur-
ried out to Scutari, to nurse her brother ; had seen there many
a sight — she best knows what she saw. She sent Scoutbush
back to the Crimea, to try his chance once more ; and then came
home to be a mother to those three orphan children, from whom
she vowed never to part. So the children went with Frank and
her to Aberalva, and Valentia had learnt half a mother's duties
ere she had a baby of her own.

And thus to her, as to all hearts, has the war brought a disci-
pline from heaven.

Frank shrank at first from returning to Aberalva, when
Scoutbush offered him the living on old St. Just's death. But
Valentia all but commanded him ; so he went : and behold, his
return was a triumph.

All was understood now, all forgiven, all forgotten, save his
conduct in the cholera, by the loving, honest, brave West-country
hearts ; and when the new-married pair were rung into the
town, amid arches and garlands, flags and bonfires, the first
man to welcome Frank into his rectory was old Tardrew.

Not a word of repentance or apology ever passed the old bull-
dog's lips. He was an Englishman, and kept his opinions to
himself. But he had had his lesson like the rest, two years ago,
in his young daughter's death ; and Frank had thenceforth no
faster friend than old Tardrew.

Frank is still as High Church as ever ; and likes all pomp and
circumstance of worship. Some few whims he has given up,
certainly, for fear of giving offence ; but he might indulge them
once more, if he wished, without a quarrel. For now that tlie

xxviii LAST CHRISTMAS EVE 459

people understand him, he does just what he likes. His congre-
gation is the best in the archdeaconry ; one meeting-house is
dead, and the other dying. His choir is admirable ; for Valentia
lias had the art of drawing to her all the musical talent of the
tuneful West-country folk ; and all that he needs, he thinks, to
make his parish perfect, is to see Grace Harvey schoolmistress
once more.

What can have worked the change ? It is difficult to say,
unless it be that Frank lias found out, from cholera and
hospital experiences, that his parishioners are beings of like
passions with himself ; and found out, too, that his business is
to leave the gospel of damnation to those whose hapless lot it
is to earn their bread by pandering to popular superstition ;
and to employ his independent position, as a free rector, in
telling his people the gospel of salvation — that tliey have a
Father in heaven.

Little Scoutbush comes down often to Aberalva now, and
oftener to his Irish estates. He is going to marry the Manches-
ter lady after all, and to settle down ; and try to be a good
landlord ; and use for the benefit of his tenants the sharp
experience of human hearts, human sorrows, and human duty,
which he gained in the Crimea two years ago.

And Afajor Campbell ?

Look on Cathcart's Hill. A stone is there, which is the only
earthly token of that great experience of all experiences which
Campbell gained two years ago.

A little silk bag was found, hung round his neck, and lying
next his heart. He seemed to have expected his death ; for he
had put a label on it —

'To be sent to Viscount Scoutbush for Miss St. Just.'

Scoutbush sent it home to Valentia, who opened it, blind
with tears.

It was a note, written seven years before ; but not by her ;
by Lucia ere her marriage. A simple invitation to dinner in
Eaton Square, written for Lady Knockdown, but with a post-
script from Lucia herself : ' Do come, and I will promise not to
tease you as I did last night.'

That was, perhaps, the only kind or familiar word which he
had ever had from his idol ; and he had treasured it to the last.
Women can love, as this book sets forth : but now and then men
can love too, if they be men, as Major Campbell was.

And Trebooze of Trebooze ?

Even Trebooze got his new lesson two years ago. Terrified
into sobriety, he went into the militia, and soon took delight
therein. He worked, for the first time in his life, early and late,
at a work which was suited for him. He soon learnt not to
swear and rage, for his men would not stand it ; and not to get
drunk, for his messmates would not stand it. He got into better
society and better health than he ever had had before, With

460 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

new self-discipline has come ne w. self-respect ; and he tells liis
wife frankly, that if he keeps straight henceforth, he has to
thank for it his six months at Aldershot.

And Mary ?

^Tien you meet Mary in heaven, you can ask her there.

But Frank's desire, that Grace should become his school-
mistress once more, is not fulfilled.

How she worked at Scutari and at Balaklava, there is no need
to tell. Why mark her out from the rest, when all did more
than nobly ? The lesson which she needed was not that whicli
hospitals could teach ; she had learnt that already. It was a
deeper and more dreadful lesson still. She had set her heart on
finding Tom ; on righting him, on righting herself. She had to
learn to be content not to find him ; not to right him, not to
right herself.

And she learnt it. Tearless, uncomplaining, she 'trusted in
God, and made no haste.' She did her work, and read her
Bible ; and read too, again and again, at stolen moments of rest,
a book which some one lent her, and which was to her as the
finding of an unknown sister — Longfellow's Evawidlne. She
was Evangeline ; seeking as she sought, perhaps to find as she
found — No 1 merciful God ! Not so ! yet better so tlian not at
all. And often and often, when a new freight of agony was
landed, she looked round from bed to bed, if his face, too, might
be there. And once, at Balaklava, she knew she saw him : but
not on a sick-bed.

Standing beneath the window, chatting merrily with a group
of officers — It was he ! Could she mistake that figure, though
the face was turned away ?

Her head swam, her pulses beat like church bells, her eyes
were ready to burst from their sockets. But — she was assisting
at an operation. It was God's will, and she must endure.

When the operation was over, she darted wildly down the
stairs without a word.

He was gone.

Without a word she came back to her work, and possessed
lier soul in patience.

Inquiries, indeed, she made, as she had a right to do ; but no
one knew the name. She questioned, and caused to be ques-
tioned, men from Varna, from Sevastopol, from Kertch, from the
Circassian coast ; English, French, and Sardinian, Pole and Turk.
No one had ever heard the name. She even found at last, and
questioned, one of the officers who had formed that group be-
neath the window.

' Oh ! that man ? He was a Pole, ^lichaelowyzcki, or some
such name. At least, so he said ; but he suspected the man to
be really a Piussian spy.'

Grace knew that it was Tom : but she went back to her work
again, and in due time went home to England.

xxvm LAST CHRISTMAS EVE 461

Home, but not to Aberalva. She presented herself one day
at ilark Armsworth's house in Whitbury, and humbly begged
him to obtain her a place as servant to old Dr. Thurnall. What
her purpose was therein she did not explain ; perhaps she
hardly knew herself.

Jane, the old servant who had clung to the doctor through
his reverses, was growing old and feeble, and was all the more
jealous of an intruder : but Grace disarmed her.

' I do not want to interfere ; I will be under your orders. I
will be kitchen-maid — maid-of-all-work. I want no wages. I
have brought home a little money with me ; enough to last me
for the little while I shall be here.'

And, by the help of !Mark and ilary, she took up her abode
in the old man's house ; and ere a month was past she was to
him as a daughter.

Perhaps she had told him all. At least, there was some deep
and pure confidence between them ; and yet one which, so per-
fect was Grace's humility, did not make old Jane jealous. Grace
cooked, swept, washed, went to and fro as Jane bade her ;
submitted to all her grumblings and tossings ; and then came at
the old man's bidding to read to him every evening, her hand in
his ; her voice cheerful, her face full of quiet light. But her
hair was becoming streaked with gray. Her face, howsoever
gentle, was sharpened, as if with continual pain. No wonder ;
for she had worn that belt next her heart for now two years
and more, till it had almost eaten into the heart above which it
lay. It gave her perpetual pain : and yet that pain was a per-
petual joy — a perpetual remembrance of him, and of that walk
with him from Tolchard's farm.

JIary loved her — wanted to treat her as an equal — to call her
sister : but Grace drew back lovingly, but humbly, from all
advances ; for she had divined Mary's secret with the quick eye
of woman ; she saw how Mary grew daily paler, thinner, sadder,
and knew for whom she mourned. Be it so ; Mary had a right
to him, and she had none.

And where was Tom Thurnall all the while ?

No man could tell.

Mark inquired ; Lord Minchampstead inquired ; great per-
sonages who had need of him at home and abroad inquired ; but
all in vain.

A few knew, and told Lord Minchampstead, who told Mark,
in confidence, that he had been heard of last in the Circassian
mountains, about Christmas 1854 ; but since then all was blank.
He had vanished into the infinite unknown.

Mark swore that he would come home some day ; but two
full years were past, and Tom came not.

The old man never seemed to regret him ; never mentioned
his name after a while.

■162 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

' Mark,' he said once, ' remember David. Wliy weep for the
child 1 I shall go to him, but he will not come to me.'

None knew, meanwhile, why the old man needed not to talk
of Tom to his friends and neighbours ; it was because he and
Grace never talked of anything else.

So they had lived, and so they had waited, till that week
before last Christmas Day, when ilellot and Stangrave made
their appearance in Whitbury, and became Mark Armsworths
guests.

The week slipped on. Stangrave hunted on alternate days ;
and on the others went with Claude, who photographed (when
there was sun to do it with) Stangrave End, and Whitford
Priory, interiors and exteriors ; not forgetting the Stangrave
monuments in Whitbury Church ; and sat, too, for many a
pleasant hour with the good doctor, who took to liim at once, as
all men did. It seemed to give fresh life to the old man to
listen to Tom's dearest friend. To him, as to Grace, he could
talk openly about the lost son, and live upon the memory of his
prowess and his virtues ; and ere the week was out, the doctor,
and Grace too, had heard a hundred gallant feats, to tell all
which would add another volume to this book.

And Grace stood silently by the old man's chair, and drank
aU in without a smile, without a sigh, but not without full
many a prayer.

It is the blessed Christmas Eve ; the light is failing fast ;
when down the High Street comes the mighty Ptoman-nosed
rat-tail which carries Mark's portly bulk, and by him Stangrave,
on a right good horse.

They shog on side by side — not home, but to the doctor's
house. For every hunting evening Mark's groom meets him at
the doctor's door to lead the horses home, while lie, bej^ore he
will take his bath and dress, brings to his blind friend the
gossip of the field, and details to Mm every joke, fence, find,
kill, hap, and mishap of the last six hours.

The old man, meanwhile, is sitting quietly, with Claude by
him, talking — as Claude can talk. They are not speaking of
Tom just now : but the eloquent artist's conversation suits well
enough the temper of the good old man, yearning after fresh
knowledge, even on the brink of the grave : but too feeble now,
in body and in mind, to do more than listen. Claude is telling
him about the late Photographic Exhibition ; and the old man
listens with a triumphant smile to wonders which he will never
behold with mortal eyes. At last —

' This is very pleasant — to feel surer and surer, day by day,
that one is not needed ; that science moves forward swift and
sure, under a higher guidance than one's own ; that the sacred
torch-race never can stand still ; that He has taken the lamp

XXVIII LAST CHRISTMAS EVE 463

out of old and failing hands, only to put it into young and
brave ones, who will not falter till they reach the goal.'

Then he lies back again, with closed eyes, waiting for more
facts from Claude.

' How beautiful ! ' says Claude. — ' I must compliment you, sir —
to see the childlike heart thus still beating fresh beneath the
honours of the gray head, without envy, without vanity, with-
out ambition, welcoming every new discovery, rejoicing to see
the young outstripping them.'

' And what credit, sir, to us ? Our knowledge did not belong
to us, but to Him who made us, and the universe ; and our sons'
belonged to Him likewise. If they be wiser than their teachers,
it is only because they, like their teachers, have made His testi-
monies their study. When we rejoice in the progress of science,
we rejoice not in ourselves, not in our children, but in God our
Instructor.'

And all the while, hidden in the gloom behind, stands Grace,
her arms folded over her bosom, watching every movement of
the old man ; and listening, too, to every word. She can under-
stand but little of it : but she loves to hear it, for it reminds
her of Tom Thurnall. Above all she loves to hear about the
microscope, a mystery inseparable in her thoughts from him
who first showed her its wonders.

At last the old man speaks again —

' Ah ! How delighted my boy will be when he returns, to
find that so much has been done during his absence.'

Claude is silent awhile, startled.

' You are surprised to hear me speak so confidently ? Well, I
can only speak as I feel. I have had, for some days past, a pre-
sentiment — you will think me, doubtless, weak for yielding to
it. I am not superstitious.'

' Not so,' said Claude, ' but I cannot deny that such things
as presentiments may be possible. However miraculous they
may seem, are they so very much more so than the daily fact of
memory ? I can as little guess why we can remember the past
as why we may not, at times, be able to foresee the future.'

' True. You speak, if not like a physician, yet like a meta-
physician ; so you will not laugh at me, and compel the weak
old man and his fancy to take refuge with a girl — who is not
weak. Grace, darling, you think still that he is coming ? '

She came forward and leaned over him.

' Yes,' she half whispered. ' He is coming soon to us : or else
we are soon going to him. It may mean that, sir. Perhaps it
is better that it should.'

' It matters little, child, if he be near, as near he is. I tell
you, Mr. MeUot, this conviction has become so intense during
the last week, that — that I believe I should not be thrown off
my balance if he entered at this moment ... I feel him so near
me, sir, that — that I could swear, did not I know how the weak

464 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

brain imitates expected sounds, that I heard his footstep outside
now.'

' I heard horses' footsteps,' says Claude. ' Ah, there comes
Stangrave and our host.'

' I heard them : but I heard my boy's likewise,' said the old
man quietly.

The next minute he seemed to have forgotten the fancy, as
the two hunters entered, and Mark began open-mouthed as
usual —

' Well, Xed ! In good company, eli ? That's right. Mortal
cold I am ! We shall have a white Christmas, I expect. Snow's
coming.'

' What sport ? ' asked the doctor blandly.

' Oh ! Nothing new. Bothered about Sidricstone till one.
Got away at last with an old fox, and over the downs into the
vale. I think Mr. Stangrave liked it 1 '

' Mr. Stangra\e likes the vale better than tlie vale likes him.
I have fallen into two brooks following, Claude ; to tlie delight
of all the desperate Englishmen.'

' Oh ! You rode straight enough, sir ! You must pay for your
fun in the vale : — but then you have your fun. But there were
a good many falls the last ten minutes : ground heavy, and pace
awful ; old Rat-tail had enough to do to hold his own. Saw one
fellow ride bang into a pollard- willow, when there was an open
gate close to him — cut his cheek open, and lay ; but some one
said it was only Smith of Ewebury, so I rode on.'

'I hope you English sliowed more pity to your wounded
friends in the Crimea,' quoth Stangrave, laughing, ' I wanted to
stop and pick him up : but Mr. Armsworth would not hear of it.'

'Oh, sir, if it had been a stranger like you, half the field
would have been round you in a minute : but Smith don't count
— he breaks his neck on purpose three days a week. By the
by, doctor, got a good story of him for you. Suspected his
keepers last month. Slips out of bed at two in the morning ;
into his own co\ ers, and blazes away for an hour. Nobody
comes. Home to bed, and tries the same thing next night. Not
a soul comes near him. Next morning has up keepers, watchers,
beaters, the whole posse ; and " Now, you rascals ! I've been
poaching my own covers two nights running, and you've been
all drunk in bed. There are your wages to the last penny ; and
vanish ! I'll be my own keeper henceforth ; and never let me
see your faces again ! " '

The old doctor laughed cheerily. ' Well : but did you kill
your fox ? ' .

' All right : but it was a burster — just what I always tell ilr.
Stangrave. Afternoon runs are good runs ; pretty sure of an
empty fox and a good scent after one o'clock.'

' Exactly,' answered a fresh voice from behind ; ' and fox-
hunting is an epitome of human life. You chop or lose your

xxvni LAST CHRISTMAS EVE 465

first two or three : but keep up your pluck, and you'll run into
one before sundown ; — and I seem to have run into a whole
earthf ul ! '

All looked round ; for all knew that voice.

Yes ! There he was, in bodily flesh and blood ; thin, sallow,
bearded to the eyes, dressed in ragged sailor's clothes : but Tom
himself.

Grace uttered a long, low, soft, half -laughing cry, full of the
delicious agony of sudden relief ; a cry as of a mother when her
child is bom ; and then slipped from the room past the unheed-
ing Tom, who had no eyes but for his father. Straight up
to the old man he went, took both his hands, and spoke in the
old cheerful voice —

' Well, my dear old daddy ! So you seem to have expected
me ; and gathered, I suppose, all my friends to bid me welcome.
I'm afraid I have made you very anxious : but it was not my
fault ; and I knew you would be certain I should come at last,
eh?'

' My son ! my son ! Let me feel whether thou be my very
son Esau or not ! ' murmured the old man, finding half-playful
expression in the words of Scripture, for feelings beyond his
failing powers.

Tom knelt down : and the old man passed his hands in silence
over and over the forehead, and face, and beard ; while all stood
silent.

]Mark Armsworth burst out blubbering like a great boy —

' I said so ! I always said so ! The devil could not kill him,
and God wouldn't ! '

'You won't go away again, dear boy? I'm getting old —
and — and forgetful ; and I don't think I could bear it again,
you see.'

Tom saw that the old man's powers were failing. 'Never
again, as long as I live, daddy ! ' said he, and then, looking
round, — ' I think that we are too many for my father. I will
come and shake hands with you all presently.'

' No, no,' said the doctor. ' You forget that I cannot see you,
and so must only listen to you. It will be a delight to hear your
voice and theirs ; — they all love you.'

A few moments of breathless congratulation followed, during
which Mark had seized Tom by both his shoulders, and held him
admiringly at arm's length.

' Look at him, Mr. Mellot ! ^Ir. Stangrave ! Look at him !
As they said of Liberty Wilkes, you might rob hirn, strip liim,
and hit him over London Bridge : and you find him the next
day in the same place, with a laced coat, a sword by his side,
and money in his pocket ! But how did you come in without
our knowing V

'I waited outside, afraid of what I might hear — for how
could I tell?' said he, lowering his voice ; 'but when I saw you

2 H T. Y. A.

466 TWO TEARS AGO phap.

go in, I knew all was right, and followed you ; and when I heard
my father laugh, I knew that he could bear a little surprise.
But, Stangrave, did you say ? Ah ! this is too delightful, old
fellow ! How's ilarie and the children ?

Stangrave, who was very uncertain as to how Tom would
receive him, had been about to make his amende konorahle in
a fashion graceful, magnificent, and, as he expressed it after-
wards laughingly to Thurnall himself, 'altogether highfalutin ' :
but whatsoever chivalrous and courtly words had arranged
themselves upon the tip of his tongue, were so utterly upset by
Tom's matter-of-fact honhoviie, and by the cool way in which
he took for granted the fact of his marriage, that he burst out
laughing, and caught both Tom's hands in his —

' It is delightful ; and all it needs to make it perfect is to
have Marie and the children here.'
' How many 1 ' asked Tom.
'Two.'

' Is she as beautiful as ever 1 '
'More so, I think.'

'I dare say you're right ; you ought to know best, cer-
tainly.'

'You shall judge for yourself. She is in London at this
moment.'

'Tom!' says his father, who has been sitting quietly, his
face covered in his handkerchief, listening to all, while holy
tears of gratitude steal down his face.
' Sir ! '

' You have not spoken to Grace yet ! '

'Grace?' cries Tom, in a \ery different tone from that in
which he had yet spoken.

'Grace Harvey, my boy. She was in the room '.\hen you
came in.'

' Grace ? Grace ? What is she doing here ? '
' Nursing him, like an angel as she is ! ' said Mark.
'She is my daughter now, Tom ; and has been these twelve
months past.'

Tom was silent, as one astonished.

'If she is not, she will be soon,' said he quietly, between
his clenched teeth. ' Gentlemen, if you'll excuse me for five
minutes, and see to my father : ' — and he walked straight out of
the room, closing the door behind him — to find Grace waiting
in the passage.

She was trembling from head to foot, stepping to and fro, her
hands and face all but con\ nlsed : her left hand over her bosom,
clutching at her dress, which seemed to have been just dis-
arranged ; her right drawn back, holding something ; lier lips
parted, struggling to speak; her great eyes opened to preter-
natural wideness, fixed on him with an intensity of eagerness ;
— was she mad 1

xxviii LAST CHRISTMAS EVE 467

At last words bubbled forth : ' There ! there ! There it is !
— the belt ! — your belt ! Take it ! take it, I say ! '

He stood silent and wondering ; she thrust it into his hand.

' Take it ! I have carried it for you — worn it next my heart,
till it has all but eaten into my heart. — To Varna, and you were
not there! — Scutari, Balaklava, and you were not there! —
I found it, only a week after ! — I told you I should ! and you
were gone ! — Cruel, not to wait ! And Mr. Armsworth has the
money — every farthing — and the gold : — he ha.s had it these
two years ! — I would give you the belt myself ; and now I have
done it, and the snake is unclasped from my heart at last, at
last, at last !'

Her arms dropped Ijy lier side, and she burst into an agony of
tears.

Tom caught her in his arms : but she put him back, and
looked up in his face again.

' Promise me ! ' she said, in a low clear voice ; ' promise me
this one thing only, as you are a gentleman ; as you have a
man's pity, a man's gratitude, in you '

' Anything ! '

' Promise me that you will never ask, or seek to know, who
had that belt.'

' I promise : but, Grace ! '

'Then my work i.s o\er,' said she in a calm collected voice.
'Amen. So lettest thou thy servant depart in peace. Good-
bye, 'Slv. Thurnall. I must go and pack up my few things now.
You will forgive and forget T '

' Grace I ' cried Tom ; ' stay ! ' and he girdled her in a grasp of
iron. ' You and I never part more in this life, perhaps not in
all li\-es to come ! '

' ile ? I ? — let me go I I am not worthy of you ! '

' I have heard that once already ; — the only folly which ever
came out of those sweet lips. No ! Grace. I love you, as man
can love but once ; and you shall not refuse me ! You will not
have the heart, Grace I You will not dare, Grace ! For you
have begun the work ; and you must finish it.'

'Work? What work?'

'I don't know,' said Tom. ' How should [ ? I want you to
tell me that.'

She looked up in his face, puzzled. His old self-confident
look seemed strangely past away.

' I will tell you,' he said, ' because I love you. I don't like
to show it to them ; but I've been frightened, Grace, for the
first time in my life.'

She paused for an explanation ; but she did not struggle to
escape from him.

'Frightened ; beat; run to earth myself, tliough I talked so
bravely of lunning others to earth just now. Grace, I've been

in prison

468 TWO YEARS AGO chap.

' In prison 1 In a Russian prison 1 Oh, ]\Ir. Tliumall ! '

' Aye, Grace, I'd tried everything but that ; and I could not
stand it. Death was a joke to that. Not to be able to get out !
— To rage up and down for hours like a wild beast ; — long to fly
at one's gaoler and tear his heart out ; — beat one's head against
the wall in the hope of knocking one's brains out ; — anything to
get rid of that horrid notion, night and day over one — I can't
get out ! '

Grace had never seen him so excited.

' But you are safe now,' said she soothingly. ' Oh, those
horrid Russians ! '

' But it was not Russians ! — If it had been, I could have
borne it. — That was all in my bargain ; — the fair chance of war,
but to be shut up by a mistake ! — at the very outset, too — by a
boorish villain of a khan, on a drunken .suspicion ; — a fellow whom
I was trying to serve, and who couldn't, or wouldn't, or daren't
understand me — Oh, Grace, I was caught in my own trap ! I
went out full blown with self conceit. Ne\pr was any one so
cunning as I was to be ! — Such a game as I was going to play,
and make my fortune by it ! — And this brute to stop me short
— to make a fool of me — to keep me there eighteen months
threatening to cut my head off once a quarter, and wouldn't
understand me, let me talk with tlie tongue of the old serpent ! '

' He did not stop you : God stopped you ! '

' You're right, Grace ; I saw that at last ! I found out that
I liad been trying for years which was the stronger, God or I ; I
found out I had been trying whether I could not do well enough
without Him : and there I found that I could not, Grace; —
could not ! I felt like a child who had marched oft' from home,
fancying it can find its way, and is lost at once. I felt like a
lost child in Australia once, for one moment ; but not as I felt
in that prison ■ for I had not heard you, Grace, then. I did
not know that I had a Father in heaven, who had been looking
after me, when I fancied that I was looking after myself ; — ^1
don't half believe it now — If I did, I should not have lost my
nerve as I have done ! — Grace, I dare hardly stir about now, lest
some harm should come to me. I fancy at every turn, what if
that cliimney fell ? what if tliat horse kicked out ? — and, Grace,
you, and you only, can cure me of my new cowardice. I said
in that prison, and all the way liome, — If I can but find her ! —
let me but see her — ask her — let her teach me ; and I shall be
sure ! Let her teach me, and I shall be brave again ! Teach
me, Grace ! and forgive me ! '

Grace was looking at him with her great soft eyes opening
slowly, like a startled hind's, as if the wonder and delight were
too great to be taken in at once. The last words unlocked her
lips.

' Forgive you ? What ? Do you forgive me ? '

' You 1 It is I am the brute ; ever to have suspected you.

XXVIII LAST CHRISTMAS EVE 469

^[y conscience told me all along I was a brute ! And you —
have you not proved it to me in this last minute, Grace? —
proved to me tliat I am not worthy to kiss the dust from oiF
your feet ? '

Grace lay silent in his anus : but her eyes were fixed upon
him ; her hands were folded on her bosom ; her lips moved as if
in prayer.

He put back her long tresses tenderly, and looked into her
deep glorious eyes.

' There ! I have told you all. Will you forgive my base-
ness ; and take me, and teach me, about this Father in heaven,
through poverty and wealth, for better, for worse, as my wife —
my wife ? '

She leapt up at him suddenly as if waking from a dream,
and wreathed her arms about his neck.

' Oh, ill-. Thurnall ! my dear, brave, wise, wonderful j\Ir.
Thurnall ! come home again ! — home to God ! — and home to me !
I am not worthy ! Too much happiness, too much, too much :
— but you will forgive, will you not, — and forget — forget ? '

And so the old heart passed away from Thomas Thurnall :
and instead of it grew up a heart like his father's ; even the
heart of a little child.

THE END

Printed by'^. & R. Clark, Limited, Edinhuygh.