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ERINDALE  COLLE 

3  1761  02700  c 

LJ 

■ 

^fe 


s( 


H    p^ 


TWO   YEARS  AGO 


ooA  ^^lARY  ov/ ;; 


.ainsiaoO 


deilcoH  ion  is?  ,bnoH   .IIXX 

CONTENTS.edT  .vixx 


Chap. 

-  Intrdductory 

I.  Poetry  and  Prose 
II.  Still  Life    ...... 

III.  Anything  but  Still  Life    . 

IV.  Flotsom,  Jetsom,  and  Lagend 
V.  The  Way  to  Win  them  . 

VI,  An  Old  Foe  with  a  New  Face 
VII.  La  Cordifiamma        .        .        ,        . 

VIII.  Taking  Root 

IX.  "Am  I  not  a  Woman  and  a  Sister?" 
X.  The  kecognition        .... 
XI.  The  First  Instalment  of  an  Old  Debt 
XII.  A  Peer  in  Trouble    .... 

XIII.  L'Homme  Incompris  ,        ,        , 

XIV.  The  Doctor  at  Bay  .... 
XV.  The  Cruise  of  the  Waienuitch 

XVI.  Come  at  Last 

XVII.  Baalzebub's  Banquet 

XVIII.  The  Black  Hound     .... 

XIX.  Beddgelert         .        «        .        .        . 

XX.  Both  Sides  of  the  Moon  at  once  . 

XXI.  Nature's  Melodrama         •       .        . 


JIVXX     ^ 


.U 


Contents. 


Chap. 

XXII.  Fond,  yet  not  Foolish 

XXIII.  The  Broad  Stone  of  Honour   . 

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

XXVI.  Too  Late 

XXVII.  A  Recent  Explosion  in  an  Ancient  Crater 
XXVIII.   Last  Christmas  Eve         .... 


Pag-e 
464 

472 

483 
506 

537 
559 
574 


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  ? 
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 ;  v/hile  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  v/as  the  time  for  w^ork  ;  for  men  to  do  with  all  their  might 
whatsoever  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,  evening  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. 


6  Two  Years  Ago. 

clustering  ^trarijf" curlsj^aqde a^riClTbro^  bea^  soft  as  silk. 

You  set  him  dov/n  at  orice  as  a  man  of  deficat6  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  the  face  too,   and  the  tone  'cf  voice,  seem 'to 

-indicate  over-refinement,  possibly  a  too  aristocratic  exclusive- 
^■^ness.     He  is  dressed  like  a  very  fine  gentleman  indeed,  ahd 

'fooks  and  talks  like  one.  Aristocrat,  however,  in  the  commoo 
^ 'Sense  of  the  word,  he  is  not;  for  he  is  a  nativ6  of  the  Model 
"'^^epublic,  knd  sleeoihg-partner  in  a  great  New  York  merchant 

°'fifm:  ■  ■ 

*®  He  is  chatting  away  to  Claude  Mellot,  the  artist,  about 
Fremont's  election;    and  on  that  point  seems  to  b&> earnest 

J 'enough,  though  patient  and  moderate.   '    o;^ :  g-i?     t .-  j 
^     "My  dear  Claude,  our  loss  is  gain.     The  delay  Of  the  next 

"'foilf  years  was  really  necessary,  that- we  might  consohdate 

*^,'bur  party.  And  I  leave  you  to  judge,  if  it  have  grown;  to 
its    present  size  in  but   a  few   rnonths,    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  sui;   in   heaven,   as 

^  the   lightnings   of  SinaL      Free    those   slaves   at   once    and 

.utterly!" 

"Impatient  idealist  I     By  what  means?     By  law,   or   by 


Two  Years  Ago.  7 

force  ?  Leave  us  to  draw  a  cordon  sanitaire  round  the  tainted 
states,  and  leave  the  S3'stem  to  die  a  natural  death,  as  it 
rapidly  will  if  it  be  prevented  from  enlarg-ing  its  field.  Don't 
fancy  that  a  dream  of  mine.  None  knows  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  strug-gle  for  new  slave  territory? 
What  but  the  consciousness  that  without  virgin  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  consum- 
mation, 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  count  the  meaning  of  those  words  ?  Disruption  of  the 
tJnion,  an  invasion  of  the  South  by  the  North :  and  an 
internecine  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  1  But, 
Stangrave,  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  v/hat  may  come.  Oh,  Claude, 
do  you  fancy  that  I,  of  all  men,  do  not  feel  at  moments  the 
thirst  for  brute  vengeance  ?  " 

Claude  was  silent. 

"Judge  for  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 
vyould  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 


8  Two  Years  Ago. 

key  to    '  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,'    more  pathetic  that  any  word 
of  man's  or  woman's  ?  " 

"  But  I  do  not  mean  that  1  I  will  not  read  them,  because 
I  have  the  key  to  them  in  my  own  heart,  Claude:  because 
conscience  has  taught  me  to  feel  for  the  Southerner  as  a 
brother,  who  is  but  what  I  might  have  been  ;  and  to  sigh 
over  his  misdirected  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's  triumph— 
a  greater  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  white  population  from  their  share  in  my 
country's  future  glory  ?  No  ;  have  but  patience  with  us, 
you  comfortable  Liberals  of  the  old  world,  who  find  freedom 
ready-made  to  your  hands,  and  we  will  pay  you  all. 
Remember,  we  are  but  children  yet ;  our  sins  are  the  sins 
of  youth  —  greediness,  intemperance,  petulance,  self-conceit. 
When  we  are  purged  from  our  youthful  sins,  England  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 


Two  Years  Ago.  g 

the  ground  of  a  foolish  war,  of  which  every  Englishman  13 
utterly  ashamed,  and  in  the  result  of  which  he  glories  really 
as  much  as  you  do." 

"  Don't  talk  of  '  you,'  Claude  !  You  know  v/ell  what  I  think 
on  that  point.  Never  did  one  nation  make  the  amende 
honorable  to  another  more  fully  and  nobly  than  you  nave  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  grcai 
mother  drank  two  years  ago  I " 

"It  w^as  a  wholesome  bitter  for  us;  and  it  may  be  so  for 
you  likewise :  but  we  will  have  no  sad  forebodings  on  the 
eve  of  the  blessed  Christmastide.  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  w^hich  it  had  taught  you  ;  and  that 
that  same  lesson  was  the  root  of  all  your  greatness.  That 
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  reform, 
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  already,  without  your  eloquent  adulation,  sir  1  But 
there  is  a  truth  in  your  words.  There  is  a  better  spirit 
roused  among  us ;    and  that  not  merely  of  two  years  ago. 


lo  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 
aw^akened  round  here  in  many  a  heart  which  I  thought  once 
utterly  frivolous.  I  find,  in  every  circle  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  m.ore  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  stateof  decadence  and  decay.  Pur 
exemple — " 

And  Claude  pointed  to  the  clean,  large  fields,  with  their 
neat,  close-clipt  hedge-rows,  amoiig  which  here  and  there 
stood  cottages,  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  of  the 
year,  and  accursed  in  the  eyes  of  my  poor  dear  old  friend. 
Squire  Lavington  ;  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  geologists,  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. 


Tmi^  Years'  AgoT  ejk 

"^S§  slides  on  the  noble  river,  for  ever  changing',  and  yet 
for  ever  the  same — always  fulfiliiiig-  its  errand,  which  yet- 
it  never  fulfilled,"  said  Stangrave — he  was  given  to  halfr 
mystic  utterances,  and  hankerings  after  Pagaji  mythology, 
leiarnt  in- the  days  when  he  worshipped  Eraerscjn,  and  tried 
(bat  unsuccessfully)  to  worship  Margaret  Fuller  Ossoli — 
"Those  old  Greeks  had  a  deep  insight  into  nature,  when 
th6y  gave  to  each  river  not  merely  a  name,  but  a  semi- 
htiman  personality,  a  river-god  of  its  own.  It  may  be  but 
a-  coHection^  of  ever-changing  atoms  of  water — wrhat  is  your 
bddy  "but  a  similar  collection  of  atoms,,  decaying  and  reofcwing 
every  moment?  Yet  you  are  a  person f  and  is  not  the  river, 
tooi,  a  person^a  live  thing?  It  has  .an  individual  countenance 
which  you  love,  v/hich  you  would  reco^^nise  again,  meet  it 
w*here'y^u  will;  it  marks  the  whole  landscape;  it  determines 
probably  the  geography  and  the  society  of  a  whole  distiict. 
It  laraws'  you,  too,  to  itself  by  an  inde6nable  mesmeric 
attracfiori.  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  tliat  the  river  has  a  spirit  as  well  as  you?" 

"Humph!"  said  Claude,  who  talks  mysticism  himself  by 
the  hour,  but  snubs  it  in  everyone  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  peradventure  baby." 

"Oh,  you  materialist  English  1  sporting-mad  all  of  you, 
from  the  duke  who  shooteth  stags  to  the  clod  who  poacheth 
rabbits  I  "  -...  .  ,    •'•:,-: 

"And  who  therefore  can  fight  Russians  at  Inkerman0,.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  agree  with  you  :  but  I  think 
it  proper  to  be  as  English  as  I  can  in  the  presence  of  an 
American."  lus^unr.  .       .,,,:■ 

A  whistle— a  creak— a  jar ;  and  they  stop  at  the  little 
Whitford  station,  where  a  cicerone  for  the  vale,  far  'better  • 
than  Claude  was,  made  his  appearance,  in  the  person  of  Mark 
Arrasworth,   banker,  railway  «irector;   and  de  facto  king  x»// 


12  Two  Years  Ago. 

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  wadd'es 
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  elephantiasis,  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?  Now  then,  look  alive!" 
for  Mark  is  chairman  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. 

"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." 

"Armsworth?"  said  Stangrave,  looking  at  the  old  man 
with  interest. 

"Mark  Armsworth  himself.  He  is  acting  as  squire, 
though,  now  ;  for  he  has  hunted  the  Vv  hitford  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  e.mpty 
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  Mark  counts  the  couples  with  his  whip-point — 

"  Ravager  —  Roysterer  ;  Melody  —  Gaylass  ;  all  right 
Why,  Where's  that  old  thief  of  a  Goodman  ? " 


Two  Years  Ago.  13 

"  Went  over  a  g'ate  as  soon  as  he  saw  the  couples ;  and 
wouldn't  come  in  at  any  price,  sir,"  says  the  horseman. 

"Gone  home  by  himself,  I  expect." 

"  Goodman,  Goodman,  boy  1 "  And  forthwith  out  of  the 
station-room  slips  the  noble  old  hound,  gray-nosed,  gray- 
eyebrowed,  who  has  hidden,  for  purposes  of  his  own,  till  he 
sees  all  the  rest  safe  locked  in. 

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

"  Hollo,  sir  I  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  I "  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  v/ould  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  ?  " 

Claude,  of  course,  knows — as  all  do  who  know  those  parts — 
who  The  Old  Squire  is ;  long  may  he  live,  patriarch  of  the 
chase  1     The  genealogy  he  dees  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  him  have  his  own  way,  for  her  sake ;  and  nobody  '11  ever 
bully  you,  will  they,  Goodman,  my  boy  ?  " 

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

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

"  Mr.  Stangrave — Mr.  Armsworth.  Mr.  Stangrave  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 


14  Two  Years  AgoT 

hope    Mr.  Stangrave   11  find  when   he    gets   to   know/old 

Mark."     .-...:  y^ -Or:  -.,  .,,.,,  ",-.;:■  ,^:    ■.  ■  ,-,    ,_      :.:-.ry;i 

"You  must  not  speak  6f  getting  td  know  you,  my;  deorjsir ; 
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. ",:>;   ;v.  ,.■.;.;  eiiu  ouvv  ^t■J'fiOlii^\ii 

"  Obligation  to  me,  my  dear  sir?-''  !  - .  ::'  s*:;?  t^'3^  srft  if.-,  c':?^ 

"Indeed  I  am ;  I  will  teil  you  all  when  we  are  alone." 
And  Stangrave  glanced  at  the  fat  old  woman,  who  seemed 
to  be  listening  intentiyj;    :::;/.     "i  n-iu:  ,.  :  qi:  ^vv 

"Oh,  never  mind  her,"  says  ArmswonKh ;)/' deaf  as  a;-R<>^3I 
very  good  woman,  but  so  deaf— ought  to  speak  to  her,  though" 
—and,  reaching  across,  to  the  infinite  amusement  of  hie  com-,' 
panions,  he  roared  in  the  fat  woman's  face,   with  a  voice  aS; 
of  a  speaking-trumpet, :"  Glad  to  see  you,  Mrs.  Grovel    Got 
those  dividends  ready  for  you  next  time  you  come  into  town." 

"Yah  1 "  screamed  the  hapless  woman,  who  (as  the  rest  saw) 
heard  perfectly  well.  "  What  do  you  me4n»  frightening:  a  ia.4y 
in  that  way?     Deaf,  indeed!"  :_  .^i  ^;  .;.:,;:;  -^^^^  ,:'-j..ul  L..i  i:o 

"Why,"  roared  Mark  again*  ^•lain't  yoUjMr9>r/Pf»«r?,' -ef 
Drytown  Dirtywater?"  »  '    •'    ■    -'    -?  Ifi  ico.,  ;•:.:.  "j  i^^l 

"No,  nor  no  acquaintance  I    What  business  ;©I  it  iOfjSOur!o»T 
sir,  to  go  hollering  in  ladies'  faces  at  your  age  ?"  "'  -       .  .a 

"  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,  air,  I'm  Mrs.  Pettigrew's  mother, 
the    linen-draper's    establishmei^':  isu>f  ^rgf^g.    down    /fl^ 
Christmas,  sir!"  .;cn  eoob  ari  vTciians;; 'idT     !  c-^sria 

"Humph  I"  says  Mark;  "y6u  see— w«  sui$:I  kn^whei^ 
know  everybody  here.     As  I  said,  if  she  wasn't.  Mrs.  Grove,^ 
she  was  somebody  else.     Ever  in  these  parts  before  ?''..•:      ,.  ;3l 

"Never:  but  I  have  heard  a  good  derJ  of  them  ;•  apd  vfiryd 
much  charmed  with  them  I  am.      I  have  seldQW,  see»  *  more 
distinctive  specimen  of  English  scenery." 

"And  how  yoli  are  improving  round  here!"  said  Claude, 
who  knew  Mark's  weak  points,  and  wanted  to  draw  him  out.' 
"  Your  homesteads  seem  all  new  ;  three  fields  hatr.^  been  thrown 
into  one,  I  fancy,  over  half  the  farms."  '    :-;    '!>-.  3    i 

Mark  broke  out  at  once  on  his  favourite  topic.  '•  I  believe 
you  1     I'm  making  the  mare  go  here  in  Whitford,  without  the 


Two  Years  Ago.  15 

money  too,  sometimes.  I'm  steward  now,  bailiff— ha !  ha ! 
these  four  years  past — to  Mrs.  Lavington's  Irish  husband  ; 
wanted  him  to  have  a  regular  agent,  a  canny  Scot,  or 
Yorkshireman.  Faith,  the  poor  man  couldn't  afford  it,  and 
so  fell  back  on  old  Mark.  Paddy  loves  a  job,  you  know. 
So  I've  the  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 — 

"  Lavington  ?  Is  this  their  country  also  ?  As  I  am  going 
to  visit  the  graves  of  my  ancestors,  I  suppose,  I  ought  to 
visit  those  of  hers."  _^ 

Mark  caught  the  words  which  he  was  not  intended  to.       'f- 

"  Eh  ?  sir,  do  you  belong  to  these  parts  ?  "  '•"' 

"My  family,  I  believe,  lived  in  the  neighbourhood ^of 
Whitbury,  at  a  place  called  Stangrave-end." 

"  To  be  sure  I  Old  farm-house  now  I  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  I  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 

'>n :  but  he  saw  a  pained  expression  on  both  the  travellers* 
!'ac:<?,  and  Stangrave  stopped  him,  somewhat  drily —     ,     ,-, 

"  I  'now  nothing  of  them,  I  assure  you,  or  they  of  me. 
Your  cc!i:i*ry  here  is  certainly  charming,  and  shows  little  of 
those  sirns  cf  decay  which  some  people  in  America  impute 
to  it." 

"  Decay  !"  IvLirlc  -vent  off  at  score.  "  Decay  be  hanged  ! 
There'*;  lifo  in  the  oid  dog-  yet,  sir  I  and  dead  pigs  are  looking 
tip  since  frco  trarlo  r.nd  ci  .ijr^tion.  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  V^-n  there  ever  v.-as  ;  and  look  at. the 
roots.     Farmers  must  ii^an  now,  or  sink  ;  and,  ^bjr.  Geocg^  1 


1 6  Two  Years  Ago. 

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  ;  amongst  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,  didn't  mean  to.  So  he  cut  up  rough,  and  wanted  to 
call  me  out." 

"  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  horse-whipping, 
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  Minchampstead  &  Co.  is  the  only  firm  in  the 
vale." 

"What  is  become  of  a  Lord  Vieuxbois,  who  used  to  live 
somewhere  hereabouts?     I  used  to  meet  him  at  Rome." 

"Rome?"  said  Mark,  solemnly.  "Yes;  he  was  too  fond 
of  Rome,  a  while  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  lord'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- 
two-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  bye,  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  coursj,   as  you're  a  Liberal — 


Two  Years  Ago.  17 

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  ALmerica, 
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  everyone  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  I —there's  a  farm  ;  that's  my  lord's.  I  should  like  to 
show  you  the  shorthorns  there,  sir  I — 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  new  stones.  Old  Whit  don't  know  herself  again.  But  I 
daresay  they  look  small  enough  to  you,  sir,  after  your  American 
water-power." 

"  What  of  that  ?  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  boo's,  sir.  By  the  bye,  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  didn't,  I  shouldn't  be  here  now." 

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


1 8  Two  Years  Ago. 

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?  His  lordship  let  us  have  the  land  for 
a  song ;  only  bargained  that  Vv'e  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  v^ell  enough  five  hundred  years  ago,"  said 
Stangrave,  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  en  too  much  steam. 
But  give  me  the  new-comers,  after  all.  They  may  be  cloije 
m;n  of  business  ;  how  else  could  one  live  ?  But  when  it  cnnicf- 
to  giving,  I'll  back  them  against  the  old  ones  for  generosity, 
or  taste  either.  They've  their  proper  pride,  when  they  ge' 
hold  of  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,  though  I  say  it,  and  am  but  a  country  banker : 
but  I'll  back  my  flowers  against  half  the  squires  round— my 
Mary's,  that  is— and  my  fruit,  too.  See,  there  1  There's  my 
lord's  new  schools,  and  his  model  cottages,  with  more  comforts 
in  them,  saving  the  size,  than  my  father's  house  had ;    and 


Two*  Years  Ago  J  r^p 

hero's:  hia  barrack,  as  he  calls  it,  for  the  unmarried'  men- 
reading-room,  axia.  dining--room,  in  common ;  and  a  library  of 
books,  and  a  sleeping-room  for  each." 

"  It  seems  strange  to  complain  of  prosperity,"  said  Stan- 
grave ;  "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  what  a  m^  does  here  for  othei^s, 
tlre5*-d6  for  themselves."  '  '^      '"    '      -    ^  ■'^■■-  ' 

•'So  much  the  better  for  them.  There  are  other  W3.ys  of 
being  generous,  besides  putting  your  'hand  in  your  pocket,  sir. 
By  Jove !  there'll  be-  room  enough  (if  you'll  excnse  me)  for  an 
Americantodo  line  things,  as  Idngas those poornegro slaves- — " 

"I- know  it;-i  know  it,"  said  Stangrave,  in  tha  tone  of  a 
man  who  had  already  made  up  his  mind  on  a  painful  -subject, 
and  vsrished  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 
wdien  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  fiat  park,    piast   the   great   house   with   its  ' 
Doric  facade,  which  the  eighteenth  century  had  raised-  above ' 
the  quiet' cell  of  the  Minchampstead  recluses.    •  s. :'.:.''  ;_•     " 

"It  is. very  ugly,"  said  Stangrave  ;  and  truly. 
■^.'Comfortable    enongh,   though;    and,    as    somebody  said, 
people    live    inside   their  houses,    and  not  outside  'em.     You 
shou'd  see   the   pictures    there,    though,    while   you're   in   the 
coantry.     I   can  show  you  one  or  two,  too,   I  hope.     Never- 
gcadge  money  f'ji  good  pictures.     The  pleasantest  furniture  in^ 
the^world,  so  Fong  as  you  keep  them;  and  if  you're^  tire4^  tif" 
them,  always  fetch  double  their  price."  '  ■'■■'■   '  -o 

iAfcer  Minchampstead,  the  rail  leaves  the  sands  and  clays, 
and  turns  up  between  the  chalk  hills,  along  the  barge  river, - 
which  it  has  rendered  useless,  save  aS  a  superntimerary  trout- 
stream ;  and  then  along  Whit,  now  flowing  clearer  and  clearer, 
as  we  approach  its  springs  amid  the  lofty  downs.  On  through 
more  water-meadowSj. and  rows  of  pollard  willow,  and  peat- 
pits  crested  with  tall,  golden  reeds,  and  still  dykes-^ach  in 
summer,  a.  floating  fiower-bed ;  v>?hile  Stangrave  looks  out  of 
the  window,  his  face  lighting  up  with  curiosity.  jivm^^iLaJii 


20  Two  Years  Ago. 

"  How  perfectly  English  !  At  least,  how  perfectly  un- 
American  I*  It  is  just  Tennyson's  beautiful  dream — 

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

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

"  Shalott  ?    Where  are  the 

'  Four  gray  walls  and  four  gray  towers,' 
which  overlook  a  space  of  flowers  ?  " 

There,  upon  the  little  island,  are  the  castle  ruins,  now 
converted  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  straw-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 
becoming  all  the  wiser  thereby,  and  teaching  poor  children  in 
Hemmelford  National  School." 

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

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

. "  Then  the  fairy  knight  is  extinct  in  England  ? "  asked 
Stangrave,  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  whea  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 
Stangrave. 


Two  Years  Ago.  21 

"  He  did.  V/herefore  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.' " 

"And,"  said  Claude,  smiling,  "the  descendants  of  mediasval 
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  wser." 

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

"At  least,  it  is  sc  much  the  worse  for  the  poor  old  earth, 
if  her  doom  is  to  stand  still,  while  man  improves  and 
progresses  from  age  to  age ! " 

"May  I  ask  one  question,  sir?"  said  Stangrave,  who 
saw  that  the  conversation  v/as  puzzling  their  jolly  companion. 
"  Have  you  heard  any  iiews  yet  of  Mr.  Thurnall  ?  " 

Mark  looked  him  full  in  the  face. 

"  Do  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  filled  with  tears. 

"His  father  must  hear  that  I  Hang  it;  his  father  must 
hear  that  1    And  Grace  too  1 " 


2'-2F  T^'6'-  Years  Agb/ 

***  Gra*ce  ! "  said  Claude  ;  "and' is  she  whn  yon ?*  •^'•''  '"'^  " 
''*'''With  the  old  man,  the  angel !  tending  film  hig:ht  iffi^'^^i^^*";^ 
t"  And  as  beautiful  as  ever  ? "  ','  3-' ^^-^^^  •  ei-;/ ...  .^--.'D  .o  L.-.v^n 
■'"Sir,**  said  Mark,  solemnly,' '  *''w'hferf:&ity'one''^  ■sbiii''y^^'a^'! 
beautiful  sis'  hers  is,  one  never  thinks  about  her  face.**.  '"  '*''''! 
"Who  is  Grace?"  asked  Stangrave.  ,     ,  .     !'  ,,"^ 

"A  saiiit  and  A  heroine!"  said  Claude.  "Yoii's^iallk'now 
all ;  for  you  ought  to  knov/.  But  you  h^ve  no  news  of 
Tom;  and  I  have  none  either.     I  am  losing  all  hope  now." 

"I'm  not,   sir!"  said  ,Ma.rk,  fiejceiy.  "Sir,  that  boy's  not 
dead ;    he   can't  be.     He  has  more  lives  than  a  cat,  and  if 
you  know  aiiythihg  of  him,  you  dught' to  know  tha£"       '' 
"I  have  good  reason  to  knovv  it,'  none  more:  but-^^^"°^ 
"But,    sir!    But  what?      Harm   ccrrie  to  him,  sir  ?  ' '  Tfi§'' 
Lord  wouldn't  harm  him,  for  his  father's  sake;    and  as  fof 
the  devil  I — I    tell  you,  sir,  if  he  tried  to  fly  away  with  him,  ' 
he'd   ha^e   to    drop   him    before    he'd    gone    a   milel'*     And 
Mark  began  bloviring  his  nose  violently,  and  getting'  sc^  red!" 
that  he  seemed  on  the  point  of  going  into  a  fit.  '"'    ;'  ■"'' 

"Tell  you  what  it  is,  gentlemen,"  said  he  at  last,    "yoil'^ 
come  and  stay  with  me,  and  see  his  father.     It  will  comfort . 
the   old   inan— and^and  comfort  irife' too; '^fol'^  I' get' dbWn- 
hearted  about  him  at  times."         •''''■  ^^'   -"■'•  "'''\'  '"  ' '.'.■"'^'^'- 

*' Strange  attraction  there  wa^  abroul' "th^  "tain,*' 'skys 
Stangrave,  sotto  voce,  to  Claude.  '   .   '  '  "    f'"''^ 

"  He  was  like  a  son  to  him^ ''^'■-  '    ''"^  ■  '^'■'''-  ^"-^^  " 

"Now,  gentlemen.     Mr.  MQ\\U;^6)i  ^on't  huflt?'*''  '''"''^'\ 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  Claude,  smiling."  '■'"'  "■'"■  "^  ""^  ^'^  " 

^  "  Mr.  Stangrave  does.  111  warrarit.''* "  -"-^''^^  ^^■''*'  "'  '^'^Z  " 

'  "  I  have  at' various  times,  both  tn  England  and  in  Virgini'a." 

"Ah!     Do  they  keep  up  the  real  sport  there,  eh  ?     Well," 

that's'the  best  thing  I've  heard  of  them.    Sir  1— My  horses 

are   ytturs  1    A  friend  of  that  boy's,  sli",  is  welcome  to  lame' 

the' whole  lot, ''arid    I  "w6n't  grumble.     Three  days,  a  weekj'' 

sir.      Breakfast  at   eight,    dinner   at    5  30— none  of  ydiir  lat:^^' 

London;  hours  for   me,   sir ;    and   after  it,  the   best   bottle   of 

port,    though    I     Eay    it,    short    of    my    friend    S — ;— 's,    at 

Reading."  ■•'  "'  -'''''  '■"'"'  -""'-'    '■■'   ■  '  ''  "'  ' 

•"Yoii  must  accept,"  Whispeiieii'  Cfail{ie^r'"»oi-'"ke'v^«l* 'be 

anerv  "  "  '  '^'^^  o:>r%0  bnh    !  JsriJ  i*3xl 


Two  Years  Ago.  23 

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 
dovj^n  the  hillside  to  the  old  church— just  "restored,"  though, 
by  Lords  Minchampstead  and  Vieuxbois,  not  without  Mark 
Armsworth'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  gudf^eon  come  dangling 
upwards  between  stream  and  sky,  with  a  look  of  sheepish 
surprise  and  shame,  as  of  a  school-boy  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  nov/.  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  ancicp.t 
"Angler's  Rest."  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  the  good  old  inn, 
with  its  three  white  gables  overhanging  the  pavement,  and 
its  long  lattice  window^  buried  deep  beneath  them,  hke — so 
Stangrave  says — to  a  shrewd  kindly  eye  under  a  bland  white 
forehead. 

No,  good  old  inn  ;  not  such  shall  be  thy  fate,  as  long  as 
trout  are  trout,   and  men  have  wit  to  catch  them.      For  art 


^4  Two  Years  Ago. 

thou  not  a  sacred  house?  Art  thou  not  consecrate  to  the 
Whitbury  brotherhood  of  anglers?  Is  not  the  wainscot  of 
that  Icng,  low  parlour  inscribed  with  many  a  famous  name? 
Are  not  its  walls  hung  w^ith  many  a  famous  countenance? 
Has  not  its  c  k-ribbed  ceiling  rung,  for  now  a  hundred 
years,  to  the  ]  L:jhter  of  painters,  sculptors,  grave  divines, 
(unbending  at  J  ast  there),  great  lawyers,  statesmen,  wits 
even  of  Foote  !  Quin  themselves  ;  while  the  sleek  landlord 
wiped  the  coL-,  s  off  another  magnum  of  that  grand  old 
port,  and  toe.  u.  all  the  wisdom  with  a  quiet  twinkle  of  his 
sleepy  eye''  '.c  rests  now,  good  old  man,  among  the  yews 
beside  hie  s'vt.  i  J.thc-rs ;  and  on  his  tomb  his  lengthy  epitaph, 
writ  by  himsei'' :   for  Barker  was  a  poet  in  his  way. 

Some  people  holu  the  said  epitaph  to  be  irreverent,  because 
in  a  list  of  Barker's  many  blessings  occurs  the  profane 
w^ord  "trout":  but  those  trout,  and  the  custom  which  they 
brought  him,  hjid  m.ade  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 
which  he  knows  has  done  him  good,  even  though  it  be  but 
fish? 

He  is  gone  ;  but  the  Whit  is  not,  nor  the  Whitbury  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  rot  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)  gi/e  fifty  pounds 
to  the  said  schools  but  five  years  ago,  in  addition  to  Mark's 
own  hundred? 

But  enough  of  this— only  may  the  Whitbury  cmb,  in 
recompense  for  my  thus  handing  them  down  to  immortality, 


Two  Years  Ago.  25 

gfive  me  another  day  next  year,  as  they  gave  me  this ;  and 
may  the  May-fly  be  strong  on,  and  a  south-west  gale  blowhig  ! 
In  the  course  of  the  next  week,  in  many  a  conversation, 
the  three  men  compared  notes  as  to  the  events  of  two  years 
ago  J  and  each  supn'ied  the  other  with  new  facts,  which  shall 
be  duly  set  forth  m  tius  laie,  saving  and  excepting,  of 
course,  the  real  reason  why  everybody  did  everything.  For— 
as  everybody  knov/s  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  the  ghost  and  the 
queen   nto  the  bargain. 


CHAPTER  I. 

Poetry  and  Prose. 

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  days 
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  communication ;  for  the  two  occupiers  were  fast 
friends.  In  one  of  these  two  houses,  sixteen  years  ago, 
lived  our  friend  Mark  Armsworth,  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  nov7 
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  reader 


26  Two  Years  Ago. 

like  the  g'ood  old  banker :  as  for  Dr.  Thurnal!,  a  purer  or 
gentler  soul  never  entered  a  sick-room,  vnth  patient  wisdom 
in  his  brain,  and  patient  tenderness  in  his  heart.  Beloved  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  Whitbury. 
He  was  something  of  a  geologist,  too,  and  a  botanist,  and 
an  antiquarian  ;  and  Mark  Armsworth,  who  knew,  and  know^s 
still,  nothing  of  science,  lo^-ked  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_tbe  morning 
on  which  my  tale  begins  ;  having  just  finished  his  breakfast, 
and  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  slov\?ly  from  the 
west ;  long  bars  of  hazy  blue  hung  over  the  southern  chalk 
dov/ns,  which  gleamed  pearly  gray  beneath  the  low  south- 
eastern sun.  In  the  vale  below,  soft  white  fiakes  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  every  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.  AU 
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  lace-work  of 
the  Virginia-creeper ;  and  the  great  j'ellow  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,  •• 
Jooked  out  upon  it  ail  with  a  quiet  satisfaction,  and  thouglis 


Two  Years  Ago.  ^ 

■  his  .%3  did  net  move,  his  eyes  seemed  to  be  thanking  God 

■for  it  all ;  and  thanking  Hira,  too,  perhaps,  that  he  was  still 

permitted  to  gaze  upon  that  fair  world  outside,    "  For  as  he 

gazed,  he  started,  as  if  withsndden  pain ^  and  passed  his  hand 

across  his.  eyes,  with  something  hke  a  s'gh,  and  then  looked 

at  the  microscope   ao  more,  but  sat,  seemingly  absorbed  in 

;  thought,  cwhile  upon  his  delicate,  toil-worn  features,  and  high, 

'bland,  unw^rinkled  forehead  and  a  few  soft  gray  locks  which 

«ot  ^ime— for  he  was  scarcely  fifty- five — but  long  labour  ol 

/brain,,  had  spared  to  ;liim,  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 

'  clieerfulness,  which  harmonised  fitly  with  the  quiet  beauty  of 

:tbe  decaying  landscape  before  him.  ;  r^-^~. 

5;..r*'I  say.  Daddy,  you  must  drop  that  microscope,  and  put  jQii 

your ,  shade.  :^  You  are  ruining  those  dear  old  eyes  of  yours 

again,.in  spite  of -what  Alexander  told  you."      -  :,    ^    ':,      ^; 

c-ril?he  Doctor- took  up  the  green  shade  which  .lay  beside  ban, 

;  aod-replaced;  it  with  a  sigh  and  a  smile.  ^ : ;,    -,  ^ .-,—::     r  ~   >     .' 

?:;s**IiJnBLst,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  first-rate  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 
eighteen,  who  stood  in  opposite  corners  of  the  bay-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  httle  saucy  and  sarcastic, 
to  judge  from  the  glances  which  he  sent  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  ne  had  forgotten  any  of  his 
tackle,  and  muttering  to  himself  amid  his  whistUng,  "Capital 
day.     How  the  birds  will  he.    Where  on  earth  is  old  Mark  ? 


28  Two  Years  Ago. 

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 
handsome,  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  have 
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  conscious  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  1  making  poetry,  I'll  bet  my  head 
to  a  China  orangfe." 

"And  why  not?"  said  his  father,  looking  up  quietly,  but 
reprovingly,  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 
themselves.  The  country  looks  very  pretty,  no  doubt,  I  can 
tell  that ;  only  my  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. 

"Then  be  as  good  as  your  word,  Tom,  and  let  everyone 
please  themselves,"  said  the  Doctor  ;  but  the  diirk  youth  broke 
out  into  sudden  passion. 

"  Mr.  Thomas  Thurnall  1  I  will  not  endure  this  1  Why 
are  you  always  making  me  your  butt— insulting  me,  sir,  even 


Two  Years  Ago.  29 

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  think  it  would  be  the 
more  courteous  plan  for  Tom  to  relieve  you  of  his  presence. 
Go  and  find  Mark,  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  offence 
so  soon.  Give  us  your  hand,  old  tinderbox  I  I  meant  no 
harm,  and  you  knovi?^  it." 

tr  John  Briggs  took  the  proffered  hand  sulkily  enough  ;  and 
Tom  went  out  of  the  glass  door,  whistling  as  merrily  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  ari  ungrateful  brute  if  I  was,  sir.  I  can 
bear  anything  frcm  you.  I  ought  to,  for  I  owe  everything 
to  you  ;  but " 

"But,  my  dear  boy — 'Better  is  he  that  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  com- 
mand 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  parliament  of  mind.  I  am  Pegasus  in  harness, 
here  ! "  cried  the  vain,  discontented  youth.  "  Let  me  but 
once    j^et    there  —  amid    art,    civilisation,    intellect,    and    the 


(^  Two  Years  Ago. 

ccotapany  of  mea  like  that  old  Mermaid  Club,- to  |je4ri;jtAdr;to 

cans*eP»*yi5!L  c;  -r;f:i.;;ic<  vrx:  :*      .uov  brij^Jc^jLa;.  oi  a-^-^  Jen 

As  one  had  put 'his  ^liofe'sotti  in  a'j^St'-'ii*  .VfiW«  03  ol 
'•  5,<?  f)?f<0-'^   v   >'     ■■:    ^^'       ■,    „r;    .,,M   i..,;.    ■  ,ndol   ,qr«i2"     ' 

and  then  you  shall  see  whether  Peg-asus  has;  not  wings,- "and 

'  can  use  them,  too  1 "    And  he  stopped  suddenly,  choking  with 

emotion,   his    nostril   and    chest  dilating, 'bis    foot' stamping 

impatiently  on  the  ground.  "      '    --    "  \'':  r 

fc'  The  Doctor  watched  him  with  a  sad  smile.   T    />;i,   U  3  " 

c     "Do  you  remember  the  devil's  temptation-  of  Ottr  vLot*E- 

*Cast  thyfeelf  down  from  hence;   for  it  ^s  wrftten,/ihe8sh«ll 

give  his  angels  charge  over  thee ? '"    '    -,  --^.'  i  .v>  in-,  .rnvsd 

ii;    "I.  do  ;  but  what  has  that  to  do  with  me?"  ■, 

£     '*  Throw  away  the  safe  station  in  which  God  has  certaiiily 

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  tha.t  sky,  those  fields — ay,  in  every  fallen  leaf— 4o 

employ  all  your  powers,  conisiderabie  as  I  believe  them  to  be? 

Why  spurn  the  pure,  quiet  country  life,  in  which  such  men 

as  Wordsworth  have  been  content  to  live  and  giow  old?" 

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— if  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  blamable  in  a 

lad  of  eighteen ;  for  have  we  not  all,  while  we  were  going 

"through  our  course  of   Shellej',   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  our  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 


Two  Years  Ago.  31 

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  very 
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  v/hom  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,  contrived  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  of  him  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  la^y  mooning  over  books,  and  the 
dreams  which  books  called  up.  He  made  perpetual  mistakes 
in  the  shop,  and  then  considered  himself  insulted  by  au 
"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 


32  Two  Years  Ago. 

in  hand,  begging  five  shillings'  worth  of  patronage  from  every 
stupid  country  squire — intolerable  !  I  must  go  I  Shakespeare 
wras  never  Shakespeare  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  illustrious  surname  of  Briggs  the  poisoner ! " 

"  What  do  you  mean,  sir  ? "  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 
passion,  into  roars  of  laughter.  "What's  that  ?  " — and  he  held 
out  a  phial.  "Smell  it  1  taste  it  I  Oh,  if  I  had  but  a  gallon 
of  it  to  pour  down  your  throat  1  That's  what  you  brought 
Mark  Armsworth  last  night,  instead  of  his  cough  mixture, 
while  your  brains  were  wool-gathering  after  poetry  1" 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  gasped  John  Briggs. 

"  Miss  Twiddle's  black  dose ;  strong  enough  to  rive  the 
gizzard  out  of  an  old  cock  1 " 

"It's  not!" 

"  It  is  I "  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 
iike  a  tiger's,  his  left  hand  upon  his  hapless  hypogastric 
region,  his  right  brandishing  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  if  I  don't 
serve  you  out  for  it,  there's  no  law  in  England  1" 
»  "And  spoilt  my  day's  shooting,  too  ;  the  last  I  shall  get  before 
I'm  off  to  Paris  1  To  have  a  day  in  Lord  Minchampstead's 
preserves,  and  to  be  baulked  of  it  in  this  way  1 " 

John  Briggs  looked  as  one  astonied. 

"  If  I  don't  serve  you  out  for  this  I "  shouted  Mark. 

"  If  I  don't  serve  you  out  for  it  I  You  shall  never  hear 
the  last  of  it  I "  shouted  Tom.  "  I'll  take  to  writing  after 
,all.  I'll  put  it  in  the  papers.  I'll  make  ballads  on  it,  and 
«ing  'em  at  the  market-cross.  I'll  make  the  name  of  Briggs 
the  poisoner  an  abomination  in  the  land." 


Two  Years  Ago.  33 

John  Briggs  turned  and  fled. 

"Weill"  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.  ' 

Jrr^  fri!  T?  f^^:  "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  " 

RockT  '"f"'^'^  ^^^  "°*^  "^  ^°^"^  he'll  go  to  the 
Rocky  Mountains  and  shoot  a  grizzly  bear  ;  and  he'H  do  I." 

greafdetrto\'a"n^"  ''''  ''  '°  '^'°^^  ^^^^'  P°-  ^^"-  ^  ^'  - 

boy,1;oct'on " '"""  '''    ^°"'''  "^"^"^^  down-hearted  about  the 

pl'rL  T"'*  ^1^  ^^^""^  ^^^  P^'"t^"S:  with  him;  and  for 
Pans,  too:  such  a  seat  of  temptation.  But  it  is  hi^  own 
choice;  and  after  all.  he  must  see   temptation,   whereverT 

^    "Bless  the  man !  if  a  boy  means  to  go  to  the  bad  he'll  p-o 
just  as  easily  in  Whitbury  as  in  Paris,     live  the  lad  his  head 
and  never  fear ;  he'll  fall  on  his  lees    like  a  r^f    rn  I 

him,  whatever  happens.      He's  asltldfa^    m' T  me TteU 
you ;  there's  a  gray  head  on  green  shoulders  there."        ' 

«'  tllf/  T  f  i?  *'  ^°''°''  ^^^^  ^  ^"^^^^  ^"d  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  bovsl 
give  me  one  who  knows  how  to  be  naughty  in  thf  rfght  place 
I  wouldn't  give  sixpence  for  a  good  boy :  neve^was  one 
myself,  and  have  no  faith  in  them.^  Give  m^e  the^ad  who  has 
more  steam  up  than  he  knows  what  to  do  with    aid  must 

o7tt  raTit'll  Jenf  h-  ^"  ^ ^^  ^'^"  °"^^  ^ '-"'-  <^-n 
on  ine  rail,  it  11  send  him  along  as  steady  as  a  lue-g-a^e-train 

Did  you  never  hear  a  locomotive  puffing'Lnd  ro^  lefore  "t 

gets  under  weigh  ?  well,  that's  what  your  boy  is  doiL     Look 

at  him  now,  with  my  poor  little  Molly  "  ^ 

childTf eTSti!;?""^  ^""'V'  ^"'■'^"  ^^*^  *  kittle  weakly 
his  face  wfhH^.^^™'-  ^^'  '^'"^  ''^^"^  ^^^  ^°°king  up  i^ 
ms  lace  with  delight,  screaming  at  his  jokes 


34  Two  Years  Ago. 

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

"Poor  Molly  1    How  she'll  miss  him  I    Do  you  think  she'll 
ever  walk,  Doctor  ?  " 
'« I  do,  indeed." 

"  Hum !  ah !  well  I  if  she  grows  up,  Doctor,  and  don't  go 
to  join  her  poof  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." 
•'Tutl  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 
confined  to  scientific  matters  ;  and  he  made  up  to  his  own  self- 
respect  by  patronising  the  Doctor,  and,  indeed,  taking  him 
sometimes  pretty  sharply  to  ta^k  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  v/ithout  me." 

So  Tom  carried  Mary  about  all  the  morning,  and  went  to 
Minchampstead  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  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  of 

cribbage."  ,    .,,  , 

In  a  few  minutes,  Tom  came  in.  "  Here  s  a  good  riddance  1 
The  poisoner  has  fabricated  his  pilgrim's  staff, ^^to  speak 
scientifically,  and  perambulated  his  calcareous  strata." 


Two  Years  Ago,  35 

«'  What ! " 

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

"Poor  boy  1"  said  the  Doctor,  much  distressed. 

•'  Don't  cry,  Daddy  ;  you  can't  bring  hini  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  letter  directed  to  his  father.  So  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, 
tailing  them  that  he  was  alive  and  well,  no  one  heard  any- 
thing 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.  Mumpsimus's  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 ; 
Dut  nothing  could  keep  him  permanently  at  home.  Stay 
kudging  in  London  he  would  not.  Settle  down  in  a  country 
Dractice  he  would  not.  Cost  his  father  a  farthing  he  would 
lot  So  he  started  forth  into  the  wide  world  with  nothing 
)ut  his  wits  and  his  science,  as  anatomical  professor  to  a 
lew  college  in  some  South  American  republic  Unfortunately, 
vhen  he  got  there  he  found  that  the  annual  revolution  had 
ust  taken  place,  and  that  the  party  who  had  founded  the 
:olIege  had  been  all  shot  the  week  before.  Whereat  he 
vhistled,  and  started  off  again,  and  no  man  knew  whither. 
"Having  got  half  round  the  world,  Daddy,"  he  wrote  home. 


36  Two  Years  Ago. 

•'  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, 
Otahiti,  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  connection  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  distinguished 
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  past  and  gone  since  Torn 
started  for  South  America,  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  I  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,  examined  carefully)  French  boots, 
very  neat,  and  very  thin.  Moreover,  he  had  lavender  kid- 
gloves  on.  Tom  looked  and  wondered,  and  walked  half 
round  him,  sniffing  like  a  dog,  when  he  examines  into  the 
character  of  a  fellow  dog. 


Two  Years  Ago.  37 

"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  ?  Begging  his 
pardon,  he  looks  a  good  deal  more  like  the  latter  than  the 
former.     However " 

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

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  wish  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  playfellow,  Mary.  However, 
she  soon  recovered  her  equanimity  :  he  certainly  never  lost  his. 

"How  de'  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." 

And  Mary,  who  had  longed  to  throw  her  arms  around  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  unrepentant  prodigal  son,  who,  whether  from 
affectation,  or  from  that  blunted  sensibility  which  often  comes 
by  continual  change  and  wandering,  took  all  their  affection 
and  delight  with  the  most  provoking  coolness. 

Nevertheless,  though  his  feelings  were  not  "  demonstrative," 
as  fine  ladies  say  nowadays,  he  evidently  had  £ome  left  in 
some  corner  of  Ils  heart ;  for  after  the  fatted  calf  was  eaten. 


^8  Two  Years  Ago. 

and  they  were  all  settled  in  the  Doctor's  study  ^^  ca"te  out 
that  his%arpet-bag  contained  ^^ttle  but  presents  and  lose 
valuable  ones-rare  minerals  from  ^he  Ural  for  his  father  ,  a 
pair  of  Circassian  pistols  for  Mark  ;  and  for  httle  1/1^^^'^°!;^^ 
astonishment,  a  Russian  malachite  bracelet,  at  which  Marys 
eyes  opened  wide,  and  old  Mark  said-  ■ 

"Pretty  fellow  you  are,  to  go  foohng  your  money  away 
Uke  that.    What  did  that  gimcrack  cost,  P^y*  f^    .        j^r  I 

••That  is  no  concern  of  yours,  sir,  or  of  mme  euher. 
didn't  pay  for  it." 

«' Oh?"  said  Mary,  doubtingly.  ^,r runner  off  a 

"No,   Mary.     I  killed  a  giant,   who  was  ^arrymg  ofl  a 
beautiM  princess;  and  this,  you  see   he  -«- -J^  ^^^f^,?." 
one  of  his  fingers  ;  so  I  thought  it  would  just  suit  your  wnst. 
"Oh,  Tom-Mr.  Thurnall-what  nonsense  1 
"Come,  come,"  said  his  father;  "mstead  ^^  ^elhng  us    hese 
sort  of  stories, 'you  ought  to  give  an  -count  of  .oursel^  a 
you  seem  quite  to  forget  that  we  have  not  heard  from  you 
more  than  two  years."  , .      How- 

"  Whew  ?    I  wrote,"  said  Tom,  "  whenever  I  could.     How 
ever,  you  can  have  all  my  letters  in  one  now. 

So  they  sat  round  the  fire,  and  Tom  g^J%^"  ^"^^^'J' 
himself;  while  his  father  marked  with  P^^^  ,*f^^  ^^f„f  ^3^1 
.  man  had  grown  and  strengthened  m  body  ^f  ."^  "^^.^ '  !J.t 
Slit  under  that  nonchalant,  almost  cymcal  outside,  tiie  hea  t 
2m  beat'onest  and  kindly.  For  ^efo- Tom  beg^n,^e  w  u  d 
needs  draw  his  chair  close  to  his  father's,  and  half-v/hisperea 

*°"ThTs  is  very  jolly.     I   can't  be  sentimental,  you  know. 
KnoSng  abou7the  world  has  beat  all  that  out  of  rne;  but  i 
is  very  comfortable,  after  all,  to  find  oneself  safe  with  a  dear 
■    old  Daddy,  and  a  good  coal  fire."  .,..;,.. 

••  Which  of  the  two  could  you  do  best  v^ithout  ? 
'  "Well,  one  takes  things  as  one  finds  them.     It  ^on  t  do 
to  look  too  deeply  into  one's  feelings.      Uke  chemicals,  the 
more  you  analyse  them,  the  worse  they  smell. 

%::l":Alro::T^i  Bo„,ba,;  >..  V,  been  up  .0  the 

Himalaya  with  an  old  Mumpsimus  friend  ?  " 


'  Yes." 


Two  Years  Ago.  39 

"Well,  I  worked  my  way  to  Suez  on  Doard  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  him  with  pride. 

"  So  I  begged  ray  way  to  Cairo  ;  and  there  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  VTith  him  to  Constantinople  ;  but  there 
he  and  I  quarrelled— more  fools  both  of  us  I  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 
mare's  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 
disgusting,  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,  Mary,  we  ran  away— or 
rather,  rode  away,  on  two  razor-backed  Calmuc  ponies,  and 
got  back  to  Russia,  via  Orenburg — 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 


40  Two  Years  Ago. 

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 
personal  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?"  asked  the 
Doctor. 

"  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  promising. 
It  was  no  concern  of  mine  ;  but  the  poor  fellow  wouldn't  die  in 
peace  else.     So  what  must  be,  must." 

"Oh,  go!  gol"  said  Mary.  "You  will  let  him  go.  Dr. 
Thurnall,  and  see  the  poor  girl  free?  Think  how  dreadful 
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." 

"Huml"  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 


Two  Years  Ago.  41 

to  have  been  in  England  six  months  ago.     My  only  fear  is 
it's  not  enough."  * 

wIL??"™  ■  ^^'^  ^^^'  "  "°^  ™"^^  "^°^^  ^°  y°"  *^"^  y°"'^ 

"  Heaven  knows.  There  is  a  thousand  doUars ;  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  I " 
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 
:o  free  all  poor  girls  who  are  in  the  same  case  in  Georgia," 
said  the  Doctor. 

"Well,  what  of  tha^t?  Them  I  don't  know  of,  and  so 
'  am't  responsible  for  them ;  but  this  one  I  do  know  of,  and 
:o— there,  I  can't  argue ;  but,  Tom,  if  you  want  the  money  you 
:now  where  to  find  it." 

"  Very  good.  By  the  bye— I  forgot  it  till  this  moment -who 
hould  come  down  in  the  coach  with  me  but  the  lost  John 
Jriggs," 

"He  is  come  too  late,  then,"  said  the  Doctor.  "His  poor 
ither  died  this  morning." 

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

"  I  cannot  tell.  He  has  written  from  time  to  time,  but  he  has 
ever  given  any  address  ;  so  that  no  one  could  write  in  return." 

"  He  may  have  known.  He  looked  very  downcast  Perhaps 
lat  explains  his  cutting  me  dead." 

"  Cut  you  ?  "  cried  Mark.  "  1  daresay  he's  been  doing  some- 
iing  he's  ashamed  of,  and  don't  want  to  be  recognised.  That 
How  has  been  after  no  good  all  this  while,  I'll  warrant  I 
ways  say  he's  connected  with  the  swell  mob,  or  croupier  at  a 
uning-table,  or  something  of  that  kind.  Don't  you  think  it's 
cely,   now?" 

Mark  was  in  the  habit  of  so  saying  for  the  purpose  of 
rmenting  the  Doctor,  who  held  stoutly  to  his  old  belief, 
at  John  Briggs  was  a  very  clever  man,  and  would  turn  up 
me  day  as  a  distinguished  literary  character. 


42  Two  Years  Ago. 

"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."  .  .    .     .  v       i,  >. 

"  He  had  the  old  Byron  collar  and  Raphael  hair,  though. 

"Nasty,  effeminate,  un-English  foppery,"  grumbled  Mark; 
"  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  sportmg, 

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

"We  wUl,  my  boy  I  Never  so  many  fish  in  the  river  as  this 
year,  or  in  season  so  early." 

The  good  Doctor  returned ;  but  with  no  news  which  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  walking  up  and  down  there  alone ;  and 
had  then  gone  to  an  attorney  in  the  town,  and  settled  every- 
thing about  the  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  thought  of  even  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  pro- 
perly  disposed  of.  So  he  went  off  to  London  by  the  evening 
mail,  and  told  me  to  address  him  to  a  post-office  m  some  street 
cff  the  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-leavmg  matter 


Two  Years  Ago.  43 

for  much  babble  among-  all  V/hitbury  g-ossips.  One  thing  at 
least  was  plain,  that  he  v/ished  to  be  forgotlsn  in  his  native 
town  ;  and  forg-otten  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  fcr  his  dollars.  I  have  dene 
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  cou'd  accompany  her  no  farther;  for  I  must 
get  back  to  the  South  in  time  for  the  Mexican  expedition." 

Then  came  a  long  ar.d  anxious  silence ;  and  then  a  letter, 
not  from  Mexico,  but  from  California — one  out  of  several 
\\hich  had  been  posted  ;  and  then  letters,  more  regularly,  from 
Australia.  Sickened  with  Ca'ifornian  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  gatliers  no  moss,"  said  his  father. 

"  He  has  the  pluc  c  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 
playfellow ;  and  so  the  years  slipped  on  till  the  av.tumn 
of  1853. 

As  no  one  has  heard  of  Tom  now  for  eight  months  and 
mere  (the  prJse  of  Australian  postage  being  of  a  somewhat 
intermittent  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 
distance,  and,  above  all,  the  great  volcanic  mountain  of 
Burinyong  towering  far  aloft— these  are  the  "Black  Hills  of 
Ba'larat";  and  that  windlass  at  that  shaft's  mouth  belongs 
in  part  to  Thomas  Thurnall. 

At  the  windlass  are  standing  two  men,  whom  we  m.ay 
have  seen,  in  past  years,  self-satisfied  in  countenance,  and 
spotless  in  array,  sauntering  dov/n  Piccsdilly  any  July  after- 
noon, or  lounging  in  Haggis's  stableyard  at  Cambridge  any 
autumn  morning.    Alas  I  hew  changed  from  the  fast  young 


44  Two  Years  Ago. 

undergraduates,  with  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  have  had  since  they  left  Eton  at  seven- 
teen? Would  Smith  have  been  a  happier  man  as  a  'iriefless 
barrister  in  a  dingy  Inn  of  Law,  peeping  now  and  then  into 
third-rate  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  Nomansland-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  Fortune  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 
himself,  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." 


Two  Years  Ago.  45 

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  v/hole  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  affected  his  eyes.  You  know  how  weak  they 
always  were,  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 
:an  —  but  what  can  I  do  ? "  And  then  followed  kind, 
womanly  commonplaces,  which  Tom  hurried  over  with  fierce 
mpatience. 

"He  vv^ants  you  to  come  home ;  but  my  father  has  entreated 
lim  to  let  you  stay.  You  know,  while  we  are  here,  he  is 
Jafe ;  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  tl.e  letter,  which  I  need  not 
•epeat ;  and,  after  aill,  a  short  postscript  by  Mark  himself, 
ollowed — 

"Stay  where  you  are,  boy,  and  keep  np  heart;   while  I 


46  Two  Years  Ago. 

have  a  pound,  your  father  shall  have  half  of  it ;  and  you  know 

Mark  Arms  worth."  r  ,.  xu  *.   fV,o 

He  walked  away  slowly  into  the  forest.  He  felt  that  tn>. 
crisis  of  his  life  was  come;  that  he  must  turn  his  ^  hand 
henceforth  to  quite  new  work ;  and  as  he  went  he  tooK 
stock,"  as  it  were,  of  his  own  soul,  to  see  what  pomt  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  vvas 
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  mvent,  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    estimate    thereof.      He 
looked   on  it  as   his   raw   material,   which  he  had  to  work 
up  into  subsistence  and   comfort    for  himself.       He   did  not 
wish  to   live  on   men,    but  live  by  them  he  must;    and  for 
that    purpose    he    must    study    them,    and    especially    their 
weaknesses.      He  would  not  cheat  them  ;   for   there  was  m 
him  an    innate  vein  of  honesty,  so   surly  and  explosive,   at 
times,  as  to    give  him  much  trouble.     The  severest  part  ot 
his  self-education  had  been  the  repression  of  his  dangerous 
inclination  to  call  a  sham  a  sham  on  the  spot,  and  to  answei 
fools    according    to    their    folly.       That    youthful    rashness, 
however,  was  now  well-nigh  subdued,  and  Tom  could  fladei 
and  bully  also,  when  it  served  his  turn  -as  who  cannot  ?     Le 
him  who  is   without   sin  among    my  readers,    cast  the  firsl 
stone.     Self-conscious  he  was,  therefore,  in  every  word  anc 
action ;  not  from  morbid  vanity,  but  a  necessary  consequent 
of  his  mode  of  life.     He  had  to  use  men,  and  therefore  tc 
watch  how  he  used  them  ;    to  watch  every  word,   gesture, 
tone   of  voice,   and,  in   all   times  and   places,    do  the   fitting 
thine:.     It  v^as  hard   work:    but   necessary  for  a  man  whc 
stood    alone  and  self-poised    in   the   midst  of   the   universe 
fashioning  for   himself    everywhere,   just  as   far  as   his   am 
could    reach,   some   not   intolerable   condition;    depending  or 


Two  Years  Ago.  47 

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 
official  meanings,  that  one  fears  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-aftected  too,  because  he  found  it 
pay  in  the  long  run,  and  because  he  threw  off  their  guard 
the  people  whom  he  intended  to  make  his  tools.  But  of 
godHness  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  v/as  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,  vyho  have  likewise  religious  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-reliance  and  invention ;  not  those  deep 
sorrows  of  the  heart  which  leave  a  man  helpless  in  the  lowest 
pit,  crying  for  help  from  v/ithout,  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  honest  men.  All 
religions  were,  in  his  eyes,  equally  true  and  equally  false. 
Superior  morality  vs^as  owing  principally  to  the  influences 
of  race  and  climate ;   and  devotional  experiences  (to  'udge, 


4^  Two  Years  Ago. 

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  had 
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  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  p'ague  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  he 
were  alive  again,  or  had  never  lived  at  all.  And  so  I  shall  get 
over  this.  Why  should  I  give  way  to  what  I  knovv  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  ferns,  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  vanishing  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   ail   who 


Two  Years  Ago.  49 

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 
wilderness,  and  sleep  for  ever,  unhonoured  and  unknown, 
beneath  that  awful  forest  roof,  while  his  father  looked  for 
bread  to  other's  hands  ? 

No  man  was  less  sentimental,  no  man  less  superstit;ous 
than  Thomas  Thurnall ;  but  crushed  and  softened^all  but 
terrified  (as  who  would  not  have  been  ?)  —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 
possibihties.  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  ? 
What  guarantee  had  he  in  earth  or  heaven  that  he  might 
not  be  "snuffed  out  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  boyhood,  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 
darkness  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  joUily  as  ever  away  there  in  the  west !  It 
is  morning  somewhere  or  other  nov/,  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 


50  Two  Years  Ago. 

I  have  any  time  these  fifteen  years.  Mark'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  1 
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  \von'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  a  flower,"  can  thus  harden  himself  into  stoical 
security,  and  count  on  the  morrow,  which  may  never  come. 
Yet  so  it  is ;  and,  perhaps,  if  it  were  not  so,  no  work  would 
get  done  on  earth — at  least  by  the  many  who  know  not  that 
God  is  guiding  them,  while  they  fancy  that  they  are  guiding- 
themselves. 


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  follow  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 
Cyclopean  wall,  sits  a  young  woman  of  eight-and-twenly, 
soberly,  almost  primly  dressed,  with  three  or  four  tiny  children 
clubtering  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  fish  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 


Two  Years  Ago.  51 

green  and  purple  cut-work  of  delicate  weeds  and  coraline,  and 
starred  with  great  sea-dahlias,  crimson  and  brovvn  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!"  cried  the  little  ones, 
with  tearful  eyes.  ' '  And  what  shall  v/e  be  changed  to  when 
we  die  ?  " 

"  If  we  will  only  be  good,  we  shall  go  up  to  Jesus,  and 
be  beautiful  angels,  and  sing  hymns.  Would  that  it  might  be 
soon,  soon ;  for  you  and  me,  and  all ! "  And  she  draws  the 
children  to  her,  and  looks  upward,  as  if  longing  to  bear  them 
v?ith  her  aloft. 

Let  us  leave  the  conversation  where  it  is,  and  look  into 
the  face  of  the  speaker,  v/ho,  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 
outlines  suiting  well  with  the  severity  of  her  dress,  with  the 
brov7n  stuff  gown,  3Jid  plain  gray  whittle.  Ker  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  a  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  upvyard  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. 


$2  Two  Years  Ago. 

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  on  the  pool 
at  her  feet ;  so  that  we  can  see  nothing  of  them  but  the  large 
sleepy  lids,  fringed  with  lashes  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  shifts  her  eyes— dark  eyes,  of  preterna'.ural 
largeness ;  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  lids, 
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 
so";ve  the  mystery.     Let  Him  solve  it  as  seems  best  to  Him." 

The  pier  has,  as  u:ua!,  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  I  ycu  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  doit?" 

'■'  I  would  thirty  years  ago ;  but  I'll  find  a  dozen  in  five 
minutes  who  will  do  it  now.  Here,  lads  !  here's  two  'Welsh 
vagabonds  pelting  our  schoolmistress." 

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

Up  jump  half  a  dozen  off  the  logs  and  baulkings,  where 


Two  Years  Ago.  53 

they  have  been  squatting,  doubled  up  knee  to  nose,  after  the 
fashion  of  their  class  ;  and  a  volley  of  execrations,  like  a  storm 
of  grape,  almost  blows  the  two  offenders  off  the  wall.  The 
bolder,  however,  lingers,  anathematising  in  turn ;  whereon  a 
black-bearded  youth,  some  six  feet  four  in  height,  catches  up 
an  oar,  makes  a  sweep  at  the  shins  of  the  lad  above  his  head, 
and  brings  him  writhing  down  upon  the  upper  pier-way, 
whence  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  the  petty  crimes  which  fill  our  jails  are  all 
unknov/n  among  those  honest  Vikings'  sons  ;  and  any  man 
who  covets  his  neighbour's  goods,  instead  of  stealing  them, 
has  only  to  go  and  borrow  them,  on  condition,  of  course,  of 
lending  in  his  turn. 

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

"  Gentleman  Jan  cut  him  over,  for  pelting  the  schoolmistress 
below  here." 

"Serve  him  right;  he'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." 

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

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

"  1  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,  with  his  bowings 
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  Hundredth  and  Martyrdom?  I  should  like  to  see 
any  Pope  of  the  lot  make  a  tune  like  them," 


54  Two  Years  Ago. 

Captain  Willis  listened  with  a  face  half  sad,  half  slily 
amused.  He  and  Tardrew  were  old  friends  ;  beings  the  two 
most  notable  persons  in  the  parish,  save  Jones  the  lieutenant, 
Heale  the  doctor,  and  another  gentleman,  of  whom  we  shall 
speak  presently.  Both  of  them,  too,  were  thorough-going 
Protestants,  and,  though  Churchmen,  walked  sometimes  into 
the  Brianite  Chapel  of  an  afternoon,  and  thought  no  sin. 
But  each  took  the  curate's  •'  Puseyisra "  in  a  different  way, 
being  two  men  as  unlike  each  other  as  one  could  well  find. 

Tardrew — steward  to  Lord  Scoutbush,  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  Mr.  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  Marryat  has  painted  in  his  "  Masterman 
Ready,"  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  iniquities  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 


Two  Years  Ago.  55 

V7*31is,  so  potent  was  the  influence  of  his  gentleness ;  nailed 
not  up  his  shutters,  nor  tied  fishing-lines  across  his  doorway ; 
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  commission  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  hunting,  in  the  old  coast- 
blockade  service,  the  smugglers  among  whom  he  had  been 
trained  ;  watching  the  slow  horrors  of  the  Walcheren  ;  fighting 
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  comfortably  now  for  many  a  year  in  his  native 
town,  he  had  been  always  the  same  gentle,  valiant,  righteous 
man  ;  sober  m  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  itind,  an  almost 
mesmeric  influence  on  everyone  in  the  little  town.  Goodness 
rather  than  talent  had  given  her  a  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 


5  6  Two  Years  Ago. 

wild  eloquence,  with  fantastic  fables,  with  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  round  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 
gave  rise  to  the  belief  that  she  had  only  to  will,  and  she^coul  i 
see  whom  she  would,  and  all  that  they  were  doing,  even  across 
the  seas ;  her  exquisite  sensibility,  it  was  whispered,  made  he 
feel  every  bodily  suffering  she  witnessed,  as  acutely  as  the 
sufferer's  self,  and  in  every  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,  fighting  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  I  The  maidens,  instead  of  envying  her  beauty,  made  her 
the  confidante  of  all  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  he  should  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.  What- 
ever 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 


Two  Years  Ago.  57 

nothing  but  temptation,  and  disappointment,  and  misery :  to 
make  them  "fit  for  heaven,"  and  then  to  pray  that  they 
n^ight  go  thither  as  speedily  as  possible,  this  had  been  her 
work  for  now  seven  years ;  and  that  Manichaeisra  which  has 
driven  darker  and  harder  natares  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  their  children's  scholarship, 
but  for  their  characters. 

Frank  Headley  the  curate,  therefore,  had  touched  altogether 
the  v7rong  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  WilHs?"  said  Frank,  so'.itary  and  sad; 
longing  for  a  talk  with  someone,  and  not  quite  sure  whether 
he  was  welcome. 

"Well,  sir?"  and  the  old  man  lifted  his  hat,  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  toward  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  the 
point,  in  his  gentle,  straightforward  fashion. 

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

"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  church  twice  a  Sunday,  don't  she? 
And  teaches  them  all  that  you  tell  her " 

"Why — yes— I  have  taken  the  religious  instruction  almost 
into  my  own  hands  now." 


5^  Two  Years  Ago. 

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  Imar  her." 

Frank  made  no  answer. 

"You  wouldn't  stop  her  doing  that?  Oh,  sir,"  and  the  old 
man  spoke  with  a  quiet  earnestness  that  was  not  without  its 
effect,  "just  look  at  her  now,  like  the  Good  Shepherd  with  His 
lambs  about  His  feet,  and  think  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  Mr.  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  active  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  have  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 
unclft,  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 
cbildren  too,  sir ;  and  they'll  go  to  her  all  the  same,  do  what 
you  will !  and  never  a  one  of  them  will  enter  the  church  door 
from  that  day  forth." 


Two  Years  Ago.  59 

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

"  The  more  reason,  sir,  if  you'll  forgive  me,  for  your  not 
putting  upon  her." 

"I  do  not  want  to  put  upon  her,  or  anyone.  I  will  do 
everything.  I  will— I  do — work  day  and  night  for  these  people, 
Mr.  V\/'illis.  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 
forget  it— than  the  parish  :  but  Church  principles  I  must  carry 
out." 

"  Well,  sir,  certainly  no  man  ever  worked  here  as  you  do.  If 
all  had  been  like  you,  sir,  there  would  not  be  a  Dissenter  here 
now  :  but  excuse  me,  sir,  the  Church  is  a  very  good  thing,  and 
I  keep  to  mme,  having  served  under  her  Majesty,  and  her 
Majesty'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  Where  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  thing,  she  looks  up  to  me  as  one,  pretty  niucia— 
the  dear  soul.  Oh,  sir  I  I  hope  you'll  think  over  this  again, 
before  you  do  anything.  It's  don'e  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 


6o  Two  Years  Ago. 

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  1 ' " 

Frank  was  somewhat  awed.  The  thought  w^as  new,  the 
application  of  the  text,  as  his  own  scholarship  taught  him, 
even  more  exact  than  Grace  fancied. 

"  Then  she  was  not  angry  ?  " 

"She,  sir  I  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,  WiUis,"  said  Frank,  in  a  hopeless  tone  of  voice, 
and  sauntered  to  the  pier-end,  down  the  steps,  and  along  the 
lower  pier-way,  burdened  with  many  thoughts.  He  came  up 
to  the  knot  of  chatting  sailors.  Not  one  of  them  touched  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  he,  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  he  likes,"  said  big  Jan  ; 
a  proposition  the  impossibility  whereof  raised  a  horse-laugh. 

"Ain't  you  ashamed  of  yourselves,  lads?"  said  the  severe 
voice  of  Willis,  from  above.  The  men  rose  sulkily  ;  and  Frank 
hastened  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  for 
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 
tiiCiG  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 


Two  Years  Ago.  6i 

it  into  their  heads  that  he  had  a  leaning  to  Popery ;  that  he 
was  going  over  to  Rome ;  that  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  outside,  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  ignorance  and  dulness  under  the  cloak  of 
Church  infallibility,  and  having  neither  wit,  manners,  learning, 
humanity,  or  any  other  dignity  whereon  to  stand,  talk  loud, 
pour  fjis  aller,  about  the  dignity  of  the  priesthood.  Such  men 
Frank  had  met  at  neighbouring  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  desire  of  doing 
good.  He  had  been  a  curate  in  a  fashionable  London  church  : 
but  finding  the  atmosphere  thereof  not  over-wholesome  to 
his  soul,  he  had  had  the  courage  to  throw  off  St.  Nepomuc's, 
its  brotherhoods,  sisterhoods,  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  them)  into  the  wilderness  of 
Bethnal  Green.  But  six  months'  gallant  work  there,  with 
gallant  men,  (for  there  are  High  Churchm.en  there  who  are 
an  honour  to  England),  brought  him  to  death's  door.  The 
doctors  commanded  some  soft  western  air.  Frank,  as 
chivalrous  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 


62  Two  Years  Ago. 

to  the  Church  would  be  something  worth  living  for.  So  hft 
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  over- 
looked—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,  incapable,  remaining  there 
simply  because  nobody  else  would  have  him,  and  given  to 
brandy-and-water  as  much  as  his  flock.  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  who  stood  in  some  questionable  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  righteousness,  they  had 
learnt  from  the  soi-disant  disciples  of  John  Wesley.  So 
Frank  Heailey  had  to  make  up,  at  starting,  the  arrears 
of  half  a  century  of  base  neglect ;  but  instead  of  doing  so, 
he  had  contrived  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  1  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  perform  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. 

Beneath  us,  to  the  left  hand,  is  the  quay-pool,  now  lying 
dry,  in  which  a  dozen  trawlers  are  lopping  over  on  their 
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  were  getting  on  board  by  ladders,  to  pack  away 
the  said  red  sails ;   for  it  will  blow  to-niyht.      In  the  long 


Two  Years  Ago,  63 

furrows  which  their  keels  have  left,  and  in  the  shallow, 
muddy  pools,  lie  innumerable  fragments  of  exenterated  maids 
(not  human  ones,  pitiful  reader,  but  belonging  to  the  order 
Pisces,  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.  George  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  which  is  now 
uppermost),  is  dissecting  the  liver,  for  the  purpose  of  greasing 
his  "sheaves"  with  the  fragrant  oil  thereof.  The  pools  in 
general  are  bedded  with  black  mud,  and  creamed  over  with 
oily  flakes  which  may  proceed  from  the  tar  on  the  vessels' 
sides,  and  may  also  from  "decomposing  animal  matter,"  as 
wQ^  euphemise  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  mackerels'  heads,  gurnets'  fins,  old  hag, 
lob-worm,  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  towards  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,  such 
some  shriek  as — 

"  Patience  Penberthy,  Patience  Penberthy — a  I  You  nasty, 
dirty,  little  ondecent  hussy — a  I  What  be  playing  in  the 
quay-pool  for — a !  A-pulling  up  your  petticoats  before  the 
quality — al"  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. 


64  Two  Years  Ago. 

Never  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  notr  Look  on  fifty 
yards  to  the  left.  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,  with  three 
or  four  white  canvas-covered  boats,  and  a  flagstaff  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  the  limekiln,  with  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  j'^ellow  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  Berkshire  in  a  year.  Pleasant  little  glimpses  there  are, 
too,  of  gray  stone  farm-houses,  nestling  among  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,  which  betokens  a  climate  surcharged  with  rain.  Only, 
in  the  very  bosom  of  the  valley,  a  soft  mist  hangs,  increasing 
the  sense  of  distance,  and  softening  back  one  hill  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. 


Two  Years  Ago.  65 

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 
ground-swell  moans  and  thunders  on  the  beach  behind  us, 
louder  and  louder  every  moment. 

Let  us  go  on,  and  up  the  street,  after  wa  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,  v/ith  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  prove  yourself 
a  gentleman,  by  speaking  respectfully  to  them ;  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  hundred  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  I 

But  in  going  up  Aberalva  Street  you  remark  several  things  ; 
first,  that  the  houses  were  all  whitewashed  yesterday,  except 
where  the  snovyy  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  the  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 
Cobaea  scandens,  covered  with  purple  claret-glasses,  as  it  has 
C  been,  ever  since  Christmas :  for  Aberalva  knows  no  winter ; 


66  Two  Years  Ago. 

and  there  are  grown-up  men  in  it  who  never  put  ona  skate 
or  made  a  snowball,  in  their  lives.     A  most  cleanly    bnght- 
colo^red.  foreign-looking  street  is  that  long  straggling  one 
wtcTr^ns  up  the  hUl  towards  Penalva  Court:  only  remark 
Sat  this  cleanliness  is  gah.cd  by  makmg  the  gutter  m  the 
middle  street  the  common  se«.er  of  the  town,  and  tread  cle^of 
Cabbage-leaves,  pilchard  bones,  et  id  genus  omne.     For  Aberalva 
L  hke^Paris  (i    the  answer  of  a  celebrated  sanitary  reforme 
to  he  emperor  be  truly  reported),  "  fair  without,  but  foul  within^ 
However,  the  wind  is  blowing  dull  and  hollow  from  souU^- 
west;  the  clouds  are  rolling  faster  and  faster  "P  fron.  ^e 
Atlantic-    the  sky  to  westward  is  brassy  green;   the  glass 
bUltg  fast;  and' there  wUl  be  wind  and  rain  enough  to-mght 
to  sweep  even  Aberalva  clean  for  the  next  week. 

Grace  Harvey  sees  the  coming  storm,  as  she  goes  slowly 
homeward,  dismissing  her  little  flock ;  and  she  Angers  long 
and  sadly  outside  her  cottage  door,  lookmg  out  over  the  fast 
brackeniJg  sea,  and  listening  to  the  hollow  thunder  of  tiie 
ground-swell  against  the  back  of  the  pomt  which  shelters 

^ff:^Ton  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  commg ;  and 
Grace  prays  for  them  as  she  stands,  in  her  wild  way,  with 

^^^f^Tre^^;f Ships,  dear  Lord,  and  so  many  beautify 
men  in  them,  and  so  few  of  them  ready  to  die ;  and  aU  those 
gallant  soldiers  going  to  the  war-Lord,  wilt  Thou  not  have 
mercy?  Spare  them  for  a  little  time,  before—-  Is  not  that 
"uef man  devouring  sea  full  enough.  Lord;  and  brave  mens 
bones  enough,  strewn  up  and  down  all  rocks  and  sands?  And 
is  not  that  dark  place  full  enough,  O  Lord,  of  POor  sods 
cut  off  in  a  moment,  as  my  two  were?  Oh,  not  to-mght,  dear 
Lord!  Do  not  call  anyone  to-night-give  them  a  day  more 
one  chance  more,  poor  fellows-they  have  had  so  few  and  so 
many  temptations,  and,  perhaps,  no  schooling.  They  go  to 
sea  so  early,  and  young  things  will  be  young  things  Lord. 
Spare  them  but  one  ni^ht  more-and  yet  He  did  not  spare 
my  two  they  had  no  time  to  repent,  and  have  no  tune  for 
ever,  evermore  1 " 


Two  Years  Ago.  67 

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  eyebrows  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  v/hich  Shelley 
sang— 

"  Its  horror  and  its  beauty  are  divinsv 

Upon  its  lips  and  eyelids  seem  to  lie 

Loveliness  like  a  shadow,  from  which  shine, 

Fiery  and  lucid,  struggling  underneath. 

The  agonies  of  angTiish  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  bursas  into  violent 
weeping. 

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

"My  two,  mother,  my  twol"  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  ex- 
haustion, 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  drudgery  of  life. 

Grace  had  reason  to  pray  at  last,  for  the  soldiers  who  were 
going  to  the  war.  For  as  she  prayed,  the  Orinoco,  Ripon, 
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,  opposite  Buckingham  Palace,  while  the  bearskins 
were  on  the  bayonet  points,  with — 

"Well,  old  fellow,  you  have  the  fun,  after  all,  and  I  the 
work  J "  and  had  been  answered  with — 


68  Two  Years  Ago. 

"Fun?  there  will  be  no  fighting;  and   I  shall  only  have 
lost  my  season  in  town." 
Was  there,  then,  no  mar.  among  them  that  day,  who— 
•'  As  the  trees  began  to  whisper,  and  the  wind  began  to  roll. 
Heard  in  the  wild  March  morning  the  angels  call  his  soul?" 
♦  ♦***** 

Verily  they  are  gone  down  to  Hades,  even  many  stalwart 
souls  of  heroes. 


CHAPTER  III. 

Anything  but  Still  Life. 

PENALVA  Court,  about  half  a  mile  from  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  which  the  wind  and  rain  are 
lashing  through  the  dreary  darkness  ;  low,  oak-ribbed  ceilings  ; 
windows  which  once  were  mullioued  with  stone,  but  now  with 
wood  painted  white  ;  walls  which  were  once  oak-wainscot,  but 
have  been  painted  like  the  mullions,  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 
drawing-room,  where  he  and  his  v/ife  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 
valuable  knick-knacks  are  set  out,  with  pardonable  ostentation, 
on  a  little  table  covered  with  orimson  velvet.  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  Trebooze, 
always  finger  them  over  when  they  have  an  opportunity,  and 
whisper  to  each  other,  half  contemptuously,  "Ah,  poor  thmg  I 
there's  a  sign  that  she  has  seen  better  days." 
^nd  better  days,  in  one  sense,  Mrs.  Vavasour  has  seen.     I 


Two  Years  Ago.  69 

Bl  afraid,  indeed,  that  she  has  more  than  once  regretted  the 

lorning  when  she  ran  away  in  a  hack-cab  from  her  brother 

.ord  Scoutbush's  house  in  Eaton  Square,  to  be  married  to 

;isley  Vavasour,  the  gifted  author  of  "A  Soul's  Agonies,  and 

ther    Poems."      He   was   a  lion  then,  with   foolish    women 

mning  after  hira,  and  turning  his  head  once  and  for  all ;  and 

.ucia  St.  Just  was  a  wild  Irish  girl,  new  to  London  society, 

II  feeling  and  romance,  and  literally  all ;  for  there  was  little 

;al  intellect  underlying  her  passionate  sensibility.     So  when 

le  sensibility  burnt  itself  out,  as  it  generally  does ;  and  when 

lildren,   and  the  weak  health  which  comes  with  them,   and 

le  cares  of  a  household,  and  money  difficulties  were  absorbing 

sr  little  powers,    Elsley  Vavasour  began  to   fancy  that  his 

fife  was  a  very  commonplace  person,  who   was  fast  losing 

ren  her  good  looks  and  her  good  temper.     So,  on  the  whole, 

ley  were  not  happy.     Elsley  was  an  affectionate  man,  and 

jnourable  to  a  fantastic  nicety;  but  he  was  vain,  capricious, 

?er-sensitive,   craving  for  admiration  and  distinction ;  and  it 

as  not  enough  for  hira  that  his  wife  loved  him,  bore  hira 

lildren,  kept  his  accounts,   mended  and  moiled  all  day  long 

r  hira  and  his ;  he  wanted  her  to  act  the  public  for  him 

:actly   when   he   was   hungry   for  praise ;   and   that  not   the 

tual,  but  an  altogether  ideal,  public ;  to  worship  hira  as  a 

ity,    "live  for  hira  and  hira    alone,"    "realise"    his   poetic 

earns    of  marriage  bliss,    and  talk  sentiment  with  him,   or 

ten  to  him  talking  sentiment  to  her,  when  she  would  much 

oner  be  safe  in  bed  burying  all  the  petty  cares  of  the  day, 

d  the  pain  in  her  back  too>  poor  thing  I   in  sound  sleep  ; 

d  so  it  befell  that  they  often  quarrelled  and  wrangled,  and 

it  they  were  quarrelling  and  wrangling  this  very  night. 

Who  cares  to  know  how  it  began  ?    Who  cares  to  hear  how 

went  on — the  stupid,  aimless  skirmish  of  bitter  words,  between 

o  people  who  had  forgotten  themselves  ?   I  believe  it  began 

th  Elsley's  being  vexed  at  her  springing  up  two  or  three 

les,   fancying  that    she    heard    the  children    cry,   while  he 

mted  to  be  quiet,   and  sentimentalise  over  the  roaring  of 

;  wind  outside.     Then— she  thought  of  nothing  but   those 

Idren.      Why  did    she   not  take   a   book  and  occupy  her 

ad  ?    To  which  she  had  her  pert,  though  just  answer,  about 

*  mind  having  quite  enough  to  do  to  keep  clothes  on  the 


yo  Two  Years  Ago. 

children's  backs,  and  so  forth— let  who  list  imagine  th 
miserable  little  squabble— till  she  says,  "I  know  what  ha 
put  you  out  so  to-night ;  nothing  but  the  news  of  my  sister' 
coming."  He  answers,  "That  her  sister  is  as  little  to  hit 
as  to  any  man ;  as  welcome  to  come  now  as  she  has  bee 
to  stay  away  these  three  years." 

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

and  his  pursuits— and  who "  and  at  that  point  he  wise! 

stops  sliort,  for  he  was  going  to  throw  down  a  very  ugl 
gage  of  battle. 
Thrown  down  or  not,  Lucia  snatches  at  it 
•'Ah,  I  understand  ;  poor  Valencia  1    You  always  hated  her 

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

"  Be  so  kind  as  not  to  abuse  my  fam.ily.     You  may  say  wlu 

you  will  of  me  ;  but " 

"And  what  have  your  family  done  for  me,  pray?" 

"  Why,  considering  that  we  are  now  living  rent-free  in  n 

brother's  house,  and "  She    stops    in    her    turn;    for   h 

pride  and  her  prudence  also  will  not  let  her  tell  him  th 
Valencia  has  been  clothing  her  and  the  children  for  the  la 
three  years.  He  is  just  the  man  to  forbid  her  on  the  spot 
receive  any  more  presents,  and  to  sacrifice  her  comfort  to  i 
own  pride.  But  what  she  has  said  is  quite  enough  to  brii 
out  a  very  angry  answer,  which  she  expecting,  nips  in  the  b 

by— 

"  For  goodness'  sake,  don't  speak  so  loud ;    I  don't  wa 
the  servants  to  hear." 

"  I  am  not  speaking  loud,"  (he  has  not  yet  opened  his  lip 
"That  is  your  old  trick  to  prevent  my  defending  rayse 
while  you  are  driving  one  mad.  How  dare  you  taunt  i 
with  being  a  pensioner  on  your  brother's  bounty  ?  I'll  go 
to  town  again  and  take  lodgings  there.  I  need  not 
beholden  to  any  aristocrat  of  them  all.  I  have  my  own  stati 
in  the  real  world— the  world  of  intellect;  I  have  my  o; 
friends;  I  have  made  myself  a  name  wiihout  his  help;  and 
can  live  without  his  help,  he  shall  find  1 " 


Two  Years  Ago.  71 

••Wliich  name  Virere  yon  speaking  of?" 'ejoins  she,  looking 
op  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 
jp  to  call  him  back,  but  he  is  gone — and  she  dashes  herself 
jn  the  floor,  and  bursts  into  an  agony  of  weeping  over  "young 
jliss  never  to  return  1 "  Not  in  the  least.  Her  principal  fear  is 
est  he  should  catch  cold  in  the  rain.  She  takes  up  her  work 
igain,  and  stitches  away  in  the  comfortable  certainty  that  in 
lalf  an  hour  she  will  have  recovered  her  temper,  and  he 
Use ;  that  they  will  pass  a  sulky  night ;  and  to-morrow,  by 
ibout  raid-day,  without  explanation  or  formal  reconciliation, 
lave  become  as  good  friends  as  ever.  "Perhaps,"  says  she 
:o  herself,  with  a  woman's  sense  of  power,  "if  he  be  very 
nuch  ashamed  and  very  wet,  I'll  pity  him  and  make  friends 
:o-night." 

Miserable  enough  are  these  little  squabbles.  Why  will  two 
)eople,  who  have  sworn  to  love  and  cherish  each  other 
itterly,  and  who,  on  the  whole,  do  what  they  have  sworn, 
>ehave  to  each  other  as  they  dare  for  very  shame  behave  to 
10  one  else?  Is  it  that,  as  every  beautiful  thing  has  its 
lideous  antitype,  this  mutual  shamelessness  is  the  devil's  ape 
tf  mutual  confidence  ?  Perhaps  it  cannot  be  otherwise  with 
teings  compact  of  good  and  evil.  When  the  veil  of  reserve 
3  v/ithdrawn  from  between  two  souls,  it  must  be  withdrawn 
Dr  evil,  as  for  good,  till  the  two  natures,  which  ought  to  seek 
est,  each  in  the  other's  inmost  depths,  may  at  last  spring  apart, 
onfronting  each  other  recklessly  with,  "There,  you  see  me 
s  I  am  ;  you  know  the  worst  of  me,  and  I  of  you ;  take  me 
s  you  find  me — what  care  I  ? " 

Elsley  and  Lucia  have  not  yet  arrived  at  that  terrible  crisis ; 
lough  they  are  on  the  path  toward  it — the  path  of  little 
arelessnesses,  rudenesses,  imgoverned  words  and  tempers, 
nd,  worst  of  all,  of  that  half-confidence,  which  is  certain  to 
venge  itself  by  irritation  and  quarrelling ;  for  if  two  married 
eople  will  not  tell  each  other  in  love  what  they  ought,  they 


72  Two  Years  Ago. 

will  be  sure  to  tell  each  other  in  anger  what  they  ought  not.  I 
is  plain  enough  already  that  Elsley  has  his  weak  point,  whicl 
must  not  be  touched;  something  about  "a  name,"  whid 
Lucia  is  to  be  expected  to  ignore,  as  if  anything  which  reall; 
exists  could  be  ignored  while  two  people  live  together  nigh 
and  day,  for  better  for  worse.  Till  the  thorn  is  out,  the  woun^ 
will  not  heal ;  and  till  that  matter  (whatever  it  may  be)  i 
set  right,  by  confession  and  absolution,  there  will  be  no  peac 
for  them,  for  they  are  living  in  a  lie ;  and,  unless  it  be  a  ver 
little  one  indeed,  better,  perhaps,  that  they  should  go  on  t 
that  terrible  crisis  of  open  defiance.  It  may  end  in  disgusi 
hatred,  madness ;  but  it  may,  too,  end  in  each  falling  agai 
upon  the  other's  bosom,  and  sobbing  out  through  holy  tear; 
"Yes;  you  do  know  the  worst  of  me,  and  yet  you  love  m 
still.  This  is  happiness,  to  find  oneself  most  loved  when  or 
most  hates  oneself  I  God,  help  us  to  confess  our  sins  to  The< 
as  we  have  done  to  each  other,  and  to  begin  life  again  lik 
little  children,  struggling  hand  in  hand  out  of  this  lowest  pi 
up  the  steep  path  which  leads  to  life,  and  strength,  an 
peace." 

Heaven  grant  that  it  may  so  end  !  But  now  Elsley  hs 
gone  raging  out  into  the  raging  darkness  ;  trying  to  pro\ 
■himself  the  most  injured  of  men,  and  to  hate  his  wife  i 
much  as  possible  :  though  the  fool  knows  the  whole  tin 
that  he  loves  her  better  than  anything  on  earth,  even  tha 
that  "fame,"  on  which  he  tries  to  fatten  his  lean  sou 
snapping  greedily  at  every  scrap  which  falls  in  his  way,  an( 
in  default,  snapping  at  everybody  and  everything  else.  Ar 
little  comfort  it  gives  him.  Why  should  it?  What  comfor 
save  in  being  wise  and  strong?  And  is  he  the  wiser  ( 
stronger  for  being  told  by  a  reviewer  that  he  has  writte 
fine  words,  or  has  failed  in  writing  them;  or  to  have  sil 
women  writing  to  ask  for  his  autograph,  or  for  leave  to  s 
his  songs  to  music?  Nay— shocking  as  the  question  mi 
seem— is  he  the  wiser  and  stronger  man  for  being  a  poet  i 
all,  and  a  genius  ?  provided,  of  course,  that  the  word  genius 
used  in  its  modern  meaning,  of  a  person  who  can  say  pretti 
things  than  his  neighbours.  I  think  not  Be  it  as  it  ma 
away  goes  the  poor  genius  ;  his  long  cloak,  picturesque  enoug 
in  calm  weather,  fluttering  about  uncomfortably  enough,  whi 


Two  Years  Ago.  73 

he  rain  washes  his  long  curls  into  swabs  ;  out  through  the  old 
:arden,  between  storm-swept  laurels,  beneath  dark  groaning 
ines,  and  through  a  door  in  the  wall  which  opens  into  the  lane. 
The  lane  leads  downward,  on  the  right,  into  the  village. 
le  is  in  no  temper  to  meet  his  fellow-creatures— even  to 
Je  the  comfortable  gleam  through  their  windov/s,  as  the  sailors 
lose  round  the  fire  with  wife  and  child;  so  he  turns  to 
le  left,  up  the  deep  stone-banked  lane,  which  leads  toward 
le  cliff,  dark  now  as  pitch ;  for  it  is  overhung,  right  and  left, 
dth  deep  oak-wood. 

It  is  no  easy  matter  to  proceed,  though,  for  the  wind  pours 
awn  the  lane  as  through  a  funnel,  and  the  road  is  of 
ippery,  bare  slate,  worn  here  and  there  into  puddles  of 
reasy  clay,  and  Elsley  slips  back  half  of  every  step,  while 
s  wrath,  as  he  tries,  oozes  out  of  his  heels.  Moreover,  those 
irk  trees  above  him,  tossing  their  heads  impatiently  against 
e  scarcely  less  dark  sky,  strike  an  awe  into  him— a  sense 
loneliness,  almost  of  fear.  An  uncanny,  bad  night  it  is  ; 
id  he  is  out  on  a  bad  errand  ;  and  he  knows  it,  and  wishes 
at  he  were  home  again.  He  does  not  believe,  of  course,  in 
ose  "spirits  of  the  storm,"  about  whom  he  has  so  often 
ritten,  any  more  than  he  does  in  a  great  deal  of  his  fine 
agery;  but  still,  in  such  characters  as  his,  the  sympathy 
tween  the  moods  of  nature  and  those  of  the  mind  is  most 
U  and  important ;  and  Dame  Nature's  equinoctial  night- wrath 
weird,  gruesome,  crushing,  and  can  be  faced  (if  it  must  be 
;ed)  in  real  comfort  only  when  one  is  going  on  an  errand  of 
;rcy,  with  a  clear  conscience,  a  light  heart,  a  good  cigar, 
d  plenty  of  mackintosh. 

3o,  ere  Elsley  had  gone  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  he  turned  back, 
d  resolved  to  go  in,  and  take  up  his  book  once  more, 
rhaps  Lucia  might  beg  his  pardon;  and  if  not,  why, 
•haps  he  might  beg  hers.  The  rain  was  washing  the 
rit  out  of  him,  as  it  does  out  of  a  thin-coated  horse. 
5tay  !  What  was  that  sound  above  the  roar  of  the  gale  ?-^ 
annon  ? 

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

C2 


y^  Two  Years  Ago. 

Another,  and  another;  and  then,  in  the  village  below,  h? 
could  see  lights  hurrying  to  and  fro.  A  wreck  at  sea?  He 
turned  again  up  the  lane.  Ke  had  never  seen  a  v^reck.  What 
an  opportunity  for  a  poet ;  and  on  such  a  night,  too :  it  wouic 
be  magnificent  if  the  moon  would  but  come  outl  Just  the 
scene,  too,  for  his  excited  temper  I  He  will  work  on  upward, 
let  it  blow  and  rain  as  it  may.  Ke  is  not  disappomted. 
Ere  he  has  gone  a  hundred  yards,  a  mass  of  drippmg  oil- 
skin runs  full  butt  against  him,  knocking  him  agamst  thf 
bank;  and,  by  the  clank  of  weapons,  he  recogmses  th< 
coast-guard  watchman. 

" Hollo  1  who's  that?  Beg  your  pardon,  ar,'  as  the  mai 
recognises  Elsley's  voice. 

"  What  is  it  ?— what  are  the  guns  ?•* 

"God  knows,  sir  I  Overright  the  Chough  and  Crow;  oi 
'em,  rm  afeard.  There  they  go  again  1-hard  up,  poor  souls 
God  help  them ! "  and  the  man  runs  shouting  down  the  lane. 

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

He  struggles  up  the  lane  toward  the  cliff,  and  there  pause; 
gasping,  under  the  shelter  of  a  wall,  trying  to  analyse  thj 
enormous  mass  of  sound  which  fills  his  ears  and  brain,  an 
flows  through  his  heart  like  maddening  wme.  He  can  hes 
the  sigh  of  the  dead  grass  on  the  cliff-edge,  weary,  feebl. 
expostulating  with  its  old  tormentor  the  gale ;  then  the  fierc 
screams  of  the  blasts  as  they  rush  up  across  the  layers  . 
rock  below,  like  hounds  leaping  up  at  their  prey;  and  U 
beneath,  the  horrible  confused  battle-roar  of  that  great  league 
of  waves.  He  cannot  see  them,  as  he  strains  his  eyes  ov< 
the  wall  into  the  blank  depth-nothing  but  a  confused  welt, 
and  quiver  of  mingled  air,  and  rain,  and  spray,  as  if  the  vei 
atmosphere  is  writhing  in  the  clutches  of  the  gale  :  but  he  ct 
hear-what  can  he  not  hear?  It  would  have  needed  a  le: 
vivid  brain  than  Elsley's  to  fancy  another  Badajos  beneat 
There  it  all  is-the  rush  of  columns  to  the  breach,  office 
cheering  them  on-pauses,  breaks,  wild  retreats,  upbraidir 
calls,  whispering  consultations-fresh  rush  on  rush,  now  her 
now  there-fierce  shouts  above,  below,  behind,  shrieks  o.  agon 


Two  Years  Ago.  75 

hoked  groans  and  gasps  of  dying-  men— scaling-ladders  hurled 
own   with   all    their   rattling   freight— dull    mine-explosions, 
inging  cannon-thunder,  as   the  old   fortress   blasts  back  its 
esiegers  pell-mell  into  the  deep.     It  is  all  there  :  truly  enough 
lere,  at  least,  to  madden  yet  more  Elsley's  wild,  angry  brain, 
11  he  tries  to  add  his  shouts  to  the  great  battle-cries  of  land 
nd  sea,  and  finds  them  as  little  audible  as  an  infant's  wail. 
Suddenly,   far   below  him,   a    bright    glimmer;    and,   in    a 
loment,  a  blue-light  reveals  the  whole  scene,  in  ghastly  hues 
-blue  leaping  breakers,   blue  weltering  sheets  of  foam,  blue 
)cks,  crowded  with  blue  figures,  like  ghosts,  flitting  to  and 
o^  upon   the   brink  of  that   blue  seething   Phlegethon,   and 
ishing  up  toward  him  through  the  air,  a  thousand  flying  blue 
>am-sponges,  which  dive  over  the  brow  of  the  hill  and  vanish 
se  delicate  fairies  fleeing  before  the  wrath  of  the  gale  :— but 
here  is  the  wreck?    The  blue-light  cannot  pierce  the  gray 
iil  of  mingled  mist  and  spray  which  hangs  to  seaward ;  and 
^r  guns  have  been  silent  for  half  an  hour  and  more. 
Elsley  hurries  down,  and  finds  half  the  village  collected  on 
e  long  sloping  point  of  down  below.     Sailors  wrapt  in  pilot- 
Dth,  oil-skinned  coast-guardsmen,  women  with  their  gowns 
rned  over  their  heads,  staggering  restlessly  up  and  down, 
id  in  and  out,  while  every  moment  some  fresh  comer  stum.bles 
'wn  the  slope,  thrusting  himself  into  his  clothes  as  he  goes, 
d  asks,  "  Where's  the  wreck  ?  "  and  gets  no  answer  ;  but  a 
riy  advice  to  "  hold  his  noise,"  as  if  they  had  hope  of  hearing 
e  wreck  which  they  cannot  see  ;  and  kind  women,  with  their 
arts  full  of  mothers'  instincts,  declare  that  they  can  hear 
:le  children  crymg,  and  are  pooh-poohed  down  by  kind  men, 
10,  man's  fashion,  don't  like  to  believe  anything  too  painful, 
.  if  they  believe  it,  to  talk  of  it 

"Where   were   the    guns    from,    then,   Jones?"   asks   the 
utenant  of  the  head-boatman. 

"Off  the  Chough  and  Crow,   I  thought,  sir.     God  grant 
t!" 

*  You  thought,  sir  ? "  says  the  great  man,  willing  to  vent 
i  vexation  on  someone.     "  Why  didn't  you  make  sure  ?  " 
■•Why  just  look,  lieutenant,"  says  Jones,  pointing  into  the 
)lank  height  of  the  dark";  "and  I  was  "on  the  pier  too, 
4  «iiUa'fc.fiee,i  .but  the  look-out  man  here  says "    A 


76  Two  Years  Ago. 

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  crov/d,  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.     "Jones— the  rockets!" 

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

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

Is  it  over  her?  No  1  A  fierce  gust,  which  all  but  hurl 
the  spectators  to  the  ground  ;  the  fiery  stream  sweeps  awa 
to  the  left,  in  a  grand  curve  of  sparks,  and  drops  into  the  sea 

"  Try  it  again  1 "  shouts  the  lieutenant,  his  blood  now  up 
"We'll  see  which  will  beat,  wind  or  powder." 

Again  a  rocket  is  fixed,  with  more  allowance  for  the  wind 
but  the  black  curve  has  disappeared,  and  he  must  wait  awhile. 

"  There  it  is  again  1  Fly  swift  and  sure,"  cries  Elsley,  "  tho 
fiery  angel  of  mercy,  bearing  the  saviour-line  !  It  may  nc 
be  too  late  yet." 

Full  and  true  the  rocket  went  across  her  ;  and  "three  cheei 
for  the  lieutenant  ! "  rose  above  the  storm. 

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


Two  Years  Ago.  77 

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

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  black  upper 
curve  is  becoming  more  ragged  after  every  wave ;  and  the  tide 
is  rising  fast. 

*'  There's  a  pull ! "  shouts  Jones.  .  .  ,  •'  No  there  ain't !  .  .  . 
God  have  mercy,  sir  1     She's  going  I  " 

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 
v/aste  ;  while  the  line  floats  home  helplessly,  as  if  disappointed  ; 
and  the  billows  plunge  more  sullenly  and  sadly  toward  the 
shore,  as  if  in  remorse  for  their  dark  and  reckless  deed. 

All  is  over.  What  shall  we  do  now?  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 
beautiful  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-v/illed  fancy  ? 

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 


78  Two  Years  Ago. 

a  warm  fire,  and  the  rough  lieutenant  settled  himself  down  in 
his  mackintoshes,  to  sit  out  those  weary  hours  on  the  bare 
rock,  having  done  all  that  he  could  do,  and  yet  knowing  that 
his  duty  was,  not  to  leave  the  place  as  long  as  there  was  the 
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,  grumbling,  yet  faithful ;  and  filled  up  the  time  with 
sleepy  maledictions  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  crack  frigate,  instead  of  sitting  all  night  out  on 
a  rock,  like  an  old  cormorant,  etc.,  etc.  Who  knows  not  the 
woes  of  ancient  coast-guard  lieutenants  ? 

But  as  it  befell,  Elsiey  Vavasour  was  justly  punished  for  going 
home,  by  losing  the  most  "  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  ?  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  above  her  lost  crew,  waa 
in  their  eyes  a  person  to  be  loved  and  regretted.  And 
Gentleman  Jan  spoke,  like  a  true  sailor — 

"Ah,  poor  dear  1  And  she  such  a  beauty,  Mr.  Jones;  as 
anyone  might  see  by  her  lines,  even  that  way  off.  Ah,  poor 
dear  I " 

"Aiid  so  many  brave  souls  on  board;  and,  perhaps,  some 
of  them  not  ready,  Mr.  Beer,"  says  the  serious,  elderly  chief 
boatman.     "  Eh,  Captain  Willis  ?  " 

"  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.  Jones,  three 
times,  and  taken  up  for  dead— that  is,  once  in  Gibraltar  Bay, 
and  once  when  I  was  a  total  wreck  in  the  old  Seahorse,  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,  when 
he's  a-drowning,  and  the  light  of  conscience,  too,  all  one'f 
life  in  one  minute,  like " 


Two  Years  Ago.  79 

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

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

"  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  che  schoolmistress, 
who  sits  upon  the  flat  slope  of  rock,  a  little  apart  from  the  rest, 
with  her  face  resting  on  her  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.  Jones  makes  a  step  towards  her. 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Jones,  don't  now  1  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  1 " 

"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.  Jones.  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  1    What's  she  after  ?  " 

The  girl  had  raised  her  head,  and  was  pointing,  with  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, 


8o  Two  Years  Ago. 

looked  down  under  her  bonnet,  to  see  whether  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-impatiently, 
and  then  sprang  to  her  feet  with  a  scream.  ; 

•*  A  man  I    A  man  I    Save  him  I " 

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 
brecist ;  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  1 "  shrieked  she  again,  as  twenty  men  rushed 
forward — 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. 

Ere  they  could  nerve  themselves  for  action,  the  wave  had 
come.  Up  the  slope  it  swept,  one  half  of  it  burying  the 
wretched  mariner,  and  fell  over  into  the  chasm.  The  other 
half  rushed  up  the  chasm  itself,  and  spouted  forth  again  to  the 
moonlight  in  columns  of  snow,  in  time  to  meet  the  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  very  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. 

"  She's  mazed  1 " 

•'  No,  she's  not  I "  almost  screamed  old  Willis,  in  mingled 
pride  and  terror,  as  he  rushed  after  her.  "  The  wave  has 
carried  him  across  the  crack,  and  she's  got  him  I "  And  he 
sprung  upon  her,  and  caught  her  round  the  waist 

"  Now,  if  you  be  men  1 "  shouted  he,  as  the  rest  hurried 
down. 

"Now,   if  you   be  men;    before   the  next  wave  comes P 


Two  Years  Ago,  81 

shouted  big  Jan.  "  Hands  together,  and  make  a  line  1 "  And 
he  took  a  grip  with  one  hand  of  the  old  man's  waistband, 
and  held  out  the  other  hand  for  who  would  to  seize. 

Who  took  it?    Frank  Headley,  the  curate,  who  had  been 
watching  all  sadly  apart,  longing  to  do  something  which  no 
one  could  mistake. 
"  Be  you  man  enough  ?"  asked  big  Jan,  doubtfully. 
"Try,"  said  Frank. 

"Really  you  ben't,  sir,"  said  Jan,  civilly  enough.  "Means 
no  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  disappeared,  the  chain  was  still  unbroken. 

"Saved!"  and  a  cheer  broke  from  all  lips,  save  those  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  his  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  1"  But  Frank, 
longing  to  escape  from  a  company  who  did  not  love  him, 
and  to  be  of  some  use  ere  the  night  was  out,  was  already 
lalf-way  to  the  village  on  that  very  errand. 

However,  ere  the  Doctor  could  be  stirred  out  of  his  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, 
veak,  but  alive,  carried  triumphantly  up  to  Heale's  door,  which, 
lavmg  been  kicked  open,  the  sailors  insisted  in  carrying  him 
ight  upstairs,  and  depositing  him  on  the  best  spare  bed. 


82  Two  Years  Ago. 

"  If  you  won't  come  to  your  patients,  Doctor,  your  patients 
shall  come  to  you.  Why  were  you  asleep  in  your  Uquors, 
instead  of  looking  out  for  poor  wratches,  like  a  Christian  ? 
You  see  whether  his  bones  be  broke,  and  gi'  'un  his  medicmes 
proper ;  and  then  go  and  see  after  the  schoolmistress  ;  she'm 
worth  a  dozen  of  any  man,  and  a  thousand  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  IV. 

Flotsam,  Jetsom,  and  Lagend. 

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

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  m  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  Mr.  Pecksniff's  England,  expects  every  man  to 
do  his  duty,  and  is,  accordingly  (as  the  Lancet  and  Dr.  Letheby 
know  too  well),  grievously  disappointed.  ,      ,     ,    •       .^ 

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

ind  he  was  not  disappointed.  Gentleman  Jai^,  without 
taking  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth,  dropped  his  huge  elbows 
on  the  counter,  and  his  black-fringed  chin  on  h«  fists;  took 


Two  Years  Ago.  83 

a  look  round  the  shop,  as  if  to  find  something  which  would 
suit  him ;  and  then — 

*'  I  say,  Doctor,  gi's  some  tackleum." 

"  Some  diachylum  plaster,  Mr.  Beer  ?  "  says  Heale,  meekly. 
*'Vynxa.t  for,  then?" 

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

'•How  much  diachylum  will  you  want,  then,  Mr.  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. 

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

"  I  say,  Doctor,  that  'ere  curate  come  out  well  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  Welshman'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  1 '  and  stands  something  hot  all  round,  what's  more, 
in  at  the  Mariner's  Rest.  —  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, 
udeed  he  is,  like  any  child." 

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

And  Jan  kicked  off  his  shoes,  and  marched  on  tiptoe 
hrough  the  shop,  while  Doctor  Heale,  moaning  professional 
jaculations,  showed  him  the  way. 

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

"  Ah !  a  'Stralian  digger,  by  the  beard  of  him,  and  his  red 
jfsey,"  whispered  Jan,  as  he  bent  tenderly  over  the  poor 
iilow,  and  put  his  head  on  one  side  to  listen  to  his  breathing. 


84 


Two  Years  Ago. 


"Beautiful  he  sleeps,  to  be  sure!"  said  Jan;  "and  a  tidy- 
looking  chap,  too.  'Tis  a  pity  to  wake  'un,  poor  wratch  ; 
and  he,  perhaps,  with  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  out  into  a  song.  So  he  went  up,  and  found  the 
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  vs^ell.  Very  near  drov7ned,  though. 
We  -were  pumping  at  your  lungs  for  a  full  half-hour." 

"Ah?  nothing,  though,  for  an  experienced  professional  man 
like  you  I " 

"Hum!  speaks  well  for  your  discrimination,"  says  Heale, 
flattered.  "Very  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 
rhubarb  and  senna  all  the  way  upstairs,  and  knew  that  I'd 
fallen  among  professional  brethren — 

'  Oh,  then  this  valiant  mariner, 

Which  sailed  across  the  sea, 
He  came  home  to  his  own  sweetheart 

With  his  heart  so  full  of  glee  ; 
With  his  heart  so  full  of  gflee,  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  ?  " 

"  Eh,  eh,  eh,"  sniggered  Heale. 

"  Mine  was  last  night.  Now,  Doctor,  let  us  have  a  glasj 
of  brandy-and-water,   hot  with,   and  an  hour's   more  sleep 


Two  Years  Ago.  85 

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 
gentleman  about  him,  anyone  can  see.  Besides,  he's  ship- 
wrecked, 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  Mrs.  Heale,  in  atone  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. 

"  V/ell  enough  in  body,  sir ;  and  rather  requires  your  skill 
than  mine,"  said  the  old  tim.eserver.    ."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  Frank,  "it  is  very  kind  of  you, 
I  am  sure,  to  call  on  me  I     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,  and  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  actuaJ 
preserver  was  a  young  giii." 


86  Two  Years  Ago. 

And  Frank  told  him  the  story. 

"  Vv^hew !  I  hope  she  won't  expect  me  to  marry  her  as 
payment.     Handsome  ? "  _ 

"Beautiful,"  said  Frank. 

•'Money?" 

"  The  village  schoolmistress." 

"Clever?" 

"A  sort  of  half-baked  body,"  said  Keale. 

"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  I've 
the  ears  of  a  fox.  I  hope  really,  though,  that  she  is  none 
the  worse  for  her  heroic  flights." 

"  How  is  she  this  morning,  Mr.  Heale?" 

"Well— poor  thing,  a  little  light-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 
belonging  to  the  Admiralty,  as  flotsom,  jetsom,  and  lagend ; 
for  I  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." 

Fr3,nk  spoke  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  he  meditates  a 
kick. 

"You  must  be  better  acquainted  with  my  affairs  than  I  am, 
my  dear  sir,  if  you  are  able  to  state  that  fact  Doctor!  I 
hear  a  patient  coming  into  the  surgery." 

"  Extraordinary  power  of  hearing,  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  tlie  beginning  of  our  acquaintance. 
Of  MttQii^  Jfou'jce  bound  k^  your  dolb  ityMt^s  tbottaact  of  ihmgj 


Two  Years  Ago.  87 

to  roe,  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  were  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,  ^ir  ?  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  howling  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  the  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  con- 
fidence, 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 
ablutions,    and    gradually  appearing  as  a  somewhat  dapper, 


88  Two  Years  Ago. 

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, 

"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  fight,  though,  by  a  Crow's  tomahawk 
in  the  Rocky  Mountains.  And  here's  another  token"  (lifting 
up  his  black  curls),  "which  a  Greek  robber  gave  me  in  the 
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  much 
for  either.  Now  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  Rome  as  Rome  does." 

"  Then  you  will  stay  away,"  said  Frank,  with  a  sad 
smile. 

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

"  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.R.C.S.,  Licentiate  of  the 
Universities  of  Paris,  Glasgow,  and  whilom  surgeon  of  the 
good  clipper  Hesperus,  which  you  saw  wrecked  last  night  So, 
farewell  I " 

"  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 


Two  Years  Ago.  89 

by  to-day's  post,  if  I  can  but  recollect  them  all— if  I  could  but 
stop  the  nugget,  too  ! " 

So  saying-,  he  walked  down  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  whole  boxes  in  it  ; 
and  the  counter  was- a  quarter  of  an  inch  deep  in  deposit  of 
every  vegetable  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 
Mr.  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  v^ars,  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's  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 
av/e :  suddenly  a  suspicion  flashed  across  him,  which  caused 
him  (not  unseen  by  Tom)  a  start  and  a  look  of  self-congratu- 
latory 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 


QO  Two  Years  Ago. 

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've  had  all  these  good 
businesses,  why  I  haven't  kept  them?" 

"  Ex — exactly,"  stammered  Heale,  much  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  have,  till,  God  help  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  voice  trembled  so  as  he  told  it,  that  old  Heale 
believed  every  word,  and,  what  is  more,  being— like  most  hard 
drinkers — not  "unused  to  the  melting  mood,"  wiped  his  eyes 
fervently,  and  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  I " — 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 


Two  Years  Ago.  91 

with  Mrs.  Heale.    We  must  never  act  without  consulting  the 
ladies." 
That  day  Tom  sent  off  the  following  epistle  :- 

"  To  Charles  Shuter,  Esq.,  M.D.,  St.  Mumpsimus'a 

Hospital,  London. 
•*  DEAR  Charley— 

*  I  do  adjure  thee,  by  old  pleasant  days, 
Quartier  Latin,  and  neatly-shod  giisettes. 

By  all  our  wanderings  in  quaint  by-ways, 
By  ancient  frolics,  and  by  ancient  debts." 

"Go  to  the  United  Bank  of  Australia,  forthwith,  and  stop  the 
notes  whose  numbers-  all,  alas  1  which  I  can  recollect— are 
inclosed.  Next,  lend  me  five  pounds.  Next,  send  me  down,  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  what's  worse,  robbed  of  all 
I  had  made  at  the  diggings,  and  start  fair,  once  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's  and 
all  old  faces  would  be  a  great  temptation  :  but  here  I  must  stick 
till  I  hear  of  my  money,  and  physic  tlie  natives  for  my  daily 
bread." 

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

"To  Edward  Thurnall,  Esq.,  M.D.,  Whitbury. 

"  My  Dearest  old  Father— I  hope  to  see  you  again  in 
a  few  weeks,  as  soon  as  I  have  settled  a  little  business  here, 
where  I  have  found  a  capital  opening  for  a  medical  man. 
Meanwhile,  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  fail  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 


92  Two  Years  Ago. 

and  little  Mary— big  Mary  I  suppose  she  is  now,  and  engaged 
to  be  married  to  some  '  bloated  aristocrat.'  Best  remembrances 
to  old  Mark  Armsworlh. 

•'  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  I  ha  I  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  adver- 
tisement 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. 

"  Hollo,  Heale  I  can  I  see  the  fellow  who  was  saved  last 
night  ?  " 

"  I  am  that  fellow,"  says  Tom. 

"  The  dickens  you  are  I  you  seem  to  have  fallen  on  your  legs 
quickly  enough." 

"  It's  a  trick  I  have  had  occasion  to  learn,  sir,"  says  Tom. 
*'  Can  I  prescribe  for  you  this  morning  ?  " 

"  Medicine  ?  "  roars  the  lieutenant,  laughing.     "  Catch  me  at 


Two  Years  Ago.  93 

it  I  No  ;  I  want  you  to  come  down  to  the  shore,  and  heip 
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. 

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

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  fore-topmast  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  with  fresh  fury  from  the  south-west,  with  heavy 
rain  and  fog  ;  had  passed  a  light  in  the  night,  which  they  took 
for  Scilly,  but  which  must  have  been  the  Longships  ;  had  still 
Fancied  that  they  were  safe,  running  up  Channel  with  a  w^ide 
berth,  when,  about  sunset,  the  gale  had  chopped  again  to 
north-west  ;  and  Tom  knew  no  more.  "  I  vyas  standing  on 
the  poop  with  the  captain  about  ten  o'clock.  The  last  words 
lie  said  to  me  were,  '  If  this  lasts,  we  shall  see  Brest  harbour 
to-morrow,'  when  she  struck,  and  stopped  dead.  I  was  chucked 
:lean  off  the  poop,  and  nearly  overboard  ;  but  brought  up  in 
the  mizzen  rigging.  Where  the  captain  went,  poor  fellow, 
Heaven  alone  knows  ;  for  I  never  saw  him  after.  The  main- 
nast  V7ent  like  a  carrot.  The  mizzen  stood.  I  ran  round  to 
the  cabin  doors.  There  were  four  men  steering  ;  the  w^heel 
dad  broken  out  of  the  poor  fellows'  hands,  and  knocked  them 
3ver — broken  their  limbs,  I  believe.  I  was  stooping  to  pick 
Jiem  up,  when  a  sea  came  into  the  waist,  and  then  aft, 
washing  me  in  through  the  saloon-doors,  among  the  poor  half- 
Iressed  women  and  children.  Queer  sight,  lieutenant  !  I've 
seen  a  good  many,  but  never  worse  than  that.  I  bolted  to  my 
:abin,  tied  my  notes  and  gold  round  me,  and  out  again." 

"  Didn't  desert  the  poor  things  ?  " 

"  Couldn't  if  I'd  tried  ;  they  clung  to  me  like  a  swarm  of 
bees.  'Gad,  sir,  that  was  hard  lines  !  to  have  all  the  pretty 
women   one   had   wsJtzed   with   every   evening   through    the 


94  Two  Years  Ago. 

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  was  I  to  save  them,  sir?"  cried  Tom,  with 
a  sudden  burst  of  feeling,  which,  as  in  so  many  EngUshmen, 
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  1     Well  ?  " 

"Well,  there  was  a  pretty  little  creature,  an  officer's  widow, 
and  two  children.  I  caught  her  under  one  arm,  and  one  of 
the  children  under  the  other ;  said,  '  I  can't  take  you  all  at 
once;  I'll  come  back  for  the  rest,  one  by  cne.'^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,  five  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  very  sharp — till  vye 
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  lime  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  upon 
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  ?  " 

"  But  the  child  you  held  ?  " 

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

"Eh?" 


Two  Ye^Ts  Ago.  95 

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  wentrf)ver- 
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 
nonchalance. 

"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  go  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,  there  are 
a  good  many  things  in  the  world  which  w^on't  stand  too  much 
thinking  over  ;  and  last  night  was  one." 

"Very  true,  very  true  ;  but  how  did  you  get  ashore  ?" 

"  I  get  ashore  ?     Oh,  well  enough  I     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,"  continued 


9^  Two  Years  Ago. 

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  w^ant  to  shovv  you  that  I  have  some  practical  reason 
for  jvearing  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 
nor  murder  was  it  which  brought  me  to  the  gallows  ;  but 
innocent  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  die  ? — 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  safe  off, 
and  cheated  the  devil." 

The  worthy  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  prpoared  to  give  credit  to  any  tale  when  told,  as  Tom's 
was,  with  a  straightforward  and  unboastful  simplicity. 

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

"Ah  ?  I  ougfht  to  call  and  pay  my  respects." 


Two  Years  Ago.  97 

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 
neighbour,  "as  soon  as  she  heard  the  poor  corpses  were 
coming  ashore." 

"  Hum  I"  said  Tom.  "True  woman.  Quaint — that  appetite 
for  horrors  the  sweet  creatures  have.  Did  you  ever  see  a  man 
hanged,  lieutenant  ?  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  I  had  a 
patient  once,  in  France,  who  read  Dumas's  'Crimes  Celebres' 
ail  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,  when  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  cloudlessj  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  :  oil-skinned  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  on  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  then?  to  come  back. 


gS  Two  Years  Ago. 

"Eh?  you  won't?"  and  out  rattled  from  its  scabbard  the 
old  worthy's  sword.  "  Come  back,  I  say,  you  loafing,  miching, 
wrecking  crow-keepers ;  there  are  no  pickingfs  for  you  here. 
Jones,  send  those  fellows  back  with  the  bayonet  fJone  but 
blue-jackets  allowed  on  the  beach  I "  And  the  labourers  go 
up  again,  grumbling. 

"  Can't  trust  those  landsharks.  They'll  plunder  even  the 
rings  off  a  corpse's  fingers.  They  think  eveiy  wreck  a  god- 
send. I've  known  them,  after  they've  been  driven  off,  roll 
g;eat  stones  over  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,  the  sailors 
are  finer  fellows,  body  and  soul ;  and  the  reason  is  that  they 
have  been  brought  up  to  face  danger,  and  tlie  landsmen 
haven't." 

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

"Danger,  my  good  sir,  is  a  better  schoolmaster  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  daresay  couldn't,  one 
out  of  ten  of  them,  spell  their  own  names." 

This  sentiment  elicited  from  the  lieutenant  a  grunt  of  appro- 
bation, 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  Jones;  "we 
have  fourteen  already ; "  and  he  led  the  way  to  where,  along 
the  shingle  at  high-water  mark,  lay  a  ghastly  row,  some 
fearfully  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, 
1  a  wilderness  of  pleasant  dreams.  Strong  men  lay  there, 
Grace  v.;ifiren,  women,  whom   the  sailors'  wives  had  covered 

"Ah?  I  .jtjj  cloaks  and  shawls:  and  at  their  heads  stood 


Two  Years  Ago.  99 

Grace  Harvey,  motionless,  with  folded  hands,  g-azing'  into  the 
dead  faces  with  her  great  solemn  eyes.  Ker  mother  and 
Captain  Willis  stood  by,  watching  her  with  a  sort  of 
superstitious  awe.  She  took  no  notice  either  of  Thurnall  or 
of  the  lieutenant,  as  the  doctor  identified  tlie  bodies  one  by 
one,  without  a  remark  which  indicated  any  human  emotion. 

"A  very  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.  Cause  of  death,  con- 
tusions ;  probably  by  the  fall  of  the  mainmast. " 

"A  very  sensible  man,  and  has  seen  a  deal  of  life,  and  kept 
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  thirty-two  pound  shot  under  his  ribs  instead  of  a  heart. 
Dr.  Thurnal!,  that  is  Miss  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  Miss  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,  dearl"  interposed  her  mother,  "don't  you  hear 
the  gentieman  thanking  you  ?  " 

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

"  Good  Heavens,  what  a  beautiful  creature  I "  said  Tom  to 
himself,  as  a  quite  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  havmg 
offered  her  O'wn  life  for  his,  raised  in  him  a  feeling  of  chivalrous 
awe  and  admiration,  which  no  other  woman  had  ever  called  up. 


loo  Two  Years  Ago. 

"Madam,"  he  said  again;  "I  can  repay  you  with  nothing 
but  thanks  :  biit,  to  judge  from  your  conduct  last  night,  you 
are  one  of  those  people  who  v^ill  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  Armsworth's  description),  "as  hard  as  a  nail;  as  fresh 
as  a  rose  ;  and  stood  on  his  legs  like  a  game-cock."  More- 
over, as  Willis  said  approvingly,  he  had  spoken  to  her  "as 
if  he  V7as  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  have  only  to  command  me,"  said  Tom,  wincing  a 
little,  as  the  words  passed  his  lips. 

"Then  turn  to  God,  now  in  the  day  of  His  mercies. 
Unless  you  have  turned  to  Him  already  ? " 

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

She  looked  at  him  sadly,  lingeringly,  as  if  conscious  that 
she  ought  not  to  look  too  long,  and  yet  unable  to  withdraw 
her  eyes.  "Ah  1  and  such  a  precious  soul  as  yours  must  be; 
a  precious  soul — all  taken,  and  you  alone  left  I  God  must  have 
high  things  in  store  for  you.  He  must  have  a  great  work 
for  you  to  do.  Else,  why  are  you  not  as  one  of  these  ?  Oh, 
think  1  where  would  you  have  been  at  tliis  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  suppose  if  I  had  found  myself  anywhere  else  this 
morning,  I  should  have  taken  it  as  a  sign  that  I  was  wanted 
there,  and  not  here." 

Grace  heaved  a  sigh  at  words  whicli  were  certainly  startling. 


Two  Years  Ago.  loi 

The  Stoic  optimism  of  the  world-hardened  doctor  was  new 
and  frightful  to  her. 

"My  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  some- 
thing 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  I  "  tliought  Tom  to  himself.  "  '  Frailty, 
thy  name  is  woman ! '  The  canting  little  methodistical 
humbug  !  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  I " 

Why,  then,  did  not  Tom,  if  he  were  so  very  sure  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  girl's  face  which  made  him  feel  that,  if  he  had  seen 
her  put  the  belt  into  her  pocket  before  his  eyes,  he  could  not 
find  the  heart  to  have  sent  her  to  gaol.  "  No  1 "  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  three  minutes'  astonished 
silence,  to  her  mother  and  Captain  Willis — 

"Belt!  Mother  1  Uncle!  What  is  this?  The  gentleman 
has  lost  a  belt  1 " 


102  Two  Years  Ago. 

*'  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  I "  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  1  Speak,  quick  1 
Did  you  see  a  belt  ?  " 

V/illis  shook  his  head  meditatively.  *'  I  don't,  and  yet  I  do, 
and  yet  I  don't  again.  My  brains  were  well-nigh  washed  out 
of  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  ? 
yes ;  and  shall  be  found,  if  there  be  justice  in  heaven.  Shame, 
that  West-country  folk  should  turn  robbers  and  wreckers  I 
Mariners,  too,  and  mariners'  vsrives,  who  should  be  praying 
for  those  who  are  wandering  far  away,  each  man  with  his 
life  in  his  hand  1  Ah,  what  a  world  1  'When  will  it  end  ? 
soon,  too  soon,  when  West-country  folk  rob  shipwrecked  men  I 
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 
voce,  to  Willis,  that,  "  In  wrecks,  and  fires,  and  such  like, 
a  many  people  complained  of  having  lost  more  than  ever 
they  had." 

"Oh,  hoi  my  old  lady,  is  that  the  way  the  fox  is  gone?" 
quoth  Tom  to  that  trusty  counsellor,  himself;  and  began 
carefully  scrutinising  Mrs.  Harvey's  face.  It  had  been  very 
handsome  :  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  tlie  restless  down-dropt 
eye,  a  character  self-conscious,  furtive,  capable  of  great 
inconsistencies,  possibly  of  great  deceits. 

"You  don't  look  me  in  the  face,  old  lady  I"  quoth  Tom  to 
himself.     "Very  well  1  between  you  two  it  lies;  unless  that 


Two  Years  Ago.     ,  103 

old  gentleman  implicates  himself  also,  in  his  approaching 
confession." 

He  took  his  part  at  once.  "  Well,  well,  you  will  oblige  me 
by  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 
lieutenant. 

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.  Kis  face 
was  serious  and  sad,  and  his  lips  were  trembling.  5 

"This  is  a  very  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  ;  myself  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  Uke  a  man,  sir ;  but  it  ia 
really  no  laughing  matter.  It's  a  scoundrelly  job,  only  fit  for 
a  Maltee  off  the  Nix  Mangeery.  If  it  had  been  a  lot  of  those 
carter  fellows  that  had  carried  you  up,  I  could  have  understood 


104  Two  Years  Ago. 

it ;  wrecking's  born  in  the  bone  of  them :  but  for  those  four 
sailors  that  carried  you  up,  'gad,  sir  1  they'd  have  been  shot 
sooner.  I've  known  'em  from  boys  I"  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." 

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

"  I  tell  you,  sir.  I  held  the  maid,  and  big  John  Beer 
(Gentleman  Jan  they  call  him)  held  me ;  and  the  maid  had 
both  her  hands  tight  in  your  belt.  I  saw  it  as  plain  as  I  see 
you,  just  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  five 
minutes." 

"  Well,  sir,  I  am  lucky  in  having  come  straight  to  the  fountain 
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." 

"May  I  take  the  liberty  of  asking  your  name?"  said  Tom; 
who  saw  by  this  time  that  the  old  man  was  worthy  of  his 
confidence. 

"  Willis,  at  your  service,  sir.  Captain  they  call  me,  though 
I'm  none.  Sailing-master  I  was,  on  board  of  his  Majesty's 
ship  Niobe,  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  knowing 
you ;  but  for  her  I'd  have  been  drowned  a  dozen  times  over." 


Two  Years  Ago.  105 

"No  offence,  indeed,"  said  Tom ;  and  hardly  kneiJ7  v^hat  to 
say  next.  '*  May  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  anyone  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." 

"  Humph  1    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,  though  I  do  go  to  chapel  at  whiles ;  but  theie 
are  good  ones  among  them ;  and  I  do  believe  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 
feelings ;  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  have  been  after  all ;  or  else, 
tliat " 

"Do  you  mean  that  s'ne  took  it?"  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  1"  said  Willis  slowly.     "I  thought  I  had  to  do  with  a 

gentleman  :  but  I  have  my  doubts  of  it  now.     A  poor  girl  risks 

D2  her  life  to  drag  you  out  of  that  sea,  which  but  for  her  would 


io6  Two  Years  Ago. 

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." 

Willis  stopped,  drew  himself  up,  and  touched  his  hat 
mechanically. 

"Just  because  I  am  a  gentleman,  I  have  not  accused  her; 
but  held  my  tongue,  and  spoken  to  you  in  confidence.  Now, 
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,  "whatever's  true — that's  false. 
You're  wrong  there,  if  you  never  are  wrong  again ;  and 
you'll  say  so  yourself,  before  you've  known  her  a  week.  No, 
sir  !  If  you  could  make  me  believe  that,  I  should  never  believe 
in  goodness  again  on  earth  ;  but  hold  all  men,  and  women  too, 
and  those  above,  for  aught  I  know,  that  are  greater  than  men 
and  women,  for  liars  together." 

What  was  to  be  ansvi^ered  ?  Perhaps  only  what  Tom  did 
answer. 

"  My  good  sir,  I  will  say  no  more.  I  would  not  have  said 
that  much  if  I  had  thought  I  should  have  pained  you  so. 
I  suppose  that  the  belt  was  washed  into  the  sea.     Why  not  ?  " 

"  Why  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  the  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,  someone  finds  it,  and  makes  away 
with  it,  he  will  only  be  the  more  careful  to  hide  it  if  he  knows 


Two  Years  Ago.  J07 


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  cut  his  hand ;  and  he  walked  away  sadly. 
His  spirit  had  been  altogether  ruffled  by  the  imputation  on 
Grace's  character ;  and,  besides,  the  chances  of  Thurnall's 
recovering  his  money  seemed  to  him  very  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  meditated 
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  off.  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  baccy  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, 
in  his  heart,  a  simple-minded  old  dotard,  who  had  been  taken 
in  by  her  hypocrisy. 

And  Tom  accompanied  the  lieutenant  on  his  dreary  errand 
.that  day,  and  several  days  after,  through  depositions  before  a 


io8  Two  Years  Ago. 

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 
twelve  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  their  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  lives  of  men  may 
be,  and  ought  to  be,  at  times,  in  our  eyes,  they  never  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. 


CHAPTER  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  new-comer  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  than  one  old  foreign  station  of  his,  and  ended  by  pouring 


Two  Years  Ago.  109 

out  to  him  his  ancient  wrongs,  and  the  evil  dealings  of  the 
wicked  admiral ;  all  of  which  Tom  heard  with  deepest  sym- 
pathy, 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  offer  ;  for  you'll  find  him  a  great  help,  especially  among 
the  ladies,  d'ye  see.  They  like  a  good-looking  young  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  Miss  Anna  Maria  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  help  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  sweet- 
heart or  not.  How,  at  last,  she  was  minded  to  confide  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  assafoetida,  and  therewith  so  per- 
fumed 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 


no  Two  Years  Ago. 

But  she  returned  ag'ain  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,  probably,  with  shavings.  For  (from 
reasons  best  known  to  herself)  she  had  never  looked  pleasantly 
on  the  arrangement  which  intrusted  to  Tom  the  care  of  the 
bottles.  She  had  g^ven  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  valuables  of  every  sort  and  kind — 
drugs,  instruments,  a  large  microscope  (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-pound  note,  but  four,  and  a  letter 
which  Tom,  after  perusing,  put  into  Mr.  Heale's  hands,  with 
a  look  of  honest  pride. 

The  Murapsimus  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  he 
would  come  up,  board,  lodge,  and  wash  hira  gratis.  The  great 
Doctor  Bellairs,  House  Physician,  and  Carver,  the  famous 
operator  (names  at  which  Heale  bowed  his  head  and 
worshipped),  sent  compliments,  condolences,  offers  of  employ- 
ment— never  was  so  triumphant  a  testimonial ;  and  Heale,  in 
bis  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  be  overheard  among  other 
matters — 


Two  Years  Ago.  iii 

"Yes,  Mr.  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  w^ith  sorrow 
to  the  grave,  and  mine  likewise,  which  am  like  my  poor  infant 
here,  of  only  too  sensitive  sensibilities  !  Oh,  Anna  Maria,  my 
child,  my  poor  lost  child  !  which  I  can  feel  for  the  tenderness 
of  the  inexperienced  heart  I  My  Virgin  Eve,  which  the 
Serpent  has  entered  into  your  youthful  paradise,  and  you 
will  find,  alas  1  too  late,  that  you  have  warmed  an  adder 
into  your  bosom  ! " 

"  Oh,  Ma,  how  indelicate ! "  giggled  Anna  Maria,  evidently 
not  displeased.  "  If  you  don't  mind  he  will  hear  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  ail  the  bustle  he  could  in  the  shop,  merely 
saying  to  himself — 

"That  flood  of  eloquence  is  symptomatic  enough:  I'll  lay 
ray  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  popularity ;  and,  as  we  have  seen  already,  he 
bore  no  great  a;fFection  to  "  the  cloth "  in  general :  but  the 
curate  was  an  educated  gentleman,  and  Tom  wished  for 
some  more  rational  conversation  than  that  of  the  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  know- 
ledge was  power  :  or  they  might  not.  What  matter  ?  Every 
fresh  specimen  of  humanity  which  he  examined  was  so  much 


112  Two  Years  Ago. 

gained  in  general  knowledge.  Very  true,  Thomas  Thurnall ; 
provided  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  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  philosophy.  You  have 
already  set  down  Grace  Harvey  as  a  hypocrite,  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  idea!  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  indifference,  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,  bamired  all  day 
long  by  grubbing  after  vermin  1  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,"  linking  earth  to  heaven  and 


Two  Years  Ago.  113 

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  belie  yes  that  it  does  exist ; 
or  that  he  thinks  he  finds  it  in  his  highest,  if  not  its  prefect 
form,  in  the  most  ancient  and  august  traditions  of  his  native 
land?  True,  he  has  much  to  learn,  and  you  may  teach  him 
something  of  it ;  but  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  every  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  sacred  horror  which  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  gronud 

which  Headley  would  gladly  have  avoided.     For,  to  tell  the 

truth,  ever  since  Tom  had  heard  of  Grace's  intended  dismissal, 

the  curate's  opinions  had  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 

I  nobody  should  wrong  her,  if  he  could  help  it.     Besides,  perhaps 

I  she  had  not  his  money.     The  belt  might  have  slipped  off  in  the 

I  struggle  ;  someone  else  might  have  taken  it  off  in  carrying  him 

I  up  ;  he  might  have  mistaken  the  shame  of  innocence  in  her  face 

I  for  that  of  guilt.     Be  it  as  it  might,  he  had  not  the  heart  to 

I  make  the  matter  public,  and  contented  himself  with  staying 

I  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 


114  Two  Years  Ago. 

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 
salutations :  but  Tom  liked  to  meet  her,  would  have  gladly 
stopped  to  chat  with  her ;  however,  whether  from  modesty 
or  from  a  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  crossed  her  mind  ;  to  suspect  anyone  l^rself  was  in 
her  eyes  a  sin ;  and  if  the  fancy  that  this  man  or  that,  among 
the  sailors  who  had  carried  Tom  up  to  Heale's,  might  have 
been  capable  of  the  baseness,  she  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  saintli- 
ness  {for  Grace  was  a  saint  in  the  truest  sense  of  that  word)  had 
long  since  made  her  free  of  that  "  communion  of  saints  "  which 
consists  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-inflicted  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  burning  " ;  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  f ar  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 


Two  Years  Ago.  115 

the  love  CI  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  imawares  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,  he  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  affection,"  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 
unbeliever."  And  thus  the  very  hopelessness  of  her  love 
became  its  food  and  strength  ;  the  feeling  which  she  would 
have  checked  with  maidenly  modesty,  had  it  been  connected 
even  remotely  with  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 
him  but  pray  for  his  conversion. 

And  pray  for  him  she  did,  the  noble,  guileless  girl,  day 
and  night,  that  he  might  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  the  air  after  another,  out  of  her  fancies  about  what 
such  a  man,  whom  she  had  invested  in  her  own  mind  with  all 
the  wisdom  of  Solomon,  might  do  if  his  "talents  were  sanctified." 
Then  she  prayed  that  he  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 
lay  by  day. 

For  a  while,  over  and  above  the  pain  which  the  theft  caused 
ner,  there  came— how  could  it  be  otherwise  ?— sudden  pangs 


ii6  Two  Years  Ago. 

of  regret  that  this  same  love  was  hopeless,  at  least  upon  this 
side  of  the  grave.  Inconsistent  they  were  with  the  chivalrous 
unselfishness  of  her  usual  temper  ;  and  as  such  she  dashed  them 
from  her,  and  conquered  them,  after  a  while,  by  a  method  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  she  was  never  to  find  on  earth  ;  she 
would  find  it,  then,  in  grief.  And  nursing  her  own  melancholy, 
she  went  on  her  way,  sad,  sweet,  and  steadfast,  and  lavished 
more  care,  and  tenderness,  and  even  gaiety  than  ever  upon  her 
neighbours'  children,  because  she  knew  that  she  should  never 
have  a  child  of  her  own. 

But  there  is  a  third  damsel,  to  whom,  whether  more  or  less 
engaging  than  Grace  Harvey  or  Miss  Heale,  my  readers  must 
needs  be  introduced.  Let  Miss  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  carelessly, 
and  thrusting  it  into  his  pocket. 

"Won't  you  read  it  at  once,  Mr.  Thurnall?  I'm  sure  you 
must  be  anxious  to  hear  from  friends  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  of,"  said  Tom,  and  went  on  with 
his  breakfast 

"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 
contents  :  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 


Two  Years  Ago.  1 1 7 

mxioiTS  face,  and  read  a  letter  written  in  a  hasty,  ill-formed 
land,  underscored  at  every  fifth  word,  and  plentifully  bedecked 
mth  notes  of  exclamation. 

"What?  my  dearest  friend,  and  fortune  still  frowns  upon 
rou  ?  Your  father  blind  and  ruined  I  Ah,  that  I  were  there 
o  comfort  him  for  your  sake  I  And  ah,  that  I  were  anywhere, 
loing  any  drudgery,  which  might  prevent  my  being  still  a 
mrden  to  my  benefactors  I  Not  that  they  are  unkind ;  not 
hat  they  are  not  angels  1  I  told  them  at  once  that  you  could 
end  me  no  more  money  till  you  reached  England,  perhaps 
lot  then  ;  and  they  answered  that  God  would  send  it ;  that  He 
vho  had  sent  me  to  them  would  send  the  means  of  supporting 
ae ;  and  ever  since  they  have  redoubled  their  kindness :  but  it 
s  intolerable,  this  dependence,  and  on  you,  too,  who  have  a 
ather  to  support  in  his  darkness.  Oh,  how  I  feel  for  you  1 
Jut  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  pay  a  price  for  this  dependence. 

must  needs  be  staid  and  sober ;  I  must  needs  dress  like  any 
Quakeress ;  I  must  not  read  this  book  nor  that ;  and  my 
jhelley — taken  from  me,  I  suppose,  because  it  spoke  too  much 
Liberty,'  though,  of  course,  the  reason  given  was  its  infidel 
opinions— is  replaced  by  'Law's  Serious  Call.'  'Tis  all  right 
jid  good,  I  doubt  not :  but  it  is  very  dreary ;  as  dreary 
.s  these  black  fir-forests,  and  brown  snake-fences,  and  that 
readful,  dreadful  Canadian  winter  which  is  past,  which  went 
o  my  very  heart,  day  after  day,  like  a  sword  of  ice.  Another 
uch  winter,  and  I  shall  die,  as  one  of  my  own  humming-birds 
70uld  die,  did  you  cage  him  here,  and  prevent  him  from  fleeing 
ome  to  the  sunny  South  when  the  first  leaves  begin  to  fall. 
)ear  children  of  the  sun  I  my  heart  goes  forth  to  them ;  and 
he  whir  of  their  -wings  is  music  to  me,  for  it  tells  me  of 
he  South,  the  glaring  South,  with  its  glorious  flowers,  and 
;lorious  woods,  its  luxuriance,  life,  fierce  enjoyments — let 
erce  sorrows  come  with  them,  if  it  must  be  so  1  Let  me 
ake  the  evil  with  the  good,  and  live  my  rich,  wild  life  through 
iliss  and  agony,  like  a  true  daughter  of  the  sun,  instead  of 
rystallising  slowly  here  into  ice,  amid  countenances  rigid  with 
espectability,  sharpened  by  the  lust  of  gain ;  without  taste, 
without  emotion,  without  even  sorrow  1  Let  who  will  be  the 
tagnant  mill-head,  crawling  in  its  ugly  spade-cut  ditch  to 
urn  the  mill.     Let  me  be  the  wild  mountain  brook,    which 


iiS  Two  Years  Ago. 

foams  and  flashes  over  the  rocks — what  if  they  tear  it? — it 
leaps  them  nevertheless,  and  g-oes  laughing  on  its  way  ?  Let 
me  go  thus,  for  weal  or  woe !  And  if  I  sleep  awhile,  let 
it  be  like  the  brook,  beneath  the  shade  of  fragrant  magnolias 
and  luxuriant  vines,  and  image,  meanwhile,  in  my  bosom 
nothing  but  the  beauty  around. 

"Yes,  my  friend,  I  can  live  no  longer  this  dull  chrysaHd  life, 
in  comparison  with  which,  at  times,  even  that  past  dark  dream 
seems  tolerable — for  amid  its  lurid  smoke  were  flashes  of 
brightness.  A  slave  ?  Well ;  I  ask  myself  at  times,  and 
what  were  women  meant  for  but  to  be  slaves?  Free  them, 
and  they  enslave  themselves  again,  or  languish  unsatisfied ;  for 
they  must  love.  And  what  blame  to  them  if  they  love  a 
white  man,  tyrant  though  he  be,  rather  than  a  fellow-slave? 
If  the  men  of  our  own  race  will  claim  us,  let  them  prove 
themselves  worthy  of  us !  Let  them  rise,  exterminate  their 
tyrants,  or,  failing  that,  show  that  they  know  how  to  die. 
Till  then,  those  who  are  the  masters  of  their  bodies  will  be 
the  masters  of  our  hearts.  If  they  crouch  before  the  white 
like  bTSItes,  what  wonder  if  we  look  up  to  him  as  to  a  god  ? 
Women  must  worship,  or  be  wretched.  Do  I  not  know  it? 
Have  I  not  had  my  dream— too  beautiful  for  earth  ?  Was  there 
not  one  whom  you  knew,  to  hear  whom  call  me  slave  would 
have  been  rapture ;  to  whom  I  would  have  answered  on  my 
knees.  Master,  I  have  no  will  but  yours  1  But  that  is  past- 
past.  One  happiness  alone  was  possible  for  a  slave,  and  even 
that  they  tore  from  me ;  and  now  I  have  no  thought,  no 
purpose,  save  revenge. 

"These  good  people  bid  me  forgive  my  enemies.  Easy 
enough  for  them,  who  have  no  enemies  to  forgive.  Forgive  ? 
Forgive  injustice,  oppression,  baseness,  cruelty  ?  Forgive  the 
devil,  and  bid  him  go  in  peace,  and  work  his  wicked  will  ? 
Why  have  they  put  into  my  hands,  these  last  three  years,  books 
worthy  of  a  free  nation  ?  books  which  call  patriotism  divine ; 
which  tell  me  how  in  every  age  and  clime  men  have  been  called 
heroes  who  rose  against  their  conquerors  ;  women  martyrs  who 
stabbed  their  tyrants,  and  then  died  ?  Hypocriies !  Did  their 
grandfathers  meekly  turn  the  other  cheek  when  your  English 
taxed  them  somewhat  too  heavily?  Do  they  not  now  teach 
every  school-child  to  glory  in  their  own  revolutions,  their  own 


Tv/o  Years  Ago.  119 

declarations  of  independence,  and  to  flatter  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  be  in  God's 
good  time,  or  in  their  own?)  if  we  will  but  be  patient,  and 
endure  the  rice-swamp,  the  scourge,  the  slave-market— and 
shame  unspeakable,  a  few  years  more,  till  all  is  ready  and  safe 
—for  them.  Dreamers  as  well  as  hypocrites  I  What  nation 
was  ever  freed  by  others'  help  ?  I  have  been  reading  history  to 
see — you  do  not  know  how  much  I  have  been  reading — and  I 
find  that  freemen  have  always  freed  themselves,  as  we  must 
do ;  and  as  they  will  never  let  us  do,  because  they  know  that 
with  freedom  must  come  retribution  ;  that  our  Southern  tyrants 
liave  an  account  to  render,  which  the  cold  Northerner  has  no 
^eart  to  see  him  pay.  For,  after  all,  he  loves  the  Southerner 
setter  than  the  slave ;  and  fears  him  more  also.  What  if  the 
Southern  aristocrat,  who  lords  it  over  him  as  the  panther  does 
)ver  the  ox,  should  transfer  (as  he  has  threatened  many  a 
ime)  the  cowhide  from  the  negro's  loins  to  his  ?  No  ;  we  must 
ree  ourselves  I  And  there  lives  one  woman,  at  least,  who 
laving  gained  her  freedom,  knows  hov/  to  use  it  in  eternal 
var  against  all  tyrants.  Oh,  I  could  go  down,  I  think  at 
noments,  down  to  New  Orleans  itself,  with  a  brain  and  lips  of 

Ire,  and  speak  words— you  know  how  I  could  speak  them 

vhich  would  bring  me  in  a  week  to  the  scourge,  perhaps  to 
he  stake.  The  scourge  I  could  endure.  Have  I  not  felt  it 
.Iready  ?  Do  I  not  bear  its  scars  even  now,  and  glory  in 
hem;  for  they  were  v/on  by  speaking  as  a  woman  should 
peak  ?  And  even  the  fire  ?  Have  not  women  been  martyrs 
Iready  ?  and  could  not  I  be  one  ?  Might  not  my  torments 
ladden  a  people  into  manhood,  and  my  name  become  a  war- 
ry  in  the  sacred  fight  ?  And  yet,  oh^  my  friend,  life  is  sweet  1 
-and  my  little  day  has  been  so  dark  and  gloomy  1 — may  I  not 
ave  one  hour's  sunshine,  ere  youth  and  vigour  are  gone,  and 
ly  swift-vanishing  Southern  womanhood  wrinkles  itself  up 
ito  despised  old  age?  Oh,  counsel  me— help  me,  my  friend, 
ly  preserver,  my  true  master  now,  so  brave,  so  wise,  so  all- 
nowing ;  under  whose  mask  of  cynicism  lies  hid  (have  I  not 
ause  to  know  it  ?)  the  heart  of  a  hero.  Marie." 


I20  Two  Years  Ago. 

If  Miss  Heale  could  have  watched  Tom's  face  as  he  read, 
much  more  could  she  have  heard  his  virords  as  he  finished,  all 
jealousy  v/ould  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  I  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  got  the  heart  to  send  it :  it 
was  so  full  of  repinings.  And  since  then — must  I  tell  the  truth  ? 
I  have  made  a  step  ;  do  not  call  it  a  desperate  one ;  do  not 
blame  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  had  my  success  already,  more  than  I  could 
have  expected  ;  and  not  only  in  Canaaa,  but  in  the  States.  I 
have  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  republican 
ones  at  first ;  in  which  I  can  give  full  vent  to  my  passion,  and 
hurl  forth  the  eternal  laws  of  liberty,  which  their  consciences 
may— must— at  last,  apply  for  themselves.  But  soon,  he  says, 
we  shall  be  able  to  dare  to  approach  the  real  subject,  if  not  in 
America,  still  in  Europe  ;  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  I   Italy, 


Two  Years  Ago.  121 

uid  the  Austria  who  crushes  her.  I  have  taken,  I  should  tell 
rou,  an  Italian  name.  It  was  better,  I  thought,  to  hide  my 
African  taint,  forsooth,  for  awhile.  So  the  wise  New  Yorkers 
lave  been  feting-,  as  Maria  Cordifiamma,  the  white  woman 
for  am  I  not  fairer  than  many  an  Italian  signora  ?)  whom 
hey  would  have  looked  on  as  an  inferior  being  under  the 
lame  of  Marie  Lavington :  though  there  is  finer  old  English 
)lood  running  in  my  veins,  from  your  native  Berkshire,  they 
!ay,  than  in  many  a  Down-Easter's  who  hangs  upon  my 
ips.  Address  me  henceforth,  then,  as  La  Signora  Maria 
"ordifiamma.  I  am  learning  fast,  by  the  bye,  to  speak  Italian, 
shall  be  at  Quebec  till  the  end  of  the  month.     Then,  I  believe, 

come  to  London  ;  and  we  shall  meet  once  more :  and  I 
hall  thank  you,  thank  you,  thank  you,  once  more,  for  all 
four  marvellous  kindness." 

•'  Humph  ! "  said  Tom,  after  a  while.  "  Well,  she  is  old 
■nough  to  choose  for  herself.  Five-and-twenty  she  must  be  by 
low.  ...  As  for  the  stage,  I  suppose  it  is  the  best  place  for 
ter ;  better,  at  least,  than  turning  governess,  and  going  mad, 
.3  she  would  do,  over  her  drudgery  and  her  dreams.  But 
7ho  is  this  friend?  Singing-master,  scribbler,  or  political 
efugee  ?  or  perhaps  all  three  together  ?  A  dark  lot,  those 
allows.  I  must  keep  my  eye  on  him  ;  though  it's  no  concern 
f  mine.  I've  done  my  duty  by  the  poor  thing ;  the  devil 
iraself  can't  deny  that.  But  somehow,  if  this  play-writing 
worthy  plays  her  false,  I  feel  very  much  as  if  I  should  be  fool 
aough  to  try  whether  I  have  forgotten  my  pistol-shooting." 


CHAPTER  VL 

An  Old  Foe  with  a  New  Face. 

This  child's  head  is  dreadfully  hot ;  and  how  yellow  he  does 
ok  I  "  says  Mrs.  Vavasour,  fussing  about  in  her  little  nursery. 
Oh,  Clara,  what  shall  I  do  ?  I  really  dare  not  give  them  any 
ore  medicine  myself ;  and  that  horrid  old  Dr.  Heale  is  worse 
.an  no  one." 

"Ah,  ma'am,"  says  Clara,  who  is  privileged  to  bemoan 
;rself,  and  to   have  sad  confidences  made   to  her,  "  if  we 


122  Two  Years  Ago. 

were  but  in  town  now,  to  see  Mr.  Chilvers,  or  anyone  that 
could  be  trusted ;  but  in  this  dreadful  out-of-the-way 
place " 

"  Don't  talk  of  it,  Clara  I  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, 
tliere  is  that  new  assistant " 

"The  man  who  was  saved  from  the  wreck?  Wliy,  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.  Thurnall." 

"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 
shop,  in  a  marvellously  short  space,  having  "struck  a  fresh 
root,"  as  he  calls  it ;  for — 

♦*  What  a  very  well-behaved  sensible  man  that  Mr.  Thurnall 


Two  Years  Ag  123 

is,"  says  Lucia  to  Elsley,  an  hour  after,  as  she  meets  him 
coming  in  from  the  garden,  where  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  have  for  a  long  time." 

"Thurnall?"  asks  Elsley,  who  is  too  absorbed  in  the 
••Wreck"  to  ask  after  the  children;  but  the  name  catches 
his  ear. 

"Mr.  Heale's  new  assistant — the  man  who  was  wrecked," 
answers  she,  too  absorbed,  in  her  turn,  in  the  children  to 
aotice  her  husband's  startled  face. 

•'  Thurnall  ?     Which  Thurnall  ?  " 

"Do  you  know  the  name?  It's  not  a  common  one,"  says 
she,  moving  to  the  door. 

•'  No — not  a  common  one  at  all  I  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 

•xcuse  (probably  not  worth  hearing),  she  has  trotted  upstairs 
igain  to  the  nest,  and  is  as  busy  as  ever.  Possibly  Clara 
night  do  the  greater  part  of  what  she  does,  and  do  it 
Detter ;  but  still,  are  they  not  her  children  ?  Let  those  v^rho 
mil  call  a  mother's  care  a  mere  animal  instinct,  and  liken  it 
:o  that  of  the  sparrow  or  the  spider :  shall  we  not  rather 
all  it  a  Divine  inspiration,  and  doubt  whether  the  sparrow 
ind  the  spider  must  not  have  souls  to  be  saved,  if  they,  too, 
show  forth  that  faculty  of  maternal  love  which  is,  of  all 
luman  feelings,  most  inexplicable  and  most  self-sacrificing ; 
ind  therefore,  surely,  most  heavenly  ?  If  that  does  not  come 
iown  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  for  thinking 
nore  of  the  name  of  Thurnall  than  of  his  children's  health: 
we  will  hope  so  for  his  sake ;  for,  after  sundry  melodramatic 
jacings  and  starts  (Elsley  was  of  a  melodramatic  turn,  and 
'ond  of  a  scene,  even  when  he  had  no  spectator,  not  even  a 
ooking-glass),   besides  ejaculations  of  "It  cannot  be!"    ••!£ 


124  Two  Years  Ago, 

it  werel"  "I  trust  notl"  "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  intolerable ;  and  inclosing  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  pair  of  brown-holland  sleeves  of 
his  own  manufacture  (for  Tom  was  a  good  seamster,  as  all 
travellers  should  be),  whistled  Lilliburlero,  as  of  old,  the  Tom 
of  other  days,  which  Elsley's  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  O! 
time,"  thought  he,  "he  cannot  know  me."    So  he  spoke — 

"  I  understand  you  have  been  visiting  my  children,  sir.  ] 
hope  you  did  not  find  them  seriously  indisposed  ?  " 

"Mr.  Vavasour?"  says  Tom,  with  a  lov/  bow. 

"  I  am  Mr.  Vavasour  1 "  But  Elsley  was  a  bad  actor,  an< 
hesitated  and  coloured  so  much  as  he  spoke,  that  if  Tom  ha< 
known  nothing,  he  might  have  guessed  something. 

"Nothing  serious,  I  assure  you,  sir;  unless  you  are  corai 
to  announce  any  fresh  symptoms." 

"  Oh,  no — not  at  all— that  is — I  was  passing  on  my  way  b 
the  quay,  and  thought  it  as  well  to  have  your  own  assurance 
Mrs.  Vavasour  is  so  over-anxious." 

"You  seem  to  partake  of  her  infirmity,  sir,"  says  Tom,  wit! 
a  smile  and  a  bow.  •'  However,  it  is  one  which  does  yoi 
both  honour." 

An  awkward  pause. 

"I  hope  I  am  not  taking  a  liberty,  sir;  but  I  think  I  ar 
bound  to " 

"What  in  heaven  is  he  going  to  say?"  thought  Elsley  t 
himself,  and  feeling  very  much  inclined  to  run  away. 

"Thank  you  for  all  the  pleasure  and  instruction  which  you 
w^ritings  have  given  me  in  lonely  hours,  and  lonely  places  toe 
Your  first  volume  of  poems  has  been  read  by  one  nian,  at  leas' 
beside  wild  watch-fires  in  the  Rocky  Mountains." 

Tom  did  not  say  that  he  pitched  the  said  volume  into  th 
river  in  disgust ;  and  that  it  was,  probably,  long  since  use 


Two  Years  Ago.  125 

up  as  house-material  by  the  caddis-baits  of  those  parts— for 
doubtless  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  Soul's  Agonies '  ?  No 
doubt  if  you  h^ve,  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  con- 
templation 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  ?" 

"Saddened,  perhaps;  perhaps  more  severe  in  my  taste;  but 
we  will  not  talk  of  that.  I  owe  you  a  debt,  sir,  for  having 
furnished  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  every-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  v/hich 
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  commenced  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  ; 
Why  then  I  am  a  slower  fellow, 
Than  ever  has  yet  appeared.' 


126  Two  Years  Ago. 

Oh,  if  it  was  but  he !  what  a  card  for  me.  What  a  world 
it  is  for  poor  honest  rascals  like  me  to  try  a  fall  with — 

'  Why  didn't  I  take  bad  verse  to  make,  . 
And  call  it  poetry; 
A.nd  so  make  up  to  an  earl's  daughter, 
Which  v/as  of  high  degree  ? ' 

But  perhaps  I  am  wrong  after  ail ;  no — I  saw  he  knew  me, 
the  humbug :  though  he  never  was  a  humbug,  never  rose  above 
the  rank  of  fool.  However,  I'll  make  assurance  doubly  sure, 
and  then — if  it  pays  me  not  to  tell  him  I  know  him,  I  won't 
tell  him ;  and  if  it  pays  me  to  tell  him,  I  will  tell  hira.  Just 
as  you  please,  my  good  Mr.  Poet."  And  Tom  returned  to 
his  work  singing  an  extempore  parody  of  "We  met,  'twas  in 

a  crowd,"  ending  v/ith —  _. , _, 

"  Aud  thou  art  the  cause  of  this  anguish,  my  pill-box,"       *■" " 

in  a  howl  so  doleful,  that  Mrs.  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. 

Tom  looked  at  her  cheerfully  and  fixedly.  "  I  had  been 
expecting  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." 

Mrs.  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 
oneself  happy  in  this  life ;  you  can  judge  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  lad^  by  a  little  too  much 
laudanum."  — 


Two  Years  Ago.  127 

"Laudanum,  sir?"  almost  screamed  Mrs.  Hea!e,  turning  pale 
as  death. 

"  The  pint  bottle  of  best  laudanum,  which  I  had  from  town 
a  fortnig-ht  ago,  ma'am,  is  now  nearly  empty,  ma'am.  I  will 
make  affidavit  that  I  have  not  used  a  hundred  drops,  or  drunk 
one.  I  suppose  it  was  the  cat  Cats  have  queer  tastes  in  the 
West,  I  believe.  I  have  heard  the  cat  coming  downstairs  into 
the  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  phial  in  her  paws " 

"Oh,  sirl"  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 
gentleman,  I  am  sure.  If  I  had  not  been  one,  it  would  have 
been  easy  enough  for  me,  with  my  powerful  London  con- 
nections— 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  refilled  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—  _ 

'  Der  Wallfisch  hat  doch  seine  Laus  ;        "i^    ^fS       f? 
Muss  auch  die  meine  haben.'  _  ^ 

"  Now,  then,  for  Mrs.  Penberthy's  draughts.  I  wonder 
how  that  pretty  schoolmistress  goes  on.  If  she  were  but 
honest,  now,  and  had  fifty  thousand  pounds — why  then,  she 
wouldn't  marry  me ;  and  so  why  now,  I  wouldn't  marry  she — 
as  my  native  Berkshire  grammar  would  render  it." 


T28  Two  Years  Ago. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

La  Cordifiamma, 

This  chapter  shall  begin,  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  starting  with  them  at  the  opening  of  the  sermon  at 
the  North  Pole,  the  Crystal  Palace,  or  the  nearest  cabbage- 
garden,  float  them  safe,  upon  the  gashing  stream  of  oratory, 
to  the  safe  and  well-known  shores  of  doctrinal  commonplace, 
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  that  of  the  coming  one,  somewhat 
questionable,  reminding  one  at  moments  of  Fluellen's  com- 
parison between  Macedon  and  Monmouth,  Henry  the  Fifth, 
and  Alexander ;  but,  in  the  logic  of  the  pulpit,  all's  well  that 
ends  well,  and  the  end  must  needs  sanctify  the  means.  There 
is,  of  course,  some  connection  or  other  between  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  oneself?  Thus 
argues,  probably,  the  popular  preacher,  and  Slls  his  pev^s, 
proving  thereby  cleai^iy  the  excellence  of  his  method.  So 
argue  also,  probably,  the  popular  poets,  to  whose  "luxuriant 
fancy"  everything  suggests  anything,  and  thought  plays 
leap-frog  with  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  notot^ious,  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  reverence  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 


Two  Years  Ago.  129 

in  the  Saturday  Reuieiu,  who  dare  to  accuse  (will  it  be 
believed  ?)  these  luminaries  of  the  age  of  talking  merely 
irreverent  nonsense.  Meanwhile,  so  evident  is  the  success 
(sole  test  of  merit)  which  has  attended  the  new  method, 
that  it  is  worth  while  trying  whether  it  will  not  be  as 
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  May, 
when,  as  in  old  Chaucer's  time,  the — 

Smale  foules  maken  melodie, 
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  end 
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  M '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  "sm.ale  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 


130  Two  Years  Ago. 

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  which  a  man  is  permitted  to  praise  himself),  is  established 
hereby  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,  uid  Exeter-hall  and  the  lilies  of  the  valley,  and  touching 
en  passant  on  two  cardinal  virtues  and  an  Irish  Viscount?  But 
see  ;  given  only  a  little  impudence,  and  less  logic,  and  hey 
presto  1  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 
attachment  to  a  new  actress,  to  whom  he  had  never  spokeo 
a  word  in  his  life. 

First,  then,  "Little  Freddy  Scoutbush,"  as  his  compeers 
irreverently  termed  him,  was,  by  common  consent  of  her 
Majesty's  Guards,  a  "  good  fellow."  Whether  the  St.  James's 
Street  definition  of  that  adjective  be  the  perfect  one  or  not, 
we  will  not  stay  to  inquire ;  but  in  the  Guards  club-house  it 
meant  this ;  that  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  hve,  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  reate.  he  was  idle,  frivolous,  useless ;  but  with  these  two 


Two  Years  Ago.  131 

palliating'  facts,  that  he  knew  it,  and  regretted  it ;  and  that  he 
never  had  a  chance  of  being  aught  eise.  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  seventeen,  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  pressing  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 ;  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  lectur^g  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  I  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" 


132  Two  Years  Ago. 

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  admira.tion  of  his  brilliant 
talk  about  art  and  poetry ;  and  boldly  confessed  that  he  pre- 
ferred one  of  Mellot's  orations  on  the  subHme  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  distinguished  Irish  novelist,  and  boon  com- 
panion of  her  Majesty's  Life  Guards  Green.  His  special 
intimate  and  mentor,  however,  was  a  certain  Major  Campbell, 
of  whom  more  hereafter;  who,  however,  being  a  lofty-mind  ad 
and  perhaps  somewhat  Pharisaic  person,  made  heavier  demands 
on  Scoutbush's  conscience  than  he  had  yet  been  able  to  m.eet ; 
for  fully  as  he  agreed  that  Hercules'  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  shov/n 
to-day,  it  must  be  understood  that  he  has  given  a  promise 
to  Mrs.  Mellot  not  to  make  love  to  La  Cordifiamma ;  and, 
on  that  only  condition,  has  been  allowed  to  meet  her  to-night 
at  one  of  Claude  Mellot's  petits  soupers. 

La  Cordifiamma  has  been  staying,  ever  since  she  came  to 
England,  with  the  Mellots  in  the  wilds  of  Brompton ;  un- 
approachable there,  as  in  all  other  places.  In  public,  she  is 
a  very  Zenobia,  w^ho  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  her  voice,  not  one  has  obtained 
an  introduction ;  while  Claude,  whose  studio  used  to  be  a 
favourite  lounge  of  young  Guardsmen,  has,  as  civilly  as  he 


Two  Years  Ago.  133 

can,  closed  his  doors  to  those  magnificent  personages  ever 
since  the  ne^v  singer  became  his  guest. 

Claude  Mellot  seems  to  have  come  into  a  fortune  of  late 
years,  large  enough,  at  least,  for  his  few  v^ants.  He  paints 
no  longer,  save  when  nc  chooses ;  and  has  taken  a  little  old 
house  in  one  of  those  back  lanes  of  Brompton,  where  islands 
of  primaeval  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  he  lies  on  the  lawn,  upon  strange  skins,  the 
summer's  day,  playing  with  cats  and  dogs,  and  making  love 
to  his  Sabina,  who  has  not  lost  her  beauty  in  the  least,  though 
she  is  on  the  wrong  side  of  five-and-thirty.  He  deludes  him- 
self, 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  solemnly  promises 
neither  to  talk  nor  look  any  manner  of  foolishness. 

"  My  dearest  Mrs.  Mellot,"  says  the  poor  wretch,  "  I  will  be 
good,  indeed  I  will ;  I  will  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 
such  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. 

Claude's  house  is  arranged  with  his  usual  defiance  of  all 
conventionalities.      Dining  or  drawing-room   proper  there   is 


134  Two  Years  Ago. 

none ;  the  large  front  room  is  the  studio,  where  he  and 
Sabina  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),  that  the  eye  can  turn  nowhere  without  taking 
in  some  new  beauty,  and  w^andering  on  from  picture  to 
statue,  from  portrait  to  landscape,  dreaming  and  learning 
afresh  after  every  glance.  At  the  back,  a  glass  bay  has  been 
thrown  out,  and  forms  a  little  conservatory,  for  ever  fresh 
and  g  ly  with  tropic  ferns  and  flowers  ;  gaudy  orchids  dangle 
from  the  roof,  creepers  hide  the  frame-work,  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  v^iser  plan,  to 
spend  money  on  a  horse  and  brougham,  which  we  don't  care 
to  u5e,  and  on  scrambling  into  society  at  the  price  of  one 
great,  stupid  party  a  year,  or  to  make  our  little  world  as 
pret'.y  as  we  can,  and  let  tliose  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 
Cordifiamma,  all  the  more  beautiful  from  the  languor  produced 
by  the  excitement  of  acting,  lay  upon  a  sofa ;  Claude  attended, 
talking  earnestly ;  Sabina,  according  to  her  custom,  was 
fluttering  in  and  out,  and  arranging  supper  v/ith  her  own 
hands ;  both  husband  and  wife  were  as  busy  as  bees  ;  and 
yet  anyone  accustomed  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  ;  perhaps,  too,  happy  in 
sympathy  with  their  happiness  :  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 


Two  Years  Ago.  135 

forwardest ;  puts  on  the  air  of  languid  nonchalance  which  is 
considered  (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  Scoutbush'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  called  Stangrave.  The 
intruder  is  introduced  to  Lord  Scoutbush,  which  ceremony 
is  consummated  by  a  microscopic  nod  on  either  side ;  he  then 
walks  straight  up  to  La  Cordifiamma ;  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,  Claude 
making  room  for  him ;  and  the  two  engage  earnestly  in 
conversation. 

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  con- 
versation 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  new-comer,  who  seems  to  have  seen,  and 
done,  and  read  everything  in  heaven  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  anyone  would  kindly  take  it  off  his  hands.  Not  that  he 
boasts,  or  takes  any  undue  share  of  the  conversation ;  he  is 
evidently  too  well-bred  for  that ;  but  every  sentence  shows 
an  acquaintance  with  facts  of  which  Eton  has  told  Scoutbush 
nothing,  the  barrack-room  less,  and  after  vvhich  he  still  craves, 
the  good  little  fellow,  in  a  very  honest  way,  and  would  soon 
have  learnt,  had  he  had  a  chance ;  for  of  native  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  sleeo  till  he  has  painted  you." 


136  Two  Years  Ago. 

"Do  let  him!"  cried  Scoutbush  :  "what  a  picture  he  will 
make  ! " 

"  He  may  paint  a  picture,  but  not  me ;  it  is  quite  enough, 
Lord  Scoutbush,  to  be  someone  else  for  two  hours  every 
nig-ht,  without  going  down  to  posterity  as  someone  else  for 
ever.  If  I  am  painted,  I  will  be  painted  by  no  one  who 
cannot  represent  my  very  self." 

"You  are  right!"  said  Stangrave :  "and  you  will  do  the 
man  himself  good  by  refusing ;  he  has  some  notion  still  of 
what  a  portrait  ought  to  be.  If  he  once  begins  by  attempt- 
ing 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  she. 

"  Portrait  painters  now  depend  for  their  effect  on  the  mere 
accidents  of  the  entourage;  on  dress,  on  landscape,  even  on 
broad  hints  of  a  man's  occupation,  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  ox '  under  his  picture.  If 
they  wish  to  give  the  face  expression,  though  they  seldom 
aim  so  high,  all  they  can  compass  is  a  passing  emotion ;  and 
one  sitter  goes  down  to  posterity  with  an  eternal  frown, 
another  with  an  eternal  smile." 

"Or,  if  he  be  a  poet,"  said  Sabina,  "rolls  his  eye  for  ever 
in  a  fine  frenzy." 

"But  would  you  forbid  them  to  paint  passion?" 

"  Not  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  Shakespeare  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  Marie  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?" 


Two  Years  Ago.  137 

"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 
expression  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  a  painter  find  such  among  the  poor,  thin,  unable 
mortals  who  come  to  him  to  buy  immortality  at  a  hundred 
and  fifty  guineas  a  piece,  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; 


138  Two  Years  Ago. 

and  if  a  poor  felHow  is  bored,  and  tries  to  do  anything  spicy 
or  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  they 
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?  Let  anyone 
set  his  heart,  in  these  days,  to  do  what  is  right,  and  nothing 
else ;  and  it  will  not  be  long  ere  his  brow  be  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  thus,  after  the  evening's 
fatigue.  Mrs.  Mellot  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  the  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  over  La  Cordifiamma. 

"Shall  I  come  in  to-morrow  morning?  We  ought  to  read 
over  that  scene  together  before  the  rehearsal." 

"  Early  then,  or  Sabina  will  be  gone  out ;  and  she  must  play 
soubrette  to  our  hero  and  heroine." 

"You  will  rest?  Mrs.  Mellot,  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 
themselves  ; "  and  Stangrave  departed. 

Great  was  Scoutbush's  wrath  when  he  saw  Marie  rise  and 
obey  orders.  "Who  was  this  man?  what  right  had  he  to 
command  her?" 


Two  Years  Ago.  139 

He  asked  as  much  of  Sabina  the  moment  La  Cordifiamma 
had  retired. 

"  Are  you  not  gfoing  to  Lady  M 's,  too  ?  " 

"  No  ;  that  is,  I  won't  go  yet ;  not  tiil  you  have  explained  all 
this  to  me." 

"  Explained  what  ? "  asked  Sabina,  looking-  as  demure  as  a 
little  brown  mouse. 

"Why,  w^hat  did  you  ask  me  here  for?" 

"  Lord  Scoutbush  should  recollect  that  he  asked  himself." 

"You  cruel,  venomous  creature!  do  you  think  I  would  have 
come,  if  I  had  known  that  I  was  to  see  another  man  making 
love  to  her  before  my  very  eyes  ?  I  could  kill  the  fellow ; 
who  is  he  ?  " 

"A  New  York  merchant,  unworthj'  of  your  aristocratic 
powder  and  ball." 

"  The  confounded  Yankee  I "  muttered  Scoutbush. 

"  If  people  swear  in  my  house,  I  fine  tbera  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  I     Is  he  her  husband  ?  " 

"No." 

"  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  anyone,  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, 
handsome,  better  educated  than  any  VN^oman  whom  you  will 
meet  to-night.  True,  she  is  a  Manchester  girl :  but  then  she 
has  eighty  thousand  pounds." 


140  Two  Years  Ago. 

"Eighty  thousand  nonsense!  I'd  sooner  have  that  divine 
creature  without  a  penny,  than " 

"  And  would  ray  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,  I  mean — only  help  me  this  once  !  " 

"This  once  ?  Do  you  intend  to  marry  by  my  assistance  this 
time,  and  by  your  own  the  next  ?  How  many  viscoimtesses 
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  commonplaces,  which  one  has  heard  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  the  surface  the  real  heroism,  the  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  her  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 's  ball?" 

"  No,  confound  it ;  to  meet  that  fellow  there !  I  should 
quarrel  with  him,  as  sure  as  there  is  hot  Irish  blood  in  my 
veins.  The  self-satisfied  puppy  !  to  be  flirting  and  strutting 
there,  while  such  a  creature  as  that  is  lying  thinking  of 
him." 

"Would  you  have  him  shut  himself  up  in  his  hotel,  and 
write  poetry  ;  or  walk  the  streets  all  night,  sighing  at  the 
moon  ?  " 

"No;  but  the  cool  way  in  which  he  went  cff  himself,  and 
sent  her  to  bed.  Confound  him!  commanding  her.  It  made 
my  blood  boil." 

"Claude,  get  Lord  Scoutbush  some  iced  soda-water.* 

"  If  you  laugh  at  me,  I'll  never  speak  to  you  again." 

*'  Or  buy  any  of  Claude's  pictures  ?  " 


Two  Years  Ago.  141 

"Why  do  you  torment  ms  so?  I'll  go,  I  say — leave  town 
to-morrow — only  I  can'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  sou!  but  you  to  ask  advice  of, 
for  Valencia  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 ;  while  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  for  pure  and 
simple  fun. 

Sabina  is  one  of  those  charming  bodies  who  knows  every- 
body's business,  and  manages  it.  She  lives  in  a  world  of 
intrigue,  but  without  a  thought  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  spendthrift  to  get  out  of  a  scrape ;  and,  like 
David  in  the  mountains,  "everyone  that  is  discontented,  and 
everyone  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.  Fine  ladies  with  over-full 
hearts,  and  seedy  gentlemen  with  over-empty  pockets,  jostle 
each  other  at  her  deer ;  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  her  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  sayg,  "so  I  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  if  they  were  in  my  own  nursery."  Ana  so  it  befalls 
that  she  is  everyone's  confidante ;  and  though  everyone  seems 
on  the  point  of  taking  hberties  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 


142  Two  Years  Ago. 

betters),  take  her  plain  speaking  unkindly,  she  just  speaks  a 
little  more  plainly,  once  for  all,  and  goes  off  smiling  to 
someone  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." 

"Well?" 

•'  Because  he  is  an  idler. 

"  What  would  she  say  of  me,  then?"  groaned  Scoutbush. 

"  Very  true  ;  for,  you  must  understand,  this  Mr.  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  quite  an  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  enterpriie  ;  whose  one 
object  is  to  be  of  use,  even  if  he  has  to  sacrifice  his  life  to  it. 
She  says  that  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  ? " 

"  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 — 


Two  Years  Ago.  143 

"  I  am  not  cut  out  for  a  hero ;  so  I  suppose  I  must  give  her 
up.  But  I  wish  sometimes  I  could  be  of  use,  Mrs.  Mellot : 
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 
have  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  I " 

"  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  am  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  I  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  she  is  acting,  if  she  has  to  say  anything  grand,  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  everyone  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 
everyone  says  there  will  not  be,  I'd  go  into  a  marching 
regiment,  and  see  service.     I'd— hane  it  if  they'd  have  me — 


144  Two  Years  Ago. 

I'd  even  go  to  the  senior  department  at  Sandhurst,  and  read 
mathemathics  ! " 

Sabina  kept  her  countenance  (though  with  difficulty)  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 
had  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  1  I  thought 
myself  a  lucky  fellow  to  be  left  here." 

"  Do  you  know  that  it  is  getting  very  late  ?  " 

So  Frederick  Lord  Scoutbush  v/ent  home  to  his  rooms ;  and 
there  sat  for  three  hours  and  more  with  his  feet  on  the  fender, 
rejecting  the  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"  that  he  was  hit  very  hard 
indeed :  but  made  no  remark,  being  a  Scotchman,  and  of  a 
cautious  temperament.  HoVkCver,  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  sense  enough  to  ask  Sabina  for  no  more  interviews  with 
her.  So  in  all  things  he  acquitted  himself  as  a  model  officer, 
and  excited  the  admiration  and  respect  of  Sergeant-Major 
MacArthur,  who  began  fishing  at  Bowie  to  discover  the 
cause  of  this  strange  metamorphosis  in  the  rackety  little 
Irishman. 

"Your  master  seems  to  be  quahfying  himself  for  the 
adjutant's  post,  Mr.  Bowie.  I'm  jalousing  he's  fired  with 
martial  ardour  since  the  war  broke  out." 

To  which  Bov/ie,  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." 


Two  Years  Ago.  145 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Taking  Root. 

Whosoever  enjoys  the  sight  of  an  honest  man  doing  his 
work  well,  would  have  enjoyed  the  sight  of  Tom  Thurnall 
for  Ine  next  two  months.  In-doors  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 
Puezling  enough  it  was,  alike  to  Heale  and  to  Headley,  how 
Tom  contrived,  as  if  by  magic,  to  gain  everyone'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. 

By  which  term  Heale  indicated  the,  to  him,  astounding 
fact,  that  Tom  charged  the  patients  as  little,  instead  of  as 
much  as  possible,  and  applying  to  medicine  the  principles  of 
an  enlightened  potitical  economy,  tried  to  increase  the  demand 
by  cheapening  the  supply.  a 

"Which  is  revolutionary  doctrine,  sir,"  said  Heale  to 
Lieutenant  Jones,  over  the  brandy-and- water,  "and  just 
like  what  the  Cobden  and  Bright  lot  used  to  talk,  and  have 
been  the  ruin  of  British  agriculture,  though  don'^  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  merchant  brig)  for  somethmg ;  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 
apiece;  but  if  you'll  take  my  advice,  you'll  buy  two  penny- 
worth 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  pharmacopoeia,  half  of 
Ihem ;  it's  unprofessional,  sir— quackery." 


146  Two  Years  Ago. 

"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  o' 
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  daresay  he's  right — he 
is  uncommonly  'cute  about  what  he  calls  diagnosis.  Says  he, 
*  You  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  after- 
noon, 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  muscle  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  the 
house  any  week." 

"  He  charges  for  his  visits,  I  suppose." 

"  Not  he  1  If  you'll  believe  me,  when  I  asked  him  if  he 
wasn't  going  to,  says  he,  that  Mrs.  Vavasour's  company  was 
quite  payment  enough  for  him." 

"Shows  his  good  taste.  Why,  what  now,  Mary?"  as  the 
maid  opens  the  door. 

"Mr.  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;  "Mr. 
Heale  read  that  letter." 


Two  Years  Ago.  147 

And  the  lieutenant  details  his  ailments,  and  their  supposed 
cause,  till  Heale  has  the  pleasure  of  hearing-  Tom  answer— 

"  Fiddlesticks  1  That's  not  what's  the  matter  with  you.  I'll 
:ure  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. 
ft.rmsworth  that  Mr.  Thurnall  is  now  in  the  neighbourhood 
)f  his  estates  of  Pentremochyn,  would  feel  obliged  to  him  at 
lis  earliest  convenience  to  examine  iiito  the  sanitary  state  of 
;he  cottages  thereon,  which  are  said  to  be  much  haunted  by 
:yphus  and  other  epidemics,  and  to  send  him  a  detailed  report, 
ndicating  what  he  thinks  necessary  for  making  them  thoroughly 
lealthy.  Mr.  Thurnall  will  be  so  good  as  to  make  his  own 
;harge." 

"  Well,  Mr.  Thurnall,  you  ought  to  turn  a  good  penny  by 
his,"  said  Heale,  half  envious  of  Tom's  connection,  half 
:ontemptuous  at  his  supposed  indifference  to  gain. 

"I'll  charge  what  it's  worth,"  said  Tom.     "Meanwhile,   I 

lope  you're  going  to  see  Miss  Beer  to-night." 

•'  Couldn't  you  just  go  yourself,  my  dear  sir  ?    It  is  so  late." 

•'  No  ;  I  never  go  near  young  women.     I  told  you  so  it  first, 

.nd  I  stick  to  my  rule.     You'd  better  go,  sir,  on  my  w  ord,  or 

■  she's  dead  before  morning,  don't  say  it's  my  fault." 

"Did  you  ever  hear  a  poor  old  man  so  tyrannised  over?" 
aid  Heale,  as  Tom  coolly  went  into  the  passage,  brought  in 
le  old  mans  great-coat  and  hat,  arrayed  him,  and  marched 
im  out,  civilly,  but  firmly. 

"Now,  lieutenant,  I've  half  an  hour  to  spare:  let's  have 
jolly  chat  about  the  West  Indies." 

And  Tom  began  with  anecdote  and  joke,  and  the  old  seaman 
lughed  till  he  cried,  and  went  to  bed  vowing  that  there  never 
'as  such  a  pleasant  fellow  on  earth,  and  he  ought  to  be 
bysician  to  Queen  Victoria. 

Up  at  five  the  next  morning,  the  indefatigable  Tom  had 
1  his  own  work  done  by  ten ;  and  was  preparing  to  start 
>r  Pentremochyn,  ere  Heale  was  out  of  bed,  when  a  customer 
ime  in  who  kept  him  half  an  hour. 

He  was  a  tall,  broad-shouldered  young  man,  with  a  red 
ce,  protruding  bull's  eyes,  and  a  mustachio.  He  was  dressed 
a  complete  suit  of  pink  and  white  plaid,  cut  jauntily  enough. 


148  Two  Years  Ago. 

A  bright  blue  cap,  a  thick  gold  v/atch-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  com- 
pleted his  equipment.  He  lounged  in,  with  an  air  of  careless 
superiority,  while  Tom,  who  was  behind  the  counter,  cutting 
up  his  day's  provision  of  honeydew,  eyed  him  curiously. 

"Who  are  you,  now?  A  gentleman?  Not  quite,  I  guess. 
Some  squireen  of  the  parts  adjacent,  and  look  in  somewhat 
of  a  crapulo-comatose  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  smoke  it?" 

"  I've  heard  of  it ;  let's  see  : "  and  Mr.  Trebooze— for  it 
was  he — put  his  hand  across  the  counter  unceremoniously,  and 
clawed  up  some. 

"Didn't  know  you  sold  tobacco  here.  Prime  stuff.  Too 
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  !  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  cock  of  a  different  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  ?  " 

"  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. 


Two  Years  Ago.  149 

*'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  not  nfeant 
for  impudence  ;  and  something  in  his  tone  and  manner  told  him 
that  the  boast  of  being  "a man  of  the  world "  was  not  untrue. 
And  of  all  kinds  of  men,  a  man  of  the  world  was  the  one  of 
whom  Trebooze  stood  most  in  awe.  A  small  squireen,  cursed 
with  six  or  seven  hundreds  a  year  of  his  ov/n,  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  she,  a  clever 
and  determined  woman,  kept  him,  though  not  from  drunkenness 
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  the  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  anyone  who  has 
seen  more  than  he. 

"  Buffalo  bulls  ?  "  said  he,  half  contemptuously ;  "  what  do 
you  know  about  buffalo  bulls  ?  " 

'*  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 


150  Two  Years  Ago. 

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;  Mrs.  Trebooze 
thinks  it's  got  swelled  glands,  or  some  such  woman's  nonsense. 
Bother  them,  v/hy  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  said,  if  I  could  get  you,  she'd  sooner  have  you  than  that 
old  rum-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  Mrs.  Trebooze  coming 
back." 

"  Mrs.  Trebooze  I  She  must  take  what  I  like,  and  what's 
good  enough  for  me  is  good  enough  for  her,  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 
accordingly." 

All  which  Miss  Heale  had  heard.  She  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  having 
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,  w^icked  man  1"  and  "so  very  handsome  too, 
and  so  distinguished  as  he  looks ! "  said  the  poor  little  fool, 
to  whose  novel-fed  imagination  Mr.  Trebooze  was  an  ideal 
Lothario. 


Two  Years  Ago.  151 

But  the  surprise  of  the  two  dames  grew  rapidly  as  they 
heard  Tom's  audacity  towards  the  county  aristocrat. 

"  Impudent  wretch  ! "  moaned  Mrs.  Heale  to  herself.  "  He'd 
drive  away  an  ange!,  if  he  came  into  the  shop." 

"  Oh,  Ma  !     Here  how  they  are  going  on  now." 

**  I  can't  bear  it,  my  dear.  This  man  will  be  the  ruin  of  us. 
His  manners  is  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  interloper ;  and  he  to  dine  at  Trebooze  off  purple 
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  squires'  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 
was  now  transferred  to  the  unconscious  Tom,  that  need  not 
make  any  difference  in  the  said  amiable  feeling. 

But  that  Tom  w^as  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  hearts  likewise.  There 
must  be  some  mystery  about  hira — 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 


152  Two  Years  Ago. 

spent  on  the  poor  little  fool ;  but  as  such  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  Miss  Heale,  are  often  really 
less  educated  than  the  children  of  their  parents'  workmen ; 
sedentary,  luxurious,  full  of  petty  vanity,  gossip,  and  intrigue, 
without  w^ork,  ^vithout  purpose,  except  that  of  getting  married 
to  anyone  who  will  ask  them — bewildering  brain  and  heart 
with  novels,  which,  after  all,  one  hardly  grudges  them  ;  for 
what  other  means  have  they  of  learning  that  there  is  any 
fairer,  nobler  life  possible,  at  least  on  earth,  than  that  of  the 
sordid  money-getting,  often  the  sordid  puffery  and  adulteration, 
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 
education  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 
m  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 
unv/holesome  as  their  mothers. 

Tom  worked  all  that  day  in  and  out  of  the  Pentremochyn 
cottages,  noting  down  the  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    buy  out  Heale,  either  with 


Two  Years  Ago.  153 

his  own  money  (if  he  recovered  it),  or  with  money  borrowed 
from  Mark  ;  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  person  into  his  power,  and  might,  if  cunningly 
used,  give  him  a  hold  upon  the  ruling  family  of  the  place, 
and  on  Lord  Scoutbush  himself.  He  had  found  out  that  Lucia 
and  Elsley  were  unhappy  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  Aberalva,  without  hearing 
hints  that  the  great  folks  at  the  Court  did  not  always  keep 
their  tempers ;  for,  of  family  jars,  as  of  ever5rthing  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  at  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  Mrs.  Trebooze 
and  Mrs.  Heale  (as  they  themselves  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  might  boast  of 
being  intimate  with  her  ;  that  they  might  take  to  advising  and 
patronising  her  as  an  inexperienced  young  creature ;  afraid, 
even,  that  she  might  be  tempted,  in  some  unguarded  moment, 
to  gossip  with  them,  confide  her  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  neigh- 
bourhood. She  was  too  high-minded  to  complain  much  to 
Clara ;  and  her  sister  Valencia  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  the  former,  and 
he  could  be  the  latter  when  he  chose),  "to  be  tied  to  that 
unsociable,  stuck-up  woman ; "   and  so  forth. 


154  Two  Years  Ago. 

All  which  Tom  had  heard,   and  formed  his  own  opinion 

thereof;  which  was — 

"All  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  Brig-gs  has  led 
her  a  pretty  life :  what  else  could  one  expect  of  him  ? " 

However,  he  held  his  tongue,  and  kept  his  eyes  open  wthal 
v/henever  he  went  up  to  Penalva  Court,  which  he  had  to 
do  very  often ;  for  though  he  had  cured  the  children  of  their 
ailments,  yet  Mrs.  Vavasour  was  perpetually  more  or  less 
unwell,  and  he  could  not  cure  her.  Her  low  spirits,  headaches, 
general  want  of  tone  and  vitality,  puzzled  him  at  first ;  and 
would  have  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  Miss  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  pretence  of  fetching  medicine. 

"I  don't  think  I  shall  send  Mrs.  Vavasour  any  more,  Mis3 
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,  poor 
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  sou!,  sir ;  I  was  too 
proud,  for  my  mistress's  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.'.' 


Two  Years  Ago.  155 

*'I'd  pull  her  hair  about  her  ears  if  I  caught  her  I"  quoth 
Clara;  and  then  ran  on  to  tell  how  Elsley  "never  kept  no 
hours,  nor  no  accounts  either ;  so  that  she  has  to  do  every- 
thing, poor  thing ;  and  no  thanks  either.  And  never  knov^s 
when  he'll  dine,  or  when  he'll  breakfast,  or  when  he'll  be  in, 
Tvandering  in  and  out  like  a  madman  ;  and  sits  up  all  night, 
writing  his  nonsense.  And  she'll  go  down  twice  or  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  sometimes  for  a  whole  morning, 
the  brute." 

"  But  is  he  not  fond  of  his  children  ?  " 

"  Fond  ?  Yes,  his  way,  and  small  thanks  to  him,  the  little 
angels  I  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, 
Dr.  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.  Dr.  Thurnall  I " 

"  Does  he  drink  ?  "  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  how's  'he  ever  to  have  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 
sight  of;"  and  so  forth. 

From  aJl  which  Tom  gathered  a  tolerably  clear  notion  of 


156  Two  Years  Ago. 

the  poor  poet's  state  of  body  and  mind  ;  as  a  self-indulgent, 
unmethodical  person,  whose  ill-temper  was  owing  partly 
to  perpetual  brooding  over  his  own  thoughts,  and  partly  to 
dyspepsia,  brought  en  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  someone  to  look 
after  him  just  now.  He's  half  wild  about  some  review  that 
somebody'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  I " 

'*  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,  Dr.  Thurnall." 
And  Clara  began  a  languishing  look  or  two  across  the  counter, 
which  made  Tom  answer  to  an  imaginary  Dr.  Heale,  whom  he 
heard  calling  from  within. 

"Yes,  Doctor!  coming  this  moment.  Doctor  I  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  I " 

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  fish-wife  would  fall  tooth  and  nail 


Two  Years  Ago.  157 

on  me  as  a  base  Intruder,  if  I  dared  to  interfere  with  her  sacred 
right  of  being  beaten  by  her  husband  v/hen  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 
Trebooze,  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,  who  used  to  say 
that  "  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  Nev/broom,  Lord  Minchampstead, 
supplanting  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 
m-an  had  his  rights  I "  And  then  followed  a  long  story  ; 
and  a  confused  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  proportionally  anxious  that  Tom 
should  drink  too  much  also ;  out  of  which  story  Tom  picked 
the  plain  facts,  that  Trebooze's  father  had  mortgaged  the 
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-lending  jobbers, 
who  suck  the  blood  of  the  aristocracy  I "  The  oaths  we  omit, 
leaving  the  reader  to  pepper  Mr.  Trebooze's  conversation 
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  cumberers  of  the  ground  were  cleared  off,  whether 
by  an  encumbered  estates'  act,  such  as  we  may  see  yet  in 
England,  or  by  their  own  suicidal  folly,   the  better  it  would 


158  Two  Years  Ago. 

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  wno  can  sympathise  with  you  deeply.  The  w^onder 
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  the  North,  too,  if  one  is  to  believe  tnose  novels  of  Currer 
Bell  and  her  sister,  there  is  a  large  and  important  class  of 
landed  proprietors  of  the^ame  st.  mp  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  1  Call 
themselves  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'lsraeli  —  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. 

The  door  opened,  and  in  marched  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,  he  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." 


Two  Years  Ago.  159 

**  If  you  are  fit,  sir,"  answered  she. 

"  Brave  woman  ;  come  to  the  point  at  once.  I  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  different  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  she  was  too  shrewd  to  be  taken  in  by 
commonplace  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 
displeased  you :  but  if  you  ever  do  me  the  honour  of  knowing 
more  of  me,  you  will  be  the  first  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  a  cleverer.  She  dropped  her  eye  before 
his  ;  heaved  something  very  like  a  sigh  ;  and  then  said,  in  her 
curt,  fierce  tone,  v/hich  yet  implied  a  sort  of  sullen  resig^nation — 

"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  I "  said  he,  after  looking,  not  without 
honest  admiration,  upon  the  sleeping  child,  who  had  kicked 
off  his  bed-clothes,  and  lay  in  a  wild,  graceful  attitade,  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 
palliatives.     It  depends  upon  your  care,  now." 


i6o  Two  Years  Ago. 

"  He  will  have  that,  at  least,  I  should  hope,"  said  she,  nettled. 

'*  And  on  your  influence  ten  years  hence,"  went  on  Tom. 

"  My  influence  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  only  keep  him  steady,  and  he  may  grow  up  a 
magnificent  man.  If  not — you  will  excuse  me — but  you  must 
not  let  him  live  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 
company  which  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  v/ell ;  and  it  will  be  a  new  interest,  and 
a  new  pride,  and  a  new  life  to  him.  And  meanwhile,  madam., 
what  you  have  said  to  me  is  sacred.  I  do  not  pretend  to 
advise  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  v/orked  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  in  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  nyyself,  as  it 
would  involve  a  present  outlay  of  not  less  than  j^450.     This 


Two  Years  Ago.  i6i 

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  Mr.  Heale,  my  employer,  save 
at  your  special  command.  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.  j.,- 

"  Well,  Mr.  Armsworth,  what  am  I  to  do  ?  " 

"  Well,  my  lord :  I  told  you  what  sort  of  man  you'd  have 
to  do  with ;  one  that  does  his  work  thoroughly,  and,  I  think, 
pays  you  a  compliment  by  thinking  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 
g^ve  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 
somebody  ;  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 
unsaleable  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,  Mark,"  said  his  lordship,  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. 


1 62  Two  Years  Ago, 


CHAPTER   IX. 

"Am  I  not  a   Woman  and  a  Sister?" 

But  what  was  the  mysterious  bond  between  La  Cordifiamma 
and  the  American,  which  had  prevented  Scoutbush  from 
following  the  example  of  his  illustrious  progenitor,  and 
taking  a  viscountess  from  off  the  stage  ? 

Certainly,  anyone  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  all  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  her  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  beseechingly,  as  she  looked  down 
tyrannically. 

"  Stupid,  this  reciting  ?  Of  course  it  is  I  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  enough.  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  ever 
read  the  '  Morte  d'Arthur?"' 

"  A  hundred  times." 

*'  Of  course  ! "  and  she  spoke  in  a  tone  of  contempt  so  strong 
that  it  must  have  been  affected.  "What  have  you  not  read? 
And  what  have  you  copied  ?  No  wonder  that  these  English 
have  been  what  they  have  been  for  centuries,  while  their 
heroes  have  been  the  Galahads,  and  their  Homer  the  'Morte 
d'Arthur.'" 

"  Enjoy  your  Utopia  !  "  said  he,  bitterly.  "  Do  you  fancy 
thej  acted  up  to  their  ideals?  They  dieamed  of  the  Quest  of 
the  Sangreal :  but  which  of  them  ever  went  upon  it  ?  " 


Two  Years  Ago.  163 

"And  does  it  count  for  nothing  that  they  felt  it  the  finest 
thing  in  the  world  to  have  gone  on  it,  had  it  been  possible  ? 
Be  sure  if  their  ideal  was  so  self-sacrificing,  so  lofty,  their 
practice  was  ruled  by  something  higher  than  the  almighty 
dollar." 

"And  so  are  seme  other  men's,  Marie,"  answered  he, 
reproachfully. 

"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  French  cookery,  and  wines,  and 
fine  clothes,  then  he  begins  to  lay  out  his  surplus  nobly  on 
self-education,  and  the  patronage  of  art,  and  the  theatre — for 
merely  aesthetic  purposes,  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  the  hero.  Now  the  one  is  exchanged  for  Goethe,  and 
the  other  for  Wilhelm  Meister." 

"  Cruel !  You  know  that  my  Goethe  fever  is  long  past. 
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  you  would  have 
me  do  for  your  sake,  and  see  if  I  vvrill  not  do  it ! " 

"  For  my  sake  ?  A  noble  reason  I  Show  yourself  the  thing 
which  you  will  do  for  its  ov/n  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  before  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  heart,  you  will  find 
for  yourself  the  noble  Quest.  If  not,  who  can  prove  to  you 
that  it  is  noble?"  And  tapping  impatiently  with  her  foot, 
she  went  on  to  herself — 

"  A  gentle  sound,  an  awful  light  I 

Three  ang-els  bear  the  holy  Grail: 
With  folded  feet,  in  stoles  of  white, 

On  sleeping  v/ings  they  sail. 
Ah,  blessed  vision  !  blood  of  God  1 

The  spirit  beats  her  mortal  bars, 
As  down  dark  tides  the  glory  slides, 

And  star-like  mingles  with  the  stars.' 


164  Two  Years  Ago. 

**  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  nowadays,  the 
knights  sit  drinking  hock  and  champagne,  or  drive  sulky- 
waggons,  and  never  fancy  that  there  is  a  Quest  at  all." 

"Why  talk  in  these  parables?" 

"So    the    Jews    asked    of   their    prophets.      They  are    no 
parables  to  my  ghost-husband,    Sir    Gaiahad.      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., 
'^Aberalva." 

"  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  1  Your  w^ords  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  vyhen  he  pretended 
to  see  nothing.     Oh,  there  is  more  generosity  in  that  man's 


Two  Years  Ago.  165 

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  he  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, 
and,  as  far  as  I  am  concerned,  accept  my  best  wishes  for  your 
happiness." 

"  My  effete  English  aristocrat,  did  I  show  him  that  pedigree 
of  mine  which  I  have  ere  now  threatened  to  show  you,  would 
perhaps  be  less  horrified  at  it  than  you  are." 

"  Marie,  I  cannot  bear  this  1  Tell  me  only  what  you  mean. 
What  care  I  for  pedigree?  I  want  you — worship  you — and 
that  is  enough,  Marie  I  " 

"You  admire  me  because  I  am  beautiful.  What  thanks  do 
I  owe  you  for  finding  out  so  patent  a  fact?  What  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 -" 

"You  admire  me,"  interrupted  she,  "because  I  am  clever. 
What  thanks  to  you  for  that,  again?  What  do  you  do  more 
to  me  than  you  do  to  yourself  ?  "  ^ 

"And  this,  after  all " 

"After  what?  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-developme::t,  try  experiments  on  every  weak  wom.an 
whom  he  met.     And  I,  the  new  phenomenon,  whom  you  must 


1 66  Two  Years  Ago. 

appreciate  to  show  your  own  taste,  patronise  to  show  your 
own  liberality,  develop  to  show  your  own  insight  into  character. 
You  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  I    Is  your  heart  iron  ?" 

•'  No  ;  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  1 " 

Stangrave  looked  at  her  startled.  Was  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  m.eaning. 

"  So  you  know  Mr.  Thurnall  ?  "    she  said,  after  a  while. 

*•  Yes  ;  why  do  j'ou  ask  r  " 

"  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.  When  did  you  see  him 
last?" 

"  I  have  not  been  acquainted  with  Mr.  Thurnall  for  some 
years,"  said  Stangrave,  haughtily. 

"  In  plain  words,  you  have  quarrelled  with  him  ?  " 

Stangrave  bit  his  lip. 

"  He  and  I  had  a  difference.  He  insulted  my  nation,  and  we 
parted." 

She  laughed  a  long,  loud,  bitter  laugh,  which  rang  through 
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  1  I  was  not  aware  of  this  1  Even  so  long  ago  you 
saw  the  Sangreal,  and  did  not  know  it  when  you  saw  it  1  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  I     Farewell,  then  1 " 


Two  Years  Ago.  167 

"Marie,  what  do  you  mean?"  and  Stangrave  caught  both 
her  hands. 

"  Hush,  if  you  please.  I  know  you  are  eloquent  enough, 
when  you  choose,  though  you  have  been  somewhat  dumb  and 
monosyllabic  to-night  in  the  presence  of  the  actress  whom  you 
undertook  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  have  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  Stangrave,  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 
sidelong,  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  had 
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  herself,  had  moulded  her  features,  for  the  moment,  into  the 
very  shape  which  it  dreaded.  And  Stangrave  saw  it,  and 
shuddered  as  he  saw. 

Another  half  minute,  and  that  face  also  had  melted  out  of 
the  mirror,  at  least  for  Marie's  eyes ;  and  in  its  place  an 
ancient  negress,  white-haired,  withered  as  the  wrinkled  ape, 


1 68  Two  Years  Ago 

but  with  eyes  closed — in  death.  Marie  knew  that  face  well ; 
a  face  which  haunted  many  a  dream  of  hers ;  once  seen,  but 
never  forgotten  since ;  for  to  that  old  dame's  coffin  had  her 
mother,  the  gay  quadroon  woman,  flaunting  in  finery  which 
was  the  price  of  shame,  led  Marie  w^hen  she  w^as  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  off  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  vrith  a  shriek. 

He  sprang  up  and  caught  her  in  his  arms.  "  Marie !  Beloved 
Marie  I"  She  looked  up  at  him,  struggling;  the  dark  expres- 
sion had  vanished,  and  Stangrave's  love-blinded  eyes  could  see 
nothing  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 
unheeding. 

"You  love  me,  you  know  you  love  me;  and  you  madden 
yourself  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  1  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  I  what  is  the  matter  ?  " 

"Wait  but  one  minute,  Mrs.  Mellot,"  said  he;  "tlienext,  I 
shall  introduce  you  to  my  bride." 


Two  Years  Ago.  169 

*'  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  v/ent 
away  in  despair,  the  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  fuil  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  v/as  to  be  useful  to  the  negro,  that  abolition 
was  the  Sangreal  in  the  quest  of  which  he  was  to  go  forth, 
was  as  disagreeable  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  disappointed,  in  the  ranks  of  the  minority  ;  while  to  gain 
place  and  power  on  the  side  of  the  majority  was  to  lend 
himself  to  that  fatal  policy  which,  ever  since  the  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 


170  Two  Years  Ago. 

with  men  who  considered  him  much  further  below  them  ifl 
rank  than  an  English  footman  is  below  an  English  nobleman ; 
who,  indeed,  would  some  of  them  look  down  on  the  English 
nobleman  himself  as  a  mushroom  of  yesterday.  So  he  com- 
pounded 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  Epicureanism.  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,  he  learnt  to 
sentimentalise  over  cathedrals  and  monasteries,  pictures  and 
statues,  saints  and  kaisers,  with  a  lazy  regret  that  such 
"forms  of  beauty  and  nobleness"  were  no  longer  possible 
in  a  world  of  script  and  railroads ;  but  without  any  notion 
that  it  was  his  duty  to  reproduce  in  his  own  life,  or  that  of 
his  country,  as  much  as  he  could  of  the  said  beauty  and 
nobleness.  And  now  he  was  sorely  tried.  It  was  interesting 
enough  to  "develop"  the  peculiar  turn  of  Marie's  genius,  by 
writing  for  her  plays  about  liberty,  just  as  he  would  have 
written  plays  about  jealousy,  or  anything  else  for  representing 
which  she  had  "capabilities."  But  to  be  called  on  to  act 
in  that  Slavery  question,  the  one  on  which  he  knew  (as  all 
sensible  Americans  do)  that  the  life  and  death  of  his  country 
depended,  and  whi^.i  for  that  very  reason  he  had  carefully 
ignored  till  a  more  convenient  season,  finding  in  its  very 
difficulty  and  danger  an  excuse  for  leaving  it  to  solve  itself — 
to  have  this  thrust  on  him,  and  by  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  ball-room  into  the  dust-hole,  in  her  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-Raphaelite  pictures,  which  Claude  does 
not  appreciate  as  he  ought 


Two  Years  Ago.  171 

" Desinit  In  Cul'icem  muli'er  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  modei 
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  1  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  wilful  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  for  whom  it  was  meant  was 
standing  by  my  side,  young  and  lovely ;  the  portrait  hung 
there  neitlier  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, 
caricatured  her  into  a  woman  twenty  years  older  than  she  is." 

"  But  did  you  ever  see  a  modern  portrait  which  more 
perfectly  expressed  character ;  which  more  completely  fulfilled 
the  requirements  which  you  laid  down  a  few  evenings  since  ?  " 

« <  Mever ;  and  that  makes  me  all  the  more  cross  with  the 
wilful  mistake  of  it.     He  had  painted  every  wrinkle." 

"  Why  not,  if  they  were  there  ?  " 

"  Because  he  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 


172  Two  Years  Ago. 

making  them  so  small  as  to  be  invisible,  save  under  a  micro- 
scope ;  and  the  result  was,  that  he  had  'caricatured  every 
wrinkle,  as  his  friend  has  in  those  horrible  knuckles  of  Shem'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?  And  you  are  the  man  who 
talks  of  art  being  highest  when  it  copies  nature." 

"  Exactly.  And  therefore  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  very  defect  of  the  daguerreotype  which  the 
stereoscope  is  required  to  correct." 

"  I  comprehend.  They  forget  that  the  double  vision  of  our 
two  eyes  gives  a  softness,  an  indistinctness,  and  roundness 
to  every  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  last  gave,  but 
for  another  one  which  the  pre-Raphaelites  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,  a  human  face ;  and  as  seen  by  a  spectator 
who  is  perfectly  still,  which  no  man  ever  yet  was.  My  dear 
fellow,  don't  you  see  that  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-shifting 
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-shifting  eyes ;  while,  perhaps,  if  it  is 
a  face  you  love  and  have  lingered  over,  a  dozen  other  expres- 
sions 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 


Two  Years  Ago.  173, 

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,  perhaps,  thank  Heaven — than  it 
would  look  if  your  head  was  screv/ed  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,  that  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 
the  announcement  is  new  to  me." 

"Of  course.  Who  can  see  wrinkles  in  the  light  of  those 
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  their  being  there,  I 
should  consider  it  an  impertinence  on  his  part.  What  business 
has  he  to  spy  out  what  nature  is  taking  such  charming 
trouble  to  conceal?" 

"Again,"  said  Claude,  "such  a  face  as  Cordifiamma's. 
When  it  is  at  rest,  in  deep  thought,  there  are  lines  in  it 
which  utterly  puzzle  one — touches  which  are  Eastern,  Kabyle, 
almost  Quadroon." 

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.  They  express  her 
character  no  more  than  a  scar  would ;  and  therefore  when  I 
paint  her,  as  I  mus't  ind  will,  I  shall  utterly  ignore  them. 
If,  on  the  other  hand,  I  met  the  same  lines  in  a  face  which 
I  knew  to  have  Quadroon  blood  in  it,  I  should  religiously 
copy  them ;  because  then  they  would  be  integral  elements  of 
the  face.     You  understand?" 


174  Two  Years  Ago. 

"Understand?  —  yes,"  ansv/ered  Stangrave,  in  a  tone 
which  made  Claude  look  up. 

That  strange  scene  of  half  an  hour  before  flashed  across 
him.  What  if  it  were  no  fancy?  'What  if  Marie  had 
African  blood  in  her  veins?  And  Stangrave  shuddered,  and 
felt  for  the  moment  that  thousands  of  pounds  w^ould  be  a 
cheap  price  to  pay  for  the  discovery  that  his  fancy  v?as  a 
false  one. 

«<  Yes— oh — I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  he,  recovering  himself. 
"  I  was  thinking  of  something  else.  But,  as  you  say,  what 
if  she  had  Quadroon  blood  ?  " 

"  I  ?    I  never  said  so,  or  dreamt  of  it." 

"  Oh  1  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,"  ansv/ered  Stangrave,  coldly,  as  in  a  dream;  "I 
have  knov/n  Mr.  Thurnall  in  past  years ;  but  not  in  con- 
nection 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  the  deepest  obligations  ; 
she  was  ready  to  rush  into  our  arms  when  she  first  found 
that  we   knew  him.     He   is  a  greater   hero  in  her   eyes,    I 


Two  Years  Ago.  175 

sometimes  fancy,  than  even  you  are.  She  does  nothing  (or 
fancies  that  she  does  nothing-,  for  you  know  her  pretty 
wilfulness)  without  writing  for  his  advice." 

"la  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  his  heart  "  Do  you  know, 
then,  what  this  same  obligation  may  be  ?  " 

"  I  never  asked.  I  hate  gossiping,  and  I  make  a  rule  to 
inquire  into  no  secrets  but  such  as  are  voluntarily  confided 
to  me;   and  I  know  that  she  has  never  told  Sabina." 

"  I  suppose  she  is  married  to  him.  That  is  the  simplest 
explanation  of  the  mystery." 

"  Impossible  1  V/hat  can  you  mean?  If  she  ever  marries 
living  man,  she  will  marry  you." 

"Then  she  will  never  marry  living  man,"  said  Stangrave 
to  himself.  "  Good-bye,  my  dear  fellow ;  I  have  an  engage- 
ment at  the  Traveller's."  And  away  went  Stangrave, 
leaving  Claude  sorely  puzzled,  but  little  dreaming  of  the 
powder-magazine  into  which  he  had  put  a  match. 

But  he  was  puzzled  still  more  that  night,  when  by  the 
latest  post  a  note  came. 

"From  Stangrave!"  said  Claude.  "Why,  in  the  name  of 
all  wonders  1 " — 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  gave 
La  Cordifiamma  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  which  he  had  to  the 
American's  conduct,  namely,  that  afternoon's  conversation. 

Sabina  shook  her  head  over  it :  for  to  her,  also,  the 
American's  explanation  had  suggested  itself.  Was  Marie 
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 


176  Two  Years  Ago. 

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  and  nobleness  itself — a  brother,  a 
father !  Yes ;  if  I  had  no  other  reason  for  trusting  him,  I 
should  love  him  for  that  alone ;  that  however  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  Marie  threw  herself  upon  Sabina's  neck,  and  under 
the  pressure  of  her  misery  sobbed  out  to  her  the  story  of 
her  life.  What  it  was  need  not  be  told.  A  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  cheered  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  I  You  whom  I  should  have  fancied  always 
living  the  life  of  the  humming-bird  ;  and  yet  not  a  scar  nor 
a  wrinkle  has  it  left  behind  ! " 

"They  were  there  once,  Marie;  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?" 

Marie  was  silent,  reproved  ;   and  then  passionately — 

"Why  does  He  not  right  my  people?" 

That  question  was  one  to  which  Sabina's  little  scheme  of 
the  universe  had  no  answer ;  why  should  it,  while  many  a 
scheme  which  pretends  to  be  far  vaster  and  more  infallible 
has  none  as  yet  ? 

So  she  was  silent,  and  sat  with   Marie's  head  upon  her 


Two  Years  Ago.  177 

busom,  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  find  plenty 
of  room  in  my  heart  for  you,  my  poor  hunted  deer."  ,^,,,.,^,_ 

"  You  will  keep  my  secret  ?  " 

"  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 
England;  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 
w^ith  them,  good,  narrow,  pious  people,  or  they  ^vith  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,  inconsistent  w^retch  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  vyeakness,  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,  an  intellect  rather  Greek  in  its  rapidity 
than  English  in  sturdiness ;  and  withal  a  weak  side,  of 
instability,  inconsistency,  hasty  passion,  love  of  present  enjoy- 
ment, sometimes,  too,  a  tendency  to  untruth,  which  is  the 
mark,  not  perhaps  of  the  African  specially,  but  of  every 
enslaved  race. 


178  Two  Years  Ago. 

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  his  study,  every 
comfort  of  which  is  of  Lucia's  arrangement  and  invention, 
beating  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  over  a  root, 
now  bogged  in  a  green  spring,  now  flushing  a  stray  covey  of 
birds  of  paradise,  now  a  sphinx,  chimaera,  strix,  lamia,  fire- 
drake,  flying-donkey,  t'wo-headed  eagle  (Austrian,  as  will 
appear  short!}'),  or  other  portent  only  to  be  seen  nowadays 
in  the  recesses  of  that  enchanted  forest,  the  convolutions  of  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  ;  the  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.  Moreover,  all  is 
game  which  gets  up  to-day  ;  for  he  is  shooting  for  the  kitchen, 
or  rather  for  the  London  market,  as  many  a  noble  sportsman 
does  nowadays,  and  thinks  no  shame.  His  new  volume  of 
poems  ("The  Wreck"  included)  is  in  the  press:  but  behold, 
it  is  not  as  long  as  tthe  publisher  thinks  fit,  and  Messrs. 
3rown  &  Younger  have  written  down  to  entreat  in  haste 
for  some  four  hundred  lines  more,  on  any  subject  which 
Mr.  Vavasour  may  choose.  And  therefore  is  Elsley  beating 
his  home  covers,  heavily  shot  over  though  they  have  been 
already  this  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  bead  may  have 
strayed  in  out  of  his  neighbours'  manors. 

At  last  the  sport  slackens  ;  for  the  sportsman  is  getting  tired, 
and  hungry  also,  to  carry  on  the  metaphor  ;  for  he  has  seen 


Two  Years  Ago.  179 


the  postman  come  up  the  front  walk  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
since,  and  the  letters  have  not  been  brought  in  yet. 

At  last  there  is  a  knock  at  the  door,  which  he  answers 
by  a  somew^hat  testy  "come  in."  But  he  checks  the  coming 
grumble,  when  not  the  maid,  but  Lucia  enters. 

Why  not  grumble  at  Lucia?  He  has  done  so  many  a 
time. 

Because  she  looks  this  morning  so  charming ;  really  quite 
pretty  again,  so  radiant  is  her  face  with  smiles.  And  because, 
also,  she  holds  triumphant  above  her  head  a  newspaper. 

She  dances  up  to  him — 

"  I  have  something  for  you." 

"  For  me  ?    Why,  the  post  has  been  in  this  half-hour," 

"Yes.  for  you,  and  that's  just  the  reason  why  I  kept  it 
myself.     D'ye  understand  my  Irish  reasoning  ?  " 

"No,  you  pretty  creature,"  said  Elsley,  who  saw  that 
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  ?  " 

"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  1  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  shan'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  ovvm  praise,  or  his  wife's  love  ? 

"Too  true,"  he  cried,  looking  up  at  her.  "  You  dear  creature 
— vain  am  I,  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 


i8o  Two  Years  Ago. 

look  so  very  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  offence  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  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,  which  makes  one  suspect 
that  a  large  proportion  of  the  Transatlantic  gentlemen  of  the 
press  must  be  natives  of  the  sister  isle  ;  but  it  was  all  the  more 
pleasant  to  the  soul  of  Elsley. 

"There,"  said  Lucia,  as  she  clung  croodling  to  him ;  "there 
is  a  pretty  character  of  you,  sir  I  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 
have  rushed  out  and  paid  the  bills  1 " 

"  And  liked  it  a  great  deal  better  than  the  review  ?  " 

"You  jealous  creature  1  No.  If  I  could  always  have  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.  Valencia  and  I  used  to  run 
about  without  shoes  and  stockings  at  Kilanbaggan,  and  you 


Two  Years  Ago.  i8i 

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  give  you  the  unpoetical  also." 

"  Then  they  are  all  humbugs ;  and  I  believe,  if  they  really 
love  their  wives  so  very  much,  they  would  not  be  at  all  that 
pains  to  persuade  the  world  of  it." 

"  You  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  rog^e,  that  you  care  to  read  no  poetry 

but  love  poetry." 

"Of  course  not;  every  vyoman  does;  but  let  me  find  you 
publishing  any  such  about  me,  and  see  what  I  will  do  to  you  I 
There  now,  I  must  go  to  my  v^ork,  and  you  go  and  vyrite 
something  extra-superfinely  grand,  because  I  have  been  so 
good  to  you.  No.  Let  me  go ;  what  a  bother  you  are. 
Good-bye." 

And  av/ay  she  tripped,  and  he  returned  to  his  work,  happier 
than  he  had  been  for  a  week  past. 

His  happiness,  truly,  was  only  on  the  surface.  The  old 
wound  had  been  salved — as  w^hat  w^ound  cannot  be  ? — by 
woman's  love  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 


1 82  Two  Years  Ago. 

Now  the  reader  must  understand,  that  though  one  may  laugh 
at  Elsley  Vavasour,  because  it  is  more  pleasant  than  scolding 
at  him,  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  1 " 

Had  he  been  merely  ludicrous,  Lucia  would  never  have 
married  him  ;  and  he  could  only  have  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  have  for  Elsley.  How  much  value  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  words,  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  tlie  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  synonym  for  licentiousness.  Whatever  is  tender 
and  true,  whatever  is  chivalrous  and  high-minded,  he  loves  at 
first  sight,  and  reproduces  it  lovingly.  And  it  may  be  possible 
that  his  own  estimate  of  his  poems  was  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  which  the  whole  creation  moves." 

This  is  the  special  and  proper  function  of  the  poet ;  that  he 
may  do  this,  does  God  touch  his  lips  with  that  which,  however 
it  may  be  misused,  is  still  fire  from  off  the  altar  beneath  which 
the   spirits  of   His  saints  cry — "Lord,   how  long?"    If  he 


Two  Years  Ago.  183 

"reproduce  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  :  that  he  did  not  feel,  or  at  least 
was  forgetting  fast  that  this  gift  had  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  a  world  which  looked  to  him  so  mean  and  evil.  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  touchi- 
ness he  had  shut  himself  out  from  that  world,  till  he  had 
quite  forgotten  how  much  good  there  was  in  it  as  well  as 
evil ;  how  many  people — commonplace  and  unpoetical  it  may 
be — but  still  heroical  in  God's  sight,  were  working  harder  than 
he  ever  worked,  at  the  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  com- 
parative success  had  injured  him.  Whilst  struggling  himself 
against  circumstances,  poor,  untaught,  unhappy,  he  had  more 
fellow-feeling  with  those  whom  circumstance  oppressed.  At 
ieast,  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  v/eak  :  that  he  had  altogether  forgotten 
that  the  fire  from  off  the  altar  could  only  be  kept  alight  by 
continual  self-restraint  and  self-sacrifice,  by  continual  gentle- 
ness 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.  The  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  merely  sensuous  beauty,  mere 
word-painting,    mere    word-hunting.      The   desire  of  finding 


184  Two  Years  Ago. 

something  worth  saying  gives  place  more  and  more  to  that 
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.  The  later  are 
mannered  caricatures  of  the  earlier,  without  their  soul ;  and 
the  same  change  seems  to  have  passed  over  him  which 
(with  Mr.  Ruskin's  pardon)  transformed  the  Turner  of  1820 
into  the  Turner  of  1850. 

I  Thus  had  Elsley  transferred  what  sympathy  he  had  left  from 
needlewomen  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  he  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  who  bit  her : 
viz.,  by  homoeopathic  doses  of  that  same  "art"  which  has 
been  all  along  her  morbid  and  self-deceiving  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  Radetzky's  cheek,  does  not  appear : 
but  certainly  the  longer  poem  which  had  sprung  from  his 
fancy,  at  the  urgent  call  of  Messrs.  Brown  &  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 
which  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 


Two  Years  Ago.  185 

Fra  Dolclno  and  Margaret,  which  Signor  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  conception  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  villainies  of  Pope  and  Kaiser,  and 
all  the  old  devourers  of  the  earth,  cheered  only  by  the  wild 
love  of  her  who  had  given  up  wealth,  fame,  friends,  all  which 
render  life  worth  having,  to  die  with  him  a  death  too  horrible 
for  words.  And  he  had  conceived  (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  Margaret  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  doom 
of  priests  and  tyrants,  of  the  sorrows  and  rewards  of  genius 
unappreciated  and  before  its  age ;  for  Elsley's  secret  vanity 
could  see  in  himself  a  far  greater  likeness  to  Dolcino,  than 
Dolcino — the  preacher,  confessor,  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  con- 
ception enough  :  though  perhaps  it  never  would  have  entered 
Elsley's  head,  had  Shelley  never  written  the  opening  canto 
of  the  "  Revolt  of  Islam." 

So  Elsley,  on  a  burning  July  forenoon,  strolled  up  the  lane 
and  over  the  down  to  King  Arthur's  Nose,  that  he  might 
find  materials  for  his  sea-shore  scene.  For  he  was  not  one 
of  those  men  who  live  in  such  quiet,  every-day  communication 
with  nature,  in  that  they  drink  her  various  aspects  as  un- 
consciously 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 


1 86  Two  Years  Ago. 

trying  to  compose  instead  some  little  scrap  of  beauty  in  his 
own  self-imprisoned  thoughts ;  or  else  he  was  looking  out 
consciously  and  spasmodically  for  views,  effects,  emotions, 
images ;  something  striking  and  uncommon  which  would 
suggest  a  poetic  figure,  or  help  out  a  description,  or  in  some 
way  refurnish  his  mind  with  thought.  From  which  method 
it  befell,  that  his  lamp  of  truth  was  too  often  burnt  out  just 
when  it  was  needed  ;  f  and  that,  like  the  foolish  virgins,  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  upon  a  spot  which  would  have  made  a  poem  of  itself  bettei 
than  all  Elsley  ever  wrote,  had  he,  forgetting  all  about  Fxa 
Dolcino,  Italy,  priests  and  tyrants,  set  down  in  black  and 
white  just  what  he  saw ;  provided,  of  course,  that  he  had 
patience  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  beauty  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  bladder-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-evaporating  salt-pools.  That  wonder,  indeed,  Elsley 
stooped  to  examine,  and  drew  back  his  head  with  an  "  Ugh  I " 
and  a  gesture  of  disgust,  when  he  found  that  they  were  "nasty 
little  insects."  For  Elsley  held  fully  the  poet's  right  to  believe 
that  all  things  are  not  very  good ;  none,  indeed,  save  such 
as  suited  his  eclectic  and  fastidious  taste ;  and  to  hold  (on  high 
aesthetic  grounds,  of  course),  toads  and  spiders  in  as  much 
abhorrence  as  does  any  boarding-school  girl.  However,  find- 
ing some  rock  ledges  which  formed  a  natural  ladder,  down  he 
scrambled,  gingerly  enough,  for  he  was  neither  an  active  not 
a  courageous  man.  But,  once  dov^n,  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. 


Two  Years  Ago.  187 

The  chasm  may  have  been  fifteen  feet  deep,  and  above, 
about  half  that  breadth  ;  but  belov7,  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  vrithin, 
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- 
weeds 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  different 
rest  1  Without,  all  lying  breathless,  stupefied,  sun-stricken,  in 
blinding  glare ;  within,  all  coolness  and  refreshing  sleep. 
Without,  all  simple,  broad,  and  vast ;  within,  all  various,  with 


1 88  Two  Years  Ago. 

infinite  richness  of  form  and  colour.     An  Haroun  Alraschid's 

bower,  looking  out  upon  the 

Bother  the  fellow !  Why  will  he  go  on  analysing  and 
figuring  in  this  way  ?  Why  not  let  the  blessed  place  tell 
him  what  it  means,  instead  of  telling  it  what  he  thinks? 
And^why,  he  is  actually  writing  verses,  though  not  about  Fra 
Dolcino  I 

"  How  rests  yon  rock,  whose  half-day's  bath  is  done, 
With  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  cruel  man's  caresses 

Must  only  pine  and  pine,  and  yet  must  bear 

A  gallant  front  beneath  life's  gaudy  glare." 

Silly  fellow  I  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  which  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  very  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  haste  to  say  a  pretty  thing,  just  because  it 
was  pretty,  you  have  not  cared  to  condemn  yourself  out  of  your 
own  mouth.  Why  were  you  sulky,  sir,  with  Mrs.  Vavasour 
this  very  morning,  after  all  that  passed,  because  she  would  look 
over  the  washing-books,  while  you  wanted  her  to  hear  about 
Fra  Dolcino  ?  And  why,  though  she  was  up  to  her  knees 
among  your  dirty  shirts  when  you  went  out,  did  you  not  give 
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  bas'tcet  on  his  arm,  comes 
stumbling  and  hopping  towards  you,  dropping  every  now  and 
then  on  hands  and  knees,  and  turning  over  on  his  back,  to 


Two  Years  Ago  189 

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  a 
somewhat  studied  "pose."  But  as  he  wished  not  to  be 
interrupted,  it  may  have  not  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. 

"  I   admire  your  taste,  sir ;  a  charming  summer-house  old 
Triton  has  vacated  for  your  use  ;  but  let  me  advise  you  not  to 
.go  to  sleep  in  it." 
g    "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  began  working  very  gently  at  something  under  water. 

Elsley  watched  him  for  full  five  minutes  with  so  much  curiosity, 
that,  despite  of  himself,  he  asked  him  Twhat  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 
himself,  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.  May  I  see  what  it  is  for  which  you  have 
taken  so  much  trouble  ?  " 

Tom  held  out  on  his  finger-tip  a  piece  of  slimy  crust  the  size 
of  a  halfpenny.     Elsley  could  only  shrug  his  shoulders. 


iQO  Two  Years  Ago. 

"Nothing  to  you,  sir,  I  doubt  not ;  but  worth  a  guinea  to 
me,  even  if  it  be  only  to  mount  bits  of  it  as  microscope  objects." 

"So  you  mingle  business  with  science?"  said  Elsley,  rather 
in  a  contemptuous  tone. 

"Why  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 Jn  that 
bit  of  dirt  can  make  men  spend  their  money  on  it  ?  " 

"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 
crown  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. 

•'  Humph  !  why  should  not  Mr.  Vavasour  write  a  poem  about 
it?" 

"  Why  not,  indeed  ?  "  thought  Elsley. 

"  It's  no  business  of  n;ine,  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  Eisley,  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  v/ould  write  about  if  I  hnd  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  that  microscopic  ape 
called  self  and  friends." 

"You  would  like,  then,  the  old  Cosmogonies,  the  Eddas 
and  the  Vedas,"  said  Elsley,  getting  interested,  as  most  people 
did  after  five  minutes  talk  with  the  cynical  doctor.  "  I  suppose 
you  would  not  say  much  for  their  science  ;  but,  as  poetry,  they 


Two  Years  Ago.  191 

are  just  what  you  ask  for — the  expression  of  thoughtful  spirits, 
vyho  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  w^ith  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  lives  by  the  same  laws  as  you  and  I ;  and  that  he, 
and  the  sea-v/eeds,  and  so  forth,  teach  us  doctors  certain  little 
rules  concerning  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  comes  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  have  not 
profited  by  a  leaf  out  of  their  book." 

"The  cholera?"  said  Elsley,  in  a  startled  voice,  forgetting 
Tom's  parables  in  the  new  thought.  For  Elsley  had  a  dread 
more  nervous  than  really  coward  of  infectious  diseases ;  and 
he  had  also  (and  prided  himself,  too,  on  having)  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  very  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  extra  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 ;  6rst  by  the  certainty  which  Tom's 


192  Two  Years  Ago. 

words  expressed,  and  next  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  I " 

"My  dear  sir,  if  I  let  myself  think,  much  more  talk,  abou^ 
the  matter  in  any  other  tone,  I  should  face  the  thing  poorly 
enough  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.  My 
dear  sir,  one  may  be  too  busy,  and  at  doing  good  too  (though 
that  is  not  ray  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  which  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 — suppose  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  fancies  which  might  well  spring  out  of  such  a 
mournful  spectacle,  would  you  not  be  but  too  likely  (pardon 
the    bathos)    to   end    by  sending  her  an  elderly  gentleman's 


T.Y.A.      ((  Not  SO,  Mr.  John  Briggs  ! "  said  Tom 


Page  193. 


Two  Years  Ago.  193 

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  1 "  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  I"  said  Tom  inwardly,  as  he 
went  to  pick  him  up.  "  I  verily  believe  he  was  going  to 
strike  me,  and  that  would  have  done  for  neither  of  us.  I 
was  a  fool  to  say  it :  but  the  temptation  was  so  exquisite ; 
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  a  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  1 " 

"We  will  meet  again,  if  you  will,"  foamed  Vavasour,  "but 
it  shall  end  in  the  death  of  one  of  us  ! " 

"By  each  others'  potions?  I  can  doctor  myself,  sir,  thank 
you.  Listen  to  me,  John  Briggs !  You  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  who 
ought  to  quarrel  with  you.  I  am  the  aggrieved  party,  and  not 
you,  sir  1  I  have  not  seen  the  son  of  the  man  who,  when  I  was 
an  apothecary's  boy,  petted  me,  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." 

Vavasour  dropped  his  eyes,  for  was  it  not  true  ?  but  he  raised 
G  them  again,  more  fiercely  than  ever. 


194  Two  Years  Ago. 

"  Curse  you  I  I  owe  you  nothing.  It  was  you  who  made  mft 
ashamed  of  it.  You  rhymed  on  it,  and  laughed  about  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?" 

"And  I  have!  I  have  my  own  station  now,  my  own  fame, 
sir,  and  it  is  nothing  to  you  what  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  clever,  and  therefore  a 
successful  person." 

"Do  you  take  me  for  a  sordid  schemer,  like  yourself?  I 
loved  what  was  worthy  of  me,  and  won  it  because  I  deserved 
it" 

"Then,  having  won  it,  treat  it  as  it  deserves,"  said  Toin, 
with  a  cool,  searching  look,  before  which  Vavasour's  eyes  fell 
again.  "  Understand  me,  Mr.  John  Briggs ;  it  is  of  no  con- 
sequence 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  never  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  what  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  ?    I  will  die  first  I " 

*'  I  believe  that,"  said  Tom,  who  was  very  near  adding,  "  that 
he  should  be  sorry  to  work  with  such  tools." 

*'My  tools  are  my  lancet  and  my  drugs,"  said  he,  quietly^ 


Two  Years  Ago.  195 

'•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  vyould  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, 
John  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 — 
considering  the  circumstances  under  which  we  meet — you 
have  more  reason  to  trust  me,  than  I  have,  prima  facie,  to 
trust  you." 

Vavasour  answered  not  a  word. 

"  Good-bye,  then,"  said  Tom,  drawing  aside  from  the  step ; 
"  Mrs.  Vavasour  will  be  anxious  about  you.  And  mind  I 
With  regard  to  her  first  of  all,  sir,  and  then  with  regard  to 
other  matters — as  long,  and  only  as  long,  as  you  remember  that 
you  are  John  Briggs  of  Whitbury,  I  shall  be  the  first  to  forget 
iL    There  is  my  hand,  for  old  acquaintance'  sake." 

Vavasour  took  the  proffered  hand  coldly,  paused  a  moment, 
and  then  rung  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  have  played  it 
at  all,  that's  no  business  of  mine  now.  Madam  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  tvntted  him  about 
his  wife  ?  If  he's  venomous,  it  may  only  make  matters  worse ; 
and  still  worse  if  he  be  suspicious.  I  don't  think  he  was  either 
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  find  out,  too,  whether  she  has  his 
secret  as  well  as  I.  What  I  am  most  afraid  of  is  my  having 
told  him  plainly  that  he  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.  Never  mind  ;  he  can't  break  my  tackle  ;  and 
beside,  that  grip  of  the  hand  seemed  tp  indicate  that  the  poor 


196  Two  Years  Ago. 

wretch  was  beat,  and  thought  himself  let  off  easily — as  indeed 
he  is.  We'll  hope  so.  Now  zoophytes,  for  another  turn  with 
you  1 " 

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.  Perhaps,  after  all,  the  belt  may  have  been  torn  off  in 
the  life  struggle  ;  it  may  have  been  for  a  moment  in  Grace's 
hands,  and  then  have  been  swept  back  into  the  sea.  What 
more  likely  ?  And  what  more  likely,  in  that  case,  that,  sinking 
by  its  weight,  it  is  wedged  away  in  some  cranny  of  the 
rocks  ?  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 
young  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  dressing-case  to  the  Lloyd's  underwriters,  and 
searched  on :  but  in  vain.  Neither  could  he  find  that  anyone 
else  had  forestalled  him ;  and  that  very  afternoon,  sulky  and 
disheartened,  he  determined  to  waste  no  more  time  about 
the  matter  ;  and  strode  home,  vowing  signal  vengeance  against 
the  thief,  if  he  caught  him. 

"  And  I  will  catch  him  I  These  West-country  yokels,  to 
fancy  that  they  can  do  Tom  Thurnall  1  It's  adding  insult  to 
injury,  as  Sam  Weller's  parrot  has  it." 

Now  his  shortest  way  home  lay  across  the  shore,  and  then 
along  the  beach,  and  up  the  steps  by  the  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 


Two  Years  Ago,  197 

money  you  lost?  I — we— have  been  so  ashamed  to  think  of 
such  a  thing  happening  here." 

Tom's  evil  spirit  was  roused. 

*•  Have  you  heard  anything  of  it,  Miss  Harvey  ?  For  you 
seem  to  me  the  only  person  in  the  place  who  knows  anything 
about  the  matter." 

"  I,  sir?"  cried  Grace,  fixing  her  great  startled  eyes  full  on 
bim. 

**  Why,  ma'am,"  said  Tom,  with  a  courtly  smile,  *'  you  may 
possibly  recollect,  if  you  will  so  far  tax  your  memory,  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  inform  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  im- 
patiently away,  he  walked  on,  really  afraid  lest  he  should 
say  something  rude. 

Grace  half  called  after  him,  and  then  suddenly  checking 
herself,  rushed  in  to  her  mother  with  a  wild  and  pale  face. 

"What  is  this  Mr.  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  I  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?  I  recollect  there  was 
some  talk  of  it,  though.  But  what  matter  what  he  says?  He 
was  quite  passed  away,  I'll  swear,  when  they  carried  him  up." 

"  But,  mother  1  mother  I  he  says  that  I  know  about  it ;  that 
I  had  it  in  my  hands  1 " 

"You?  Oh,  the  wicked  wretch,  the  false,  ungrateful, 
slanderous  child  of  wrath,  with  adder's  poison  under  his  lips  1 
No,  my  child  I  Though  we're  poor,  we're  honest  I  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 
turn  the  other  cheek,  and  commit  our  cause  to  One  above  who 


198  Two  Years  Ago, 


pleads  for  the  orphan  and  the  widow.  We  will  not  strive  nor 
cry,  my  child.  Oh,  no  1 "  And  Mrs.  Harvey  began  fussing 
over  the  smashed  pie-dish. 

"I  shall  not  strive  nor  cry,  mother,"  said  Grace,  who  had 
recovered  her  usual  calm:  "but  he  must  have  some  cause  for 
these  strange  words.  Do  you  recollect,  seeing  me  with  the 
belt?" 

"Belt,  what's  a  belt?  I  know  nothing  about  belts.  I  tell 
you  he's  a  villain,  and  a  slanderer.  Oh,  that  it  should  have 
come  to  this,  to  have  my  child's  fair  fame  blasted  by  a  wretch 
that  comes  nobody  knows  where  from,  and  has  been  doing 
nobody  knows  what,  for  aught  I  know  I " 

"  Mother,  mother  1  we  know  no  harm  of  him.  If  he  is 
mistaken,  God  forgive  him  1 " 

"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  Thurnall  whispering  earnestly  together;  and  she 
recollected  now,  for  the  first  time,  that  there  had  been  a  certain 
sadness  and  perplexity,  almost  reserve,  about  Willis  ever  since. 
Good  Heavens  1  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  returned.  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  al  uJe  again 
to  the  matter. 

•'Where  have  you  been,  child?  You  look  quite  poorly,  and 
your  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  th?:  bed. 

"  What  a  coldness  this  is  at  my  heart ! "  she  said  aloud  to 
herself,  trying  to  smile ;  but  she  could  not :  and  she  sat  on 
the  bedside,  without  taking  off  her  bonnet  eind  shawl,  her 
hands  hanging  listlessly  by  her  side,  her  bead  drooping  on 


Two  Years  Ago.^  199 

her  bosom,  till  her  mother  called  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  played, 
to  use  his  nomenclature,  two  trump  cards  running  ;  and  was 
by  no  means  satisfied  that  he  had  played  them  well.  He  had 
no  right,  certainly,  to  be  satisfied  with  either  move ;  for  both 
had  been  made  in  a  somewhat  evil  spirit,  and  certainly  for  no 
very  disinterested  end. 

That  was  a  view  of  the  matter,  however,  which  never 
entered  his  mind ;  there  was  only  that  general  dissatisfaction 
with  himself  which  is,  though  men  try  hard  to  deny  the  fact, 
none  other  than  the  supernatural  sting  of  conscience.  He 
tried  "  to  lay  to  his  soul  the  flattering  unction  "  that  he  might, 
after  all,  be  of  use  to  Mrs.  Vavasour,  by  using  his  power  over 
her  husband :  but  he  knew  in  his  secret  heart  that  any  move 
of  his  in  that  direction  was  likely  only  to  make  matters 
worse;  that  to-day's  explosion  might  only  have  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  himself. 

The  curate  was  preparing  to  sally  forth,  after  his  frugal 
dinner.  The  morning  he  spent  at  the  schools,  or  in  parish 
secularities  ;  the  afternoon,  till  dusk,  was  devoted  to  visiting 
the  poor  ;  the  night,  not  to  sleep,  but  to  reading  and  sermon 
writing.  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. 

"Ahl"  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  by  for  a  siesta  when  their 


200  Two  Years  Ago. 

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  Nature  for  it ;  and  lay  the  blame  on 
Adam's  fall."' 

"You  are  irreverent,  my  good  sir,  as  usual;  but  you  are 
unjust  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  off  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 
likeness  between  himself  and  Thurnall ;  he  had  found  that 
Tom  was  at  heart  a  thoroughly  genuine  man,  sincere  and 
faithful  to  his  own  scheme  of  the  universe.  How  that  man, 
through  all  his  eventful  life,  had  been  enabled  to 
"  Bate  not  a  jot  of  heart  or  hope, 
But  steer  right  onward," 

was  a  problem  which  Frank  longed  curiously,  and  yet  fear- 
fully 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 
sauoir  faire,  that  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  twelve ;  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  I  and  it  befell  also,  that  Thurnall, 
when  he  heard  it,  said  in  his  heart — 

"What  a  noble,  honest  fellow  you  are,  when  you — -" 


Two  Years  Ago.  201 

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  rush  out 
after  dinner  from  the  very  same  reason  that  the  Yankee  store- 
keeper does — from — you'll  forgive  me  if  I  say  it  ?  " 

"  Of  course.     You  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  back  to  its  help  after  ten  minutes'  gobbling,  with  his 
mouth  full  of  pork  and  pickled  peaches.  And  you  fancy 
yourself  so  important  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  ?"  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." 

"  They  seem  to  me,  from  all  I  can  hear  in  pulpits,  to  be 
only  two  different  sorts  of  pleasant  things,  and  to  be  sought 
after,  both  alike,  simply  because  they  are  pleasant.  Self- 
interest,  if  you  will  forgive  me,  seems  to  me  the  spring  of 
both ;  only,  to  do  you  justice,  you  are  a  farther-sighted  and 
more  prudent  man  than  the  Yankee  store-keeper ;  and  having 
more  exquisitely-developed  notions  of  what  your  true  self- 
interest  is,  are  content  to  wait  a  little  longer  than  he." 

"You  stab  with  a  jest,  Thurnall.  You  little  know  how 
your  words  hit  home." 


202  Two  Years  Ago. 

•'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  spiritucil 
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?" 

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  wicked  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.  Mixing  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  paradox  from  your  books?" 

"  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."  !I_  ? 

"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  expedi- 
tion, 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   I    was— for   I   was  short  of 


Two  Years  Ago.  203 

clothes,  and  had  lost  my  buffalo  robe — but  fell  asleep :  and 
on  waking  the  next  morning,  I  found  myself  covered  up  in 
my  comrade's  blankets,  even  to  his  coat,  vyhile  he  was  sitting 
shivering  in  his  shirt-sleeves.  The  cold  fog  had  come  down 
in  the  night,  and  the  man  had  stripped  himself,  and  sat  all 
night  with  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 
a  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  ?  " 

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  anyone'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." 


204  Two  Years  Ago. 

••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  unfortunately, 
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." 

•'  Well,"  said  Tom,  drily,  •'perhaps  some  of  them  are  more  rigjit 
than  you  fancy.     Every  man  knows  his  ow^n  business  best." 

•'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  as  you  do,  and  is  much  more  ashamed  and  frightened 
about  it  already  than  you  can  ever  make  him  by  preaching 
at  him." 

"Do  you?" 

"  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  hundred  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, 
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!" 


Two  Years  Ago.  205 

"Of  course.  The  thing  itself  which  will  do  them  good, 
without  the  red  rag  of  an  official  name,  which  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  what 
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." 

"  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  that  what 
was  the  matter  with  old  Heale  was  the  matter  also  with 
Vavasour  ?  " 

"  I  believe  from  my  heart  that  it  is." 

"  Humph  1   Then  you  know  the  symptoms  of  his  complaint  ?  " 

"  I  know  that  he  never  comes  to  church." 

"Nothing  more?  I  am  really  speaking  in  confidence.  You 
surely  have  heard  disagreements  between  him  and  Mrs. 
Vavasour  ?  " 

"  Never,  I  assure  you  ;  you  shock  me." 

"I  am  exceedingly  sorry,  then,  that  I  said  a  word  about 
t :  but  the  whole  parish  talks  of  it,"  answered  Tom,  who  was 
surprised  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." 


2o6  Two  Years  Ago. 

"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  w^hich  I  am  as  little  fit  as  any 
man,  by  your  own  showing.  What  do  I  know  of  disagree- 
ments 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 
parish  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  : 
but  with  his  free-thinking  notions,  I  know  well — one  can  judge 
it  too  easily  from  his  poems — he  v^ould  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 
authority  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  I 
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 
credentials,  the  fault  is  his,  not  mine.  I  really  do  not  wish 
to  be  hard  :  but  would  not  you  do  the  same,  if  anyone  refused 
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  ?  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 


Two  Years  Ago.  207 

attend  anyone  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  his  letting  me  cure  him.  How  else  on  earth 
do  you  fancy  that  Paul  cured  those  Corinthians  about  whom 
I  have  been  reading  lately  ? " 

"Are  you,  too,  going  to  quote  Scripture  against  me?  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." 

"  Mine  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  ?  He  promised  to 
make  those  poor  heathen  rascals  of  Greeks  better,  and  vviser, 
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 
everyone  ;  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  ?  " 

*'  No.     I  will  do  you  the  justice  to  say  that     Well,  what  we 


2o8  Two  Years  Ago. 

laymen  say  is  this.  If  the  parsons  have  the  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  ;  for  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 
what  was  the  matter  with  them.  Now  do  you  go  and  do 
likewise  by  Vavasour,  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  ungovernable  temper, 
and  loose  him  from  the  real  slavery  which  he  is  in  to  his 
miserable  conceit  and  self-indulgence ;  and  then  if  he  does  not 
believe  in  your  '  sacerdotal  power,'  he  is  even  a  greater  fool 
than  I  take  him  for." 

"Honestly,  I  will  try:  God  help  me  I"  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  Mr.  Vavasour." 

"And  so,"  said  Torn,  "having  to  doctor  human  beings, 
nineteen-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  their  disease. 
Philosophical  and  logical,  truly  I " 


Two  Years  Ago-  209 

*'  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  ? "  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  a  baby,  or  a  father 
with  a  child  upon  his  knees,  I  say  to  myself — they  know  more, 
at  this  minute,  of  human  nature,  as  of  the  great  law  of  '  G'est 
/'amour,  /'amour,  /'amour,  which  makes  the  world  go  round,' 
than  I  am  likely  to  do  for  many  a  day.  I'll  tell  you  what, 
sir  1  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  1  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  preventing  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  with 
me  in  Spanish  Am.erica,  or  in  France  either,  and  see  what 
you  thought  of  it  then.  How  it  ever  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 
complete  and  'cute  a  device  for  making  parsons  do  the  more 
harm,  the  more  good  they  try  to  do.  There,  I've  preached 
you  a  sermon,  and  made  you  angry." 

"  Not  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's  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  accordingly." 


2IO  Two  Years  Ago. 

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  suspected ;  though  perhaps  it  was  one  which  she  needed. 
She  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  miraculous  in  her  own  eyes  as  those  which  were 
imputed  to  her  w^ere  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,  all  her  real  good- 
ness, 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  mesmerism  and  spirit-rapping 
were  unknown.  Had  she  been  an  American,  she  might  have 
become  one  of  the  most  lucrative  "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;  have  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  have  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 


Two  Years  Ago.  211 

her  horror  that,  instead  of  her  possessing:  it,  it  possessed  her, 
and  coiled  itself  round  her  heart,  and  would  not  be  flung  away. 
She — she,  of  all  beings,  to  be  suspected  as  a  thief,  and  by 
the  very  man  whose  life  she  had  saved  1  She  was  willing 
enough  to  confess  herself — and  confessed  herself  night  and 
morning — a  miserable  sinner,  and  her  heart  a  cage  of  unclean 
birds,  deceitful,  and  desperately  wicked — except  in  that  The 
conscious  innocence  flashed  up  in  pride  and  scorn,  in  thoughts, 
even  when  she  was  alone,  in  words,  of  which  she  would  not 
have  believed  herself  capable.  With  hot  brow  and  dry  eyes, 
she  paced  her  little  chamber,  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  gave  way  to  lose  her  self-possession,  she  would 
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  which  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  marked  out  for  glory,  she  had  persuaded 
herself  utterly ;  and  the  persuasion  grew  in  her  day  by  day, 
as  she  heard  more  and  more  of  his  cleverness,  honesty,  and 
kindliness,  mysterious  and,  to  her,  miraculous  learning.  There- 
fore 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  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 
g^ulf  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 


212  Two  Years  Ago. 

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  had  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  ?  Besides,  he  might  have  excuses  for  his 
suspicion.  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  round  her  for  a  story :  but 
still  there  was  the  unseen  burden,  grinding  her  heart  slowly, 
till  she  felt  as  if  every  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 
martyrdom,  the  secret  pride  of  suffering  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  imagination  enabled  her  to  re-enact  those  sad 


Two  Years  Ago.  213 

and  glorious  stories  in  her  own  person ;  to  tremble,  agonise, 
and  conquer  with  those  heroines  vvho  had  been  for  years  her 
highest  ideals — and  what  higher  ones  could  she  have?  And 
many  a  night,  after  extinguishing  the  light,  and  closing  her 
eyes,  she  would  lie  motionless  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  a  triumphant  smile,  by  Anne  Askew's  side, 
the  fire  flare  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  idiotcy  and  death  :  but  who  that  applauds 
a  Rachel  or  a  Ristori,  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  a  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 
recollection  of  her  mother's  strange  silence  about  the  matter. 
Why  had  she  put  away  the  subject,  carelessly,  and  yet 
peevishly,  whenever  it  was  mentioned?     Yes.     Why?    Did 

her  mother  know  anything  ?     Was    she ?     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  already,  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, 


214  Two  Years  Ago. 

too,  were  too  often  {Grace  could  but  fear)  used  to  her  own 
advantage ;  that  in  her  dealings  her  morality  was  not  above 
the  average  of  little  country  shopkeepers  ;  that  she  was  apt 
to  have  two  prices  ;  to  keep  her  books  with  unnecessary  care- 
lessness, when  the  person  against  whom  the  account  stood  was 
no  scholar.  Grace  had  more  than  once  remonstrated  in  her 
gentle  way ;  and  been  silenced,  rather  than  satisfied,  by  her 
mother's  commonplaces  as  to  the  right  of  "making  those  who 
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  "Christ's  merits 
were  infinite,"  and  "  Christians  always  had  been  a  backsliding 
generation ; "  and  all  the  other  commonplaces  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  heard  it  with  their  own  ears,  from  childhood. 

Once,  too,  in  those  very  days,  some  little  meanness  on  her 
mother's  part  brought  the  tears  into  Grace's  eyes,  and  a 
gentle  rebuke  to  her  lips :  but  her  mother  bore  the  inter- 
ference less  patiently  than  usual ;  and  answered,  not  by  cant, 
but  by  counter-reproach,  "Was  she  the  person  to  accuse  a 
poor  widowed  mother,  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  Mrs.  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  shameful  fall  is  possible,  perhaps  wholesome. 
"  She  would  sell  her  soul  for  me  ?  What  if  she  have  sold  it, 
and  stopped  short  just  now,  because  she  had  not  the  heart 
to  tell  me  that  love  for  me  had  been  the  cause  ?  Oh  !  if  she 
have  sinned  for  my  sake !  Wretch  that  I  am !  Miserable 
myself,  and  bringing  misery  with  me  I  Why  was  I  ever  born  ? 
Why  cannot  I  die — and  the  world  be  rid  of  me  ?  " 

No,  she  would  not  believe  it  It  was  a  wicked,  horrible 
temptation  of  the  devil.     She  would  rather  believe  that  ibe 


Two  Years  Ago.  215 

herself  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  not  altogether  my  fault — not  as  if  I  had 
been  vyaking — yes,  he  will  forgive  1 "  And  then  on  that 
thought  followed  a  dream  of  what  might  follow,  so  wild  that 
a  moment  after  she  had  hid  her  blushes  in  her  hands,  and 
fled  to  books  to  escape  from  thoughts. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

The  First  Instalment  of  an  Old  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  his 
beard,  and  the  change  which  years  had  made,  formed  a 
sufficient  disguise :  but  he  could  not  conceal  from  himself  that 
the  very  same  alterations  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  im3,gined  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  feet,  by  one  act  of 
foolish  vanity  !  He  had  taken  his  present  name,  merely  as  a 
nom  de  guerre,  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  bete 
noir,  his  Frankenstein's  familiar.     Besides,  he  was  ashamed 


2i6  Two  Years  Ago. 

of  the  name  of  Briggs.  It  certainly  is  not  an  euphonious  or 
aristocratic  name  ;  and  "  The  Soul's  Agonies,  by  John  Briggs," 
would  not  have  sounded  as  well  as  "The  Soul's  Agonies,  by 
Elsley  Vavasour."  Vavasour  was  a  very  pretty  name,  and 
one  of  those  which  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  or  less.  So  he  had  played 
with  the  name  till  he  became  fond  of  it,  and  considered  that 
he  had  a  right  to  it,  through  seven  long  years  of  weary 
struggles,  penury,  disappointment,  as  he  climbed  the  Parnassian 
Mount,  writing  for  magazines  and  newspapers,  sub-editing  this 
periodical  and  that ;  till  he  began  to  be  known  as  a  ready, 
graceful,  and  trustworthy  workman,  and  was  befriended  by 
one  kind-hearted  litterateur  after  another.  For  in  London,  at 
this  moment,  any  young  man  of  real  power  will  find  friends 
enough  and  too  many  among  his  fellow  book-wrights,  and 
is  more  likely  to  have  his  head  turned  by  flattery,  than  his 
heart  crushed  by  envy.  Of  course,  whatsoever  flattery  he 
may  receive,  he  is  expected  to  return ;  and  whatsoever  clique 
he  may  be  tossed  into  on  his  debut,  he  is  expected  to  stand 
by,  and  fight  for,  against  the  universe ;  but  that  is  but  fair. 
If  a  young  gentleman,  invited  to  enrol  himself  in  the  Mutual- 
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  Catilines  in  their 
efforts  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 
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 
henceforth  that  which  shines  triumphant  over  all  the  world,  on 
many  a  valiant  Scotchman's  shield — 

"  Claw  me,  and  I'll  claw  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 


Two  Years  Ago.  217 

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 
wheresoever  a  world  is,  the  flesh  and  the  devil  are  not  very 
far  off.  Tired  of  talking  when  he  wanted  to  think,  of  assert- 
ing 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  w^ithdrawing  himself  from  the  Hatchgoose 
soirees  into  his  own  thoughts,  when  his  "Soul's  Agonies" 
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  "Soul'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  Fairyland  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  triumph 
of  their  art — from  the  very  man  to  whom  they  are  speaking^ 


2i8  Two  Years  Ago. 

Small  blame  to  bashful,  clumsy  John  Briggs,  if  he  did  not  know 
his  own  children  ;  and  could  not  recognise  his  own  stammered 
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  without  dropping  pearls  and  diamonds. 

Oh,  what  a  contrast,  in  the  eyes  of  a  man  whose  sense  of 
beauty  and  grace,  whether  physical  or  intellectual,  was  true 
and  deep,  to  that  ghastly  ring  of  prophetesses  in  the  Hatch- 
goose  drawing-room  ;  strong-minded  and  emancipated  women, 
who  prided  themselves  on  having  cast  off  conventionalities, 
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  with  their  husbands,  and  had  therefore  felt  a 
mission  to  assert  woman's  rights,  and  reform  marriage  Li 
general ;  or  who  had  never  been  able  to  get  liiarried  at  sll, 
and  therefore  were  especially  competent  to  promulgate  a 
model  method  of  educating  the  children  whom  they  never 
had  had ;  women  who  write  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  impulses,"  and  despised  fashion,  and  was 
accordingly  clothed  and  bedizened  as  was  right  in  the  sight 
of  her  own  eyes,  and  probably  in  those  of  no  one  else. 

No  wonder  that  Elsley,  ere  long,  began  drawing  com- 
parisons, and  using  his  wit  upon  ancient  patronesses,  of  course 
behind  their  backs ;  likening  them  to  idols  fresh  from  the  car 
of  Juggernaut,  or  from  the  stem  of  a  South-sea  canoe  I  or, 
mbst  of  all,  to  that  famous  wooden  image  of  Freya,  which 
once  leapt  lumbering  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  inspiration ; 
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. 


Two  Years  Ago.  219 

No  wonder,  then,  that  those  gifted  dames  had  soon  to  com- 
plain of  Elsley  Vavasour  as  a  traitor  to  the  cause  of  progress 
and  civilisation ;  a  renegade  who  had  fied  to  the  camp  of 
aristocracy,  flunkeydom,  obscurantism,  frivolity,  and  dissipa- 
tion ;  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  his  invitations  to  999  Cavendish 
Street  south-east,  with  the  chance  of  being  presented  to  the 
Duchesse  of  Lyonesse. 

To  do  Elsley  justice,  one  reason  why  he  liked  his  new 
acquaintances  so  well  was,  that  they  liked  him.  He  behaved 
well  himself,  and  therefore  people  behaved  well  to  him.  He 
was,  as  I  have  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 
"  Faerie  Queene."  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, 
however  old  or  ugly,  simply  because  they  were  women.  The 
Hatchgoose  Pythonesses  did  not  wish  to  be  women,  but  very 
bad  imitations  of  men ;  and  therefore  he  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  anyone  else 
will  ever  learn  what  woman's  heart  is  like.  And  so  well  did 
he  carry  out  his  creed,  that  before  his  first  summer  vtsls  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 


220  Two  Years  Ago. 

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.  Married  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  prophecy ;  and  was  a  distinguished  leader 
in  a  distinguished  religious  coterie  :  but  she  still  prided  herself 
upon  having  a  green  head  upon  gray  shoulders  ;  and  not  with- 
out reason ;  for  underneath  all  the  worldliness  and  intrigue, 
and  petty  affectation  of  girlishness  which  she  contrived  to 
jumble  in  with  her  religiosity,  beat  a  young  and  kindly  heart. 
So  she  was  charmed  with  Mr.  Vavasour'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  Mr.  Vavasour  be  who  he  will,  he  has  not 
only  the  intellect  of  a  true  genius,  but  what  is  a  great  deal 
better  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.  *Pon  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  tiie  substitute 
for  it  which  we  had  when  I  was  young,  in  the  grand  air  of 
the  old  school.  It  was  a  'sham,'  I  daresay,  as  they  call 
everything  nowadays  :  but  really,  me  dear,  a  pleasant  sham  ' 
is  better  to  live  with  than  an  unpleasant  reality,  especially 
when  it  smell  of  cigars." 


Two  Years  Ago.  221 

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 
decrepit  for  some  years  past,  died ;  and  his  widow,  whose 
income  w^as  under  five  hundred  a  year — for  the  estates  v^ere 
entailed,  and  mortgaged,  and  everything  else  which  can  happen 
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  Valencia. 

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  surviving  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  was  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  4s  an  ugly  question.  I  will  not  say  that  she 
b-'.d  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  consent  of  her  sole  surviving 
guardian,  on  the  strength  of  a  half-angry,  half-jesting  ex- 
pression 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  per- 
mission, and  saying  that  she  had  taken  him  at  his  word : 
but  her  conscience  smote  her ;  and  Elsley's  smote  him  like- 
wise ;  and  smote  him  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. 


2  22  Two  Years  Ago. 

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 
have  been  the  consequences :  but  he  wanted  moral  courage ; 
the  hideous  sound  of  Briggs  had  become  horrible  to  him ; 
and  once  his  foolish  heart  was  frightened  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 
havejlet  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 
anyone  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  profligate,  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  horrified  looks  of 
Clara,  when  she  returned  from  her  first  morning's  marketing 
for  the  weekly  consumption,  with  nothing  but  a  woodcock, 
some  truffles,  and  a  bunch  of  celery.  Then  the  landlady  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 


Two  Years  Ago.  ^23 

grumbling  and  taking  liberties  for  being  degraded  from  the 
luxurious  post  of  lady's-maid  to  that  of  servant  of  all  work, 
with  a  landlady  and  a  "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  had 
been  in  all  the  delirious  bliss  of  the  honeymoon. 

Valencia  meanwhile  defied  old  Lady  Knockdown  (whose 
horror  and  wrath  knew  no  bounds),  and  walked  off  one 
morning  with  her  maid  to  see  her  prodigal  sister ;  a  visit 
which  not  only  brought  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 
Penalva  Court  for  the  time  being ;  and  thither  they  went 
— perhaps  the  best  thing  they  could  have  done. 

There,  of  course,  they  were  somewhat  more  comfortable. 
A  very  cheap  country,  a  comfortable  house  rent  free,  and 
a  lovely  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  excitement,  change  of  society,  influx  of  ever-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  relieved  from  the 
importimities  of  publishers  and  printers'  devils,  he  sent  up 
fewer  and  fewer  contributions  to  the  magazines.  He  w^ould 
keep  his  energies  for  a  great  work ;  poetry  was,  after  all, 
his  forte;   he  would  not  fritter  himself  away  on  prose  and 


224  Two  Years  Ago. 

periodicals,  but  would  win  for  himself,  etc.,  etc.  If  he  made 
a  mistake,  it  v^as  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  antiquarian  parson  or  two ;  and  parsons  were  not 
to  his  taste.  So,  never  measuring  his  wits  against  those  of 
his  peers,  and  despising  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  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  ?  He  was  poor  and  struggling ;  and  it  is  much  more 
difficult  (as  Becky  Sharp,  I  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  vrill 
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,  that  "  How  hardly  shall 
they  that  have  riches  enter  into  the  kingdom  of  heaven." 


Tne  Vestry  adiourned. 


Two  Years  Ago.  225 

••  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  charities,  and  head  reformatory 
movements,  and  build  churches,  and  vvork  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  vphich  exactly  suits  their 
complaints — 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  them  not  be  too  hard  upon 
Elsley  and  Lucia,  if,  finding  themselves  sometimes  literally 
at  their  wits'  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,  measured  round  perhaps  six  inches  more  than  it 
had  done  sixteen  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  breast-bone  is  gradually  growing  into  his 
stomach,  they  vrill  make  their  appearance ;  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  was  staring  him  in  the  face.     He  had  left  a  letter 

H  about — a  thing  which  he  was  apt  to  do — in  which  the  Whitbury 


226  Two  Years  Ago. 

lavryer  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  Elsiey  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  straight  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  which  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,  Elsiey 
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  thought,  in  her  heedless- 
ness, what  a  dark  cloud  of  fear  and  suspicion,  ever  deepening 
and  spreading,  she  had  put  between  his  heart  and  hers. 

But  if  Elsiey  had  dreaded  her  knowledge  of  his  story,  he 
dreaded  ten  times  more  Tom's  knowledge  of  it.  What  if 
Thurnall  should  tell  Lucia?  What  if  Lucia  should  make  a 
confidant  of  Thurnall  I  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 
combine  with  Thurnall  against  him — for  what  purpose  he  knew 
not :  but  the  wildest  imaginations  flashed  across  him,  as  he 
hurried  desperately  home,  intending  as  soon  as  he  got  there  to 
forbid  Lucia's  ever  calling  in  his  dreaded  enemy.  No,  Thurnall 
should  never  cross  his  door  again  1  On  that  one  point  he  was 
determined,  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 


Two  Years  Ago.  227 

and  severely ;  and  the  burning  sun,  and  his  rapid  walk, 
combined  with  rage  and  terror  to  give  him  such  a  "turn"  that, 
as  he  hurried  down  the  lane,  he  found  himself  reeUng  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  coup-de-soleil.  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  "Master  had  got  away  into  the  woods,  and 
gone  eating  toad-stools,  or  some  such  poisonous  stuff ; "  for  he 
lay  a  full  half-hour  on  the  sofa,  death-cold,  and  almost  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  Mr.  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  possible.  A  fresh  misery  1  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  judge  of  that,  after  what  Mrs. 
Vavasour  has  just  told  me,"  said  Tom,  in  his  most  professional 
and  civil  voice  ;  and  slipped,  cat-like,  into  a  seat  beside  the 
unresisting  poet. 

He  asked  question  on  question :  but  Elsley  gave  such 
unsatisfactory  answers,  that  Lucia  had  to  detail  everything 
afresh  for  him,  with,  "You  know,  Mr,  Thurnall.  he  is  always 


228  Two  Years  Ago. 

overtasking  his  brain,  and  will  never  confess  himself  ill " — and 
all  a  woman's  anxious  comments. 

Rogue  Tom  knew  all  the  while  well  enough  what  was  the 
cause :  but  he  saw,  too,  that  Elsley  was  really  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  the  sofa, 
his  whole  pent-up  wrath  exploding  in  hissing  steam,  the 
moment  the  safety-valve  was  lifted.  "Now,  sir  1  What — 
what  is  the  meaning  of  this  insolence,  this  intrusion  ?  " 

'•  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  medicinis, 
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  mDrnlng." 

"Will  you  insult  me  beyond  endurance  ?"  cried  Elsley. 

"  I  told  you  that,  as  long  as  you  chose,  you  were  Elsley 
Vavasour,  and  I  the  country  doctor.  We  have  met  in  that 
character.  Why  not  sustain  it  ?  You  are  really  ill  ;  and  if 
I  know  the  cause,  I  am  all  the  more  likely  to  know  the  cure." 

"Cure?" 

"Why  not?  Believe  me,  it  is  in  your  power  to  become  a 
much  happier  man,  simply  by  becoming  a  healthier  one." 

"  Impertinence  1 " 

"  Pish  I  What  can  I  gain  by  being  impertinent,  sir  ?  I 
know  very  wrell  that  you  have  received  a  severe  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  prostration  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  corpus  sanum  is  father  to  the  mens  sand 
— tonics  and  exercise  make  the  ills  of  life  look  marvellously 


Two  Years  Ago.  229 

smaller.  You  have  the  frame  of  a  strong  and  active  man ; 
and  all  you  want  to  make  yoa  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  strengfthen  your 
muscles,  open  your  chest  again,  settle  your  digestion,  and 
make  you  as  fresh  as  a  lark,  and  able  to  sing  like  one.  Believe 
me,  the  poetry  would  be  the  better  for  it,  as  well  as  the 
stomach.     Now,  positively,  I  shall  begin  questioning  you." 

So  Elsley  was  v7on  to  detail  the  symptoms  of  internal 
malaise,  which  he  was  only  too  much  in  the  habit  of  watching 
himself:  but  there  were  some  among  them  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. 

"Very  ill." 

•'Did  you  ever  try  opiates ? " 

"  No — yes — that  is,  sometimes." 

"Ahl"  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  morning,  as  spitefully  as  brandy  itself.  Much  better  try 
a  glass  of  strong  ale  or  porter  just  before  going  to  bed.  I've 
known  it  give  sleep,  even  in  consumption— try  it,  and  exercise. 
You  shoot  ?  " 

"No." 

"  Pity ;  there  ought  to  be  noble  cocking  in  these  woods. 
However,  the  season's  past.     You  fish  ?  " 

"  No." 

•'  Pity  again.  I  hear  Alva  is  full  of  trout  Why  not  try 
sailing?  Nothing  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?" 

"  Very  :  but  stooping  makes  my  head  swim." 


230  Two  Years  Ago. 

"True,  and  I  don't  want  you  to  stoop.  I  hope  to  see 
you  soon  as  e»ect  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  accompany  you  ?  I  don't  know  a  more  gentleman- 
like, agreeable,  well-informed  man  than  he  is." 

"  Thank  you.     I  can  choose  my  acquaiiii.ances  for  myself." 

"  You  touchy  ass  I"  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  w^ith — 

"  Now,  I'll  send  you  up  a  little  tonic  ;  and  trouble  you 
with  no  more  visits  till  you  send  for  me.  I  shall  see  by 
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— worked 
on  beef  and  ale,  and  you  would  not  class  them  among  the 
muddle-headed  of  the  earth  ?  Believe  me,  to  write  well, 
you  must  live  well.  If  you  take  it  out  of  your  brain,  you 
must  put  it  in  again.  It's  a  question  of  fact.  Try  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  himself,  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  I 


Two  Years  Ago.  231 

"  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  concern  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  E!sley  for  the 
next  month  in  better  spirits  and  temper  than  he  had  been  for 
a  long  w^hile. 

Moreover,  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  Valencia 
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 
off,  and  then  it  slipped  my  memory,  like  everything  else  good. 
She  has  told  me  the  most  wonderful  stories  of  his  courage  and 
goodness  ;  and  conceive — she  and  her  husband  were  taken 
prisoners  with  him  by  the  savages  in  the  South  Seas,  and 
going  to  be  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  hke  a  fairy  tale. 
I'll  tell  it  you  when  I  come,  darling— which  I  shall  do  in  a 
fortnight,  and  w^e  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  wonder- 
fully 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 


23a  Two  Years  Ago. 

love  has  made  a  fool  of,  and  she  won't  be  the  last:  and  I 
beheve  that  some  of  the  moves  which  look  most  foolish,  turn 
out  the  best  after  all.  Live  and  let  live ;  everybody  knows 
their  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  I 

"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  complete  a  person ;  that  I  preferred  a  husband  whom 
I  could  break  in  for  myself,  even  though  he  gave  me  a  little 
trouble.  Scoutbush  was  cross  at  first ;  but  he  said  afterwards 
that  it  was  just  like  Baby  Blake  (the  wretch  always  calls  me 
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  thoroughbred  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  chhre,  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  Russia  leather,  and  put  on  one's  library  shelves,  to  be  con- 
sulted 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  Xn. 

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  sec 
either  Claude  or  Mrs.  Mellot 


Two  Years  Ago.  233 

Bowie  is  an  ex-Scots  Fusilier,  who,  damaged  by  the  kick 
of  a  horse,  has  acted  as  valet,  first  to  Scoutbush's  father, 
and  next  to  Scoutbush  himself.  He  is  of  a  patronising  habit 
of  mind,  as  befits  a  tolerably  "leeterary"  Scotsman  of  forty- 
five  years  of  age  and  six  foot  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  BoTwie,  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  I 
which  he  does  after  a  due  military  salute,  sitting  bolt  upright 
in  his  chair,  and  in  a  solemn  and  sonorous  voice. 

"Well,  madam,  it's  just  this,  that  his  lordship  would  be 
very  glad  to  see  ye  and  Mr.  Mellot,  for  he's  vary  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  more's  the  pity." 

"  More's  the  pity,  indeed  1 " 

"And  it's  my  opeenion  the  puir  laddie  will  just  die,  if 
nobody  sees  to  him  ;  and  I've  taken  the  liberty  of  writing  to 
Major  Cawmill  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  1  Mr.  Bowie,  do  you  know  that  I'm  almost 
as  old  as  you  ?  " 

"Hoot,  hut,  hut — —"says  Bowie,  looking  at  the  wax-like 
complexion  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  with  any  such 
play-acting." 

"  Really  he's  not  inveigled,"  says  Sabina,  laughing.  "It  is 
all  his  own  fault,  and  I  have  vvarned  him  how  absurd  and 
impossible  it  is.     She  has  refused  even  to  see  him ;  and  yoD 


234  Two  Years  Ago. 

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  to  a  young  lady  with  eighty  thousand  pounds ;  so  you 
can't  complain  of  me." 

"  Eh  ?    No.     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  villainous,  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  Lwa  v/cc  china 
angels." 

In  half  an  hour  they  were  in  Scoutbush's  rooms.  1  hey  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  covered  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  Mrs.  Mellot.  You  go  to  the  window  with 
Bowie." 

Bowie  and  Claude  shrugged  their  shoulders  at  each  other, 
and  departed. 

"  Now,  Mrs.  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  Valencia  is  so  flighty;  and  I  thoiig'ut 


Two  Years  Ago.  235 

you  would  give  me  one  chance  more.  Don't  laugh  at  me, 
I  say.     I  am  really  past  laughing  at." 

"I  see  5'ou  are,  you  poor  creature,"  says  Sabina,  melting; 
and  a  long  conversation  follovvrs,  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  with 
Marie." 

"  It  will  only  madden  him  all  the  more.  Why  let  him  try, 
when  you  know  it  is  hopeless  ?  " 

"Why,  I  had  not  the  heart  to  refuse,  that's  the  truth  ;  and 
beside,  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." 

"  I  don't  know  that  he  will  make  such  a  great  fool  of 
himself.  As  he  says,  his  grandfather  married  an  actress,  and 
why  should  not  he  ?  " 

"  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  because 
you  have  found  out  the  secret  of  managing  one  little  fool." 

"  Managing  her,  quotha !  Being  managed  by  her,  until  my 
quiet  house  is  turned  into  a  perfect  volcano  of  match-making. 
Why,  I  thought  he  was  to  marry  Manchesterina." 

"He  shall  marry  who  he  likes  ;  and  if  Marie  changes  her 
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  ?  " 

"V/hat  do  you  know  about  women's  hearts?  Leave  us  to 
mind  our  own  matters." 


236  Two  Years  Ago. 

"Mr.  Bowie  will  kill  you  outright,  if  your  plot  succeeds." 

"  No,  he  won't  I  knovv  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  1  Here  we  are  at  home. 
Now,  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  ?  " 

"  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  had  any  education  as  you  have  1 " 

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 
g^ve  up  all  my  nonsense  since  I  knew  you ;  indeed  I  have — 
I  am  trying  all  day  long  to  read — ever  since  you  said  some- 
thing 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  1 " 

Marie  turned  pale,  and  rose. 

*•  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  1 " 

Scoutbush  looked  at  her  in  blank  astonishment. 

••  Madam?    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." 


Two  Years  Ago.  237 

Scoutbush  bowed. 

"And  what  I  should  never  have  told  you,  were  it  not  my 
only  chance  of  curing  you  of  this  foolish  passion,  I  am  an 
American  slave  I " 

"Curse  them  I  Who  dared  make  you  a  slave?"  cried 
Scoutbush,  turning  as  red  as  a  game-cock. 

"I  was  born  a  slave.  My  father  was  a  white  gentleman 
of  good  family :  ray  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?" 

"What  an  infernal  shame!"  cried  Scoutbush,  to  whom  the 
whole  thing  appeared  simply  as  a  wrong  done  to  Marie. 

"Well,  ray  lord?" 

"  Well,  madam  ?  " 

"  Does  not  this  fact  put  the  question  at  rest  for  ever  ?  " 

"No,  madam  I  What  do  I  know  about  slaves?  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  I 
What's  the  use  of  ray  being  a  peer,  if  I  can't  do  what  I 
like,  and  raake  public  opinion  go  my  way,  and  not  I  its? 
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.  Oh,  madam,  I  would  go 
anywhere,  live  anywhere,  only  to  be  with  you  1 " 

Marie  was  deeply  affected.     Making  all  allowances  for  the. 


238  Two  Years  Ago. 

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 
his  compeers,  if  she  proved  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  I  "  and  Scoutbush  advanced  to  take  her 
hand. 

"Never  less,"  cried  she,  drawing  back.  "Do  not:  you 
only  make  me  miserable  1  I  tell  you  it  is  impossible.  I  cannot 
tell  you  all.  You  must  not  do  yourself  and  yours  such  an 
injustice  I    Go,  I  tell  you  ! " 

Scoutbush  still  tried  to  take  her  hand. 

"Go,  I  entreat  you,"  cried  she,  at  her  wits'  end,  "or  I 
will  really  ring  the  bell  for  Mr.  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  something  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  respect  you;  but 
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?" 
.    "  None."     And  though  he  tried  to  squeeze  his  eyes  together 
very  tight,  the  great  tears  would  come  dropping  down. 

Sab'na  took  him  to  a  sofa,  and  sat  him  down  while  he  made 
his  little  froan. 

*•  I  told  you  that  she  was  in  love  with  the  American." 

"  Then  why  don't  he  come  back  and  marry  her  ?  Hang  him, 
I'll  go  after  him  and  make  him  1"  cried  Scoutbush,  glad  of  any 
object  on  which  to  vent  his  wrath. 

"  You  can't,  for  nobody  knows  where  he  is.  Now  do  be 
good  and  patient ;  you  will  forget  all  this." 


Two  Years  Ago.  239 

"I  shan't!" 

"You  will;  not  at  first,  but  gradually;  and  marry  someone 
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  1 " 

"You  can  be  that  still." 

"  Yes,  but  it's  so  hard,  with  nothing  to  hope  for.  I'm  not 
fit  to  take  care  of  myself.  I'm  fit  for  nothing,  I  believe,  but 
to  go  out  and  be  shot  by  those  Russians  ;  and  I'll  do  it  I " 

"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." 

•'  Ain't  I  good  now  ?  " 

"Yes,  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  Mrs.  Mellot— Whom  should  I  find  when  I  went 
home,  but  Campbell  ?  I  told  him  all ;  and  he  says  that  you  and 
everybody  have  done  qiiit3  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  Snowdon,  where  I  have  a  little  slate  quarry, 
and  get  some  fishinj.  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  Snowdon  ; 
and  Claude  can  visit  his  old  quarters  at  the  Royal  Oak  at 
Bettws,  where  he  and  I  had  that  jolly  week  among  tne 
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  I     But  I  can't  part  with  you,  Claude." 


240  Two  Years  Ago. 

"Let  him,"  said  La  Cordifiamma.  "He  will  comfort  his 
lordship  ;  and  do  you  come  with  me." 

"  Come  with  you  ?    Where  ?  " 

"  I  will  tell  you  when  Claude  is  gone." 

"  Claude,  go  and  smoke  in  the  garden.     Now  ?  *' 

"  Come  with  me  to  Germany,  Sabina." 

"  To  Germany  ?    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  I  want  rest?" 

Sabina  had  seen  it  for  some  time  past.  That  white  cheek 
had  been  fading  more  and  more  to  a  wax-like  paleness ; 
those  black  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  I  I  am  beginning — I  can 
confess  all  to  you — to  want  stimulants.  I  am  beginning  to 
long  for  brandy-and-water — pah ! — to  nerve  me  up  to  the 
excitement  of  acting,  and  then  for  morphine  to  make  me  sleep 
after  it  The  very  eau  de  Cologne  flask  tempts  me !  They 
say  that  the  fine  ladies  use  it  before  a  ball,  for  other  purposes 
than  scent  You  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 
exhilaration,  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  1  Take  me  away,  dearest  creature,  take  me  away, 
and  let  me  have  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 


Two  Years  Ago.  241 

running;  about  tne  world  by  myself  once  more,  and  knowing 

all  the  while  that "  and  Sabina  stopped,  she  did  not  like 

to  remind  Marie  of  the  painful  contrast  between  tnem. 

"  To  the  Rhine  ?  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 " 

Marie  looked  up  at  her,  guessing  her  thoughts,  and  blushed 
scarlet 

"You,  too,  think  then,  that— that "  she  could  not  finish 

her  sentence. 

Sabina  stooped  over  her,  and  the  two  beautiful  mouths 
met 

"There,  darling,  we  need  say  nothing.  We  are  both 
women,  and  can  talk  without  words." 

"  Then  you  think  there  is  hope  ?  " 

"  Hope  ?  Do  you  fancy  that  he  is  gone  so  very  far  ?  Or 
that  if  he  were,  I  could  not  hunt  him  out  ?  Have  I  wandered 
half  round  the  world  alone  for  nothing  ?  " 

"  No,  but  hope— hope  that " 

"  Not  hope,  but  certainty ;  if  someone  I  know  had  but 
courage." 

"  Courage — to  do  what  ?  " 

"To  trust  him  utterly." 

Marie  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  shuddered  in 
every  limb. 

"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  vision 
which  haunted  it,  and  so  to  nerve  herself  to  the  utmost,  and 
face  the  whole  truth. 

In  little  more  than  a  fortnight  Sabina  and  Marie,  with  maid 
and  courier  (for  Mari6  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 


242  Two  Years  Ago. 

described  to  the  puzzled  railway  guard  as  "  goads  and  cleiks, 
and  pirns  and  creels,  and  beuks  and  heuks,  enough  for  a 
the  cods  o'  Neufundland  " 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

L' Homme  Incompris, 

Elsley  went  on,  between  improved  health  and  the  fear  o! 
Tom  Thurnall,  a  good  deal  better  for  the  next  month.  He 
began  to  look  forward  to  Valencia's  visit  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  Penalva  Court,  and  he  handed  out  therefrom  Valencia, 
and  Valencia'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  Valencia  should  meet  Elsley  first. 

"She  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  sensitive^how  can  he  be  otherwise,  in  his  position,  poor 
dear?"  So  she  refrained  herself,  like  Joseph,  and  stood  at  the 
door  till  Valencia  was  half-way  down  the  garden-walk,  having 
taken  Elsley's  somewhat  shyly-offered  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  Valencia  was  not  so  easily  silenced. 

"My  darling!  and  you  are  looking  so  much  better  than 
I  expected  ;  but  not  quite  yourself  yet.  That  naughty  baby 
is  killing  you,  I  am  sure  1  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  I— and  what  a  delicious  old  garden  I  and 
dipt  yews,  too,  so  dark  and  romantic,  and  such  dear  old- 
fashioned  flowers  1  Mr.  Vavasour  must  show  me  all  over  it, 
and  over  that  hanging  wood,  too.  What  a  duck  of  a  place  1 
And  oh,  my  dear,  I  am  quite  out  of  breath  1 ' 


Two  Years  Ago.  243 

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  V70uld  slacken  after  a  while. 

"What  a  magnificent  creature  !  "  said  ht  to  himself.  "  Who 
could  believe  that  the  three  years  would  make  such  a  change  ! " 

And  he  was  right.  The  tall,  lithe  girl  had  bloomed  into  full 
glory  ;  and  Valencia  St.  Just,  though  not  delicately  beautiful, 
was  as  splendid  an  Irish  damsel  as  man  need  look  upon,  with 
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  hands  and 
feet  of  which  Miss  Valencia  was  most  pardonably  proud,  and 
by  that  indescribable  lissomeness  and  lazy  grace  which  Irish- 
women 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.  la  bergere  over  the  striped  Welsh 
petticoat,  perhaps  to  show  ofi  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  her,  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  Miss  Valencia— 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  affair,  but  she  had  silenced  him  with  an  Irish  jest,  "  You're 
a  fisherman,  Freddy ;  and  when  you  can't  catch  salmon,  you 
catch  trout ;    and  when  you  can't  catch  trout,  you'll  whip  on  the 


244  Two  Years  Ago. 

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  had 
not  married  ;  the  men,  however,  asserted  that  no  one  dare 
marry  her ;  tlie  one  club-oracle  had  given  it  as  his  opinion  that 
no  man  in  his  rational  senses  was  to  be  allowed  to  have  any- 
thing to  do  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  Valencia  still  reigned  "triumphant 
and  alone,"  though  her  aunt,  old  Lady  Knockdown,  moved 
all  the  earth,  and  some  places,  too,  below  the  earth,  to  get  the 
wild  Irish  girl  off  her  hands;  "for,"  quoth  she,  "I  feel  with 
Valencia,  indeed,  just  like  one  of  those  men  who  carry  about 
little  dogs  in  the  Quadrant.  I  always  pity  the  poor  men  so, 
and  think  how  happy  they  must  be  when  they  have  sold  one. 
It  is  one  less  chance,  you  know,  of  having  it  bite  them  horribly, 
and  then  run  away  after  all." 

There  was,  however,  no  more  real  harm  in  Valencia,  than 
there  is  in  every  child  of  Adam.  Town  frivolity  had  not 
corrupted  her.  She  was  giddy,  given  up  to  enjoyment  of  the 
present :  but  there  was  not  a  touch  of  meanness  about  her  :  and 
if  she  was  selfish,  as  everyone  must  needs  be  whose  thoughts 
are  of  pleasure,  admiration,  and  success,  she  was  so  uninten- 
tionally ;  and  she  would  have  been  shocked  and  pained  at  being 
told  that  she  was  anything  but  the  most  kind-hearted  and 
generous  creature  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  promised  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  Valencia's  head  may  have  been  of  fine 
garments  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  bad  bean 


Two  Years  Ago.  245 

but  eighteen  at  the  time  of  her  escapade,  and  had  not  been 
presented  twelve  months  ;  so  that  she  was  as  "inexperienced" 
as  anyone  can  be,  who  has  only  a  husband,  three-  children,  and 
a  household  to  manage  on  less  than  three  hundred  a  year. 
Therefore  Valencia  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  ?  " 

"Where?  of  course  to  seethe  beautiful  schoolmistress  who 
saved  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  Scoutbush'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 
meanwhile." 

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 
Valencia  had  not  counted  on  the  excitable  and  vain  nature  with 
which  she  was  dealing ;  and  Lucia,  who  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 


246  Two  Years  Ago. 

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  herself  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  con- 
fessor ;  a  far  higher  saint,  if  the  truth  v/as  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  a  way  v/hich  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.  Romantic 
walks,  the  company  of  a  beautiful  woman  as  ready  to  listen 
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  a  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  Valencia'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!  Valencia — Valencia  is  imaginative — Valencia 
understands  you — Valencia  sympathises — Valencia  thinks  .  .  . 
Valencia  has  no  children  to  wash  and  dress,  no  accounts  to 
keep,  no  linen  to  mend — Valencia's  back  does  not  ache  all  day 


Two  Years  Ago.  247 

longf,  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  Valencia  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-teufe!,  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  I  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  Australian  settler's  wife  bestows  on  some  poor 
slaving  gin  a  cast-off  French  bonnet ;  before  she  has  gone  a 
hundred  yards,  her  husband  snatches  it  off,  puts  it  on  his  own 
mop,  quiets  hers  for  its  loss  with  a  tap  of  the  waddie,  and 
struts  on  in  glory.  Why  not  ?  Has  he  not  the  analogy  of  all 
nature  on  his  side?  Have  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  v/onien  will  dress  like  so  many 


248  Two  Years  Ago. 

quakeresses ;  while  the  frippery  shops  will  become  the  haunts 
of  men  alone,  and  "browches,  pearls,  and  owches"  be  con- 
secrate 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 
peacocks'  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  blackcock  for 
dancing  and  drumming  on  the  top  of  a  moss  hag,  with  out- 
spread wings  and  flirting  tail,  glorious  and  self-glorifying? 
He  is  a  splendid  fellow ;  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  bon-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  unappreciated  ?  Lesfemmes  incoinpiises 
of  France  used  to  (perhaps  do  now)  form  a  class  of  married 
ladies,  whose  sorrows  were  especially  dear  to  the  novelist, 
male  or  female  ;  but  what  are  their  woes  compared  to  those 
of  rhomme  incompris  ?  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  re- 
generating all  heaven  and  earth  ;  and  only,  humdrum,  practical 
creature  that  she  is,  tries  to  do  justly,  and  love  mercy,  and 


Two  Years  Ago.  249 

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  confidential  letters, 
choose  him  as  your  father-confessor,  and  lock  yourself  up  alone 
with  him  for  an  hour  or  two  every  week,  while  the  wife  is 
mending  his  shirts  upstairs.  True,  you  may  break  the  stupid 
wife's  heart  by  year-long  misery,  as  she  slaves  on,  bearing  the 
burden  and  the  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  ?  If  your 
immortal  soul  requires  it,  what  matter  what  it  costs  her  carnal 
heart  ?  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  heareth  not,  that  the  heart  g^ieveth  not.  Go  on 
and  prosper  1  You  may,  too,  ruin  the  man's  spiritual  state  by 
vanity ;  you  may  pamper  his  discontent  with  the  place  where 
God  has  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  I 

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 


250  Two  Years  Ago. 

Not,  be  it  understood,  that  Valencia  had  the  least  suspicion 
that  Elsley  considered  himself  incoinpris.  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 
reviewe*-;*. 

El?ley  himself  soon  divined  enough  of  her  character  to  see 
that  he  must  keep  his  sorrows  to  himself,  if  he  wished  for 
Valencia's  good  opinion  ;  and  soon— so  easily  does  a  vain  man 
lend  himself  to  meanness — he  found  himself  trying  to  please 
Valencia,  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  rules  of  good  society,  for 
breaking  which  Lucia  was  always  calling  him  gauche  and 
morose?  So  he  actually  quieted  his  own  conscience  by  the 
fancy  that  he  was  bound  to  be  civil,  and  to  keep  up  appear- 
ances, "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  Valencia'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  ? 
How  better  show  that  bygone*  were  to  be  bygones,  and  that 
Elsley  was  henceforh  to  be  considered  as  one  of  the  family, 
than  by  being  as  intimate  as  possible  with  him  ?  What  matter 
how  intimate  ?  For,  after  all,  he  was  only  a  brother,  and  she 
his  sister. 

She  had  law  on  her  side  in  that  last  argfument,  as  well  as 
love  of  amusement.  Whether  she  had  either  common  sense 
or  Scripture,  is  a  very  different  question. 

Poor  Lucia,  too,  tried  to  make  the  best  of  the  matter  ;  and 
to  take  the  new  intimacy  as  Valencia  would  have  had  her 
take  it,  in  the  light  of  a  compliment  to  herself ;  and  so,  in 
her  pride,  she  said  to  Valencia,  and  told  her  that  she  should 


Two  Years  Ago.  251 

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 
relationship,  she  had  allowed  him  to  talk  a  great  deal  more 
nonsense  to  her— harmless  perhaps,  but  nonsense  still — than 
she  would  have  listened  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 
free'y  enough,  as  soon  as  he  became  at  his  ease  with  his 
companion,  and  excited  by  conversation.  Valencia  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  accordingly,  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  Valencia  soon  remarked  that  Elsley  showed  Lucia 
no  petits  soins,  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 


252  Two  Years  Ago. 

the  schools,  and  had  been  struck  at  once  with  his  grace  and 
high  breeding,  and  with  that  air  of  melancholy  which  is 
always  interesting  in  a  true  woman's  eye.  She  had  seen, 
too,  that  Elsley  tried  to  avoid  him,  naturally  enough  not 
wishing  an  intrusion  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  tha  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  dis- 
continued 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  Valencia  to  think  of 
something  beside  each  other ;  and  when  she  saw  her  sistei 
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  Valencia  so. 

"  Do  take  care  that  you  do  not  break  his  heart ! " 

"  My  dear  I  You  forget  that  I  sit  under  Mr.  0'BIareaway» 
and  am  to  him  as  a  heathen  and  a  publican.  Fresh  from 
St.  Nepomuc's  as  he  is,  he  would  as  soon  think  of  falHng 
in  love  with  an  'Oirish  Prodestant,'  as  with  a  malignant 
and  a  turbaned  Turk.  Besides,  my  dear,  if  the  mischief  is 
going  to  be  done,  it's  done  already." 

"  I  daresay  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  1 " 

"  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  Valencia,  over  head  and  cars  in  love. 
His  time  had  come,  and  there   vas  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  clergyman,  he  had  fled  from  St.  Nepomuc's  into  the  wilder- 
ness to  avoid  temptation,  and  beheld  at  his  cell  door  a  fairer 


Two  Years  Ago.  253 

fiend  than  ever  came  to  St.  Dunstan.  A  fairer  fiend,  no  doubt ; 
for  St.  Dunstan's  imagination  created  his  temptress  for  him, 
but  Valencia  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  whether  St.  Dunstan's  apparition 
was  not  something  as  coarse  as  his  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  Valencia's,  but  at 
most  have  bowed  her  out  pityingly,  as  Frank  tried  to  bow 
out  Valencia  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  Valencia  was  the  last  woman  in  the  world  to 
make  a  parson's  vyife.  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  Valencia  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.  Valencia  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  weakness  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; 


254  Two  Years  Ago. 

might  happen  again.  It  was  a  class  of  marriages  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  in  personal  excellence,  for  such  a  match,  than  three  out  of 
four  who  make  them,  yet  he  shrunk  with  disgust  from  the 
notion  of  being  himself  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  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  tv/o  months,  was  news  to  him  which 
was  enough  to  keep  him  at  his  post,  let  what  would  be  the 
consequence.  And  gradually  he  began  to  see  a  way  out  of  his 
difficulty — 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 
— selfish  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  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  I  That  this  cholera,  if  it  is  to  come,  would  wipe 
out  of  this  head  what  I  verily  believe  nothing  but  death  will 
do  I "  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 


Two  Years  Ago,  255 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

The  Doctor  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  ? 
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  ?  Did  you 
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  ?  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  hopeless  surds,  like  the  mad  mathematician ; 
or  last,  and  worst  of  all,  to  work  the  Nuisances  Removal 
Act?  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,  he  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 


256  Two  Years  Ago. 


next,  by  the  same  rule  you  will  have  five  times  as  many 
more  if  it  comes  this  summer." 

"  Nonsense  1  Aberalva  was  the  healthiest  town  on  the 
coast." 

"Well  but,"  would  Tom  say,  "in  the  census  before  last 
70U  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  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  Mr.  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  every- 
body'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 
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, 
worshippers  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  repentance;  to  say,  "I  have  been  a  very  nasty, 
dirty  fellow.  I  have  lived  contented  in  evil  smells,  till  I  care 
for  them  no  more  than  my  pig  does.  I  have  refused  to  under- 
stand   nature's    broadest    hints,    that   anything    which    is    sO 


Two  Years  Ago.  257 

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  illness  of  my  children ;  for  aught  I  know, 
it  is  very  much  my  fault  that  my  baby  has  died  of  scarlatina, 
and  tv70  or  three  of  my  tenants  of  typhus.  No,  hang  it !  that  s 
too  much  to  m.ake  any  man  confess  to  1  I'll  prove  my 
innocence  by  not  reforming!"  So  sanitary  reform  is  thrust 
out  of  sight,  simply  because  its  necessity  is  too  humihatmg  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, 
towards  cleansing  them."  ^ 

«'  Let  'em    cleanse    them    themselves  I     Soaps    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  afford  to  throw  av/ay  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,  tUl  these  new 
revolutionary  doctrines  came  in-pride  and  purse-proud  conceit, 
iust  to  show  off  his  money  !  What  do  they  want  with  better 
cottages  than  their  fathers  had?  Only  put  notions  into  their 
I  heads,   raise  'em  above  their  station;  more  they  have,  more 


258  Two  Years  Ago. 

they'll  want.  ...  Sir,  make  chartists  of  'em  all  before  he's 
done  1  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  Pentremochyn,  you're 
just  spreading  chartism — chartism,  sir  1  Of  course  I  know 
nothing.  Of  course  I'm  nobody,  in  these  days :  but  that's  my 
opinion,  sir,  and  you've  got  it  1 " 

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  beside,  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 
wayside,  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  fill  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* a 
the  plain  truth  of  it" 

Tom  made  no  answer  to  that  latter  argument.  He  bad 
heard  that  "'tis  jidgm.ent"  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  I  the  Bible,  I  thought,  says  that  Aaron 


£  v/o    i  ears  Jt^go,  259 

stayed  the  plague  among  the  Israelites,  and  David  the  one 
at  Jemsalem." 

*'  Sir,  those  was  miracles,  sir  I  and  they  were  under  the  Law, 
sir,  and  we'm  under  the  Gospel,  you'll  be  pleased  to  remember." 

"Kumph!"  said  Tom,  "then,  by  your  showing,  they  were 
better  off  under  the  Law  than  we  are  now,  if  they  could  have 
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  enoug! ) 
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  ?  and  do  you  know  so  little  of  Boords  as  that  ? 
Why,  there  ain't  one  of  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  seven  or  eight 
pounds  this  year,  even  if  no  cholera  comes." 

Tom  knew  the  whole  state  of  the  case ;  but  he  liked 
tormenting  Heale  now  and  then. 

"Well,  sir  I  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  beside." 

"  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  that  fellow  must  have  been  who  had  that  put  on 
his  tombstone,  not  to  have  found  it  out  many  a  year  before  he 
died  1 " 

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 


26o  Two  Years  Ago. 

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  soft  persuasion  can." 

"  You  were  a  dove  where  you  ought  to  have  been  a  bull,  and 
a  bull  where  you  ought  to  be  a  dove.  But  roar  now,  if  ever 
you  roared,  in  the  pulpit  and  out.  Why  not  preach  to  them  on 
it  next  Sunday  ?  " 

"Well,  I'd  give  a  lecture  gladly,  if  I  could  get  anyone  to 
come  and  hear  it ;  but  that  you  could  do  better  than  me." 

"  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  ot  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  habit  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?" 


Two  Years  Ago.  261 

"  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  teliingf  them  of  it  ?  You  pound  away,  as  I  warned 
you  once,  at  the  sins  of  which  they  are  just  as  w^ell  aware  as 
you ;  why  on  earth  do  you  hold  your  tongue  about  the  sins  of 
which  they  are  not  aware  ?  You  tell  us  every  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  pis  pour  eux.  If  they  have  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 
you  are  God's  minister,  you  ought  to  have  something  to  say 
about  God's  view  of  a  fact  which  certainly  involves  the  lives 
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. 
What  Thurnall  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  ? — '  Almost  thou  persuadest  me  to  be  a  Christian.'  " 

"Would  God  that  you  were  one  I  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 


262  Two  Years  Ago. 

spiritual  withal ;  but  he,  too,  like  his  tutor,  took  little  by  his 
motion. 

All  the  present  fruit  upon  which  he  had  to  congratulate 
himself  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  cleanli- 
ness, while  all  rational  people  knew  that  its  true  source  was 
intemperance.  Poor  Frank !  he  had  preached  against 
drunkenness  many  a  time  and  oft :  but  because  he  v/ould 
not  add  a  Mohammedan  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  scientific  truth,  for  the  sake  of 
pushing  their  own  nostrum  for  all  human  ills. 

In  despair,  Tom  v/ent  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 
Parliament ;  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 
whi_h  to  go,"  said  Tom,  who  had  still  hopes  of  making  a 
cat's  paw  of  Elsley,  and,  by  his  pov/er  over  him,  puUing  the 
strings  from  behind. 

Sorely  against  his  will,  Elsley  went,  saw,  and  smelt ;  came 
home  again ;  was  very  unwell  ;  and  was  visited  nightly  for 
a  week  after  that  by  that  most  disgusting  of  aii  phantoms, 
sanitary  nightm.are  j  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. 


Two  Years  Ago.  263 

•'Would  he  write,  then,  and  represent  matters  to  Lord 
Scoutbush  ?  " 

How  could  he?  He  did  not  know  the  man;  not  a  Una 
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  feit,  for  poor  Elsley's  dislike  of  meddling  in 
that  quarter. 

•' V/ou!d  Mrs.  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" 

"  I  ? — No — why  ? — what  ?  "  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 
Lu  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  Scoutbush  will 
go  by  his  opinion;  and  tell  her  to  keep  the  secret  from  her 
sister." 

Frank  did  it,  and  well.  Valencia  was  horror-struck,  and 
wrote. 

Scoutbush  was  away  at  sea,  nobody  knew  where;  and  a 
full  fortnight  elapsed  before  an  answer  came. 

"  My  dear,  you  are  quite  mistaken  if  you  think  I  can  do 
anything.  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  way  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, 


264  Two  Years  Ago. 

except  over  a  few  cottages,  and  Tardrew  assured  me,  three 
weeks  ago,  that  they  were  as  comfortable  as  they  ever 
had  been." 

So  Tardrew  had  forestalled  Thurnall  in  writing  to  the 
viscount.     Well,  there  was  one  more  chance  to  be  tried. 

Torn  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  them  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  v/axed  eloquent,  witty,  sarcastic,  and  the 
net  result  was  a  genera)  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 
water-butts  ?  " 

But  an  unexpected  ally  arose  at  this  juncture,  in  the  coast- 
gfuard  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  I  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  the  great 
man's  speech  had  produced  an  impression. 

"Would  he"  (so  he  asked  the  Heutenant  privately)  "get 
someone  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  themselves  captains,  and  fancy  themselves,  sir,  as 
good  as  if  they  wore  the  Queen's  uniform ! " 

"Well,  then,  can't  we  find  another  householder — some 
cantankerous  dog  that  don't  mind  a  row  ?  " 

Yes,  the  cantankerous  dog  was  found,  in  the  person  of 
Mr.  John  Penruddock,  coal-merchant,  who  had  quarrelled 
with  Tardrew,  because  Tardrew  said  he  gave  short  weight 
—which  he  very  probably  did— and  had  quarrelled  also  with 


Two  Years  Ago.  265 

Mr.  Thomas  Beer,  senior,  shipbuilder,  about  right  of  passage 
through  a  back-yard. 

Mr.  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  oat  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  v/as  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  bear  all  the  odium:  whereon  the  malcontents  subsided, 
considering  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.  Not  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!" 
..."  Vair  and  zoft,  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  consider- 
ably worse  off  than  when  he  began.  Happy  for  him,  if  some 
chance  v^ord  is  not  let  drop,  which  will  afford  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 


266  Two  Years  Ago. 

hit,  being^,  as  is  said,  of  a  cantankerous  turn,  to  Mr.  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  cartload  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  here 
open-day  burglary,  for  it's  nothing  less,  has  to  do  wi'  me,  that's 
all,  and  them  as  knows  their  interests,  knows  me  1 " 

Terrible  were  these  words  ;  for  old  Treluddra,  like  most 
jowders,  combined  the  profession  of  money-lender  wi  h  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  offend  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-guard,  and  we'm  mind  our  trade.  We'm  free  fishermen, 
by  charter  and  right :  you'ni  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  hanged  for  it." 

"  You  split  my  head  open  1 " 

"  Iss,  by ."    And  the  old  gray-bearded  sea-king  set  his 

arms  akimbo. 

•'Gentlemen,  gentlemen,  for  Heaven's  sakel"  cries  poo 
Headley,  "this  is  really  going  too  far.  Gentlemen,  the  vestry 
is  adjourned  1 " 

"Best  thing  too;  oughtn't  never  to  have  been  called,"  says 
one  to  another. 

And  some  one,  as  he  went  out,  muttered  something  about 


Two  Years  Ago.  267 

"interloping',  strange  doctors,  colloquies  with  popish  curates," 
which  was  answered  by  a  "Put  'mun  in  the  quay-pule,"  from 
Treluddra. 

Torn  stepped  up  to  Treluddra  instantly.  "What  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  \<7e  part  I " 

"  Who  be  you  ?  "  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 
quantity  of  trouble,  and  get  only  V7hat  I  have  got." 

"  Why  did  you  begin  at  all,  then  ?  " 

"  Because  I  v^as  a  very  foolish,  meddlesome  ass,  who  fancied 
tl:at  I  ought  to  do  my  duty  once  in  away  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  with 
the  sacred  privilege  of  every  free-born  Englishman,  to  do  that 
which  is  right  in  the  sight  of  his  own  eyes,  and  wrong  too  i " 

"  You'm  making  fun  at  us,"  said  old  Beer,  dubiously. 

"Weil,  Mr.  Beer,  and  isn't  fhat  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,  ma'ning 
himself  so  agreeable  that  he  was  forgiven  freely  on  the  spot. 

"  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  ?  " 


268  Two  Years  Ago. 

"  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  river.  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  lime  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  body,  the  General  Board 
of  Health,  informing  them  civilly,  that  the  Nuisances  Removal 
Act  was  simply  waste  iper  ;  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. 


Two  Years  Ago.  269 

To  which  the  Board  returned  for  ans-.ver,  that  they  were 
perfectly  aware  of  the  fact,  and  deeply  deplored  the  same  ;  but 
that  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 
government  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 
unexpected  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  chi'd  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  he  went, 
and  then  av/ay  to  the  right,  through  the  ash-woods  of 
Trebooze,  up  by  the  rill  which  dips  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 
ename"3d  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. 


270  Two  Years  Ago. 

It  was  a  "day  of  God."  The  earth  lay  like  one  ^eat 
emerald,  ring-ed  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  w^ith  smiles  of  pitying  love,  till  she  smiled  back  in 
answer,  and  took  heart  and  hope  for  next  week's  v/eary  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  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  what  Ulj'sses  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  I  he's  had  his  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  eveniiig,  since  he  sang 
the  new  year  in  last  January.     And  why  shou'd  not  I  ?  " 

Let  him  be  awhile ;  there  are  sounds  of  deeper  meaning 
in  the  air,  if  his  heart  had  ears  to  hear  them ;  far  off  church- 
bells  chiming  to  even-song ;  hymn-tunes  floating  up  the  glen 
from  the  little  chapel  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  accepts 


Two  Years  Ago.  271 

cheerfully  and  manfully  the  things  which  he  does  see,  he  will  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  Manichaean 
contempt  and  slander  of  God's  kingdom  ot  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  challenge ;  and  then 
rattles  on  again  with  a  free  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?" 
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  farm-yard  gate. 

Let  him  be,  I  say  again.  He  might  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, 
inevitably  went  to  the  very  bottom  of  Hela-pool,  add  by  no 
possibility,  unless,  of  course,  they  became  brave  at  last,  could 
rise  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 
Revelation,  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- 
gate,  through  the  farm-yard,  and  stopped  at  last  at  the  porch. 
The  front  door  was  open,  and  the  door  beyond  it;  and  ere  he 
knocked,  he  stopped,  looking  in  silence  at  a  picture  which  held 
him  spell-bound  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  o£ 
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-Raphaelite  grounds,  at  a  by 
no  means  pre-Raphaelite  conclusion.     "A  picture,  you  say,  is 


272  Two  Years  Ago. 

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, 
enamelled  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  tv»ro  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  smile  about  her  pale  lips ;  and  every  now 
and  then  her  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  sunshine,  her  great  eyes  looking  out  far  away 
beyond  the  sea,  beyond  the  sky,  into  son^e  infinite  which 
only  she  beheld. 


Two  Years  Ago.  273 

Tom  had  approached  unheard,  across  the  farm-yard  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  disturb  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  delicate  in  its  modulations,  that  every  word  came  dearly 
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 — v^ill  you  believe  her  now  ? '  And  then, 
before  they  could  reply,  he  vanished  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  his  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  ThurnaJl  standing  in  the  doorway,  and  gave  a  little 
scream. 

Tom  came  forward,  bowing.  "  I  am  very  sorry  to  have 
disturbed  you.  I  suspect  Miss  Harvey  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  fit  only  for  girls? 

Not  altogether  because  he  must  needs  say  something  civiL 
True,  he  felt,  on  the  whole,  aboat  the  future  state  as  Goethe 


274  Two  Years  Ago. 

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  strongest  possible  presumption  in  favour  of  our  being  born 
again  ;  and  probably,  as  nature  always  works  upward  and 
develops  higher  forms,  in  some  higher  state.  Indeed,  for 
aught  he  knev/,  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,  flesh,  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  oppress  still  more  failing  nature, 
and  break  the  bruised  reed.  His  business  was  to  cure  his 
patients'  bodies  ;  and  if  ha  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?  If  nature  kindly  took 
off  the  edge  of  sorrow  by  blunting  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 


Two  Years  Ago.  275 

thing',  cut  off  just  as  life  opened  from  all  that  made  life  lovely 
— was  not  death  '"or  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,  vagnla,  blandula, 
Hospes  comesque  corporis, 
Quae  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  consum.ption.  Was  it 
not  a  merciful  dream,  a  beautiful  dream,  a  just  dream — so 
beautiful  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  have  come  into  the  world  at  all?  And  was  not 
Grace  doing  a  rational  as  well  as  a  loving  work,  in  telling 
her,  under  whatsoever  symbols,  that  such  a  home  of  rest  and 
beauty  awaited  her?  It  was  not  the  sort  of  place  to  which 
he  expected,  perhaps  even  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  off  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 
such  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 ; 
v/hy  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 


276 


Two  Years  Ago. 


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 ;  commonplace  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  long- 
ing to  leave  it  all,  and  yet  content  to  stay  and  suffer.  What 
mysteries  there  were  in  the  human  spirit— mysteries  to  which 
that  knowledge  of  mankind  on  which  he  prided  himself  gave 
him  no  key  1 

"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, 

"Now  I  must  talk  w^ith  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  v/ith  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 


Two  Years  Ago.  277 

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  licme." 

*'  I  should  have  liked  it  well  enough  ;  but  folks  might  talk, 
if  two  j'oung  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  Torn  went,  and  kept  Grace  in  sight,  till  she  had  crossed 
the  little  moor,  and  disappeared  in  the  wood  below. 

He  had  gone  about  a  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  scuffle  ended  shamefully  enough 
for  the  sottish  squireen. 

Tom  stood  over  him  a  minute,  as  he  sat  grovelling  and 
groaning  among  the  long  grass.  "  I  may  as  well  see  that 
I   have  not  killed  him.     No,   he  will  do  as  well  as  ever— 


27S  Two  Years  Ago. 


which  is  not  saying'  much.  .  ,  ,  Now,  sir  !  Go  home  quietly, 
and  ask  Mrs.  Trebooze  for  a  little  rhubarb  and  sal  volatile. 
I'll  call  up  m  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  after  my 
patient's  health."  And  Tom  bowed  civilly,  and  v/alked  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  be 
safer,  in  case  you  felt  faint  again." 

But  Mrs.  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  much 
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  is  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  1 "  And  she  withdrew  her 
arm  from  his,  but  not  hastily. 

After  that  they  walked  on  awhile  in  silence.  Grace  kept  her 
veil  down,  for  lier  eyes  were  full  of  tears.  She  loved  that  man 
intensely,  utterly.  She  did  not  seek  to  deny  it  to  herself.  God 
had  given  him  to  her,  and  hers  he  was.  The  very  sea,  the 
devourer  whom  she  hated,  who  hungered  tc  swallow  up  all 
young,  fair  Hfe,  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  checks.  She 
had  need  of  all  her  strength  to  prevent  sobbing. 


Two  Years  Ago.  279 

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  I " 

The  woods  slept  golden  in  the  evening  sunlight ;  and  overhead 
brooded,  like  one  great  smile  of  God,  the  everlasting  blue. 

"He  will  right  me  I"  she  said.  '"Hold  thee  still  in  the 
Lord,  and  abide  patiently,  and  he  will  make  thy  righteousness 
clear  as  the  light,  and  thy  just  dealing  as  the  noon-day  1 ' " 
And  after  that  thought  she  wept  no  more. 

Was  it  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  suspected  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 
w^hich  were  always  pleasant — feelings  which  the  sight  of 
his  father,  or  the  writing  to  his  father,  could  only  waken. 
Quaintly  enough,  the  thought  of  Grace  and  of  his  father  seemed 
intertwined,  inextricable.  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  te:ider  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  vsriser  to  take  things  as  they  cam.e, 
and  enjoy  himself  vvhile  he  could  ;  and  fancy  that  she  w^as 
always  what  he  had  seen  her  that  day.  After  all,  it  was  much 
more  pleasant  to  trust  people  than  to  suspect  them:  "Hand- 
some is  who  handsome  does  1  And  besides,  she  did  me  the 
kindness  of  saving  my  life;  so  it  vvoviM  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 


-iSo  Two  Years  Ago. 

short,  modest,  faltering  ;  but  each  one  of  them  suggestive  :  and 
Tom  soon  found  that  he  had  met  with  a  mind  which  con- 
tained all  the  elements  of  poetry,  and  needed  only  education  to 
develop  them. 

"What  a  blue-stocking,  pre-Raphaelite  seventh-heavenariafl 
she  would  have  been,  if  she  had  had  the  misfortune  to  be  born 
in  that  station  of  life  1 "  But  where  a  clever  man  is  talking  ' 
to  a  beautiful  woman,  talk  he  will,  and  must,  for  the  mere  i 
sake  of  showing  off,  though  she  be  but  a  village  school- 
mistress ;  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  expressions  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  marvellous,  especially  when  called  out 
in  honour  of  himself. 

And  she,  simple  creature,  drank  it  all  in  as  sparkling  wine, 
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  I  The  more 
honour  to  you,  then,  old  Love,  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  exaggcrator — 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?  bcc-,<oc  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 — 


Two  Years  Ago.  281 

"Oh,  how  foolish  of  me  -to  be  idling  away  this  opportunity  ; 
the  only  one,  perhaps,  which  I  may  have  i  Oh,  Mr.  Thurnall, 
tell  me  about  this  cholera  1 " 

•'What  about  it?" 

"  Everything.  Ever  since  I  heard  of  what  you  have  been 
saying  to  the  people,  ever  since  Mr.  Hcadlcy's  sermon,  it 
has  been  like  fire  in  my  ears  I " 

*'  1  am  truly  glad  to  hear  it.  If  all  parsons  had  preached 
about  it  for  the  last  fifteen  years  as  Mr.  Headley  did  last 
Sunday,  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." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Thurnall :  but  is  it  not  God's  doing  ?  and  can  we 
stop  His  hand?" 

*'  I  know  nothing  about  that.  Miss  Harvey.  I  only  know 
that  wheresoever  cholera  breaks  out,  it  is  someone's  fault : 
and  if  deaths  occur,  someone  ought  to  be  tried  for  man- 
slaughter— 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  was  silent  for  a  while. 

"  But  can  nothing  be  done  to  keep  it  off  now  ?  Must  it 
come  ?  " 

"  I  believe  it  must.  Still  one  may  do  enough  to  save 
many  lives  in  the  meanwhile." 

"Enough  to  save  many  lives-lives? — immortal  souls,  tool 
Oh,  what  could  I  do  ? " 

"A  great  deal,  Miss  Harvey,"  said  Tom,  across  whom  the 
recollection  of  Grace's  influence  flashed  for  the  first  time. 
What  a  help  she  might  be  to  him  1 

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  begain  to  respect  her  intellect 
as  well  as  her  heart. 

At  last,  however,  she  faltered — 


282  Two  Years  Ago, 

"Oh,  if  I  could  but  believe  all  thisl  Is  it  not  fighting 
against  God  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know  what  sort  of  God  yours  is,  Miss  Harvey 
I  believe  in  someone  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,  that  yoi 
believed  in  Him  also.  You  may,  however,  only  believe  ii 
the  same  being  in  whom  the  Methodist  parson  believes,  om 
vyho  intends  to  hurl  into  endless  agony  every  human  being 
who  has  not  had  a  chance  of  hearing  the  said  preacher": 
nostrum  for  delivering  men  out  of  the  hands  of  Him  wh( 
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?  Wha 
did  you  mean  by  saying,  that  saving  lives  is  saving  immorta 
souls  ?  " 

"Oh,  is  it  not  giving  them  time  to  repent?  What  wil 
become  of  them,  if  they  are  cut  off  in  the  midst  of  their  sins  ?  " 

"If  you  had  a  son  whom  it  was  not  convenient  to  you  t 
keep  at  home,  would  his  being  a  bad  fellovy — the  greates 
scoundrel  on  the  earth — be  a  reason  for  your  turning  hin: 
into  the  streets  to  live  by  thieving,  and  end  by  going  t< 
the  dogs  for  ever  and  a  day  ?  " 

"  No  ;  but  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  That  I  do  not  think  that  God,  when  He  sends  a  humai 
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  ir 
England,  and  he  shows  any  signs  of  mending,  we  give  hin 
a  fresh  chance  in  the  colonies,  and  let  him  start  again,  tc 
try  if  he  cannot  do  better  next  time.  And  do  you  fancj 
that  God,  when  He  transports  a  man  out  of  this  world,  nevei 
gives  him  a  fresh  chance  in  another — especially  wrhen  nine  oui 
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  I     Oh  1   it  would   give  mc 

some   gleam   of    hope   for   my   tv^o But  no— it's   not  in 

Scripture.     Where  the'  tree  falls  there  it  lies" 

"And  as  the  fool  dies,  so  dies  the  v)ii^  i.ian ;  and  there  isl 
one  account  to  the  righteous  and  to  the  wicked.    And  a  mac 


Two  Years  Ago.  283 

has  no  pre-eminence  over  a  beast,  for  both  turn  alike  to  dust ; 
and  Solomon  does  not  know,  he  says,  or  anyone  else,  any- 
thing 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  ow^n  w^ay,  and  just  to  fear  God  and  keep  His 
:ommandmant3,  and  do  the  work  which  lies  nearest  us  with 
ill  our  might." 

Grace  was  silent. 

"You  are  surprised  to  hear  me  quote  Scripture,  and  well 
^ou  may  be  :  but  that  same  Book  of  Ecclesiastes  is  a  very 
old  favourite  with  me  ;  for  I  am  no  Christian,  but  a  worldling, 
f  ever  there  w^as  one.  But  it  does  puzzle  me  why  you,  vsrho 
ire  a  Christian,  should  talk  one  half-hour  as  you  have  been 
:alking  to  that  poor  girl,  and  the  next  go  for  information  about 
iie  next  life  to  poor  old  disappointed,  broken-hearted  Solomon, 
witii  his  three  hundred  and  odd  idolatrous  wives,  who  confesses 
'airly  that  this  life  is  a  failure,  and  that  he  does  not  know 
whether  there  is  any  next  life  at  all." 

Whether  Tom  v?ere  altogether  right  or  not  is  not  the  question 
lere  ;  the  novelist's  business  is  to  represent  the  real  thoughts  of 
nankind,  when  they  are  not  absolutely  unfit  to  be  told  ;  and 
rertainly  Tom  spoke  the  doubts  of  thousands  when  he  spoke 
lis  own. 

Grace  was  silent  still. 

"V/ell,"  he  said,  "beyond  that  I  can't  go,  bemg  no 
:heologian.  But  when  a  preacher  tells  people  in  one  breath 
)f  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 
:hat  He  will  cast  nine-tenths  of  them  into  hopeless  torture  for 
iver  (and  if  that  is  not  hating,  I  don't  know  what  is) — unless 
le,  the  preacher,  gets  a  chance  of  talking  to  them  for  a  fe^v 
ninutes— why,  I  should  like,  Miss  Harvey,  to  put  that 
j^entleman  upon  a  real  fire  for  ten  minutes,  iijistead  of  his 
:omfortable  Sunday's  dinner,  which  stands  ready  frying  for 
lim,  and  which  he  was  going  home  to  eat,  as  jolly  as  if  all 
he  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, 
)ondering  many  things. 


284  Two  Years  Ago. 


*'  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 
infection  I " 

"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  which  passes  all  human  dreams." 

"  Do  not  talk  so  ! "  cried  Grace.  "  It  frightens  me  ;  it 
puzzles  me,  and  makes  me  miserable.  Oh,  if  you  would 
but  become  a  Christian  1 " 

"And  listen  to  the  Gospel?" 

"Yes — oh,  yes  1 " 

"A  Gospel  means  good  news,  I  thought.  When  you  have 
any  to  tell  me,  I  will  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'1 
help  fancying  that  it  is  not  the  Gospel  at  all ;  and  so  get  on 
the  best  way  I  can,  listening  to  the  good  new^s  about  God 
which  this  grand  old  world,  and  my  microscope,  and  my  books, 
tell  me.  No,  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  with  these  dark 
dreams  ! " 

"My  heart?"  cried  she,  looking  down;  "it  is  deceitful 
and  desperately  vyicked." 

"  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  ? 


Two  Years  Ago.  285 

"  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  some- 
thing rude  which  I  said  to  j'ou  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  1  Have  you 
heard  anything  more  ? — 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  ? 

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 !  Send  me  to  prison,  innocent  as  I  am — innocent  as 
that  child  there  above — would  God  I  were  dying  like  her ! 
Only  give  me  time !  O  misery !  I  had  hoped  you  had 
forgotten — that  it  was  lost  in  the  sea— that — what  ara  I 
saying  ?  Only  give  me  time  1 " — and  she  dropped  on  her  knees 
before  him,  wringing  her  hands. 

"Miss  Harvey  1  This  is  not  worthy  of  you.  If  you  be 
innocent,  as  I  don't  doubt,  what  more  do  you  need — or  I  ? " 

He  took  her  hands,  and  lifted  her  up ;  but  she  still  kept 
looking  down,  round,  upwards,  like  a  hunted  deer,  and 
pleading  in  words  which  seemed  sobbed  out — as  by  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  patience  with  me  a  little,  and  I  know  I  shall  bring  it 
you  ;  and  then— and  then  you  will  forgive  ? — 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  av/ay  her  tears,  stopped 
her  mouth  with  kisses.  "Yes  !  I'll  wait— wait  for  ever,  if  you 
will  1    I'll  lose  another  belt,  for  such  another  look  as  that  1 " 


286  Two  Years  Ago. 

She  was  bewildered  for  a  moment,  poor  fond  wretch,  at 
finding  herself  where  she  would  gladly  have  stayed  for  ever : 
but  quickly  she  recovered  her  reason. 

"Let  me  go  I"  she  cried,  struggling.  "This  is  not  right! 
Let  me  go,  sir  I "  And  she  tried  to  cover  her  burning  cheeks 
with  her  hands. 

"  I  will  not,  Grace  !    I  love  you  I  I  love  you,  I  toll  you  I " 

"  You  do  not,  sir  1 "  and  she  struggled  still  more  Sercely. 
"  Do  not  deceive  yourself !  Me  you  cannot  deceive  I  Let  me 
go,  I  say  1  You  could  not  demean  yourself  to  love  a  poor  girl 
like  me  1 " 

Utterly  losing  his  head,  Tom  ran  on  with  passionate  words. 

"  No,  sir  1  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  1 
Remember  that  1 " 

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  1  Yes,  sir  1  My  character,  my  life,  for  aught 
I  know  :  but  not  my  soul.  Send  me  to  Bodmin  Gaol  if  you  will ; 
but  offer  no  more  insuts  to  a  modest  maiden  1  Oh  1  " — and  her 
expression  changed  to  one  of  lofty  sorrow  and  pity — "oh!  to 
find  all  men  alike  at  heart  I  After  having  fancied  you — fancied 
you "  (what  she  had  fancied  him  her  woman's  modesty  dared 
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. 


Two  Years  Ago.  287 

If  you  win  look  in  your  glass  when  you  go  home,  and  have  a 
woman's  iieart  in  yovj,  you  may  at  least  see  an  excuse  for  me  : 
but  like  Mr.  Trebooze  I  am  not.  Forgive  and  forget,  and  let 
us  walk  home  rationally."     And  he  offered  to  take  her  hand. 

"No:  not  now!  Not  till  I  can  trust  you,  sirl"  said  she. 
The  vsrords  were  lofty  enough :  but  there  was  a  profound 
melancholy  in  their  tone  w^hich  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 
wouM  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  women ; 
and  Tom  slunk  along  by  the  schoolmistress's  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  mechodistical  cant.  He  dared  say  that  she  was  not  as 
prudish  with  the  Methodist  parson.  And  at  that  base  thought 
he  paused  ;  for  a  fiush  of  rage,  and  a  strong  desire  on  such 
hypothesis  to  slay  the  said  Methodist  parson,  or  anyone  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  m.an  of  the  world  ;  it  would 
never  do  to  knock  under  to  a  country  girl  in  this  way  ;  she 
might  go  and  boast  of  it  p11  over  the  town;  be'^'^'e,  foiled  or 
not,  he  would  not  give  in  v/ithout  trying  her  mtt..-  somewhat 
further. 

*•  Miss  Harvey,  will  you  forgive  me?" 

"  I  have  forgiven  you." 

"  Will  you  forget  ?  " 

"If  I  canl"  she  said,  with  a  marked  expression,  which 
signified  (though,  of  course,  she  did  not  mean  Tom  to  under- 
stand it),  "som.e  of  what  is  past  is  too  precious,  and  some 
too  painful,  to  forgeU" 


288  Two  Years  Ago. 

"  I  do  not  ask  you  to  forget  all  which  has  passed  ! " 

"I  am  afraid  that  there  is  nothing  which  would  be  any 
credit  to  you,  sir,  to  have  remembered." 

"Credit  or  none,"  said  Tom,  unabashed,  "do  not  forget  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  !  tha.t  I  am  in  your  power,  Miss  Harvey." 

"  Sir  1  I  never  l^eard  you  say  that ;  and  if  you  had,  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  1 "  and  the  poor  girl  burst  into  tears  again. 

"  I  do  not  1  I  do  not ! "  cried  Tom,  growing  really  earnest 
at  the  sight  of  her  sorrow.  "  Did  I  not  begin  this  unhappy 
talk  by  begging  your  pardon  for  ever  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  ever  since,  till  I  have  almost  gone 
mad  under  it  1 " 

"  I  will  swear  to  you  by  all  that  is  sacred  that  I  do  not  1  Oh, 
Grace,  the  first  moment  I  sav7  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.  Oh,  good  Lord,  merciful 
Lord,  at  last !  Oh,  if  you  knew  what  it  was  to  have  even 
one  weight  lifted  off,  among  all  my  heavy  burdens,  and  that 
weight  the  hardest  to  bear.  God  forgive  ma  that  it  should 
have  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 


Two  Years  Ago.  289 

was  in  vain.  Tom's  better  angel  had  returned  ;  Grace's  tender 
giiilelessness,  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  I 
He  could  not  play  the  villain  with  that  woman. 

But  there  was  plainly  a  mystery.  What  were  the  burdens, 
heavier  even  than  unjust  suspicion,  of  which  she  had  spoken  ? 
There  was  no  harm  in  asking. 

"  But,  Grace — Miss  Harvey — you  will  not  be  angry  with 
me  if  I  ask  ?  Why  speak  so  often,  as  if  finding  his  money 
depended  on  you  alone  ?  You  wish  me  to  recover  it,  I  know  ; 
and  if  you  can  counsel  me,  why  not  do  so?  Why  not  tell 
me  whom  you  suspect  ?  " 

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  fellow-creatures — 
hate  life  itself,  when  I  fancied  that  I  saw  'thief  written  on 
every  forehead.     Oh,  do  not  ask  me  to  suspect  any  more  1 " 

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  1 " 

"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  then  I  should 
have  blamed  you,  as  well  as  everyone  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  1" 
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,  1  must 
K  now.     Will  you  oromise  me  one  thing  in  return  ?  " 


290  Two  Years  Ago. 


"  What  you  will,  as  I  am  a  man  and  a  gentleman :  I  can 
trust  you  to  ask  nothing  which  is  not  worthy  of  you." 

Tom  spoke  truth.  He  felt — perhaps  love  made  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. 
And  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  forv/ard,  like  Nausicaa  when  she  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  for  an  explanation  of  the  mystery.  At  last  he  found 
one  which  seemed  to  fit  the  facts  so  well,  that  he  rose  with  a 
whistle  of  satisfaction,  and  walked  homev/ards. 

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  child ;  and  on 
the  strength  of  having  saved  my  life,  she  shall  untie  it  her 
own  way.  I  can  wait.  I  hopa  the  money  won't  be  spent 
meanwhile,  though,  and  the  empty  leather  returned  to  —ie  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  1  Ass  that  I  was,  to  take  up  v/ith  a  false 
scent,  and  throw  myself  off  the  true  one  1  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  tea  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  with  that  young  lady  any  more, 


Two  Years  Ago,  291 

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  schoolmistress  in  your  im- 
poverished 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  very  evening. 

"Oh,  don't  you  know,  sir?  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  were  both  swamped.  Wild  young  lads,  both,  as  lads  will 
be.  But  she,  sweet  maid,  took  it  so  to  heart,  that  she  never 
held  up  her  head  since ;  nor  will,  I  think,  at  times,  to  her 
dying  day." 

"  Humph  I    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.  What  a  noble- 
man you'd  have  made,  if  you  had  had  the  luck  to  have  been 
born  in  that  station  of  life  !  " 

"  I  have  found  it  too  much  trouble,  in  doing  my  duty  in 
my  humble  place,  to  wish  to  be  in  any  higher  one." 

"Sol"  thought  Tom  to  himself,  "a  girl's  fancy:  but  it 
explains  so  much  in  the  character,  especially  when  the 
temperament  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  1  Rival  I  quotha  ?  Tom 
Thurnall,  you  are  going  to  make  a  fool  of  yourself.  You 
must  go,  sir  1  I  warn  you ;  you  must  flee,  till  you  have 
recovered  your  senses." 

There  appeared  the  next  morning  in  Tom's  shop  a  new 
phenomenon.  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 


292  Two  Years  Ago. 

sight  and  name— one  Mr.  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  bas,  and 
had  a  vague  notion  that  a  Hberal  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  affection— 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,  "  Mr.  Trebooze  does 
me  a  kindness  for  which  I  cannot  sufficiently  thank  him,  and 
you  also,  as  his  second.  It  is  six  full  months  since  I  fought, 
and  I  was  getting  hardly  to  know  myself  again." 

"  You  will  have  to  fight  now,  sir  I "  said  the  youth,  trying 
to  brazen  off  by  his  discourtesy  increasing  suspicion  that  he 
had  "caught  a  Tartar." 


Two  Years  Ago.  293 

"Of  course,  of  course.  And  of  course,  too,  I  fight  you 
afterwards." 

"I — I,  sir?  I  am  Mr.  Trebooze's  friend,  his  second,  sir.  I 
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  had  fought 
my  man,  and  more  than  one  of  them,  while  you  were  eating 
blackberries  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  ?  " 

"No  business  of  mine,  of  course.  You  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." 

"  You  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,  that  as  the  challenged, 
I  haue  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.  You  will 
tell  Mr.  Trebooze  so  ;  he  is,  I  really  believe,  a  brave  man, 
and  will  accept  the  terms.  You  will  tell  yourself  the  same, 
whether  you  be  a  brave  man  or  not." 

The  youth  lost  the  last  words  in  those  which  went  before 
them.  He  was  no  coward  ;  would  have  stood  up  to  be  shot 
at,  at  fifteen  paces,  like  anyone  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?"    And  Tom  rolled  on  at  his  pills. 

"I  do." 


292                 '' 

wo 

Year^^^^^^^^^^Hl 

EL 

sight  and  name— on '. 

Mr. 

c^^^^^^^^^^^^K 

an  especial  friend  f  "D 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ 

had  learned  to  smc»^J 

^f  ^^^^^^^BH^ 

fifteen,  thereby  imp; 

■ 

^^        '^^^^^^^^^^^^^tion, 

his  nerves,  nor  the^ 

■ 

* 

He   entered  j^ 

■ 

vktArhile   as   he 

spoke.         ^^^H 

m 

fc 

"Is  iy^^^H 

■ 

^^^^^L                 ^at  Trebooze  has 

sen^^^^^^^^H 

■ 

^^^^B           ^ood  fun.     Ill  wait 

i 

an^^^^^^^^^M 

■ 

^^^^^^..0  had  determined,  a.? 

°^^^^^^^^^^^^^l 

^^^^^Kduly  de  haut  en 

h^^^^^^^H^I 

^^^^^B  use   of  the  wo- 
^^V     consonant  with  ' 
^^V^i  he  had  read  ir 
^^B  took  a  long-  k 

■ 

^^m                                                   on 

1 

^^R                                               Tom's 

1 

^^B                                    /our  face. 

^^^^^^^^^H  ^1 

^^H                                     .1  improves. 

■ 

^H                                 but  I  should 

1 

^^1                              iay  I  mix  it?" 

1 

^^B                      J  a  cliallenge  from 

a  grand  air,  at  once 

.d  for  him,  and  exalted 

ans  last,  employment  in 


Irately,   "Mr.  Trebooze  does 
inot  sufficiently  thank  him,  and 
Is  six  full  months  since  I  fought, 
'to  know  myself  again." 
now,  sir  I "  said  the  youth,  trying 
:ourtesy  increasing  suspicion  that  he 


%o,  a  (J 'J 

^C(  se,   too,    I    fight  you 

fr  id,  his  second,  sir.     I 

sa  Tom,  in  a  very  quiet, 

lave    rig-ht  to  tell  you  that 

these.     I  had  fought 

hile  you  were  eating 

quoth    e  youth  in  fury ;  and 

ibout  tw  ty-three  years  old  ?  " 

'course,   t^ou  may  be  growing 
aught  I    re  :  but  if,  as  I  guess, 
as  I  kiic  ,  am  thirty-six,  then  I 
you  were  /e  years  old,  and  my 
you  were  £een  ;  at  which  time,  i 
ishamed  eith«  of  the  jacket  or  the 
I 
now,  sir,  atll  events,"  said  Creed, 
IS,  after  all,  aophism  ;  for  if  a  man 
he  never  wiibe  one. 
Enow,  I  suppose,hat  as  the  challenged, 
Feapons  ?  " 

Creed,  in  an  t-hand,  generous  tone, 
Fery  clearly  know. 

7ays  fight  across  a  mdkerchief.  You  wilJ 
te  so  ;  he  is,  I  reallyDclieve,  a  brave  man, 
the  terms.  You  will  ell  yourself  the  same, 
a  brave  man  or  not." 

st  the  last  words  in  tlse  which  went  before 
73.3  no  coward ;  would  hae  stood  up  to  be  shot 
paces,    like    anyone    els;    but    the    deliberate 
fighting  across  a  handkenief— 
understand  you,  sir  ?  " 

depends  on  whether  you  arclever  enough,  or  not, 
iprehend  your  native  tongue,  .cross  a  handkerchief, 
do  you  hear  that?"    And  Tomrolled  on  at  his  pills. 


294  Two  Years  Ago. 

"And  when  I  have  fought  him,  I  f.ght  you  I"  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 
superstition  called  honour,  to  ask  me,  a  quiet  medical  man,  to 
go  and  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  interfered  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  fight ** 

"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  penknife 
at  fifteen  paces." 

"Do  you  mean  to  frighten  us  by  boasting?  We  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 
your  friend  Mr.  Trebooze.  I'll  do  it  now  1  Get  out  of  my 
shop,  sir  1  What  do  you  want  here,  interfering  with  my 
honest  business  ?  " 

And,  to  the  astonishment  of  Mr.  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."  Mr.  Creed  vanished  through  the 
open  door. 

"  J  rid  myself  of  the  fellow  jollily,"  said  Tom  to  Frank  that 


Two  Years  Ago.  295 

day,  after  telling  him  the  whole  story.  "And  no  credit  to  me. 
I  saw  from  the  minute  he  came  in  there  was  no  fight  in  him." 

"Bat  suppose  he  had  accepted— or  suppose  Trebooze 
accepts  still?" 

"There  was  my  game— to  frighten  him.  He'll  take  care 
Trebooze  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  sauoir  faire  enough  to  ask  for  ray  second. 
Lucky  for  me ;  for  I  don't  know  where  to  have  found  one,  save 
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  v/ould  actually  have  stood  to  shoot,  and  be 
shot  at,  across  a  handkerchief  ?  "  r*~l 

Tom  stuck  out  his  great  chin,  and  looked  at  him  with  one  of 
his  quaint,  sidelong  moues. 

"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.  I've  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?  Good  Heavens  1  As  you  are  here  alive  you  must 
have  killed  your  man  ?  " 

"  No.  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,  quant  a  moi,  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  1" 

"  Mr.  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  ? " 


296  Two  Years  Ago, 

*•  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.  Mine  only 
translates  it  into  practice." 

"I  have  no  liking  for  half  measures  myself." 

"Did  you  ever,"  said  Tom,  "hear  the  story  of  the  two 
Sandhurst  broom  squires  ?  " 

"  Broom  squires  ?  " 

*'  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  can't  afoord  to  sell  'em  under  twopence.' 

"  'Ah,  but  you  see,'  says  the  other,  *I  steals  mine  ready- 
made.' 

"  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  symptoms  ;  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  1 " 

"  Pish  1  simple  common  sense.  I  knew  that  Mrs.  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." 


Two  Years  Ago,  297 

"Cut  bono?" 

"Power.  To  have  them,  or  anyone,  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  I  it  was  delicious,  to  have  the  great  oaf  sitting 
sulking  under  my  fingers,  longing  to  knock  my  head  off,  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  Frank,  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." 

"  My  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. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

The  Cruise  of  the  "  Watenui'tch." 

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  comforts  himself,  as  the  time  draws  near,  with  the  thought 
that,  after  all,  his  brother-in-law  is  not  a  very  formidable 
personage. 

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 


298  Two  Years  Ago. 

many  a  yard  of  new  ribbon  and  pound  of  bad  powder  bought ; 
there  have  been  arrangements  for  a  procession,  which  could 
not  be  got  up ;  for  a  speech,  which  nobody  would  undertake 
to  pronounce ;  and,  lastly,  for  a  dinner,  about  which  last  there 
was  no  hanging  back.  Yea,  also,  they  have  hired  from 
Carcarrow  Church  town,  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  all  the  town.  So  the  said 
town  waits  all  the  day  on  tiptoe,  ready  to  worship,  till  out  of 
the  soft,  brown  haze  the  stately  Watenuitch  comes  sliding  in, 
like  a  white  ghost,  to  fold  her  wings  in  Aberalva  bay. 

And  at  that  sight  the  town  is  all  astir.  Fishermen  shake 
themselves  up  out  of  their  mid-day  snooze,  to  admire  the  beauty, 
as  she  slips  on  and  on  through  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-supported  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  to  the  Manby's  mortar, 
which  he  has  hauled  out  in  readiness  on  the  pebbles.  Old 
Willis  hoists  a  flag  before  his  house,  and  half  a  dozen 
merchant-skippers  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  cliff,  playing  a  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  his  hand.  Never  mind,  lords  do  not 
visit  Penalva  every  day.  Out  burst  the  bolls  above  with  merry 
peal ;  Lord  Scoutbush  and  the  Watenuitch  are  duly  "rung  in" 
to  the  home  of  his  lordship's  ancestors  ;  and  he  is  received, 
as  he  scrambles  up  the  pier  steps  from  his  boat,  by  the  curate, 
the  churchwardens,  the  lieutenant,  and  old  Tardrew,  backed 
by  half  a  dozen  ancient  sons  of  Anak,  lineal  descendants  of 
the  free  fishermen  to  whom,  six  hundred  years  before,  St  Just 
of  Penalva  did  grant  privileges  hard  to  spell,  and  harder  to 
understand,  on  the  condition  of  receiving,  whensoever  he  should 


Two  Years  Ago.  299 

land  at  the  quay  head,  three  brass  farthings  from  the  "  free 
fishermen  of  Aberalva," 

Scoutbush  shakes  hands  with  curate,  lieutenant,  Tardrew, 
churchwardens ;  and  then  come  forward  the  three  farthings, 
in  an  ancient  leather  purse. 

"  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  his  leave  for  it  I " 

A  lord  who  begins  his  progress  with  a  jest !  That  is  the  sort 
of  aristocrat  to  rule  in  Aberalva  I  And  all  agree  that  evening, 
at  the  Mariners'  Rest,  that  his  lordship  is  as  nice  a  young 
gentleman  as  ever  trod  deal  board,  and  deserves  such  a  yacht 
as  he's  got,  and  long  may  he  sail  her  ! 

How  easy  it  is  to  buy  the  love  of  men  I  Gold  will  not  do 
it :  but  there  is  a  little  angel,  may  be,  in  the  comer  of  every 
man's  eye,  who  is  worth  more  than  gold,  and  can  do  it  free 
of  all  charges:  unless  a  man  drives  him  out,  and  "hates  his 
Drotlier ;  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  down  in  despair — 
and  all  just  because  he  will  not  open  his  eyes,  and  use  the 
light  which  comes  by  common,  human  good-nature  I 

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 — who  (Frank  being  a  little 
shy)  acts  as  her  Majesty's  representative — introduces  him  sis 
"deputy  medical  man  to  our  district  of  the  union,  sir: 
Mr.  Thurnall." 

"  Dr.  Heale  was  to  have  been  here,  by  the  bye.  Where  is 
Dr.  Heale  ?  "  says  someone. 

"  Very  sorry,  my  lord  :  I  can  answer  for  him— professional 
calls,  I  don't  doubt — nobody  more  devoted  to  your  lordship." 


300  Two  Years  Ago. 

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  both 
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  random 
shot ;  and  thereby  raising  his  repute  for  sagacity  immensely 
with  his  audience,  who  laugh  outright. 

"Ahl  Is  it  so,  then!  But— Mr.  Thurnall,  I  think  you  said? 
I  am  glad  to  make  your  acquaintance,  sir.  I  have  heard  your 
name  often:  you  are  ray  friend  Mellot's  old  friend,  are  you 
not?" 

"I  am  a  very  old  friend  of  Claude  Mellot's." 

"Well,  and  there  he  is  on  board,  and  will  be  delighted  to 
do  the  honours  of  my  yacht  to  you  whenever  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  his  uncle,  or  how  his 
"  dear  mother,  God  rest  her  soul,  gave  me  this  very  cloak  as 
I  have  on,"  and  so  forth  ;  till  Scoutbush  comes  to  the  conclusion 
that  they  are  a  very  loving  and  lovable  set  of  people — as  indeed 
they  are — and  his  heart  smites  him  somewhat  for  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  him,  and  in  Claude's  arms. 

"Nowl"  (after  all  salutations  and  inquiries  have  been  gone 
through),  "let  me  introduce  you  to  Major  Campbell."  And 
Tom  was  presented  to  a  tall  and  thin  personage,  who  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 


Two  Years  Ago.  301 

often  spoken  to  me  of  you  as  a  man  who  has  seen  more,  and 
faced  death  more  carelessly,  than  most  men." 

"  Mellot  flatters,  sir.  Whatsoever  I  have  done,  I  have  ^bren 
up  being  careless  about  death ;  for  I  have  someone  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,  v^ith  eye  and  hand  still  busy. 

"  I  ought  not  to  begin  our  acquaintance  by  doubting  your 
word  ;  but  these  things  are  no  dabbler's  V7ork : "  and  Tom 
pointed  to  some  exquisite  photographs  of  minute  coraUines, 
evidently  taken  under  the  microscope. 

••They  are  Mellot's." 

*•  Mellot  turned  man  of  science  ?     Impossible  ! " 

'•  No ;  only  photographer.  I  am  tired  of  painting  nature 
clumsily,  and  then  seeing  a  sun-picture  outdo  all  my  efforts? 
so  I  am  turned  photographer,  and  have  made  a  vovr  against 
painting  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 — and  that  is  more  than  I  can  do,  or  anyone  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  the  sun 
in  to  immortalise  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  £so  note  in  the  other :  but  this 
is  a  new,  and  what  a  forward  step  for  science!" 

••You  are  a  naturalist,  then?"  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 


302  Two  Years  Ago. 

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  chimaeras  dire,  fished  up  from  your  western  deeps." 

•'  I  have  none  of  them :  but  I  can  give  you  Turbinolia 
Milletiana  and  Zoanthus  CouchiL  I  have  a  party  of  the  last 
gentlemen  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, 
moreover,  without  them,  for  five-and-thirty  years ;  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  generosity :  but  it  is  better  discipline  for  a  man,  in 
many  ways,  to  find  things  for  him.self  than  to  have  then!  put 
into  his  hands.  So,  v/ith  a  thousand  thanks,  you  shall  let  me 
see  if  I  can  dredge  a  Turbinolia  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 
high  cheek-bone,  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  magnanimity,  Thurnall  thought  he  could  discern 
the  traces.  His  face  was  bronzed  by  long  exposure  to  the  sun  ; 
his  close-cut  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  right,  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 


Two  Years  Ago.  303 

earnest.  Mr.  Thurnall,  can  you  tell  me  the  name  of  this  little 
glass  arrow,  which  I  just  found  shooting  about  in  the 
sweeping-net  ?  " 

Tom  did  know  the  wonderful  little  link  between  the  fish  and 
the  insect ;  and  the  two  chatted  over  its  strange  form,  till  the 
boat  returned  to  take  them  ashore. 

"Do  you  make  any  stay  here ? " 

"  I  purpose  to  spend  a  fortnight  here  m  my  favourite  pursuit 
I  must  draw  on  your  kindness  and  knowledge  of  the  place  to 
point  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  first  floor ;  for  the  local  preacher  who  generally 
occupied  them  v^as  away. 

*'  But  Major  Campbell  mig^ht  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,  ii 
he  came  in  and  out  as  often  as  he  could  have  wished.  Never- 
theless, he  accepted  the  major's  invitation  to  visit  him  that  very 
evening. 

"  I  cannot  ask  you  to  dinner  yet,  sir,  for  my  manage  will 
be  hardly  settled  ;  but  a  cup  of  coffe?,  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  over  almost  every 
article  he  touched  ;  for  everything  was  first-rate  of  its  kind. 

"You  seem  to  have  devoted  money,  as  well  as  thought, 
plentifully  to  the  pursuit" 


304  Two  Years  Ago. 


'*  I  have  little  else  to  which  to  devote  either ;  and  more  of 
both  than  is,  perhaps,  safe  for  me." 

"  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  Fakir  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  drive  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  7  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." 

"Sic  uos  non  uohis " 

"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  efi"ect  of  his  microscope  and  his 
lecture  on  the  drops  of  water.  But  his  wit  seemed  so  much 
lost  on  Campbell,  that  he  at  last  stopped  all  but  short,  not 
quite  sure  that  he  had  not  taken  a  liberty. 


Two  Years  Ago.  305 

•'  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  serieux;  but  I  could  not  help  thinking, 
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  Thurnail  with  so  horrified  a  gaze,  that  Tom  could  hardly 
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?  No;  but  the 
thought  of  its  coming  to— to  the  poor  people  in  the  town,  you 
know  :  it  is  too  dreadful.  I  have  seen  it  in  India — among 
my  own  men — among  the  natives.  Good  Heavens,  I  never 
shall  forget— and  to  meet  the  fiend  again  here,  of  all  places 
in  the  ^vorld !  I  fancied  it  so  clean,  and  healthy,  sw^ept  by 
fresh  sea-breezes." 

"And  by  nothing  else?  A  half-hour's  walk  round  would 
convince  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. 


3o6  Two  Years  Ago. 

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 
provoke  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  have  been  thinking  up  my  old 
experience  for  the  last  six  weeks,  foreseeing  what  v70u!d  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?" 

"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, 
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.  V/hat  could  be  the  meaning  of  it  ? 
Was  it  mere  excess  of  human  sympathy  ?  The  countenance 
hardly  betokened  that :  but  still,  who  can  trust  altogether  the 
expression  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. 

Major  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  Doctor,  for  a  long 
time,  to  mean  nothing  more  than  the  question  which  he  put 
plainly,  "Where  have  I  a  chance  of  rare  insects?"  But  he 
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.  "  However,  it  is  no  business  of  mine," 
thought  Thurnall,  and  told  him  all  he  wanted,  till — 

**  Then  the  house  lies  quite  at  the  bottom  of  the  glen  ?    Is 


Two  Years  Ago.  307 

there  a  good  fall  to  the  stream— for  a  stream  I  suppose  there 

IS?" 

Thurnall  shook  his  head.  "Cold,  bog-gy  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?  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  cissure  you,  to  Mr. 
Vavasour." 

"  And  it  is  not  altered  ?  " 

"  I  believe  it  is  to  be  altered — that  is — the  truth  is,  sir,  that 
Mr.  Vavasour  shrinks  set  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 
somewhat  dry  tone,  "  that  he  is  afraid  of  alarming  Mrs. 
Vavasour  and  the  servants." 

The  major  said  something  under  his  breath,  which  Tom  did 
not  catch,  and  then,  in  an  appeased  tone  of  voice — 

"Weil,  that  is  at  least  a  fault  on  the  right  side.  Mrs. 
Vavasour's  brother,  as  owner  of  the  place,  is  of  course  the 
proper  person  to  make  the  house  fit  for  habitation."  And  he 
relapsed  into  silence,  while  Thurnall,  who  suspected  more  than 
met  the  ear,  rose  to  depart. 

••  Are  you  going  ?     It  is  not  late  ;  not  ten  o'clock  yet." 

"A  medical  man,  v/ho  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 


3o8  Two  Years  Ago. 

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  can  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-night,"  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  everything  else  1  Foolish  old  fellow  that  you  are,  fretting 
and  fussing  to  the  end  !  Is  not  that  scene  a  message  from 
above,  saying,  '  Be  still,  and  know  that  I  am  God  ? ' " 

And  the  major  looked  out  upon  the  summer  sea,  lit  by  a 
million  globes  of  living  fire,  and  then  upon  the  waves  which 
broke  in  flame  upon  the  beach,  and  then  up  to  the  spangled 
stars  above. 

"  What  do  I  know  of  these,  with  all  my  knowing  ?  Not 
even  a  twentieth  part  of  those  medusae,  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  delicious,  intense, 
with  every  fresh  delicious  draught  of  knowledge.  .  .  .  Death, 
beautiful,  wise,  kind  Death  ;  when  will  you  come  and  tell  me 
what  I  want  to  know  ?  I  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  yoa  close  in 
Afghanistan,  old  Death,  and  at  Sobraon  too,  I  was  not  £u 


Two  Years  Ago.  309 

behind  you ;  and  I  thought  I  had  you  safe  among  that  jungle 
grass  at  Aliwall ;  but  you  slipped  through  my  hand — I  was 
not  worthy  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  I  may  not  meet  you  here  ?  Only  when  you  come, 
give  me  not  rest,  but  work.  Give  work  to  the  idle,  freedom 
to  the  chained,  sight  to  the  blind  1  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." 

Was  Major  Campbell  mad  ?  That  depends  upon  the  way  in 
which  the  reader  may  choose  to  define  the  adjective. 

•  «•*••• 

Meanwhile  Scoutbush  had  walked  into  Penalva  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  every  week  for 
the  last  three  years,  and  so  the  matter  was  done  ;  and  for 
the  first  time  a  partie  carree  was  assembled  in  the  dining-room. 

The  evening  passed  ofiF  at  first  as  uncomfortably  as  it  could, 
where  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 
Valencia  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. 

"Really?  I  thought  poets  always  smoked.  You  wUl  not 
forbid  my  having  a  cigar  in  your  garden,  nevertheless,  I 
suppose?  Do  walk  round  with  me,  too,  and  show  me  the 
place,  unless  you  are  going  to  be  busy." 


3 TO  Two  Years  Ago. 

Oh  no ;  Elsley  was  at  Lord  Scoutbush's  ser/ice,  of  course, 
^ind  had  really  nothing  to  do.     So  out  they  went. 

"  Charming  old  pigeon-hole  it  is,"  said  its  owner.  "  I  hav« 
not  seen  it  since  I  went  into  the  Guards ;  Campbell  says  it's  £ 
shame  of  me,  and  so  it  is  one,  I  suppose  ;  but  how  beautiful  yoi 
have  made  the  garden  look  I " 

•'Lucia  is  very  fond  of  gardening,"  said  Elsley,  who  was 
very  fond  o!  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. 

"And  that  fine  old  wood — full  of  cocks  it  used  to  be — I  hop< 
you  worked  it  well  last  year." 

Elsley  did  not  shoot ;  but  he  had  heard  that  there  was  plentj 
of  game  there. 

"  Plenty  of  cocks,"  said  his  guest,  correcting  him ;  "  bu 
for  game,  the  less  we  say  about  that  the  better.  I  realb 
wonder  you  do  not  shoot ;  it  fills  up  time  so  in  the  vTinter." 

"There  is  really  no  winter  to  fill  up  here,  thanks  to  thii 
delicious  climate ;  and  I  have  my  books." 

"Ahl  I  wish  I  had.  I  wish  heartily,"  said  he,  in  a  con 
fidential  tone,  "you,  or  Campbell,  or  some  of  your  clever  men 
would  sell  me  a  little  cf  their  book-learning  ;  as  Valencia  say: 
to  me,  'brains  are  so  common  in  the  world,  I  wonder  hov 
none  fell  to  your  share.' " 

■    "  I   do  not  think  they  are  an  article  which  is  for  sale,  i 
Solomon  is  to  be  believed." 

"  And  if  they  were,  I  couldn't  afford  to  buy,  with  this  Irisl 
Encumbered  Estates  Bill.  But  now,  this  is  one  thing  I  wantec 
to .  say.  Is  everything  here  just  as  you  would  wish  ?  O 
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,  yoi 
know  more  about  these  things  than  I  do — can't  know  less." 

"Nothing,  I  assure  you,  Lord  Scoutbush.  I  have  always lef 
those  matters  to  Mr.  Tardrew." 

"  Ah,  but,  my  dear  fellow,  you  shouldn't  do  that  He  is  sue! 
a  screw,  as  all  honest  stewards  are.  Screws  me,  I  know,  anc 
I  daresay  has  screwed  you  too." 

"Never,  I  assure  you.  I  never  gave  him  the  opportunity, 
and  he  has  been  most  civil." 


Two  Years  Ago.  311 

"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  I'll  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  a  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 
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  anymore; 
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  altogether — and  Valencia  so  delighted  with  your  poems 

— and — and  altogether "  and  there  Lord  Scoutbush  stopped, 

having  hoisted,  as  hs  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  I  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  tliought  you  might  be  going  to  the  yacht ;  and 


312  Two  Years  Ago. 

Valencia  would  have  walked  down  with  you.    She  wants  to 

find  Major  Campbell." 

"  I  want  to  scold  Major  Campbell,"  said  Valencia,  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  Valencia.  "I  shall  go  down 
and  bring  him  up  myself  this  minute,  and  Mr.  Vavasour  shall 
come  with  me.  Of  course  you  will  1  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 
Valencia'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 
reverence  with  which  all,  even  Scoutbush,  evidently  regasded 
him,  made  him  prepared  to  dislike  the  major  ;  and  all  the  more, 
now  that  he  heard  that  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  Valencia  anything  ;  so  he  got  his  hat,  but  with  so  bad 
a  grace,  that  Valencia  saw  his  chagrin,  and  from  mere  naughti- 
ness of  heart  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  hira 
again.  We  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,  undefined  phantom  entered  his  heart,  which,  though  he 
would  have  been  too  proud  to  confess  it  to  himself,  was  none 
other  than  jealousy. 


Two  Years  Ago.  313 

"  Oh — did  you  not  ?  No  ;  it  was  the  year  before  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  w^ent  into  the  line 
— no  one  could  tell  why,  for  he  threw  away  very  brilliant 
prospects,  they  say,  and  might  have  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  the  blind  man,  and  the  major  his 
dog  1 " 

"So  much  the  worse,"  thought  Elsley,  who  disliked  the 
notion  of  Campbell's  having  power  over  a  man  to  whom  he 
was  indebted  for  his  house-room  :  but  by  this  time  they  were  at 
Mrs.  Harvey's  door. 

Mrs.  Harvey  opened  it,  curtseying  to  the  very  ground ;  and 
Valencia  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. 

Major  Campbell  was  sitting,  Elsley  could  see,  in  his  shirt- 
sleeves,'cigar  in  mouth,  bent  over  his  microscope :  but  instead 
of  the  expected  prim  voice,  he  heard  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." 

Valencia  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  are  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.  Valencia  remarked  the  interest — Elsley 
only  the  compliment. 

"  It  is  a  great  kindness  of  you  to  call  on  me  so  soon,"  said 


314  Two  Years  Ago. 

he.  "  I  met  Mrs.  Vavasour  several  times  in  years  past ;  and 
though  I  saw  very  little  of  her,  I  saw  enough  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  commonplace  civility  in 
return.  Valencia  saw  it,  and  attributing  it  to  his  usual 
awkwardness,  drew  off  the  conversation  to  herself. 

"  Really,  Major  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 
suddenly  to  his  gay  tone ;  "and  how  have  you  been  misbe- 
having yourself  since  we  met  last?" 

"  I  have  not  been  misbehaving  myself  at  all,  mon  cher  Saint 
Pere,  as  Mr.  Vavasour  will  answer  for  me,  during  the  most 
delightful  fortnight  I  ever  spent  1 " 

"Delightful  indeed  1"  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  Valencia  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 
Linnaean  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  second  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 
impudence,  "in  another  glass  besides  your  magnifying  one." 

"  Be  it  so  :  but  look  here,  and  see  what  an  exquisite  world 


Two  Years  Ago.  315 

there  is,  of  which  you  never  dream ;  and  which  behaves  a 
great  deal  better  in  its  station  than  the  world  of  which  you 
do  dream  1 " 

When  Campbell  spoke  in  that  way,  Valencia  was  good  at 
once ;  and  as  she  went  obediently  to  the  microscope,  she 
whispered,  "  Don't  be  angry  with  me,  men  Saint  Pere." 

"  Don't  be  naughty  then,  ma  chere  enfant,"  whispered  he  ;  for 
he  saw  something  about  Elsley's  face  which  gave  him  a  painful 
suspicion. 

She  looked  long,  and  then  lifted  up  her  head  suddenly.  "  Do 
come  and  look,  Mr.  Vavasour,  at  this  exquisite  little  glass  fairy, 
like— I  cannot  tell  what  like,  but  a  pure  spirit  hovering  in 
some  nun's  dream  !    Come  I  " 

Elsley  came,  and  looked ;  and  when  he  looked  he  started, 
for  it  was  the  very  same  zoophyte  which  Thurnall  had  shown 
him  on  a  certain  memorable  day. 

"  Where  did  you  find  the  fairy,  mon  Saint  Peief  " 

"  I  had  no  such  good  fortune.  Mr.  Thurnall,  the  Doctor, 
gave  it  me." 

"Thurnall?"  said  she,  v/hile  Elsley  kept  still  looking,  to 
hide  cheeks  which  were  growing  very  red.  "He  is  such 
a  clever  man,  they  say.  Where  did  you  meet  him?  I  have 
often  thought  of  asking  Mr.  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,  Mr.  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 
Campbell,  "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  Mrs.  Vavasour  and  the  children,"  said  Vavasour, 
looking  up  at  last :  but  with  an  expression  of  anger  which 
astonished  both  Valencia  and  Campbell. 

Campbell  thought  that  he  was  too  proud  to  allow  rank  as 
a  gentleman  to  a  country  doctor  ;  andj  despised  him  from  that 
moment,  though,  as  it  happened,  unjustly.  But  he  answered, 
quietly — 

*'  J   assure  you,   whatever  some  country  practitioners  may 


3i6  Two  Years  Ago. 

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,  wrhat  with  his  wit,  his  sauoir  uiure,  and  his  genial 
good  temper,  I  have  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  I" 

"My  dear  Queen  Whims  would  hear  a  great  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  after- 
wards, to  pass  off  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  i '' 

*'  Ah,  yes ;  I  know  men  have  their  secrets,  as  well  as 
women,"  said  Valencia,  for  the  mere  love  of  saying  something  : 
but  as  she  looked  at  Vavasour,  she  saw  an  expression  in  his 
face  which  she  had  never  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 
himself  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  sal  volatile.' 

Elsley,  who  thought  him  the  most  consummate  of  hypocrites, 
cast  on  him  a  look  which  he  intended  to  have  been  withering, 
and  rushed  out  of  the  room,  leaving  the  two  staring  at  each 
other. 

Valencia  was  half  inclined  to  laugh,  knowing  Elsley's 
petulance  and  vanity  :  but  the  impossibility  of  guessing  a  cause 
kept  her  quiet. 

Major  Campbell  stood  for  full  five  minutes;  not  as  one 
astounded,  but  as  one  in  deep  and  anxious  thought 


Two  Years  Ago.  317 

"What  can  be  the  matter,  mon  Saint  Pere?"  asked  she  at 
last,  to  break  the  silence. 

"  That  there  are  more  whims  in  the  world  than  yours,  dear 
Queen  Whims ;  and  I  fear  darker  ones.  Let  us  walk  up 
together  after  this  man.     I  have  offended  him." 

"  Nonsense  I  I  daresay  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 
Valencia  herself  did  ;  for  Valencia  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. 

Valencia  remarked  the  major's  pained  look  as  they  walked  up 
the  street. 

"You  dear  conscientious  Saint  Pere,  why  will  you  fret 
yourself  about  this  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." 

*'  I  have  no  respect  for  genius.  Miss  St.  Just ;  I  do  not 
even  acknowledge  its  existence  v/here  there  is  no  strength 
and  steadiness  of  character.  If  anyone  pretends  to  be  more 
than  a  man,  he  must  begin  by  proving  himself  a  man  at  all. 
Genius  ?  Give  me  common  sense  and  common  decency  I  Does 
he  give  Mrs.  Vavasour,  pray,  the  benefits  of  any  of  these  pretty 
flights  of  genius  ?  " 

Valencia  was  frightened.  She  had  never  heard  her  Saint 
Pere  speak  so  severely  and  sarcastically ;  and  she  feared  that, 
if  he  knew  the  truth,  he  would  be  terribly  angry.  She  had 
never  seen  him  angry :  but  she  knew  well  enough  that  that 
passion,  when  it  rose  in  him  in  a  righteous  cause,  would  be 


3i8  Two  Years  Ago. 

very  awful  to  see;  and  she  was  one  of  those  women  who 
always  grow  angry  when  they  are  frightened.  So  she  was 
angry  at  his  calling  her  Miss  St.  Just ;  she  was  angry  because 
she  chose  to  think  he  was  talking  at  her ;  though  she 
reasonably  might  have  guessed  it,  seeing  that  he  had  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  disagreement — between 
Lucia  and  Elsley.  All  which  (combined  with  her  natural 
vdsh  not  to  confess  an  unpleasant  truth  about  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  I 
am  sorry  for  it." 

"Pardon  you,  my  dear  Saint  Pere?"  cried  she,  almost 
catching  at  his  hand.  "  Never  1  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  ? " 

"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?" 

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  we  and  all  the  world  knew  wellj 
is  dead  of  cholera,  at  his  post,  where  a  man  should  die.  .  .  , 
And,  my  dear  Miss  St.  Just,  we  are  going  to  the  Crimea." 

"  We  ?— you  ?  " 

"  Yes.     The  expeditions  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,  moa  Saint  Pere,  what  words  are  these?" 


Two  Years  Ago.  319 

"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,  U  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  these  two 
things  shall  come  upon  thee  in  one  day,  widowhood  and  the 
loss  of  children.  They  shall  even  come  upon  thee.'  No  1  not 
in  their  fulness  1  There  are  noble  elements  beneath  the  crust, 
which  will  come  out  all  the  purer  from  the  fire  ;  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  things  by  their  right  names  once  more ;  and  Queen  Whims 
herself  will  become  what  Queen  Whims  might  be  1 " 

Valencia  was  awed,  as  well  she  might  have  been ;  for  there 
was  a  very  deep  sadness  about  Campbell's  voice. 

"  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  fight  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  Major 
Campbell  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. 


320  Two  Years  Ago. 


"Well,  Scoutbush,  any  letters  from  town?"  said  the  major. 

"Yes." 

"  You  have  heard  what  has  happened  at  D barracks  ?  " 

"Yes."  :i 

"  You  had  better  take  care,  then,  that  the  like  of  it  does  not 
happen  here." 

"  Here  ?  " 

"Yes.  I'll  tell  you  all  presently.  Have  you  heard  from 
headquarters  ?  " 

"Yes;  all  right,"  said  Scoutbush,  who  did  not  like  to  let 
out  the  truth  before  Valencia. 

Campbell  saw  it,  and  signed  to  him  to  speak  out. 

"All  right  ?  "  asked  Valencia.     "  Then  you  are  not  going  ?" 

"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  1 "  And  Valencia  began  to  cry  bitterly.  It 
was  her  first  real  sorrow.  ^ 

Strangely  enough.  Major  Campbell,  instead  of  trying  to 
comfort  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  Minchampstead's  improvements 
at  Pentremochyn. 

The  little  man  walked  up  and  down,  and  wrung  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  off  his  hands ;  he 
cursed  up,  he  cursed  down,  he  cursed  all  around,  things  which 
ought  to  have  been  cursed,  and  things  which  really  ought 
not — for  half  of  the  worst  sanatory  sinners,  in  this  blessed 
age  of  ignorance,   yclept  of  progress  and  science  (how  our 


Two  Years  Ago.  321 

grandchildren  will  laugh  at  the  epithets  !)  are  utterly  unconscious 
and  guiltless  ones. 

But  cursing  left  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, 
unaccustomed  to  his  new  eminence,  who  stands  on  his  dignity, 
and  "asserts  his  pov/er." 

So  Scoutbush  begged  hum.bly  of  Thurnall  only  to  teM  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 " 

"  My  good  sir  1 "  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  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  Aberalva." 

"And  since  your  seventeenth  progenitor  took  the  trouble  to 
live  at  Penalva  Court,"  said  Campbell,  "instead  of  throwing 
away  what  little  moral  influence  he  had  by  going  into  the 
Guards,  and  spending  his  time  between  Rotten  Row  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  Scoutbush,  a 
little  tartly,  "  that  I  can  do  nothing." 

"You    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 
sm  errand." 
L      "Who  13  that?" 


322  Two  Years  Ago. 

"  The  schoolmistress.'* 

"  The  who  ?"  asked  Scoutbush. 

"  The  schoolmistress ;  at  whose  house  Major  Campbell 
lodges." 

And  Tom  told  them,  succinctly,  enough  to  justify  his  strange 
assertion. 

"  If  you  doubt  me,  my  lord,  I  advise  you  to  ask  Mr.  Headley. 
He  is  no  friend  of  hers  ;  being  a  High  Churchman,  w^hile  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 
phenomenon.  A  boat  from  the  yacht  landed  at  the  pier- 
bead  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 
so.ene  of  various  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  outlandish  foreigners  taking  observations  here  1 " 

And  then  dropped  out  one  wild  suspicion  after  another. 

"  Maybe  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  not 
meddle  wi'  him." 

"I'll  tell  you  what  he  be.  He's  that  here  government  chap 
as  the  Doctor  said  he'd  bring  down  to  set  our  drains  right." 

"If  he  goes  meddling  with  our  drains,  and  knockmg  of  our 
back-yards  about,  he'll  find  himself  over  quay  before  he's  done." 

"  Steady  1  steady  1     He  come  with  my  loord,  mind." 

"  He  might  a'  taken  in  his  loordship,  and  be  a  Roosian  spy 
to  the  bottom  of  him  after  all.  They  mak'  munselves  up  into 
all  manner  of  disguisements,  specially  beards.  I've  seed  the 
Roosians  with  their  beards  many  a  time." 


Two  Years  Ago.  323 

"  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  leave,  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?" 

"Murder  I  shut  the  screen!"  But  it  was  too  late;  and 
Claude  came  out,  while  the  eldest-born  of  Anak  stood  sternly 
inquiring — 

*'  I  say,  what  be  you  arter  here,  mak'  so  boold  ?** 

"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  Scoutbush." 

"  Oh !  if  it's  his  lordship's  wish,  of  course  1  Only  things 
is  very  well  as  they  are,  and  needs  no  mending,  thank 
God.  Only,  ax  pardon,  sir.  You  see,  we  don't  generally 
allow  no  interfering  on  our  pier  without  lave,  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  1     But  whatever  be  you  arter  here  ?  " 

"Taking  views!  I'm  a  painter,  an  artist!  I'll  take  your 
portrait,  if  you  like  I "  said  Claude,  laughing  more  and  more. 

"  Bless  my  heart,  what  vules  we  be  1  'Tis  a  paainter 
gentlema.n,  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  meddle-comes.  You'll  excuse  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. 


324  Two  Years  Ago. 

"  No,  no !  you  must  stay  and  have  your  portrait  taken ; 
you'll  make  a  fine  picture." 

"Hum;  might  ha*,  they  used  to  say,  thirty  years  agone ; 
I'm  over  old  now.  Still,  my  old  V7oman  might  like  it 
Make  so  bold,  sir,  but  what's  your  charge?" 

*'  I  charge  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  naught ;  that's  not 
fair." 

However,  Claude  prevailed,  and  in  ten  minutes  he  had  all 
the  sailors  on  the  quay  round  him  ;  and  one  after  another 
came  forward  blushing  and  grinning  to  be  "taken  off." 
Soon  the  children  gathered  round,  and  when  Valencia  and 
Major  Campbell  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  who 
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  ever 
was  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 
beneath  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  buUs'-eyes,  if  they  would  only  sk  still  like  "gude 
maids." 

But  at  Valencia'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  1 " 

Valencia  caught  the  hu;iiour,  re-grouped  them  all  forthwith ; 
and  then  placed  herself  in  front  of  them  by  Claude's  side. 

"  Now,    be    good    children  1     Look    straight    at    me,    and 


Two  Years  Ago.  325 

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  Rome 
and  Greece. 

Valencia's  singing  was  the  reflex  of  her  own  character ; 
and  therefore,  perhaps,  all  the  more  fitted  to  the  song,  the 
place,  and  the  audience.  It  was  no  modest,  cooing  voice, 
tender,  suggestive,  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 
sometimes  do,  wake  up  long-forgotten  dreams,  which  seem 
memories  of  some  antenatal  life. 

It  v/as  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. 
Above  all,  it  was  a  voice  which  you  trusted ;  after  the  first 
three  notes,  you  felt  that  that  perfect  ear,  that  perfect  throat, 
couid  never,  even  by  the  thousandth  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^— * 


3 2^  Two  Years  Ago. 

and  not  one  of  them,  had  he  had  the  gift  of  words,  but  might 
have  said  with  the  poet — 

"I  liave  no  life,  Constaiitia,  now  but  tbee, 

While,  like  the  world-surrounding  air,  thy  song 

Flows  on,  and  fiUs  all  things  with  melody. 
Now  is  thy  voice  tempest  swift  and  strong. 

On  which,  like  one  in  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  bright, 
Lingermg,  suspends  my  soul  in  its  voluptuous  flight." 

At  last  it  ceased  :  and  all  men  drew  their  breaths  once  more  ; 
while  a  low  murmur  of  admiration  ran  through  the  crow^d,  too 
well-bred  to  applaud  openlj',  as  they  longed  to  do. 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  the  like  of  that,  Gentleman  Jan  ?" 

"Or  see?  I  used  to  say  no  one  cculd  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  had  been  standing  among  the  cro\wd 
all  the  while,  rapt,  like  them,  her  eyes  fixed  on  Valencia,  and 
full,  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  I  if  Grace  had  been  here  I "  cried  one,  "  we'd  have  had 
her  dra'ed  off  in  the  midst  of  the  children." 

"  Ah  !  that  would  ha'  been  as  nat'ral  as  life  I " 

"  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'  off,  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.     I'll  begin  again." 

"Oh,  do  come  and  sit  among  the  children,  Grace  1"  says 
Valencia. 

**  No,  thank  your  ladyship." 

Valencia  began  urging  her  ;  and  many  a  voice  round,  old 
as  well  as  young,  backed  the  entreaty. 


Two  Years  Ago.  327 

"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  I " 

"What's  that,  then,  Grace,  dear?" 

"You  know!  I've  asked  you  to  save  your  own  lives  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'ra  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  I  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  signifled  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  I" 

So  the  three  went  off  to  the  school. 

*  •  •  •  •  •  • 

Grace  was  telling,  in  her  own  sweet  way,  that  charming 
story  of  the  Three  Trouts,  which,  by  the  bye,  has  been  lately 
pirated  (as  many  things  are)  by  a  religious  author,  whose  book 
differs  sufficiently  from  the  liberal  and  wholesome  morality  of 
the  true  author  of  the  tale. 

"  What  a  beautiful  story,  Grace  1  "  said  Valencia.  "  You 
will  surpass  Hans  Andersen  some  day." 

Grace  blushed,  and  was  silent  a  moment 

"  It  is  not  my  own,  my  lady." 

"Not  your  own ?  I  should  have  thought  that  no  one  but  yos 
and  Andersen  could  have  made  such  an  ending  to  it" 


328  Two  Years  Ago. 

Grace  gave  her  one  of  those  beseeching,  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  came  from." 

Grace  blushed,  and  stammered. 

"I  know  where,"  said  Campbell.  "You  need  not  be 
ashamed  of  having  read  the  book.  Miss  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  ■wa.s  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  though 
it  was — and  gave  me  such  precious  newr  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  1"  said 
Valencia. 

"A  very  noble  romance,  which  I  made  Mellot  read  once, 
containing  the  ideal  education  of  an  English  nobleman  in 
the  middle  of  the  last  century." 

"'The  Fool  of  Quality'?"  said  Mellot.  "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  Valencia,  "  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?" 

"  She  has  the  children  to  educate,  who  are  in  daily  contact 
with  coarse  sins,  of  ^)l'hich  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   the  morals   of    her    :lass  now.      Let  it  alone.     I 


Two  Years  Ago.  329 

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  eyes  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  draw  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  school- 
mistress ! " 

"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  1"  "No, 
it's  not ! " 

"Not  quite  sure,  my  dears?"  said  Claude,  half  to  himself. 
"  Then  here  ! "  and  v/iping  the  board  once  more,  he  drew  a 
three-quarters  face,  which  elicited  a  shout  of  approbation. 

"  That's  schoolmistress,  her  very  self  1 " 

"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  every  feature  of  his 
model. 

"If  you  please,  my  lady,"  whispered  Grace  to  Valencia; 
•'I  wish  the  gentlemen  would  not" 

"Why  not?" 

"  Oh,  madam,  I  do  not  judge  anyone  else :  but  why  should 
this  poor  perishing  ilesh  be  put  into  a  picture  ?  We  wear 
it  but  for  a  little  while,  and  are  blessed  when  we  are  rid  of 
its  burden.  Why  wish  to  keep  a  copy  of  what  we  long  to 
be  delivered  from  ?  " 

"It  will  please  the  children,  Grace,"  said  Valencia,  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 


S30  Two  Years  Ago. 

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  who  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.     Everyone  has  their  picture  taken  for  a  remembrance." 

The  saints  and  martyrs  never  had  theirs,  as  far  as  I  ever 
heard,  and  yet  they  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." 

**  My  picture  ?    Where  ?  " 

••  In  a  book — '  The  Book  of  Beauty,'  I  believe  they  call  it," 

*'  My  dear  Grace,"  said  Valencia,  laughing  and  blushing, 
"if  you  ever  looked  in  your  glass,  you  must  know  that  you 
are  quite  as  worthy  of  a  place  in  '  The  Book  of  Beauty '  as 
I  am." 

Grace  shook  her  head  with  a  serious  smile.  "  Everyone 
in  their  place,  madam.  I  cannot  help  knowing  that  God  has 
g^ven  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  hke  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  1 " 

"Mr.  Mellot,  draw  the  children  something  simpler,  please; 
a  dog  or  a  cat"  And  she  gave  Claude  a  look  which  he 
obeyed. 

Valencia  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  she  cannot  escape  me.  I'll  go  on  board  and  paint  her 
right  off  from  memory,  while  it  is  fresh.  Why  1  here  comes 
Scoutbush  and  the  major." 


Two  Years  Ago.  331 

"Miss  Harvey,"  said  Scoutbush,  trying,  as  he  said  to 
Campbell,  "to  look  as  grand  as  a  sheep-dog  among  a  pack 
of  fox-hounds,  and  very  thankful  all  the  while  that  he  had  no 
tail  to  be  bitten  off" — "Miss  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. 

"  No — 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,  Val,"  cried  Scoutbush, 
who  could  support  the  part  of  patron  no  longer,  "what  pretty 
little  ducks  they  are,  I  wish  I  had  a  dozen  of  them  I  Come  you 
here ! "  and  down  he  sat  on  a  bench,  and  gathered  a  group 
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  Mr.  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  I "  said  Valencia. 

And  he  began  warbling  a  funny  song,  with  a  child  on  each 
knee,  and  his  arras  round  three  or  four  more,  while  the  little 
faces  looked  up  into  his,  half  awe-struck  at  the  presence  of 
a  live  lord,  half  longing  to  laugh,  but  not  sure  whether  it 
would  be  right. 

Valencia  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 
permission  to  come  back  again,  a  wiser  and  a  more  useful 
man." 

"How  then?" 

"  Is  he  not  making  friends  with  angels  who  always  behold 
our  Fatner'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?" 


33^  Two  Years  Ago. 

"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 
Scoutbush  felt  so  strongly  the  oddity  of  taking  a  pretty  young 
womaa  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  proffered  note. 

"  Of  course,"  quoth  Scoutbush,  trusting  again  to  an 
impromptu;  "but  this  is  for  yourself — a  small  mark  of  our 
sense  of  your— your  usefulness." 

If  anyone  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 
native  independence,  and  scorning  the  bounty  of  an  aristo- 
crat, 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 
grand,  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  ladies 
on  earth,  and  seeing  no  open  sin  in  the  fact  of  their  being 
richer  and  more  powerful  than  she  was,  she  supposed  that 
God  had  put  them  where  they  were ;  and  she  accepted  them 


Two  Years  Ago.  ^^^ 

simply  as  facts  of  His  king-doni.  Of  course  they  had  tieir 
duties,  as  everyone  has  :  but  whai  they  veere  she  did  noi 
kno^,  or  care  to  kno^^.  To  their  own  master  they  stood  or 
fell ;  her  business  was  wirh  her  own  duties,  and  with  her 
own  class,  w^hose  good  and  evil  she  understood  by  practical 
experience.  So  when  a  live  lord  made  his  appearance  in  her 
school,  she  looked  at  him  with  vagne  wonder  and  admiration, 
as  a  being  out  of  some  other  planet,  for  •whom  she  had  no 
g-aug-e  or  measure  :  she  only  believed  that  he  had  vast  powers 
of  doing  good  unknown  to  her ;  and  vras  dehghted  by  seeing 
him  condescend  to  play  with  her  children.  The  truth  may 
be  degrading,  but  it  must  be  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 
repubrcan  does:  and  care  no  more  about  •walking  do^wn  Pall 
Mail  -with  the  Marquis  of  Carabas,  who  can  get  them  a  place 
or  a  living,  than  with  Mr.  Two-shoes,  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,  curtse3^g 
to  the  very  ground,  ■with  tears  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" 

Like^wise  we  must  excuse  her  if  she  trembled  a  little,  being 
a  young  woman — though  being  also  a  lady,  she  lost  no  jot 
of  seif-pos5ess:on — •when  his  lordship  went  on  in  as  important 
a  tone  as  he  could — 

"And — and  I  hear.  Miss  Harvey,  that  yoa  have  a  greai 
infiuence  over  these  children's  parents." 

"I   am  afraid    someone    has   misinfonned    yoor    lordship. 
said  Grace,  in  a  low  voice. 

"Ah !"  quoth  Scoutbnsh,  in  a  tone  me^t  to  be  reassuring ; 
"it  is  quite  proper  in  yon  to  say  so.  Wnat  eyes  she  has  1  and 
what  hair  !  aijd  what  hands,  too ! "  (This  •was,  of  course, 
spoken  mentally.)  "But  we  kno'w  better;  and  •wre  •want  you 
to  speak  to  them,  •whenever  yoa  can,  about  keeping  theii 
houses  dean,  and  all  that,  in  case  the  cholera  should  come.* 
And  Scoutbnsh  stopped.  It  was  a  quaint  errand  enough; 
and  besides,   as  he  told   Mellot  frankly,    "I   could  t-h^nfe-   of 


334  Two  Years  Ago. 

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.  Now 
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  the  ground.  Scoutbush  winced  uneasily.  He  was  not 
accustomed  to  solemn  words,  spoken  so  solemnly. 

"Do  you  hear  this,  Campbell?  Miss  Harvey  has  been 
talking  to  these  people  already,  and  they  won't  hear  her." 

"Miss  Harvey,  I  daresay,  is  not  astonished  at  that.  It  is 
the  Uiual  fate  of  those  who  try  to  put  a  little  common  sense 
into  their  fellow-men." 

"Well,  and  I  shall,  at  all  events,  go  o£f  and  give  them  my 
mind  on  the  matter  ;  though  I  suppose "  (with  a  glance  at 
Grace)  "  I  can't  expect  to  be  heard  where  Miss  Harvey  has 
not  been." 

"Oh,  my  lord,"  cried  Grace,  if  you  would  but  speak * 

And  there  she  stopped ;  for  was  it  her  place  to  tell  him  his 
duty  ?  No  doubt  he  had  wiser  people  than  her  to  counsel 
him. 

But  the  moment  that  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. 

"Oh,  my  darlings  I  my  darlings  1"  cried  she  at  last,  looking 
up,  and  clasping  them  to  her  by  twos  and  threes;  "is  there 
no  way  of  saving  you  ?  No  way  ?  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 
Ihem  before,  with  a  voice,  a  look,  as  of  Stephen  himself  when 
he  saw  the  heavens  opened. 

For  that  burst  of  weeping  was  the  one  single  overflow  of 
long  pent  passion,  disappointment,  shame. 

She  had  tried,  indeed.  Ever  since  Tom's  conversation  and 
Frank's  sermon  had  poured  in  a  flood  of  new  light  on  the 
meaning  of  epidemics,  and   bodily  misery,   and  death  itself. 


Two  Years  Ago.  335 

she  had  been  working,  as  only  she  could  work ;  exhorting, 
explaining,  coaxing,  vvarning,  entreating  with  tears,  offering 
to  perform  V7ith  her  own  hands  the  most  sickening  offices ; 
to  become,  if  no  one  else  would,  the  common  scavenger  of  the 
ti^wn.  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  1  the  bitter  disappointment  of  finding  her 
influence  fail  her  utterly,  the  first  time  that  it  w^as  required  for 
a  great  practical  work  1  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  along  as  well  aware  as  she. 
But  to  be  convinced  of  a  new  sin  ;  to  have  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  everyone,  and  driving  away  custo- 
mers ?  "  The  preachers,  who  were  (as  is  too  common  in  West- 
country  villages)  narrow,  ignorant,  and  somewhat  unscrupulous 
men,  turned  against  her.  They  had  considered  the  cholera,  if 
it  was  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  of  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  ? 
Was  not  love  for  Thurnall,  the  wish  to  please  him,  mingling 
with  all  her  earnestness  ?  And  again,  was  not  self-love 
mingling  with  it  ?  and  mingling,  too,  with  the  disappointment, 
even  indignation,  which  she  felt  at  having  failed  ?  Ah — 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  I 

Perhaps  she  had  more  reason  to  be  thankful  for  her  humilia- 
tion than  she  could  suspect,  with  her  narrow  knowledge  of  the 
world.  Perhaps  that  sudden  downfall  of  her  fancied  queenship 
was  needed  to  shut  her  out,  once  and  for  all,  from  that  dowmward 


33^  Two  Years  Ago. 

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  I 

Too  dreadful  I  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  som» 
mysterious  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  given  a  two  months'  bill.  That  bilJ 
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. 

"  Might  we  take  the  liberty  of  coming  aboard  to  speak  with 
your  honour  ?  " 

"  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 
.a  deputation — why  don't  you  tell  the  gentleman,  captain?" 

Willis  seemed  either  doubtful  of  the  success  of  his  deputation, 
or  not  over-desirous  thereof ;  for  after  trying  to  put  John  Bee? 
forward  as  spokesman,  he  began — 

"  I'm  sorry  to  trouble  you,  sir,  but  these  young  men  will  have 
it  so— and  no  shame  to  them— on  a  matter  which  I  think  will 
come  to  nothing.  But  the  truth  is,  they  have  heard  that  you 
are  a  great  painter,  and  they  have  taken  it  into  their  heads 
to  ask  you  to  paint  a  picture  for  them." 

*•  Not  to  ask  you  a  favour,  sir,   mind  I "  interrupted   Jan ; 


Two  Years  Ago.  337 

"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 
proin  sed  already." 

"You  must  tell  me,  first,  what  the  picture  is  to  be  about," 
said  Claude,  puzzied  and  amused. 

y  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,  sir,  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;  w^e  was  a-going  to  ax  you 
to  do  one  of  they  garrytypes  ;  but  she  would  have'n  noo  price  ; 
besides  tan't  cheerful  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  1 "  said  Claude,  amused. 
"  And  how  much  do  you  think  I  should  ask  ?  " 

No  answer. 

"We'll  settle  that  presently.  Come  down  into  the  cabm 
with  me." 

"  Why,  sir,  we  couldn't  make  so  bold.     Kis  lordship " 

"  Oh,  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. 
So  come  along." 

And  down  they  went. 

"  Bowie,  bring  these  gentlemen  some  sherry  1"  cried  Claude, 
turning  over  his  portfolio.  "Now  then,  my  v/orthy  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  I " 

"'Tis  beautifull"  sighed  Jan,  half  to  himself.  Poor  fellow, 
he  had  cherished,  perhaps,  hopes  of  winning  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 


;^;^S  Two  Years  Ago. 

by  her  like,  holding  to  her  hand,  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  charge  for 
such  a  picture  as  that  ?  " 

"  Name  your  price,  sir,"  said  Jan,  who  was  in  high  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  Claude,  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  pay,  we'd  take  it  an  honour  to  pay,  if 
we  could  afford  it." 

"Then  wait  till  next  Christmas." 

"  Christmas?" 

"  My  good  friend,  pictures  are  not  painted  in  a  day.  Next 
Christmas,  h  I  live,  I'll  send  you  what  you  shall  not  be 
ashamed  of,  or  she  either,  and  do  you  club  your  money  and 
put  it  into  a  handsome  gold  frame.  ' 

"But,  sir,"  said  Willis,  "this  will  give  you  a  sight  of 
trouble,  and  all  for  our  fancy." 

"I  like  it,  and  I  like  you  1  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 
words ! " 

"  Well,  you  are  a  gentleman,  sir  I "  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  notlii.ijj. 

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." 


Two  Years  Ago.  339 

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  whole  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 
altering  fast.  A  circumstance  which  occurred  a  few  days  after 
altered  it  still  more. 

Scoutbush  had  gone  forth,  as  he  threatened,  and  exploded 
in  every  direction,  with  such  effect  as  was  to  be  supposed. 
Everybody  promised  his  lordship  to  do  everything.  But  when 
his  lordship's  back  was  turned,  everybody  did  just  nothing. 
They  knew  very  well  that  he  could  not  make  them  do  any- 
thing ;  and  what  was  more,  in  some  of  the  very  worst  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  Thumall  looked 
grimly  aloft,  and  mystified  the  sailors  with — 

"  Fine  weather  for  the  Flying  Dutchman,  this  1" 

*•  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  1 " 

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  in- 
habitants of  the  half  a  dozen  cottages,  which  Scoutbush, 
finding  that  they  were  in  his  own  hands,  whitevs^ashed  by 
main  force,  filled  the  town  with  lamentations  of  his  lordship's 
tyranny.  True — their  pig-sties  were  either  under  their  front 
windows ;  or  within  tv70  feet  of  the  wall :  but  to  pull  down 
a  poor  man's  pig-sty  I — they  might  ever  so  well  be  Rooshian 
slaves  I — and  all  the  town  was  on  their  side ;  for  pigs  were 
the  normal  inhabitants  of  Aberalva  back-yards. 

Tardrev/'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  1  I've  a  crow  to  pick  with  you." 


342  Two  Years  Ago. 

"By  the  bye,  have  you  heard  from  the  wanderers  thi 
week?" 

"I  heard  from  Sabina  this  morning.  Marie  is  very  poorly 
I  fear.  They  have  been  at  Kissingen,  bathing  ;  and  are  goinj 
to  Eertrich  :  somebody  has  recommended  the  baths  there." 

"  Bertrich  !     Where's  Bertrich  ?  " 

"  The  most  delicious  httle  nest  of  a  place,  half-way  up  th< 
Moselle,  among  the  volcano  craters." 

"  Don't  know  it     Have  they  found  that  Yankee  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Why,  I  thought  Sabina  had  a  whole  detective  force  o 
pets  and  proteges,  from  Boulogne  to  Rome." 

"  Well,  she  has  at  least  heard  of  him  at  Baden ;  and  ther 
at  Stuttgard :   but  he  has  escaped  them  as  yet" 

"And  poor  Marie  is  breaking  her  heart  all  the  while?  I'l 
tell  you  what,  Claude,  it  will  be  well  for  him  if  he  escapes  nn 
as  well  as  them." 

**  What  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  snapshot  at  him." 

"  Tom  I  Tom  1   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 !  Wha< 
business  had  he  with  her  at  all,  if  he  didn't  intend  to  marr^i 
her?" 

*'  I  tell  you,  as  1  told  you  before,  it  is  she  who  will  nol 
marry  him." 

"And  yet  she's  breaking  her  heart  for  him.  I  can  see  it 
all  plain  enough,  Claude.  She  has  found  him  out  only  ioc 
late.  I  know  him — luxurious,  selfish,  blas6 ;  would  give  a 
thousand  dollars  to-morrow,  I  believe,  hke  the  old  Roman, 
for  a  new  pleasure — and  then  amuses  himself  with  her  till  he 
breaks  her  heart  1  Of  course  she  won't  marry  him  :  because 
she  knows  that  if  he  found  out  her  Quadroon  blood — ah  I 
'.hat's  It !  I'll  lay  my  life  he  has  found  it  out  already,  and 
that  is  why  he  has  bolted  1 " 

Claude  had  no  answer  to  give.  That  talk  at  the  Exhibitioo 
made  it  only  too  probable. 

"  You  think  so  yourself,  I  see  I     Very  well ;  you  know  that 


Two  Years  Ago.  343 

latever  I  have  been  to  others,  that  girl  has  nothing  against 

"Nothing  against  you?  Why,  she  owes  you  honour,  life, 
ery  thing." 

"  Never  mind  that.  Only  when  I  take  a  fancy  to  begin, 
I  carry  it  through.  I  took  to  that  girl,  for  poor  Wyse's 
te  :  and  I'll  behave  by  her  to  the  last  as  he  would  w^ish ; 
d  he  who  insults  her,  insults  me.  I  won't  go  out  of  my  way 
find  Stangrave  ;  but  if  I  do,  I'll  have  it  out !  " 
"Then  you  wiil  certainly  fight.     My  dearest  Tom,  do  look 

0  your  own  heart,  and  see  whether  you  have  not  a  grain 
two  of  spite  against  him  left     I  assure  you,  you  judge  him 

)  harshly." 

'•  Hum— that  must  take  its  chance.  At  least,  if  we  fight, 
>  fight  fairly  and  equally.  He  is  a  brave  man — I  will  do 
n  that  justice — and  a  cool  one  ;  and  used  to  be  a  sweet 
Jt     So  he  has  just  as  good  a  chance  of  shooting  me,  if  I 

1  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 
:ause  I  am  going  to  insure  my  life — a  pretty  premium  they 
11  make  me  pay ! — and  if  I'm  killed  in  a  duel,  it  will  be 
feited.  However,  the  only  answer  to  that  is,  that  either  I 
m't  fight,  or  if  I  do,  I  shan't  be  killed.  You  know,  I  don't 
ieve  in  being  killed,  Claude." 

'  Tom  I    Tom  !    The  same  as  ever ! "  said  Claude,  sadly. 

*  Well,  old  man,  and  what  else  would  you  have  me  ? 
)body  ever  could  alter  me,  you  know ;  and  why  should 
alter  myself?  Here  I  am,  after  all,  alive  and  jolly;  and 
ire  is  old  Daddy,  as  comfortable  as  he  ever  can  be  on  earth  ; 
d  so  it  will  be  to  the  end  of  the  chapter.  There !  let's  talk 
something  else." 

CHAPTER  XVI. 

Come  at  Last 

)W,  as  if  in  all  things  Tom  Thurnall  and  John  Briggs  were 

ed  to  take  opposite  sides,  Campbell  lost  ground  with  Elsley 

fast  as  he  gained   it   with  Thurnall.      Elsley  had  never 


344  Two  Years  Ago. 

forgiven  himself  for  his  passion  that  first  morning.  He  h« 
shown  Campbell  his  weak  side,  and  feared  and  disliked  hi; 
accordingly.  Beside,  what  might  not  Thurnall  have  to 
Campbell  about  him?  And  what  use  might  not  the  maj< 
make  of  his  secret  ?  Besides,  Elsley's  dread  and  suspicic 
increased  rapidly  when  he  discovered  that  Campbell  was  oi 
of  those  men  who  live  on  terms  of  peculiar  intimacy  wil 
many  women  ;  whether  for  his  own  good  or  not,  still  for  t\ 
good  of  the  women  concerned.  For  only  by  honest  purit; 
and  moral  courage  superior  to  that  of  the  many,  is  th; 
dangerous  post  earned ;  and  women  will  listen  to  the  ms 
who  will  tell  them  the  truth,  however  sternly ;  and  will  bov 
as  before  a  guardian  angel,  to  the  strong  insight  of  hi: 
whom  they  have  once  learned  to  trust.  But  it  is  a  dangeroi 
office,  after  all,  for  layman  as  well  as  for  priest,  that  of  fathe 
confessor.  The  experience  of  centuries  has  shown  that  the 
must  needs  exist,  wherever  fathers  neglect  their  daughter 
husbands  their  wives  ;  wherever  the  average  of  the  wome 
cannot  respect  the  average  of  the  men.  But  the  experienc 
of  centuries  should  likewise  have  taught  men,  that  the  sai 
father-confessors  are  no  objects  of  envy  ;  that  their  temptatior 
to  become  spiritual  coxcombs  (the  worst  species  of  a 
coxcom.bs),  if  not  intriguers,  bullies,  and  worse,  are  s 
extreme,  that  the  soul  which  is  proof  against  them  must  b 
either  very  great,  or  very  small  indeed.  Whether  Campbe 
was  altogether  proof,  will  be  seen  hereafter.  But  one  da 
Elsley  found  out  that  such  was  Campbell's  influence,  an 
did  not  love  him  the  more  for  the  discovery. 

They  were  walking  round  the  garden  after  dinner  ;  Scoutbus 
was  licking  his  foolish  lips  over  some  commonplace  tale  c 
scandal. 

•'  I  tell  you,  my  dear  fellow,  she's  booked  ;  and  Mellot  know 
it  as  well  as  I.     He  saw  her  that  night  at  Lady  A 's." 

"We  saw  the  third  act  of  the  comi-tragedy.  The  fourtJ 
is  playing  out  now.  We  shall  see  the  fifth  before  th 
winter." 

"Non  sine  sanguine!"  said  the  major. 

"Serve  the  wretched  stick  right,  at  least,"  said  Scoutbusb 
*'  What  right  had  he  to  marry  such  a  pretty  woman  ?  " 

"  What  rififht  had  they  to  marry  her  up  to  him  ?  "  said  Claude 


Two  Years  Ago.  345 

;  don't  blame  poor  January.    I  suppose  none  of  us,  gentlemen, 

)uld  have  refused  such  a  pretty  toy,  if  we  could  have  afforded 

IS  he  could." 

"Whom  do  you  blame  then?"  asked  Elsley. 

"Fathers  and  mothers  who  prate  hypocritically  about  keeping 

;ir  daughters'  minds  pure  ;  and  then  abuse  a  girl's  ignorance, 

order  to  sell  her  to  ruin.     Let  them  keep  her  mind  pure,  in 

;aven's  name  :  but  let  them  consider  themselves  all  the  more 

und  in  honour  to  use  on  her  behalf  the  experience  in  which 

;  must  not  share." 

'Well,"    drawled    Scoutbush,    "I    don't    complain    of  her 

Iting  ;   she's  a  very  svveet  creature,  and  always  w^as  :   but, 

Longreach  says — and  a  very  witty  fellow  he  is,  though 
a  laugh  at  him — '  If  she'd  kept  to  us,  I  shouldn't  have 
nded  :   but  as  Guardsmen,  we  must  throw  her  over.      It's 

insult  to  the  whole  Guards,  my  dear  fellow,  after  refusing 
o  of  us,  to  marry  an  attorney,  and  after  all  to  bolt  with  a 
mger.' " 

What  bolting  with  a  plunger  might  signify,   Elsley  knew 
t ;  but  ere  he  could  ask,  the  major  rejoined,  in  aa  abstracted 
ice — 
'  God  help  us  all  1    And  this  is  the  girl  I  recollect,  two  years 

0,  singing  there  in  Cavendish  Square,  aS  innocent  as  a 
stiing  thrush  I " 

'Poor  child!"   said    Mellot,    "sold   at  first — perhaps  sold 

ain  now.     The  plunger  has  bills  out,  and  she  has  ready 

iney.     I  know  her  settlements." 

'  She  shan't  do  it,"  said  the  major,  quietly ;  "  I'll  write  to  her 

night. " 

Elsley  looked  at  him  keenly.     "You  think  then,  sir,  that  you 

1,  by  simply  writing,  stop  this  intrigue  ?  " 

rhe  major  did  not  answer.     He  was  deep  in  thought. 

'1  shouldn't  wonder  if  he  did,"  said  Scoutbush;    "two  to 

;  on  his  baulking  the  plunger ! " 

'  She  is  at  Lord 's  now,  at  those  silly,  private  theatricals. 

he  there  ?  " 

'  No,"  said  Mellot ;  "he  tried  hard  for  an  invitation — stooped 
work  me  and  Sabina.  I  believe  she  told  him  that  she  would 
)ner  see  him  in  the  Morgue  than  help  Inm ;  and  he  is  gone 
the  moors  now,  I  believe." 


34^  Two  Years  Ago. 

"  There  is  time  then :    I  will  write  to  her  to-night ; "  i 
Campbell  took  up  his  hat  and  v^ent  home  to  do  it. 

"Ah,"  said  Scoutbush,  taking  his  cigar  meditatively  froi 
his  mouth,  "I  wonder  how  he  does  it!  It's  a  gift,  I  alway 
say,  a  wonderful  gift  1  Before  he  has  been  a  week  in  a  house 
he'll  have  the  confidence  of  every  woman  in  it — and  'gad,  h 
does  it  by  saying  the  rudest  things  ! — and  the  confidence  of  a 
the  youngsters  the  week  after." 

*'A  somewhat  dangerous  gift,"  said  Elsley,  drily. 

"  Ah,  yes ;  he  might  play  tricks  if  he  chose :  but  there 
the  wonder,  that  he  don't.  I'd  answer  for  him  with  my  owj 
sister.  I  do  every  day  of  my  life — for  I  believe  he  know 
how  many  phis  she  puts  into  her  dress — and  yet  there  he  is 
As  I  said  once  in  the  mess-room— there  was  a  youngste 
there  who  took  on  himself  to  be  witty,  and  talked  about  th' 
still  sow  supping  the  milk — the  snob!  You  recollect  him 
Mellot  ?  the  attorney's  son  from  Brompton,  who  sold  out ;  w 
shaved  his  mustachios,  put  a  bear  in  his  bed,  and  sent  hin 
home  to  his  ma.  And  he  said  that  Major  Campbell  might  bi 
very  pious,  and  all  that ;  but  he'd  warrant — they  were  tht 
fellow's  own  words — that  he  took  his  lark  on  the  sly,  lik« 
other  men  — the  snob  1  So  I  told  him,  I  was  no  better  thai 
the  rest,  and  no  more  I  am :  but  if  any  man  dared  to  saj 
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  love  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. 

Into  the  drawing-room  they  went.  Frank  Headley  had 
been  asked  up  to  tea,  and  he  stood  at  the  piano,  listening 
to  Valencia's  singing. 

As  they  came  in,  the  maid  came  in  also.  "  Mr.  Thurnal] 
wished  to  speak  to  Major  Campbell." 

Campbell  went  out,  and  returned  in  two  minutes  somewhat 
hurriedly. 

"Mr.  Thurnall  wishes  Lord  Scoutbush  to  be  informed  a1 
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." 


Two  Years  Ago.  347 

•  Cholera  ?  "  said  Elsley. 
"Call  him  in,"  said  Scoutbush. 

'  He  had  rather  not  come  m,  he  says." 

•  What !  is  it  infectious  ?  " 

'  Certainly  not,  if  it  be  cholera,  but " 

'He  don't  wish  to  frighten  people,  quite  right;"  (with  a 

f  glance  at  Elsley)  "but  is  it  cholera,  honestly?" 

'  i  fear  so." 

'  Oh,  my  children  I  "  said  poor  Mrs.  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 

;e." 

'You   hear   what   they    are    saying?"    asked    Valencia    of 

ink. 

'Yes,    I  hear  it,"  said   Frank,   in  a  quiet,  meaning  tone. 

lencia   thought  that  he  was  half  p'eased  with  the  news. 

en  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 

;  infectious." 

'  Afraid  ?    And  a  soldier's  sister  ? "  said  Valencia,  with  a 

s  of  her   beautiful   head,  by  way  of  giving  force  to  her 

newhat  weak  logic. 

~rank   left  the  room   instantly,   and    met   Thurnall  in  the 

isage. 

'  Well,  Headley,  it's  here  before  we  sent  for  it,  as  bad  luck 

lally  is." 

'1   know.     Let  me  go!    Where  is  it?     Whose  house?" 

:ed  Frank,' in  an  excited  tone. 

'Humph  I"  said  Thurnall,  looking  intently  at  him,   "that 

iust  what  I  shall  not  tell  you." 

'  Not  tell  me  ?  " 

'No,  you  are  too  pale,  Headley.      Go  back  and  get  two 

three  glasses  of  wine,  and  then  we  will  talk  of  it." 

'What  do  you  mean?    I  must  go  instoutiy  I     It  is   my 

y,  my  parishioner  I  " 

'Look  here,  Headley  1    Are  you  and  I  to  work  together  in 

;  business,  or  are  we  not  ?  " 

'  Wliy  not,  in  Heaven's  name  ?  " 


348  Two  Years  Ago. 

"  Then,  I  want  you,  not  for  cure,  but  for  prevention.  You 
can  do  them  no  good  when  they  have  once  got  it.  You  may 
prevent  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  give  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  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  are  perishing?" 
answered  Tom,  with  something  very  like  a  sneer.  "And  ii 
they  were,  do  you  honestly  beiieve  that  any  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  deserves  to  go?" 

"  I  do,'  said  Frank,  firmly. 

"Well.  It  is  a  charitable  and  hopeful  creed.  My  great 
dread  was,  lest  you  should  kill  the  poor  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  vsill  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  ever  saw,  even  in  the 
West  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  I "  said  Tom  between  his  teeth,  and  stamped  his  foot 
upon  the  ground.     Frank  had  never  seen  him  show  so  much 


Two  Years  Ago.  349 

feelings    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  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.  Valencia 
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  ;  he  knew  not,  at 
the  moment,  poor  fellow,  where  to  find  the  money.  His  wife 
knew  that  she  could  borrow  of  Valencia ;  but  she,  too,  was 
against  the  place.  The  cholera  would  be  in  the  air  for  miles 
round.  The  journey  in  tlie  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.  Valencia  was  inclined  to  treat  this  as 
"mother's  nonsense";  but  Major  Campbell  said  gravely  that 
Mrs.  Vavasour  w^as  perfectly  right  as  to  fact,  and  her 
arguments  full  of  sound  reason ;  whereon  Valencia  said  that 
"of  course  if  Lucia  thought  it.  Major  Campbell  would  prove 
it ;  and  there  was  no  arguing  with  such  Solons  as  he " 

Which  Elsley  heard,  and  ground  his  teeth.  Whereon  little 
Scoutbush  cried  joyfully — 

"  I  have  it :  why  not  go  by  sea?  Take  the  yacht,  and  go  ! 
Where?  Of  course,  I  have  it  again.  'Pon  my  word  I'm 
growing  clever,  Valencia,  in  spite  of  all  your  prophecies. 
Go  up  the  Welsh  coast.  Nothing  so  healthy  and  airy  as 
a  sea-voyage :  sea  as  smooth  as  a  mill-pond,  too,  and  likely 
to  be.  And  then  land,  if  you  like,  at  Port  Madoc,  as  I  meant 
to  do ;  and  there  are  my  rooms  at  Beddgelert  lying  empty. 


35<^  Two  Years  Ago. 

Engaged  them  a  week  ago,  thinking  I  should  be  tfcre  by 
now :  so  you  may  as  well  keep  them  aired  for  me.  v^ome, 
Valencia,  pack  up  your  millinery  1  Lucia,  get  the  cradles 
ready,  and  we'll  have  them. all  on  board  by  twelve.  Capital 
plan.  Vavasour,  isn't  it  ?  and,  by  Jove,  what  stunning  poetry 
you  will  write  there  under  Snowdon  1 " 

* '  But  will  you  not  want  your  rooms  yourself,  Lord 
Scoutbush  ?  "  said  Elsley. 

"My  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  you're  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 — 
i;o  arguing  about  it,  or  I  shall  turn  you  all  out  of  doors 
into  the  lane,  eh?" 

And  the  little  fellow  laughed  so  good-naturedly,  tha.t  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  gave  in  to  the  scheme,  and  went  out  to  arrange  matters  ; 
while  Scoutbush  went  out  into  the  hall  with  Campbell,  and 
scrambled  into  his  peajacket,  to  go  off  to  the  yacht  that 
moment. 

"  You'll  see  to  them,  there's  a  good  fellow,"  as  they  lighted 
th;ir  cigars  at  the  door.  "That  Vavasour  is  greener  than 
grass,  you  know,  tant  pis  for  my  poor  sister." 

"  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  Vavasour,  who  knows  nothing  of  com- 
manding 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-beasts  here.  I 
found  two  new  ones  yesterday." 

"  Quaint  old  beetle-hunter  you  are,  for  a  man  who  has  fought 
in  half  a  dozen  battles  1 "  And  Scoutbush  walked  on  silently 
for  five  minutes. 

Suddenly  he  broke  out^ 


Two  Years  Ago.  351 

*•!  cannot  I  By  George,  I  cannot;  and  what's  more,  I 
won't  I " 

"What?" 

' '  Run  away.  It  will  look  so  —  so  cowardly,  and  there's 
the  truth  of  it,  before  those  fine  fellows  dow^n  there :  and 
just  as  I  am  come  among  them,  too  1  The  commander-'n-chief 
to  turn  tail  at  the  first  shot !  Though  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 
fleas  at  Varna — for  this  Crimean  expedition  is  all  moonshine." 

"Don't  be  too  sure  of  that,"  said  Campbell.  "We  shall 
go ;  and  some  of  us  who  go  will  never  come  back,  Freddy. 
I  know  those  Russians  better  than  many,  and  I  have  been 
talking  them  over  lately  with  Thurnall,  who  has  been  in  their 
service." 

"  Has  he  been  at  Sevastopol  ?  " 

"  No.  Almost  the  only  place  on  eartti  where  he  has  not 
been  :  but  from  all  he  says,  and  from  all  I  know,  we  are 
undervaluing  our  foes,  as  usual,  and  shall  smart  for  it." 

"We'll  lick  them,  never  fear  1" 

"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  per- 
plexity ;  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. 

"  Well ;  I'm  afraid  of  nothing,  I  hope :  only  1  wish  one 
could  meet  this  cholera  face  to  face,  as  one  vsrill  those  Russians, 
with  a  good  sword  in  one's  hand,  and  a  good  horse  between 
one's  knees  ;  and  have  a  chance  of  giving  him  what  he  brings, 
instead  of  being  picked  off  by  the  cowardly  Rockite,  no  one 
knows  how ;  and  not  even  from  behind  a  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  ?  And  yet  we 
fight  on.     Do  you  not  think  the  greatest  terror,  the  only  real 


352  Two  Years  Ago. 

terror,  in  any  battle,  is  the  chance  shots  which  come  from  no 
one  knows  v^here,  and  hit  no  man  can  guess  vvhom  ?  If  you 
go  to  the  Crimea,  as  you  will,  you  will  feel  as  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,  Campbelll" 

"  Of  course  you  will,  and  take  your  chance.     Do  so  now  I " 

"By  Jove,  Campbell — I  always  say  it — you're  the  most 
sensible  man  I  ever  met ;  and,  by  Jove,  that  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  I  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  I  said,  why — why— why  I  can't,  and  so  I 
won't !" 

"By  the  bye,"  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 
conversation  had  been  going  on  between  Valencia  and 
Headley. 

Headley  had  re-entered  the  room  so  much  paler  than  he  went 
out,  that  everybody  noticed  his  altered  looks.  Valencia  chose 
to  attribute  them  to  fear. 

"  So  1  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 


Two  Years  Ago.  353 

under-voice,  which  hinted  that  he  wished  her  to  ask  no  more 
questions.  A  shade  passed  over  her  forehead,  and  she  began 
chatting  rather  noisily  to  the  rest  of  the  party,  till  Elsley,  her 
brother,  and  Campbell  went  out. 

Valencia  looked  up  qt  him,  expecting  him  to  go  too. 
Mrs.  Vavasour  began  bustling  about  the  room,  collecting  little 
valuables,  and  looking  over  her  shoulder  at  the  now  unwelcome 
guest.  But  Frank  leaned  back  in  the  cosy  arm-chair,  and  did 
not  stir.  His  hands  were  clasped  on  his  knees  ;  he  seemed 
lost  in  thought ;  very  pale  :  but  there  was  a  firm,  set  look 
about  his  lips  which  attracted  Valencia's  attention.  Once  he 
looked  up  in  Valencia's  face,  and  saw  that  she  was  looking 
at  him.  A  flush  came  over  his  cheeks  for  a  moment,  and  then 
he  seemed  as  impassive  as  ever.  What  could  he  want  there  ? 
How  very  gauche  and  rude  of  him  ;  so  unlike  him,  too  !  And 
she  said,  civilly  enough,  to  him,  "I  fear,  Mr.  Headley,  we 
must  begin  packing  up  now." 

"  I  fear  you  must,  indeed,"  answered  he,  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  his  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  thought 
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  Valencia,  more  downright  than  her  sister.  Both  could 
see  for  whom  it  was  meant,  by  the  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,  9jid  the  descendant  of  gentlemen "  (and 
Frank  looked  a  little  proud,  as  he  spoke,  and  very  handsome), 
"  I  see  clearly  enough  the  great  gulf  fixed  between  us  ;  and 


354  Two  Years  Ago. 

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,  had  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,  Mr.  Headley.  The  excitement  of  the 
night  has  been  too  much  for  you." 

"  Do  I  look  excited,  my  dear  madam  ?  "  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  happier  than  he  ever  has  been  on 
earth,  and  lay  down  an  office  which  he  has  never  discharged 
otherwise  than  ill ;  which  has  been  to  him  a  constant  source 
of  shame  and  sorrow." 

"  Do  not  speak  so  1"  said  Valencia,  with  her  Irish  impetuous 
generosity ;  "  you  are  unjust  to  yourself.  We  have  watched 
you,  felt  for  you,  honoured  you,  even  when  we  differed  from 
you."  What  more  she  would  have  said,  I  know  not :  but  at 
that  moment  Elsley's  peevish  voice  was  heard  calling  over  the 
stairs,  "  Lucia  I  Lucia  ' " 

"  Oh  dear  1  He  will  wake  the  children  ! "  cried  Lucia,  looking 
at  her  sister,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  How  can  I  leave  you  ?  " 

"Run,  run,  my  dear  creature  1"  said  Valencia,  with  a 
self-confident  smile ;  and  the  two  were  left  alone.        | 

The  moment  that  Mrs.  Vavasour  left  the  room,  there  vanished 
from  Frank's  face  that  intense  look  of  admiration  that  had  made 
Valencia  uneasy.  He  dropped  his  eyes,  and  his  voice  faltered 
as  he  spoke  again.  He  acknowledged  the  change  in  their 
position,  and  Valencia  saw  that  he  did  so,  and  liked  him  the 
better  for  it 

"I  shall  not  repeat,  Miss  St.  Just,  now  that  we  are  alone, 
what  I  said  just  now  of  the  pleasure  which  I  have  had  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 


Two  Years  Ago.  355 

more.  But  I  could  ask,  if  it  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  this  cholera,  is  with 
me  a  fixed  idea,  which  nothing  can  remove.  No,  madam,  it 
is  useless  to  combat  it  I  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,  ay,  a  grain  of  dust  off  your  feet— God  forgive 
me  I  He  and  His  mercy  ought  to  be  enough  to  keep  me  up ; 
but  one's  weakness  may  be  excused  for  clinging  to  such 
slight  floating  straws  of  comfort." 

Valencia  paused,  startled,  and  yet  aifected.  How  she  had 
played  with  his  deep,  pure  heart  1  And  yet,  was  it  pure  ? 
Did  he  wish,  by  exciting  her  pity,  to  trick  her  into  giving 
him  what  he  might  choose  to  consider  a  token  of  affection? 

And  she  answered,  coldly  enough — 

*'  I  should  be  sorry,  after  what  you  have  just  said,  to  chance 
hurting  you  by  refusing.  I  put  it  to  your  own  good  feeling — 
have  you  not  asked  somewhat  too  much  ?  " 

"Certainly  too  much,  madam,  in  any  common  case,"  said 
he,  quite  unmoved.  "Certainly  too  much,  if  I  asked  you  for 
it,  as  I  do  not,  as  the  token  of  an  affection  which  I  knov7 
well  you  do  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  Uve.  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. 

"What,  Mr.  Headley?  Can  you  think  that  I  am  to  have 
secrets  in  common  with  you,  or  with  any  other  man  ?  No, 
sir  I  If  I  granted  your  request,  I  should  avow  it  as  openly  as 
I  shall  refuse  it." 

And  she  turned  sharply  toward  the  door. 

Frank  Headley  was  naturally  a  shy  man :  but  extreme  need 
sometimes  bestows  on  shyqess  a  miraculous  readiness  (else 
why,  in  the  long  run,  do  the  shy  men  win  the  best  wives? 
which  is  a  fact,  and  may  be  proved  by  statistics,  at  least  as 
well  as  anything  else  can),  so  he  quietly  stepped  to  Valencia's 
side,  and  said  in  a  low  voice— 


35^  Two  Years  Ago. 

"You  cannot  avow  the  refusal  half  as  proudly  as  I  shall 
avow  the  request,  if  you  will  but  wait  till  your  sister's  return. 
Both  are  unnecessary,  I  think  :  but  it  will  only  be  an  honour  to 
me  to  confess,  that,  poor  curate  as  I  am " 

"Hush!"  and  Valencia  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. 

Within  five  minutes  Frank  was  beside  her  again.  The  book 
was  Tennyson's  "  Princess."  She  had  wandered — who  can 
tell  why — to  that  last  exquisite  scene,  which  all  know :  and 
as  Valencia  read,  Frank  quietly  laid  a  finger  on  the  book, 
and  arrested  her  eyes  at — 

**  If  you  be,  what  I  think  you,  some  sweet  dream, 
Stoop  down,  and  seem  to  kiss  me  ere  I  die  1" 

Valencia  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  woman  of  the  world  enough  to  see  that  she  must,  for 
her  own  sake  and  his,  talk  it  out  reasonably. 

•'What  do  you  mean,  Mr.  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  pis  alter;  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  ?  " 

"  WTiy  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  cast  one 
shadow  over  a  light  which  has  been  so  glorious,  so  life-giving  ; 


Two  Years  Ago.  357 

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  fortnight's  happiness,  and  then,  let  what  will 
come  1 " 

He  had  conquered.  The  quiet  earnestness  of  the  voice,  the 
childlike  simplicity  of  the  manner,  of  w^hich  every  word 
conveyed  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  marquises  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?" 

The  rose  from  her  bosom  ?  No.  That  was  too  significant 
at  once,  and  too  commonplace  ;  besides,  it  might  wither,  and 
he  find  an  excuse  for  not  restoring  it.  It  must  be  something 
valuable,  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  Valencia  to  do,  no  doubt :  but  the  strange 
things  which  are  done  in  the  world  (which  are  some  millions 
daily)  are  just  what  keep  the  world  alive. 


35^  Two  Years  Ago. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

Baalzebub'a  Banquet. 

The  next  day  there  were  three  cholera  cases :  the  day  after, 
there  were  thirteen. 

He  had  come  at  last,  Baalzebub,  god  of  flies,  and  of  what 
flies  are  bred  from ;  to  visit  his  self-blinded  worshippers,  and 
bestow  on  them  his  own  Cross  of  the  Legion  of  Dishonour. 
He  had  come  suddenly,  capriciously,  sportively,  as  he  some- 
times 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  over  the 
plague-struck  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  Aberalva,  and  not  to  let  it  go  till  he  had  sucked 
his  fill. 

And  all  men  moved  about  the  streets  slowly,  fearfully ; 
conscious  of  some  awful  unseen  presence,  which  might  spring 
on  them  from  round  every  corner ;  some  dreadful  inevitable 
spell,  which  lay  upon  them  I'ke  a  nightmare  weight ;  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  restlessly,  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  off  sullenly  when  the  sun  rose  high,  to  let  him  pour 
down  his  glare,  and  quicken  into  evil  life  all  evil  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 


Two  Years  Ago.  359 

at  his  great  banquet  in  New  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  as  only! — "the 
Visitation  of  God."  i 

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  1  there  are  victims  enough  and  to  spare  besides  them, 
too  ready  for  the  sacrifice  ;  and  up  the  main  street  he  goes 
unabashed,  springing  in  at  one  door  and  at  another,  on  either 
side  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  to  clean.  Youth  does  not  save  the 
buxom  lass,  who  has  been  filling  herself,  as  girls  will  do,  with 
unripe  fruit ;  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  I"  and  dies.  It 
is  "the  Lord"  to  her,  though  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  wretchedness,  nurse, 
unharmed,  strong  men  who  have  breathed  fresh  air  all  day. 
Of  one  word  of  Scripture  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, 


3bo  Two  Years  Ago. 

backed  at  the  upper  end  by  a  high  wall  of  rock.  There  -is 
a  God-send  for  him — 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 
mistaking  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  v^hole  cholera  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.  But  he  carries  back  with  him  to  his  fish- 
heaps  a  little  invisible  somewhat  which  he  did  not  bring ; 
and  ere  nightfall  he  is  dead  hideously ;  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  tan-yard, 
where  not  hides,  but  nets  are  barked  ;  skips  on  board  of  a 
brig  in  the  quay-pool  ;  and  a  poor  collier's  'prentice  dies,  and 
goes  to  his  own  place.  What  harm  has  he  done  ?  Is  it  his 
sin  that,  ill-fed  and  well-beaten  daily,  he  hi^s  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  carried 
back  into  it,  in  half  an  hour's  time,  fainting,  shrieking?  One 
must  draw  a  veil  over  the  too  hideous  details. 


Two  Years  Ago.  361 

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  ?  Five  days,  five  minutes,  or  five  years  ?  How 
many  suns  have  risen  and  set  since  Frank  Headley  put  into 
his  bosom  Valencia'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,  ere  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  commonplace,  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.  We  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  un- 
quenchable 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  r~-Tiains  behind. 

F.ven  so  it  was  in  Aberalva  during  that  fearful  week. 
The  drunkards  drank  more ;  the  swearers  swore  more  than 
ever ;  the  unjust  shopkeeper  clutched  more  greedily  than  ever 
at  the  few  last  scraps  of  mean  gain  which  remained  for  him 
this  side  the  grave ;  the  selfish  vyrapped  themselves  up  more 
brutally  than  ever  in  selfishness ;  the  shameless  women 
mingled  desperate  debauchery  with  fits  of  frantic  superstition ; 
and  all  base  souls  cried  out  together,  *'  Let  us  eat  and  drink, 
for  to-morrow  we  die  1 " 


362  Two  Years  Ago. 

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  tliemselves  into  a  right  gallant  and  well- 
disciplined  band,  and  commenced  at  once  a  visitation  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 
Irishman,  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  ail  removable  nuisances ;  he  wa.lked  up  and  down 
the  street  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  five  real  workers  toiled  on,  mean- 
while, 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  danger  and 


Two  Years  Ago.  363 

death  at  all.  Always  smiling,  always  cheerful,  always  busy, 
yet  never  in  a  hurry,  he  went  up  and  down,  seemingly 
ubiquitous.  Sleep  he  got  when  he  could,  and  food  as  often 
as  he  could  ;  into  the  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." 

"  My  dear  sir,  I  am  the  most  cautious  and  selfish  man  in 
the  town.  I  am  living  by  rule  ;  I  have  got — and  what  greater 
pleasure  ? — a  good  stand-up  fight  with  an  old  enemy ;  and  be 
sure  I  shall  keep  myself  in  condition  for  it.  I  have  written 
off  for  help  to  the  Board  of  Health,  and  I  shall  not  be  shoved 
against  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  that  curate  ;  he  is  a  noble  brick 
— if  all  parsons  in  England  were  like  him,  I'd — what's  here, 
now  ?  " 

Miss  Heale  came  shrieking  down  the  street. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Thurnall !    Miss  Tardrew  !     Miss  Tardrew  I " 

•'  Screaming  will  only  make  you  ill,  too,  miss.  Where  is 
Miss  Tardrew  ?  " 

"  In  the  surgery— and  my  mother  !  " 

"  I  expected  this,"  said  Tom.     "  The  old  man  will  go  next." 

He  went  into  the  surgery.  The  poor  girl  was  in  collapse 
already.  Mrs.  Keale  was  lying  on  the  sofa,  stricken ;  the  old 
man  hanging  over  her,  brandy  bottle  in  hand. 

"  Put  away  that  trash  1 "  cried  Tom  ;  "  you've  had  too  much 
already." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Thurnall,  she's  dying,  and  I  shall  die  too  1" 

"  You  1  you  were  all  right  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.  Walk  out,  sir  1 
Make  yourself  of  some  use,  and  forget  your  fear  1  Leave 
Mrs.  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 
from  the  first— half  to  fortify  his  bcdy^against  infection,  half 


3^4  Two  Years  Ago. 

to  fortify  his  heart  against  conscience.  Tom  had  never 
reproached  him  for  his  share  in  the  public  folly.  Indeed,  Tom 
had  never  reproached  a  single  soul.  Poor  wretches  who  had 
insulted  him  had  sent  for  him,  v?ith  abject  shrieks.  "  Oh, 
doctor,  doctor,  save  me  !  Oh,  forgive  me  ;  oh,  if  I'd  minded 
what  you  said  !  Oh,  don't  think  of  w^hat  I  said  1 "  And  Tom 
had  answered  cheerfully,  "  Tut-tut ;  never  mind  what  might 
have  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  abused  responsibility,  exaggerated  and  defiled 
by  superstitious  horror  ;  and  maudlin  tipsy,  he  wandered  about 
the  street,  moaning  that  he  had  murdered  his  wiie,  and  all 
the  town,  and  asking  pardon  of  everyone  he  met ;  till  seeing 
one  of  the  meeting-houses  open,  he  staggered  in,  in  the  vague 
hope  of  comfort  which  he  knew  he  did  not  deserve. 

In  half  an  hour  Tom  was  down  the  street  again  to  Headley's. 
"Where  is  Miss  Harvey  ?" 

"At  the  Beers'." 

"She  must  go  up  to  Heale's  instantly.  The  mother  will 
die.  Those  cases  of  panic  seldom  recover.  And  Miss  Heale 
may  very  likely  follow  her.  She  has  shrieked  and  sobbed 
herself  into  it,  poor  fool  !  and  Grace  must  go  to  her  at  once ; 
she  may  bring  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  evening, 
when  he  found  the  girl  past  danger. 

"Mr.  Thurnalll"   said  Grace,  in  a  tone   of  sad  and  most 
"  meaning  reproof. 

"  But  you  are  !    And  these  owls  are  not  worthy  of  you." 

"This  is  no  time  for  such  language,  sir!  After  all,  what 
am  I  doing  more  than  you  ?  "  And  Grace  went  upstairs  again, 
with  a  cold,  hard  countenance  which  belied  utterly  the  heart 
within. 

That  was  the  critical  night  of  all.  The  disease  seemed  to 
have  done  its  worst  in  the  likeliest  spots  :  but  cases  of  panic 
increased  all  the  afternoon,  and  the  gross  number  was  greater 
than  ever. 


Two  Years  Ago.  365 

Tom  did  not  delay  inquiring  into  the  cause :  and  he  dis- 
covered 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  fierce  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  oatJis. 

"  For  Heaven's  sake  I  Thurnall,  calm  yourself,  and  do  not 
swear  so  frightfully ;  it  is  so  unlike  you  !  What  can  have  upset 
you  thus  ? " 

"Why  should  I  not  curse  and  swear  in  the  street,"  gasped 
he,  "while  every  fellow  who  calls  himself  a  preacher  is  allowed 
to  do  it  in  the  pulpit  with  impunity  I  Fine  him  five  shillings 
for  every  curse,  as  you  might  if  people  had  courage  and  common 
sense,  and  then  complain  of  me  1  I  am  a  fool,  I  know,  though. 
But  I  cannot  stand  it  1  To  have  all  my  work  undone  by  a 
brutal,  ignorant  fanatic  I  It  is  too  much  I  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  I  Oh,  you  parsons  I  you  parsons ! "  and  Tom 
ground  his  teeth  with  rage. 

"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  tom- 
foolery. 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  I  Go  into  the. 
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 
Nonconformist  opposition  shop." 


366  Two  Years  Ago. 

"  You  are  unjust,  Thurnall  I  What  are  such  rules  at  a 
moment  hke  ihis?  I'd  break  them,  and  the  bishop  would  hold 
me  guiltless.  But  I  cannot  speak  to  these  people.  I  have  no 
eloquence — no  readiness — they  do  not  trust  me — would  not 
believe  me — God  help  me  1 "  and  Frank  covered  his  face  with 
his  hands,  and  burst  into  tears. 

"Not  that,  for  Heaven's  sake  I"  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  I " 

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  evening,  the  meeting-house  was  filling 
with  terrified  women,  and  half-curious,  half-sneering  men  ;  and 
among  them  the  tall  fig^ure  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 
benches. 

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  cursing  and  swearing.  He 
described  the  next  world  in  language  which  seemed  a  strange 
jumble  of  Virgil's  "^neid,"  the  Koran,  the  dreams  of  those 
rabbis  who  crucified  our  Lord,  and  of  those  mediaeval  inquisi- 
tors 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  possible  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 
excitement  was  at  the  very  highest ;  and  called  on  all  who  felt 
"  convinced  "  to  come  forward  and  confess  their  sins. 

In  another  minute  there  would  have  been  (as  there  have  been 


Two  Years  Ago.  367 

ere  now)  four  or  five  young  girls  raving  and  tossing  upon  the 
floor,  in  mad  terror  and  excitement ;  or,  possibly,  half  the 
congregation  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  rational  beings, 
and  let  me  tell  you  the  truth— God's  truth  !  Men  1 "  he  said, 
with  an  emphasis  on  the  word,  "you,  at  least,  will  give  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  sprang  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 
mistranslated,  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  pro- 
ducing, 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. 


368  Two  Years  Ago. 

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  the  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  that  they 
had  never  seen  nor  heard  the  like :  but  it  must  be  like  what 
their  fathers  had  told  them  of,  when  John  Wesley,  on  the 
cliffs  of  St.  Ives,  out-thundered  the  thunder  of  the  gale.  To 
Grace  he  seemed  one  of  the  old  Scotch  Covenanters  of  whom 
she  had  read,  risen  from  the  dead  to  preach  there  from  his 
rock  beneath  the  great  temple  of  God's  air,  a  wider  and  a 
juster  creed  than  theirs.  Frank  drew  Thurnall's  arm  through 
his,  and  whispered,  "I  shall  thank  you  for  this  to  my  dying 
day : "  but  Thurnall  held  down  his  head.  He  seemed  deeply 
moved.     At  last,  half  to  himself—  ^ 

*' Humph  1  I  believe  that  between  this  man  and  that  girl, 
you  will  make  a  Christian  even  of  me  some  day  !  " 

But  the  lull  was  only  for  a  moment.  For  Major  Campbell, 
looking  round,  discerned  among  the  crowd  the  preacher, 
whispering  and  scov/ling  amid  a  knot  of  -women  ;  and  a  sudden 
fit  of  righteous  wrath  came  over  him. 

"Stand  out  there,  sir,  you  preacher,  and  look  me  in  the  face, 
if  you  can  1 "  thundered  he.  "  We  are  here  on  common  ground 
as  free  men,  beneath  God's  heaven  and  God's  eye.  Stand  out, 
sir  !  and  answer  me  if  you  can  ;  or  be  for  ever  silent ! " 

Half  in  unconscious  obedience  to  the  soldier-like  word  of 
command,  half  in  jealous  rage,  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  I  Let  the  Lord  judge  between  me 
and  him  !  Stop  your  ears — a  messenger  of  Satan — a  Jesuit  in 
disguise ! " 

"  You  lie,  and  you  know  that  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  L  Listen  to  me,  sir  I  Dare  you,  in  the 
presence  of  God,  answer  for  the  words  which  you  have  spoken 
this  day  ?  " 


Two  Years  Ago.  369 

A  strange  smile  came  over  the  preacher's  face. 

"  I  read  my  title  clear,  sir,  to  mansions  in  the  skies.  Well 
for  you  if  you  could  do  the  same." 

Was  it  only  the  setting  sun,  or  was  it  some  inner  light 
from  the  depths  of  that  great  spirit,  which  shone  out  in  all 
his  countenance,  and  filled  his  eyes  with  awful  inspiration,  as 
he  spoke,  in  a  voice  calm  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 
have  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  aw^ful 
words  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 
v  '^es  cried,  "  Thank  you,  sir  !  Thank  you  I "  and  old  Captain 
Willis,  stepping  forward,  held  out  his  hand  to  him,  a  quiet 
pride  in  his  gray  eye. 

"You  will  not  refuse  an  old  fighting  man's  thanks,  sir? 
This  has  been  like  Elijah's  day  with  Baal's  priests  on 
Carmel." 

Campbell  shook  his  hand  in  silence :  but  turned  suddenly, 
for  another  and  coarser  voice  caught  his  ear.  It  was  Jones, 
the  lieutenant's. 

"And  now,  my  lads,  take  the  Methodist  parson,  neck  and 
heels,  and  heave  him  into  the  quay-pool,  to  think  over  his 
summons  I " 

Campbell  went  back  instantly.  "No,  my  dear  sir,  let  me 
entreat  you  for  my  sake.  What  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 


370  Two  Years  Ago. 

adjuration.  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,  Thurnall,  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  in  his  breath. 
Thurnall  walked  quickly  and  steadily  up  to  him. 

Gentleman  Jan  and  two  other  riotous  fellows  had  already 
laid  hold  of  him,  more  with  the  intention  of  frightening,  than 
of  really  ducking  him. 

"  Don't !  don't  1 "  cried  he,  looking  round  with  eyes  wild— 
but  not  V7ith  terror. 

"Hands  off,  my  good  lads,"  said  Tom,  quietly.  "This  is 
my  business  now,  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  hours  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 
Mini6  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 — and  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." 

"Then  you  do  not  blame  me?"  asked  Campbell,  with  a 
subdued,  almost  deprecatory  voice,  such  as  Thurnall  had 
never  heard  in  him  before. 

"The  man  deserved  to  die,  and  he  died,  sir.  It  is  well 
that  there  are  some  means  left  on  earth  of  punishing 
offenders  whom  the  law  cannot  touch." 

"  It  is  an  awful  responsibility." 

"  Not  more  awful  than  killing  a  man  in  battle,  which  we 
both  have  done,  sir,  and  yet  have  felt  no  sting  of  conscience." 

"  An  awful  responsibility  still.  Yet  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. 


Two  Years  Ago.  371 

God  forgive  him  I  At  least,  our  cause  may  be  soon  tried  and 
judged  :  there  is  little  fear  of  my  not  meeting  him  again — soon 
enough."  And  Campbell,  with  a  sad  smile,  lay  back  in  his 
chair  and  was  silent. 

"My  dear  sir,"  said  Tom,  "allow  me  to  remind  you,  after 
this  excitement  comes  a  collapse ;  and  that  is  not  to  be  trifled 
with  just  now.     Medicine  I  dare  not  give  you.     Food  I  must" 

Campbell  shook  his  head. 

"  You  must  go  now,  my  dear  fellow.  It  is  now  half-past  ten, 
and  I  vrill  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." 

"Major,  you  are  not  going  to  doctor  yourself?"  cried 
Tom. 

"There  is  a  certain  medicine  called  prayer,  Mr.  Thurnall — 
an  old  specific  for  the  heart-ache,  as  you  will  find  one  day — 
which  I  have  been  neglecting  much  of  late,  and  which  I  must 
return  to  in  earnest  before  midnight.  Good-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  which  he  went  to 
Pennington's,  and  thence  somewhere  else  ;  and  Tom  met  him 
at  four  o'clock  that  morning  musing  amid  unspeakable  horrors, 
quiet,  genial,  almost  cheerful. 

"You  are  a  man,"  said  Tom  to  himself;  "and  I  fancy  at 
times  something  more  than  a  man  ;  more  than  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  he  arrived  at  the  surgery  door,  Headley  stood  waiting 
for  him. 

"  Anything  fresh  ?     Have  you  seen  the  Heales  ?  " 

"  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  saUor's 
power  of  tumbling  in  and  taking  a  dog's  nap  whenever  he 
chose." 

"  I  have  warned  him  again  and  again  :  but  he  was  workmg 


372  Two  Years  Ago. 

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  I "  quoth  Tom  to  himself.  "  Is  she 
with  him  ?  " 

"  No  :  he  found  himself  ill ;  slipped  home  on  some  pretence ; 
and  will  not  hear  of  our  telling  her." 

"  Noble  old  fellow  1  Caring  for  everyone  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 
flickering  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  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  Frank. 

"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?" 


Two  Years  Ago.  373 

"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  I  shall  be  a  wiser  man 
henceforth,  I  trust.  At  least  I  shall  not  trouble  Aberalva 
long." 

"Oh,  sir,  don't  talk  so;  and  you  just  getting  a  hold  of 
them ! " 

"I?" 

"Yes,  you,  sir.  They've  found  you  out  at  last,  thank  God! 
I  always  knew  what  you  were,  and  said  it.  They've  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  staggered  Frank.  Some  men  it  would 
only  have  hardened  in  their  pedantry,  and  have  emboldened 
them  to  say:  "Ah  !  then  these  men  see  that  a  High  Church- 
man can  work  like  anyone  else,  vvhen  there  is  a  practical 
sacrifice  to  be  made.  Now  I  have  a  standing  ground  which 
no  one  can  dispute,  from  which  to  go  on,  and  enforce  my  idea 
of  what  he  ought  to  be." 

Bat,  rightly  or  wrongly,  no  such  thought  crossed  Frank's 
mind.  He  was  just  as  good  a  Churchman  as  ever — why  not  ? 
Just  as  fond  of  his  own  ideal  of  what  a  parish  and  a  Church 
service  ought  to  be — why  not?  But  the  only  thought  which 
did  rise  in  his  mind  was  one  of  utter  self-abasement. 

"  Oh,  how  blind  I  have  been  !  How  I  have  wasted  my  time 
in  laying  down  the  law  to  these  people  ;  fancying  myself 
infallible,  as  if  God  were  not  as  near  to  them  as  He  is  to  me 
— certainly  nearer  than  to  any  book  on  my  shelves — offending 
their  little  prejudices,  little  superstitions,  in  my  own  cruel 
self-conceit  and  self-will !  And  now,  the  first  time  that  I 
forget  my  own  rules ;  the  first  time  that  I  forget  almost  that 
I  am  a  priest,  even  a  Christian  at  all ;  that  moment  they 
acknowledge  me  as  a  priest,  as  a  Christian.  The  moment  I 
meet  them  upon  the  commonest  human  ground,  helping  them 
as  one  heathen  would  help  another,  simply  because  he  was 
his  own  flesh  and  blood,  that  moment  they  soften  to  me,  and 
show  me  how  much  I  m.ight  have  done  with  them  twelve 
months  ago,  had  I  had  but  common  sense  I" 


374  Two  Years  Ago. 

He  knelt  down  and  prayed  by  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  ask  it, 
but  that  I  know  I'm  going.  I  should  like  to  take  it  with  my 
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.     Have  some  brandy  before  you  start  ?  " 

"  No  I  no  Dutch  courage  I "  and  Frank  was  gone.  He  had 
a  word  to  say  to  Grace  Harvey,  and  it  must  be  said  at  once. 

He  turned  down  the  silent  street,  and  turned  up  over  stone 
stairs,  through  quaint  stone  galleries  and  balconies,  such  as  are 
often  huddled  together  on  the  cliff  sides  in  fishing  towns ;  into 
a  stifling  cottage,  the  door  of  which  had  been  set  wide  open 
in  the  vain  hope  of  fresh  air.  A  woman  met  him,  and  clasped 
both  his  hands,  with  tears  of  joy. 

"  They're  mending,   sir !    They're  mending,   else  I'd  have 
sent  to  tell  you.     I  never  looked  for  you  so  late." 
,  There  was  a  gentle  voice  in  the  next  room.     It  was  Grace's. 

"  Ah,  she's  praying  for  them  now.  She'm  given  them  all 
their  medicines  all  along !  Whatever  I  should  have  done 
without  her  ! — and  in  and  out  all  day  long,  too  ;  till  one  fancies 
at  whiles  the  Lord  must  have  changed  her  into  five  or  six  at 
once,  to  be  everywhere  to  the  same  minute." 

Frank  went  in,  and  listened  to  her  prayer.  Her  face  was  cia 
pale  and  calm  as  the  pale,  calm  faces  of  the  two  worn-out  babes, 
whose  heads  lay  on  the  pillow  close  to  hers  :  but  her  eyes  were 
lit  up  with  an  intense  glory,  which  seemed  to  fill  the  room  with 
love  and  light 

Frank  listened  :  but  would  not  break  the  spelL 


Two  Years  Ago.  375 

At  last  she  rose,  looked  round,  and  blushed. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  for  taking  the  liberty.  If  I  had 
known  that  you  were  about,  I  would  have  sent :  but  hearing 
that  you  were  gone  home,  I  thought  you  would  not  be  offended, 
if  I  gave  thanks  for  them  myself.  They  are  my  own,  sir, 
as  it  were " 

•'  Oh,  Miss  Harvey,  do  not  talk  so  I  While  you  can  pray 
as  you  were  praying  then,  he  who  would  silence  you  might 
be  silencing  unawares  the  Lord  Himself!" 

She  made  no  answer,  though  the  change  in  Frank's  tone 
moved  her  ;  and  when  he  told  her  his  errand,  that  thought  also 
passed  from  her  mind. 

At  last,  "  Happy,  happy  man  I "  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  word  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  that  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  1 " 

Grace  burst  into  tears. 

"  Thank  God  1  And  I  thank  you,  sir !  Oh,  there's  never  a 
storm  but  what  some  gleam  breaks  through  it !  And  now, 
sir,  I  would  not  have  told  you  it  before,  lest  you  should  fancy 
that  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  them,  then  ?  " 

"  It  would  take  long  to  tell,  sir  :  but  what  happened  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  other  God  myself  till  no  such 
long  time  since ;  and  never  knew,  poor  fool,  that  the  Lord's 
name  was  Love  ?  " 

"  I  have  found  out  that,  too,  in  these  last  days.  More 
shame  to  me  than  to  you  that  I  did  not  know  it  before." 


37^  Two  Years  Ago. 

"Well  for  us  both  that  we  do  know  now,  sir.  For  if  we 
believed  Him  now,  sir,  to  be  aught  but  perfect  Love,  how  could 
we  look  around  here  to-night,  and  not  go  mad  ?  " 

"  Amen  1 "  said  Frank.  * 

And  how  had  the  pestilence,  of  all  things  on  earth,  revealed 
to  those  two  noble  souls  that  God  is  Love  ? 

Let  the  reader,  if  he  have  supplied  Campbell's  sermon, 
answer  the  question  for  himself. 

They  went  in,  and  upstairs  to  Willis. 

Grace  bent  over  the  old  man,  tenderly,  but  with  no  sign  of 
sorrow.  Dry-eyed,  she  kissed  the  old  man's  forehead  ;  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  no  concern 
of  mine,  of  course ;  but  you  are  all  good  creatures,  and, 
somehow,  I  should  like  to  be  with  you." 

So  Tom  stayed;  and  what  thoughts  passed  through  his 
heart  are  no  concern  of  ours. 

Frank  put  the  cup  to  the  old  man's  lips ;  the  lips  closed, 
sipped — then  opened  .  .  .  the  jaw  had  fallen. 

"Gone,"  said  Grace,  quietly.  <; 

[  Frank  paused,  awe-struck. 

"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  the  Communion  Service. 

Grace  rose  when  it  was  over,  kissed  the  calm  forehead, 
and  went  out  without  a  word. 

"Tom,"  said  Frank,  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 — 

"  H  ey  I    What  does  that  mean  ?  " 

"At  last  1"  gasped  Frank,  gently  enough.  "Excuse  me!" 
He  was  bowed  almost  double,  crushing  Thurnall's  arm  in  the 
fierce  gripe  of  pain.  - 


Two  Years  Ago.  377 

•*  Pish  !  Hang  it  I  Impossible  I  There,  you  are  all  right 
now  I " 

"  For  the  time.  I  can  understand  many  things  now.  Curious 
sensation  it  is,  though.  Can  you  conceive  a  sword  put  in 
on  one  side  of  the  w^aist,  just  above  the  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.  Have  you  had  any 
warnings  ?  " 

'*  Yes — no^that  is — this  morning  :  but  I  forgot.  Never 
mind !  What  matters  a  hundred  years  hence  ?  There  it  is 
again  I    God  help  me  1 " 

"  Humph  I "  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  half  an  hour  Frank  is 
screaming  like  a  woman,  though  he  has  bitten  his  tongue  half 
through  to  stop  his  screams. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

The  Black  Hound. 

Pah  !  Let  us  escape  anywhere  for  a  breath  of  fresh  air,  for 
even  the  scent  of  a  clean  turf.  We  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, 
healthful  breeze  (for  the  drought  lasts  on),  at  least  a  cool, 
refreshing  down-draught  from  Carcarrow  Moor  before  the  sun 
gets  up.  It  is  just  half-past  four  o'clock,  on  a  glorious  August 
morning.  We  shall  have  three  hours  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  agains*  the  window-pane.     la 


37^  Two  Years  Ago. 

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?" 

"  He  ?    Sleeping  like  a  babe,  and  getting  well  as  fast  as  his 
soul  will   allow  his  body.     He   has  something  on  his  mind. 
Nothing  to  be  ashamed  of,  though,  I  will  warrant ;  for  a  purer, 
nobler  fellow  I  never  met." 
"  When  can  we  move  him  ?  " 

"  Oh,  to-morrow,  if  he  will  agree.  You  may  all  depart  and 
leave  me  and  the  Government  man  to  make  out  the  returns  of 
killed  and  wounded.  We  shall  have  no  more  cholera.  Eight 
days  without  a  new  case.  We  shall  do  now.  I'm  glad  you're 
coming  up  with  us." 

"I  will  just  see  the  hounds  throw  off,  and  then  go  back 
and  get  Headley's  breakfast." 

"  No,  no  1  you  mustn't,  sir  :  you  want  a  day's  play." 
*'  Not  half  as  much  as  you.     And  I  am  in  no  hunting  mood 
just  now.     Do  you  take  your  fill  of  the  woods  and  the  streams, 
and  let  me  see  to  our  patient.     I  suppose  you  will  be  back  by 
noon  ?  " 

"  Certainly."  And  the  two  swing  up  the  street,  and  out  of 
the  town,  along  the  vale  toward  Trebooze. 

For  Trebooze  of  Trebooze  has  invited  them,  and  Lord 
Scoutbush,  and  certain  others,  to  come  out  otter-hunting ;  and 
otter-hunting  they  will  go. 

Trebooze  has  been  sorely  exercised,  during  the  last  fortnight, 
between  fear  of  the  cholera  and  desire  of  calling  upon  Lord 
Scoutbush,  "as  I  ought  to  do,  of  course,  as  one  of  the  gentry 
round  ;  he's  a  Whig,  of  course,  and  nc  more  to  me  than  any- 
body else  :  but  one  don't  like  to  let  politics  interfere  ; "  by  which 
Trebooze  glosses  over  to  himself  and  friends  the  deep  flunkey- 
dom  with  which  he  lusteth  after  a  live  lord's  acquaintance,  and 
one  especially  in  whom  he  hopes  to  find  even  such  a  one  as 
himself.  ..."  Good  fellow,  I  hear  he  is,  too — good  sportsman, 
smokes  like  a  chimney,"  and  so  forth. 

So,  at  last,  when  the  cholera  has  all  but  disappeared,  he 
comes    down    to     Penalva,     and    introduces     himself,     half 


Two  Years  Ago.  379 

•wag'gering",  half  servile ;  begins  by  a  string  of  apologies 
for  not  having  called  before — "  Mrs.  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  ;  fingers  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  offers  five  minutes  afterwards 
that  he  will  jump  his  Irish  mare  in  and  out  of  Aberalva 
pound;  is  utterly  "thrown  on  his  haunches,"  (as  he  informs 
his  friend  Mr.  Creed  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 ; "  recovers  himself  again  when 
Scoutbush  asks  after  his  otter-hounds,  of  which  he  has  heard 
much  praise  from  old  Tardrew  ;  and  launches  out  once  more 
into  sporting  conversation  of  that  gfraceful  and  lofty  stamp 
which  may  be  perused  and  perpended  in  the  pages  of 
"  Handley  Cross,"  and  Mr.  Sponge's  "  Sporting  Tour." 
books  painfully  true  to  that  uglier  and  baser  side  of  sporting 
life  which  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  'Tour,'  though 
he's  not  half  as  good  a  fellow  as  Sponge  himself ;  for  Sponge 
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 — Ugh  I  how  the  fellow  smelt  of  brandy,  and  worse  1  His 
hand,  too,  shook  as  if  he  had  the  palsy,  and  he  chattered  and 
fidgeted  like  a  man  with  St.  Vitus's  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  agreeable,  and  easy,  and  all  that :  but  shoves 
a  fellow  off,  and  sets  him  down  somehow,  and  in  such  a .  .  • 
civil  way,  that  you  don't  know  where  to  have  him." 

However,  Trebooze  departed  in  high  spirits ;  for  Lord 
Scoutbush  has  deigned  to  say  that  he  will  be  delighted  to  see 


380  Two  Years  Ago. 

the  otter-hounds  work  any  morning  that  Trebooze  likes,  and 
anyhow — no  time  too  early  for  him,  "He  will  bring  his 
friend,  Major  Campbell?" 

"  By  all  means." 

•'  Expect  two  or  three  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  lordship  '11  honour  us  by  taking  pot-luck  afterwards. 
Can't  show  you  French  cookery,  you  know,  and  your  souffleys 
and  glacys,  and  all  that.  Honest  saddle  o'  mutton,  and  the 
grounds  of  old  port.  My  father  laid  it  down,  and  I  take  it 
up,  eh?"  And  Trebooze  gave  a  wink  and  a  nudge  of  his 
elbow,  meaning  to  be  witty. 

His  lordship  was  exceedingly  sorry ;  it  was  the  most 
unfortunate  accident :  but  he  had  the  most  particular  engage- 
ment that  very  afternoon,  and  must  return  early  from  the  otter- 
hunt,  and  probably  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  the  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  1  I  wish  he  were 
an  otter  himself;  but  if  he'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  themselves  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 
company  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  bye,"  said  he,  "I  got  an  hour's  shore  work 
yesterday  afternoon,  and  refreshing  enough  it  was.  And  I 
got  a  prize  too.  The  sucking  barnacle,  which  you  asked  for  :, 
1   was  certain   I   should  get  one  or  two,  if  I   could  have  a 


Two  Years  Ago.  381 

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  some  higher 
and  freer  state." 

"Why  not?" 

"Why,  which  is  bettei  off,  the  free  swimming  larva,  or 
t'le  perfect  cirrhopod,  rooted  for  ever  motionless  to  the 
rock?" 

"  Which  is  better  ofF,  the  roving  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  proves  that  all  crawling 
grubs  don't  turn  into  butterflies." 

"  I  daresay  the  barnacle  turns  into  what  is  best  for  him  ; 
at  all  events  what  he  deserves.  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  neither." 

*'  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  anything  but  a  misery  and  injustice  in 
our  having  come  into  the  world  at  all." 

"  I  can,"  said  the  major,  quietly. 

"  Of  course  I  m.eant  nothing  rude  :  but  I  had  to  buy  my 
experience,  and  paid  for  it  dearly  enough  in  folly." 

"  So  I  had  to  buy  mine." 

"  Then  why  be  punished  over  and  above  ?  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." 

"  And  will  punishment  cure  me  of  the  foolishness  ?  " 


382  Two  Years  Ago. 

"  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  off?  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,  even  if  it  were  possible.* 

"  Why  ?    Do  you  consider  yourself  perfect  ?  " 

*'  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  strange  metamorphoses,  and  yet  remain  the 
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  ? " 

"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  disappeared,  and  the  true  Mr.  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  1 " 

"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 
forgive  me.  Major  Campbell.  I  shall  learn  to  respect  those 
virtues  when  good    people  have    defined  them  a  little  more 


Two  Years  Ago.  383 

exactly,  and  can  show  me  somewhat  more  clearly  in  what  faith 
diflfers  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, 
probably,  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." 

"  I  should  like  to  hear  your  definition  of  the  former  at  least." 

"  Did  I  not  say  that  you  must  discover  it  for  yourself?  " 

"Yes.  Well.  When  the  lesson  comes,  if  it  does  come,  I 
suppose  it  will  come  in  some  learnable  shape ;  and  till  then,  I 
must  just  shift  for  myself — and  if  self-dependence  be  a  punish- 
able sin,  I  shall,  at  all  events,  have  plenty  of  company 
whithersoever  I  go.     There  is  Lord  Scoutbush  and  Trebooze  I " 

Why  did  not  Campbell  speak  his  mind  more  clearly  to 
Thurnall  ? 

Because  he  knew  that  with  such  men  words  are  of  little 
avail.  The  disease  was  entrenched  too  strongly  in  the  very 
centre  of  the  man's  being.  It  seemed  at  moments  as  if  all  his 
strange  adventures  and  hair-breadth  escapes  had  been  sent 
to  do  him  harm,  and  not  good ;  to  pamper  and  harden  his 
self-confidence,  not  to  crush  it  Therefore  Campbell  seldom 
argued  with  him :  but  he  prayed  for  him  often ;  for  he  had 
begun,  as  all  did  who  saw  much  of  Tom  Thurnall,  to  admire 
and  respect  him,  in  spite  of  all  his  faults. 

And  now,  turning  through  a  woodland  path,  they  descend 
toward  the  river,  till  they  can  hear  voices  below  them  ;  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  1" 
said  Campbell. 

"No  wonder :  he  has  been  soaking,  I  hear,  for  the  last 
fortnight,  with  some  worthy  compeers,  by  way  of  keeping 
off  cholera.      I  must  have  my  eye  on  him  to-day." 

Scrambling  down  through  the  brushwood,  they  found  them- 
selves in  such  a  scene  as  Creswick  alone  knows  how  to  paint : 
though  one  element  of  beauty,  which  Creswick  uses  full  well, 
was  wanting;   and  the  whole  place  was  seen,  not  by  slant 


384  Two  Years  Ago. 

sun-rays,  gleaming  through  the  boughs,  and  dappling  all  the 
pebbles  with  a  lacework  of  leaf  shadows,  but  in  the  uniform 
and  sober  gray  of  dawn. 

A  broad  bed  of  shingle,  looking  just  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-tipped  king  ferns,  clustering 
beneath  sallow  and  maple  bushes  already  tinged  with  gold ; 
on  the  left,  a  long  bar  of  gravel,  covered  with  giant  "butterbur" 
leaves  ;  in  and  out  of  which  the  hounds  are  brushing — beautiful 
black-and-tan  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 
himself  the  master  of  the  hounds. 

Scoutbush  is  standing  with  Trebooze  beyond  the  bar,  upon 
a  little  lawn  set  thick  with  alders.  Trebooze  is  fussing  and 
fidgeting  about,  wiping  his  forehead  perpetually ;  telling 
everybody  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  scrambing  over  the  rocks  above,  in  search  of  spraints.  Old 
Tardrew  waddles  stooping  along  the  line  where  grass  and 
shingle  meet,  his  bull-dog  visage  bent  to  his  very  knees. 

"Tardrew  out  hunting?"  says  Campbell.  "Why,  it  is  but 
a  week  since  his  daughter  was  buried  1 " 

•'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  feeling  enough,  don't  doubt  But  you  are  right. 
There  is  something  very  characteristic  in  the  w^ay  in  which 
the  English  countryman  never  shows  grief,  never  lets  it 
interfere  with  business,  even  with  pleasure." 

'*  Hollo  1  Mr.  Trebooze  1 "  says  the  old  fellow,  looking  up. 
"Here  it  is  1 " 

"Spraint?  Spraint?  Spraint?  Where?  Eh— what?"  cries 
Trebooze. 

"No;  but  what's  as  good:  here  on  this  alder  stump,  not 


T.Y.A.  u  ^^vay  go  the  hounds  at  score. 


r>  rage  38S, 


Two  Years  Ago.  385 

an  hour  old.  I  thought  they  beauties'  starns  weren't  flemishing 
for  nowt." 

"  Here  !  here !  here !  here  !  Musical,  Musical  I  Sweetlips  I 
Get  out  of  the  way  I "  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  the  pack  dashes  down  the  shingle  to  her 
call. 

"Over!"  shouts  Tom.     "  Here's  the  fresh  spraint  our  side  I " 

Through  the  water  splash  squire,  viscount,  steward,  and 
hounds,  to  the  horror  of  a  shoal  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  unnsolved. 

Over  dances  the  little  terrier,  yapping  furiously,  and  expending 
his  superfluous  energy  by  snapping  right  and  left  at  the  par. 

"  Hark  to  Musical  I  hark  to  Sweetlips  1  Down  the  stream  I 
No  I   the  old  girl  has  it ;  right  up  the  bank  ! " 

"  How  do.  Doctor?  How  do.  Major  Campbell  ?  Forward  I 
Forward  1  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,  and 
almost  bursting  ;  his  cheeks  are  flushed,  his  lip3  blue,  his  hand 
shakes ;  and  Tom's  quick  eye  has  already  remarked,  from  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,  their 
merry  peal  ringing  from  brake  and  briar,  clashing  against  the 
rocks,  moaning  musically  away  through  distant  glens  aloft 

Scoutbush  and  Tardrew  "take  down"  the  river-bed,  followed 
by  Campbell.  It  is  in  his  way  home ;  and  though  the  major 
has  stuck  many  a  pig,  shot  many  a  gaur,  rhinoceros  and 
elephant,  he  disdains  not,  like  a  true  sportsman,  the  less 
dangerous  but  more  scientific  excitement  of  an  otter-hunt 

"  Hark  to  the  merry,  merry  Christchurch  bells  1    She's  up  by 


386  Two  Years  Ago. 

this  time  ;  that  don't  sound  like  a  drag^  now  ! "  cries  Tom, 
bursting  desperately,  with  elbow-guarded  visage,  through  the 
tangled  scrub.  "\/hat's  the  matter,  Trebooze?  No,  thanks! 
'Modest  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  offers  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,  girded  by  green 
walls  of  wood  ;  and  along  the  river-bank  the  hounds  are  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  pulled  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  the 
river  brink. 

"  Over  I  over  !  over  1 "  shouts  Peter,  tumbling  over  the  fence 
into  the  stream,  and  staggering  across. 

Trebooze  comes  up  to  it,  tries  to  scramble  over,  mutters  some- 
thing, and  sits  down  astride  of  a  bough. 

"  You  are  not  well,  squire  ?  " 

"  Well  as  ever  I  was  in  my  life  I  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  those  are  !  "  says  Tom,  trying,  for 
ulterior  purposes,  to  ingratiate  himself.  "  How  they  are 
working  there  all  by  themselves,  like  so  many  human  beings. 
Perfect ! " 

"Yes — don't  want  us — may  as  well  sit  here  a  minute. 
Awfully  hot,  eh  ?  What  a  splendid  creature  that  Miss  St 
Just  is  1     I  say,   Peter  1 " 

"Yes,  sir,"  shouts  Peter,  from  the  other  side. 

"  Those  hounds  ain't  right  1 "  with  an  oath. 

"  Not  right,  sir  ?"  o 

"  Didn't  I  tell  you  ? — five  couple  and  a  half— no,  five  couple— 


Two  Years  Ago.  387 

no,  six.  Hang  it !  I  can'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  ?  " 

"Which  other?"  shouts  Peter,  while  Thurnall  eyes 
Trebooze  keenly. 

"  Why  that !  He's  none  o'  mine  I  Nasty  black  cur,  how  did 
he  get  here  ?  " 

"  Where  ?    There's  never  no  cur  here  I " 

"You  lie,  you  oaf — no — why — Doctor — how  many  hounds  are 
there  here  ?  " 

"  I  can't  see,"  says  Tom,  "among  the  bushes." 

*'  Can't  see,  eh  ?  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. 

The  hounds  are  all  round  him,  and  he  is  couraging  them  on, 
fussing  again  more  than  ever  ;  but  without  success. 

"  Gone  to  holt  somewhere  here,"  says  Peter. 

" .  .  .  ! "  cries  Trebooze,  looking  round,  w^ith  a  sudden 
shudder,  and  face  of  terror,  "  There's  that  black  brute 
again !  there,  behind  me  I  Hang  it,  he'll  bite  me  next ! "  and 
he  caught  up  his  leg,  and  struck  behind  him  with  the 
spear. 

There  was  no  dog  there. 

Peter  was  about  to  speak  :  but  Tom  silenced  him  by  a  look, 
and  shouted — 

"  Here  we  are  !     Gone  to  holt  in  this  alder  root  1 '' 

"  Now  then,  little  Carlingford  !  Out  of  the  way,  puppies  1 " 
cries  Trebooze,  righted  again  for  the  moment  by  the  excite- 
ment, and,  thrusting  the  hounds  right  and  left,  he  stoops 
down  to  put  in  the  Uttle  terrier. 

Suddenly  he  springs  up,  vnth  something  like  a  scream,  and 
then  bursts  out  on  Peter  with  a  volley  of  oaths. 

"  Didn't  I  tell  you  to  drive  that  cur  away  ?  " 

"  Which  cur,  sir  ? "  cries  Peter,  trembling,  and  utterly 
confounded. 

"That  cur!  .  .  .  Can't  I  believe  my  own  eyes?  Will  you 
tell  me  that  the  beggar  didn't  bolt  between  my  legs  this 
moment,  and  went  into  the  hole  before  the  terrier?" 


388  Two  Years  Ago. 

Neither  answered.  Peter  from  utter  astonishment ;  Tom 
because  he  saw  what  was  the  matter. 

"Don't  stoop,  squire.  You'll  make  the  blood  fly  to  your 
head.     Let  me " 

But  Trebooze  thrust  him  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  half- 
buried  terrier  to  tear  the  intruder. 

Peter  looked  at  Tom,  and  then  wrung  his  hands  in  despair. 

"  Dirty  work  —  beastly  work  I "  muttered  Trebooze. 
•*  Nothing  but  slugs  and  evats  1  Toads,  too — hang  the  toads  I 
What  a  plague  brings  all  this  vermin  ?  Curse  it  1 "  shrieked 
he,  springing  back,  "there's  an  adder!  and  he's  gone  up 
my  sleeve  1  Help  me  1  Doctor  1  Thurnall  I  or  I'm  a  dead 
manl" 

Tom  caught  the  arm,  thrust  his  hand  up  his  sleeve,  and 
seemed  to  snatch  out  the  snake,  and  hurl  it  back  into  the 
river. 

•'  All  right  now  ! — a  near  chance,  though  1 " 

Peter  stood  open-mouthed. 

"I  never  saw  no  snake  I"  cried  he. 

Tom  caught  him  a  buffet  which  sent  him  reeling.  "Look 
after  your  hounds,  you  blind  ass  I — How  are  you  now, 
Trebooze  ?  "  And  he  caught  the  squire  round  the  waist,  for 
he  was  reeling. 

"  The  world  I  The  world  upside  down !  rocking  and 
swinging  1  Who's  put  me  feet  upwards,  like  a  fly  on  a 
ceiling  1  I'm  falling,  falling  off,  into  the  clouds— into  hell-fire 
— hold  me  I  Toads  and  adders !  and  wasps — to  go  to  holt  in 
a  wasp's  nest  I  Drive  'em  away— get  me  a  green  bough  1  I 
shall  be  stung  to  death  1 " 

And  tearing  off  a  green  bough,  the  wretched  man  rushed 
into  the  river,  beating  wildly  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." 


Two  Years  Ago.  389 

"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'sj^a  good  man  1  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. 

•'  Better  get  home  to  Mrs.  Trebooze,  sir,"  said  Tardrew, 
with  as  much  tenderness  as  his  gruff  voice  could  convey. 

"Yes,  home  1  home  to  Molly  1  My  Molly's  always  kind. 
She  won't  let  me  be  eaten  up  alive.     Molly,  Molly  1 " 

And  shrieking  for  his  wife,  the  wretched  man  started  to  run 
again. 

"  Molly,  I'm  in  hell !  Only  help  me  1  you're  always  right  I 
only  forgive  me!  and  I'll  never,  never  again " 

And  then  came  out  hideous  confessions  ;  then  fresh  hideous 
delusions. 

Three  weary  uphill  miles  lay  between  them  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  out  the  pursuing  fiends. 

"  Quick,  round  by  the  back-door  1 "  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  her  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  he 
knev7  not  what. 

She  put  her  arms  round  him,  soothed  him,  wept  over  him 


390  Two  Years  Ago. 

sacred  tears.    **  My  William  1  my  own  William  1    Yes,  I  will 
take  care  of  you  I     Nothing  shall  hurt  you — my  own,  own  ! " 

Vain,  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. 

"  Mr.  Thurnall,  madam.  Have  you  any  laudanum  in  the 
house  ?  " 

"Yes,  here!  Oh,  come  in!  Thank  God  you  are  come  I 
What  is  to  be  done  ? " 

Tom  looked  for  the  laudanum  bottle  and  poured  out  a 
heavy  dose. 

"  Make  him  take  that,  madam,  and  put  him  to  bed.  I  will 
wait  downstairs  awhile  1 " 

"Thurnall,  Thurnall!"  calls  |Trebooze ;  "don't  leave  me, 
old  fellow !  you  are  a  good  fellow.  I  say,  forgive  and 
forget.      Don't    leave    me  1     Only    don't    leave    me,    for    the 

room  is  as  full  of  devils  as " 

•  ••••«• 

An  hour  after,  Tom  and  Tardrew  were  walking  home 
together. 

"  He  is  quite  quiet  now,  and  fast  asleep." 

"Will  he  mend,  sir?"  asks  Tardrew. 

"Of  course  he  will:  and  perhaps  in  more  ways  than  one. 
Best  thing  that  could  have  happened — will  bring  him  to  his 
senses,  and  he'll  start  fresh." 

"  We'll  hope  so — he's  been  mad,  I  think,  ever  since  he  heard 
of  that  cholera." 

"  So  have  others  :  but  not  with  brandy,"  thought  Tom  :  but 
he  said  nothing. 

"  I  say,  sir,"  quoth  Tardrew,  after  a  while,  "how's  Parson 
Headley?" 

"Getting  well,  I'm  happy  to  say." 

"Glad  to  hear  it,  sir.  He's  a  good  man,  after  all;  though 
we  did  have  our  differences.  But  he's  a  good  man,  and  worked 
like  one." 

"  He  did." 

Silence  again. 

"  Never  heard  such  beautiful  prayers  in  all  my  lifCj  as  he 
made  over  my  poor  maid." 


Two  Years  Ago.  391 

'•I  don't  doubt  it,"  said  Tom.  "He  understands  his 
business  at  heart,  though  he  may  have  his  fancies." 

"  And  so  do  some  others,"  said  Tardrew,  in  a  gruff  tone,  as 
if  half  to  himself,  "who  have  no  fancies.  .  .  .  Tell  you  what 
it  is,  sir  :  you  was  right  this  time  ;  and  that's  plain  truth.  I'm 
sorry  to  hear  talk  of  your  going." 

"  My  good  sir,"  quoth  Tom,  "  I  shall  be  very  sorry  to  go.  I 
have  found  place  and  people  here  as  pleasant  as  man  could 
wish  :  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?" 

"Yes.     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  word  once  :  that  she  was  too  good  for  us." 

"  For  this  world,"  said  Tom  ;  and  he  fell  into  a  great  musing. 

By  those  curt  and  surly  utterances  did  Tardrew,  in  true 
British  bull-dog  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,  even  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  ever. 


CHAPTER  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'  healths,  with  a 
couple  of  sovereigns  which  Valencia  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  Mr.  Bowie,  are 
rattling  along  among  children,  maids,  and  boxes,  over  the 
sandy  flats  of  the  Traeth  Mawr,  beside  the  long  reaches  of  the 


392  Two  Years  Ago. 

lazy  stream,  with  the  blue  surges  of  the  hills  in  front,  and 
the  silver  sea  behind.  Soon  they  beg-in  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 
narrows  ;  closes  in,  walled  round  with  woodlands  clinging  to 
the  steep  hill-sides :  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,  while  the  horrors  which  they  have 
left  behind  them  hang,  like  a  black  background,  to  all  their 
thoughts.  However,  both  Scoutbush  and  Campbell  send  as 
cheerful  reports  as  they  honestly  can ;  and  gradually  the 
exceeding  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  complain  of  her  for  being 
happy  ;  for  feeling  that  she  has  got  a  holiday,  the  first  for  now 
four  years,  and  trying  to  enjoy  it  to  the  utmost.  She  has  no 
household  cares.  Mr.  Bowie  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  Valencia  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 
to  him  than  otherwise  just  now.  For  though  he  may  turn  up 
his  nose  at  tourists  and  reading-parties,  and  long  for  contempla- 
tive solitude,  yet  there  is  a  certain  pleasure  to  some  people,  and 


Two  Years  Ago.  393 

often  strongest  in  those  who  pretend  most  shyness,  in  the 
"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.  Vavasour,  the  distinguished 
poet.  I  wonder  what  he  is  writing  now  I  I  wonder  where 
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 
woodland,  with  Aran  and  Moel  Meirch  guarding  them  right 
and  left,  and  the  graystone  glaciers  of  the  Glyder  walling 
up  the  valley  miles  above.  And  they  went  up  Snowdon,  too, 
and  saw  little  beside  fifty  fog-blinded  tourists,  five-and-twenty 
dripping  ponies,  and  five  hundred  empty  porter-bottles  ;  where- 
from  they  returned,  as  do  many,  disgusted,  and  with  great 
colds  in  their  heads.  But  most  they  loved  to  scramble  up  the 
crags  of  Dinas  Emrys,  and  muse  over  the  ruins  of  the  old 
tower,  "where  Merlin  taught  Vortigern  the  courses  of  the 
stars ; "  till  the  stars  met  and  rose  as  they  had  done  for  Merlin 
and  his  pupil,  behind  the  four  great  peaks  of  Aran,  Siabod, 
Cnicht,  and  Hebog,  which  point  to  the  four  quarters  of  the 
heavens  :  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  air  the  battle  which  foretold  the  fall 
of  the  Cymry  before  the  Sassenach  invader. 

One  thing,  indeed,  troubled  Elsley— that  Claude  was  his  only 
companion  ;  for  Valencia  avoided  carefully  any  more  tete-d-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  complain  ;  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  Miss  Clara  his 
"opeeenion,"  that  he  "was  very  proud  and  thankful  of  the 
office :  but  he  did  think  he  had  to  do  a  great  many  things 
for  Mrs.  Vavasour  every  day  which  would  come  with  a  much 
N2  better  grace  from  Mr.  Vavasour  himself;  and  that,  when  he 


394  Two  Years  Ago. 

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,"  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  himself  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 
Clara  was  past  thirty  now,  and  losing  her  good  looks. 

"  So  ye'll  see  your  lassie,  Mr.  Bowie  1 "  said  Sergeant 
MacArthur,  his  intimate,  when  he  started  for  Aberalva  that 
summer.  "  I'm  thinking  ye'd  better  put  her  out  of  her  pain 
soon.  Five  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  ripe  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  washing 
and  dressing  them,  on  the  ground  that  an  old  soldier  could  turn 
his  hand  to  anything. 

So  slipped  away  a  fortnight  and  more,  during  which  Valencia 
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  the  reading-parties,  meanwhile,  thought  a  great 
deal  more  about  Valencia  than  about  their  books.  The 
Oxford  men,   it  seemed,   though  of  the  same   mind   as  the 


Two  Years  Ago.  395 

Cambridg-e  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  Valencia's 
maid  into  giving  them  a  bit  of  ribbon,  or  a  cast-off  glove, 
which  had  belonged  to  the  idol.  Whereon  that  maiden,  in 
virtuous  indignation,  told  Mr.  Bowie,  and  complained  more- 
over (as  maids  are  bound  to  do  to  valets  for  whom  they  have 
a  penchant)  of  their  having  dared  to  compliment  her  on  her 
own  good  looks ;  by  which  act  she  succeeded,  of  course,  in 
making  Mr.  Bowie  understand  that  other  people  still  thought 
her  pretty,  if  he  did  not ;  and  also  in  arousing  in  him  that 
jealousy  which  is  often  the  best  helpmate  of  sweet  love.  So 
Mr.  Bowie  went  forth  in  his  might  that  very  evening,  and 
finding  two  of  the  Oxford  men,  informed  them  in  plain  Scotch, 
that  "Gin  he  caught  them,  or  any  ither  such  skellums, 
philandering  after  his  leddies,  or  his  leddies'  maids,  he'd 
jist  knock  their  empty  pows  togither."  To  which  there 
was  no  reply  but  silence ;  for  Mr.  Bowie  stood  about  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  shoulder  of 
mutton  :  lifting  a  long  table  by  his  teeth ;  squeezing  a  quart 
pewter  pot  flat  between  his  fingers ;  and  other  little  recreations 
of  those  who  are  "born  unto  Rapha." 

But  the  Cantabs,  and  a  couple  of  gallant  Oxford  boating 
men  who  had  fraternised  with  them,  testified  their  admiration 
in  their  simple,  honest  way,  by  putting  down  their  pipes  when- 
ever they  saw  Valencia  coming,  and  just  lifting  their  hats  when 
they  met  her  close.  It  was  taking  a  liberty,  no  doubt.  "  But 
I  tell  you,  Mellot,"  said  Wynd,  as  brave  and  pure-minded 


396  Two  Years  Ago. 

a  fellow  as  ever  pulled  in  .he  University  eight,  "the  Arabs, 
when  they  see  such  a  creature,  say,  <  Praise  Allah  for  beautiful 
women,'  and  quite  right ;  they  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 
her  loveliness,  as  in  that  of  a  lake,  or  a  mountain  sunset ; 
but  nothing  more.  The  good  fellows  had  no  time,  indeed, 
to  fancy  themselves  in  love  with  her,  or  her  with  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  ;  camping  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  approach  to 
which  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  "lebensgliickseligkeit,"  which 
is  a  perpetual  wonder  to  our  sober  German  cousins.  Ah, 
glorious  twenty-one,  w^ith  your  inexhaustible  powers  of  doing 
and  enjoying,  eating  and  hungering,  sleeping  and  sitting  up, 
reading  and  playing  I  Happy  are  those  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  God  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  very  verge  of  forty,  and 
seeming  to  grow  younger-hearted  as  they  grow  older-headed, 
can  cast  off  care  and  work  at  a  moment's  warning,  laugh  and 
frolic  now  as  they  did  twenty  years  ago,  and  say  with 
Wordsworth— 

"  So  was  it  when  I  was  a  boy, 
So  let  it  be  when  I  am  old, 
Or  let  me  die  I " 

Unfortunately,   as  wiil    appear   hereafter,    Elsley's  especial 


Two  Years  Ago.  397 

bStes  noirs  were  this  very  Wynd  and  his  inseparable  com- 
panion, Naylor,  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.  Wynd  was  a  Shropshire 
squire's  son,  a  lissome,  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  Tennyson  from  end  to  end : 
spouted  the  "  Morte  d'Arthur"  up  hill  and  down  dale,  and 
chanted  rapturously,  "Come  into  the  garden,  Maud!"  while 
he  expressed  his  opinion  of  Maud's  lover  in  terms  more  forcible 
than  delicate.  Naylor,  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 
first-rate  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-wa,y  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  de'  do,  Mr.  Vavasour?  Had  any  verses  this 
morning  ?  "  in  the  same  tone  as  if  he  had  asked,  "  Had  any 
sport?"  Naylor's  round  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  ? "  in  a 
strong  provincial  dialect  put  on  for  the  nonce.  In  fact,  the 
two  young  rogues,  having  no  respect  whatever  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  betes  noirs  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 
phenomenon  which  rejoiced  some  hearts,  but  perturbed  also 
the  spirits  not  only  of  the  Oxford  "philanderers,"  but  those 
of  Elsley  Vavasour,  and,  what  i«  more,  of  Valencia  herself. 


39^  Two  Years  Ago. 

She  was  sitting  one  evening  at  the  window  with  Lucia, 
looking  out  into  the  village  and  pleasure-grounds  before  the 
hotel.  They  were  both  laughing  and  chatting  over  the  groups 
of  tourists  in  their  pretty  Irish  way,  just  as  they  had  done 
when  they  were  girls  ;  for  Lucia's  heart  was  expanding  under 
the  quiet  beauty  of  the  place,  the  freedom  from  household  care, 
and  what  was  more,  from  money  anxieties ;  for  Valencia  had 
slipped  into  her  hand  a  cheque  for  fifty  pounds  from  Scoutbush, 
and  assured  her  that  he  would  be  quite  angry  if  she  spoke  of 
paying  the  rent  of  the  rooms ;  Elsley  was  mooning  down  the 
river  by  himself;  Claude  was  entertaining  his  Cambridge 
acquaintances,  as  he  did  every  night,  with  his  endless  fun  and 
sentiment.  Gradually  the  tourists  slipped  in  one  by  one,  as 
the  last  rays  of  the  sun  faded  off  the  peaks  of  Aran,  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  car,  at  sight  whereof  out  rushed,  not 
waiters  only  and  landlady,  but  Mr.  Bowie  himself,  who 
helped  out  a  very  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  !  too  delightful ! 
This  is  why  they  did  not  write."  And  Valencia  sprang  up, 
and  was  going  to  run  downstairs  to  them,  when  she  paused 
at  Lucia's  call. 

*•  Who  have  they  with  them  ?  Val — come  and  look  1  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  Valencia's  mind  which  made  her 
look  grave,  in  spite  of  her  pleasure. 

He  was  evidently  vsreak,  as  from  recent  illness ;  for  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. 
"  M/  lord,  my  ladies  1 "  and  in  trotted  Scoutbush,  and  began 
kissing  them  fiercely,  and  then  dancing  about. 

"  Oh,  my  dears  I  Here  at  last— out  of  that  horrid  city  of  the 
plague  1     Such  sights  as  I  have  seen "  and  then  he  paused. 


Two  Years  Ago.  399 

"  Do  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  behave  !  And  the 
major,  he's  an  angel  I  And  so's  that  brick  of  a  doctor,  and 
the  mad  schoolmistress,  and  the  curate.  Everybody,  I  think, 
but  me.     Hang  it,  Val  I     but  your  words  shan't  come  true !    I 

will  be  of  som.e  use  yet  before  I  die  I     But    I've "  and 

Valencia  went  up  to  him  and  kissed  him,  while  he  ran  on, 
and  Lucia  said — 

"  You  have  been  of  use  already,  dear  Fred.  You  have  sent 
me   and  the    dear   children   to   this   sweet   place,   where   we 

have  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  1" 

broke-  out  Scoutbush.  "What  a  pity  it  is,  now,  that  I  should 
have  two  such  sweet  creatures  making  love  to  me,  and  can't 
marry  either  of  them?  Why  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  Valencia  a  worldly 
fine  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  myself;  for  I've  brought  away  the  poor  spalpeen  of  a 
priest,  and  have  got  him  safe  in  the  house." 

Valencia  stopped  short  in  her  fun. 
'    "Why,  what  have  ye  to  say  against  that.  Miss  Val  ? " 

"  Why,  won't  he  be  a  little  in  the  way  ?  "  said  Valer«ia,  not 
knovring  what  to  say, 

"  Faith,  he  needn't  trouble  yoa ;  and  I  shall  take  very  good 
care— I  wonder  when  the  supper  is  coming— that  neither  he 
nor  anyone  else  troubles  me.  But  really,"  said  he,  in  his 
natural  voice,  and  with  some  feelinsr.  "I  was  ashamed  to  go 


400  Two  Years  Ago. 

away  and  leave  him  there.  He  would  have  died  if  we  had. 
He  worked  day  and  night.  Talk  of  saints  and  martyrs  1 
Ccunpbell  himself  said  he  was  an  idler  by  the  side  of  him." 

"  Oh  1  I  hope  Major  Campbell  has  not  over-exerted  himself  1 " 

"  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  someone  (that  is,  Campbell  did)  to  take 
his  duty ;  and  brought  him  away,  after  a  good  deal  of 
persuasion ;  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  with  you  in  two  days,  and  give  you  a  pleasant 
surprise.  He  was  half-dead  when  we  got  him  on  board : 
but  the  week's  sea-air  helped  him  through ;  so  I  mu^  not 
grumble  at  these  northerly  breezes.  '  It's  an  ill-wind  that  blows 
nobody  good,'  they  say  1 " 

Valencia  heard  aU  this  as  in  a  dream ;  and  watched  her 
chattering  brother  with  a  stupefied  air.  She  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  shamefully  she  had 
trifled  with  that  noble  heart !  How  should  she  ever  meet— how 
have  courage  to  look  him  in  the  face?  And  not  love,  or 
anything  like  love,  but  sacred  pity  and  self-abasement  filled 
her  heart,  as  his  fair,  delicate  face  rose  up  before  her,  all  wan 
and  shrunken,  with  sad  upbraiding  eyes ;  and  round  it  such  a 
halo,  pure  and  pale,  as  crowns,  in  some  old  German  picture, 
a  martyr's  head. 

"He  has  had  the  cholera!  he  has  been  actually  dying?" 
asked  she  at  last,  with  that  strange  wish  to  hear  over  again 
bad  news,  which  one  knows  too  well  already. 

••Of  course  he  has.  Why,  you  are  not  going  away, 
Valencia?  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  1 " 


Two  Years  Ago.  401 

"  Has  Mr.  Headley  had  anything  to  eat?*  asked  Valencia, 
who  loxnged  to  run  away  to  her  own  room,  but  dared  not. 

"He  is  eating  now  like  any  gad,  ma'am;  and  Major 
Campbell'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  Pere  might  have  guessed  the  truth, 
and  be  angry  with  her.  And  yet  she  trusted  in  Frank's  secrecy. 
He  would  not  betray  her. 

Take  care,  Valencia.  When  a  woman  has  to  trust  a  man 
not  to  betray  her,  and  does  not  trust  him,  she  may  soon  find 
it  not  only  easy,  but  necessary,  to  do  more  than  trust  him. 

However,  in  five  minutes  Campbell  came  in.  Valencia  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  Valencia'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  a  one,  too,  God  help  them  1 
who  is  none  of  the  noblest,  and  therefore  does  not  know  how 
to  take  the  bitter  cup,  as  he  knows " 

"What  does  the  philosopher  mean  now?"  asked  Scoutbush, 
looking  up  from  the  cold  lamb.  Valencia  knew  but  too  well 
what  he  meant. 

"He  has  a  history,  my  dear  lord." 

"  A  history  ?    What  1  is  he  writing  a  book  ?  " 

Campbell  laughed  a  quiet  under-laugh,  half-sad,  half- 
humorous. 

",I  am  very  tired,"  said  Valencia ;  "  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  Valencia  knew  nothing  of.  She  was  regular  enough 
at  church,  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 


402  Two  Years  Ago. 

pray  really,  about  a  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  had  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,  un- 
refreshed  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.  5 

She  blushed  scarlet — do  what  she  would  she  could  not  help 
it — when  he  rose  and  bowed  to  her.  Half-choked,  she  came 
forward  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  reawaken  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  Iiad  overcome  the  passion,  it 
was  so  much  better  for  him.  But  yet  Valencia  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  would  ascend 
that  very  day. 

1  "You  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind,  Mr.  Headley  1"  cried 
Lucia. — "  Is  he  not  mad.  Major  Campbell,  quite  mad  ?  " 

"I  know  I  am  mad,  my  dear  Mrs.  Vavarour ;  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 
your  horse !  I  am  sure  he  is  not  strong  enough  to  sit  over 
those  rocks.  No,  you  shall  stay  at  home  comfortably  here; 
Valencia  and  I  will  take  care  of  you." 


Two  Years  Ago.  403 

**And  mon  Saint  Pfere  too?  I  have  a  thousand  things  to 
say  to  him." 

*'  And  so  has  he  to  Queen  Whims." 

So  Scoutbush  sent  Bowie  for  "John  Jones  Clerk,"  the 
fisherman  (may  his  days  be  as  many  as  his  salmon  and  as 
good  as  his  flies  !),  and  the  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  Valencia, 
laid  the  fatal  ring  on  the  arm  of  her  chair,  and  returned  to 
his  seat  -without  a  v^ord. 

"You  are  very I  hope  that  it "  stammered  Valencia. 

"  You  hope  that  it  was  a  comfort  to  me  ?  It  was ;  and  I 
shall  be  always  grateful  to  you  for  it." 

Valencia  heard  an  emphasis  on  the  "was."  It  checked  the 
impulse  (fooUsh  enough)  which  rose  in  her,  to  bid  him  keep 
the  ring. 

So,  prim  and  dignified,  she  slipped  it  into  its  place  on  her 
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  I  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  I  do  not  know  how  to  thank  you 
enough.  I  cannot  trust  myself  with  the  fit  words,  they  would 
be  so  strong :  but  I  owe  this  confession  to  you,  and  to  your 
exceeding  goodness  and  kmdness,  w^hen  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  have  seen 
me  here.  What  a  prospect  this  is  ! "  And  he  rose  and  looked 
out  of  the  window. 

Valencia  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 
herself,  ashamed  of  herself,  for  having  thought  and  felt  so 
much  about  him  the  night  before.     "  How  silly  of  me  I    He  is 


4-04  Two  Years  Ago. 

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,  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  different  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  was 
nobody  like  him,  after  all.  Perhaps  her  wisest  plan,  as  Headley 
had  forgotten  his  fancy,  was  to  confess  all  to  the  Saint  Pere 
(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  ua  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  Valencia  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  whCii  you  are  well  enough, 
and  see  the  lakes  ;  they  are  the  only  ones  in  Snowdon  from 
the  banks  of  which  the  primeval  forest  has  not  disappeared." 

"  Indeed  ?  I  must  make  shift  to  go  there  this  very  afternoon, 
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 


Two  Years  Ago.  405 

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 
not  enough  of  that.  I  fancy  sometimes,  that  in  some  mysterious 
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  here,  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  me  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  1  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  I  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  ?  Surely 
not,  after  what  he  had  just  said.    And  yet  there  was  a  sadness 


4o6  Two  Years  Ago. 

in  the  tone  which  made  Valencia  fancy  that  some  feeling  for 
her  might  still  linger  :  but  he  evidently  had  been  speaking  to 
himself,  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 
sentimentahty  of  mine.  I  will  make  my  bow,  and  find  the 
major.  I  am  afraid,  if  it  be  possible  for  him  to  forget  anyone, 
he  has  forgotten  me  in  some  new  moss  or  other." 

He  went  out,  and  to  Valencia'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  tired  last  night." 

"  Pray  do  not  I  "  cried  Frank,  evidently  much  pained  ;  "  I 
had  such  a  delightful  morning,  and  everyone  is  so  kind — 
you  only  make  me  wretched,  when  I  feel  all  the  trouble  I 
am  giving." 

*' My  dear  fellow,"  said  Scoutbush,  en  grand  sSrieux,  "after 
all  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  I "  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, 


Two  Years  Ago.  407 

as  the  reader  may  have  discovered,  Elsley,  save  tite-a-tSte 
with  someone  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  anyone,  and  tried  to  pass  off  by  chattering 
nervously  and  fussily  for  him,  as  well  as  for  herself ;  whereby 
she  only  made  him  the  more  cross,  for  he  could  not  the 
least  imderstand  her  argument,  "Why,  my  dear,  if  you  don't 
talk  to  people,  I  must  1 " 

"  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  beg^n 
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,  very  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 
^th  Major  Campbell.  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  Aberalva ;  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  anyone 
should  be  afraid  of  me,  unless  they  have  done  something 
wrong?"  So,  with  his  dark  suspicions  roused,  he  watched 
intently  every  word  and  every  tone  of  Elsley's  to  his  wife; 


4o8  Two  Years  Ago. 

and  here  he  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 
be  utterly  concealed  beneath  a  courteous  and  genial  manner : 
till  many  a  time  he  felt  inclined  to  knock  Elsley  down  for  little 
roughnesses  to  her,  which  were  really  the  fruit  of  mere 
gaucherie ;  and  then  accused  himself  for  a  hypocrite,  because 
he  was  keeping  up  the  courtesies  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  demandirig  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  Scoutbush ;  and  in  being  as  severe 
as  he  dared  on  all  Pharisees,  and  pretentious  persons  whatso- 
ever :  but  he  was  too  much  inclined  to  draw  between  the  two 
classes  one  of  those  strong  lines  of  demarcation  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  ;  while  many  a  publican  is,  in  the 
midst  of  all  his  foul  sins,  a  thorough  exclusive  and  self-com- 
placent Pharisee,  and  needs  not  the  right  hand  of  mercy,  but 
the  strong  arm  of  punishment 

Campbell,  like  other  men,  had  his  faults ;  and  his  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  looking  down  upon  men  in  general  nearly  as  much  as 
Thurnall  did.  So  h^set  down  Elsley  for  a  bad  man,  to  whom 
he  was  forced  by  haia  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.     Not 


Two  Years  Ago.  409 

that  ha  dared,  or  wished,  to  conduct  himself  with  her  as  he  did 
with  Valencia,  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. 

•'  What  do  you  think  of  that  poet,  Mellot  ?  "  said  he  once,  on 
returning  from  a  picnic,  during  which  Elsley  had  never  noticed 
his  wife  ;  and,  at  last,  finding  Valencia  engaged  with  Headley, 
had  actually  gone  off,  pour  pis  aller,  to  watch  Lord  Scoutbush 
fishing. 

"Oh,  clever  enough,  and  to  spare;  and  as  well  read  a  man 
as  I  know.  One  of  the  Sturra-und-drang  party,  of  course  ;  the 
express  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  1  Irritabile  genus  poetaivm.  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  ?     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  Uttle  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 


4IO  Two  Years  Ago. 

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.  What  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  were  beyond  their  reach  ? — 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.  How- 
ever, 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 
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. 
Besides  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  himself  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. 
Beside— 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 


Two  Years  Ago.  411 

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  youl  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  impostor.  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.  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,  hke  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 


412  Two  Years  Ago. 

would  cross  him)  the  devilish  notion,  that,  by  concealment,  he 
might  lure  Lucia  on  to  give  him  a  safe  ground  for  attack.  All 
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,  Valencia,  and  Frank,  utterly 
deceived,  went  on  more  merrily  than  ever,  little  dreaming  that 
they  walked  and  talked  daily  with  a  man  who  was  fast 
becoming  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 
Descartes,  '  I  think,  therefore  I  exist ; '  but  simply,  '  I  enjoy, 
therefore  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  Hie  sake  of  his 
pearls?"  said  Valencia. 

"  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  beside  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  the  jolly  oyster  too.  It  is  very 
beautiful  after  all,  that  careless  nymph  and  shepherd  life  of  the 
old  Greeks,  and  that  Marquesas  romance  of  Herman  Melville's 
— to  enjoy  the  simple  fact  of  living,  like  a  Neapolitan  lazzaroni, 
or  a  fly  upon  a  wall." 


Two  Years  Ago.  413 

"But  the  old  Greek  herces  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  eux!  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  will  meet.  I  was  very  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 
when  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  over- 
head, 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,  ;7  faut 
viure;  I  want  a  few  luxuries  :  I  have  no  capacity  for  keeping  a 
shop  ;  photographing  pays  better  tiian  painting,  considering 
the  time  it  takes;  and  it  is  only  Nature  reproducing  herself, 


414  Two  Years  Ago. 

not  caricaturing  her.  But  if  anyone  will  ensure  me  a  poor  two 
thousand  a  year,  I  will  promise  to  photograph  no  more,  but 
vanish  to  Sicily  or  Calabria,  and  sit  with  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  Valencia  of  Frank. 

"  That  I  am  too  like  the  Emersonian  oyster  here,  very  happy, 
and  very  useless ;  and,  therefore,  very  anxious  to  be  gone." 

"  Surely  you  have  earned  the  right  to  be  idle  awhile  ?  " 

*'  No  one  has  a  right  to  be  idle." 

"Oh  I"  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  very  depth  from  which 
the  commandments  sprang.    But  we  will  not  talk  about  it  here." 

"  Why  not  ?  "  asked  Valencia,  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  ? " 

*'  I  suppose  it  is  so,"  said  Valencia. 

**  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  of  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." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  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  ?  " 


Two  Years  Ago.  415 

•*  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  devotion,  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  Valencia 
was  silent 

"  It  is  a  noble  thought,  Mellot ;  and  all  thoughts  become 
clear  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 
love  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  I  And  easy  to  work,  too,  when  one 
once  feels  that  one  is  working  for  such  a  Being,  and  with  such 
a  Being ;  as  that  1  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  SL  Just  I  I  ought 
not  to  intrude  thus  I " 

"  Go  on  1 "  said  Valencia. 

*'  I— J  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  bis  school  of  anything 
like  display  on  such  solemn  matters. 

"Can  you  tell  us  too  much  truth?  Mr.  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" 


4i6  Two  Years  Ago. 

"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  1  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  anyone  ?    Set  me  my  task." 

But  Frank  was  following  with  his  eyes  Valencia,  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  Valencia's  heart  was 
heavy  within  her. 

For  her  conscience  was  really  smitten.  Of  what  use  was 
she  in  the  world?  Major  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  superfluous  commonplace,  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  chose,  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  comforted  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  ♦hought  herself  by  no 


TY.A.         «  He  swung  liimsclf  down  the  ledge."       ''"«'^-^- 


Two  Years  Ago.  417 

means  bound  fco  fo!!ow  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  frighter.ed,  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  too  ought  to  be 
useful.     I  can  be  ;  I  will  be  1 " 

"Lucia,"  asked  she,  that  very  afternoon,  "will  you  let  me 
take  the  children  off  your  hands  while  Clara  is  busy  in  the 
morning  ?  " 

"Oh,  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  Valencia's  self-accusing  heart  to  say,  "  Have  you 
only  now  discovered  that  fact?" 

From  that  day  Valencia  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 
different  from  what  she  heard  in  the  world,  and  which  in  her 
heart  of  hearts  she  liked  so  much  better.  For  it  was  with 
Valencia  as  with  all  women  ;  in  this  common  fault  of  frivolity, 
as  in  most  others,  the  men  rather  than  they  are  to  blame. 
Valencia  had  cultivated  in  herself  those  qualities  which  she 
saw  admired  by  the  rrfen  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  which  is  their  real  excuse  for  the  flirting 
O  with  "geniuses,"  casting  themselves  at  the  feet  of  directors; 


4i8  Two  Years  Ago. 

which  had  tempted  her  to  coquette  with  Elsley,  and  was  now 
bringing  her  into  "  undesirable  "  intimacy  with  the  poor  curate. 

She  had  heard  that  day,  with  some  sorrow,  his  announcement 
that  he  wished  to  be  gone ;  but  as  he  did  not  refer  to  it 
again,  she  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  commission. 

*'  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  least  he  will  do 
better  there  than  I." 

"But  what  could  have  induced  you?  How  sorry  all  the 
people  will  bel" 

"  I  am  not  so  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  1  I  shall  now  go  somewhere 
where  I  shall  have  simpler  work  to  do ;  where  I  shall  at  leas; 
have  a  chance  of  practising  the  lesson  which  I  learnt  there.  I 
learnt  it  all,  strange  to  say,  from  the  two  people  in  the  parish 
from  whom  I  expected  to  learn  least." 

"  Whom  do  you  mean  ?  " 

*'  The  Doctor  and  the  schoolmistress.*' 

"  Why  from  them  less  than  from  any  in  the  parish  ?  She 
so  good,  and  he  so  clever  ?  " 

"That  I  shall  never  tell  to  anyone  now.  Suffice  it  that  I 
was  mistaken." 

Valencia  could  obtain  no  further  answer ;  and  so  the  days 
ran  on,  everyone  becoming  more  and  more  intimate,  till  a 
certain  afternoon,  on  which  they  jvere  all  to  go  and  picnic, 
under  Claude's  pilotage,  above  the  lake  of  Gwynnant. 
Scoutbush  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  loth  to 
give  up  the   arrangement  of  plates  and   the  extraction  of 


Two  Years  Ago.  419 

champag;ne  corks,  considered  his  presence  by  the  river-side  a 
natural  necessity. 

•*  My  dear  Miss  Clara,  ye  see,  there'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." 


CHAPTER  XX. 

Both  Sides  of  the  Moon  at  once. 

The  spot  which  Claude  had  chosen  for  the  picnic  was  on  one 
of  the  lower  spurs  of  that  great  mountain  of  The  Maiden'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  primaeval  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  r.iem,  and  before  them,  and 
below  them,  the  ashes  shook  their  green  filigree  in  the  bright 
sunshine  ;  and  through  them  glimpses  were  seen  of  the  purple 
cliffs  above,  and,  right  in  front,  of  the  gjeat  cataract  of  Nant 
GvTynnant,  a  long,  snow-white  line  zig-zagging  down  coal- 
black  cliffs  for  many  a  hundred  feet,  and  above  it,  depth  beyond 
depth  of  purple  shadow  away  into  the  very  heart  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  Valencia's  song  go  up. 


420  Two  Years  Ago* 

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  Valencia  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,"  ssid  Claude;  "how 
the  purple  depth  of  the  great  lap  of  the  inountain  is  thrown 
back  by  the  sheet  of  green  light  on  Lliwedd,  and  the  red  glory 
on  the  cliffs  of  Crib  Coch,  till  you  seem  to  look  away  into  the 
bosom  of  the  hill,  mile  after  mile." 

"  And  so  you  do,"  said  Headley.  •*  I  have  learnt  to  dis- 
tinguish 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  Valencia,  "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  1 " 

"But  what  a  form!  Perfect  lightness,  perfect  symmetry  1" 
said  Claude.  "  Curve  sweeping  over  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  1"  said  Valencia.  "That  is  the  very  expression  1 
So  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  shoulder 
sloping  right  and  left,  he  lays  his  purple-mantled  arms  upon 


Two  Years  Ago.  421 


the  heads  of  two  of  those  Titan  guards  who  stand  on  either 
side  his  footstool." 

"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 
Valencia. 

"  Nor  I,  madam.  But  if  such  scenes  as  these,  and  in  such 
company,  cannot  inspire  the  fancy  even  of  a  poor  country  curate 
to  something  of  exultation,  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  Valencia  looked  down  at  him  : 
but  he  was  gazing  intently  upon  the  glorious  scene.  Was  he 
hinting  at  the  vanity  and  vexation  of  spirit  of  poor  Elsley's 
versifying?  Or  did  he  mean  that  he  had  now  no  purpose  in 
life — no  prize  for  which  it  was  worth  while  to  win  honour  ? 

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.  My  business  is  not  to  rewrite  it  clumsily, 
but  to  read  it  humbly,  and  give  Him  thanks  for  it." 

More  and  more  had  Valencia  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 
possessed,  she  was  surprised  to  find  one  who.  seemed  to  think 
it  a  duty  to  keep  his  knowledge  and  taste  in  the  background. 
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.  Why  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  chv^lera  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." 


422  Two  Years  Ago. 

"  My  business  is  to  teach  people  to  do  right :  and  if  I  cannot, 
to  pray  God  to  find  someone  who  can." 

"iRight,  Headley  I  "  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  Pere,  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." 

Valencia's  eyes  could  not  help  glancing  at  Elsley,  who  had 
wandered  away  to  the  neighbouring  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  1  What  a  mine  of  quaint  learning,  and  beautiful  old 
legend  1  If  he  would  but  bring  it  into  the  common  stock  for 
everyone's  amusement,  instead  of  hoarding  it  up  for  himself  I " 

*'  Why,  what  else  does  he  do  but  bring  it  into  the  common 
stock,  when  he  publishes  a  book  which  everyone  can  read?" 
said  Valencia,  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 
Valencia  to  Elsley,  somewhat  cross.  Woman-like,  she  allowed, 
for  the  sake  of  her  sister's  honour,  no  one  but  herself  to 
depreciate  Vavasour,  and  chose  to  think  it  impertinent  on 
Headley's  part 

Headley  began  quietly  talking  to  Major  Campbell  about 
botany,  while  Valencia,  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. 


Two  Years  Ago.  423 

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,  Valencia  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  as  she  looked  down.  A  quiet  happiness,  as  of 
old  recollections,  came  into  her  eyes,  as  she  watched  the 
sparkling  and  foaming  water — 

"  And  beauty,  born  of  murmuring  soundi 
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 
recollect  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  1  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  ?  " 

"  Really,  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  ?  What  cause  had  he  to  remember 
so  carefully  ?  "  thought  Elsley. 

"  Oh,  Elsley,  look  I  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, 


424  Two  Years  Ago. 

he  would  have  joined  in  Lucia's  admiration  of  the  beautiful 
creature,  as  it  dropped  into  the  foam  from  its  narrow  ledge, 
with  its  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  1  Is  it  a  buttercup,  now.  Major 
CampbeU?" 

Campbell  looked  down. 

"Very  nearly  one,  after  all :  but  its  real  name  is  the  globe 
flower.  It  is  common  enough  here  in  spring ;  ycu  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  I  should  like 
to  reward  it  by  wearing  it  home." 

"  I  daresay  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?" 

"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  Valencia. 

Campbell's  blood  boiled.     To  be  asked  by  that  woman— by 


Two  Years  Ago.  425 

any  woman— to  get  her  that  flower :  and  to  be  afraid !  It 
was  bad  enough  to  be  iil-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  nol  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  commonplace  horror  and  astonish- 
ment 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  oi"  him  as  possible  for  the  rest  of 
the  afternoon.  "The  fellow  was  jealous,  then,  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  Valencia, 
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  for  her  from  the  clifi","  said 
Elsley,  drily. 

"Ah?  at  the  risk  of  his  neck,  I  don't  doubt.  He  is  the 
most  matchless  caua/iere  seruente." 

"  I  shall  leave  Mrs.  Vavasour  to  his  care,  then— that  is,  for 
the  present,"  said  Elsley,  drawing  his  arm  from  Lucia's. 

"  I  assure  you,"  answered  she,  roused  in  her  turn  by  his 
determined  bad  temper,  "  I  am  not  the  least  afraid  at  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  v/ho  have  not 
courage  to  hold  their  peace  must  say  something  or  other ; 
and  do  not  always,  ia  the  hurry,  get  out  what  they  ought. 


426  Two  Years  Ago. 

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  chok^ 
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  photo- 
graph 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 
expression  so  grave,  pitying,  tender,  that  her  heart  leaped 
up  towards  him,  and  then  sank  back  again. 

"Why  do  you  ask?  Why  need  you  know?  You  are  no 
poet." 

"And  for  that  very  cause  I  asked  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  extra- 
ordinary poetic  faculty  ;  all  the  world  agrees  to  that,  Major 
Campbell." 

"What  matter?"  said  he.  Lucia  would  have  been  very 
^ngi7»  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. 

"  Oh,  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 !  Thoi'gh  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  rould  but  see  that, 
what  then?" 

"  Why  then,"  said  she,  with  half  a  smile  (for  she  had  nearly 
entrapped  herself  in  an  admission  of  what  she  was  determined 
to  conceal),  "why  then,  I  §hould  be  still  more  what  I  am  now, 


Two  Years  Ago.  427 

his  devoted  little  wife,  who  cares  for  nobody  and  nothing  but 
putting  his  study  to  rights,  and  bringing  up  his  children." 

"  Happy  children  I "  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  igfnorant  married 
women  ?  But"  (and  she  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 ;  Mr.  Mellot  has  gone  wandering  down 
the  glen  with  his  apparatus,  and  my  Elsley  has  gone  wander- 
ing 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  !  counterbursts  of  anger — ere  that  heart  could  have  become 
thus  proof  against  the  ever-lowering  thunderstorm  ! 

"  Well  1 "  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  all  be  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?" 


428  Two  Years  Ago, 

"  I  heard  you  bieathe  so  hard,  and  quite  stamp  your  feet,  I 
thought.     I  suppose  it  was  fancy." 

It  was  not  fancy,  -nevertheless.  Major  Campbell  was  stamp- 
ing down  something ;  and  succeeded,  too,  in  crushing  it. 

They  walked  on  toward  the  car,  Valencia  and  Headley 
following  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  his  horse  go  home  by  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  five  minutes — I  do  not  know  why 
—without  feeling  wiser  and  happier.  I  envy  Valencia  for 
having  seen  so  much  of  you  of  late." 

Little  thought  poor  Lucia,  as  she  spoke  those  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  devil  (for  the 
"superstitious"  and  " old-world "  notion  which  attributes  such 
frenzies  to  the  devil  has  not  yet  been  superseded  by  a  better 
one)  had  entered  into  him,  and  concentrated  all  the  evil  habits 
and  passions  which  he  had  indulged  for  years  into  one  flaming 
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  case,  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  unbear- 
able—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-reproach,  and  self-hatred. 


Two  Years  Ago.  429 

which  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  inalien- 
able. And  with  the  loss  of  self-respect,  came  recklessness  of 
it,  and  drove  him  on,  as  it  has  jealous  men  in  all  ages,  to 
meannesses  unspeakable,  which  have  made  them  for  centuries, 
poor  wretches,  the  butts  of  worthless  playwrights,  and  the 
scorn  of  their  fellow-men. 

Elsley  had  wandered,  he  hardly  knew  how  or  whither — for 
his  calling  to  Mellot  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  footsteps  to  die  away,  before  he  had  sprung  into  the  road, 
and  hurried  up  it  in  the  opposite  direction — anywhere,  every- 
where— to  escape  from  them,  and  from  self.  Whipt  by  the  furies, 
he  fled  along  the  road  and  up  the  vale,  he  cared  not  whither. 

And  what  were  Headley  and  Valencia,  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  in  the  last  five 
minutes  ?  My  poor  sister  1  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  a  good  man  better — but  can  it  cure  temper  ?  " 

"  Major  Campbell  must  have  told  you  that  it  can  do 
anything." 


430  Two  Years  Ago. 

"  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  Mr.  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, 
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 
have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  he  is  the  most  useful, 
pleasant,  and  instructive  of  all  friends." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Headley,  do  not  speak  so  1    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  I  All  that 
horrible  fever  and  cholera  1 " 

"And  what  possible  harm  can  it  do  me,  if  it  does  kill  me, 
Miss  St.  Just?" 

"  Mr.  Headley,  this  is  madness  1  I — we  cannot  allow  you 
to  throw  away  your  life  thus — so  young,  and — and  such 
prospects  before  you  I  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  respect  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  tliought 
that  you  would  have  disapproved  of  it,  I  would  never  have 
mentioned  the  thing." 

"Disapprove  of— your  going  to  die?  You  shall  notl  And 
for  me,  too  :  for  I  guess  all— all  is  my  fault  I " 


Two  Years  Ago.  431 

••All  is  mine,"  said  he,  quietly:  "who  was  fool  enough 
to  fancy  that  I  could  forget  you — conquer  ray  love  for  you ; " 
and  at  these  words  his  whole  voice  and  manner  changed  in 
an  instant  into  wildest  passion.  "  I  must  speak  I — now  and 
never  more — I  love  you  still,  fool  that  I  am  1  Would  God  I 
had  never  seen  you  I  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  I  Let  me  go,  go  any- 
where, where  I  may  burden  you  no  more  with  my  absurd 
dreams  1  You  have  had  the  same  thing  said  to  you,  and  in 
finer  words,  a  hundred  times,  by  men  who  would  not  deign 
to  speak  to  m.e  1 "  And  covering  his  face  in  his  hands,  he 
strode  on,  as  if  to  escape. 

"  I  never  had  the  same  thing  said  to  me  1 " 

"Never?  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  I " 

'*  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  1  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  the  sight 
of  Him  who  made  them  1 " 

"And  what  might  I  become?"  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 1     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  1  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 


432  Two  Years  Ago. 

for  my  work.  I  should  become  a  schemer,  ambitious,  intrigu- 
ing, in  the  vain  hope  of  pf  oving  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  ?  lell 
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,  bitterlj. 

She  drew  a  long  breath,  as  if  heaving  off  a  weight. 

"  I  cannot — dare  not  say  it." 

•'  It  ?    Which  of  the  two— yes,  or  no  ?  " 

She  V7as  silent. 

He  stopped,  and  spoke  slowly  and  calmly.  "  Say  that  again, 
and  tell  me  that  I  am  not  dreaming.  You  ?  the  admired  !  the 
worshipped  I  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  for  all  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  be  tired  of  me ;  from  women  who  envy  me,  impute  to 
me  ambitions  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 !— vrill  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  rouse  in  me  the  very 
parts  of  my  own  character  which  are  most  despicable,  most 
tormenting  1  If  it  goes  on,  I  feel  I  could  become  as  frivolous, 
as  mean,  ay,  as  wicked  as  the  worst     You  do  not  know— 


Two  Years  Ago.  433 

you  do  not  know .     I  have  envied  the  nuns  their  convents. 

I  have  envied  Selkirk  his  desert  island.  I  envy  now  the 
milkmaids  down  there  below :  anything  to  escape  and  be  in 
earnest,  anything  for  someone  to  teach  me  to  be  of  use  1  Yes, 
this  cholera — and  this  war — though  only,  only  its  coming 
shadow  has  passed  over  me — and  your  v/ords  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?  Ke  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  ?  "  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,  Valencia  St.  Justl" 

**  Too  well !  too  well !  " 

"  But  you  know,  too,  that  you  do  not  love  me." 

"Who  told  you  so?  What  do  you  know?  What  do  I 
know  ?  Only  that  I  long  for  someone  to  make  me — to  make 
me  as  good  as  you  are  ! "     And  she  burst  into  tears. 

"  Valencia,  will  you  trust  me  ?  " 

"Yes!"  cried  she,  looking  up  at  him  suddenly:  "if  you  will 
not  go  to  the  war." 

"  No — no— no  I  Would  you  have  me  turn  traitor  and  coward 
to  God  :  and  now,  of  ail  moments  in  my  life?" 

"Noble  creature  I"  said  she;  "you  will  make  me  love  you 
whether  I  wish  or  not." 

What  was  it,  after  all,  by  which  Frank  Headley  won 
Valencia's  love  ?  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 


434  Two  Years  Ago. 

on  them ;  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  unwillingly  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  population." 

"And  not  quite  unknown  north  of  Tweed  either,  Bowie," 
said  Valencia,  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  1 " 

"  Has  he  had  any  sport?" 

"Sport!  ay,  troth!  Five  fish  in  the  day.  That's  a  river 
indeed  at  Bettwsl  Not  a  pawky  wee  burn,  like  this  Aber- 
glaslyn  thing." 

"  Only  five  fish?"  said  Valencia,  in  a  frightened  tone. 

"Fish,  my  leddy,  not  trouts,  I  said.  I  thought  ye  knew 
better  than  that  by  this  time." 

"Oh,  salmon?"  cried  Valencia,  relieved.  "Delightful!  I'll 
go  to  him  this  moment." 

And  upstairs  to  Scoutbush's  room  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  school-girl,  her  face  half-hidden  in  the 
black  curls.    Scoutbush  looked  up  and  smiled  affectionately, 


Two  Years  Ago.  435 

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 
beautiful  you  look,  Val  ?  I  wish  my  wife  may  be  half  as 
pretty  ! " 

Valencia  made  him  a  prim  curtsey. 

"  I  am  delighted  to  hear  of  my  lord's  good  sport  He  will 
choose  to  be  in  good  humour,  I  suppose." 

"  Good  humour  ?  ga  ua  sans  dire  I  Three  stone  of  fish  in 
three  hours  1 " 

•'Then  his  little  sister  is  going  to  do  a  very  foolish  thing, 
and  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^ 
him,  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  the  sun  rise  ?  You'll 
kill  yourself ! " 

"No,"  said  Valencia,  very  quietly ;  "I  only  want  to  many 
him." 

"  Marry  him  I "  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  can't 
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 
oh,  Scoutbush !  brother !  if  anything  was  to  happen  to  you — I 
only  say  if — in  this  horrid  war,  you  would  not  like  to  t-hinb; 
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  I "  was  all  the  poor  viscount  could 
get  out 

"  Yes,  miserable  and  lonely  :  you  gone  away,  and  mon  Saint 
Pere  too :  and  Lucia,  she  has  her  children — and  I  am  so  wild 
and  weak — I  must  have  someone  to  guide  me  and  protect  me— 
indeed  I  mustl" 


43^  Two  Years  Ago. 

"  Why,  that  was  what  I  always  said  I  That  was  why  I 
wanted  you  so  to  marry  this  season !  VJky  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  air  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  take  Lord  Chalkclere  for  the  very  reason  that 
I  do  take  Mr.  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  1  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 
sneaking,  ambitious,  low-bred " 

•'He  is  neither  I  You  are  unjust,  Scoutbush!"  cried 
Valencia,  looking  up.  "  He  is  the  very  soul  of  honour.  He 
might  be  rich  now,  and  have  had  a  fine  living,  if  he  had  not 
been  too  conscientious  to  let  his  uncle  buy  him  one ;  and  that 
offended  his  uncle,  and  he  would  allow  him  nothing.  And 
as  for  being  low-bred,  he  is  a  gentleman,  as  you  know  ;  and 
if  his  uncle  be  in  business,  his  mother  is  a  lady,  jind  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  was  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  % 
viscount'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  1  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,  or  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  ' " 


Two  Years  Ago.  437 

*•  Then  I  shall  just  go  and  marry  without  your  leave  ?  I'm 
f  age,  you  knovy,  and  my  fortune's  my  own  ;  and  then  we 
hall  come  in  as  the  runaway  couples  do  in  a  play,  while 
ou  sit  there  in  your  dressing-gown  as  the  stern  father — 
ron't  you  borrow  a  white  wig  for  the  occasion,  my  lord? — 
nd  we  shall  fall  down  on  our  knees  so,"  and  she  put  herself 
1  the  prettiest  attitude  in  the  world — "  and  beg  your  blessing 
-please  forgive  us  this  time,  and  we'll  never  do  so  any  more  1 
ind  then  you  will  turn  your  face  away,  like  the  baron  in  the 
allad— 

*  And  brushed  away  the  spring-ing  tear 
He  proudly  strove  to  hide,' 

t  cetera,  et  cetera — finish  the  scene  for  yourself,  with  a  '  Bless 
e,  my  children  ;  bless  ye  ! '" 

"Go  along,  and  marry  the  cat  if  you  like!  You  are  mad; 
nd  I  am  mad ;  and  all  the  world's  mad,  I  think." 

"There,"  she  said,  "I  knew  that  he  would  be  a  good  boy 
.t  the  last ! "  And  she  sprang  up,  threw  her  arms  round  his 
leck,  and,  to  his  great  astonishment,  burst  into  the  most 
iolent  fit  of  crying. 

"  Good  gracious,  Valencia !  do  be  reasonable  !  You'll  go  into 
.  fit,  or  somebody  will  hear  you  I  You  know  how  I  hate  a 
cene.  Do  be  good,  there's  a  darling  I  Why  didn't  you  tell 
le  at  {first  how  much  you  wished  for  it,  and  I  would  have 
aid  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, 
xcept  one.     And  if  you  let  those  horrid  Russians  hurt  you, 

will  hate  you  as  long  as  I  live,  and  be  miserable  all  my 
ife  afterwards." 

"Why,   Valencia,  do  you  know,  that  sounds  very  like  a 

lUll  ?  " 

"Am  I  not  a  wild  Irish  girl?"  said  she,  and  hurried  out, 
saving  Scoutbush  to  return  to  his  flies. 

She  bounded  into  Lucia's  room,  there  to  pour  out  a  bursting 
leart — and  stopped  short. 

Lucia  was  sitting  on  the  bed,  her  shawl  and  bonnet  tossed 
ipon  the  floor,  her  head  sunk  on  her  bosom,  her  arms  sunk 
>y  her  sides. 

"Lucia,  what  is  it?    Speak  to  me,  Lucia  1" 


43^  Two  Years  Ago. 

She  pointed  faintly  to  a  letter  on  the  floor — Valencia  caugh 
it  up — Lucia  made  a  gesture  as  if  to  stop  her.    ' 

"  No,  you  must  not  read  it     Too  dreadful  1 "  j 

But  Valencia  read  it ;  while  Lucia  covered  her  face  in  he 
hands,  and  uttered  a  long,  lov7,  shuddering  moan  of  bitte: 
agony. 

Valencia  read,  with  flashing  eyes  and  bursting  brow.     I 
was  a  hideous  letter.     The  words  of  a  man  trying  to  supply 
the  place  of  strength  by  virulence.    A  hideous  letter,  unfit  tr 
be  written  here. 

"  Valencia  1  Valencia  I  It  is  false — a  mistake  ;  he  i 
dreaming.  You  know  it  is  false  1  You  will  not  leave  mi 
too  ?  " 

Valencia  dashed  it  on  the  ground,  clasped  her  sister  in  he 
arms,  and  covered  her  head  with  kisses. 

"  My  Lucia !  My  own  sweet,  good  sister  1  Base,  cowardly  I ' 
sobbed  she,  in  her  rage ;  while  Lucia's  agony  began  to  find  i 
vent  in  words,  and  she  moaned  on — 

"  What  have  I  done  ?  All  that  flower,  that  horrid  flower 
but  who  would  have  dreamed — and  Major  Campbell,  too,  o  I 
all  men  upon  earth  ?  Valencia,  it  is  some  horrid  delusion  of  th 
devil.  V^y,  he  was  there  all  the  while— and  you  too.  Coult 
he  think  that  I  should  before  his  very  face?  What  must  h 
fancy  me?  Oh,  it  is  a  delusion  of  the  devil,  and  nothing 
else  1  " 

"  He  is  a  wretch  1  I  will  take  the  letter  to  my  brother ;  h< 
shall  right  you  !  " 

"  Ah,  no  1  no  I  never  1  Let  me  tear  it  to  atoms — hide  it  1  I 
is  all  a  mistake  1  He  did  not  mean  it  1  He  will  recollec 
himself  to-morrow,  and  come  back." 

"Let  him  come  back  if  he  dare!"  cried  Valencia,  in  a  ton< 
which  said,  "  I  could  kill  him  with  my  own  hands  1 " 

"Oh,  he  will  come  back  I  He  cannot  have  the  heart  t( 
leave  his  poor  little  Lucia.  Oh,  cruel,  cowardly,  not  to  hav( 
said  one  word — not  one  word  to  explain  all — but  it  was  al 
my  fault,  my  wicked,  odious  temper ;  and  after  I  had  seer 
how  vexed  he  was,  too  I  Oh,  Elsley,  Elsley,  come  back, 
only  come  back,  and  I  will  beg  your  pardon  on  my  knees 
anything  1  Scold  me,  beat  me,  if  you  will  I  I  deserve  it  all 
Only  come  back,  and  let  me  see  your  face,  and  hear  youi 


Two  Years  Ago.  439 

Dice,  instead  of  leaving  me  here  all  alone,  and  the  poor 
lildren  too !  Oh,  what  shall  I  say  to  them  to-morrow, 
fhen  they  wake  and  find  no  father?" 

Valencia's  indignation  had  no  words.  She  could  only  sit 
a  the  bed,  with  Lucia  in  her  arms,  looking  defiance  at  all 
le  world  above   that  fair  head  which  one  moment  drooped 

I  her  bosom,  and  the  next  gazed  up  into  her  face  in  pitiful, 
lild-like  pleading. 

"Oh,  if  I  but  knew  where  he  was  gone  I  If  I  could  but 
id  him  1  One  word — one  word  would  set  all  right.  It 
ways  did,  Valencia,  always  1  He  was  so  kind,  so  dear  in 
moment,  when  I  put  away  my  naughty,  naughty  temper, 
id  smiled  in  his  face  like  a  good  wife.  Wicked  creature 
lat  I  was  !  and  this  is  my  punishment.  Oh,  Elsley,  one 
ord,  one  word  1    I   must  find  him  if  I  went  barefoot  over 

le  mountains — I  must  go,  I  must " 

And  she  tried  to  rise  :  but  Valencia  held  her  down,  while 

le  entreated  piteously — 

"  I  will  go,  and  see  about  finding  him  ! "  she  said  at  last,  as 

;r  only  resource.     "  Promise  me  to  be  quiet  here,  and  I  will." 

"Quiet?    Yes  I    quiet  herel"  and  she  threw  herself  upon 

jr  face  on  the  floor. 

She  looked  up  eagerly.     "You  will  not  tell  Scoutbush  ?** 

"Why  not?" 

"  He  is  so — so  hasty.     He  will  kill  him  I    Valencia,  he  will 

II  him  1  Promise  me  not  to  tell  him,  or  I  shall  go  mad  ! " 
id  she  sat  up  again,  pressing  her  hands  upon  her  head,  and 
icking  from  side  to  side. 

"  Oh,  Valencia,  if  I  dared  only  scream  I  but  keeping  it  in 

lis  me.     It  is  like  a  sword  through  my  brain  now  I" 

"  Let  me  call  Clara." 

"  No,  no  1  not  Clara.     Do  not  tell  her.     I  will  be  quiet ; 

deed    I    will ;    only  come  back   soon,   soon ;    for   I   am  all 

one,  alone  1"    And  she  threw  herself  down  again  upon  her 

ce. 

Valencia   went   out     Certain    as    she  was  of  her  sister's 

nocence,  there  was  one  terrible  question  in  her  heart  which 

ust  be  answered,  or  her  belief  in  all  truth,  goodness,  religfion, 

ould  reel  and  rock  to  its  very  foundations.     And  till  she  hai 

X  answer  to  that,  she  could  not  sit  still  by  Luda. 


440  Two  Years  Ago. 

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  someone  else  ought  to  be ;  for  it  is  past 
twelve.     Is  Vavasour  come  in  yet  ?  " 

"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. 

"  There  is  no  need  for  speculating,"  said  Valencia,  quietly ; 
"my  sister  has  had  a  note  from  Mr.  Vavasour  at  Pen-y- 
gwryd." 

"  Pen-y-gwryd  ?  "  cried  both  men  at  once. 

"Yes.     Major  Campbell,  I  wish  to  show  it  to  you." 

Valencia's  tone  and  manner  was  significant  enough  to  make 
Claude  Mellot  bid  them  both  good-night. 

When  he  had  shut  the  door  behind  him,  Valencia  put  the 
letter  into  the  major's  hand. 

He  was  too  much  absorbed  in  it  to  look  at  her :  but  if  he 
had  done  so,  he  would  have  been  startled  by  the  fearful 
capacity  of  passion  which  changed,  for  the  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  livid  face ;  then  dashed 
it  on  the  floor. 

"  Fool  I — cur  ! — liar  I — she  is  as  pure  as  God's  sunlight." 

"  You  need  not  tell  me  that,"  said  Valencia,  through  her 
closed  teeth. 

"  Fool !— fool  1 "  And  then,  in  a  moment,  his  voice  changed 
from  indignation  to  the  bitterest  self-reproach.  "  And  fool  I ; 
thrice  fool  I  Who  am  I,  to  rail  on  him?  O  God  I  what  have 
I  done  ?  "    And  he  covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 

"  What  have  you  done  ?  "  literally  shrieked  Valencia. 

"  Nothing  that  you  or  man  can  blame,  Miss  St  Just     Can 


Two  Years  Ago.  441 

ou  dream  that,  sinful  as  I  am,  I  could  ever  harbour  a  thought 
jward  her  of  which  I  should  be  ashamed  before  the  angels 
fGod?" 

He  looked  up  as  he  spoke,  with  an  utter  humility  and  an 
itense  honesty,  which  unnerved  her  at  once. 

"Oh,  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  I  am  a  poor, 
7eak,  conceited,  miserable  man,  who  by  his  accursed  im- 
ertinence  has  broken  the  heart  of  the  being  whom  he  loves 
est  on  earth." 

Valencia  started :  but  ere  she  could  ask  for  an  explanation, 
e  rejoined  wildly — 

"  How  is  she  ?  Tell  me  only  that,  this  once  1  Has  it  killed 
er  ?    Does  she  hate  him  ?  " 

"  Adores  him  more  than  ever.  Oh,  Major  Campbell  1  it  is 
iteous,  too  piteous." 

He  covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  shuddering.  "  Thank 
lod  !  yes,  thank  God  I  So  it  should  be.  Let  her  love  him  to 
he  last,  and  win  her  martyr's  crown  1  Now,  Valencia  St. 
ust,  sit  down,  if  but  for  five  minutes ;  and  listen,  once  for 
11,  to  the  last  words,  perhaps,  you  will  ever  hear  me  speak ; 
nless  she  wants  you  ? " 

"No,  no!  Tell  me  all,  Saint  Pere!"  said  Valencia,  "for  I 
xn  walking  in  a  dream — a  double  dream  !  "  as  the  new  thought 
f  Headley,  and  that  walk,  came  over  her.  "Tell  me  all  at 
nee,  while  I  have  wits  left  to  comprehend." 

"  Miss  St.  Just,"  said  he,  in  a  clear,  calm  voice.  "  It  is  fit, 
DT  her  honour  and  for  mine,  that  you  should  know  all.  The 
rst  day  that  I  ever  saw  your  sister,  I  loved  her ;  as  a  man 
3ves  who  can  never  cease  to  love,  or  love  a  second  time.  I 
7as  a  raw,  awkward  Scotchman  then,  and  she  used  to  laugh 
.t  me.  Why  not  ?  I  kept  my  secret,  and  determined  to  become 
.  man  at  whom  no  one  would  wish  to  laugh.  I  was  in  the 
^^ompany's  service  then.  You  recollect  her  jesting  once  about 
he  Indian  army,  and  my  commanding  black  people,  and 
aying  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 
nto  the  Line.     Whether  I  won  honour  there  or  not,  I  need  not 


44*  Two  Years  Ago. 

tell  you.     I  came  back  to  England,  years  after,  not  unworthy 
as  I  fancied,  to  look  your  sister  in  the  face  as  an  equal, 
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  tha 
was  enough  for  me.  You  need  not  doubt  that  I  kept  my  secre 
then  more  sacredly  than  ever.  I  returned  to  India,  and  trie< 
to  die.  I  dared  not  kill  myself,  for  I  was  a  soldier  and  i 
Christian,  and  belonged  to  God  and  my  Queen.  The  Sikh- 
would  not  kill  me,  do  what  I  would  to  help  them.  Then  '. 
threw  myself  into  science,  that  I  might  stifle  passion ;  and  . 
stifled  it.  I  fancied  myself  cured,  and  I  was  cured :  and  . 
returned  to  England  again.  I  loved  your  brother  for  he: 
sake ;  I  loved  you  at  first  for  her  sake,  then  for  your  own 
But  I  presumed  upon  my  cure ;  I  accepted  your  brother*! 
invitation ;  I  caught  at  the  opportunity  of  seeing  her  again- 
happf^ — as  I  fancied  ;  and  of  proving  to  myself  my  own  sound 
ness.  I  considered  myself  a  sort  of  Melchisedek,  neither  younj 
nor  old,  without  purpose  on  earth — a  fakir  who  had  licence  t( 
do  and  to  dare  what  others  might  not.  But  I  kept  my  secre 
proudly  inviolate.  I  do  not  believe  at  this  moment  she  dream; 
that— do  you?" 

"She  does  not" 

"  Thank  God  I  I  was  a  most  conceited  fool,  puffed  up  witt 
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  fot 
her  than  for  any  being  on  earth  ;  and  I  found  too  the  sort  ol 

man  upon  whom — God  forgive  me  1  I  must  not  talk  of  that 

I  despised  him,  hated  him,  pretended  to  teach  him  his  duty,  by 
behaving  better  to  her  than  he  did — the  spiritual  coxcomb  that  I 
was !  What  business  had  I  with  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,  Miss  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  hath  joined.    And  then  to  the  old 


I  Two  Years  Ago.  443 

;hting-trade  once  more — the  only  one,  I  believe,  I  really 
derstand ;  and  see  whether  a  Russian  bullet  will  not  fly 
-aighter  than  a  clumsy  Sikh's." 

Valencia  listened,  awe-stricken  ;  and  all  the  more  so  because 
is  was  spoken  in  a  calm,  half-abstracted  voice,  without  a 
ite  of  feeling,  save  where  he  alluded  to  his  ovra  mistakes, 
^en  it  was  over,  she  rose  without  a  word,  and  took  both 
s  hands  in  her  own,  sobbing  bitterly. 

"You  forgive  me,  then,  all  the  misery  which  I  have 
.used?" 

"  Do  not  talk  so  I  Only  forgive  me  having  fancied  for  one 
oment  that  you  were  anything  but  what  you  are,  an  angel 
it  of  heaven." 

Campbell  hung  down  his  head. 

"Angel,  truly  1  Azrael,  the  angel  of  death,  then.  Go  to  her 
}w — go,  and  leave  a  humble,  penitent  man  alone  with 
od." 

"Oh,    my    Saint    Pfere!"   cried    she,    bursting   into    tears. 
This  is  too  wretched — all  a  horrid  dream — and  when,  too — 
hen  I  had  been  counting  on  telling  you  of  something  so 
iferent  1     I  cannot  now,  I  have  not  the  heart" 
"  What,  more  misery  ?  " 

"Oh,  no!  no  1  no!  You  will  know  all  to-morrow.  Ask 
coutbush." 

"  I  shall  be  gone  in  search  of  that  man  long  before  Scoutbush 
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  comas  in  to-morrow.     He  will 
irely  write,  if  not  to  her — wretch  that  he  is  1 — at  least  to  some 
■  us." 

"If  he  be  alive.     No.     I  must  go  up  to  Pen-y-g^ryd,  where 
e  was  last  seen,  and  find  out  what  I  can." 
"They  will  be  all  in  bed  at  this  hour  of  the  night;  and  if— 
anything  has  happened,  it  will  be  over  by  now,"  added  she, 
nth  a  shudder. 

"  God  forgave  me  1      It  will  indeed ;  but  he  may  write — 
erhaps  to  me.     He  is  no  coward,   I   believe ;  and  he  may 
»nd  me  a  challenge.     Yes,  I  will  wait  for  the  post." 
"  Shall  you  accept  it  if  he  does  ?  " 


444  Two  Years  Ago. 

Major  Campbell  smiled  sadly. 

"  No,  Miss  St.  Just ;  you  may  set  your  mind  at  rest  upon 
that  point.  I  have  done  quite  enough  harm  already  to  your 
family.  Now,  good-bye  1  I  will  wait  for  the  post  to-morrow  : 
do  you  go  to  your  sister." 

Valencia  went,  utterly  bewildered.  She  had  forgotten 
Frank,  but  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,  even  could  not  harm  him  I  After  this  prool 
of  God's  love  how  could  he  doubt,  how  fear? 

Little  he  thought  that,  three  doors  off  from  him,  Valencia 
was  sitting  up  the  whole  night  through,  vainly  trying  to  quiet 
Lucia,  who  refused  to  undress,  and  paced  up  and  down  hei 
room,  hour  after  hour,  in  wild  misery,  which  I  have  no  skiU 
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-gfwryd,  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 


Two  Years  Ago.  445 

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  the 
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  air  ;  it  was  "  The  Rising 
of  the  Lark."  Heavens!  what  a  bitter  contrast  to  his  ovsrn 
thoughts  1  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,  trilling,  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,  he 
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 
hung  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 
soufllets,  compact  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,  with  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. 


44^  Two  Years  Ago. 

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  jollier  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,  quoth  my  dog  and  1 1 

**  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  1 " 

"That  ought  to  be  Harry's  song,  and  the  collie'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  1 " 

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. 

"Show  me  a  room,  and  bring  me  a  pen  and  paper,"  said 
he ;  and  then  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  bStea  noirs  even  here,  and  at  such  a 
moment  1  And  what  was  worse,  to  hear  Mrs.  Owen  say, 
"  We  have  no  room,  sir,  unless  these  gentlemen " 

"  Of  course,"  said  Wynd,  jumping  up,  a  child  under  each 
arm.  "  Mr.  Vavasour  1  we  shall  be  most  happy  to  have  your 
company — for  a  week  if  you  will  I  " 

"  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,  hob-nail  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. 


Two  Years  Ago.  447 

Naylor  stuck  out  his  heavy  under-lip,  and  g^lanced  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 

'•Which  way  did  the  gentleman  go,  Mrs.  Owen?"  asks 
Naylor. 

"  Capel  Curig  road." 

Naylor  whispers  to  Wynd,  who  sets  the  two  little  g^rls  on 
the  table,  and  hurries  out  vnth  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  1 "  whispers  Wynd  in  return,  laying  his  hand 
on  Naylor's  arm,  and  pointing  to  the  left  of  the  road. 

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  Cvrai  Fynnon." 

"  No,  he's  striking  to  the  right  Can  he  be  going  up  the 
Glyder?" 


44^  Two  Years  Ago. 

"  We'll  see  that  in  five  minutes.     All  in  the  day's  work,  ray 
boy  I     I  could  go  up  Mont  Blanc  with  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  Eisiey's  tracks,  having  left  Mrs. 
Owen  disconsolate  by  their  announcement,  that  a  sudden 
fancy  to  sleep  on  the  Glyder  has  seized  them.  Nothing 
more  v/ill  they  tell  her,  or  anyone ;  being  gentlemen,  however 
much  slang  they  may  trJk  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  Vawr,  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-bora  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  cliff  between  him 
and  all  the  world  1  Away  he  plunged  from  the  high-road, 
splashing  over  boggy  uplands,  scrambling  among  scattered 
boulders,  across  a  stony  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  ;  wnile  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  upward  along  torrent 
beds  of  slippery  slate,  writhing  himself  upward  through 
crannies  where  the  waterfall  plashed  cold  upon  his  chest  and 


Two  Ycar.^  Ago.  449 

face,  yet  could  not  cool  the  inward  fire ;  climbing,  hand  and 
knee,  up  cliffs  of  sharp-edged  rock  ;  striding  over  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,  stand- 
ing 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  upward  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  shade,  like  a  bunch  of  purple 
grapes  flecked  here  and  there  from  behind  with  gleams  of 
golden  light ;  and  beneath  them  again,  the  dark  woods  sleep- 
ing 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  Cv^m  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  Moel  Meirch  cuts 
the  golden  sky,  down  to  the  very  depths  of  the  abyss,  all  is 
lustrous  darkness,  sooty,  and  yet  golden  still.  Let  the  dark- 
ness 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  I  Curse  the  thought  I  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, 

P  a  thousand  feet  below  ;  happy  children  are  nestling  there  ia 


450  Two  Years  Ago. 

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-angeis.  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- 
floating  folds.  *'  Let  us  go  hence,"  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  God  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  dark- 
ness, 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  beside. 

Horrible  thought  I  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 ;  without  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 — 


Two  Years  Ago,  451 


There  it  was  again  I  Lasting  but  for  a  moment :  but  long 
enough  to  let  hira  see  the  whole  western  heaven  transfigured 
into  one  sheet  of  pale  blue  gauze,  and  before  it  Snowdon 
towering  black  as  ink,  with  every  saw  and  crest  cut  out,  hard 
and  terrible,  against  the  lightning-glare — and  then  the  blank 
of  darkness. 

Again  1  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 
overhead,  and  rolled  and  flapped  from  crag  to  crag,  and  died 
away  along  the  dreary  downs.  No  I  There  it  boomed  out 
again,  thundering  full  against  Siabod  on  the  left ;  and  Siabod 
tossed  it  on  to  Moel  Meirch,  who  answered  from  all  her  clefts 
and  peaks  with  a  long  confused  battle-growl,  and  then  tossed 
it  across  to  Aran ;  and  Aran,  with  one  dull,  bluff  report  from 
her  flat  cliff,  to  nearer  Lliwedd  ;  till,  worn  out  with  the  long 
buffetings  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 
uphill ;  and  if  he  but  went  upward,  he  cared  not  whither  he 
went.  The  rain  gashed  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-shouting  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  ?  " 


452  Two  Years  Ago. 

Poor  wretch  I  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  onty 
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,  waiting,  grim  and  silent,  like  those  doomed  senators 
in  the  Capitol  of  Rome,  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  slopes  of  moss,  reached  a  region  where  the  upright 
lava-ledges  had  been  slit  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  revealed  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  1  and  madly  he  hurried  on, 
feeling  his  way  from  ledge  to  ledge,  squeezing  himself  through 


Two  Years  Ago.  453 

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?  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,  the  scene  returned,  he  could  see  the  red  lips  of  the 
phantom  hounds,  the  bright  eyes  of  tlie  phantom  snakes ;  the 
tongues  wagged  in  mockery ;  the  hands  brandished  great 
stones  to  hurl  at  him ;  the  mountain-top  was  instinct  with 
flendish  life— a  very  Blocksberg  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  1  He  was  Prometheus  on 
the  peak  of  Caucasus,  hurling  defiance  at  the  unjust  Jove ! 
His  hopes,  his  love,  his  very  honour — curse  it ! — ruined  I  Let 
the  Ughtning-stroke  come  1    He  were  a  coward  to  shrink  from 


454  '3^ wo  Years  Ago. 

it  Let  him  face  the  worst,  unprotected,  bare-headed,  naked, 
and  do  battle,  himself,  and  nothing  but  himself,  against  the 
universe  I  And,  as  men  at  such  moments  will  do,  in  the  mad 
desire  to  free  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  he  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,  unconsciously  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  any- 
thing 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  joviaJ 
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  jolliest  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." 


Two  Years  Ago.  455 

"Wery  well,  William  ;  when  you  get  your  'ed  above  your 
'eels,  gae  on." 

"But  I'm  stuck  fast  between  two  stones  I  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  Riddler's  oven, 
O  they  was  fetched  from  Blackeney  quarr' ; 
And  George  he  was  a  jolly  old  man, 
And  his  head  did  grow  above  his  har". 

•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. 

•  There  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  I    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. 
We  shall  find  him  bundled  up  under  the  lee  of  one  of  them." 

"He  don't  know  lee  from  windward,  I  daresay." 

"  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  Twil  du,  he'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 
cliffs  above  Trifaen,  he's  a  dead  man  then,  at  all  events. 
Get  out  of  the  way  of  that  flash  1  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 


456  Two  Years  Ago. 

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  I  Come  and  help  me  off,  or  I 
shall  be  split  to  the  chin  1 " 

"I'm  coming!  What's  this  soft  under  my  feet?  Who — 
o— o— oop  I     Run  him  to  earth  at  last!" 

And  diving  down  into  a  crack,  Wynd  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, 
wrapping  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 
preservers  leave  him  :  querulously  at  first ;  and  then  fiercely, 
when  he  found  out  who  they  were. 

"  Leave  me,  I  say  1  Cannot  I  be  alone  if  I  choose  ?  What 
right  have  you  to  dog  me  in  this  way?" 

"  My  dear  sir,  we  have  as  much  right  here  as  anyone 
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  Naylor.  "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.  ,    -  j 

"  No,  sir ;  nothing  from  you  I  You  have  shown  me 
impertinence  enough  in  the  last  few  weeks,  without  pressing 
on  me  benefits  for  which  I  do  not  wish.  Let  me  go  1  If  you 
will  not  leave  me,  I  shall  leave  you  1 " 

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 


Two  Years  Ago.  457 

passion,  supported  him ;  and  he  struggled  onward  toward  the 
northern  slope  of  the  mountain. 

"You  must  not  go  down  till  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  is  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  I  Curse  you,  sir  I  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  1 " 

"  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. 
Whatever  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  Nayior,  "you 
must  not  be  surprised  if  we  treat  you  as  men  are  treated  who— 
you  understand  me." 

Elsley  was  silent  awhile ;  his  rage,  finding  itself  impotent, 

subsided  into  dark  cunning.     "Really,  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 

P2  vou  knew  their  provocation." 


45 8  Two  Years  Ago. 

"My  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  wrapper ;  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  on  the  unreasoning  madness  of  last  night,  as  a  less 
fearful  hell  than  that  of  thought ;  of  deliberate,  acute  recol- 
lections, 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.  Yesl  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 


Two  Years  Ago.  459 

Shelley  and  Byron,  from  their  southern  seclusion,  had  shaken 
the  ungrateful  motherland  which  cast  them  out  He  v/ould 
escape ;  and  now  was  the  time  to  do  it  1  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  1  To  be  kept,  guarded,  stopped 
by  them,  or  by  any  man  1  shameful !  intolerable  1  He  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  day- 
light; 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  1  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  ?  No  ;  he  was  free  1  He  had  a  right  to  go ;  and 
go  he  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  off ;  but  by  their  regular  and  heavy  breathing 
he  could  tell  that  they  both  slept  soundly.  He  slipped  from 
under  the  plaid ;  drew  off  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? 

A  horrible,  nameless  temptation  came  over  him.  Every  vein 
in  his  body  throbbed  fire ;  his  brain  seemed  to  swell  to 
bursting ;  and  ere  he  was  aware,  he  found  himself  feeling 
about  in  the  darkness  for  a  loose  stone. 

He  could  not  find  one.  Thank  God  that  he  could  not  find 
one  I  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 


4<So  Two  Years  Ago. 

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  qv.a:ry  of  smooth,  broken  slate,  slipping 
down  for  ever  beneath  his  feet. — Whither?  He  grew  giddy, 
and  more  giddy ;  and  a  horrible  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  reascend.  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  depths  of  hell, 
rather  than  that  they  should  take  him  I  He  drove  his  heels 
into  the  slippery  shale,  and  rushed  forward  blindly,  spring- 
ing, slipping,  falling,  rolling,  till  he  stopped,  breathless,  on  a 
jutting  slab. 

And  lo  I  below  him,'  through  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 
Nant  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  five  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  above  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  bogg^ 
shore  of  Idwal,  looking  back  every  now  and  then  at  the 
black  wall  of  TwU  du,  in  dread  lest  he  should  see  two 
moving  specks  in  hot  pursuit. 

And  now  he  had  gained  the  shore  of  Ogwen,  and  the 
broad  coach-road  ;  and  down  it  he  strode,  running  at  times, 
last    the    roaring   cataract,  past  the   enormous    cliffs  of  the 


Two  Years  Ago.  461 

Carnedds,  past  Tin-y-maes,  where  nothing  was  stirring  but 
a  barking  dog;  on  through  the  sleeping  streets  of  Bethesda, 
past  the  black  stairs  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 
cliff  marked  with  the  upright  v/hite  line  of  the  waterfall.  He 
is  clear  of  the  mountains ;  clear  of  that  cursed  place,  and  all 
its  cursed  thoughts  1  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. 

Now  a  new  terror  seizes  him !  Has  he  money  enough  to 
reach  London  ?  Has  he  his  purse  at  all  ?  Too  dreadful  to  find 
himself  stopped  short,  on  the  very  brink  of  deliverance  I  A 
cold  perspiration  breaks  from  his  forehead,  as  he  feels  in 
every  pocket  Yes,  his  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  at  one  little  object  and  another  about  the  house 
fronts.     One  thing  he  will  not  look  at ;  and  that  is  the  bright 


4^2  Two  Years  Ago. 

summer  sea,  all  golden  in  the  sun-rays,  flecked  with  gay 
whi'-  sails.  From  all  which  is  bright  and  calm,  and  cheerful, 
his  soul  shrinks  as  from  an  impertinence ;  he  longs  for  the 
lurid  gaslight  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  1 
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 
aspirations,  heavy  labours,  struggles,  plans,  brief  triumphs, 
long  disappointments  ;  and  here  was  what  it  had  all  come  to 
— a  failure — a  miserable,  shameful  failure  I  Not  that  he 
thought  of  it  with  repentance,  with  a  single  wish  that  he 
had  done  otherwise :  but  only  with  disappointed  rage. 
"  Yes  1 "  he  said  bitterly  to  himself— 

*• '  We  poets  in  our  youth  begin  in  gladness, 
But  after  come  despondency  and  madness.* 

This  is  the  way  of  the  world  with  all  who  have  nobler 
feelings  in  them  than  will  fit  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  I  might 
have  known  from  the  first  that  she  could  not  understand  me  ; 
that  she  would  go  back  to  her  own  1  Let  her  go  I  I  will 
forget  her,  and  the  world,  and  everything— and  I  know  how  I " 

And,  springing  up,  he  walked  across  to  the  druggist's  shop. 

Years  before,  Elsley  had  tried  opium,  and  found,  unhappily 
for  him,  that  it  fed  his  fancy  without  inflicting  those  tortures 


Two  Years  Ago.  403 

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  extracted  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  promise  1  She  has  broken  hers, 
and  I  am  free  1 " 

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  away  fronr 
the  police,  they  would  have  the  more  sport  the  longer  th« 
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 
escaping  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  mocking  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  himself  every  note, 
as  one  jig-tune  after  another  was  fiddled  by  the  imps  close 


464  Two  Years  Ago. 

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  tnnes  ere 
he  could  rouse  him.  He  could  hear  nothing  for  awhile  but 
that  imps'  melody,  even  though  it  had  stopped.  At  last  he 
got  out,  staring  round  him,  shook  himself  awake  by  one  strong 
effort,  and  hurried  away,  not  knowing  whither  he  went. 

Wrapt  up  in  self,  he  wandered  on  till  dark,  slept  on  a 
doorstep,  and  woke,  not  knowing  at  first  where  he  was. 
Gradually  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 
appearance  at  breakfast. 

Frank  came  in ;  found  that  Valencia  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  Mr.  Mellot  immediately. 

He  went  out  and  found  Wynd  and  Naylor.     What  they  told 


Two  Years  Ago.  465 

him  we  know  already.  He  returned  instantly,  and  met 
Campbell  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  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  com- 
promised by  my  folly,  I  must  pay  the  penalty,  if  Scoutbush 
thinks  it  proper." 

So  said  Campbell,  who,  in  the  over-sensitiveness  of  his 
conscience,  had  actually  worked  himself  round  during  the  past 
night  into  this  new  fancy,  as  a  chivalrous  act  of  utter  self- 
abasement  The  proud  self-possession  of  the  man  was  gone, 
and  nothing  but  self-distrust  and  shame  remained. 

"In  the  name  of  all  wit  and  vdsdom,  what  is  the  meaning 
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  he  returns ;  and 
I  know  no  one  more  fit  for  the  office."  And  he  briefly  told 
him  the  story. 

Mellot  was  much  affected.  "The  wretched  ape  I  Campbell, 
your  first  thought  was  the  true  one :  you  must  not  fight  that 
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  Scoutbush's  sake,  her 
sake,  everyone's  sake,  the  thing  must  be  hushed  up.  If 
the  fellow  chooses  to  duck  under  into  the  London  mire,  let 
him  lie  there,  and  forget  him  1 " 

"No,  Claude;  his  pardon  I  must  beg,  ere  I  go  out  to  the 
war :  or  I  shall  die  with  a  sin  upon  my  soul." 


4^6  Two  Years  Ago, 

"  My  dear,  noble  old  fellow !  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  power 
he  is ;  and  to  reason  he  shall  be  brought" 

"  No  ;  you  must  stay  here.  I  cannot  trust  Scoutbush's  head, 
and  these  poor  dear  souls  will  have  no  one  to  look  to  but  you. 
I  can  trust  you  with  them,  I  know.  Me  you  perhaps  will 
never  see  again." 

"You  can  trust  me  1"  said  the  affectionate  little  painter,  the 
tears  starting  to  his  eyes,  as  he  wrung  Campbell's  hand. 

"  Mind  one  thing  1  If  that  Vavasour  shows  his  teeth,  there  is 
a  spell  will  turn  him  to  stone.     Use  it  1 " 

"  Heaven  forbid  I  Let  him  show  his  teeth.  It  is  I  who.  am 
in  the  wrong.  Why  should  I  make  him  more  my  enemy  than 
he  is?" 

"  Be  it  so.  Only  if  the  worst  comes  to  the  worst,  call  him 
not  Elsley  Vavasour,  but  plain  John  Briggs— and  see  what 
follows." 

Valencia  entered. 

•'  The  post  is  come  in  I  Oh,  dear  Major  Campbell,  is  there 
a  letter  ?  " 

He  put  the  note  into  her  hand  in  silence.  She  read  it,  and 
darted  back  to  Lucia's  room. 

"Thank  God  that  she  did  not  see  that  I  was  going  I  One 
more  pang  on  earth  spared  1 "  said  Campbell  to  himself. 

Valencia  hurried  to  Lucia's  door.  She  was  holding  it  ajar, 
and  looking  out  with  pale  face,  and  wild,  hungry  eyes.  "A 
letter?  Don't  be  silent,  or  I  shall  go  mad  1  Tell  me  the 
worst  1    Is  he  alive?" 

"Yesl" 

She  gasped,  and  staggered  against  the  door-post 

*'  Where  ?  Why  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  is  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  hear  the  end  of  that  sentence.  Murmuring 
to  herself,  '•  To  London  I  to  London  I "  she  hurried  back  into 
the  room. 


Two  Years  Ago.  467 

*'  Clara  1  Clara  !  have  the  children  had  their  breakfast?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am  I "  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  fit  to  travel  now  1 " 

*'  I  shall  die  if  I  stay  here ;  die  if  I  do  nothing  I  I  must 
find  him!"  whispered  she.  "Don't  speak  loud,  or  Clara 
will  hear.  I  can  find  him,  and  nobody  can  but  me  1  Why 
don't  you  help  me  to  pack,  Valencia?" 

"  My  dearest  1  but  what  will  Scoutbush  say  when  he  comes 
home  and  finds  you  gone  ?  " 

"  What  right  has  he  to  interfere  ?  I  am  Elsley's  wife,  am 
1  not  ?  and  may  follow  my  husband  if  I  like : "  and  she  went 
on  desperately  collecting,  not  her  own  things,  but  Elsley's. 

Valencia  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?" 

Valencia  had  not  the  heart  to  help,  believing,  as  she  did, 
that  Lucia's  journey  would  be  as  bootless  as  it  was  dangerous 
to  her  health. 

"  1  will  bring  you  some  breakfast,  and  you  must  try ;  then 
I  will  help  you  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. 
Valencia's  acceptance  of  him  had  been  hasty,  founded  rather 
on  sentiment  and  admiration  than  on  deep  affection;  and  her 
feeling  might  have  faltered,  waned,  died  away  in  self-distrust 
of  its  own  reality,  if  giddy  amusement,  even  if  mere  easy 
happiness  had  followed  it  But  now  the  fire  of  affliction  was 
branding  in  the  thought  of  him  upon  her  softened  heart 

Living   at  the   utmost  strain   of   her   character,   Campbell 


468  Two  Years  Ago. 

gone,  her  brother  useless,  and  Lucia  and  the  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  someone  who  will 
never  treat  me  so  !  who  will  lift  me  up  and  shield  me,  instead 
of  crushing  me  !— dear  creature  I — oh,  that  I  may  find  him  I " 
And  her  heart  went  out  after  Frank  with  a  gush  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  his, 
and  gazed  into  her  wan  and  haggard  face  with  the  intensest 
tenderness  and  anxiety. 

Valencia'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  1 "  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  I 
Mellot  has  told  me  all." 

"  Oh,  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  I " 
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  thought- 
fulness  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  I  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  I "  said  Frank,  leading 
her  to  a  chair ;  and  as  he  led  her,  he  whispered  with  fluttering 


Two  Years  Ago.  469 

heart,  new  to  its  own  happiness,  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  move  ; 
from  that  moment  she  felt  that  he  was  her  husband. 

"Oh,  g^ide  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  ?  Oh,  stay  I  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?" 

"  Yes,  selfish  and  forgetful  that  I  am  1  You  must  help  me  I 
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  ?  " 

"  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  Valencia  com- 
mitted to  me.  Precious  jewel !  I  must  learn  to  be  a  man  now, 
at  least ;  now  that  I  have  you  to  care  for." 


470  Two  Years  Ago. 


V  And  yet  you  go  and  leave  me  ?  " 

•*  Valencia  !  Because  God  has  given  us  to  each  other,  shall 
our  thank-offering  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  I "  he  cried  ;  "  I  was  too  harsh,  Valencia  1 " 

"  No  1 "  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  I  "  And  as  she  spoke  she  felt  as  if  she  would 
rather  endure  torture  from  that  man's  hand  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- 
respecL  Poor  Lucia  1  She  might  be  able  to  comfort  her 
now,  for  she  had  learned  to  sympathise  with  her  by  experience 
the  very  opposite  to  hers.  Yet  there  must  have  been  a  time 
when  Lucia  clung  to  Elsley  as  she  to  Frank.  How  horrible 
to  have  her  eyes  opened  thus  1  To  be  torn  and  flung  away 
from  the  bosom  where  she  longed  to  rest  1  It  could  never 
happen  to  her.  Of  course  her  Frank  was  true,  though  all  the 
world  were  false :  but  poor  Lucia  1  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  1 " 

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?  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  the  worthy  warrior  to  himself  as  he  marched  downstairs. 


Two  Years  Ago.  471 

"You  see  that  I  am  asserting  our  rights  already  before  all 
the  world,"  said  she,  looking  up. 

"  I  see  that  you  are  not  ashamed  of  me." 

"  Ashamed  of  you  I  " 

"And  now  I  must  go  to  Lucia." 

"And  to  London." 

Valencia  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  1  My  own !  my  Valencia  1  Oh,  a 
thousand  things  to  ask  you  and  no  time  to  ask  them  in  1 
I  can  write?"  said  Frank,  with  an  inquiring  smile. 

"  Write  ?  Yes  ;  every  day — twice  a  day.  I  shall  live  upon 
those  letters.  Good-bye  1 "  And  out  she  went,  and  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  down  the  stairs  abstractedly.  Bowie 
kept  close  to  his  side. 

"  Ye'U  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, 
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  valet.  And, 
indeed,  I've  that  opeenion  of  you,  sir,  that  I  don't  think  it'll 
need  to  be  anyone's  else's  duty  either." 

And  so  did  Mr.  Bowie  signify  his  approbation  of  the  new 
family  romance,  and  went  off  to  assist  Mrs.  Clara  in  getting 
the  trunks  downstairs. 

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 


472  Two  Years  Ago. 

it's  business.  Some  of  his  tantrums,  I  daresay.  I  heard  her 
walking  up  and  down  the  room  all  last  night,  I'll  swear. 
Neither  she  nor  Miss  Valencia  have  been  to  bed.  He'll  kill 
her  at  last,  the  brute  I " 

"  It's  no  concern  of  either  of  us,  that  Have  ye  got  another 
trunk  to  bring  down  ?  " 

"  No  concern  ?  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." 

"  Maybe,  yes  ;  maybe,  no.  But  flirting's  no  marrying,  Mrs. 
Clara." 

"  True  for  you,  sir  I  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  ling  when  the 
sawmon  fishing's  over,  and  we'll  just  be  married  ere  I  start 
for  the  Crimee." 

'•  The  sawmon  1 "  cried  Clara.  "  I'll  see  you  turned  into  a 
mermaid  first,  and  married  to  a  sawmon  1 " 

"And  ye  won't  do  anything  o'  the  kind,"  said  Bowie  to 
himself,  and  shouldered  a  valise. 

In  ten  minutes  the  ladies  were  packed  into  the  carriage, 
and  away,  under  Mellot's  care.  Frank  watched  Valencia 
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  Valencia's. 


CHAPTER  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 


Two  Years  Ago.  473 

of  October,  on  which  he  had  just  heard  the  news  of  Alma,  was 
— upoa  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-farm  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  deep 
chocolate  soil  is  lodged  on  the  top  of  the  upright  strata,  and 
a  thick  coat  of  moss  and  wood  sedge  clusters  about  the 
osds-scrub  roots,  round  which  the  delicate  and  rare  oak-fern 
mingles  its  fronds  with  great  blue  campanulas ;  while  the 
"white  admirals"  and  silver- washed  " fritillaries "  flit  round 
every  bramble  bed,  and  the  great  "purple  emperors"  come 
down  to  drink  in  the  road  puddles,  and  sit  fearless,  flashing 
off  their  velvet  wings  a  blue  as  of  that  empyrean  which  is 
"dark  by  excess  of  light" 

Down  again  through  cultivated  lands,  corn  and  clover,  flaz 
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, 
walnuts,  and  pears,  all  gray  with  fruit,  fills  the  cows'  mouths 
with  chicory,  and  w^ild  carnations,  and  pink  saintfoin,  and 
many  a  fragant  w^eed  which  richer  England  wastes. 

Down  once  more,  into  a  glen :  but  such  a  glen  as  neither 
England  nor  America  has  ever  seen ;  or,  please  God,  ever  will 
see,  glorious  as  it  is.  Stangrave,  who  knew  all  Europe  well, 
had  walked  that  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  cliffs :  but  only  half  of  those 
cliffs  God  has  made.  Above  the  gray  slate  ledges  rise  cliffs 
of  man's  handiwork,  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 
yoimg :  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? 


474  Two  Years  Ago. 

On  the  left  the  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  whose 
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  shades  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  farther 
bank  the  gray-walled  Coblentz  town,  and  the  long  arches  of 
the  Moselle  bridge,  and  the  rich  flats  of  Kaiser  Franz,  and 


Two  Years  Ago,  475 

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  toward  his  ancient 
haunts,  as  he  asks  himself— How  long  has  that  old  Eifel 
lain  in  such  soft  sleep  ?     How  long  ere  it  awake  again  ? 

It  may  awake,  geologists  confess — why  not?  and  blacken 
all  the  skies  with  smoke  of  Tophet,  pouring  its  streams  of 
boiling  mud  once  more  to  dam  the  Rhine,  whelming  the  works 
of  men  in  flood,  and  ash,  and  fire.  Why  not  ?  The  old  earth 
seems  so  solid  at  first  sight :  but  look  a  little  nearer,  and  this 
is  the  stuff  of  which  she  is  made  I  The  wreck  of  past  earth- 
quakes, the  leavings  of  old  floods,  the  washings  of  cold  cinder 
heaps — which  are  smouldering  still  below. 

Stangrave  knew  that  well  enough.  He  had  climbed 
Vesuvius,  Etna,  Popocatepetl.  He  had  felt  many  an  earth- 
quake shock  ;  and  knew  how  far  to  trust  the  everlasting  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  Maker 
with  them?  All  the  magnificent  Plutonic  imagery  of  the 
Hebrew  poets,  had  it  no  meaning  for  men  now?  Did  the 
Lord  still  imcover  the  foundations  of  the  world,  spiritual  as 
well  as  physical,  with  the  breath  of  His  displeasure?  Was 
the  solfatara  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 
earth,  or  from  the  heart  of  man  ? 

Surprising  question  I  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  the  revolution  of  all  Europe  ?     Bah  I — 


476  Two  Years  Ago. 

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  philanthropy.  Men  know  now 
how  to  govern  the  world  far  too  well  to  need  any  divine 
visitations,  much  less  divine  punishments ;  and  Stangrave  was 
an  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  who  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.  WTiat  a  contrast 
to  the  unarmed  and  peaceful  prosperity  of  his  own  country  I 
Thank  Heaven,  New  England  needed  no  fortresses,  military 
roads,  or  standing  armies  1  True,  but  why  that  flush  of  con- 
temptuous pity  for  the  poor  old  world,  which  could  only  hold 
its  own  by  such  expensive  and  ugly  methods? 

He  asked  himself  that  very  question,  a  moment  after,  angrily; 
for  he  was  out  of  humour  with  himself,  with  his  country,  and 
indeed  with  the  universe  in  general.  And  across  his  mind 
flashed  a  memorable  conversation  at  Constantinople  long 
since,  during  which  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  every  day;  and  in  spite  of  his 
enmity,  he  could  not  help  suspecting  more  and  more  that 
Thurnall  had  had  some  right  on  his  side  in  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?  You  Americans  are  not  accustomed  to  give 
more  for  a  thing  than  it's  worth  in  the  market,  are  you?" 


Two  Years  Ago.  477 

"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  am  sick  of  that  shallow  fallacy— the  glory  of 
America  I  Do  you  mean  by  America  the  country,  or  the 
people  ?  You  boast,  all  of  you,  of  your  country,  as  if  you  had 
made  it  yourselves  ;  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?  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  leave  the  honour  of  their  country  to  be 
made  ducks  and  drakes  of  by  a  few  southern  slaveholders. 
Moral  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." 

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  Marie'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,  which  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. 


478  Two  Years  Ago. 

He,  at  least,  had  been  making,  all  his  life,  mere  outward 
blessings  causes  of  self-gratulation,  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  I  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  our- 
selves 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?  We 
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  I  We,  perhaps,  and 
not  the  Englishj  peasant,  are  the  white  slaves  1  At  least,  if 
the  Irishman  emigrates  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  mouth  what  seemed 
best  But  that  we,  who  professed  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 


Two  Years  Ago.  479 

that  have  made  ourselves,  while  God '  Ah,  yes ;  I  recol- 
lect. God's  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  on  the  Deity  as  the  actual 
King  of  Christendom,  and  every  man  in  it  as  God's  own  child. 
I  see  now  I  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  their  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  human  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  1 " 

•  •••••* 

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  ^o  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  through  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  art- 
paradise — the  apotheosis  of  loafing,  as  Claude  calls  it.  Ah, 
Tennyson's  Palace  of  Art  is  a  true  word — too  true,  too  true  I 

"Art?  What  if  the  most  necessary  human  art,  next  to  the 
art  of  agriculture,  be,  after  all,  the  art  of  war  ?    It  has  been 


480  Two  Years  Ago. 

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  ? 
We  have  forgotten  that  the  history  of  the  world  has  been  as 
yet  written  in  blood ;  that  the  story  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  ca..^  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  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  I  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  1  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  Marie.  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  :  for  a  fanatic  I  cannot  be,  even  for  her  sake.  She 
may  hate  these  slaveholders — she  may  have  her  reasons — but 
I  cannot.  I  cannot  deal  with  them  as  ferns  naturae.  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,  v^ith  irresponsible 
power  over  the  souls  and  bodies  of  human  beings.  God  !  I 
shudder  at  the  fancy  1  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, 


Two  Years  Ago.  481 

without  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 
comprehensiveness.  I  used  to  make  it  an  excuse  for  sitting  by, 
and  seeing  the  devil  have  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  ray 
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, 
looking  up  at  Ehrenbreitstein.  Was  it  ? — yes,  it  was  Sabina, 
and  Marie  by  her  I 

But  ah,  how  changed  I  The  cheeks  were  pale  and  hollow ; 
dark  rings— he  could  see  them  but  too  plainly  as  the  face 
was  Hfted  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  Marie  in  it,  but  in  vain. 

He  called  out  He  waved  his  hand  wildly,  to  the  amusement 
of  the  officers  and  peasants  who  waited  by  his  side  ;  and  who, 
looking  first  at  his  excited  face,  and  then  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  1 " 

"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 


482  Two  Years  Ago. 

a  right  to  indemnify  himself  as  he  thought  fit.  And  with  a 
hundred  more  apologies,  Stangrave  prepared  to  dart  across 
the  bridge  as  soon  as  it  was  closed. 

Alas  I  after  the  steamer,  as  the  Fates  would  have  it,  came 
lumbering  down  one  of  those  monster  timber-rafts ;  and  it 
was  a  full  half-hour  before  Stangrave  could  get  across,  having 
suffered  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 
w^ent  in  chase  to  the  nearest  hotel :  but  they  were  not  there ; 
thence  to  the  next,  and  the  next,  till  he  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  Rhine  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  I 
Whither  the  hangman  so  fast  are  you  running  in  the  mud  ? " 

"  My  dear  Salomon  1  But  let  me  go,  I  beseech ;  I  am 
in  search " 

"In  search?"  cries  the  jolly  Jew  banker,  "for  the 
philosopher's  stone?  You  had  all  that  man  could  want  a 
week  since,,  except  that.  Search  no  more,  but  come  home 
with  me ;  and  we  will  have  a  night  as  of  the  gods  on 
Olympus  1 " 

" My  dearest  fellow,  I  am  looking  for  two  ladies  I" 

"  Two  ?  ah,  rogue  !  shall  not  one  suffice  ?  " 

"Don't,  my  dearest  fellowl  I  am  looking  for  two  English 
ladies." 

"  Potz  1  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. 

"Sabina  Mellot,  and  a  Sultana — I  thought  her  of  The 
Nation,  and  would  have  off"ered  my  hand  on  the  spot :  but 
Madame  Mellot  says  she  is  a  Gentile." 

"  Gone  ?    And  you  have  seen  them  I    Where  ?  " 

"To  Bertrich.  They  had  luncheon  with  my  mother,  and 
they  started  by  private  post" 


Two  Years  Ago.  483 

"I  must  follow."  ' 

"  Ach  lieber  ?    But  it  will  be  dark  in  an  hour  I  •* 

"  What  matter  ?  " 

"  But  you  shall  find  them  to-morrow  just  as  well  as  to-day. 
They  stay  at  Bertrich  for  a  fortnight  more.  They  have  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  Coblentz,  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  forth.  Come  home  now,  and  go  by  the 
steamer  to-morrow  morning  1 " 

"  Impossible  1  most  hospitable  of  Israelites." 

'*  To  go  to-night — for  see  the  clouds  I — Not  a  postilion  will 
dare  to  leave  Coblentz,  under  that  quick-coming  altgemein 
und  ungeheuer  henker-hund-und-teufe/'s-geujitter." 

Stangrave  looked  up,  growling;  and  gave  in.  A  Rhine- 
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  a  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,  distress  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  Rhenish  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  Margate.  The 
devil  is  keeping  up  his  usual  correspondence  with  both.  Eaton 
Square  is  a  desolate  wilderness,  where  dusty  sparrows  alone 


484  Two  Years  Ago. 

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.  Peter's  spire  the 
cabman  sleeps  within  his  cab,  the  horse  without ;  the  water- 
man, seated  on  his  empty  bucket,  contemplates  the  untrodden 
pavement  between  his  feet,  and  is  at  rest  The  blue  butcher's 
boy  trots  by,  with  empty  cart,  five  miles  an  hour,  instead  of 
full  fifteen,  and  stops  to  chat  with  the  red  postm.an,  who, 
his  occupation  gone,  smokes  with  the  green  gatekeeper,  and 
reviles  the  Czar.  Along  the  whole  north  pavement  of  the 
square  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  house  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.  Mrs.  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  iook  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  tihall  be  at  the 
afternoon  train  to-morrow,  let  what  will  happen." 

"Ay,  ay,  sir.  Were  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,  Mr.  Bowie,"  says  Clara. 


Two  Years  Ago.  485 

"And  how  should  I  interfere  with  that,  as  I've  said  twenty 
times,  when  I'm  safe  in  the  Crimee?  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  they  women ;  and  if  they  were  taken  out  o' 
man,  they  took  the  best  part  o'  Adam  wi'  them,  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? 
I  must  find  that  man  I  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, 
I  have  been  saying  that,  too,  to  myself  every  day  for  the  last 
week !  Over  and  over  again  the  same  dreary  round  of 
possibilities  and  suspicions.  However,  I  must  be  quiet  now, 
it  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 


486  Two  Years  Ago. 

counter— anything  to  while  away  the  time ;  then  he  plods  on 
toward  the  top  of  the  street,  and  turns  into  Mr.  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 
instruments :  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  Aberalva,  and  his  shore-studies :  but  he 
cannot  think  of  that  any  more.  It  is  past ;  and  may  God 
forgive  him  1 

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  have  seen  its  like ;  it  had  just  Uke  a  painter's 
easel  in  its  stomach  yesterday  1 "  j 

"Why,  it's  an  Echinus  Larva;  a  sucking  sea-urchin  I  Hang 
it,  if  I'd  known  you  hadn't  seen  one,  I'd  have  brought  up  half 
a  dozen  of  them  1 " 

"May  I  look,  sir?"  asked  the  major;  "I,  too,  never  have 
seen  an  Echinus  Larva." 

The  bearded  man  looks  up. 

"  Major  Campbell  1" 

"Mr.  Thurnalll  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  fancied  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  physician  was  out  of  town  :    but  she 


Two  Years  Ago.  487 

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  1 
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 
Tourangeois  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 
Sevastopol " 

Tom  went  out  with  him.  A  new  ray  of  hope  had  crossed 
the  major's  mind.  His  meeting  with  Thurnall  might  be  pro- 
vidential ;  for  he  recollected  now,  for  the  first  time,  Mellot's 
parting  hint. 

"  You  knew  Elsley  Vavasour  well  ?  ** 

"  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  have  I  for  inquiring?  I  will 
tell  you  presently.  Meanwhile  I  may  say,  that  Mellot  told 
mc  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  anything,  I  may  frankly 
tell  you  all.    John   Briggs  is  his  real  name.     I  have  known 


488  Two  Years  Ago. 

him  from  childhood,"  And  then  Tom  poured  into  the  ears  of 
the  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. 
Now  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  Mrs.  Vavasour  only  concerned,  I  should  say— not 
1 1    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  have  you 
searched  for  him?" 

"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  I  have  inquired  at  every  passport  ofRce 
for  news  of  anyone  answering  his  description ;  indeed,  I  have 
two  detectives,  I  may  tell  you,  at  this  moment,  watching  every 
possible  place.  There  is  but  one  hope,  if  he  be  alive.  Can  he 
have  gone  home  to  his  native  town  ?  " 

"  Never  I    Anywhere  but  there  1 " 

"  Is  there  any  old  friend  of  the  lower  class  with  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  off 
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  complaint,  I  forget  what,  which  made  him  an  out- 
patient at  St.  Mumpsimus's,  some  months  every  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." 


Two  Years  Ago.  489 

"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  someone  whom  he 
knows  in  this  great  wilderness ;  especially  a  man  in  whose 
eyes  he  will  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 
modum  tolendi,  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  dressed  like  a  swell  ?  " 

"  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  1 "  and  she  caught  up  the  pan  of 
soapsuds. 

"My  dear  soul  I  I  am  a  doctor  belonging  to  the  hospital 
which  your  husband  goes  to ;  and  have  knovyn  him  since  he 
was  a  boy,  down  in  Berkshire."  A 

"You  I "  and  she  looked  keenly  at  him. 


49^  Two  Years  Ago. 

"  My  name  is  Thurnall.  I  was  a  medical  man  once  in 
Whitbury,  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  offer  you  a 
chair,  he's  pawned  'em  all.  Pleasant  old  place  it  v/as  down 
there,  when  I  was  a  young  girl :  they  say  it's  grow'd  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. 

"My  good  woman,"  said  Major  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  he  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,  dearl  it  was  a  sad  day  for  me  when  I  first  fell  in  with 
they  play-goers  1 " 

"Why  should  she  not  do  it  as  well?"  said  Thurnall. 
"  Mrs.  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?"  asked  Campbell,  eagerly. 

"I  seen  'un?  I'd  hit  this  water  over  the  fellow,  and  all  bis 
play-acting  merry-andrews,  if  ever  he  sot  a  foot  here  1 " 

"  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.     No  good,  I'll  warrant." 

"My  good  woman,"   said    Campbell,   panting   for   breath, 


Two  Years  Ago.  491 

"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're  whispering  ?  "  asked  she  sharply. 

Campbell  stamped  with  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  1  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  ben't  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  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  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 
first  touch  of  sweetness  they  had  yet  heard  in  her  voice. 
•'  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. 


492  Two  Years  Ago. 

"  God  help  her  I "  said  Campbell,  as  he  went  downstairs. 

"  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  I  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  pis  a/ler ;  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, 
Windbag,  and  Red-tape." 

They  visited  one  public-house  after  another,  till  the  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  arm- 
holes,  and  laying  down  the  law  to  a  group  of  coster-boys,  for 
want  of  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. 

Mr.  Barker  bent  down  his  head  on  one  side,  to  signify  that 
he  was  absorbed  in  attention  to  her  news ;  and  then  drawring 
himself  up  once  more,  lifted  his  greasy  hat  high  in  air,  bowed 
to  the  very  floor,  and  broke  forth — 

"  Most  potent,  gfrave,  and  reverend  sigrniors  : 
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 


Two  Years  Ago.  493 

listen  to  your  talented  effusions,  and  next  for  a  little  private 
conversation  on  a   subject   on   which "    but    Mr.    Barker 

interrupted — 

"  To  listen,  and  to  drink  ?    The  muse  is  dry, 
And  Pegasus  doth  thirst  for  Hippocrene, 
And  fain  would  paint— imbibe  the  vulgar  call— 
Or  hot  or  cold,  or  long  or  short— Attendant  1" 

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  1 " 

And  he  faced  round  with  a  third  attitude. 

"Do  you  know  Mr.  Briggs?"  asked  the  straightforward 
major. 

He  rolled  his  eyes  to  every  quarter  of  the  seventh  sphere, 
clapped  his  hand  upon  his  heart,  and  assumed  an  expression 
of  angelic  gratitude — 

"  My  benefactor  1    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    I  know  a  man — 
A  man  Jove-fronted,  and  Hyperion-curled — 
A  gushing,  flushing,  blushing  human  heart  1 ' " 

"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  I    'Tis  in  verse  I 

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  verse,  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 
threw  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?" 


494  Two  Years  Ago. 

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  her  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'  crown  about  his  head." 

*•  Fumes  of  Morpheus'  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  1"  said  Thurnall  to  the  bewildered 
major.     "What  I  should  have  expected." 

"God  help  him  1  we  must  save  him  out  of  that  last  lowest 
deep  1 "  cried  Campbell.     "  Where  is  he,  sir  ?  " 

'  A  vow,  a  vow  I    I  have  a  vow  in  heaven  I 
Why  guide  the  hounds  toward  the  trembling  hare? 
Our  Adonais  hath  drunk  poison;  oh  I 
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 
eyeing  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 
has  insulted  me  I    He  has  called  my  poetry  nonsense,  and  my 


Two  Years  Ago.  495 

friend  a  fellow.    And  blood  shall  not  wipe  out— what  liquor 

may  I " 

The  hint  was  sufficient:  but  ere  he  had  drained  another 
glass,  Mr.  Barker  was  decidedly  incapable  of  maxizgiag  his 
affairs,  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  1  To  have  kept  half  an  hour's 
company  with  such  an  animal,  and  then  to  have  him  escape 
me  after  all  1  A  just  punishment  on  me  for  pandering  to  his 
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  ?  ** 

•'  Not  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.  Now  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  Campbell,  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  everyone  was  out  of  town,  there 
were  a  million  and  a  half  of  people  in  London  at  that  moment ; 
and,  unfortunately,  at  least  fifty  thousand  who  would  have 
considered  Mr.  John  Barker  a  desirable  visitor ;  but  somehow, 
in  the  excitement  of  the  chase,  both  had  forgotten  the  chances 
against  them,  and  the  probability  that  they  would  have  to 


49^  Two  Years  Ago. 

retire  downstairs  again,  apologising  humbly  to  some  wrathful 
Joseph  Buggins,  whose  convivialities  they  might  have  inter- 
rupted. 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,  alias  John  Briggs. 

Major  Campbell  advanced  bowing,  hat  in  hand,  with  a 
courteous  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  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,  Austrahan  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  the  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  you  to  mistake  either  me  or 
a  lady  whom  I  am  unworthy  to  mention." 

"  I  am  glad  the  beggar  fired  at  him,"  thought  Torn.  "One 
spice  of  danger,  and  hp'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." 


Two  Years  Ago.  497 

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  vacant  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  Christian  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?" 

Elsley  looked  at  him  still  askance,  puzzled,  inquiring. 
Suddenly  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.     Nov?  was  Tom's  turn. 

In  a  moment  he  had  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  I "  moaned  Elsley. 

"  For  neither,  dear  lad  !  Let  bygones  be  bygones,  and  do 
you  be  a  new  man,  and  go  home  to  Mrs.  Vavasour." 

"Never,  never,  never,  never,  never,  never  I"  shrieked  Elsley 
like  a  baby,  every  word  increasing  in  intensity,  till  the  whole 
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.  Major  Campbell.  I  think  you  had 
better  2:0  now." 


49^  Two  Years  Ago. 

*'  You  win  not  leave  him  ?  " 

"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  1  How  did  you  ever  dream  such  an 
absurdity  ?  " 

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  1 " 

«« 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  off  these  fits ;  I  feel  one 
coming  now.     Curse  you  1  give  me  the  bottle  1 " 

••What  fits?" 

"  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. 


Two  Years  Ago.  499 

"I  tell  you  it  turns  every  bone  to  red-hot  iron  I"  almost 
screamed  he. 

"  Neuralgia  ;  rheumatic,  I  suppose,"  said  Tom  to  himself. 

"  Well,  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. 

•'More,  I  tell  you,  morel"  said  Elsley,  lifting  up  his  head, 
and  looking  at  it. 

"Not  more  while  you  are  with  me." 

"  With  you  1    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  mcin, 
tell  me  what  you  intend  to  do." 

"What  is  that  to  you,  or  any  man?"  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  I— that  is,  not  yet  I  I  tell  you  I  cannot 
face  the  thought  of  her,  much  less  the  sight  of  her,  and  her 
family— that  Valencia  I  I'd  rather  the  earth  should  open  and 
swallow  me  1     Don't  talk  to  me,  I  say  I " 

i^nd  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.  "Yesl  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  off  to  Italy." 

♦*  If  you  want  ten  pounds,  my  good  fellow,  you  can  have 
them  without  racking  your  brains  over  an  article." 

Elsley  looked  up  proudly. 

"  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  are  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: 


500  Two  Years  Ago. 

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." 

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  323,  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  v/e'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 
with  him.  Beside,  there  was  a  sort  of  relief  in  the  company 
of  a  man  who,  though  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  anyone  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  a  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  with  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  Jovel"  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  poeml  Yes,  there  is  another  'Revolt  of  Islam'  to  be 
written  yet.     Why  don't  you  become  our  war  poet?    Come 


Two  Years  Ago.  501 

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  gjit  of  it,  for  if  you  can't,  who  can  ? " 

"It  is  a  grand  thought !  The  true  war  poets,  after  all, 
have  been  warriors  themselves.  Kbrner  and  Alcceus  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  w^ound, 
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  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  1 " 

And  his  face  blazed  up  with  excitement. 

"What  a  handsome  fellow  he  is,  after  all,  if  there  were  but 
more  of  himl"  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  luncheon 
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 


502  Two  Years  Ago. 

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  again  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  Valencia. 

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,  Mr.  Thurnall  ?  " 

"  Keep  him  under  my  eye,  day  and  night,  till  he  is  either 
rational  again,  or " 

"  Do  you  think  that  he  may  ?~0h,  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," 

Valencia  held  out  her  fair  hand  to  the  young  doctor.  He 
stooped,  and  lifted  the  tips  of  her  fingers  to  his  lips. 


Two  Years  Ago.  503 

"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  v^th  Elsley?  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  the  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  Scoutbush  interest  on  my  side — though  I 
believe  I  have  it  already.  Still,  it's  as  well  to  lay  people 
under  as  heavy  an  obligation  as  possible.  I  wished  Miss 
Valencia  had  asked  me  whether  Elsley  wanted  any  money : 
it's  expensive  keeping  him  myself.  However,  poor  thing,  she 
has  other  matters  to  think  of :  and  I  daresay,  never  knew  the 
pleasures  of  an  empty  purse.  Here  we  are  1  Three-and- 
sixpence — eh,  cabman?  I  suppose  you  think  I  was  bom 
Saturday  night?  There's  three  shillings.  Now,  don't  chaff 
me,  ray  excellent  friend,  or  you  will  find  you  have  met  your 
match,  and  a  leetle  more  I " 

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  1 "  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.  And  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  hear  the  conclusion  of  the  whole  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 


504  Two  Years  Ago. 

day  by  day,  down  the  old  lanes,  along  the  old  river-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  the 
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  1  that  a 
blacker  brand  than  Cain's  is  on  my  brow  !— Never  know — oh, 
my  God,  what  care  I  ? — Let  them  know  all,  as  long  as  I  can 
have  done  with  shams  and  affectations,  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  I  ought  to  die,  and  I  shall 
die.  I  cannot  face  her  again;  let  her  forget  me,  and  find  a 
husband  who  will— and  be  a  father  to  the  children  whom  I 
neglected  1  Oh,  my  darlings,  my  darlings  !  If  I  could  but  see 
you  once  again :  but  no  1  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  I — Let  me 
weep  it  out,  Thurnall ;  let  me  face  it  all  1  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  1    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." 


Two  Years  Ago.  505 

Tom  slipped  out  that  aiiernoon,  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 
body  and  mind,  and  Tom  put  him  to  bed  that  evening,  as  he 
would  have  put  a  child. 

Tom  walked  out  into  the  Strand  to  smoke  in  the  fresh  air, 
and  think,  in  spite  of  himself,  of  that  fair  saint  from  whom  he 
was  so  perversely  flying.  Gay  girls  slithered  past  him, 
looked  round  at  him,  but  in  vain  ;  but  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 
have  made  of  himself  1  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  ;  there  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  I    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  vulgar 
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  gaslight,  their  faces  glowed  for  a 
while  with  noble  enthusiasm  and  woman's  sacred  pity,  as  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  fight ;  and 
there  is  many  a  brave  man  killed,  and  many  a  one  more  will  be." 

"  Oh,  does  it  hurt  them  much  ?  "  asked  one  poor  thing. 

**  Not  often,"  quoth  Tom. 

'•  Thank  God,  thank  God  1 "  and  she  turned  suddenly  away, 
and  with  the  impulsive  nature  of  her  class,  burst  into  violent 
sobbing  and  weeping. 


5o6  Two  Years  Ago. 

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  Southampton.  "The  better  the  day,  the  better  the  deed," 
quoth  he.  "When  a  man  is  travelling  to  a  better  world,  he 
need  not  be  afraid  of  starting  on  a  Sunday." 


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  sittting 
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 


Two  Yiears  Ago.  507 

pours  out  to  woman,  and  woman  again  to  man.  All  its 
language  lies  in  the  tones,  the  looks,  the  little  half-concealed 
gestures,  bints  which  pass  themselves  ofif  modestly  in  a  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  was  his  very  son  or  no,  made  him  sit 
dovsn  by  him,  holding  him  still  fast,  and  began — 

'•  Now,  tell  me,  tell  me,  while  Jane  gets  you  something  to 
eat. — No,  Jane,  you  mustn'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  ;  Ij  want  a  whole  hour's  talk  about  the  fellow.  And 
— what  an  old  babbler  I  am  1  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  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  do,  father," 
says  Tom  at  last 

"  No,  child ;  but  Mary  Armsworth,  God  bless  her !  comes 
down  here  almost  every  evening  to  read  all  your  letters  to  me  : 
and  she  ha3  been  reading  to  me  a  book  of  Mrs.  Lee's 
'Adventures  in  Australia,  which  reads  like  a  novel ;  delicious 
book — to  me  at  least  Why,  there  is  her  step  outside,  I  do 
believe,  and  her  father's  with  her  1 " 

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  visitor,  he  stopped  on  the  threshold 
vnth  outstretched  arms. 

*'  Hollo,  ho  1  who  have  we  here  ?  Our  prodigal  son  returned, 
with  his  pockets  full  of  nuggets  from  the  diggings.    Oh,  mum's 


5o8  Two  Years  Ago. 

the  word,  is  it  ?  "  as  Tom  laid  his  finger  on  his  lips.  "  Come 
here,  then,  and  let's  have  a  look  at  you  I "  And  he  catches 
both  Tom's  hands  in  his,  and  almost  shakes  them  off.  "  I 
knew  you  were  coming,  old  boy  1  Mary  told  me — she's  in  all 
the  old  man's  secrets.  Come  along,  Mary,  and  see  your  old 
play-fellow.  She  has  got  a  little  fruit  for  the  old  gentleman. 
Mary,  where  are  you?  always  colloguing  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,  wnich  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 
marry  me  for  myself,"  says  Mary;  "and  no  one  shall  marry 
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  green-house,"  says  the  old 
man,  in  a  disparaging  tone:  "and,  oh,  Jane,  bring  me  a 
saucer.  Here's  a  sprat  I  just  capered  out  of  the  Hemmelford 
mill-pit ;  perhaps  the  Doctor  would  like  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  Mark  pulls  out  of  his  basket  a 
great  three-pound  trout. 

"Ahal  my  young  rover  1  Old  Mark's  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  I  Eh?  Come  here,  and  look  me  over.  How  do  I 
wear,  eh?  As  like  a  Muscovy  duck  as  ever,  you  young 
rogue?  Do  you  recollect  asking  me,  at  the  Club  dinner,  why 
I  was  like  a  Muscovy  duck  ?  Because  I  was  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  have  him  myself  to-night ;  indeed,  I  must,  Mark," 
says  the  Doctor. 

"All  to  yourself,  you  selfish  old  rogue?" 


Two  Years  Ago.  S09 

««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  travellers' 
lies  as  ever,  eh  ?  Well,  I'll  come,  and  smoke  my  pipe  with 
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  1 " 

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  had  not  been  for  making  old  Jane  jealous.  But 
she  is  ill.     Some  love  affair,  I  suppose " 

"How  quaint  it  is,  that  the  father  has  kept  all  the  animal 
vigour  to  himself,  and  transmitted  none  to  tlie  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  ia  his 
chair,  and  covered  his  face  with  his  handkerchief,  and  was 


5IO  Two  Years  Ago. 

quite  still  awhile.  And  Tom  watched  him,  and  thought  that 
he  would  ^ve  all  his  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  with  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  a  poor,  sick  man  whom  I  brought  down  with 
me,  sir,  if  you  could  spare  me  half  an  hour.  It  really  is  a 
professional  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 
exhibit,  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?     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  I  shall  die  m  the  workhouse  at 
this  rate." 


Two  Years  Ago.  511 

"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. 
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  po — o — o— etry  I  Do  you  recollect  that  morning', 
and  the  black  draught  ?    Oh,  dear,  my  side  I " 

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  moonhght, 
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 


512  Two  Years  Ago. 

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  k  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  I  Such  a  match  as  she  might  have  made !  But 
she'll  be  handsome  enough  vfhen  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  I  As  long  as  such  as  you  walk  this 
lower  world,  one  needs  no  Butler's  "Analogy"  to  prove  to  us 
that  there  is  another  world,  where  such  as  you  will  have  a 
fuller  and  a  fairer  (I  dare  not  say  a  juster)  portion. 

4t  *  *  *  *  *  * 

Next  morning  Mark  started  with  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." 

"Pohl  quarrel  with  him?  whom  did  I  ev°r  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  1  he  couldn't 
have  been  a  very  great  cad  to  marry  a  nobleman's  daughter  I" 


"  He  had  fired  a  pistol  in  Cunipbell's  face." 


Vag'  i^. 


Two  Years  Ago.  513 

"■Why,  no.  Speaks  well  for  him,  that,  considering  his 
breeding-.  He  must  be  a  very  clever  fellovy  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,  Toml"  said  old  Mark,  clapping 
him  on  the  back.  "Look  at  me  I  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,  Mr. 
Vavasour.  I  am  sorry  to  see  you  so  poorly  1  I  hope  our 
Whitbury  air  will  set  you  all  right." 

"  You  mistake  me,  sir ;  my  name  is  Briggs  1 "  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  ?  Are  you  come,  sir,  to  use  the  rich  successful  man's 
right,  and  lecture  me  in  my  misery  ?  " 

"'Pon  my  word,  sir,  you  must  have  forgotten  old  Mark 
Armsworth  indeed,  if  you  fancy  him  capable  of  any  such 
dirt.  No,  sir,  I  came  to  pay  my  respects  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  answer,  "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  vre  don't 
send  too  many  clever  fellows  out  of  Whitbury." 


514  Two  Years  Ago. 

"  Would  that  you  had  never  sent  me  I "  said  Elsley,  in  his 
bitter  vyay. 

"Ah,  sir,  that's  matter  of  opinion  I  You  would  never  have 
been  heard  cf  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  vroman.  Come  up,  sir, 
and  judge  for  yourself  if  I  do.n't  speak  the  truth  ;  she  will  be 
delighted  to  meet  you,  and  bade  me  say  so." 

By  this  time  good  Mark  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  vyith  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  vyhen  we  saw  them 
coming  full  cry  at  our  heels,  where  would  any  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  .igain  ;  and  say — 
better  luck  next  fight."  And  so  old  Mark's  sermon  ended 
(as  most  of  them  did)  in  somewhat  Socratic  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 " 

"  I  never  thought  to  Uve  to  hear  that,  sir.     I  can't  doubt  now 


Two  Years  Ago.  515 

that  you  are  cleverer  than  your  neighbours,  for  you  have  found 
out  something'  ijvhich  they  never  did.  But  you  will  come  ? — for 
that's  my  business." 

Elsley  looked  inquiringly  at  Tom ;  he  had  learned  now  to 
consult  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  five.  No  London  late  hours  here,  sir.  Miss  Arms  worth 
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  much  afraid  his  courage  will  fail  him.  I  will  see 
him  again,  and  bring  him  up  with  me :  but  now,  my  dear 
Mr.  Arms  worth,  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  w^ill  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  wants  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  craving 
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 


5i6  Two  Years  Ago. 

be  an  offence — not  unpardonable,  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  breaking  of  an  engagement,  which,  v/ell 
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. 

"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. " 

Mary  looked  very  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  sfie  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  ?"  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  v>?hat  the  quiet  oil  on  the  water  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  foot-boy  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." 


Two  Years  Ago  517 

"  I  think  you  had  better  go,  Mr.  Thumall,"  said  Mary,  quietly. 

"  Indeed  you  had,  boy.  Bother  poets,  and  the  day  they 
first  began  to  breed  in  Whitbury  I  Such  an  evening  spoilt  I 
Have  a  cup  of  coffee  ?     No  ?  then  a  glass  of  sherry  ?  " 

Out  went  Tom.  Mrs.  Brown  had  been  up,  and  seen  him 
seemingly  sleeping ;  then  had  heard  him  run  downstairs 
hurriedly.  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?  I'll  hold 
you  responsible  for  the  man's  hfe  I " 

"You  dare  call  me  a  rascal  I"  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  with  Mr. 
Armsworth.     I  suppose  you  know  him  ?  " 

The  assistant  shook  in  his  shoes  at  the  name  of  that  terrible 
justice  of  the  peace  and  of  the  war  also ;  and  meekly  and 
contritely  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 
thinking.  "  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  tremblingly,  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.     Somcwacre  in  Water  Lane  it  is,  I  know." 

And  towards  Water  Lane  he  hurried.     It  was  a  low-lying 


5i8  Two  Years  Ago. 

offshoot  of  the  town,  leading  along  the  water-meadows,  with  a 
stragf  ling  row  of  houses  on  each  side,  the  triennial  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, 
meanwhile,  into  ponds  and  mires  full  of  offal  and  duck-weed 
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  tlie  moonbeams  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  live  here  ?  " 

**  What  do  you  want  to  know  that  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  river,  I  expect :  I  ran  out,  and  saw  him  go  down 
the  lane,  but  I  was  not  going  far  by  night  alone  with  any 
such  strange  customers." 

"  Lend  me  a  lanthorn,  then,  for  Heaven's  sake  1 " 

The  lanthorn  is  lent,  and  Tom  starts  again  down  the  lane. 

Now  to  search.  At  the  end  of  the  lane  is  a  cross  road 
parallel  to  the  river.  A  broad,  still  ditch  lies  beyond  it,  with  x 
little  bridge  across,  where  one  gets  minnows  for  bait ;  then  ». 
broad  water-meadow ;  then  silver  Whit. 

The  bridge-gate  is  open.     Tom  hurries  across  the  road  t« 


Two  Years  Ago.  519 

it     The  lanthorn  shows  him  fresh  footraarks  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  over  sleeping  cows  ;  and  more 
than  once  stepping  short  just  in  time,  as  they  were  walking 
into  some  broad  and  deep  feeder. 

Almost  in  despair,  and  after  having  searched  down  the 
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  higher  than  usual,  and  let  the  reflection 
of  the  moonlight  off  the  water  reach  his  eye  ;  and  in  the  moon- 
light ripples,  close  to  the  farther  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  tiling,  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  1 
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 


520  Two  Years  Ago. 

Tom  lock  him  in  his  arms,  carried  him  ashore,  and  up 
through  the  water-meadow ;  borrowed  a  blanket  and  a 
wheel-barrow  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  ?  " 

"  You  will  indeed?" 

"  'Gad,  I'll  go  myself  and  kick  up  the  station-master.  What's 
the  matter  ?  " 

"That  if  poor  Mrs.  Vavasour  wishes  to  see  her  husband 
alive,  she  must  be  here  in  four-and- twenty  hours.  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  I  cannot  I  be  of  any  use?"  says  Mary. 

"  No,  you  angel  I " 

"You  must  not  call  me  an  angel,  Mr.  Thurnall.  After  all, 
what  can  I  do  which  you  have  not  done  already?" 

Tom  started.  Grace  had  once  used  to  him  the  very  same 
words.  By  the  bye,  what  was  it  in  the  two  women  which 
made  them  so  like?  Certainly,  neither  face  nor  fortune. 
Something  in  the  tones  of  their  voices. 

"Ah,  if  Grace  had  Mary's  fortune,  or  Mary  Grace's  facel" 
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  v/as  failing  fast ;  his  heart 
was  affected ;  and  Tom  knew  that  he  might  di<?  any  hour. 

The  evening  train  brings  two  ladies,  Valencia  and  Lucia. 
At  the  risk  of  her  life,  the  poor  faithful  wife  has  come. 

A  gentleman's  carriage  is  w^aiting  for  them,  though  they 
have  ordered  none  ;  and  as  they  go  through  the  station-room, 
a  plain  little  well-dressed  body  comes  humbly  up  to  them. 

"Are  either  of  these  ladies  Mrs.  Vavasour  ?  " 


Two  Years  Ago.  521 

"  Yes  !    I ! — I ! — is  he  alive  ?  "  gasps  Luda. 

"Alive,  and  better  1  and  expecting  you " 

"Better? — expecting  me?"  almost  shrieks  she,  as  Valencia 
and  Mary  (for  it  is  she)  help  her  to  the  carriage.  Mary  puts 
them  in  and  turns  away. 

"Are  you  not  coming  too?"  asks  Valencia,  who  is 
puzzled. 

"  No,  thank  you,  madam  ;  I  am  going  to  take  a  walk.  John, 
you  know  where  to  drive  these  ladies." 

Little  Mary  does  not  think  it  necessary  to  say  that  she,  with 
her  father'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 
iTiost  ?  And  why  are  Valencia's  eyes  more  red  with  weeping 
than  even  her  sister's  sorrow  need  have  made  them  ? 

Because  Frank  Headley  is  rolling  along  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  the  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 — Valencia  had  expected  that :  but 
she  had  expected,  too,  confusion  and  wretchedness ;  for  a 
note  from  Major  Campbell,  ere  he  started,  had  told  her  of  the 
condition  in  vyhich  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  off 
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. 


522  Two  Years  Ago. 

"Will  you  go  in?"  whispered  he  to  Valencia,  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  1 "  moaned  Elsley. 

"  Not  Tom  1— Lucia  I" 

"Lucia? — Lucia  St  Just?"  answered  he,  in  a  low,  abstracted 
voice,  as  if  trying  to  recollect. 

"  Lucia  Vavasour  ! — your  Luda  I " 

Elsley  slowly  raised  himself  upon  his  elbow,  and  looked 
into  her  face  with  a  sad  inquiring  gaze. 

"  Elsley — darling  Elsley  1  don't  you  know  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,  very  well  indeed ;  better  than  you  know  me.  1  am 
not  Vavasour  at  all.  My  name  is  Briggs — John  Briggs,  the 
apothecary's  son,  come  home  to  Whitbury  to  die." 

She  did  not  hear,  or  did  not  care  for  those  last  w^ords. 

"  Elsley  1  I  am  your  wiiel — your  own  wife  I — who  never 
loved  anyone  but  you — never,  never,  never  I "  i 

"Yes,  my  wife,  at  least  1  Curse  them,  that  they  cannot 
deny  1 "  said  he,  in  the  same  abstracted  voice. 

"O  God  1  is  he  mad?"  thought  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  1  who  never  loved  anyone  but  you  ! " 

Slowly  his  frozen  heart  and  frozen  brain  melted  beneath  the 
warmth  of  her  great  iove  :  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  I  "  whispered  he.  "  Call 
me  John  Briggs,  and  let  us  have  done  with  shams  for  ever." 

"  No ;  you  are  my  Elsley— my  Vavasour  1  and  I  am  your  wife 
once  more  1 "  and  the  poor  thing  fondled  his  head  as  it  lay  upon 


Two  Years  Ago.  523 

the  pillow.  My  own  Elsley,  to  whom  I  gave  myself,  body  and 
soul ;  for  Vv'hom  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  all  ray  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  1"  cried  he, 
with  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  1 "  And  his  head  sank  back,  and  his  jaw 
dropped. 

"He  is  deadl"  cried  the  poor,  impulsive  creature,  with  a 
shriek  which  brought  in  Tom  and  Valencia. 

"  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  I — save  him!  Mr. 
Thurnall,  until  I  have  atoned  for  all." 

"You  have  little  enough  to  atone  for,  madam,"  said  Tom, 
as  he  busied  himself  about  the  sufferer.  He  saw  that  all 
would  soon  be  over,  and  would  have  had  Mrs.  Vavasour 
withdraw  :  but  she  was  really  so  good  a  nurse,  as  long  as 
she  could  control  herself,  that  he  could  hardly  spare  her. 

So  they  sat  together  by  the  sick  bed-side,  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 
alternately  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 


524  Two  Years  Ago. 

gesture  from  him  she  sank  quietly  on  her  knees,  holding  hei 
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  Mark  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  Valencia,  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,  delivered  her  and  Valencia  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  I " 

"  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. 

*'  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 


Two  Years  Ago.  525 

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  they  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  the  world  was  wrong?" 

"  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?** 


526 


Tvc'o  Years  Ago. 


"  Not  a  case.  We  stopped  the  devil  out  there,  thanks  to 
his  lordship." 

"So  did  we  here.  We  were  very  near  in  for  it,  though,  I 
fancy.  At  least,  I  chose  to  fancy  so— thought  it  a  good 
opportunity  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  the  sewage  was  worth  anything,  they  v^ere  down 
on  me,  as  if  I  wanted  to  do  them — I,  Mark  Armsworth  ! — 
and  would  sooner  let  half  the  tov/n  rot  with  an  epidemic, 
than  have  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  came  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  I  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  ?  Ke  can't  help  me  with  the  Bashi-bazouks, 
can  he?" 

"  Bashi-fiddles  I  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 
papers  are  full  of  it." 

"Well,"  quoth  Tom,  "and  why  should  it?" 


Two  Years  Ago.  527 

"Why,  man  alive,  if  Eng-land  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  m&  I've  my  reasons,  and 
they're  good  ones  enough." 

The  conversation  was  interrupted  by  the  servant ;  Lord 
Minchampstead  was  waiting  at  Mr.  Armsworth's  office. 

"  Early  bird,  his  lordship,  and  gets  the  worm  accordingly," 
says  Mark,  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  I  you  talk  of  having  your  reasons :  I 
have  mine  1 " 

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  he 
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  smce  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  soidier-like  air  of  dignity  and  command. 


528  Two  Years  Ago. 

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 
Englishman,  to  mark  what  sort  of  boots  he  wore.  They 
w^ere  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  behoved  him  to  set  out  his  person  as  it 
deserved,  was  far  too  fine  a  gentleman  to  trouble  himself  about 
looking  fine. 

Mark  looks  round,  sees  Tom,  and  calls  him  in. 

"  Mr.  Thurnall,  I  am  glad  to  meet  you,  sir.  You  did  me 
good  service  at  Pentremochyn,  and  did  it  cheaply.  I  was 
agreeably  surprised,  I  confess,  at  receiving  a  bill  for  four 
pounds  seven  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. 

Some  men  would  have,  under  a  sense  of  Tom's  merits, 
sent  him  a  cheque  off-hand  for  five-and-tweuty  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?" 

"lam." 


Two  Years  Ago.  529 

"You  know  that  part  of  the  world  well,  I  believe?** 

"  Intimately." 

"  And  the  languages  spoken  there  ?  " 

"  By  no  means  all.  Russian  and  Tartar  well ;  Turkish 
tolerably ;  with  a  smattering  of  two  or  three  Circassian 
dialects." 

"  Humph  !    A  fair  list     Any  Persian  ?  ** 

"  Only  a  very  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?" 

"  I  only  join  it  because  I  can  get  no  other  employment  at  the 
seat  of  war." 

"  Humph  I  You  wish  to  go  then,  in  any  case,  to  the  seat 
of  war  ?  " 

"  Certainly." 

"No  doubt  you  have  sufficient  reasons.  .  •  .  Armsworth, 
this  puts  the  question  in  a  new  light" 

Tom  looked  round  at  Mark,  and,  behold,  his  face  bore  a 
ludicrous  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  foolish  as  a  girl,  my  lord;  and  I've 
told  him  so." 

"Everybody  knows  his  own  business  best,  Armsworth; 
Mr.  Thurnall,  have  you  any  fancy  for  the  post  of  Queen's 
messenger  ?  " 

"  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  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. 


53^  Two  Years  Ago, 

are  expected  to  talk  much  :  but  for  which  you,  if  I  am  rightly 
informed,  would  be  especially  fitted." 

Tom  bowed  ;  and  his  face  spoke  a  hundred  assents. 

*'Very  well;  if  you  will  come  over  to  Minchampstead  to- 
morrow, I  will  give  you  letters  to  friends  of  mine  in  town.  I 
trust  that  they  may  give  you  a  better  opportunity  than  the 
Bashi-bazouks  will,  of  displaying  that  courage,  address,  and 
self-command,  which,  I  understand,  you  possess  in  so  un- 
common a  degree.  Good-morning  1 "  And  forth  the  great 
man  went. 

Most  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  I  Oh,  what  bliss  1 
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  1 
Why,  he  has  been  pumping  me  about  you  this  month  1  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  1 
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  I'll  shave  my  head  to-morrow,  and  buy  me 
an  assortment  of  wigs  of  every  hue  ! " 

Take  care,  Tom  Thurnall  I  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  dovm  from  where  God  has  put  us,  for  virhatsoever 
seemingly  fine  ends  of  ours,  lest,  doing  so,  we  tempt  our  God 
once  too  often  ? 

Your  father  quoted  that  text  to  John  Briggs,  here,  many 
years  ago.  Might  he  not  quote  it  now  to  you?  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. 


Two  Years  Ago.  531 

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 
rashness  ?    Again,  beware  ;  after  pride  may  come  a  fall. 
•  •«**«• 

On  the  fourth  day  Elsley  was  buried.  Mark  and  Tom  were 
the  only  mourners ;  Lucia  and  Valencia  stayed  at  Mark's 
house,  to  return  next  day  under  Tom's  care  to  Eaton  Square. 

The  two  mourners  walked  back  sadly  from  the  churchyard. 
"  I  shall  puj  a  stone  over  him,  Tom.  He  ought  to  rest  quietly 
now  ;  for  he  had  little  rest  enough  in  this  life.  .  .  . 

"  Now,  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  something ;  when  I've 
taken  off  my  hatband,  that  is  ;  for  it  would  be  hardly  lucky  to 
mention  such  matters  with  a  hat-band  on." 

Tom  looked  up  wondering. 

"  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  like  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  far  as  her  looks,  why,  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  Mr.  Arms  worth  than 
*-he  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  Mark  straighter 
than  he's  ever  been  since :  not  that  he's  so  very  bad,  nov7. 
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." 


532  Two  Years  Ago. 

"  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  his  hat  on  again 
behind  before  ;  till  at  last  he  snatched  his  arm  from  Tom's,  and 
gripping  him  by  the  shoulder,  recommenced — 

"You  think  so,  eh?  Well,  I  must  say  it,  so  I'd  better  have 
it  out  now,  hatband  or  none  1  What  do  you  think  of  the 
man  who  married  my  daughter,  face  and  all  ? " 

"  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. 

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  Miss 
Armsworth'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 " 

"Cf  course  she  didn't,  and  of  course  you  didn't.  Should 
like  to  have  seen  you  making  love  to  my  daughter,  indeed  ' 


Two  Years  Ago.  533 

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  I  even  in  these  fly-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  unac- 
customed 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  I " 
But — that  Mary  Armsworth  should  care  for  him  !  Vain  fellow 
that  he  was  to  fancy  it !  And  yet,  when  he  began  to  put 
things  together,  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  shipwreck.  Beside,  it  was  the  only  method  of  explaining 
Mark's  conduct,  save  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  pounds,  and  Mark  Armsworth's  daughter — a  good 
house,  a  good  consulting  practice  (for  he  would  take  his  M.D., 
of  course),  a  good  station  in  the  county,  a  good  clarence  with 
a  good  pair  of  horses,  good  plate,  a  good  dinner  with  good 
company  thereat ;  and,  over  and  above  all,  his  father  to  live 
with  him  and  with  Mary,  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 


534  Two  Years  Ago. 

gain  !  Not  to  mention  (for  how  oddly  little  dreams  of  selfish 
pleasure  slip  in  at  such  moments  !)— that  he  would  buy  such 
a  Ross's  microscope  i  and  keep  such  a  horse  for  a  sly  by-day 
with  the  Whitford  Priors  1  Oh,  to  see  once  again  a  fox  break 
from  Coldharbour  gorse  1 

And  then  rose  up  before  his  imagination  those  drooping, 
steadfast  eyes ;  and  Grace  Harvey,  the  suspected,  the  despised, 
seemed  to  look  through  and  through  his  inmost  soul,  as 
through  a  home  v/hich  belonged  of  right  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 
anyone  but  her.  "And  why  should  I  not  sell  my  soul?" 
asked  he,  almost  fiercely.  "  I  sell  my  talents,  my  time,  ray 
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 ;  and  why  not  my  soul  too  ?  Don't  that  belong  to 
me  as  well  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  ?  What  is  this  intolerable 
fascination  ?  Witch  I  I  almost  believe  in  mesmerism,  now  1 
Again,  I  say,  why  should  I  not  sell  ray  soul,  as  I'd  sell 
my  coat,  if  the  bargain's  but  a  good  one  ? " 

And  if  he  ever  did,  who  would  ever  know?  Not  even 
Grace  herself.  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  thereon :  tradesmen,  lawyers, 
squires,  popular  preachers,  great  noblemen,  kings  and  princes. 
He  w^ould  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  vague 
dread  of  possible  evil,  such  as  he  had  never  .''elt  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  his  last  court-card,  and  Fortune, 
out  of  her  close-hidden  hand,  laid  down  a  trump  thereon  with 


Two  Years  Ago.  535 

quiet,  sneering  smile  ?  And  she  would  1  He  knew,  somehow, 
that  he  should  not  thrive.  His  children  would  die  of  the 
measles,  his  horses  break  their  knees,  his  plate  be  stolen,  his 
house  catch  fire,  and  Mark  Armsworth  die  insolvent.  What 
a  fool  he  was,  to  fancy  such  nonsense  1  Here  he  had  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  believed  so  vaguely,  to  forbid  his  doing  it  1 

And  how  did  he  know  that  they  forbid  him?  That  is  too 
deep  a  question  to  be  analysed  here  :  but  this  thing  is  note- 
wortliy,  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  black- 
guardism, 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  help- 
lessly 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  wish 
tne  to  be  what  you  have  alwaj^'s  found  me  ?  " 

"  I'd  be  sorry  to  see  you  anything  else,  boy." 

"Then,  sir,  I  can't  do  t'nis.     In  honour,  I  can't." 

*'  Are  you  married  already  ?  "  thundered  Mark. 

**  Not  quite  as  bad  as  that ; "  and  in  spite  of  his  agitation 
Pom  laughed,  but  hysterically,  at  the  notion.  "  But  fool  I  am  ; 
"or  I  am  in  love  with  another  woman.  I  am,  sir,"  went  he 
jn  hurriedly.  "Boy  that  I  am!  and  she  don't  even  know 
t :  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 
:o  you  and  to  Mary,  and  to  my  own  self  too.  Fool  I'll  be, 
jut  rogue  I  v7on't ! " 

Mark  strode  on  in  silence,  frightfully  red  in  the  face  for  full 
ive  minutes.  Then  he  turned  sharply  on  Tom,  and  catching 
lira  by  the  shoulder,  thrust  him  from  him. 


53^  Two  Years  Ago. 

"There— go!  and  don't  let  me  see  or  hear  of  you— that 
is,  till  I  tell  you  1  Go  along,  I  say  I  Hum-hum ! "  (in  a  tone 
half  of  wrath,  and  half  of  triumph)  "  his  father's  child  1  If  you 
will  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  Mark  stride 
into  his  own  gate.  *'  If  I  had  but  had  common  luck !  If  I 
had  but  brought  my  fifteen  hundred  pounds  safe  home  here, 
and  never  seen  Grace,  and  married  this  girl  out  of  hand  1 
Common  luck  is  all  I  ask,  and  I  never  get  it  1 " 

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,  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 
Armsworth'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." 

Pom  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  just  five  hundred  pounds. 

A  half-sheet  was  wrapped  round  it,  on  which  were  written 
these  words : — 

"To  Thomas  Thurnall,  Esquire,  for  behaving  like  a  gentle- 
man. The  cheque  will  be  duly  honoured  at  Messrs.  Smith, 
Brown,  &  Jones,  Lombard  Street.  No  ackncwledgment  is  to 
be  sent.     Don't  tell  your  father.— Mark  ARMSWORTH." 

"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?" 

"  Father,"  said  he,  as  he  kissed  the  old  man  farewell,  "  I've 


Two  Years  Ago.  537 

1  little  money  conae  in.  I'll  send  you  fifty  from  London  in 
.  day  or  two,  and  lodge  a  hundred  and  fifty  more  with 
smith  &  Co.  So  you'll  be  quite  in  clover  while  I  am  poison- 
ng  the  Turkeys,  or  at  some  better  work." 

The  old  man  thanked  God  for  his  good  son,  and  only  hoped 
hat  he  was  not  straitening  himself  to  buy  luxuries  for  a  useless 
•Id  fellow. 

Another  sacred  kiss  on  that  white  head,  and  Tom  was 
Lway  for  London,  with  a  fuller  purse,  and  a  more  self-contented 
leart,  too,  than  he  had  known  for  many  a  year. 

And  Elsley  was  left  behind,  under  the  gray  church  spire, 
ileeping  with  his  fathers,  and  vexing  his  soul  with  poetry 
10  more.  ^  Mark  has  covered  him  now  with  a  fair  Portland 
lab.  He  took  Claude  Mellot  to  it  this  winter  before  church- 
ime,  and  stood  over  it  long  with  a  puzzled  look,  as  if  dimly 
liscovering  that  there  were  more  things  in  heaven  and  earth 
han  were  dreamed  of  in  his  philosophy. 

"  Wonderful  fellow  he  was,  after  all  1  Mary  shall  read  us 
)ut  some  of  his  verses  to-night.  But,  I  say,  why  should 
)eople  be  born  clever,  only  to  make  them  all  the  more 
niserable  ?  " 

*'  Perhaps  they  learn  the  more,  papa,  by  their  sorrows," 
said  quiet  little  Mary  ;  "and  so  they  are  the  gainers  after  all." 

And  none  of  them  having  any  better  answer  to  g^ve,  they 
ill  three  went  into  the  church,  to  see  if  one  could  be  found 
;here. 

And  so  Tom  Thurnall,  too,  went  Eastward  Ho,  to  take,  like 
ill  the  rest,  what  God  might  send. 


CHAPTER  XXVL 

Too  Late. 

And  how  was  poor  Grace  Harvey  prospering  the  while? 
While  comfortable  folks  were  praising  her,  at  their  leisure, 
as  a  heroine,  Grace  Harvey  was  learning,  so  she  opined, 
by  fearful  lessons,  how  much  of  the  unheroic  element  was 
left  in  her.  The  first  lesson  had  come  just  a  week  after 
the  yacht  sailed  for  Port  Madoc,  when  the  cholera  had  all  but 


53S 


Two  Years  Ago. 


subsided ;  and  it  carre  in  this  wise.  Before  breakfast  one 
morning  she  had  to  go  up  to  Heale's  shop  for  some  cordial. 
Ker  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  remoteness  of  her  house  ;  her  care  never  to 
enter  the  town  :  the  purity  of  the  water,  which  trickled  always 
fresh  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  chplera  was 
intense.  "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  experimental  books,  arguing  with  the  preachers, 
gadding  to  and  fro  to  every  sermon,  Arrainian  or  Calvinist ; 
and  at  last  even  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  what  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  our  own, 
in  fact;  perhaps  it  was  all  "nerves."  Her  mother  was 
growing  old,  and  had  a  great  deal  of  business  to  worry  her ; 
and  so  Grace  thrust  away  the  horrible  suspicion  by  little 
self-deceptions. 

She  went  into  the  shop.  Tom  was  busy  upon  his  knees 
behind  the  counter.     She  made  her  request. 

"  Ah,  Miss  Harvey  i "  and  he  sprang  up.  "  It  will  be  a 
pleasure  to  serve  you  once  more  in  one's  life.     I  am  just  going." 

"Going  where?" 

"To  Turkey.  I  find  this  place  too  pleasant  and  too  poor. 
Not  work  enough,  and  certainly  not  pay  enough.     So  I  have 


Two  Years  Ago.  539 

2fot  an  appointment  as  surgeon  in  the  Turkish  contingent,  and 

shall  be  off  in  an  hour." 

" Turkey  1  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  thfim." 

"Confound  the  icicle!"  thought  Tom.  "I  really  believe 
that  she  wants  to  get  rid  of  me."  And  he  would  have  with- 
drawn 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  I "  If  their  eyes  had  but  met  1 
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  some- 
thing 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  1  And,  by  the  bye,  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  you,  on  my  account." 

She  snatched  her  hand  from  his  without  a  word,  and  rushed 
out  of  the  shop. 


540  Two  Years  Ago. 

He  returned  to  his  packing,  whistling  away  as  shrill  as  any 
blackbird. 

Little  did  he  think  that  Grace's  heart  was  bursting,  as  she 
hurried  down  the  street,  covering  her  face  in  her  veil,  as  if 
everyone  V70uld  espy  her  dark  secret  in  her  countenance. 

But  she  did  not  go  home  to  hysterics  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  her  cross ;  she  could  carry  it,  lie  down  on  it,  and  endure : 
but  wrong  him  she  could  not — would  not  1  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,  vainly  trying  to  find  a  text 
which  suited  her  distemper. 

"  Mother,  you  have  the  Bible  before  you  there." 

"Yes,  child  I  Why?  What?"  asked  she,  looking  up 
uneasily. 

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  trangression  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  gpile. 

"When  I  kept  silence,  my  bones  waxed  old,  through  my 
groaning  all  the  day  long. 

"  For  day  and  night  thy  hand  was  heavy  upon  me  ;  my 
moisture  is  turned  to  the  drought  of  summer. 

"  I  acknowledged  my  sin  unto  thee,  and  mine  iniquity  have 
I  not  hid.  I 

"  I  said,  I  will  confess  my  transgressions  unto  the  Lord  :  and  j 
thou  forgavest  the  iniquity  of  my  sin." 

Grace  stopped,  choked  with  tears  which  the  pathos  cf  her 

i 


Two  Years  Ago.  541 

own  voice  had  called  up.  She  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  1  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 
sentences,  to  preach  a  brilliant  sermon  of  commonplaces. 
What  could  she  say  that  her  mother  had  not  known  long 
before  she  was  born  ?  And  throwing  herself  on  her  knees  at 
her  mother's  feet,  she  grasped  both  her  hands  and  looked  into 
her  face  imploringly,  "Mother!  mother!  mother!"  was  all 
that  she  could  say  :  but  their  tone  meant  more  than  all  the 
words.  Reproof,  counsel,  comfort,  utter  tenderness,  an  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  I    What  is  this  foolery  ?  " 

"  I  will  not  1    I  will  not  rise  till  you  have  told  me." 

"What?" 

"  Whether  " — and  she  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  I  no  1    Only  say  you— you  know  nothing  of  it  1 " 

"  Psha !  girl  I  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  v/ill,  and  let  me  die,  as  I  shall  deserve  !  Only 
say  the  word,  and  take  this  fire  from  before  my  eyes,  which 


542  Two  Years  Ago. 

burns  day  and  night,  day  and  night — till  ray  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  1  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, 
unbelieving " 

"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  1  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  1 " 

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  forsv^orn  herself.  A  strong  shudder  passed 
through  her  ;  she  rose  and  was  leaving  the  room  in  silence. 

"  Where  are  you  going,  hussy  ?  Stop  1 "  screamed  her  mother 
between  her  teeth,  her  rage  and  cruelty  rising,  as  it  will  with 
weak  natures,  in  the  very  act  of  triumph — "to  your  young 
man  ?  " 

"  To  pray,"  said  Grace,  quietly ;  and  locking  herself  into  the 
empty  schoolroom,  gave  vent  to  all  her  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?  How  face  her  mother  with  such  vague 
suspicions,  hardly  supported  by  a  single  fact  ?  How  argue 
it  out  against  her  like  a  lawyer,  and  convict  her  to  her  face? 
What   daughter  could   do   that,   who   had   human   love  and 


Two  Years  Ago.  543 

reverence  left  in  her  ?  No  I  to  touch  her  inward  witness,  as 
the  Quakers  well  and  truly  term  it,  was  the  only  method: 
and  it  had  failed.  "  God  help  me  1 "  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  unrighted. 

It  is  sometimes  true,  the  popular  saying,  that  sunshine 
comes  after  storm.  Sometimes  true,  or  who  could  live  ?  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 
himself  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  uruverse,"  which  Goethe  confessed,  and  yet  in 
his  luxuriousness  tried  to  ignore,  because  he  could  not  explain 
— 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  which  he  must  get  answered  then,  or  die),  took  him 
up  and  dashed  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  ?  "    What  if  he  thus  found  himself  hurled 


544  Two  Years  Ago. 

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  Moses  or  Socrates, 
Isaiah  or  Epictetus,  Augustine  or  Mohammed,  Dante  or 
Bernard,  Shakespeare  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  ? 
And  if  there  be,  what  is  He  doing  with  me  ?  " 

What  refuge  then  in  self-education ;  when  a  man  feels  him- 
self 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  ?  No.  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 


•She  did  not  speak,  i-he  did  not  move/'      p^w"'. 


Two  Years  Ago.  545 

coherence,  an  organic  unity  and  purpose  (though  we  see  it  not); 
that  sorrov7S  do  not  come  singly,  only  because  He  is  making 
short  work  v/ith  our  spirits ;  and  because  the  more  effect  He 
sees  produced  by  one  blow,  the  more  swiftly  He  follows  it 
up  by  another ;  till,  in  one  gjeat  and  varied  crisis,  seemingly 
long  to  us,  but  short  enough  compared  with  immortality, 
our  spirits  may  be — 

*'  Heated  hot  with  burning:  fears, 
And  bathed  in  baths  of  hissing-  tears, 
And  battered  with  the  strolies  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  v/as  so.  Only  after  a  while,  though.  There  was  at  first 
a  phase  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  the  secrets  of  the  heart  ?  God  gives 
poor  souls  time  to  recover  their  breaths,  ere  He  strike  again ; 
and  if  He  be  not  angry,  why  should  we  condemn  ? 

Poor  Grace  I  Her  sorrows  had  been  thickening  fast  during 
the  last  few  m.onths.  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  w^as  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  Icvod,  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 


54^  Two  Years  Ago. 

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  five-and-twenty  pounds  was  due,  and  was  not  met. 
Grace,  choking  down  her  honest  pride,  went  off  to  the  grocer, 
and  with  tears  which  he  could  not  resist,  had  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  Mrs.  Harvey  money  had  died  of  the  cholera.  Some, 
of  course,  had  left  no  effects  ;  and  all  hope  of  thei'  working  out 
their  debts  was  gone.  Some  had  left  money  behind  them  :  but 
it  was  still  in  the  lawyer's  hands,  some  of  it  at  sea,  some  on 
m.ortgage,  some  in  houses  which  must  be  sold  ;  till  their  affairs 
were  wound  up — a  sadly  slow  affair  when  a  country  attorney 
has  a  poor  man's  unprofitable  business  to  transact — nothing 
could  come  in  to  Mrs.  Harvey.  To  and  fro  she  went  with 
knitted  brow  and  heavy  heart ;  and  brought  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  whether 
Heale  had  the  money  by  him  or  not,  he  was  not  going  to  pay 
his  debts  till  other  people  paid  theirs.  Mrs.  Harvey  stormed ; 
Mrs.  Heale  gave  her  as  good  as  she  brought ;  and  Mrs.  Harvey 
threatened  to  County  Court  her  husband  ;  whereon  Mrs.  Heale, 
en  revanche,  dragged  out  the  books,  and  displayed  to  the  poor 
widow's  horror-struck  eyes  an  account  for  medicine  and  attend- 
ance, 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  needlework,  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  1" 

"  For  a  quarter  of  what  it's  worth  ?  Never,  girl  1  No  I  The 
Lord  will  provide,"  said  she,  between  her  clenched  teeth,  with 
a  sort  of  hysteric  chuckle.     "  The  Lord  will  provide  1 " 


Two  Years  Ago.  547 

"I  believe  it ;  I  believe  it,"  said  poor  Grace;  "but  faith  is 

weak,  and  tha  day  is  very  dark,  mother." 

"Dark,  ay?  And  may  be  darker  yet;  but  the  Lord  will 
provide.  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  ray  spectacles.  Wherever  have  you  laid  them  to,  now? 
I'll  look  over  the  Looks  av/hile." 

'*  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  r  " 

"Oh,  mother  I  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  w^hich  no  present  comfort 
seemed  to  come;  yet  who  shall  say  that  it  was  ail  unanswered? 

At  last  her  mother  came  upstairs,  and  put  her  head  in, 
angrily:  "Why  ben't  you  in  bed,  girl — sitting  up  this 
way  ?  " 

*'  I  was  praying,  mother,"  says  Grace,  looking  up  as  she 
knelt. 

"  Praying  I  What's  the  use  of  praying  ?  and  who'll  hear 
you  if  you  pray  ?  What  you  want's  a  husband,  to  keep  you 
out  of  the  workhouse ;  and  you  won't  get  that  by  kneeling 
here.     Get  to  bed,  I  say,  or  I'll  pull  you  up  I " 

Grace  obeyed  uncomplainingly,  but  utterly  shocked  ;  though 
she  was  not  unacquainted  with  those  frightful  fits  of  morose 
unbelief,  even  of  fierce  blasphemy,  to  which  the  ericitable 
West-country  mind  is  liable,  after  having  been  overstrained 
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  her  that  her  mother  might  make 


54^  Two  Years  Ago. 

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  V7as  intolerable.  She  must  go  to 
her ;  face  reproaches,  blows,  anything.  She  rose  from  her 
bed,  and  went  to  the  door.     It  was  fastened  on  the  outside. 

A  cold  perspiration  stood  on  her  forehead.  She  opened  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 
her  put  on  her  shawl,  her  bonnet ;  she  heard  her  open  the  front 
door  gently.  It  was  now  long  past  midnight.  Whither  could 
she  be  going  at  that  hour  ? 

She  heard  her  go  gently  to  the  left,  past  the  window ;  and 
yet  her  footfall  was  all  but  inaudible.  No  rain  had  fallen, 
and  her  shoes  ought  to  have  sounded  on  the  hard  earth.  She 
must  have  taken  them  off.  There,  she  was  stopping,  just  by 
the  school  door.  Now  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  beach.     Where  was  she  going  ?     Grace  must  follow ! 

The  door  was  fast:  but  in  a  moment  she  had  removed  the 
table,  opened  the  shutter  and  the  window. 

"Thank  God  that  I  stayed  here  on  the  ground-floor,  instead 
of  going  back  to  my  own  room  when  Major  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  the  house,  and  looked  for  her  mother. 

She  was  hurrying  over  the  rocks,  a  hundred  yards  off. 
Whither  ?  To  drown  herself  in  the  sea  ?  No ;  she  held  on 
along  the  mid-beach,  right  across  the  cove,  towards  Arthur's 
Nose.     But  why  ?    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  would  be  cleared  up  to-night,"  for  joy  or  for  utter  shame. 


Two  Years  Ago.  549 

The  tide  was  low ;  the  beach  was  bright  in  cne  western 
moonUght :  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  stum- 
bling 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  ?  God  grant  that  he  might  be  on  the  other 
side  of  the  point.     And  she  hurried  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  ?  It  was  impossible  to  see, 
so  utterly  was  the  cliff  shrouded  in  shadow. 

Shivering  with  cold  and  excitement,  Grace  crouched  down 


550  Two  Years  Ago. 

and  gazed  into  the  gloom,  till  her  eyes  swam,  and  a  hundred 
fantastic  figures,  and  sparks  of  fire,  seemed  to  dance  between 
her  and  the  rock.  Sparks  of  fire  ? — 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  lanthorn  showed  her  her 
mother  entering  beneath  the  polished  arch  of  rock  which  glared 
lurid  overhead,  like  the  gateway  of  a  pit  of  fire. 

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 ;  her  eyes  wandering  vacantly  over  the 
black  saws  of  rock,  and  glistening  oar-weed  beds,  and  bright 
phosphoric  sea.  Thank  Keaven,  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  fancy, 
or  were  her  pow^ers  of  hearing,  intensified  by  excitement, 
actually  equal  to  discern  tlie  chink  of  coin  ?  Who  knows  ? 
but  in  another  moment  she  had  glided  in,  swiftly,  silently, 
holding  her  very  breath ;  and  saw  her  mother  kneeling  on 
the  ground,  the  lanthorn  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  eyes,  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  teit — 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 
g^ilt  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  never  have  served 
her  yet  I— nurse  her  to  sleep  on  my  bosom,  and  then  go  forth 
and  bear  her  punishment,  even  if  need  be  on  the  gallows-tree  !  " 


Two  Years  Ago,  551 

And  there  she  stood,  in  a  silent  ag^ony  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  gfuidance  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  evil  treasure  to  her 
bosom,  and  thrusting  Grace  against  the  rock,  fled  wildly  out. 

"  Mother  I  Mother  1"  shrieked  Grace,  rushing  after  her. 
The  shawl  fell  from  her  shoulders.  Her  mother  looked  back, 
•  and  saw  the  white  figure. 

"God's  angel  1  God's  angel,  come  to  destroy  me!  as  he 
came  to  Balaam  1 "  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  backward  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  every  term  of 
endearment  Slowly  the  old  woman  recovered  her  conscious- 
ness, 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  hgf 
stand  and  waik. 

The  old  woman  only  moaned,  and  waved  her  away 
impatiently.  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  her  on  her 
own  back ;  and  slowly  she  bore  her  homeward,  with  aching 
knees  and  bleeding  feet;  while  before  her  eyes  hung  the 
picture  of  Him  who  bore  His  cross  up  Calvary,  till  a 
solemn    joy    and    pride    in    that    sacred    burden    seemed    to 


552  Two  Years  Ago. 

intertwine  itself  with  her  deep  misery.  And  fainting  every 
moment  with  pain  and  weakness,  she  still  went  on,  as  if  by 
supernatural  strength ;  and  murmured — 

"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  vyho  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. 

The  sudden  shock  to  body  and  mind,  the  sudden  prostration 
of  strength,  had  brought  out  the  disease  which  she  had 
dreaded  so  intensely,  and  against  which  she  had  taken  so 
many  precautions,  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  over  the  dying  woman : 
but  she  screamed  to  Grace  to  send  them  away.  She  had 
just  sense  enough  left  to  dread  that  she  might  betray  her 
own  shame.  Would  she  have  the  new  clergyman  then  ?  No ; 
she  would  have  no  one — no  one  could  help  her  1  Let  her 
only  die  in  peace  1 

And  Grace  closed  the  door  upon  all  but  the  doctor,  who 
treated  the  wild  sufferer's  wild  words  as  the  mere  fancies 
of  delirium ;  and  then  Grace  watched  and  prayed,  till  she 
found  herself  alone  with  the  dead. 

She  wrote  a  letter  to  Thiirnall : — 


Two  Years  Ago.  553 

"  Sir — I  have  found  your  belt,  and  all  the  money,  I  believe 
and  trust,  which  it  contained.  If  you  vs^ill  be  so  kind  as  to 
tell  me  where  and  how  I  shall  send  it  to  you,  you  will  take 
a  heavy  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  Whitbury ;  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  rarely  to 
anyone.  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  packed  up  her 
little  box  ;  hired  a  cart  to  take  her  to  the  nearest  coach  ;  and 
vanished  from  Aberalva,  w^ithout  bidding  farewell  to  a  human 
being,  even  to  her  school-children.  ,:  ^^^:-.  ■j.x..- 

*  *  *  *  *  *m    Us:;  «tQ*- 

Vavasour  had  been  buried  more  than  a  week.  Mark  and 
Mary  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  her  in,  if  she  looks  respectable,"  said  Mark,  who 
had  slippers  on,  and  his  feet  on  the  fender,  and  was, 
therefore,  loth  to  move. 

"Oh,  quite  respectable,  sir,  as  ever  I  see;"  and  the  lad 
ushered  in  a  figure,  dressed  and  veiled  in  deep  black.  ..I 

"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  gentleneivs,  very  firm  and  composed  withal, 
"if  Mr.  Thomas  Thurnall  is  in  Whitbury?" 


554  Two  Years  Ago. 

"  Thurnall  ?  He  has  sailed  for  the  East  a  week  ago. 
May  I  ask  your  business  with  him  ?     Can  I  help  you  in  it  ?  " 

The  black  damsel  paused  so  long,  that  both  Mary  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  ?    Yes,  of  course,  if  you  are  competent." 

"  Thank  you,  sir.  Perhaps,  if  you  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  I "  cried  Mark.  "  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  gentie  voice,  "I  had 
sooner  that  the  lady  should  stay.  I  have  nothing  against 
Mr.  Thurnall,  God  knows.  He  has  rather  something 
aigainst  me." 

Another  pause. 

Mary  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,  and  at  least  give  proof  of  my  being  an 
honest  person.  For  my  capabilities  as  a  nurse — I  believe 
you  know  Mrs.  Vavasour?  I  heard  that  she  had  been 
staying  here." 

"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 


Two  Years  Ago.  555 

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?  Are  you  not  the  schoolmistress 
who  saved  Mr.  Thurnall's  life?  who  behaved  so  nobly  in 
the  cholera  ?  Yes,  I  knew  you  were  1  Come  and  sit  down, 
and  tell  me  all !  I  have  so  longed  to  know  you  ?  Dear 
creature,  I  have  felt  as  if  you  were  my  own  sister.  He — 
Mr.  Thurnall — wrote  often  about  your  heroism." 

Grace  seemed  to  choke  down  somev/hat :  and  then 
answered  steadfastly — 

"  I  did  not  come  here,  ray  dear  lady,  to  hear  such  kind 
words,  but  to  do  an  errand  to  Mr.  Thurnall.  You  have 
heard,  perhaps,  that  when  he  was  wrecked  last  spring-,  he 
lost  some  money.  Yes  ?  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 
her  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  poured  a  libation  to  the  goddess  of 
Puzziedom,  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  poor  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  are,  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.  No  one 
knows  what  I  know  about  it." 


;56 


Two  Years  Ago. 


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  1 
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  Armsworth ;  "you 
always  come  in  with  the  right  hint,  girl  ! "  and  the  two, 
combining  their  forces,  at  last  talked  poor  Grace  over.  But 
upon  going  out  herself  she  was  bent.  To  ask  his  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.  We, 
even,  don't  know  exactly  where  he  is  gone." 

Grace  shuddered  a  moment ;  and  then  recovered  her  calmness. 

"I  did  not  expect  this  :  but  be  it  so.  I  shall  meet  him  if 
God  wills  ;  and  if  not,  I  can  still  work — work." 

"  I  think,  Mary,  you'd  better  take  the  young  woman 
upstairs  and  make  her  sleep  here  to-night,"  said  Mark,  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 


Two  Years  Ago  557 

g^ood  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  eyes  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 
^vealth,  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  she  was  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 
white  shoulders  ere  they  were  knotted  back  for  the  night, 
and  then  at  her  own  poor  countenance  in  the  glass  opposite. 

It  was  long  past  midnight  when  Grace  woke,  she  knew 
not  how^,  and  looking  up,  saw  a  light  in  the  room,  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  ?  "  said  Mary,  laughing.     "  I  do  that  every  night, 


558  Two  Years  Ago. 

alone  with  God ;  and  I  do  not  think  He  will  be  the  farther  off 
for  your  being  here  1 " 

'•  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  from  Aberalva  have 
gone  thither  already." 

"And  mine  among  them!"  thought  Grace.  "It  is  God's 
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  should  ever  v/rite  again  to 
Tom  Thurnall. 

And  so  the  two  sweet  maidens,  so  near  at  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  Dr.  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 
■  Mary— 

"  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, 


Two  Years  Ago.  559 

CHAPTER  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  Moselle  {not  the  wine, 
but  the  river),  cut  it  into  five-mile  lengths,  and  distribute  them 
over  Europe,  vyherever  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  nm  through  in  one  hasty  steam-trip,  as  you  now  do,  in 
a  long  burning  day,  which  makes  you  not  "drunk" — but 
weary — "w^ith  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  condemned  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 
river  would  bring  him  to  his  destination.  V7hen  would  it  all 
be  over  ?  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  Romer- 
kessel,  and  saw  the  little  chapel  crowning  the  central  knoll,  with 
the  white  high-roofed  houses  of  Bertrich  nestling  at  its  foot 

He  drives  up  to  the  handsome  old  Kurhaus,  nestiing  close 
beneath  heather-clad  rocks,  upon  its  lawn  shaded  v/ith  huge 
horse-chestnuts,  and  set  around  with  dahlias,  and  geraniums, 
and  deiicate-tinted  German  stocks,  which  fill  the  air  with 
fragran~e;  a  place  made  only  "for  young  lovers — certainly 
not  for  those  black-petticoated  worthies,  each  with  that 
sham  of  a  sham,  the  modern  tcnsure,  pared  dovra  to  a  poor 


560  Two  Years  Ago. 

florin's  breadth  among  their  bushy,  well-oiled  curls,  who  sit  at 
little  tables,  passing  the  lazy  day  a  muguetter  les  bourgeoises  of 
Sarrebruck  and  Treves,  and  sipping  the  fragrant  Josephshofer 
— perhaps  at  the  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  supefhuman,  and  therefore,  practically, 
sometimes  inhuman.  He  hurries  into  the  public  room ;  seizes 
on  the  visitor's  book. 

The  names  are  there,  in  their  own  handwriting ;  but  where 
are  they  ? 

Waiters  are  seized  and  questioned.  The  English  ladies  came 
back  last  night,  and  are  gone  this  afternoon. 

"  Where  are  they  gone  ?  " 

Nobody  recollects  :  not  even  the  man  from  whom  they  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  vrill  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  the  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  Stangrave's 
anxious  inquiries,  "your  impatience  to  rejoin  your  lovely 
countrywomen,  who  have  been  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  Englishwomen  ;  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  ?  " 


Two  Years  Ago.  561 

:"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 
afternoon,  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 
lieutenant,  waiters,  priests,  and  bourgeoises. 

For  under  the  chestnuts  strutted,  like  him  in  Struiu  el  peter, 
as  though  he  were  a  very  king  of  Ashantee,  Sabina's  black 
boy,  who  had  taken  to  himself  a  scarlet  umbrella,  and  a 
great  cigar ;  while  after  him  came,  also  like  them  in 
Struwelpeter,  Caspar,  bretzel  in  hand,  and  Ludwig  with  his 
hoop,  and  all  the  naughty  boys  of  Bertrich  town,  hooting, 
and  singing  in  chorus,  after  the  fashion  of  German  children. 

The  resemblance  to  the  well-known  scene  in  the  German 
child's  book  was  perfect,  and  as  the  children  shouted — 
"  Ein  kohlpechrabenschwarzer  Mohr, 
Die  Sonne  schien  ihm  ins  gehirn, 
■^1  Da  nahm  er  seinen  Sonnenschirm"^ 

more  than  one  grown  person  joined  therein. 

Stangrave  longed  to  catch  hold  of  the  boy,  and  extract 
from  him  all  news ;  but  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  an  homage  to  his  personal  appearance. 

"  Ah  ?  Mas'  Stangrave  ?  Glad  see  you,  sir  !  Quite  a  party 
of  us,  now,  'mong  dese  'barian  heathen  foreigners.  Mas' 
Thurnall  he  come  dis  mornin' ;  gone  up  pickin'  bush  wid  de 
ladies.     He  I  he  !     Not  seen  him  dis  tree  year  afore." 

"Thurnall  I "  Stangrave's  heart  sunk  within  him.  His  first 
impulse  was  to  order  a  carriage,  and  return  v/hence  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 


562  Two  Years  Ago. 

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 
him  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  dov/n  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  stream,  and  the  sighing  of  the  autumn  leaves,  and  the 
cooing  of  the  sleepy  doves ;  v/hile  the  ice-bird,  as  the  Germans 
call  the  water-ouzel,  sat  on  a  rock  in  the  river  below,  and 
warbled  his  low  sweet  song,  and  then  flitted  up  the  glassy 
reach  to  perch  and  sing  again  on  the  next  rock  above. 

And,  whether  it  was  that  he  did  forget  Marie  awhile ;  or 
whether  he  was  tired,  as  he  well  might  have  been ;  or 
whether  he  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,  transplanted  to  the  Ahr  by 
Charlemagne ;  whether  it  were  any  of  these  causes,  or  whether 
it  were  not,  Stangrave  fell  fast  asleep  in  the  Kaisekellar,  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  Marie  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  the  sharp  corner  of  the  rock,  and  were  in 
the  Kaise-kellar,  close  to  him,  almost  touching  him.     He  felt 


Two  Years  Ago.  563 

the  awkwardness  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  someone  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  ray  mind  to 
shoot  him  out  of  hand,  and  marry  Marie  myself.     Shan't  I 

now,  my "  and  they  passed  on  ;  and  down  to  their  carriage, 

which  had  been  waiting  for  them  in  the  road  below. 

What  Marie's  ansv/er  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  whUe,  and  followed  them. 

He  was  a  dupe,  an  ass !  The  dupe  of  those  bad  women, 
and  of  his  ancient  enemy  1  It  was  maddening  1  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,  who  would 
not  demand  of  him  to  become  a  hero. 

He  reached  the  Kurhaus,  and  went  in  :  but  net  into  the  public 
room,  for  fear  of  meeting  people  whom  he  had  no  heart  to  face. 

He  was  in  the  passage,  in  the  act  of  settling  his  account  vnth 
the  waiter,  when  Thurnall  came  hastily  out,  and  ran  against  him. 

Stangrave  stood  by  the  passage  lamp,  so  that  he  saw 
Tom's  face  at  once. 

Tom  drew  back ;  begged  a  thousand  pardons ;  and  saw 
Stangrave's  face  in  turn. 

The  two  men  looked  at  each  other  for  a  few  seconds. 
Stangrave  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 


564  Two  Years  Ago. 

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 
conversation  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  Mr.  Thurnall,  or  on  which  Mr.  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  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 
intercourse  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 
gentleman'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  i  y  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  pubHc  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  off." 

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  ?  " 


Two  Years  Ago.  565 

"I  will  tell  you  that  after  we  have  fought;  and  somewhat 
more.  Meanwhile,  that  expression,  'frail  beauty,'  is  a  fresh 
offence,  for  which  I  should  certainly  cane  you,  if  she  were 
not  in  the  house." 

"Well,"  drawled  Stangrave,  feigning  an  ostentatious  yawn, 
•*  I  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  have 
scars  on  their  faces,  so  they  will  be  au  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  foois 
turned  on  their  respective  heels,  and  walked  off. 

*  4t  *  *  *  *  • 

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  by  a  thin  coat  of  turf. 

"Schbne  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  Thurnall  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? 
Certainly  not  because  he  is  afraid.  He  slept  as  soundly  as 
ever    last    night ;    and    knows    not  what   fear    means.      But 


566  Two  Years  Ago. 

somehow,  the  glorious  view  reminds  him  of  another  glorious 
view,  which  he  saw  last  summer,  walking  by  Grace  Karvey'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  Rhine-Prussia  and  Nassau  might  often  fancy 
himself  in  Devon  or  Cornw^all.  True,  here  there  is  no  sea : 
and  there  no  Mosel-kopf  raises  its  huge  crater-cone  far  above 
the  uplands,  all  golden  in  the  level  sun.  But  that  brov^m 
Taunus  far  away,  or  that  brown  Hundsruck  opposite,  with  its 
deep-wooded  gorges  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  Cornv/all  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,  w^inding  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  is  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  disagreeable  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. 
However,  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  rgain  and  again  this 
summer  for  a  moment,  only  t5  freeze  again.  He  all  but 
believes  that  he  bears  a  charmed  life.      All  the  miraculous 


Two  Years  Ago.  567 

escapes  of  his  past  years,  instead  of  making-  him  believe  in  a 
living,  guiding,  protecting  Father,  have  become  to  that  proud, 
hard  heart  the  excuse  for  a  deliberate,  though  unconscious, 
atheism.     Kis  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  I  Pah  I 
V7hat  use  in  them  ?  What  use  in  being  a  martyr  in  this  vporld  ? 
All  men  are  liars,  and  all  women  too  I 

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  vyith 
it  before  the  owner's  eyes. 

"Stop!  Hollo!  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 
Falkenhohe.  But  the  victory,  after  a  while,  becomes  alto- 
gether a  question  of  wind ;  for  it  was  all  uphill.  The  crater, 
being  one  of  "explosion,  and  not  of  elevation,"  as  the 
geologists  v/ould  say,  does  not  slope  downward  again,  save 
on  one  side,  from  its  outer  lip  ;  and  Tom  and  the  Bursch  were 
breasting  a  fair  hill,  after  they  had  emerged  from  the  "  kessel " 
below. 

Now,  the  Bursch  had  had  too  much  Thronerhofberger  the 
night  before  ;  and  possibly,  as  Burschen  will  in  their  vacations, 
the  night  before  that  also  ;  whereby  his  diaphragm  surrendered 
at  discretion,  while  his  heels  were  yet  unconquered  ;  and  he 
suddenly  felt  a  strong  gripe,  &nd  a  stronger  kick,  which 
rolled  him  over  on  the  turf. 


568  Two  Years  Ago. 

The  hapless  youth,  who  fancied  himself  alone  upon  the 
mountain-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  I " 

No  :  the  ball  had  luckily  buried  itself  in  the  ground. 

Tom  turned,  to  rush  downhill  again,  and  meet  the  impatient 
Stangrave. 

Crack— whing—g—g  1 

"  A  bullet  1 " 

Yes  1  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 
inextinguishable  laughter,  while  the  gendarme  came  charging 
up,  right  toward  his  very  nose. 

But  up  to  his  nose  he  charged  not ;  for  his  wind  was  short, 
and  the  noise  of  his  roaring  went  before  him.  Moreover,  he 
knew  that  Tom  had  a  revolver,  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 
attacking  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,  Mazzini-hatted 
Italian  refugees,  suspect  Polish  incendiaries,  or  other  feras 
natures,  he  had  precedent  and  regulation:  but  for  arresting 
a  mad  Englishman,  none.  He  held  fully  the  opinion  of  his 
superiors,  that  there  was  no  saying  what  an  Englishman 
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  everything  that  nobody  ever  cared  to  see,  and  who 
knew  mysteriously  everything  about  everywhere  ;  whose  deeds 
were  like  his  opinions,  utterly  subversive  of  all  constituted  order 
in  heaven  and  earth  ;  being,  probably,  the  inhabitant  of  another 


Two  Years  Ago.  569 

planet ;  possibly  the  man  in  the  moon  himself,  who  had  been 
turned  out,  having  made  his  native  satellite  too  hot  to  hold 
him.  All  that  was  to  be  done  with  him  was  to  inquire  whether 
his  passport  was  correct,  and  then  (with  a  due  regard  to  self- 
preservation)  to  endure  his  vagaries  in  pitying  w^onder. 

So  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  I  " 
£ji.^  But  I  have  not  I "  said  Tom.     "  Look  and  see." 

"But  I  saw  him  fall  I" 

"  But  he  has  got  up  again,  and  run  away." 

"  So  I    Then  where  is  your  passport  ?  " 

The  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  I "  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  the  bayonet  into  its 
muzzle,  and  lifts  it  aloft. 

"Schon!  Das  kriegtl  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  w^ith 
innumerable  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  I      Man   must  have   a   dozen   hands  I      He   is   surely 


570  Two  Years  Ago. 

Palmerston  himself;  or  at  least  Hecker,  or  Mazzini!" 
murmurs  he,  as  he  meditates  how  to  stow  them  all. 

He  thinks  now  that  the  revolver  may  be  safe  elsewhere  ; 
and  that  the  knife  will  be  best  on  the  bayonet-point.  So 
he  unships  the  revolver. 

Bang  goes  barrel  number  two,  and  the  ball  goes  into  the 
turf  between  his  feet. 

"You  will  shoot  yourself  soon,  at  that  rate,"  says  Tom. 

"So?  Der  Herr  speaks  German  like  a  native,"  said  the 
gendarme,  growing  complimentary  in  his  perplexity.  "  Perhaps 
der  Herr  would  be  so  good  as  to  carry  his  death-instruments 
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  down  the 
hill,  the  gendarme  following,  with  his  bayonet  disagreeably 
near  the  small  of  Tom's  back. 

"  Don't  stumble  1  Look  out  for  the  stones,  or  you'll  have  that 
skewer  through  me  1 " 

"Sol  Der  Herr  speaks  German  like  a  native,"  says  the 
gendarme,  civilly.  "It  is  certainly  der  Palmerston,"  tliinks 
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 
Stangrave  and  Bursch  number  two,  but  a  second  gendarme, 
two  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  has,  if  not  her  eyes  bandaged, 
at  least  her  hands  tied ;  for  on  his  arm  hangs  Sabina,  smiling, 
chatting,  entreating.  The  Polizeirath  smiles,  bows,  ogles,  evi- 
dently a  willing  captive.  Venus  has  disarmed  Rhadamanthus, 
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  Marie  ? 

And  lastly,  opposite  each  other,  and  like  two  dogs  who 
are    uncertain    whether    to    make    frieiids    or    fight,    are    a 


Two  Years  Ago.  571 

gendarme  and  Sabina's  black  boy  ;  the  gendarme,  with  a 
shouldered  musket,  is  tr3'ing  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  tlie  irreverence  of  the  black 
boy,  who  is  dancing,  grinning,  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  gentlemen  arrived ; 
and  turning  to  the  Bursch,  begs  him  to  transmit  to  his  friend 
who  has  run  away  his  apologies  for  the  absurd  mistake  which 
had  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  1  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  I 
Let  us  be  rid  of  him  at  any  cost,  and  live  in  peace,  like  honest 
Germans.  Ah,  poor  Queen  Victoria  I  What  a  lot !  To  have 
the  government  of  five-and-twenty  million  such  1 " 

"Not  five-and-twenty  millions,"  says  Sabina.  *'  That  would 
include  the  ladies ;  and  we  are  not  mad  too,  surely,  your 
Excellency  ?  " 

The  Polizeirath  likes  to  be  called  your  Excellency,  of  course, 
or  any  other  mighty  title  which  does  or  does  not  belong  to 
bim  ;  and  that  Sabina  knows  fujl  well. 


572  Two  Years  Ago. 


"  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  I  your  poor 
husbands  1 " 

"Mr.  Thurnall I"  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  ! — without  whose  disinterested  heroism  you  v/ould  have 
never  set  eyes  on  the  face  which  you  pretend  to  love.  And 
you  repay  him  by  suspicion — insult.  Apologise  to  him,  sir  1 
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  fellow  1  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. 

"  Mr.  Thurnall  I  " 

"Sir?" 

"  I  have  done  you  a  great  wrong  I  '* 

"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  Miss  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  I  have  left  her,  I  have  sought  her  again  ;  and  if 
I  left  her  when  I  knew  nothing,  now  that  I  know  all,  I  ask 
her  here,  before  you,  to  become  my  wife  1 " 

Tom  looked  inquiringly  at  Marie. 

•'Yes;  I  have  told  him  all— all! "  and  she  hid  her  face  in 
tier  hands. 

"  Weil,"  said  Tom,  "  Mr.  Stangrave  is  a  very  enviable 
person  ;    and    the  match,    in  a  worldly  point  of  view,   is  a 


Two  Years  Ago.  573 

most  fortunate  one  for  Miss  Lavington ;  and  that  stupid 
rasca!  of  a  gendarme  has  broken  my  revolver." 

"But  I  have  not  accepted  him,"  cried  Marie;  "and  I 
will  not,  unless  you  give  me  leave." 

Tom  saw  Stangrave's  brow  lower,  and  pardonably  enough, 
at  this, 

"  My  dear  Miss  Laving^ton,  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. 

"Sabinal  Stop  him!"  cried  she;  "he  is  going,  without 
even  a  kind  word  I  " 

"  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  1 " 

"  Tut,  tut,  tut  I— 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  1  " 

Stangrave  bit  his  lip,  not  in  anger,  but  in  manly  self- 
reproach. 

"  It  is  my  fault,  Marie  I  my  fault  I  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  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  have  won  justice  for  you  and 
for  your  race,  Marie  I " 

He  conquered  :  hov7  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  word  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, 


574  Two  Years  Ago. 

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 
Stangrave,  "if  that  young  English  viscount  had  not  put 
me  on  my  mettle  by  his  own  nobleness." 

"  No  !  no  I  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  1 "    she    said,    quite   humbly. 
Her  theatric  passionateness  had  passed — 
"  Nothing  was  left  of  her, 
Now,  butlpure'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 
commandment  to  me,  v/ritten  not  on  tables  of  stone,  but  on 
fair,  pure,  noble  flesh.  My  Marie  1  You  shall  have  cause 
even  to  rejoice  in  them  I " 

"  I  glory  in  them  now ;  for,  vdthout  them,  I  never  should 
have  known  all  your  worth," 

The  next  day  Stangrave,  Marie,  and  Sabina  were  hurrying 
home  to  England  1  while  Tom  Thurnall  was  hurrying  to 
•  Marseilles,  to  vanish  Eastward  Ho. 

He  has  escaped  once  more ;  but  his  heart  is  hardened  still. 
What  will  his  fall  be  like  ? 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

Last  Christmas  Eue. 

And  now  two  years  and  more  are  past  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. 


Two  Years  Ago.  575 

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  Valencia's 
husband  now,  and  rector,  not  curate,  of  Aberalva  town ; 
and  Valencia  makes  him  a  noble  rector's  wife. 

She,  too,  has  had  her  sad  experiences — of  more  than  absent 
love  ;  for  when  the  news  of  Inkermann  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 
hurried  out  to  ^Scutari,  to  nurse  her  brother ;  had  seen  there 
many  a  sight — she  bests  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  Valencia  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 
discipline  from  Heaven. 

Frank  shrank  at  first  from  returning  to  Aberalva,  when 
Scoutbush  offered  him  the  living  on  old  St.  Just's  death. 
But  Valencia  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  Hps.  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  henceforth 
no  faster  friend  than  old  Tardrew^. 

Frank  is  still  as  High  Church  as  ever ;  and  likes  all  pomp 
and  circumstance  of  v/orship.  Some  ievr  whims  he  has  given 
up,  certainly,  for  fear  of  giving  offence ;  but  he  might  indulge 


576  Two  Years  Ago. 

them  once  more,  if  he  wished,  without  a  quarrel.  For  now 
that  the  people  understand  him,  he  does  just  what  he  Hkes. 
His  congregation  is  the  best  in  the  archdeaconry  :  one  meeting- 
house is  dead,  and  the  other  dying.  His  choir  is  admirable ; 
for  Valencia  has  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  has  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  they  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  Man- 
chester 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  Major  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  Valencia,  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  diimer 
in  Eaton  Square,  written  for  Lady  Knockdown,  but  with  a 
postscript  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 


Two  Years  Ago.  577 

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  £nd  better  health  than  he  ever  had 
had  before.  With  new  self-discipline  has  come  new  self- 
respect  ;  and  he  tells  his  wife  frankly,  that  if  he  keeps  straight 
henceforth,  he  has  to  thank  for  it  his  six  months  at  Aldershot. 

And  Mary  ? 

When  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 
which  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  someone  lent  her,  and  which  was  to 
her  as  the  finding  of  an  unknown  sister — Longfellow's  "  Evan- 
geline." She  was  Evangeline  ;  seeking  as  she  sought,  perhaps 
to  find  as  she  found — no  !  merciful  God  !  Not  so  1  yet  better  so 
than  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  I  Could  she  mistake  that  figure,  though 
the  face  was  turned  away? 

Her  head  swam,  her  pulses  beat  hke  church  bells,  her  eyea 


57^  Two  Years  Ago. 

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 
her  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 
questioned,  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  beneath  the  window. 

"  Oh  !  that  man  ?  He  was  a  Pole,  Michaelowyzcki,  or  some 
such  name.  At  least,  so  he  said  ;  but  he  suspected  the  man  to 
be  really  a  Russian  spy." 

Grace  knew  that  it  was  Tom  :  but  she  went  back  to  her 
work  again,  and  in  due  time  went  home  to  England. 

Home,  but  not  to  Aberalva.  She  presented  herself  one 
day  at  Mark  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  Mary,  she  took  up  her  abode 
in  the  old  man's  house  ;  and  ere  a  month  was  past  she  was 
to  him  a  daughter. 

Perhaps  she  had  told  him  all.  All  least,  there  was  some 
deep  and  pure  confidence  between  them  ;  and  yet  one  which, 
so  perfect  was  Grace's  humility,  did  net  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, 


Two  Years  Ago.  579 

her  hand  in  his  ;  her  voice  cheerful,  her  face  full  of  quiet 
light.  But  her  hair  vv&s  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  perpetual  joy — a  perpetual  remembrance  of 
him,  and  of  that  walk  with  him  from  Tolchard's  farm. 

Mary  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. 

"Mark,"  he  said  once,  "remember  David.  Why  weep  for 
the  child  ?    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  Mellot  and  Stangrave  made 
their  appearance  in  Whitbury,  and  become  Mark  Arms  worth's 
guests. 

The  week  slipped  on.  Stangrave  hunted  on  alternate  days ; 
and    on    the   others    went   with,  Claude,   who   photographed 


580  Two  Years  Ago. 

(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 
him  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  his  lost  son,  and  live  upon 
the  memory  of  his  provyess  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 
all  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  Roman-nosed 
Rat-tail  which  carries  Mark's  portly  bulk,  and  by  him 
Stangrave,  en  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  he,  before 
he  will  take  his  bath  and  dress,  brings  to  his  blind  friend  the 
gossip  of  the  field,  and  details  to  him  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 
out  of  old  and  failing  hands,  only  to  put  it  into  young  and 
brave  ones,  who  will  not  falter  till  they  reach  the  goal." 


Two  Years  Ago.  581 


Then  he  lies  back  again,  with  closed  eyes,  waiting  for  more 
facts  from  Claude. 

"How  beautiful  1"  says  Claude,  "I  must  compliment  you, 
sir— to  see  the  child-like  heart  thus  still  beating  fresh  beneatli 
the  honours  of  the]  gray  head,  without  envy,  without  vanity, 
without  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  testimonies  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  understand  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 — 

"Ahl  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  presentiment — you  will  think  me,  doubtless,  Vv-eak  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  v/e  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 
metaphysician  ;  so  you  will  not  laugh  at  me,  and  compel  the 
weak  old  man  and  his  fancy  to  take  refuge  Virith  a  girl — who  is 
not  weak. — Grace,  darHng,  you  think  still  that  he  is  coming?" 

She  came  forward  and  leaned  over  him  — 

"Yes,"  she  half  whispered.     "He  is  coming  soon  to  us: 

X  -: 


582  Two  Years  Ago. 

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.  Mellot,  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  I 
not  know  hov7  the  weak  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,  Ned  I  In  good  company,  eh  ?  That's  right.  Mortal 
cold  I  am  1  We  shall  have  a  white  Christmas,  I  expect. 
Snow's  com.ing." 

"  What  sport?"  asks  the  Doctor,  blandly. 

"  Oh  1  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?" 

"  Mr.  Stangrave  likes  the  vale  better  than  the  vale  likes 
him.  I  have  fallen  into  two  brooks  following,  Claude ;  to  the 
delight  of  all  the  desperate  Englishmen." 

"Oh  I  You  rode  straight  enough,  sir!  You  must  pay  for 
your  fun  in  the  vale :  but  then  you  have  your  fu.i.  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  someone  said  it  was  only  Smith  of  Ewebury,  so  I  rode  on." 

"I  hope  you  English  showed  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  bye,  Doctor,  got  a  good  story  of  him  for  you.  Suspected 
his  keeoers  last  month.      Slips  out    of   bed    at    two    in    the 


Two  Years  Ago.  583 

morning ;  into  his  own  covers,  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  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  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 
Mr.  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  Hfe.  You  chop  or  lose  your 
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 
earthful  1 " 

All  looked  round ;  for  all  knew  that  voice. 

Yes  1  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  born ;  and  then  slipped  from  the  room  past 
the  unheeding  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  I  My  son  1  Let  me  feel  whether  thou  be  my  very 
son  Esau  or  not  I"  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 ;  v/hile 
all  stood  silent. 


584  Two  Years  Ago. 

Mark  Armsworth  burst  out  blubbering  like  a  great  boy — 

"I  said  sol  I  always  said  sol  The  devil  could  not  kill 
him,  and  God  wouldn't  I " 

"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  I "  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  arms'  length. 

"Look  at  him,  Mr.  Mellot !  Mr.  Stangrave  I  Look  at 
him  I  As  they  said  of  Liberty  Wiikes,  you  might  rob  him, 
strip  him,  and  hit  him  over  London  Bridge ;  and  you'd  find 
him  the  next  day  in  the  same  place,  with  a  laced  coat,  a  sword 
by  his  side,  and  money  in  his  pocket  I  But  how  did  you  come 
in  without  our  knowing  ?  " 

"  I  waited  outside,  afraid  of  what  I  might  hear — for  how 
could  I  tell?"  said  he,  lowering  his  voice;  "but  when  I  saw 
you  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  Marie  and  the  children?" 

Stangrave,  who  was  very  uncertain  as  to  how  Tom  would 
receive  him,  had  been  about  to  make  his  amende  honorable 
in  a  fashion  graceful,  magnificent,  and,  as  he  expressed  it 
afterwards  laughingly  to  Thurnall  himself,  "altogether  high- 
falutin "  :  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  bonhomie,  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." 


Two  Years  Ago.  585 


*•  How  many  ?  "  asked  Tom. 

"Two." 

'•Is she  as  beautiful  as  ever  ? '*  ^ 

"More  so,  I  think." 

"  I  daresay  you're  right ;  you  ought  to  know  best,  certainly." 

"You  shall  judge  for  yourself.  She  is  in  London  at  this 
moment." 

"Toml"  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  I" 

"  You  have  not  spoken  to  Grace  yet  I " 

"Grace?"  cries  Tom,  in  a  very  different  tone  from  that  in 
which  he  had  yet  spoken. 

"Grace  Harvey,  my  boy.  She  was  in  the  room  when  you 
came  in." 

"  Grace  ?  Grace  ?    What  is  she  doing  here  ?  " 

"  Nursing  him,  like  an  angel  as  she  is  I "  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  convulsed ;  her  left  hand  over  her 
bosom,  clutching  at  her  dress,  which  seemed  to  have  been 
just  disarranged  ;  her  right  drawn  back,  holding  something ; 
her  lips  parted,  struggling  to  speak  ;  her  great  eyes  opened 
to  preternatural  wideness,  fixed  on  him  with  an  intensity  of 
eagerness  :^was  she  mad  ? 

At  last  words  bubbled  forth  :  "  There  !  there  !    There  it  is  ! 

the  belt !— your  belt  I    Take  it  I  take  it,  I  say  I  " 

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  I — Scutari,  Balaklava,  and  you  were  not  there  I 
—I  found  it,  only  a  week  after  1 — I  told  you  I  should ;  and  you 


586  Two  Years  Ago, 

were  gone ! — Cruel,  not  to  wait !  And  Mr.  Armsworth  has 
the  monej'— every  farthing— and  the  gold— he  has  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  by  her  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  I" 

"  Promise  me  that  you  will  never  ask,  or  seek  to  know,  who 
had  that  belt." 

"  I  promise  :  but,  Grace  ! " 

"Then  my  work  is  over,"  said  she,  in  a  calm,  collected 
voice.  "Amen,  So  lettest  Thou  Thy  servant  depart  in  peace. 
Good-bye,  Mr.  Thurnall.  I  must  go  and  pack  up  my  few 
things  now.     You  will  forgive  and  forget  ?  " 

"Grace!"  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  lives  to  come  !  " 

"  Me  ?     I  ? — let  me  go  !     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 !  You  will  not  dare,  Grace ! 
For  you  have  begun  the  work  ;  and  you  must  finish  it." 

"  Work  ?    WHiat  work  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Tom.  "  How  should  I  ?  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,  though  I  talked  so 


Two  Years  Ago.  587 

bravely  of  running  others  to  earth  just  now.  Grace,  I've  been 
in  prison ! " 

"  In  prison  ?    In  a  Russian  prison  ?    Oh,  Mr.  Thurnall ! " 

"Ay,  Grace,  I'd  tried  everything  but  that;  and  I  couid  not 
stand  it.  Death  was  a  joke  to  that.  Not  to  be  able  to  get 
out  I — 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  ser/e,  and  who  couldn't,  or 
wouldn't,  or  daren't  understand  me — oh,  Grace,  I  was  caught 
in  my  own  trap  1  I  went  out  full  blown  with  self-conceit. 
Never  was  anyone  so  cunning  as  I  was  to  be  I  Such  a  game 
as  I  was  going  to  play,  and  make  my  fortune  by  it  I — 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  the  tongue  of 
the  old  serpent  I " 

"  He  did  not  stop  you  :  God  stopped  you  I " 

"  You're  right,  Grace  ;  I  saw  that  at  last  I  I  found  out  that  I 
had  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  off 
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 — I  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. 


588  Two  Years  Ago. 

I  fancy  at  every  turn,  what  if  that  chimney  fell  ?  what  if  that 
horse  kicked  out  ? — and,  Grace,  you,  and  only  you,  can  cure 
me  of  my  new  cowardice.  I  said,  in  that  prison,  and  all  the 
way  home — if  I  can  but  find  her  I— let  me  but  see  her — ask  her 
—let  her  teach  me  ;  and  I  shall  be  sure  I  Let  her  teach  me,  and 
I  shall  be  brave  again  !    Teach  me,  Grace  !  and  forgive  me  I " 

Grace  vyas  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  yow  forgive  me  ?  " 

"You?  It  is  I  am  the  brute  ;  ever  to  have  suspected  you  1 
My  conscience  told  me  all  along  I  was  a  brute  1  And  you — 
have  you  not  proved  it  to  me  in  this  last  minute,  Grace? — 
proved  to  me  that  I  am  not  worthy  to  kiss  the  dust  from  off 
your  feet?" 

Grace  lay  silent  in  his  arms :  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  I  have  told  you  all  1  Will  you  forgive  my  baseness ; 
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,  Mr.  Thurnall  my  dear,  brave,  wise,  wonderful  Mr. 
Thurnall !  come  home  again  !— home  to  God  !  and  home  to  me  1 
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. 


WILLIAM  COLLINS,  SONS,  AND  CO.  LTD.,  LONDON  AND  GLASGOW. 


PR 

4842 
T9 
1857 


HAY  1  3  1969 

Kingsley,  Charles 

Two  years  ago 


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